Prison Camp: Before the Trial
A Forum for Stories of Incarceration, Justice, and Redemption
After my illegal activities came to light and my plea deal with the Department of Justice was finalized, all that remained was the sentencing hearing. My attorney advised me to relocate to Florida while the slow machinery of adjudication ground forward. What follows is an excerpt from my memoir, capturing that suspended time of heightened anxiety and anguish.
My life was over. The big life that is, and I did what I always did—the cowardly retreat. So, we moved to Florida and escaped from the storm. It was seductive at first. The intoxicating scent of the tropics, the palm trees, always takes you in. It seemed to be just what I needed until it wasn’t. After a few months, I hated Florida. It's reptilian underworld, pervasive swampland, looming death everywhere, the arrogant winter birds trespassing, struggling aging people at every turn with their wrinkled limbs and rusted walkers, the townies in worn summer clothing, the sterile reality of the summer heat that never relents, the faded promise of escape from their grim realities that was Florida, America's perceived Eden. After a while, I longed for the winter solstice up North with its barren promise that never disappoints. I started to wake up every morning with dread and anxiety. A major effort to get out of bed. Terrible dreams I couldn’t recount, but it didn’t matter. Their impact a lingering numbness, and fog that would haunt me the rest of the day.
Then my lawyer called me early one morning—a departure for him. I had pleaded guilty to wire fraud a few months earlier. My sentencing hearing is set for three months from now on 9/11. The irony of that date was not lost, even on me, a man who had left all irony behind. Irony is a metric for a successful life. The call shook me. I tried to move on. Routine helps a lot, so I went shopping. The stores are the best place to go for solace from a Florida summer. My life, monotonous routines and errands, but distractions from the hearing that loomed. Not knowing which was worse, the tedium or the fear of the hearing.
It was a quick trip to the Publix. I entered the parking lot with great care. Parking a car is life-threatening in Florida. Seemingly, driverless vehicles veer unexpectedly into driving lanes at alarming speeds with little warning: the drivers are elderly individuals with compromised faculties and awareness. The entrance, like the lobby of a nursing home: wheel chairs, motorized carts, bandaged faces with the scars of basil cells, cataract removals and bent over octogenarians, all stumbling through the aisles, many of them clueless, blocking the aisle, bent over and squinting to read from the shelves which carry endless options of products and sizes that would make it difficult for even the most skilled shopper. I was just there for the wine, pretty much. The two-fers that are always in the front of the store. The days of the big wines are over—some eggs, English muffins, and some fruit. I don’t know why I bother with the fruit. It always disappoints. Fruits in Florida seemed to be grown in sand. I cleared the counter through a fast lane. I actually had one more item than allowed. But the checkers were pleasant; they never minded. No edge to them like in New York. Maybe it's just that they've given up. In the North, the checkers are still fighting, believing. I miss their edge. I left the parking lot with the usual, extra deliberation to avoid the unexpected and without incident.
Driving home, I thought about my life back home, what I would’ve been doing at that time of day in my former life: lunch with a colleague or lender or friend at my usual spot, a modern pub in the hotel we owned, the owners deferential, the staff fawning, probably at this exact time, returning to the office with people in the lobby waiting to see me, employees waiting for me to sign documents or approve others, many voice mails, messages from my kids, needing this, needing that, hundreds of new emails and trying to manage all of it so that I could meet my wife in Manhattan for dinner with friends and probably finding two new deals to work. But probably vendors, others, screaming for payment, threats, and public embarrassment. Then I got a text that I thought was from my lawyer on the car’s console. But it wasn’t my lawyer. The number was wrong. It was from Dave Brenner, my long-standing colleague.
The text was being read to me by a computer voice. I wanted to send it to voicemail, but it started before I could reach the dash. The voice was female, robotic, with mispronunciations that made it sound even stranger. For some reason, I expected a kind message—maybe because it was a computer voice, and a female one at that. But it wasn’t kind. It was jarring. It was everything Dave had wanted to say the last time we spoke, but couldn’t.
As I listened, it felt like the car was driving itself. The message, with its odd syntax, awkward pauses, and emotional flatness, carried more weight than if he’d spoken it himself:
I… loved… you.
You betrayed… me.
For months… I couldn’t… accept… the reality.
I trusted you… I felt… sorry for you… for so… long.
But… it’s… gone… now.
You betrayed… me.
Eventually… the truth… won… out… over… the emotions.
The things you… did… outright… theft.
You… were… the best.
You… were… so good… to your… people.
You… were… so good… to your… family.
Your vulner… ability… gotcha.
Your fear… of loss… of status.
Remembering… the hard… painful… late 80s… and 90s.
It was… a special… trust.
But in the end… you totally… betrayed… all… of us.
Even… your own… family.
And now I’ve… lost… the ability… to feel… sorry… for you.
I wake… up… every day… thinking… how much better… off… I would have been… if I had not… loved you… so much.
The voice stopped abruptly. The dash read “Enter Reply Now".
I was at a red light, the hot sun pouring through the windshield. The light turned green, but I didn't move. I couldn't get my foot off the brake. If I were in New York, horns would be blazing. But the traffic behind me just drove around me. When I finally started driving again, my first reaction was defensive, angry. There were some specific things he referenced that weren't accurate. I grabbed onto them, correcting them in an imagined text response. But by the time the message was finished, I was overcome by shame and self-loathing. The robotic voice was eerie and devastating. All the rationalizations, the phony self-talk: "What I did was not that bad; I was trying to do the right thing.” The computer blew right through all that.
I kept driving, but the car was driving itself. A1A was summertime desolate. I kept cruising north, passing gated communities with their evocative names—gardens, islands, and beaches—each sign resting like a monument, evoking Edens and solace within. I just kept driving mindlessly and without a destination, miles past my exit, my whole life behind me, and only the looming court date on September 11th to confirm it.
This excerpt is also from an essay published in Minutes Before Six. Here is a link to the complete essay, After the Fall.
If this story resonates with you, or if you’ve wrestled with your own origin myths, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.
Up Next on White Collar Journal:
Wednesday (Justice Notes): Criminal Justice Reform Efforts
Thursday (Notes from Exisle): Log/Verse: Daily, fragmented reflections
Sunday (Prison Camp): More portraits from prison