Justice Notes: Sentencing the family
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
Family: The Other Shoe of Incarceration
Family is the other shoe that drops after incarceration. While the system exacts its price on the offender, families—spouses, children, and aging parents—are left to bear the consequences. Often treated by courts and creditors as equally culpable, they must survive the fallout without the benefit of trial, mercy, or preparation.
For those of us sentenced to prison, the punishment is public and measured in time. But for our families, it’s private, indefinite, and often invisible to the system that imposes it. They shoulder the burden of shame, upheaval, and legal chaos alone, unsupported, and with no recourse to justice.
During my incarceration, I witnessed this fallout firsthand. Women dragged toddlers through security checkpoints while guards made everything more difficult—scanning clothes, emptying purses, even inspecting the children. On more than one occasion, visitors were sent away to change “inappropriate” attire. During a rare summer visit, my wife was forced to shop at a nearby Target to replace a pair of sandals.
There was a “children’s area”—a neglected pile of board games, coloring books, and puzzles. Toddlers were distracted there while their parents huddled in tense, often heartbreaking conversations, trying to make sense of legal threats, foreclosure filings, or custody battles. Little was ever resolved. Even regular visitors found no routine or familiarity. Each visit was like the first: cold, tense, and often humiliating. The guards were mostly indifferent—sometimes cruel—and rarely helpful.
Jack’s Wife
Jack, the seafood king—a close friend and the camp’s unofficial wise man—was in a similar bind. Though he still had some assets, liens and litigation rendered them compromised. His wife remained alone in a large house north of Boston. She visited him faithfully, three times a week. A gentle-looking woman, always smiling, she struck me as dignified and quietly loyal.
“She’s always complaining about something in the big house,” Jack once told me.
“I have to remind her I’m living in fifty-four square feet with another guy.”
He said it with a grin, never bitter. He understood: while she lived in a house, she lived alone, sifting through liens, fielding IRS notices, and dealing with massive FedEx boxes stuffed with legal documents. Credit cards declined, checks were rejected, and court officials arrived unannounced. Her life, too, had collapsed.
Despite everything, she was always pleasant with the guards. Even when they demanded searches or seized items without explanation. Once, I managed to catch her eye across the room. Inmates were not allowed to speak with other inmates’ visitors. She smiled—something knowing. Maybe I imagined it. But I held onto it.
Other Stories
There were many others.
The closest thing to God in prison was Imtiez, my quiet Muslim kitchen partner. A Pakistani tobacconist with no grasp of American legal nuances, he was arrested for license violations and paperwork infractions. His wife and daughters had no money, no support, and no safety net. He bore this knowledge in silence—no self-pity, no bitterness—just quiet resilience. Between shifts, he’d sit in the corner of the mess hall and read the Koran.
On my final day in the camp, I found him, as always, stacking trays with meditative precision. I meant to say goodbye, but he beat me to it:
“Remember, John… God is good. He loves you.”
Then he turned back to the trays, as if we’d never spoken.
When I returned to my bunk to collect my belongings, he was already there, standing silently outside, waiting. He wouldn’t enter until I acknowledged him. When I did, he stepped in, embraced me, bowed, and left without a word.
I hope he was right. I hope God is good. And I hope He loves me.
And There Were Others
Spanish inmates would host visits with their wives and children, trying to appear strong and composed. You’d see them beam with pride as their kids clung to them. But back in the dorm, they’d fall silent, dark and withdrawn. Hugging and touching were forbidden, and when families broke the rules, guards responded with threats.
Everyone tried to stay composed during goodbyes. But it never got easier.
The Invisible Sentence
It’s a complex subject. Incarceration is supposed to be punitive. It’s about accountability, restitution, and deterrence. It isn’t meant to be comfortable.
However, what the system fails to account for is that families are also punished. And they are essential to the incarcerated person's rehabilitation and reintegration. When families are left destitute—when the primary earner is removed and the financial chaos becomes unmanageable—reentry becomes nearly impossible.
The courts don’t account for this. Neither do the lawmakers. But if we’re serious about reducing recidivism and restoring lives, we need to understand this much:
When you imprison one person, you punish many.
Log/Verse: I wrote this after a visit from my wife.
FAMILY
Today on a steel bench, I contemplate our demise.
All those people displaced and alone.
The pain of it grows daily.
Anguish and regret my daily bread.
If this piece resonated with you, consider sharing it or leaving a comment. To support this work and help spread awareness about justice reform for white-collar defendants, subscribe to White-Collar Journal and stay connected.
Moving. 🧡