Prison Camp: Leaving Town
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
In the months after the revelation and my resignation—before sentencing and prison—my wife and I sold our house in Connecticut and moved to Florida, waiting for the legal system to play out.
LEAVING TOWN
My life was over. The big life that is, and I did what I always did. The cowardly retreat. So I moved to Florida and escaped from the storm. It was seductive at first. The scent of the tropics always take you in. A kind of fools gold. But it’s always intoxicating. It seemd 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, trespasing, struggling aging people at every turn with their wrinkled limbs and rusted walkers, the townies 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 awhile 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. My sentencing hearing was set three months from now on 9/11. The irony of that date not even lost on me, a man who had left all irony behind. Irony, a metric for the successful life. My best friend lost his son that day. Although he’s not my best friend anymore. My most egregrious betrayal. He won’t talk to me ever again, he said. 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, boring routines and errands but distractions from the hearing that loomed. Not knowing which was worse, the tedium or the fear of the trial.
It was a quick trip into 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, shrunken old people who operate 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 over. Some eggs, English muffins and some fruit. I don’t know why I bother with the fruit. It always disappoints. Fruits in Florida seem 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 New York 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, 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 negotiate all of it so that I could meet my wife in the city 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 from my lawyer on the car’s console. But it wasn’t my lawyer. I saw the wrong number. It was my best friend who stopped speaking to me. The text was being read to me by a computer voice. I wanted to send it to voice mail but it started before I could reach the dash. The voice on the car was a female voice, robotic with inaccurate pronunciations of many of the words. For some reason, I was expecting a kind message. Maybe because it was a computer voice and a female voice at that. But the message wasn’t kind. It was jarring. It felt like the car was driving itself. The message, its strange syntax, pronunciation and emotional vacuum.
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.......out......right....... 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 very...... hard....., painful late....... 80s and 90s....... It was...... a special..... trust... But ......in the...... end you..... totally be......trayed..... 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 of..... 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, 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 on to them, corrected 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, eerie, 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, gated community after gated community with their evocative names of gardens, islands and beaches, their signs resting like monuments, evoking Edens and ultimate solace inside. I just kept driving mindless and without a destination, miles past my exit, my whole life behind me, and only the looming hearing on September 11th to confirm it.
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. John DiMenna is a member of the White Collar Support Group.
Up Next on White Collar Journal:
Wednesday (Justice Notes): Criminal Justice Reform
Thursday (Notes from Exisle): Log/Verse: Daily, fragmented reflections
Sunday (Prison Camp): More Stories from prison
If you’re new to White-Collar Journal, you can read earlier chapters and essays on incarceration, justice, and reentry at whitecollarjournal.com.
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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. John DiMenna is a member of the White Collar Support Group.
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Stunning how you capture the psychological liminality before incarceration. That friend's message cutting through mundane errand runs illustrates somethin reform advocates miss: the emotional devastation extends way beyond the person heading to prison. The bureaucratic countdown (sentencing on 9/11, no less) against everyday rituals creates this surreal doublelife that's rarely discussed.