Foreword by Michael G. Santos

essori
From
Prison

Bear Stearns, UB8 Stockbroker Muses
on Ethics and Provides Guide Through
Criminal justice System

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tale.? llis honestly and willingness Io hear lhe responsibilily [or his
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in every sense a forthright and honest accounting and it should he a
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Praise
“Upon retaining Justin Paperny, I immediately knew I
had made the right choice. He prepared me for the road
ahead and put together a plan for me to succeed after my
release. With his help I have been able to change prison into
a positive experience in my life.”
—Warren Schultz
“Justin has generated a plan to allow me to be productive
inside Federal Prison. More importantly, he has assisted me
in developing a plan for my post prison life and the tasks I
need to complete to reach my goals. Finally, he has eased my
fears and the fears of my family as I tread through the
Federal Justice System! “
—Ken Flaska
“Justin provides a tremendous resource to my clients by
counseling them about the most difficult experience a person
can face – preparing to be sentenced and going to prison.
Justin’s unique background makes him a very compelling
source of advice, counseling and comfort to my clients. He is
also a pleasure to work with, very communicative and
responsive, and treats my clients with decency and
compassion.”
—Mark Werksman, Criminal Defense Attorney and
former Assistant United States Attorney and former Deputy
District Attorney

 “Finding Justin was like a sigh of relief after enduring
months of emotional pain. If you are facing any legal issues
please reach out to him. I know that by working with Justin I
am not alone and will thrive this trying ordeal. “
—Holli Coulman
“Thank you, Justin. You are an amazing person and I am
so grateful that you are a part of my son’s life & support
system. The advice & tools you provided him for his
incarceration were invaluable. “
—Linda Jorgenson
“Justin Paperny provides a service at a time when his
expertise and assistance is needed most -- in the middle of a
legal crisis. I wholeheartedly recommend not only his
professional prison consulting service and programs but also
knowing him on a personal level. His professionalism, ethics,
sincerity and genuine concern for you separates him from
any other competitor service. “
—Brian Jorgenson
“You are fortunate that you found these videos! Go to
Justin’s Website WhiteCollarAdvice.com and make that call
today…. The earlier you can speak with him the better. His
wisdom from being through the process will teach you how
to help yourself. Take Action you can change the outcome.
Make that call Now!”
—Fred Catalano

 “I was just sentenced to 60 months in Federal Prison for
money laundering. I unfortunately found this brilliant man
and website too late or I guess you can say at the right time,
because it is very much helping me understand my and my
family’s situation. “
—Cris Rosenvinge



“Justin, I just wanted to thank you so much for creating
this content and focusing on helping other individuals that
have been convicted of white collar crimes or whom are still
in the process of dealing with the government. “
—Shayne Fowler
“After months of research, I found Justin’s solutions to
be most comprehensive and transparent. I highly recommend
Justin Paperny’s consultation offerings to, not only those
preparing to go to prison, but also to, attorney’s looking to
enhance their client offerings, and concerned family
members looking for ways to help their loved ones. “
—Steven Brazile
“Justin’s commitment and focus is unmatched. With his
support, I have developed a plan to approach prison
proactively: to document my experience, to keep in touch
with contacts and loved ones, and to prepare for my eventual
release. In short, thanks to Justin, I enter prison with hope for
the future and a solid plan to make that hope a reality. I
would encourage anyone who finds himself in a position
similar to mine to reach out and contact Justin today.”
—Leigh Sprague, Columbia University School of Law,
Class of ’99

 “Justin has proven to be dedicated, proficient and
sensitive to my personal situation. More than just
consultations, I have learned lessons that will carry me
throughout my life. I am convinced that Justin’s Consulting
program will promote a successful prison term, a successful
release and furthermore a positive life and career.”
—Christian Ounanian
“Justin - you were of great assistance to me. I appreciate
all your help. Your insight was instrumental and I am now
preparing for the eventuality that my future brings. With
your help, I know that I can deal with whatever is coming.
Thank you so much for your information.”
—Dorothy Lou

 Other books by Justin Paperny:

Ethics in Motion

Lessons
From
Prison
Bear Stearns, UBS Stockbroker Muses
on Ethics and Provides Guide Through
Criminal Justice System

Justin M. Paperny
APS Publishing
California

 Copyright © 2009 by Justin M. Paperny.
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book
may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without
written permission except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, visit
WhiteCollarAdvice.com.

 With respect and humility,
I dedicate this book to my loving parents,

Tallie and Bernard Paperrzy

The greatest discovery of my generation is that a human
being can alter his life by altering his attitude.
William James

 Justin M. Paperny graduated from the
University of Southern California in
1997. He built his career as a
stockbroker at the firms of Merrill
Lynch; Crowell Weedon and Co.; Bear
Stearns; and UBS. Justin’s area of
expertise focused on managing financial
assets for hedge funds and professional
athletes.
Despite a privileged background, seven-figure earnings
before his 30th birthday, and a promising career in financial
services, Justin lost his way. Allowing greed and self-interest to
interfere with ethical judgments, Justin stumbled into a Ponzi
scheme. Rather than making the values-based decisions for
which his background seasoned him, Justin facilitated the fraud.
Through Justin’s writings, programs, videos and
consultations, he describes the lessons he learned and the
strategies that empowered him to overcome the adversities his
own decisions created. For more information, please visit:
www.WhiteCollarAdvice.com
JP@WhiteCollarAdvice.com

 Foreword by Michael G. Santos
Defendants facing prosecution in the federal system will
not find a more honest guide than Justin Paperny. It pleases
me to provide this personal testimonial as a Foreword.
Those who read Justin’s compelling book, Lessons From
Prison, will find that I have a unique insight into Justin’s
character. When he surrendered to the Taft Federal Prison
Camp, in 2008, I had already been incarcerated for longer than
20 years. That journey provided an unparalleled depth and
breadth of personal experience. After multiple decades in
prison, I was well positioned to assess the sincerity of an
individual’s commitment to preparing for success.
I met Justin within days of his surrender. We became
friends as he told me about his remarkable career in the
financial sector. Then, when we discussed his plans for the
career that he wanted to lead upon release, I became even
more impressed. Justin wanted to help people make better
decisions. He aspired to teach people that although they may
have faced challenging times in the past, they could take a
principled, deliberate course of action to recalibrate their life
and move forward.
Justin’s passion for working to make the world a better
place inspired me. As the weeks turned into months, I became
even more impressed with Justin’s commitment to follow
through. Anyone could say that they wanted to overcome
struggle. Investing the time and energy to do so was another
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 Lessons From Prison
matter entirely.
Justin adopted a disciplined schedule in prison. He woke
before dawn to begin his work. Each day he sat alone at a table
with a pen in hand, determined to write the next chapter of his
life. Those efforts resulted in the book that you now hold in
your hand. In addition to writing the manuscript, with nothing
more than a pen and blank pages of typing paper, he wrote
daily blogs by hand. He made all the right decisions in prison.
As a consequence of Justin’s strategic approach to serving
time, he emerged from prison precisely as he anticipated.
Despite returning to society during the worst economic
recession of our lifetime, Justin hit the ground running. He
began consulting for global corporations and individuals. His
probation officer was so impressed with the six-figure income
he earned during his first year of liberty, that he extended
Justin the respect of liberty. His success after prison was a
direct result of the strategies he set, which makes him uniquely
qualified to teach others who are working through the
complexities of a criminal charge.
Justin’s commitment to gather as much information as
possible endowed him with a wealth of knowledge about the
federal prison system. He has personal experience of dealing
with matters that include a presentence investigation, a
sentence-mitigation strategy, surrendering to prison, and
adjusting through prison in a deliberate, principled way. Most
important, however, is the indisputable evidence of how he
returned to society. Rather than being crushed by the
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 Foreword by Michael G. Santos
experience of a criminal prosecution, Justin has thrived. He has
built an extraordinarily successful career in leadership, inspiring
tens of thousands to move beyond current struggles and
achieve new heights in their personal and professional life.
Success after prison doesn’t materialize by accident. In fact,
statistics show that people who encounter struggles from the
criminal justice system frequently slide into cascading troubles.
Individuals who proceed through the system without proper
guidance can easily suffer consequences that extend long after
the sentencing hearing, the prison journey, or the release date.
People who once led successful entrepreneurial careers can
become so traumatized by a criminal prosecution that they
completely lose their way. It may take them decades to get back
on their feet. They may suffer from the trauma in both
emotional and biological ways. They can lose their family and
support network. They may suffer from unemployment, lack of
access to credit, and an inability to carve out a new path when
they return to society as a convicted felon.
Justin’s expert guidance can help defendants get a
jumpstart on creating a new life. I’ve worked alongside him to
write lesson plans that anyone can follow. In addition to the
lesson plans, Justin offers consulting on sentence-mitigation
strategies and preparation for the prison journey.
Justin spends as much time as necessary with his clients to
ensure that they embark upon their path to a better life with
confidence and a clear understanding of the outcome. He is
uniquely qualified to serve as an expert sentence-mitigation
xvii

 Lessons From Prison
strategist and prison consultant for a number of reasons. I’m
confident that anyone who works with Justin Paperny will find
the investment enormously valuable. For those reasons, I am
proud to give my categorical and unequivocal endorsement of
Justin Paperny as sentence-mitigation expert and prison
consultant.
Respectfully,
Michael G. Santos

xviii

 Preface To Second Edition of
Lessons From Prison
Several years have passed since I surrendered to the Taft
Federal Prison Camp in 2008. I wrote this manuscript by hand
while I served an 18-month sentence. Although you’ll read
details of my history in this manuscript, I can provide a
thumbnail sketch in one paragraph.
After graduating from USC I became a stockbroker. While
working in that capacity I represented professional athletes and
a number of hedge funds. When I learned that one of those
hedge funds was involved in fraudulent transactions, I failed to
act appropriately. Authorities responded with a criminal
investigation. Again, I failed to act appropriately.
Rather than accepting responsibility for my bad decisions, I
prevaricated and misled. As a consequence, I faced civil
charges from the SEC and then I faced criminal charges. The
ordeal lasted for several years, costing more than a $1 million
and culminating in the 18-month prison term that I served at
Taft.
If you’re reading Lessons From Prison, I suspect that you’re in
a similar situation. Our crimes may be different, but the
situation is the same. You’re going through the worst time of
your life. You’re waiting for an attorney to make decisions on
your behalf. Judicial delays keep your life in a state of limbo.
The process brings an emotional torment as you contemplate
how this tragedy will influence your family, your career, and
xix

 Lessons From Prison
your future. On top of all that, you worry about prison.
I can help.
Through Lessons From Prison, you’ll read that the worst time
of my entire experience were those months that preceded my
surrender to prison. I was completely lost and sinking, as if into
an abyss. You’ll read that as soon as I had a plan, I began to
take affirmative steps to change my life. That deliberate
approach made all the difference. I emerged from prison on
August 16, 2009. As a consequence of the preparations I made
in prison, I walked out of prison as a completely different man.
Preparation restored my confidence, opening new
opportunities.
I provide this book to prospective clients for a purpose.
Whether a defendant chooses to begin working with me or not,
I want them to see that the sooner they begin working to build
a better life, the sooner they can restore confidence. With
renewed confidence, a defendant will stop the free fall and
sleepless nights. With renewed confidence, a defendant can
begin to forge a path that will lead to a new future.
The question I have is whether you’re ready to begin
forging your new future.
From my perspective, defendants who are reading this
book may choose one of three options. Each option has
consequences, which we can explore.
The first option, of course, is to wait. Waiting doesn’t take
any effort. In fact, while waiting, the individual doesn’t have to
xx

 Preface To Second Edition of Lessons From Prison
do anything. As a consequence, however, the defendant may
continue to live in fear. The defendant may continue to deny or
minimize the magnitude of the problem. Instead of acting, the
defendant will cling to a fantasy that events will improve, or
magically disappear. The defendant may fail to live productively
while in that “waiting” mode.
Rather than working productively to restore confidence,
defendants who choose the first option will surf the Internet
looking for information when he or she can’t sleep. I know this
option well. I endured it for several months prior to my
surrender to prison. I felt lost, invaded, hopeless, afraid, and
tormented by anxieties about what was to come. It’s not an
option that I recommend for anyone.
Defendants have a second option. They can hire me to
guide them through the journey ahead. Let’s explore the
ramifications of what would follow. If a defendant is tired of
the sleepless nights and the torment of anxieties, he or she will
sign a fee agreement with me. That fee agreement will include a
clearly defined scope of work. The defendant who chooses the
second option will collaborate with me on building a deliberate
strategy to proceed. Depending on what stage of proceedings
the defendant is in, we can work to prepare a sentencemitigation strategy to prepare for the lowest-possible sentence,
or we can limit our work to preparing for prison and the best
possible outcome.
The highly personalized work will depend on a number of
factors. I do not offer legal guidance, but I collaborate with
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 Lessons From Prison
many defense attorneys who introduce my programs and
services to their clients. The work that defendants and I do
together will focus more on preparing for the challenges of
imprisonment. More importantly, we will work together to
prepare in ways that provide the defendant with a clear and
deliberate strategy to emerge from prison with dignity in tact.
Further, the defendant will advance prospects for his success
upon release. Defendants who proceed with this second option
will have a renewed sense of purpose. That work will lower the
levels of anxieties as the defendant advances through the
judicial and prison process.
Of course there is a third option. A defendant may choose
to hire me. But hiring me alone will not suffice. My methods
require preparatory work. Together with my colleague, Michael
Santos, I’ve developed a series of lesson plans and scope of
work that have proven to be a best-practice guide to preparing
for the prison experience. During an initial, free consultation,
we could review that scope of work. We could come to an
agreement. Yet if the defendant fails to engage and participate
in the work, the progress will not follow. We cannot purchase
restored peace and confidence. We must work to achieve it.
Which option will you choose?
By working together, we become part of a coordinated,
collaborative team with a clear end in sight. Defendants who
retain me become less of a burden to their defense attorneys.
They can allow their defense attorneys to focus on the best
possible outcome through the judicial process. Simultaneously,
xxii

 Preface To Second Edition of Lessons From Prison
we work together for the best possible outcome from the
entire proceeding. Whereas the defense attorney’s work may
conclude after the sentencing hearing, our work will have
lasting ramifications, regardless of the outcome at sentencing.
We prepare for the new realities that accompany a criminal
conviction. Life as a felon means that defendants must prepare
for press releases from the government. Those press releases
retain high rankings in all search engines, even after the
defendant is released from prison. Those press releases can
complicate the possibility for employment, for credit, for
business opportunities upon release. Criminal problems can
bring family complications. The entire debacle can derail a
defendant’s life.
Defendants who retain me, and who choose to prepare,
will embark upon a disciplined, deliberate plan to improve their
outcomes. They will recognize improvements within our first
session of work together. I guarantee it. If they continue, I am
confident that they will return to society after this experience
much differently from the defendants who fail to act.
I walked out of prison as a convicted felon on August 16,
2009 during the worst economic recession of our lifetime.
Anyone who ran a Google search of my name would see my
criminal record. Yet as a consequence of the strategies to
which I adhered during my imprisonment—strategies that I
teach to my clients—numerous opportunities awaited me.
Was my success after prison a matter of luck?
No. I created that success, just as I will teach you how to
xxiii

 Lessons From Prison
create your success. Since my release from prison I have
collaborated with global corporations, with law enforcement
(including the Federal Bureau of Investigation and The United
States Pre-Trial Services Office), with universities, with law
firms, and with thousands of defendants. I am passionate about
teaching strategies that others can use to reach their highest
potential.
For those who want further validation on my work, I
encourage you to review my client list and a handful of
testimonials.
If you are ready to begin restoring confidence and
preparing for new opportunities, then contact me today for a
free consultation. I’d like to work with you in establishing a
scope of work that will guide you through these challenging
times.
Justin M. Paperny
September 5, 2015

xxiv

 Table of Contents
1 The Beginning ........................................................................... 27
2 The Fraud Triangle................................................................... 36
3 My Ponzi at Bear Stearns and UBS ....................................... 44
4 Self-Delusions, Lies, and Attorneys...................................... 53
5 Accepting Responsibility ......................................................... 63
6 My Prison Coach ...................................................................... 70
7 Processed into Prison .............................................................. 76
8 I Can’t Believe I’m in Prison .................................................. 85
9 Learning the Ropes .................................................................. 96
10 The Kingpin ..........................................................................105
11 Road Runner. Beep Beep ....................................................117
12 Intro to Philosophy ..............................................................123
13 Visiting ...................................................................................133
14 The “U” Shaped Curve .......................................................141
15 Introspection .........................................................................151
16 Writing to Connect ..............................................................162
17 The Turning Point ...............................................................171
18 Ethics .....................................................................................175
19 Moral Codes ..........................................................................190
xxv

 Lessons From Prison
20 Perspectives ........................................................................... 203
21 Guide Through System ....................................................... 212
Epilogue ...................................................................................... 234

xxvi

 1
The Beginning
Twelve months in prison helped recalibrate my life. I
certainly didn’t expect that I would grow from the experience.
Yet those anxieties that plagued me during the three years that
preceded my confinement were by far the worst part of my
journey through the criminal justice system. Like many of the
other white-collar offenders I met at Taft’s Federal Prison
Camp, I simply didn’t know all the ways that prison could
empower and change my life for the better.
From the beginning, I missed my family, my community,
and my dog, Honey. Understandably, those feelings would stay
with me through the term. In time, however, I developed
routines that helped me feel productive and brought meaning
to my life. Instead of struggling with the bad decisions I made
that led to my troubles with the law, I spent many hours
reflecting, deep in introspection. By figuring out where I had
fallen off track, I could take corrective actions.
Clearly, my background suggested much brighter prospects
than a stint in federal prison.
My name is Justin Paperny. When I self-surrendered to
Taft Prison Camp on 28 April 2008, I was 33-years-old. My
parents, Tallie and Bernie, had reared my brother Todd and me
in the affluent community of Encino, in the heart of Los
Angeles’ San Fernando Valley.
27

 Lessons From Prison
Like most American boys, as a youngster I fell in love with
baseball. I had a natural gift for the sport, as if I were born
with a fielder’s glove on my hand. I developed a powerful build
as a youngster, and my strength led to many homeruns. I
played on all-star teams from the time I turned seven, and
during the course of my athletic career, I was fortunate to play
in three separate World Series tournaments.
Through baseball, I learned virtues that should have stayed
with me throughout life. Good sportsmanship meant loyalty,
discipline, integrity, and a sense of balance. It was my
childhood coach, Jack Gilardi, who really taught me the
importance of such concepts. As a child and young man, those
qualities or character traits were integral to my life. They led to
my earning distinctions that brought a sense of pride to my
parents. Through my success on the baseball diamond, I was
invited to attend the prestigious Montclair Preparatory School
in Van Nuys. By the time I graduated, I held several records in
the Babe Ruth World Series. Those accomplishments led to
scholarship offers from some of America’s best universities. I
chose the University of Southern California.
While playing baseball for USC, I realized that I was no
longer in the top tier among athletes. I had been a standout
from the time I was six-years-old, though I reached my peak
performance as a high school player. The teammates around
me were continuing to develop, whereas I had kind of
stagnated. At USC, under the outstanding coaching of Mike
Gillespie, I worked as hard as I possibly could. Yet I was
forced to accept that my unexceptional performance on a team
28

 The Beginning
that included many world-class athletes would limit me to a
supporting rather than a starring role.
Many players whom I had known since childhood would
advance to sterling careers in the major leagues. My closest
friend, Brad Fullmer, was drafted by the Montreal Expos after
graduation from Montclair Prep. He was one of the very few
athletes who homered during his first at bat in the big leagues.
Later, Brad was a major contributor to the Anaheim Angels
during their 2002 World Series victory.
Other friends of mine, who built successful careers in the
big leagues, included Jeff Suppan, Aaron Boone, Gabe Alvarez,
and Geoff Jenkins. I knew that my baseball career would end at
USC.
I was in my early 20s, and I understood that without sports
I would have to find another way to earn a living. My father
owned a hardware store that had been in the family for three
generations. My brother Todd, however, who was studying at
UCLA, expressed more interest in carrying on the family
business. I had to find something else.
Through a friend of my mother’s, I became intrigued with
the brokerage business. I was majoring in psychology at USC.
When I told my mother that I was thinking about becoming a
stockbroker, she stepped up to help. That was Tallie’s way. She
was a wonderful mother, and never missed an opportunity to
make my brother and me feel as if our success and happiness
were the highest values of her life.
“I have to call your cousin, Richard Levy,” she said. “He’s
29

 Lessons From Prison
highly educated and newspapers have reported him as being
one of the most successful brokers on Wall Street.”
I’d never met this cousin, yet my mother felt certain he
would usher me into the elite world of high finance. Richard,
on the other hand, who was a star at Bear Stearns, was
underwhelmed with the plea for intervention from my mother.
He was based in New York, and he didn’t have the time to
tutor a distant cousin who wasn’t even studying in the Ivy
Leagues.
“Why don’t you call Todd Goodman,” Richard suggested.
“Todd’s right there in Los Angeles. He should have no
problem helping your son get started.”
Todd Goodman was another cousin of mine, and he was a
money-management legend in his own right. Todd would
become the founder of Goodman Investments but at the time
my mom called him he was a lead performer in the Los
Angeles office of Goldman Sachs. She pleaded with Todd to
give me a break. “Have him here by four tomorrow morning.
And tell him to wear a suit and tie.”
I was on summer break between my junior and senior year
when my mom orchestrated my interview with Todd. Although
we had never met previously, I knew of his and his brother
Jeff’s success. Both were partners at Goldman Sachs, and they
managed portfolios for some of the biggest names in the
entertainment business. When I presented myself to the
Goldman Sachs offices at four in the morning, I didn’t know
what to expect. I found a room bristling with energy and alive
30

 The Beginning
with action. Todd stood at the heart of it all.
“So, you’re the baseball player,” Todd said as he sized me
up. “Where do you plan on going to business school?”
“I’m not planning on getting an MBA,” I answered. “I
want to learn about the brokerage business.”
Todd wasn’t impressed. “What do you mean, you’re not
going to business school? You’ve got to get an MBA.”
“I want to be a stockbroker, not an investment banker.”
Todd looked at me as if I were a child complaining about
school. “A stockbroker’s nothing more than a salesman. Maybe
you should just sell cars.”
“Can’t I just learn about stocks from you for a while?”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to watch you work, to learn about the business a
little.”
“Okay,” Todd told me. “You can watch.”
I wouldn’t exactly call my time at Goldman Sachs an
internship. Still, my time with Todd certainly convinced me
that I wanted to build a career as a stockbroker. I loved the
excitement. I sat in the trading room listening to the lingo and
feeling myself infected with the adrenaline rush. I watched men
screaming orders that had values in the tens of millions into
the telephone. Although I didn’t do much more than pour
coffee and lick envelopes, I felt the same level of excitement in
that room as if I were playing on a team in a stadium with
31

 Lessons From Prison
20,000 screaming baseball fans and national television was
broadcasting the game.
On the advice of Todd, I interned at a few other brokerage
houses while I was finishing up my final year at USC. Those
efforts paid off. By networking in the industry, I had a few job
offers waiting for me once I had my degree in hand. Although
Todd’s influence helped me secure an interview with Goldman
in New York, I understood that was not enough. Moderately
good grades and a baseball pedigree from a California school
were not going to get me beyond the first round of interviews
at the world’s most prestigious investment bank. As my
interviewer told me in no uncertain terms, “Goldman typically
hires only from the Ivies, and we only accept students of
exceptional distinction.”
Within a week of graduating, I accepted a job offer to work
at Merrill Lynch in Orange County. In order to ensure that I
could make it to the office before five each morning, I moved
60 miles south. By the second day I felt miserable. I missed my
girlfriend, my family, and my home.
The job required that I stay in the office from well before
dawn until after nine each evening. The job wasn’t even
fulfilling. I hadn’t yet earned my securities license so I was
restricted to cold calling and sending out research materials.
Other brokers referred to my tasks as paying dues. Being a
team player, I felt willing and eager to give the job all I had.
Within weeks, however, the pressures were wreaking havoc on
my personal life.
32

 The Beginning
I had graduated college in tip-top physical condition—lean
and muscular. That changed quickly after I started my career as
a stockbroker. The long hours left zero time for exercise.
During the day, I would chow down the catered meals brought
into the brokerage house. When I finished in the evening, I
gorged myself with more pizza, burgers, or burritos from fast
food restaurants. Within months, my weight had ballooned by
30 pounds, none of it muscle.
“You could lose 15 pounds just in your cheeks,” my
girlfriend would tease during my weekend trips home.
“What the hell are you doing down there?” My friend, Brad,
would look at me with astonishment. Health magazines had
given him cover shots as baseball’s most fit athlete. “You’ve
only been out of college for a few months, and you already
look like an old man. I don’t know what’s going on down in
O.C., but you need to mix in a salad once in a while. It’s time
to boycott In-and-Out.”
They were right. I was working myself to death and I felt
miserable. I studied for my Series Seven exam with the
appropriate agency for securities professionals, and I earned
my license a few months later.
Once I had my license in hand, I learned the truth about
the brokerage business. It was cut throat. Unlike my experience
as a baseball player, where men of good character and fairness
surrounded me, in the brokerage business I was living amidst
deceit, greed, and questionable ethics.
I was only 23-years-old when my supposed sponsoring
33

 Lessons From Prison
partners at Merrill Lynch shafted me for commissions to which
I was rightfully entitled. From that treachery, I learned that I
would have to play by a new set of rules to make it as a broker.
I left Merrill Lynch in anger because I felt cheated out of
several thousand dollars of commissions. If neither the firm
nor my colleagues would stand by me, I saw no reason to stand
by loyally to them.
In retrospect, I recognize that my decision to leave Merrill
was one of the first in a series of sliders. I felt my moral
character deteriorating. Rather than standing up for fairness,
integrity, and discipline, and the other virtues I had been
groomed to follow as an athlete, I began my descent to the
lowest common denominator in the brokerage business.
Instead of promoting and living by a solid code of ethics, I
compromised my own values and ceased to function as a team
player. I allowed myself to become influenced by the worst part
of the industry, meaning that I thought about my own shortterm needs rather than the greater good of the team and a
winning season.
It was similar to my decision not to earn an MBA, as my
cousin Todd Goodman had urged me to pursue. All of those
years committing myself to baseball, I suppose, had taken a toll
on my ability to focus on delayed gratification. I felt less
inclined to look into the future and commit to further
investment of time. I had reached my early 20s and felt ready
to get paid.
Ironically, it wasn’t until I came to prison that I began to
34

 The Beginning
see those traits. The more than 12 months I spent locked
inside the community of felons gave me the space I needed for
introspection. By realizing where and how I had gone wrong, I
could understand my weaknesses better. That self-awareness
made a difference in my adjustment. It gave me better direction
for the rest of my life.

35

 2
The Fraud Triangle
I had been at Merrill Lynch for one year when I quit in a
huff. At the time, I had built a book of business, which was
just south of $10 million dollars under management, most of
which came from family, friends, and acquaintances. The sum
wasn’t a large amount in the brokerage world, yet it was
sufficient to ensure that I could walk into any moderate sized
brokerage house and negotiate an employment offer.
I chose Crowell, Weedon and Co., the largest regional firm
on the West Coast. Richard Jacobson was the manager of the
Encino branch, and he welcomed me with open arms. Many of
the other brokers were set in their ways, stodgy, too tired to
chase new accounts. Jacobson saw hunger in my eyes and hired
me on the spot. I was 24-years-old and he offered me a
guaranteed salary that was three times as much as what I was
earning at Merrill, plus a commission split that assured I would
earn six figures in my first year. I was chasing the money.
While at Crowell, Weedon I worked the phone and I
worked the streets. By cold calling and cold walking I picked
up every account I could find, adding tens of thousands to my
assets under management each week. I had my spiel down,
promising to deliver the world while not giving a thought to
asset allocation or the client’s specific needs. My approach
differed in remarkable ways from Todd Goodman, who
cultivated long-term relationships by recommending slow and
36

 The Fraud Triangle
steady growth.
Within months, I became one of the top producing brokers
in the branch office. I learned some sharp-elbowed practices
from Keith Gilabert, a fellow broker. He taught me how to
earn higher commissions by churning accounts, how to finagle
free lunches out of mutual funds, and he introduced me to a
few other tricks that would boost my monthly production to
the long-term detriment of my career.
The branch manager loved my performance and
encouraged the aggressive tactics. I felt experienced, ready to
advance on to the bigger players by tapping into my network of
professional athletes. I contacted my friend, Dan Lozano, from
the well-known Beverly Hills Sports Council.
Dan was an alumnus of USC, and he had cultivated
relationships with professional baseball players. Knowing that
he represented such players as Mike Piazza, José Canseco, and
Barry Bonds, I called him for a lunch date with hopes of
persuading him to introduce me to his clients, so that I could
sell them on my skills as a money manager.
“Here’s the deal,” Lozano told me during our lunch. “Kyle
Smith is my close friend. We were fraternity brothers and
roommates at USC. He’s a broker at Bear and he gets all my
guys.”
We continued the discussion, and by the end of the meal,
Lozano agreed to set up a meeting between Kyle and me. Kyle
was a few years older, a fellow Trojan, and we both had grown
up in Encino. Lozano thought an opportunity might exist for
37

 Lessons From Prison
Kyle and me to partner. I sensed the upside of linking my
business with Kyle’s. If he could open the door at a brandname firm like Bear Stearns, and introduce me to the trade of
managing money for professional athletes, I knew my career
had more potential to rocket.
Kyle and I hit it off during our meeting. He introduced me
to David Pollock, the branch manager of Bear Stearns in
Century City. When David heard that Kyle wanted me to join
Bear so that we could work together as partners, he agreed to
grant an interview. I only had about $15 million under
management, and less than two years experience as a broker.
Those were not the types of credentials that opened doors at
first-tier investment houses such as Bear Stearns. Nevertheless,
during our interview, I let it pop that my cousin was Todd
Goodman of Goodman Investments and that Richard Levy
was another distant cousin.
Those family relationships erased any reluctance David
Pollock may have had about hiring me. Goodman Investments
would not accept accounts of less than $25 million and David
understood that as Todd’s young cousin, there was an excellent
chance that Todd would refer accounts to me if they did not
meet his minimum criteria. Pollack offered a compensation
package, and without giving Jacobson at Crowell, Weedon a
chance to counter, I submitted my letter of resignation, taking
all of my accounts with me. My loyalty, I felt, was to my career,
not to the team of Crowell, Weedon and Co.
With only $15 million under management, I accepted the
38

 The Fraud Triangle
role of junior partner to Kyle Smith, who managed more than
$40 million of investor assets. That relationship left me with a
smaller portion of the revenue split when we were distributing
commissions. Although I agreed to the terms of the
partnership, I grew to resent my status as the junior partner.
I felt as if my contributions warranted a higher payout. I
was on track to earn north of $200,000 during my first year
with Kyle; our partnership agreement, however, entitled Kyle
to rake in more than three times as much. The revenue split to
which I had agreed was not sitting well.
I had brought in an incredibly lucrative hedge fund as an
account. That fund was kicking off as much as $100,000 a
month in trading commissions. Despite the efforts I made to
win the account, and the work I was performing to manage the
heavy volume of trades, the partnership agreement gave Kyle
the lion’s share of the commission split.
My sense of being under appreciated and under
compensated failed to move Kyle. As the senior broker, he felt
entitled to the higher split. After all, he insisted, his influence
was the reason Bear Stearns had hired me.
At 25, I was the youngest broker Bear had ever hired in its
Los Angeles office. According to Kyle, that never would have
happened without his sponsorship. He told me that I still had
dues to pay, that both patience and gratitude would suit me
well.
Although I agreed to continue with our arrangement,
beneath the surface I could feel Kyle exploiting me. When I
39

 Lessons From Prison
spotted an opportunity to even the playing field, I took it.
Those actions, I now recognize, represented my succumbing to
what others have called the fraud triangle. It’s a trap that can
lead to moral failure, a slippery slope that frequently lands
people in prison.
With the fraud triangle, the individual feels the pressure.
He feels as if he is being cheated, or as if he needs to overcome
some hurdle. The hurdle may present itself in the form of the
need for a higher income to pay an obligation, or even some
desire to advance one’s standing.
In my case, I resented the concept that I had to pay dues. I
was bringing in the money. I felt entitled to respect and to
more compensation. Without that perceived sense of fairness, I
felt as if my colleague was taking advantage of me. In my mind,
that injustice could not stand.
The second prong of the fraud triangle was the
rationalization. In my case, since I felt as if I were being
cheated, it only seemed fair that I take what was rightfully mine.
As an athlete, if I ever felt the manager wasn’t recognizing
my performance, I could work harder. My stats would easily
convince him that I deserved a higher position in the batting
order. Either way, I recognized the importance of the team
first, and accepted that our team’s manager had a reason for his
decision.
As a cynical money manager on the other hand, that sense
of fair play I had learned through sports didn’t mean as much.
The partnership agreement I had made with Kyle failed to
40

 The Fraud Triangle
reflect my performance. With his response that I needed to pay
my dues, I rationalized that he was looking out for himself
rather than for my interest as a contributing team player. Since
he wasn’t interested in being fair to me, I rationalized that I
would look out for myself.
The third prong of the fraud triangle was opportunity. I felt
pressure by the perceived lack of fairness.
Even though I was earning an income far beyond the grasp
of most young men, I felt my performance entitled me to more.
I rationalized the unfairness. The opportunity presented itself
to bank some full commissions, in total violation of the
partnership agreement I had made with Kyle. In my mind it
was all fair. That type of thinking differed in remarkable ways
from the values of a sportsman, but it seemed acceptable with
my sliding scale of ethics. It was the strangling triangle of
pressure, rationalization, and opportunity that eventually led
me to fraud.
As a prisoner in a minimum-security federal prison camp, I
met and interacted with hundreds of men who served time for
white-collar crimes. Some engaged in securities fraud. Others
launched businesses that turned into Ponzi schemes. I knew
men who manipulated records in transparent and ultimately
futile attempts to evade taxes. The crimes may have varied, but
the motivation for each, without exception, followed the
familiar pattern of pressure, rationalization, and opportunity,
the fraud triangle. I came to this conclusion as I began to think
of a neighbor in an adjacent cubicle.
41

 Lessons From Prison
Steve and I had walked around the dirt track earlier that
evening. He told me that he had been the controller for a
moderately sized and privately held company, which
distributed industrial parts. He’d been with the company for
more than a decade and thought that his contributions enabled
the firm to grow its customer base exponentially. The owner
relied on Steve to manage the operations, but Steve felt as if
the owner neglected to share in the profits. Steve told me that
he was entitled to a higher percentage of the annual bonus pool,
yet the owner of the firm declined to offer an equitable
distribution.
Steve controlled both the billing and receivables. He also
prepared the monthly income statement and balance sheet.
Those responsibilities offered Steve ample opportunity to cheat
his employer.
He launched his fraud by opening a straw business with a
name that was eerily familiar to his employer’s. Steve also
opened a bank account with the straw company’s name. Each
month, he would deposit checks that rightfully belonged to his
employer into this straw account. Over time, those thefts
amounted to hundreds of thousands of dollars. As the financial
controller of a private company with millions in monthly
revenues, Steve had the opportunity to execute his fraud easily.
Auditors eventually detected his crime and he served a
four-year sentence. The irony was that as Steve told me the
story, he remained adamant that he didn’t take anything to
which he wasn’t entitled. Despite the prison term, Steve was
42

 The Fraud Triangle
still stuck in the fraud triangle. In my opinion, that refusal to
accept responsibility kept Steve locked in a negative adjustment
pattern. We as individuals had to learn and grow from our
decisions.
By diverting commissions from Kyle’s and my joint
account and routing them to my personal account, I was able
to even the short-term score. With an extra ten thousand here,
an extra fifteen thousand there, I could take care of myself
even if the partnership wouldn’t. Those types of decisions
violated a code of ethics that led to long-term success. Worse,
they made it easier to succumb further into the fraud triangle.

43

 3
My Ponzi at Bear Stearns and UBS
After a year at Bear Stearns, Kyle and I jumped ship. By
then, using the prestige of the Bear Stearns name, we were able
to build a book of business that specialized in discretionary
accounts for professional athletes, and offered trading services
to small hedge funds. We had more than $100 million under
management. That sum was sufficient to persuade the rival
firm of UBS to offer our partnership a seven-figure signing
bonus if we would ditch Bear Stearns to bring our clients to
UBS.
I followed my partner out of Bear Stearns in pursuit of a
signing bonus that would put an immediate six-figure sum in
my pocket. Despite my payday, I didn’t feel a sense of pride or
honor in my actions. Rather, I felt sleazy inside, as if I were the
embodiment of selling out. Had I called my cousin, Todd
Goodman at Goodman Investments, he would have been
disappointed. A decision to sacrifice a potentially distinguished
career for a signing bonus, in his eyes, was along the same lines
as my decision to forego graduate school and jump-start my
career as a stockbroker.
Knowing that Todd would disapprove of my decision, I
did not pay him the courtesy of a phone call. I simply lacked
the courage because deep inside I did not feel worthy of the
mentoring he had tried to give me. As I rode the elevator down
the Century City Towers from Bear Stearns’ trading center on
44

 My Ponzi at Bear
the 30th floor, I hoped that I wouldn’t run into Todd, whose
office was in the same building.
At UBS, my career with Kyle followed the same pattern.
We pursued short term trading profits through high
commission trades. We were more like bookies than
professional money managers, more interested with banking
profits for UBS and ourselves than for our clients.
At UBS our client list focused primarily on professional
athletes and hedge funds. In time, our assets under
management grew to exceed $200 million. I had connived my
way into earnings of more than $1 million before I reached my
28th birthday.
Rather than take pride in my career, I felt a sense of selfloathing. Within a few months of leaving college, poor eating
habits and the lack of exercise transformed my athletic build
into a blob of putty. I smoked incessantly. Instead of striving
to boost the value of my partnership with Kyle, I stewed with
resentment and feelings that our agreed commission split failed
to reflect my true worth.
I didn’t give a thought to any allegiance I may have owed
to Bear Stearns for the investment the firm made in my career.
On the first day as a Bear Stearns account executive, the
legendary Ace Greenberg called to welcome and wish me
success. With the distinction my distant cousins earned on Wall
Street in general, and at Bear Stearns in particular, the firm’s
leadership had high hopes for the development of my career.
While in prison, my reflections convinced me that I had let
45

 Lessons From Prison
the team of Bear Stearns down in a big way. I was 26-years-old
and deeply under the influence of my senior partner, Kyle
Smith. He had made some speculative investments that turned
out badly. After having lost a significant amount of his capital,
Kyle began shopping the street for a better deal. Specifically, he
wanted the infusion of capital that came with a signing bonus.
Kyle found that deal in an adjacent building, in the office of
UBS.
Without a moment’s forewarning, Kyle shocked David
Pollock, our branch manager at Bear Stearns. Kyle told David
that he was quitting the team for a better offer at UBS. Pollock
was livid and felt betrayed. I made matters worse by handing
Pollock my resignation as well. He looked at me as if I were a
traitor, deserving of every contemptuous and profane word in
his outburst.
I walked out of Bear Stearns feeling foolish and
embarrassed. At that time I had been a broker for four years.
The decisions I had made were inconsistent with the character
and discipline I had learned as an athlete. I left Merrill Lynch
because of a dispute over commissions. At Crowell, Weedon,
Richard Jacobson had been grooming me for leadership. After
a year, however, I sneaked away without even having had the
courage to confront him face-to-face. Instead, I simply
resigned with a note and began my career at Bear Stearns. Even
in that pursuit, I traded more on the names of my distinguished
cousins than on my own merits.
Two of the most significant casualties in my pursuit of
46

 My Ponzi at Bear
short-term earnings were the cultivation of trust and loyalty.
Those virtues represent the core of any winning team. They did
not have a place in my partnership with Kyle or in my career.
We were not loyal to the firms we represented, to our clients,
to each other or to ourselves. The low level of trust between us
led to a lack of fulfillment in my career, and to an accelerating
downward spiral of my self-perception as an individual.
Keith Gilabert ran the GLT Venture Fund, one of the
small hedge funds I had cultivated as a client. I had known
Keith before he launched his hedge fund. We had shared space
at Crowell, Weedon where he had begun his career as a broker.
I had known him to hold a loose code of ethics then, but those
perceptions did not dissuade me from accepting the GLT
Venture Fund as an account and source of trading
commissions.
My eventual criminal conviction may have had its roots in
the demise of my values that began after college. It was my
relationship with Gilabert that actually pushed me over the line.
The GLT Fund had been a relatively small account with
only $5 million under management. Keith was perhaps the
worst stock picker in the history of money management. His
fund lost value for investors with every undisciplined trade.
Through false representations to prospective clients, Keith
continued to bring new money into the account. He generated
substantial commissions for Kyle and me, sometimes
surpassing six figures in a single month.
Keith’s losses with the GLT Fund were so magnificent that
47

 Lessons From Prison
they spawned a new trading strategy for my partner, Kyle
Smith.
“If Keith goes long a stock,” Kyle suggested, “We’re going
to sell it short. If he shorts a stock, let’s take it long
immediately.”
We didn’t need to know anything more about an
investment other than the position Keith had taken. The irony
was that by betting against our client, we profited handsomely.
Our superiors at UBS understood the unsustainability of
Gilabert’s GLT Fund. Nevertheless, the global management
firm was itself caught up with the pursuit of short-term profits.
Rather than protecting the incredible investment of trust and
good will in the UBS brand, our superiors at UBS cautioned
Kyle and me to protect us from litigation.
We all knew that the individual investors in Gilabert’s
hedge fund were losing significant amounts of money. The
commissions generated by the fund, however, were too great
to ignore. Despite the consistent flow of losses, new investors
poured millions into the fund’s account. To protect us and
UBS, Kyle and I generated a disclosure letter that notified GLT
Fund investors that Keith Gilabert, and not any UBS money
managers, was responsible for the fund’s performance.
My experiences as a professional money manager left me
with the impression that all relationships were based on deceit,
rather than trust. The single exception was my cousin, Todd
Goodman.
48

 My Ponzi at Bear
Rather than striving to hoodwink clients in pursuit of
short-term profit, Todd created lifetime partnerships. He
cultivated relationships, imbuing a sense of trust with those
around him. Todd’s steady hand helped people feel confident
that he would protect their assets for future generations. Kyle
and I, on the other hand, were making irresponsible decisions
that would lead us to higher monthly performance targets.
Keith Gilabert’s GLT Fund had reduced itself to a Ponzi
scheme. The intention to defraud may not have existed at the
outset, as Keith likely set out to achieve high returns for
investors in his fund. He speculated, however, combining
investor money with borrowed funds using a three-to-one
leverage. In other words, margin loans we made available at
UBS allowed Keith to take $15 million dollar positions on
stocks when he only had $5 million of investor money. With
his track record of taking losing positions, investor money
evaporated faster than an early-morning mist.
Our experience in the brokerage business gave Kyle and
me, as well as our superiors at UBS, sufficient reason to believe
that Keith was misrepresenting the dismal performance of his
GLT Fund. Despite massive losses, he continued to attract
new investor money. At UBS, we neglected our instincts and
instead took the position of the figurative monkeys who saw
no evil, spoke no evil, and heard no evil.
Kyle once asked one of Gilabert’s investors why the
investor was depositing $4 million into the GLT hedge fund.
The investor looked Kyle in the eye and said, “You’ve seen the
rate of return the fund is delivering. Performance sells itself.”
49

 Lessons From Prison
That investor’s rationale should have led to additional inquiries
from Kyle and me about what “performance” meant to the
investor.
By that time Kyle and I both knew that Gilabert had lost
millions. Nevertheless, we accepted the $4 million deposit and
agreed between ourselves that we would never ask an investor
for his rational again. “That way,” Kyle said, “we will never
have to acknowledge that we knew anything.”
Our efforts to maintain plausible deniability, however,
crumbled during a meeting I agreed to take with Keith and Abe,
one of the major investors of the GLT Fund. Abe was a rabbi
who was 90-years-old. A team of Abe’s accountants and
financial advisors wanted to meet with the principals behind
the GLT Fund. Their efforts at due diligence were to ease their
concerns about Abe’s asset allocation. Gilabert asked me to
attend the meeting in order to represent the gravitas of UBS.
Knowing what I knew then about the fund, I should not have
walked into that meeting.
“Does UBS think it wise that a 90-year-old rabbi would
invest his life’s savings, $3 million, into a basket of growth
stocks?” The accountant directed his question to me.
At that moment, I felt like the proverbial deer that had
been unexpectedly caught in the headlights. I scratched my
head. I knew that as of the morning of our meeting, the GLT
Fund had a total asset balance of less than $1 million. If Abe’s
financial advisory team believed that Abe had $3 million
invested in the GLT Fund, then clearly, Keith Gilabert had
provided them with fraudulent account statements. Rather than
50

 My Ponzi at Bear
expose the troubling discrepancy, I ducked the question.
“No,” I answered. “UBS is the custodian of the GLT
account. As our letter of disclosure indicated, Keith Gilabert is
solely responsible for allocating client assets.”
“We understand that,” the accountant persisted, “but
would UBS recommend that an elderly client invest his life
savings in growth stocks?”
“Although we don’t presume to know the investment
strategies of those in the GLT Fund, at UBS we typically would
recommend a much more conservative allocation for an elderly
gentleman. We would include a much higher percentage of
government bonds that offered a fixed-income stream.”
In continuously trying to dodge the advisors’ questions, I
was lying. Their inquiries gave tangible proof that Gilabert was
perpetuating a fraud. I appeased Abe and his investment
advisers with assurances that I would assist Gilabert in
restructuring the account. Yet when Gilabert and I were finally
alone, I realized the magnitude of my deception. I had become
complicitous in his scheme.
“What did you do to me?” I was livid with Gilabert.
“Please,” he pleaded. “Just help me get through this. I have
some new accounts coming in that will set things right with
Abe. I can make it up.”
Gilabert was using new investor money to cover losses. He
had built a house of cards, and the scheme was about to come
crashing down. I didn’t know how I could escape unscathed.
Over the course of the next several months, Kyle and I
51

 Lessons From Prison
allowed Gilabert to deepen the Ponzi scheme. The more
investor money he brought in, the more trading commissions
we stood to reap. With investor losses continuing to mount,
however, it was only a matter of time before someone would
expose the financial crimes of which I had become an integral
part. Although I rationalized my complicity with excuses that I
was only giving Gilabert an opportunity to break even with
investors, in reality, I wanted the gravy train of easy and
exorbitant commissions to continue.
I had hoped to last through June of 2006, when more than
a quarter million dollars worth of bonus incentives UBS
allotted to me would have vested. That was my target date. If I
could skate through to receive that windfall, I reasoned, I could
grab the money and leave the brokerage business.
My good friend, Sam Pompeo, was a successful real estate
agent who offered me an opportunity to partner with him. I
wanted to make that career switch, to leave the dirt I had
created in the brokerage business behind and begin anew.
The break I was looking for, however, did not come so
easily. In December of 2004, investors from the GLT Fund
called my superiors at UBS to confirm account balances. Those
calls led to my termination as a UBS employee. At the time, my
biggest regret was that I had not been able to hang on. I didn’t
consider the troubling reality that my actions had violated
securities laws.

52

 4
Self-Delusions, Lies,
and Attorneys
In my capacity as a broker for UBS, I knew that Gilabert
lost investors’ money with nearly each individual trade.
Motivated by the exorbitant high commissions the account
generated, I had a myopic interest in keeping the fund alive.
The lax oversight violated the rules of ethics and the principles
of good business. The greed, however, was not yet a violation
of the law.
When I sat in on that meeting with Keith Gilabert, his
client Abe, and Abe’s advisors, I had indisputable evidence that
Gilabert had been conning Abe. My presence at the meeting
bolstered Gilabert’s credibility, which contributed to the fraud.
Then, I clearly perpetuated the fraud when I allowed Abe and
his advisors to believe that Abe’s asset balance had a $3 million
valuation. At that point, I became more than an unscrupulous
broker. My failure to act and set the record straight violated the
law.
Upon losing my employment at UBS, I wasn’t prepared to
own up to the full magnitude of my problems. Kyle, my
partner, was more savvy, or Machiavellian about such matters.
He retained counsel and began negotiations to protect his
position with UBS and immune himself from all liabilities
associated with the GLT Fund.
53

 Lessons From Prison
Likewise, Keith Gilabert had lawyered up. He had cut a
cooperation agreement with prosecutors to minimize his
exposure to prison time. I had not yet reached my 30th year,
and was not wise or cynical enough in the ways of the world to
appreciate the depth of my troubles.
Rather than consult with a criminal attorney, I hired a civil
attorney upon my termination from UBS. Losing my job had
exposed me to potential financial penalties in relation to
prepaid bonus money I had received. I wanted counsel to
advise me through those employment issues. When the lawyers
began a thread of inquiries into the reasons behind my
termination, however, I dissembled. I feigned ignorance of the
fraud to which I knew had occurred, and to which I had come
to play a peripheral role.
My lack of honesty with the civil attorney was the first in a
long series of bad decisions I made following my termination
from UBS. I paid a steep price for my refusal to come clean
and accept responsibility. Being ignorant of the consequences,
I tried to cover up my culpability with lies. One lie led to
another.
I took that ridiculous approach in a futile attempt to spare
myself the embarrassing and humiliating consequences of my
actions. I didn’t want my mother to know that her son had
been complicitous in a fraud nor did I want my reputation to
suffer. Clinging to my denial only exacerbated my struggles.
Inside, I felt myself a cipher.
In lying to the civil attorney I hired to counsel me, I
54

 Self-Delusions, Lies, and Attorneys
deprived him of the ability to advise me properly. I had paid
him a $5,000 retainer initially to represent me on potential civil
litigation related to my employment. As the complexity of the
case blossomed, with the reviewing of emails that numbered in
the hundreds, with the discussions behind every transaction of
the GLT Fund, with the consultations over the purposes
behind the disclosure letters we generated to protect UBS from
liability, my legal expenses grew to surpass $50,000 with the
civil attorney. With all the lies I had told him, however, the
guidance he provided was not what my predicament warranted.
As the months dragged on, my civil problems that I had
mistakenly believed related to my employment, escalated to
inquiries from the SEC and FBI. Because of the lies I had told
my attorney, he assured me that I didn’t have to worry about
the federal investigators of the GLT Fund. “Just be honest,”
my attorney advised. “Tell them everything you’ve told me and
you will be fine.”
When I met with the Department of Justice attorneys, I
told the same lies that had been sustaining me from the
beginning. I had lied so often that I almost believed the lies
myself. I couldn’t have been at fault, I reasoned. Gilabert was
the criminal, not me. I simply executed the trades at his
direction. In telling both half-truths and some outright lies to
the government attorneys, I was committing new criminal
conduct. Prosecutors, I later learned, could charge me with
lying to officers of the court, and obstructing justice. Those
criminal charges could have been in addition to the sanctions I
faced for violating securities laws.
55

 Lessons From Prison
In time, prosecutors notified me through my civil attorney
that they intended to indict me on a number of criminal
charges. With that news, he told me that I would have to retain
new counsel. The $50,000 that I had paid to keep the lies alive
with my civil attorney had been a total waste. In paying for
criminal attorneys to represent me, I burned through more
than $200,000.
On a personal level, as I lay on my prison rack, with only
concrete and steel around me, I came to realize how my
irresponsible actions ripped my core asunder. In time I became
unrecognizable from the type of person my parents had tried
to groom. Rather than a man of character, temperance and
integrity, I was undisciplined. I was a liar and I was a cheat.
When events beyond my control threatened to expose me, I
made decisions that sunk me deeper. As a consequence, I paid
a heavier price for my wrongs. Worse than that, the decisions I
made brought both pain and shame to those who loved me.
During those 12-plus months of reflection, I realized that
my struggles began long before I ever met Keith Gilabert. I
had been honest and disciplined as a child. My commitment to
baseball instilled those traits in me. They brought a sense of
confidence and self-pride. After ending my baseball career and
graduating from USC, however, I moved away from my
comfort zone. That was when my ethical slide began.
Eventually, that ends-justified-the-means attitude led to my
criminal conviction.
Within months, I had fallen off course. Away from home
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 Self-Delusions, Lies, and Attorneys
to launch my career in the high-stakes game of money
management, I felt levels of stress that challenged my sense of
security. I began unhealthy eating habits that led to weight gain.
I smoked a pack of cigarettes each day. I didn’t exercise at all.
My values deteriorated as I was exposed to the worst elements
of the brokerage business.
By the time my superiors at UBS fired me, my moral
compass was so far askew that I could not bring myself to
terms with my predicament. Instead, I created a series of
elaborate lies to explain the changes in my life.
When I met with my parents, I lied and said that I had
chosen to resign from UBS to pursue a career in real estate.
The abrupt change startled them for obvious reasons. They
knew that I had obligations and responsibilities. I was 30-yearsold. Investments had boosted my net worth to roughly a
million dollars. My monthly living expenses exceeded $6,000,
and my parents knew that making a change in my career at that
stage seemed awfully shaky.
“Why would you take a job in real estate?” My mother was
skeptical. “You’re a stockbroker.”
“I just felt that this was time for me to make a change,” I
lied. “The whole hedge fund industry was under pressure, and I
really grew tired of chasing accounts. I was the junior partner
with Kyle, and with the downturn in the market, someone was
going to take some blame. Since I wanted to move in a
different direction, I just decided to leave UBS.”
“But what about the advance bonus you were paid?” My
57

 Lessons From Prison
father expressed concern about my financial stability. “Will you
have to return the money?”
“Oh no,” I lied. I didn’t have any clarification regarding
that complication. “I parted ways amicably and I’ll keep the
bonus. This has been a good thing.”
My mother looked at me as if she knew I was lying, but
she didn’t press. Perhaps she instinctively understood that I
was under severe stress, and in her love she didn’t want to
break me. I felt as if I were a four-year-old who had been
caught stealing. Not wanting to acknowledge that her angel of
a son had committed an act of theft, however, my mom stood
silent to accept my story.
Besides my family, I lied to friends. Brad Fullmer had been
my closest friend since childhood. Presumably, there was not a
single subject I could not discuss openly and honestly with him.
Even with Brad, though, I lived in total denial. I just couldn’t
bring myself to admit to anyone that I had been fired.
Inside, however, I was falling apart. I quit shaving, ate like a
glutton and smoked like a fiend. I would lie in my bed at night,
traumatized by the rapidly escalating severity of my problems.
It seemed as if every week brought more evidence that I was
going down. Like an ostrich, however, I ignored all the signs
and continued to perpetuate the lie.
At nearly midnight several times each week, I would throw
back the covers from my bed. Unable to sleep, I pulled on
some sweats and slippers, and then drove to the local In-andOut Burger. I’d order two double cheeseburgers, a chocolate
58

 Self-Delusions, Lies, and Attorneys
milkshake, and two orders of large fries. Then I would return
home and chow down while I played online chess matches
until the early hours of the morning.
To boost my spirits during the day, I deluded myself by
playing golf as if I didn’t have a care in the world. Ryan, one of
my close friends, was from a distinguished Southern California
family. We had played baseball together since we were sixyears-old and played through USC together. I asked Ryan and
his family to sponsor me for membership in the prestigious
Lakeside Country Club. I was clinging to the hope that I could
erase my troubles by creating a façade of respectability.
As a federal prisoner, I came to understand that living in
denial was a common response for white-collar offenders. It
seemed that no man wanted to accept that he had engaged in
behavior that legislators deemed criminal. While in prison, I
met mortgage brokers, bankers, lawyers and businessmen who
initially responded to signs that their world was about to
implode with decisions that compounded their troubles. Had I
known more about how their dramas unfolded, I would have
acted differently.
This utter incapability to accept responsibility was like lying
on a table with the sword of Damocles swinging back and
forth above my neck. I wanted to change the direction of my
life, but I couldn’t bring myself to acknowledge that I had
participated in actions that I knew were fraudulent. People had
been hurt as a consequence of my blind pursuit of higher
commission earnings. I appeased my conscience by denying
59

 Lessons From Prison
that I owed a fiduciary responsibility to the clients Keith had
solicited for the GLT Fund. I couldn’t bring myself to accept
that on account of my misrepresentations, a 90-year-old rabbi
had lost more than $3 million.
Even after retaining new counsel, who specialized in whitecollar crime, I tried to minimize my exposure to the fraud that
I knew had taken place. After lengthy debriefing sessions
consumed tens of thousands in legal fees, my lead attorney sent
an email to my Blackberry. He insisted that I fly to San
Francisco the following week to sit for a lie detector test. He
said the strategy was to obtain something tangible we could use
as leverage to open negotiations with the government.
“Answer all the questions truthfully,” my attorney
admonished me. “Don’t try to fool the machine. For one thing,
it won’t work. For another, lies will only bring you more
problems.”
With the civil attorney I had retained initially, I lied from
the start. That approach resulted in burning through $50,000 in
legal fees for counsel on irrelevant matters, and my committing
new felonies by lying to attorneys who worked for the
Department of Justice. The consequences of those lies,
however, were not enough to shake me free from the haze of
denial. I continued clinging to the illusion that I could
somehow manage this disaster. While working with the new
criminal attorneys, I again offered half-truths, trying to dance
around questions that would portray me negatively.
Upon learning of the upcoming lie-detector test, I
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 Self-Delusions, Lies, and Attorneys
immediately Googled for information on polygraph
examinations. I found a treasure trove of content, all promising
quick-study courses that would teach anyone how to fool the
machine. Despite my attorneys’ warning on the perils of
prevarication, lying, I believed, would help me stay alive.
Eagerly, I charged $350 to my credit card to download the
course.
For several hours each day, preceding my scheduled exam,
I studied through ostensibly proven techniques to beat the test.
By tightening my sphincter when answering questions, I
supposedly could manipulate the machine’s findings of truth to
suit my purpose. I had worked through the course so
methodically, and practiced so fervently, that when I walked
into the San Francisco office where my test had been
scheduled, I felt totally confident.
When the questions began, I performed brilliantly. I tensed
where I was supposed to tense; I squeezed my innards when
appropriate. In the end, the former FBI agent who presided
over the exam gave me disappointing results. He said the
machine indicated with an accuracy measurement of better
than 99.99 percent that I was lying. As I deflated into my chair,
my attorney looked at me with concern, and then told the
polygraph administrator that he wanted a moment alone with
me.
“Justin,” he said while sitting across from me, “you’re
going to prison. It’s time to wrap your mind around that reality.
You’re on incredibly weak ground here. The government
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 Lessons From Prison
prosecutors are prepared to charge you with numerous felonies,
including obstruction of justice.”
“What does that mean?”
“That means ten years in prison. This is not a game. If you
don’t come to terms with the seriousness of these problems,
we can’t help you. You must trust us to look after your
interests, and you must give us complete honesty.”
At that moment, I suddenly realized how suicide seemed a
viable option for so many. I didn’t think I could serve a single
day in prison. Ten years, for me, was not an option.
Following my return home, I began drowning in
depression. An ordeal that could have been resolved much
more painlessly with honesty had blown out of proportion. For
months, the complications with my case consumed me. My
mother sensed my deteriorating spirits and insisted I see a
psychiatrist. I began a series of therapy sessions and medication
that cost me $1,200 a month. Had I been truthful from the
start, I could have responded to my problems much more
effectively.

62

 5
Accepting Responsibility
Finally, more than two years after UBS fired me, I had had
enough. I began to correct the bad decisions I had been
making. Refusing to continue the charade, I agreed to plead
guilty to one count of conspiracy to commit wire fraud, mail
fraud, and securities fraud. Those criminal charges exposed me
to the possibility of five years in prison.
Had I understood the severity of my problems from the
beginning, I could have taken proactive steps to avoid my twoyear slide into the abyss. I was naive, oblivious to the treachery
and self-preservation I would encounter from my colleagues.
While I made the bad decision to dissemble and try to
minimize culpability, Keith Gilabert had his own agenda. He
was the principal behind the GLT Hedge Fund. Gilabert was
also a duplicitous fraud. He wove sinuous stories into what
became a preposterous effort to fool prosecutors into believing
that my partner and I were part and parcel to every egregious
act he committed.
Besides Keith Gilabert’s patently absurd efforts to deceive
prosecutors, my partner and mentor, Kyle Smith surreptitiously
schemed behind my back to protect himself while hanging me
out as a scapegoat.
Although Kyle was the lead partner and commandeered 50
percent of the commissions generated by Gilabert’s GLT
Hedge Fund, Smith slithered his way into an agreement that
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 Lessons From Prison
allowed him to return to his position with UBS and avoid
criminal prosecution.
Meanwhile, during the two years that I struggled to regain
my sanity, officers at UBS plotted to shield the global
investment bank from liability. All of those forces machinated,
together and independently, to protect themselves from the
harshness of justice while simultaneously forcing my demise.
In the end, prosecutors developed a clearer understanding
of all that transpired. They found Gilabert’s self-serving
explanations implausible when they discovered his ongoing
deceptions. As a consequence, they rescinded the cooperation
agreement his lawyers had negotiated and charged Gilabert
with new criminal conduct. Officials at UBS skated by with an
agreement to pay more than $6 million to compensate for loses
investors had suffered in the GLT Hedge Fund. Kyle Smith
kept his bonuses and commissions, but forfeited his conscience.
Prosecutors wanted me to corroborate the evidence they
had pieced together from all the snakes in the pit. In
contemplating the dilemma of whether to assist government
attorneys with the investigation, I sought counsel from my
attorney.
“This cooperating,” I asked, “does this make me a rat?”
“Why do you ask? Have you been watching The Sopranos?”
“Well, you say that by cooperating I may serve time in
prison. I’ve heard that those with the reputation of being rats
serve more difficult sentences.”
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 Accepting Responsibility
“We can’t undo the past, Justin. Had you been the first to
accept responsibility, and told the truth from the beginning,
you could have been the one with the immunity agreement.
You’re coming to the party two years late. It’s not too late, but
it’s late. We can’t say for certain what kind of sentence you will
serve, but if you’re truthful, you likely will serve your time in a
minimum-security camp with nonviolent offenders.”
I had to make a decision, and I chose to cooperate. That
was the decision I should have made from the start. After all, I
was wrong. I had agreed to facilitate Gilabert’s swindle. When I
came to learn that he was bringing in new money from
unsuspecting investors to cover losses with other investors, I
should have reported such illegal manipulations to my superior
and to authorities. By the time I had become aware of the
fraud, I was in too deep, trapped. Seduced by instant
gratification, I seized opportunities as they presented
themselves; I rationalized away my culpability.
While serving time in federal prison, I met many men who
pleaded guilty to white-collar crimes. We walked around the
track together, exercised together, and discussed the decisions
we had made. Without exception, each white-collar offender
with whom I spoke regretted that he didn’t know more about
the options available.
I began writing with hopes of filling that void, and as a
form of therapy while working through the sentence. As my
attorney told me, the best cooperation agreements came to
those who accepted full responsibility the soonest. Equally
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 Lessons From Prison
important to receiving the least onerous sanction, however, I
found value in the catharsis that came with honesty. During
those first two years that followed my abrupt termination as an
executive at UBS, I was spinning a web of lies. Consequences
came with that irresponsible approach.
I began by lying to my family, trying to convince them I
had left my career voluntarily. I lied to my closest friend and to
everyone with whom I came in contact. Perhaps worst of all, I
lied to the attorneys whom I had paid a substantial sum to
represent me. Then I felt I had no alternative but to mislead
government attorneys with lies when I took questions from
them. My thoughts were that I could control the damage and
since government attorneys were not questioning me under
oath, I was not compelled to answer truthfully. I was wrong.
My ignorance of the law was not a valid excuse for the new
felonies I created by lying to federal law enforcement officers.
Although I may not have been responding to questions under
oath, and thus was not in danger of perjury charges, lying to
law enforcement officers is a crime in and of itself. Such lies
violate Title 18 of the United States Criminal Code, Statute
1001, exposing offenders to five years of imprisonment for
each lie.
I didn’t learn that information until far later than necessary.
Equally as bad as lying to federal attorneys were my efforts to
conspire with others to lie. When government investigators
wanted to question one of my friends about my actions, I
coached him on what to say. Those efforts to manipulate the
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 Accepting Responsibility
government’s case exposed me to additional criminal charges
known as obstruction of justice.
We’ve all heard clichés of the Miranda warning. It requires
law enforcement officers to recite that dreadful warning all
Americans know. Those who hear the Miranda warning should
know that anything they say to a law enforcement officer can
and will be used against the individuals in a court of law. It’s
serious. An individual does not have to talk with a government
attorney or law enforcement officer. But if that person chooses
to talk at all, he ought to tell the truth. That gem of truism
escaped me until it was too late. In federal prison, I met many
others whose lies magnified their problems.
Besides further exposure to criminal sanctions, living a web
of lies had undeniable biological effects on me. For two years I
couldn’t sleep without taking sleeping pills, which left me
groggy the following day. I ate too much, smoked too much,
felt irritable and paranoid. I played out every scenario in my
mind except the one that made the most sense. The truth shall
set you free.
My attorney was correct when he told me that I was late to
the party. Had I accepted responsibility for the bad decisions I
made at the outset, I would have assuaged my troubles with the
criminal justice system. Likewise, however, I would have
spared myself the anxiety and stress and expense that nearly
ruined me as I was spinning that two-year web of lies. Many
white-collar offenders I met in prison expressed the same
sentiment.
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 Lessons From Prison
Once I decided to come clean and cooperate, I felt a
cathartic release, as if the truth about my criminally wrong
indiscretions purged the anxieties that had been tormenting me
for so long. Suddenly, those worries about what was going to
happen didn’t plague me. By speaking honestly about my
culpability in the offense, I felt as if I were taking the first steps
to climb out of the hole I had been digging for myself.
During the year that followed my guilty plea, I had to tell
and retell my story. I had to speak with FBI agents, U.S.
attorneys, and attorneys from the Securities and Exchange
Commission. I had neglected my duties as a financial
professional. Decisions I had made enabled Gilabert to
perpetuate his fraud with the GLT Fund, and as a consequence,
I aided and abetted the loss of millions for unsuspecting
investors. Those were criminal actions, and speaking honestly
about them began the process of redemption, of healing.
As part of the legal settlement, UBS forked over the money
to make all investors whole. In an effort to demonstrate
remorse for the consequences of my actions, I liquidated my
individual retirement account to contribute $100,000 to a
restitution fund. That voluntary gesture of good faith brought
me considerable benefit. Not only did it help clear my
conscience, but it also persuaded my sentencing judge that I
was sincere.
I didn’t know anything about living in confinement. More
than anything else, I think that living with the unknown was
the worst. At least the 18-month sentence brought some
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 Accepting Responsibility
finality. I knew the worst, and I knew my release would come
at least six months sooner than the terms for which
government prosecutors had been asking.

69

 6
My Prison Coach
On 28 April 2008 Bureau of Prisons administrators
instructed me to self-surrender to the Taft Federal Prison
Camp. Self-surrendering was a courtesy and a privilege that the
judge extended. Had he not found me cooperative and
trustworthy, the judge could have ordered the federal marshals
to take me into custody immediately upon sentencing.
As a prisoner, I later met men who were locked in federal
detention centers long before they reported to prison. That
experience, I learned from my conversations with others,
brought an onslaught of stress. In federal lockup centers,
prisoners of every classification served time together. More
than eight out of ten prisoners in the lockup would not be
eligible for camp placement, and many of the men had
predatory tendencies. By giving me the option of selfsurrendering to the prison camp where I would serve my
sentence, the judge spared me the struggle of a federal
detention center and allowed me the time to put my affairs in
order before I began my journey through prison.
With the legal expenses, restitution payment, and lost
income, my troubles with the law cost me well in excess of a
million in hard dollars. Again, had I acted responsibly from the
beginning, the consequences of my bad decisions would have
been far less severe. Yet as a man who was about to serve a
prison term, I had to let go of the past and prepare for the
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 My Prison Coach
future as best I could.
Without a wife or children, I was free to lease my residence
for the duration of my anticipated confinement. My mother
agreed to care for my dog. I felt sure that I had made
arrangements to preserve what remained of my financial assets
while I paid my debt to society. I learned later that ancillary
consequences accompanied my criminal activities. This news
came too late for me to act decisively. I will explain those
details below, according to the troubling order in which I
received them.
Prior to self-surrendering, I called Taft prison to inquire
what personal belongings administrators would allow me to
bring. Hopes for my laptop, Blackberry, and cell phone were all
dashed, as the officer with whom I spoke said I could only
bring athletic shoes and toiletries. I later learned that the officer
misled me, and I suspect he had motives for doing so.
Believing that I could carry in some gear, my friend Brad
and I went to Nike Town. I was tipping the scales at 210,
which bordered on obesity at 30 pounds above my ideal weight.
Not knowing how my routine in prison would unfold, the one
goal I set was to drop those excess pounds. I purchased a pair
of Nike’s best running shoes, a runner’s watch and some
apparel I intended to use regularly.
After leaving Nike Town, Brad and I drove over to Tito’s
Tacos, a landmark in Los Angeles. “You better get it all in now,”
Brad suggested. “Who knows what the food’s going to be like
in prison?” We gorged ourselves on greasy, but delicious orders
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 Lessons From Prison
of tacos, enchiladas, burritos and other Mexican dishes.
Despite our gluttonous blowout at Tito’s, we drove to Baskin
Robbins and dropped $28 on various ice cream desserts. An
observer would have thought that I was eating as if I had an
imminent date with the electric chair.
When I drove over to my mother’s house on the morning
that I would self-surrender, I felt as strong as possible
considering the circumstances.
Part of the reason for my equanimity came with the
cleansing of my conscience that accompanied my acceptance of
responsibility and guilty plea. Still, I could not underestimate
the value that came through a serendipitous relationship
orchestrated through a combination of stubbornness on my
part and love from my mother.
A few months prior to sentencing, judicial complications
were resulting in unexpected delay after delay. Those stressful
times challenged me and I struggled. I wanted the procedure to
end. I had pleaded guilty, and I wanted the sentence imposed
so I could embark upon the next phase. The system did not
place a high degree of importance on my wants as a defendant.
In my frustration, I kind of curled up, like a turtle retracting
into its shell. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I didn’t want to
entertain questions to which I did not know the answers. I just
wanted to vegetate, alone with my double cheeseburgers, my
cigarettes, and my online chess games. I quit returning phone
calls, and I froze out all of those who loved me.
My retreat drove my mother to the brink. She searched the
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 My Prison Coach
Internet for solutions or assistance, Googling information on
white-collar crime, prison, or any keyword that might lead to
the information she craved. She was a frantic mother, crying
out for help, and she found a friend in Walt Pavlo, at
EtikaLLC.com.
Walt had been an executive at the corporation formerly
known as WorldCom. In that capacity, he became involved in a
fraud within a fraud that resulted in his criminal conviction.
Walt served a couple of years in prison, and while inside, he
made substantive efforts to redeem himself through
contributions to society. Walt published Stolen Without a Gun
and launched a speaking career to contribute content on the
subject of ethics. Through EtikaLLC, the company he founded,
Walt spoke to tens of thousands, describing the flawed values
that led to his demise, his experiences, and offered suggestions
on how an emphasis on ethics contributes to success.
Walt’s mission was not to serve as a prison consultant. Yet
when my mother’s search led to Walt’s Web site, she explained
her troubled state of mind, her worries over my fate and
pleaded with him for guidance through an email. I was not
talking with her about my case, so she looked for information
wherever it was available.
Walt felt touched by my mother. He had been freed from
prison for a few years, and to a large extent he had put that
unpleasant portion of his life behind him. Although Walt had
reached a level of success as an author and professional
speaker on the international circuit, he was not immune to the
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 Lessons From Prison
pleas of a frantic mother’s call for help.
In an effort to ease my mother’s distress, he responded to
the unsolicited email. My mother offered to pay Walt for his
counsel, though Walt would not accept payment. He simply
listened to her concern for my welfare, and then calmly, and
confidently, walked her through every step of the process that I
would endure. Walt assured my mother that I would emerge
from the prison experience intact. The steady hand he
provided during my mother’s time of need was invaluable.
I received message after message from my mother urging
me to contact Walt. She wanted me to learn from him to
understand more of what was coming. I resisted her advice,
however, as I was trapped in that funk where only solitude
could comfort me. I did appreciate the help Walt offered my
mother. In gratitude, I sent an email to thank him for helping
my mom, yet maintained that I preferred not to discuss my
predicament with anyone.
As he did with my mother, Walt responded. He indicated
that he understood my mother’s worry, as his parents had
endured the same troubles. Essentially, Walt offered a glimpse
of what was about to unfold for me. As a favor to my mom, he
said he was available to talk should I ever feel the need.
In time, I did contact Walt. He had chosen to focus his
career on public speaking though he also had a gift for
individual consulting. Through many conversations, emails and
one lengthy meeting, Walt empowered me to advance with
confidence. He had made exceptional use of his prison time
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 My Prison Coach
and inspired me to do the same. With Walt’s guidance, I set
goals I could achieve and really began to embrace the reality
that I could climb out from the pit into which my bad
decisions had sunk me.

75

 7
Processed into Prison
On the morning of my self-surrender, I called Walt from
my mother’s house. I wanted to express appreciation for the
help he gave my mother, and to thank him for the insight he
had given me. That guidance truly made me feel as if I could
handle the prison experience, and it helped me move forward
from a position of strength. With that purpose, I could ease my
mother’s worries on our final morning together before my
imprisonment.
I was not scheduled to surrender to the prison until two in
the afternoon. From my conversations with Walt, I learned that
reporting to prison earlier would lessen the possibility for
complications. Prisons schedule a shift change in the late
afternoon, and if I arrived too late, the possibility increased
that officers would lock me in segregation for processing the
following morning. Wanting to avoid the discomfort of
segregation, I made arrangements to arrive well before noon.
My brother, Todd, met me at my mother’s house, and
together the three of us drove north on I-5 towards Bakersfield.
We turned right off the highway and into the prison complex
at Taft around ten. I steeled myself as my mother wiped away
tears. We embraced and said our farewells outside, but Todd
walked me in to the lobby of the administration building to
ensure all would go well. When we saw an officer in uniform, I
informed him that I was reporting to self-surrender, and I
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 Processed into Prison
extended my hand to shake in greeting.
“No offense,” the officer gave me a stern look, “but we
don’t shake hands with inmates.”
When the officer refused my friendly gesture of a
handshake, I looked at my brother. I knew my life had changed,
at least for a while. I would have to embrace the reality that in
surrendering my freedom, I simultaneously had to surrender
some expectations of common decency.
As my brother walked away, the admitting officers asked
for my name and registration number. I gave them my name,
yet not knowing my registration number, I drew a blank.
Understanding that I was new to the system, the officers asked
for my birth date. When I answered, they responded by telling
me that my registration number was 44499-112.
“Memorize that number,” the officer told me. “You’re
going to need it.”
I was then taken into custody. For the first time since my
ordeal began, I felt the cold steel of handcuffs to my wrists.
With my hands locked behind my back, I carried my bag of
personal belongings as the officers escorted me through a
series of steel gates and locked doors. By pushing buttons and
signaling into surveillance cameras, officers in a remote control
center would open and unlock the passageways that would lead
me deeper into the prison.
We arrived at a processing center known as the R&D
building or Receiving and Discharge. Once inside the locked
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 Lessons From Prison
center, the officers unlocked my handcuffs. They looked at the
bag I was carrying.
“What goodies have you got there?” They looked at me
with unrestrained contempt, as if I were a grown man carrying
a bag for candy handouts on Halloween.
“These are my running shoes, toiletries and a few books.
They’re my personal items.”
“You can’t bring them in with you. Would you like to send
the package home at your own expense, or do you want to
donate them to the institution?”
“But I called here before. The officer who spoke to me said
I could bring these items with me.”
“Well, you can’t. Do you want to send the items home at
your own expense, or would you rather donate them to the
institution?”
Feeling as if I had just been artfully robbed, I agreed to
donate my belongings to the institution. I didn’t know the real
meaning behind donating my property to the institution,
though I suspected I was likely donating my $200 running
shoes and other belongings to some other cause, like the
correctional officers wellness foundation. Either way, I had
time to serve. I didn’t want to create any waves, so I agreed to
forfeit my belongings for the good of the cause.
Those who expect to self-surrender to prison ought to take
that personal experience under advisement. I’d like to say it
was unique to me, but while I served my 12 months, I made a
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 Processed into Prison
point of interviewing and interacting with other prisoners.
Some of those men had considerably more experience of living
in prison than me, and by listening to their stories, I learned a
great deal.
One lesson I learned was that, like I did, many white-collar
offenders who self-surrendered called the prison before they
reported. They wanted to inquire on what they could bring.
Somehow, they all seemed to be advised that they would be
allowed to carry some personal items in with them. When
surrendering, however, after their family members had driven
away, they were given the option of either donating the items
or sending home the package.
The anecdotal lesson suggests that when a man selfsurrenders to prison, he should not bring anything that he
doesn’t absolutely need. If he needs medication, he should
bring the medicine in sealed containers with a letter from a
physician. A health services representative of the prison will
make a determination as to whether to allow the medication.
Medications for heart ailments, diabetes or other biological
issues will stand a better chance of allowance than sleeping pills.
Other items I’ve heard prisoners can carry inside include
religious medals and wedding rings, provided the jewelry’s
monetary valuation does not exceed $100. Prisoners may bring
currency or a U.S postal money order, as well, and
administrators will post the funds to a debit account the inmate
may access for commissary purchases. From what I’d been told,
however, nothing else gets in.
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 Lessons From Prison
After taking my belongings, the officers handed me a stack
of forms. They led me to a cell of concrete and steel and
locked me inside with a tiny, flexible pen.
“Fill out the forms,” the officer told me. “Answer every
question. Someone will come by to see you soon.”
That was it, I thought. I was in prison. My friend, Walt, had
prepared me with descriptions of what being locked in a cell
would feel like. Those descriptions helped my anxiety. I knew
the processing would take several hours, so I wasn’t as antsy as
I could have been. When I spoke with other white-collar
offenders who self-surrendered, they said that they didn’t know
anything. They thought they may have had to serve the entire
sentence in the locked room. I felt grateful that I at least had
some forewarning of what to expect.
The forms were quite basic, inquiring about my medical
needs and my psychological state of mind. The dense pages
seemed to go on without end, requiring me to respond to
hundreds of questions. After more than 30 minutes of reading
the fine print, I finished. Then I waited. Alone. Locked in a
concrete bunker with nothing but thoughts to accompany me.
Okay. I reasoned it was time to get started. I squatted on
the concrete floor, kicked my legs back and began my pushup
routine. I weighed more than 200 pounds coming in to the
prison, and I was determined to embrace an exercise regimen
that would ensure I left in better physical shape. I began in
those first hours of my confinement. As I waited for the next
round of admissions procedures, I was able to knock out six
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sets of pushups, with between ten and twelve reps each.
“Paperny!” An officer at the door called my name.
“Yes sir!”
“What’s your number?”
“Pardon me?”
“Your number. Give me your number.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve just come in. I don’t remember.”
“Date of birth?”
When I told the officer my birth date, it was as if I had
given the open sesame command. He unlocked the steel door.
“Come with me,” the officer said.
He led me through a maze of corridors and took me inside
another room.
“I need you to strip naked. Throw all your clothes in the
basket. I’ll be back.” The officer then walked out from the shell
of a room. Feeling peculiar and somewhat violated, I took off
my clothes.
I stood in that room, stark naked, for perhaps 15 minutes
before the officer returned. He had a mouthful of chewing
tobacco and he used a plastic Big Gulp cup from 7-Eleven as a
spittoon. I didn’t detect any emphasis on bedside manner as
the correctional officer seemed to check me out. He was fully
outfitted in a gray officer’s uniform, with pant legs tucked into
black jackboots. A black leather belt cinched around his
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 Lessons From Prison
prodigious belly, and the belt had numerous loops for all sorts
of pens, handcuffs, clubs, and other artifacts that distinguish
the profession of corrections. He wore a bright badge proudly
on his chest.
“First time.” He said it more as a statement than a question
as he looked me up and down.
I felt as if I were a horse he was evaluating to purchase. By
the look of contempt on his face, I didn’t feel as if I was
measuring up. Did he want to look at my teeth?
“Yes sir,” I was deferential to his clear authority. “I’ve
never been incarcerated before.”
“Virgin, eh?”
“Excuse me?”
“Ah crap,” the officer said. “It ain’t nothing.”
I didn’t know what to do as he stood looking at me naked.
It seemed to me as if an inordinate amount of time was passing.
Finally, he picked up a white clipboard and clicked one of the
many pens that he pulled from a loop in his belt.
“Let’s get this rodeo started,” he said. “Any tattoos?”
“No, sir. None.”
The officer checked his clipboard. “Lift your arms.”
I reached up with my palms forward as if surrendering.
“Lift your testicles,” he told me.
I lowered my arms and complied with his request.
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“Turn around,” he said.
I gave the officer my back side.
“Bend over.”
I bent at the waist as if I were trying to touch the floor
without bending my knees.
“Spread ‘em’.”
I opened my legs wider.
“Not your legs,” the officer barked, “your cheeks.”
I felt as if he were purposely trying to humiliate me.
Satisfied with what he saw, the officer told me to squat and
cough.
“What?”
“You heard me. Squat and cough!”
After I forced a cough, the officer ordered me to lift my
feet off the ground. Not understanding, I leaned to my right
and lifted my left leg as if I were a sumo wrestler.
The officer laughed at me.
“Not like that. Let me see the soles of your feet.”
The entire inspection ordeal felt humiliating. Apparently, I
passed, however, as the officer threw me an orange jumpsuit
and told me to dress. He then led me back to the cell where I
had left my paperwork. The officer told me I could pay to mail
home the personal clothes I had left behind, or I could donate
them to the institution.
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 Lessons From Prison
Finally, about four hours after I had self-surrendered, an
officer handed me a pair of khaki, elastic-band pants and a
white T-shirt. He issued me a pair of blue slip-on shoes and
told me to change. This time no one stood over me watching.
Once dressed, the officer brought me to a station for a
photograph and fingerprinting. He then issued me an
identification card and a handbook that listed the rules and
regulations of the prison camp. That concluded my processing,
the officer told me. He was ready to drive me over to the camp.

84

 8
I Can’t Believe I’m in Prison
The Federal Prison Camp at Taft was tucked away behind
the fenced-in, low-security prison that served as the main
institution. Whereas double fences that were wrapped and
separated with coils of glistening razor wire surrounded the
perimeter of the main institution, the minimum-security camp
stood out in the open, unsecured by any physical boundaries.
I wasn’t locked in any restraints as the officer drove me
from the main institution to the camp. When he parked, I
stepped out of the car and felt some relief with the first
glimpse of my surroundings.
The prison camp did not bear any resemblance to the
monolithic institution that had been clouding my imagination.
Walt had told me that prison camps were pretty laid back, yet I
had seen a lot of prisons depicted through films and television.
I couldn’t shake the images of an impenetrable fortress that
would separate prisoners from society. The Taft Prison Camp,
however, looked no more imposing than a corporate office
park.
A carpet of lush green lawn, blooming flowers, and
sprawling palm trees welcomed me as I walked into the camp’s
administration building. A friendly officer guided me toward
the housing unit to which I was assigned, and I made my way
to the unit designated with the address A4D.
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 Lessons From Prison
The single building that housed the inmates was made of
concrete, tilt-up construction. With long rows of mirrored,
horizontal windows, the building resembled a headquarters for
an upscale engineering firm. I arrived at the camp midafternoon, and I saw scores of other clean-cut men in khaki
trousers and T-shirts socializing as if they were at a country
club luncheon.
I noticed a running track off to the side of the building, and
I felt enthusiastic about beginning my exercise program. In my
mind, I walked around with the intention of not talking to any
other prisoners. Yet all around me, I found friendly people
greeting me and trying to ease my lingering anxieties.
The long, two-story building contained four separate
housing units, each with a capacity to hold approximately 150
men.
Taft Camp is unique within the Federal Bureau of Prisons,
as a private company with a management contract presides
over the facility. As such, it does not suffer the type of
overcrowding that complicates life in other federal prisons.
When I arrived at Taft Camp, the population in my housing
unit was listed at only about 80 percent capacity, with 120 men.
I found the building quite spacious. As a youngster, when I
traveled across the United States playing baseball, I frequently
stayed in college dormitories. The housing unit at Taft
reminded me somewhat of those college dorm rooms.
Inside, they were built for efficiency and yet I was surprised
by how much open space was available. I saw four rows of
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cubicles that were rather sterile, each constructed of a cinderblock concrete. The floor was an unfinished concrete surface.
The cubicles at the front of the dorm had one set of steel bunk
beds and another steel rack for a third person. Two lockers
were available for the prisoners assigned to the bunk beds, and
the person on the third bed used a drawer and storage box for
his belongings. A tiny writing surface with a swivel, backless
stool was attached to the wall as well. I sucked it up and
realized that I could get used to the living conditions. I
expected worse.
The first place I wanted to check out inside the dorms was
the bathroom facilities. As I expected, they were of the lockerroom variety. Inmates in the dorm would have access to
sufficient quantities of sinks, toilets, urinals and showers. The
bathrooms were finished in tile and, considering how many
people used them, they were remarkably clean.
As I took my introductory walk around the unit, I saw one
large recreational room with three televisions mounted on the
wall. The inmates listened to audio broadcasts through
headphones. Tables were available for games, and other
inmates were battling it out with a vigorous match of ping
pong.
The unit had three additional television rooms, a room
with four microwaves, an ice machine for inmate use, and a
quiet room that some inmates were using to study.
As I was walking around, with a curious and disoriented
look on my face, another inmate approached.
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“You new?”
“Yes. I just self-surrendered.”
“I’m Drew.” He offered his hand in greeting.
I told him my name, and we engaged in some small talk.
He asked where I was from, how much time I was serving, and
whether I had ever been confined before. I found Drew
friendly, and appreciated him taking the time to show me
around. Then a question came that caught me a little off guard.
“Did you surrender with any money on your books?”
I didn’t want to seem unappreciative, although I thought
Drew was a little forward with his question. In my hesitation,
he offered an explanation.
“I’m not trying to get all up in your business, but this is
what I do. I’ve been in prison for a while and I’ve kind of got a
little hustle going where I help the new guys settle in. If you
want my help, I can get you some things to make your time a
little easier here.”
That was my first exposure to the prison hustle, the
underground economy. It turns out that it thrives in prison,
and just as it does anywhere else in America, money helps. I
brought $343 with me upon self-surrendering, and I quickly
learned that I would need more. I felt as if I were conversing
with the character Red from The Shawshank Redemption;
perhaps the greatest prison movie ever, but it was not an
accurate portrayal of a minimum-security camp.
“What kind of things can you get?” I didn’t know that I
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needed anything, but I was curious as to where Drew was
going.
“I can hustle you a better mattress if you want,” he began.
“I also perform a lot of services. I cook. I clean cubicles. I
wash clothes. I even iron and polish shoes. Whatever you need,
I can help you with.”
Drew, it turned out, was quite a hustler. He was serving
time for a drug offense, but was supporting himself completely
through work he performed for other prisoners. I took him up
on his offer. Since I didn’t know anything about prison, I
probably should have exercised a bit more discretion and
observed more operations at the camp before engaging in
transactions with others.
Just before four in the afternoon, each of the inmates in
the unit retreated to their cubicles. Administrators throughout
the prison system scheduled a census count at that time. As I
walked to my assigned cubicle, I had my first opportunity to
meet the others with whom I would be sharing space.
Walking into my cubicle on that first day felt awkward.
When I processed into the camp, the officer told me that I was
assigned to the top bunk in cubicle 39. I hadn’t seen another
officer since. The camp felt as if it were a self-service prison.
The other inmates lived on autopilot, knowing exactly where
they were supposed to be and what they were supposed to be
doing. When I walked into my cubicle, I saw a middle-aged
man sitting cross-legged on his bunk as he read a paperback
book by Stuart Woods. He looked up at me as I stood at the
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 Lessons From Prison
open entrance to the cubicle.
“Can I help you?” He seemed polite, a man of Asian
extraction.
“I’m supposed to report to cubicle 39,” I stammered, as I
spoke, a little unsure of myself.
“Come in,” the man stood to welcome me. “I’m Ted.
Where are you from?” Ted was the second person to ask where
I resided. People in the camp, I learned, were mostly from
California, from both the northern and southern sections of
the state. Ted was an engineer from Orange County, and
within ten minutes I knew he was serving an 18-month
sentence for tax evasion. He was cordial and helpful to me in
understanding our responsibilities as inmates. As we were
conversing, another man walked into the cubicle.
“Are you new?” The corpulent man in his fifties extended
his hand in greeting.
“Yes,” I responded in shaking his hand. “My name is
Justin.”
“Vladimir,” he introduced himself and I detected a strong
foreign accent.
“Where are you from?” I learned quickly that such a
question must be acceptable in this new world of mine.
“Russia,” Vladimir told me. I learned that he had been a
professor of physics. As I was, Vladimir was serving time for
fraud, though his sentence was 60 months. To me, that
sounded like a lifetime, yet Vladimir was taking it in stride. It
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 I Can’t Believe I’m in Prison
turned out that both his wife and son were serving time in
separate prisons as they were convicted of participating in
Vladimir’s crime.
The housing unit became silent as an officer yelled that he
was about to begin the count, a ritual that was scheduled
several times each day. Ted and Vladimir explained that we
were supposed to stand silently during the daily counts that
took place each day at four in the afternoon and at half past ten
each morning. The officers counted us at least four other times
each day, yet during those counts we usually could remain
seated or lying on our racks.
Following my first count, I noticed many of the other
inmates in the unit swarmed into the corridor from their
cubicles. It was like an immediate traffic jam, with men of all
ages rushing to the television rooms, the microwave room, the
laundry room, or toward the six televisions mounted against
the wall. The movement brought an electrifying cacophony
with hundreds of screaming conversations.
As Vladimir and Ted left the cubicle, I slumped in a chair,
crestfallen and holding my head. The first hour was a bit
dizzying and overwhelming.
Walt told me that I would get used to the prison as I
adjusted, and that I shouldn’t worry much in the beginning.
Though I couldn’t help myself, I uttered a mantra in my head
that I was strong enough to make it through. Still, I couldn’t
stop thinking about 18 months. At that moment, a year and a
half seemed like an eternity.
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After an hour or so, I noticed that a quiet calmness had
displaced the seeming storm of confusion in the housing unit.
The change was rather abrupt. I emerged from my cubicle to
see what had changed, and I found myself alone in the
cavernous unit. The other prisoners had left the building and
were walking toward the dining room, or chow hall as it was
called.
I didn’t have much of an appetite, so I walked outside
toward the recreation area. I found the outside facilities
reminiscent of high school. An oval track enclosed a softball
field, a soccer field, and tennis and basketball courts. There
were horseshoe pits, bocce ball courts, and bars for both dips
and pull-ups.
A recreation building included several stepping machines, a
treadmill, stationary bicycles and medicine balls for strength
training. There were no weights available at Taft Camp, but
clearly, those who wanted to focus their adjustment on physical
fitness would have every opportunity. As I walked around the
track alone, I renewed my commitment to work myself back
into great physical shape during the time I would serve in
prison.
After a few laps, I took a seat on one of the benches to
observe. I watched men playing handball, tennis, basketball,
and running. Others were engrossed in workouts on the bars.
It felt as if I were in a public park, yet one with the noticeable
absence of women, children, and pets. Again, I missed my dog,
Honey.
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Many were running laps, oblivious to their imprisonment. I
wondered what the men had done to warrant a prison term,
and I admired their sangfroid. Would I ever become so at ease?
I still didn’t know how I was going to make it through.
I thought about my mom, my dad, my brother and my
sister-in-law. What were they doing? It was nearly six o’clock
and I had been incarcerated for less than eight hours, yet at
that moment, I felt totally alone. Never mind that I was in the
midst of hundreds of strangers; I missed my family. To take my
mind off the self-pity, I stood and walked over to the library.
Bookshelves held thousands of books. I certainly had a
selection that could bring me up to date on westerns, romance,
mystery, thrillers, adventure, and science fiction novels. I didn’t
see as many nonfiction titles. Six typewriters were also available
in an adjacent room with law books. I wondered how many
people with law degrees were confined with me at Taft Camp.
Walking around and familiarizing myself with the new
community settled my nerves. After more than one hour alone,
I had had enough. I returned to my housing unit, feeling
alienated, broken, crumbling from the weight of my
imprisonment. Drew approached me again.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“Starving,” I said, surprised and grateful that at least one
person seemed to remember me.
“I thought you might be. I nuked some grub, saved you a
batch.”
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 Lessons From Prison
“What?” I didn’t understand the vernacular.
“I made you some food dude. Want it?”
“Sure, yeah, thanks a lot.”
Drew brought me a plastic bowl filled with rice, beans,
tuna, sliced tomatoes and onions. The food tasted delicious. As
events would play out, that dish became a staple that would
carry me through my entire prison journey.
“First one’s on the house,” Drew said. “If you want to ride
in my car on the regular, you’re gonna have to kick some in.”
“What do you mean?”
“We need beans, rice, tuna,” he explained. “I cook for a
few guys. Everyone throws in some food and I do the cooking.
Clean your own bowls. Want in?”
“Sure. How do I get you the food?”
“You’re a real fish! If you’ve got money on your books,
you can shop in the commissary. You can buy everything you
need. Give me what I need on food nights, and I’ll whip it up. I
kind of have a menu. We do nachos on Fridays, pasta on
Sundays, beans, rice and tuna all week.”
I didn’t know anything. Drew brought me a list of items
that I could purchase from the store, known as the commissary.
At Taft Camp we were allowed to shop twice each week, with
shopping days assigned in accordance with the score our unit
ranked during a weekly cleanliness competition between the
housing units. In other prison camps, I heard that prisoners
could only shop once each week.
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Drew explained that as federal prisoners, we had to abide
by a spending limit that would not allow us to spend more than
$320 each month, exclusive of prepaid phone calls and postage.
That limit sounded sufficient to me.
“Believe me dude, most guys burn through their limits
quickly. If you have trouble keeping it legal, let me know. I can
handle things for you.”
“No, no.” I said. “I don’t want any problems. Had enough
of those. I’m not interested in breaking the rules.”
“Suit yourself. But if you need anything, and you will,
remember that I’m the guy who can make things happen. I’ll
be by later tonight with your mattress.”
I’d forgotten what Drew said earlier about the mattress. I
felt too tired to inquire further, so I thanked him again for the
meal and lay atop my rack to rest. I had had enough for one
day.
The clock had not yet passed eight, and fluorescent lights
were burning directly above my head. The unit was alive with
prisoners relieving their stress with card games and seemingly
tall tales from home. Amidst the chaos, I drifted into sleep.
That first night, I recall many dreams tormenting me. All I
could think about was prison, apparently. One succubus after
another, each a Venus with a head of flames, laughing and
ridiculing me for the abstinence ahead. The cruel and unusual
portion of my punishment had begun; denial of the flesh had
become my reality.

95

 9
Learning the Ropes
I was deep in sleep when I felt a tapping at my foot. I
began stirring into consciousness, and I realized I was in prison.
I knew I was on the top bunk. The tapping on my foot didn’t
seem logical. I kept my eyes closed, wanting to ignore it. More
tapping, the feeling was undeniable. I lifted myself to look.
“Dude.” Drew stood there whispering at the foot of my
rack. He was speaking quietly so as not to wake the others in
my cube. In the blackness of night, I couldn’t register why he
had awakened me. “Dude, wake up. I’ve got your mattress.”
“What?” I felt groggy.
“I’ve got your mattress, Bud. Get up. We’ve got to make
the exchange now while the guard’s not around.”
“No, no, I’m okay. I don’t want any problems.”
“Come on. It ain’t nothing. One guy just went home. We’re
just going to exchange your mattress for his before somebody
else does.”
“What? What do you mean a guy went home? Why did he
get to go home?”
“He went home because his time was up, Dude.” Drew
must have thought I was stupid. “Now, let’s switch the
mattress.”
I climbed down from my rack, upset with myself that I had
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become drawn into a middle-of-the-night exchange with such a
furtive feel. I didn’t know enough about my new environment
to be working through deals with prison hustlers.
After stripping off the blankets and sheets, I picked up the
mattress. It was really more of a mat than a mattress.
The rack that served as my bed was a sheet-metal slab
supported by four steel posts. A long rectangular mat of thin
foam covered in vinyl functioned as the mattress. I folded the
mat in half and carried it as I followed Drew to another cube.
He picked up the new mattress, and I stretched the mat I
had been issued originally on the lower bunk. Then I walked
with Drew back to my cubicle. I saw a clock with hands at the
right angle of three o’clock; we were the only visible movement
in the unit. I felt like a prowler.
Drew set the mattress on my rack and walked out of the
cubicle. I climbed up after I hastily wrapped my sheets and
blankets around me rather than the mattress, and as I lay down,
I realized that Drew had made me an excellent trade. Whereas
my previous mat had been so thin that I felt the creases in the
sheet metal of the rack, the one he had exchanged for me felt
two or three times as thick. Despite the minor anxiety that
came with thinking I may have done something wrong, I slept
better on the heavier mattress.
I slept so well that I didn’t wake in time for the breakfast
meal. The rigid schedule was a factor to which I would have to
adjust. The morning meal began promptly at six, and in Taft
Camp it concluded 20 minutes later. Those who were not in
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 Lessons From Prison
line by the time an officer locked the glass door leading into
the chow hall went hungry.
With a growling belly, I began my first full day in prison.
The laundry issued clothing to me in precise increments. My
allotment included three pairs of trousers, three T-shirts, three
pairs of socks, three pairs of underwear, and one pair of boots.
I felt as if I were a soldier with all of the strict rules to follow.
I spent most of that first day waiting in lines. I waited
interminably to see a nurse, a prison counselor, a staff member
for the education department. After hours in the lines, a few
superficial questions concluded my interview. The only
meeting of any seeming relevance to me was with my prison
counselor. Rather than dispensing any type of psychological
counseling to cope with the blunt trauma of confinement, the
counselor processed forms. Those forms would authorize my
telephone and visiting access. The prison counselor also
selected the prison job on which I would be required to work.
In federal prison, I learned, we could submit up to 30
telephone numbers that administrators would approve for us
to call. The quantity was not too relevant, however, as we were
allotted a limit of only 300 minutes per month. With an average
of fewer than 10 minutes of phone time each day, I was forced
to budget the calls by watching every minute.
To facilitate the possibility for visiting, the counselors
issued several forms for me to send prospective visitors. The
visitors were required to return the forms with personal
information that the counselor would cross check with a
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 Learning the Ropes
criminal database. Provided the proposed visitor met the
prison’s criteria, my counselor would add the name to my list
of approved visitors.
My counselor then scheduled me for an A&O seminar,
which stood for Admissions and Orientation. She explained
that I should watch for my name on the daily call out for when
I needed to attend.
“What’s a call out?” The counselor seemed to speak in a
jargon that I didn’t understand, though one that she expected
me to know. I felt a little bizarre and a bit overwhelmed with
all of the prison structures.
“The call out? Ask around. Read your inmate handbook.
You’ll get the hang of it.”
The counselor summarily dismissed me. I felt responsible
for learning everything about prison on my own. Fortunately,
there were other inmates like Drew around who helped me get
a feel for things.
I realized that I had forgotten about the inmate handbook
that an officer had given me as I was processed in. I returned
to my cubicle to find and read through the collection of stapled
pages describing prison life in bureaucrat-speak.
Later, Drew introduced me to a few inmates. I struck a
bond with Arthur, a graduate of UCLA who was one year into
a seven-year sentence. Arthur had an urbane demeanor and
style. He was tall and obviously devoted to exercise, as he
looked as fit as an Olympic gymnast. Committed to working
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 Lessons From Prison
myself into good shape, I accepted Arthur’s invitation to
exercise with him.
The routine Arthur had set impressed me. Since he had
begun serving his sentence, he lived as a model of discipline.
Each morning he left his cubicle after the five o’clock census
count had cleared. He sat alone at a table with his Webster’s
dictionary and thesaurus, and he worked on a manuscript he
was writing about the crimes that led him to prison.
Arthur was assigned to work in the chow hall. His
responsibilities required him to sweep and mop the dining
room floor after each meal. Following the morning work
session, Arthur returned to write more on his manuscript. He
gathered his work together at eight to prepare for the first of
his twice-daily workouts.
The morning session lasted for two hours. Arthur
alternated a run of between eight and ten miles with a vigorous
ride on the stationary bicycle. Following the cardio work, he
devoted a minimum of 30 minutes to his abdominals. In the
afternoon Arthur returned to the track for another 90 minutes
of strength training. His routine varied multiple sets of pull-ups,
dips, pushups, and extensive training with the medicine ball.
“A lot of guys have tried to work out with me,” Arthur said.
“The routine isn’t for everyone. I haven’t yet found anyone
who could keep the pace day after day.”
After my first day of exercising with Arthur, I understood
why. He was relentless. The man was in his mid-forties, yet he
pushed himself as if he were 20. Not having exercised more
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 Learning the Ropes
than the leisurely games of golf I enjoyed each week for the
past several years, I felt exhausted when we finally finished the
routine. I was determined to stick with him.
Later that day, in the early evening, I went outside for a
stroll with Drew. He and I were not as compatible as I felt with
Arthur, though in prison I could see that I would coexist with
people from every strata of society.
Like many of the men in prison, Drew was serving time for
a drug offense. He told me that he had begun experimenting
with methamphetamine during his late teens, and the drug
abuse led him into drug trafficking. When I met Drew, he was
25 and nearly complete with an eight-year sentence. As we
walked around the track, I listened as Drew told me about the
camp and what he had learned through prison.
“What’s the story with that guy?” I was curious about a
flamboyant prisoner who stood out like a neon sign on a dark
night. All the other prisoners were wearing gray shorts and
white T-shirts, but the man who caught my eye was wearing
fluorescent orange shorts that were several sizes too small. He
was middle aged, black, with a belly so big that his bright
orange tank top could only cover halfway. The man wore his
hair in the style of the 1970’s Afro. He was short, yet he
seemed to be coaching a group of hulking white athletes as
they alternated on the pull-up bar. I couldn’t help but hear his
barking orders.
“Get your head up over those bars,” the man yelled.
“Don’t mind him,” Drew said. “That’s Big O.”
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“Big O?”
“His name is Oscar, but everyone I know just calls him Big
O.”
“What’s he in here for?”
“There’s a lot of rumors about that,” Drew said. “He’s
supposed to be some kind of accountant from Orange County,
probably pulling a few years for some funny paperwork or
something. But word has spread around that he’s some kind of
pervert, likes to get squirrelly with the hog.”
“You’re joking right? A sex offender? I thought there
weren’t supposed to be any sex offenders or violent people in
the camp.”
“Like I said, the stories about Big O are only rumors. His
paperwork probably says he’s in for some kind of white-collar
crime, but that don’t tell the whole story. Lots of dudes serve
time for selling weed or blow or whatever. They might never
have no record for violence. That don’t mean nothin’ though.
There’s dudes walkin’ round here who sure enough peeled
some caps all the way down to the white meat.”
“What do you mean, murderers?”
“No doubt. This may be a minimum-security camp, bro,
but we’re not all campers. Got guys in here serving massive
sentences. They been in the pen, been around riots, everything.
They just been in so long without any problems, or they’re
getting close enough to the end that they transferred down to
the camp to chill out before release.”
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 Learning the Ropes
“That’s good to know. Guess I better watch my step.”
“You’re cool, dude. It ain’t nothin’. Long as you show
respect to everyone, you’ll skate through without a lick of
problems.”
“So like, has anyone ever been in prison for more than ten
years?”
“Ten years? That ain’t hardly nothin’. We got a grip a guys
been down ten years. Now you start talking 15, that’s some
black-belt time. Got a few a them.”
“People in here have been in prison for 15 years? That’s a
long time.”
“Dead straight. See that dude on the elliptical machine?”
Drew pointed to a guy who was exercising alone. He looked
kind of oblivious to his surroundings. Kind of at ease in his
own world.
“What’s up with him?”
“That’s the kingpin.”
“What do you mean?”
“Word has it that he was some kind of coke lord back in
the day. He’s been down for more than 21 years. He’s in our
unit. They say he writes about prison.”
“That’s a lot of time,” I said. “What’s a guy like that doing
in a camp? I didn’t think I’d be around criminals like that.
Could that be right, that he’s been in prison for so long?” I was
skeptical.
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 Lessons From Prison
“For real. Dude’s been down since the eighties. I ain’t
never talked to him, but he seems all right, kind of burnt out.
Always writing, watching the stock market or exercising. You’ll
probably get to know him. Seems to only talk to white-collar
types.”
“What’s his name?”
“That’s Michael Santos. Dude’s got a 45-year sentence.”

104

 10
The Kingpin
Over the days to follow, I settled into my own regular
routine with Arthur. Each morning I joined him for breakfast.
He disciplined himself with his diet as well as he disciplined
himself with exercise. Arthur would limit his intake to black
coffee, bran cereal or oatmeal in the morning. After our
workout he ate a slice of whole-wheat bread with a thin layer of
peanut butter for the protein. Then he would eat an apple. In
the early evening, Arthur had a rapacious appetite for beans,
brown rice and tuna. He would not touch chips, anything fried,
or cheese. The man was fanatical about health and fitness.
Prison, I was learning, would bring me an opportunity to
reevaluate the patterns of my life. With my childhood
commitment to baseball, I grew up with an appreciation for the
virtues of discipline, honor and a sense of ethics. As I matured,
those values carried me through my college years at USC. Yet
when I ended my baseball career, I lost sight of those values.
Instead of thinking about how much I would have to invest in
order to reach my highest potential, I started obsessing about
making money.
As I was growing up, all I thought about was how I could
make a better contribution to the team. I surrounded myself
with friends who shared those same values. Before I slept at
night, I’d begin thinking about what improvements I could
make the following day. And when I played well on the field, I
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 Lessons From Prison
always felt as if the team as a unit had won the victory.
That attitude really began to wash away as I entered the
brokerage industry. I still remember my cousin, Todd
Goodman, advising me to continue my education through
graduate school. That eagerness to begin earning an income
clouded my judgment. As a consequence, I found myself taking
every shortcut possible. I had no loyalty to the profession. My
interests were not in the building of a sterling reputation as a
man of integrity, balance and discipline. My interests did not
extend beyond the size of my check. I had no problem
compromising the principles of good character if I believed I
could advance my income.
My role models included my friend Brad Fullmer and my
brother Todd. They lived differently. As a professional athlete,
Brad worked harder than anyone I knew. He didn’t only focus
on developing his fielding or hitting talents. Baseball was his
life, so he worked exceptionally hard to develop his fitness.
Brad ran hard, he lifted weights, and practiced and trained all
year round to ensure that he could make the greatest
contribution to his team.
My brother, Todd, worked equally as hard in developing
the business he was taking over from our father, and in
providing for his wife, Sunny. Together they intended to build
a family, and Todd devoted himself to building an enduring
prosperity. He worked 12-hour days at his store, and along
with his wife, Sunny, Todd diversified by building a family
empire of rental properties.
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 The Kingpin
Both Brad and Todd understood a parable that has held
true for centuries, and that I was reminded of in prison. As
shown in the legendary race between the tortoise and the hare,
slow and steady always won the race. Those who constantly
worked to reach their highest potential, and remained true to a
core set of values, never fell off course. The key to success
came through an understanding of values in life, and staying
relentless in a commitment to add value through daily pursuit
of incremental goals.
As I spent time with Arthur, I saw a similar contentment.
He had already spent his first year in prison, yet he wasn’t
involved in any nonsense. He knew what he wanted and he
pursued his goals with a deliberate focus.
Television or table games were not a part of his day. His
exclusive interest was in fitness and writing his memoir. To
that end, he applied himself to exercise. He restricted his diet
and he devoted several hours each day to writing and reading.
Arthur was in bed before eight each evening, oblivious to the
pandemonium of the housing unit.
Arthur became my first role model in prison. I admired his
discipline. As I lay in my rack at night, I thought about how I
could emerge after my prison journey had concluded. Ever
since I had finished college, my focus had switched from the
long-term values that led to victory to short-sighted pursuits of
higher commissions. I lived a penny-wise and pound-foolish
life. I remember Todd Goodman telling me in disgust, “You
mean you left Bear Stearns for a lousy bonus check at UBS?
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 Lessons From Prison
There’s a lot more to this profession than a quick buck.”
Brad was the same way. When I once asked him why he
trained so hard during the off-season, he answered without
hesitation. “I’m a major leaguer. The team pays me well to be
the best I can be. The fans pay to see excellence. I owe it to
them to work hard all year round. That’s what I do.”
Role models showed me that looking at the long term
would lead to success. My life had spun into chaos as a
consequence of losing focus. It led to unhappiness in my career,
an unhealthy lifestyle, and an abandonment of good ethical
conduct. While serving my time in prison, I resolved myself to
live a more principle, centered life.
Like Arthur, I intended to discipline myself with a direct
commitment to exercise. I pledged that I would drop the
weight that had bogged down my body and mind for so many
years. Conversations with other prisoners helped me
understand that with the accumulation of credits for good
conduct and a few months of halfway house placement, I could
expect to serve approximately 12 months of my 18-month
sentence in prison. When I finished, I intended to leave as a
better man then when I had begun. My first goal was to
improve my physical fitness.
I was well into my first week of confinement when I
walked into the large room with three televisions. The middle
television was broadcasting CNBC, and I stood there for a few
minutes during the late morning for a glimpse of the ticker.
The man Drew had referred to as the kingpin was sitting in a
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 The Kingpin
chair beside me. “How you doing, bud?” I was surprised to
hear him speak, and looked around to ensure he was speaking
to me before I shook my head in greeting and said I was fine.
“Just come in?”
Why was the Kingpin talking to me, I wondered. I felt a bit
guarded, though he seemed friendly enough. “Yes, I selfsurrendered this past Monday.”
“I’ve seen you around, figured you were new. Do you need
anything to settle in?”
“No, no. Thanks for asking. I think I’m fine for now.”
Although both Drew and Arthur had helped me out by lending
a few necessities until I could shop in the commissary, I
remembered that my friend, Walt, had warned me about
accepting favors from people I met in prison.
“My name is Michael Santos,” he extended his hand in
greeting as if we were colleagues of some sort. He didn’t have
the mannerisms I would have expected from a man who had
been locked in prison for 21 years.
“Justin Paperny.”
“How long are you going to be with us?”
“Not long. I’m serving 18 months.”
“Eighteen months,” he repeated. “You’ll see that the time
passes really fast here. The sentence will be over before you
know it. In fact, I’ll do the time with you.”
Obviously, he could sense that I was just getting myself
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 Lessons From Prison
together, and he was trying to set me at ease. He asked if I
traded stocks. When I told him that I had been a broker,
Michael opened a conversation about the state of the market.
He didn’t sound like a man who had been in prison for decades.
In fact, if he were wearing a suit and tie, I wouldn’t have been
able to distinguish him from any businessman I’d ever met.
Michael was surprisingly open with me, and his candor had
a charm to it, disarming my suspicions with tact. He told me
that he had been convicted in his early 20s for leading a group
that distributed cocaine and that he had been working hard
ever since to redeem those bad decisions. The conversation
that began in that television room of Taft Camp continued
throughout my stay in prison. Surprisingly, it launched a new
focus and growth in my life.
Later that evening, I took a few laps around the track with
Bob, an inmate who was responsible for leading the Jewish
community at Taft Camp. Bob coordinated the Friday
gatherings and also presided over a discussion group. I found
many social-type activities in the camp. On Monday mornings
a public speaking group held meetings in the visiting room.
Inmates with knowledge on individualized subjects offered
other classes or workshops to introduce topics like investing,
real estate or Eastern meditations. Such diversions, I learned,
could help inmates cope with their separation from family and
community while simultaneously educating or entertaining
themselves.
“Do you know this guy they call the Kingpin?” I asked Bob
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as we walked the oval track.
“I know who he is, we haven’t ever spoken. He seems kind
of standoffish, aloof.”
“What do you think of him? I mean, I wasn’t really
expecting that I’d be serving time alongside real criminals. We
spent a few hours talking today, and he seems like a normal
guy.”
“I don’t buy it,” Bob said. “I’ve read one of his books. The
guy’s been locked up since the 1980s and he served time in
some of the toughest prisons. Think about it. A judge
sentencing a kid in his early 20s to 45 years . . . doesn’t happen.
Miami background? Cocaine? I hear he’s Cuban. Probably off’d
some people. Maybe didn’t do it himself, but couldn’t you see
him giving the order to have some guy clipped?”
My conversation with Bob shook me a bit. My experience
had prepared me to interact with businessmen and
professionals. I didn’t know much about judging the character
of men in prison. Yet I was assigned to live in a housing unit
with 150 other felons. We’d be sharing the same showers and
toilets, eating at the same tables, watching television broadcasts
side by side. I would have to get along.
“Do you play chess?” Michael caught me as I was walking
into one of the unit’s quiet rooms where he was seated. He had
a dictionary and a thesaurus open on the table and he appeared
to be working alone.
“I do.”
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 Lessons From Prison
“Care to sit for a game?” He gestured to another table with
a chess set on the surface. “I need a break. Been writing all day.”
“Sure. I’ll sit for a game.”
“Have you played much chess?”
“While I was on bond waiting to come in, I played chess
online for hours each day.”
“Wish I could do that. The Internet wasn’t in existence
when I came in. I’ve never accessed the Web directly, but I’ve
got a fairly active Web presence out there. I write about the
prison experience for guys like you. Did you see any of my
work before you came in?”
“No, I wasn’t looking for any information about prison. I
just figured I’d learn about it when I came in.”
“That’s a real challenge for me. I know that I have a lot of
valuable information to help people who are struggling through
the criminal justice system. I’ve been living in prisons for my
entire adult life, and I write about the experience as if I’m an
open book. It’s tough for me to reach my audience from here.”
Our chess game advanced well, though I felt as if I had the
upper hand. During those months prior to my imprisonment, I
withered away hundreds of hours playing chess on my
computer. Still, I moved my pieces with tentativeness. Despite
Michael’s ease of conversation, Bob’s theory that the guy may
have had someone clipped kept me vigilant about the
possibility that I was playing with some kind of master criminal.
“How do you post your writings on the Internet if you
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 The Kingpin
don’t have access to the Web or computers?”
“I write the content out in longhand, then send it to my
wife. She types and posts it for me.”
“You’ve been in prison for 21 years and you’re still
married? How does that work out?”
“I haven’t been married the whole time. My wife and I
came together in 2002. We married in a prison visiting room.”
Michael told me his story while casually moving the chess
pieces. I was already up a pawn and felt that I was close to
stealing his bishop.
“How did you meet a woman who would marry you while
you were in prison? I hope that’s not too personal, but that
hardly seems possible.”
“Not at all. Prison has kind of become my life. I write
about it and talk about it all the time. My wife’s name is Carole.
We went to school together from fifth grade through high
school. After graduation we kind of lost touch. It wasn’t until
about 15 years later that she came back into my life. Carole
read something about my work and that inspired her to write a
letter. Her letter led to correspondence, and in time, a romance.
I was incarcerated in New Jersey at the time and she moved in
order to nurture our relationship through visits. We married in
that prison’s visiting room, and she’s been moving around
from prison town to prison town whenever administrators
have transferred me.”
I knew I had Michael beat in the chess match. But I felt
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 Lessons From Prison
intrigued with the story he was telling. The thought of a guy
spending his life in prison while still managing to build a family
and an Internet presence made it sound as if conquering the
system wasn’t anything at all. Still, he might not respond well to
losing, I thought. I gave up a pawn to kind of even things out
in the game.
“Why do administrators transfer guys from prison to
prison?”
“There are all kinds of reasons. When Carole and I were
married, I was being held in a low-security prison. Later, my
security level dropped to minimum. With the new minimumsecurity classification, the administrators had to transfer me
from inside the fences to a camp.”
“Do you think they’ll ever transfer me?”
“Your sentence is short, and like I told you before, the time
is going to pass a lot faster than you think. You will likely serve
your entire sentence here. The only reason administrators
would transfer you would be if you got into some kind of
trouble.”
“Like what? What could happen that would lead to a
transfer?”
“You could get into a fight with someone.”
“Well, I suppose, but why would I get in a fight?”
“Come on,” Michael smiled. “You’re in prison. This may
be a camp but anything can happen. Although you can control
your own behavior, you can’t control the way the others
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 The Kingpin
behave. We’re sharing space with hundreds of guys, many of
whom are high strung, not quite all there. They can’t handle the
stress. Maybe a guy called home and heard a man’s voice.
Maybe some guy’s wife just dumped him, or a family member
died, or his kid won’t talk to him. Maybe he felt patronized by
the system. Any number of things could make a guy lash out.
Fights can sometimes begin without anyone expecting it. If
anyone is caught fighting in the camp—and it doesn’t matter
how it begins—both guys get transferred unless there are
special circumstances.”
That was it. I decided right then that I was throwing the
chess game. I made a move that I knew would result in the loss
of my queen. I wasn’t about to aggravate a guy who had been
in prison for so long.
“Have you been in many fights during all the time you’ve
served?”
“You might want to rethink that move, bud. If you
advance that knight, I’m going to get your queen for free.”
“Oh, you’re right, my mistake. Your game.”
“No, no. You’re playing well, you’re really ahead. Take the
move back. Try something else.”
“It’s okay. The rules are the rules. I moved the piece
already. We’ll just let it play out. I can still play without my
queen.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, go ahead.” I may have been giving up the most
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 Lessons From Prison
powerful piece on the chessboard, but at least I wouldn’t be
feeding into any of the unexpected tension he was describing.
“To answer your question,” Michael said as he continued
with the game, “I haven’t been in a single fight during all the
years of my imprisonment. Not one.”
“How did you manage to avoid them?”
“By understanding my environment. I knew that I was
serving a long sentence, but I wasn’t serving a life sentence.
Someday these gates would open for me, and I wanted to
ensure that I would feel ready for the challenges that would
await me. I set clearly defined goals, and my commitment to
achieve those goals required that I adjust in ways that would
minimize my exposure to potential problems. I relied on that
strategy from the beginning, and I continue to rely upon it
today. Check.”
Michael had pinned me with a pawn. I saw the move
coming, but I feigned surprise. One more move, I knew, and
he would mate me with his rook. “It’s your game,” I said, while
tipping my king over.
“Do you want to play again?”
“Not now,” I said. “I’d like to hear more about your
experiences through prison, and the strategy that has guided
you through so many years.”

116

 11
Road Runner. Beep Beep
After that first game, I began spending a lot of time at Taft
Camp with Michael. Approximately 500 people were confined
inside the boundaries, though I noticed there was kind of a
buddy system to serving time. Each prisoner had a few others
with whom he became close. They usually came together
because of similar interests and proximity. Those who lived in
the same housing unit could socialize, eat, and exercise
together. Friendships eased the pain that came with separation
from home.
Counselor Micks assigned my first job in the camp. She
was not particularly interested with academic pedigree. Neither
the diploma from Montclair Prep, the degree from USC, nor
the professional licenses I had earned carried much weight in
prison; lack of a GED does not disqualify anyone from a
prison job. I had been hoping for one of the laid back jobs that
would afford me time to read and focus on fitness. Instead, my
counselor assigned me to work in the kitchen. An inmate
“supervisor” issued me a vinyl apron and assigned me to the
dish room, where I was instructed to wash pots and pans.
Inmate work details were part of the prison experience.
Officially, rules stated that no single inmate would have power
or authority over another inmate. In practical terms, however, a
prison protocol existed.
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 Lessons From Prison
Those prisoners with more seniority stood a little higher in
the unofficial hierarchy. Understanding that reality could make
life a little easier inside.
At Taft Camp, counselors typically assigned new inmates to
work in the food service department. Those job assignments
could mean working as a cook or a baker. Similarly, a kitchen
job assignment could mean cleaning tables, serving the meals
from behind a buffet counter, or working in the dish room. Jim,
the inmate clerk, assigned specific job detail for each inmate.
Officially, Jim did not have authority over any other
prisoner. As the clerk, however, he made life much easier for
the staff members who presided over the kitchen operations.
Jim had been incarcerated for longer than 12 years. He was an
old-style convict, with hair that was thinning to near baldness
on top, but long and in a ponytail in back. Understanding every
aspect of the food services department, Jim kept all the
paperwork in order. He prepared the inmate payroll, filed the
paperwork for the fire, safety, and maintenance departments.
He organized work schedules and relieved staff members of
having to worry about whether everything was in compliance.
Why would Jim devote so much energy to his prison job?
Pay scales were nominal, with inmates earning anywhere from
between $10 to $100 per month. My experience, observations,
and lessons that I learned from listening to others convinced
me that Jim performed his job with gusto for another reason.
Serving time in prison could rob a man of his identity, and
his dignity as well. Through meaningful work, however, an
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 Road Runner. Beep Beep
individual could displace that sense of sameness and empower
himself. A prisoner who had served as much time as Jim could
find work therapeutic. Work helped relieve the thought of all
that was missing from home. Rather than focusing on a release
date that might stretch months or years, or even decades into
the future, the long-term prisoner could focus on the tasks at
hand through work. For Jim, that meant ensuring the food
services department at Taft Camp ran smoothly.
In Viktor Frankl’s wonderful book, Man’s Search for
Meaning, I learned a little something about coping with
difficult situations. Viktor Frankl had been a prisoner in
Hitler’s concentration camps, and he suffered unfathomable
losses. He watched Nazi officers summarily execute his
immediate family and Frankl never knew whether the Nazis
would extinguish his own life. Despite the traumatic conditions,
Frankl said that he learned something about people’s mettle
while serving time in the concentration camps. Namely, people
could adjust to anything by embracing activities that brought
meaning to one’s life.
Although Jim was an inmate like any other, he had created
a little niche for himself. In his position, he had an office, a
desk, and a typewriter.
Since he controlled the job assignments within the kitchen,
the inmates might try to ingratiate themselves or influence his
decisions with commissary items. Bringing Jim an ice cream
might ease the way to a preferred job assignment.
I knew nothing about the protocols of prison when I self119

 Lessons From Prison
surrendered. By the time I was assigned to the food services
department, things were different. My friend, Michael, had
already told me a great deal about the options available. Those
conversations helped guide some decisions that could have
turned out badly.
After Jim assigned my vinyl apron, I slid off my sneakers to
exchange them for a pair of rubber boots that were community
property. The fellow who had finished his shift in the dish
room handed the boots to me as he was putting his sneakers
back on. I grabbed the boots with some trepidation, unsure of
the sanitary implications. I relied on Michael’s advice about
prison. He told me that I should brace myself for some
discomfort, as there were bound to be rules and customs that I
was not going to like while I served my sentence. “Trojan up,”
he would tell me. As I was grabbing the boots, I told myself
the same thing.
With my pants tucked into my rubber boots, and the vinyl
apron hanging around my neck and down past my knees, I
walked into the dish room. I saw a fellow with long hair,
tattoos, a goatee, and perhaps three teeth in his mouth. He was
another inmate, and I presumed that he was in charge. The
man’s appearance suggested that he was not quite stable. He
was tall, well over six feet. With the apron, he looked as if he
could have been a stand in for some horror movie; all he
needed was a chainsaw or an ax.
“I’m Justin,” I introduced myself. “I’ve been assigned to
the dish room.”
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 Road Runner. Beep Beep
The man looked at me, as if he were not quite sure whether
I was predator or prey.
“What’s your name?” I hoped to ease the tension. Trojan
up, I reminded myself.
“Road Runner. Beep Beep.”
I laughed, unsure what the man meant. “What was your
name?”
“Road Runner. Beep Beep.”
“That’s what you’d like me to call you?”
“Beep Beep.”
“Is it Road Runner? Or Road Runner, Beep Beep?”
“Road Runner, Beep Beep.”
I shook my head as if in acknowledgment, then set to work
by burying my hands in the warm sudsy water. The meal had
been a rice dish with chunks of chicken baked inside. We had a
lot of stainless steel pans to wash.
I was getting the hang of it. Then, without provocation or
forewarning, Road Runner, Beep Beep let out a scream.
“Five minutes,” he shouted.
I didn’t know what had happened. His holler caught me by
surprise, as if a canon had just set off an explosion. I nearly
jumped out of my boots. Yet, Road Runner, Beep Beep kept
feeding his pans into the dishwasher. I looked at him as if for
an explanation, though he seemed oblivious to my concern.
After I realized that I was working in an environment of
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 Lessons From Prison
questionable stability, I simply went back to work. I knew that
I had at least another hour’s worth ahead. The next time Road
Runner, Beep Beep let out another holler about five minutes
for no reason, I felt good about my mastery in ignoring him.
After the shift, I returned to Jim’s office so that I could
exchange my high rubber boots for my sneakers. I pulled off
my vinyl apron and hung it on the rack. Jim was deep in a
philosophical conversation with another convict. The man was
in his early 30s, yet he went by the name of Dopey. Like Road
Runner, Beep Beep, Dopey didn’t have much in the way of
teeth.
He was quite firm in his opinions as he was expressing
them to Jim.
“Look,” Jim said to Dopey in a tone of conciliation, “I’m
not saying this whole thing hasn’t been blown out of
proportion by the Jews. But the Holocaust did happen. I just
question to what extent.”
Let it go, I told myself. I was in prison. There were going
to be uncomfortable encounters. People were going to make
comments with which I would not agree. Racial and ethnic
tensions might exist. The best strategy for powering through
would sometimes require that I keep my mouth shut and move
on. With my sneakers laced, I nodded to Jim and Dopey and
walked back to D dorm.

122

 12
Intro to Philosophy
Later that evening, Michael walked past my cubicle when I
was stuck in the doldrums. For the most part, I was adjusting
well to my first weeks in confinement. Sometimes, however, I
looked at the calendar with trepidation. Another full year of
imprisonment would have to pass, at the minimum, before
accumulated good conduct time and halfway house placement
would warrant my release to quasi freedom. During those
moments, I slumped into my plastic chair, bent over at the
waist and held my head in my hands while my knees supported
my elbows. I stared at the unfinished concrete floor, as if
paralyzed in thought.
“Chin up,” Michael said. “I’ve got great news for you.” He
rested his hand on my shoulder.
“What’s that?”
“We’re another day closer to home.” Michael laughed as if
my 18-month sentence was one big joke. He walked into my
cubicle and sat on a chair beside me. He kicked his feet up to
rest on the steel post of my bed frame.
“What’s troubling you, young fella?” Michael was in his
mid-forties, just more than 11 years older than me. Despite the
amount of time we were spending together, I could not fathom
how he had made it through so many years in prison without
bearing any telltale signs.
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 Lessons From Prison
“How do you do this?”
“What’s that?”
“Prison, man. All this time.”
“Prison?” He joked. “What are you talking about? This
isn’t prison. This is camp. Embrace it.”
“I know.” I leaned back in my chair and scratched my head.
“I’m trying. Sometimes it just gets to me.” I told Michael about
the frustration I felt with my first day on the job. He laughed as
I told him about Road Runner, Beep Beep, the repeated
hollering of ‘five minutes’ with no apparent logic, the two
white supremacists arguing about the existence of the
Holocaust. “You say I’ve got to Trojan up and I am. I’m just
used to a different crowd.”
“Of course you are.” Thus began Michael’s philosophical
dispensations.
“Do you want to know how to thrive through prison?”
“Desperately.”
“Notice I didn’t ask whether you want to know how to
survive prison. Anyone can survive prison. In fact, every year
our country’s prison system releases 650,000 people. They all
survived prison. It’s a pathetically small number of people,
however, who can truly thrive through prison. I thrive. Do you
want to know the secret?”
“Yes.”
“The answers are the same as in life. Philosophers have
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 Intro to Philosophy
written about the answers for centuries. You can find the secret
in the wisdom of Aristotle and Sun Tzu. Do you remember
reading anything about either of them?”
“I was a stockbroker, remember? A client would call, ask
that I purchase 10,000 shares of Microsoft. I pushed a few
buttons to fill the order. That was my career. Not a lot of need
to think about Aristotle or, who was the other guy?”
“Sun Tzu. He was a military strategist, and he preserved his
ideas through his book, The Art of War, a book he wrote that
has been around for more than 2,000 years. You’d be surprised
how readings in philosophy can prepare you to progress
through difficult situations. The wisdom from centuries ago
can help us through all of life’s challenges. I’ll bet it even could
have made you a better stockbroker.”
“Okay. So what’s the profound message of Aristotle and
Sun Tzu? Tell me what I should know about them. Give me
the abbreviated version.”
“Two points,” Michael said. He held up his first finger.
“Know thyself. That’s a lesson from Aristotle.” He held up his
second finger. “Know thy enemy. A lesson from Sun Tzu.”
I looked at him for a second, as if waiting for the punch
line. “You’re kidding me. That’s the wisdom of the centuries?
Are you serious?”
“Totally. One of Aristotle’s famous quotes was that the
unexamined life was not worth living. He suggested that for a
man to reach his highest potential, he really had to understand
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himself, to know the values of his life. Only by knowing what
was important to him, could he set a balanced strategy that
would lead to his personal fulfillment.”
“And the other one? What kind of cryptic advice did he
give? I feel like I’m being given the ancient version of the
fortune cookie.”
“This fortune cookie quotes Sun Tzu as advising others to
know thy enemy.”
“So who’s my enemy?”
“I don’t think the enemy has to be a who. Maybe it’s a
what. Maybe it’s a prison term. Maybe it’s an unfulfilling career
that leads you to misery, or to bad decisions that land you in
prison. It’s a treat for me to meet guys like you inside these
boundaries. But I know you’re not here by choice.
“Perhaps if you embrace the journey, you can learn
something from it. Know yourself. Know your enemy.”
“Like I said, I sold stocks. I don’t know what you’re talking
about.”
“Okay. Take today for example. You felt put off by some
of your new colleagues, Road Runner and Dopey. You didn’t
like their version of conversation.”
“That’s right. I have a little trouble subordinating myself to
a grown man who calls himself Road Runner, Beep Beep. And
I’m not too keen on sharing space with guys who question
whether Hitler killed six million Jews.”
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“But if you know yourself, and you know your enemy, why
does it really matter what other people think or do? All that
matters is you know where you’re going, that you advance
toward the values and goals you cite as being important to your
life, to your fulfillment.”
“That’s what I did. I kept my mouth shut and moved on.”
“Not really. You may have kept your mouth shut and
moved on physically, but you’re still carrying aggravation with
you. It’s bringing you down.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“Let it go. Forget about it.”
“Let it go? That’s what I’m doing.”
“Think back to when you were a broker,” Michael
suggested. “Do you remember the office, the trappings of
success?”
“Do I ever.”
“Probably wore a nice suit, kept an impressive office,
receptionist, all that.”
“That’s right.” I felt a degree of comfort come over me as I
reminisced about my past success.
“What would you have done if Road Runner or Dopey
presented themselves in your office?”
“I would have picked up the phone and called security.”
“Exactly. The office towers of Century City were your
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world. That’s where you felt you belonged. You had your own
customs and culture there. Isn’t that right?”
“You bet.”
“Well, my friend, you need to keep your eye focused on
returning to that world. Leave here stronger than when you
came in, more prepared to find happiness and fulfillment in
that world. You can do that a lot more peacefully if you accept
that. Just as Century City is your world, prison is the world for
guys like Road Runner and Dopey. Let them have it. Don’t let
their words or customs interfere with who you are or where
you’re going.”
My discussion with Michael helped. He was right. Prison
was only going to be a temporary blip in my life. Many of the
people I met at Taft would always struggle with the criminal
justice system, unemployment, and personal relationships. I
met and interacted with people who lived mired in a kind of
systemic poverty.
Alan, for example, lived a few cubicles away from me. His
story brought home that prison was a place of concentrated
hardship. The challenge for other white-collar prisoners and
me was to persevere as best I could, to add to the lives of
others when possible, and to avoid altercations at all costs.
Michael’s advice about understanding strengths and
weaknesses, about knowing my environment and myself was
poignant and insightful; it was not the type of guidance I would
expect from a man who had served his entire adult life in
prison.
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Alan lived a life that, sadly, seemed more typical of the men
I came to know in prison. He was 33, like me, and he was
expecting release around the same time as I was going to be
released to a halfway house. Alan had served five years at the
time we met, although his time inside prison boundaries and
his life before arrest seemed more of a struggle than I could
bear.
Alan had a look about him that told his life’s story. His
nose was crooked from having been broken numerous times.
Scars from jagged edges marked his cheeks. He had a few
missing teeth, and prior abuse of meth had rotted the teeth he
had remaining in his mouth.
Alan’s body was scrawny. Drawings of spider webs, skulls,
and demons in bluish-green ink tattooed both of his arms.
When I asked where he had gotten his tattoos, Alan told me
that he had done most of them himself.
“We did it when we were kids in juvie.” As we waited in
one of the seemingly endless commissary lines, Alan opened up.
Troubles with the criminal justice system began for Alan
when he was 13. He spent six months in juvenile hall on
account of his having been caught shoplifting. Since then, he
had been in and out of various institutions. Ordinarily, I would
have said that Alan should have learned his lesson, gotten a job,
put his life in order. Yet as I listened to the life he described, I
felt a sense of empathy and became less judgmental than would
have been the case had we not served time together.
During the most recent stint of Alan’s imprisonment, his
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father had died in a car accident, his sister had been murdered,
his mother had been incarcerated, and the mother of his sevenyear old child had become addicted to meth. Alan was
scheduled for release at the same time as I was scheduled to
conclude my term. Whereas I would return to my place in
Studio City, Alan had no idea where he would live or what kind
of work he would pursue. He sounded lost and expressed little
confidence in his ability to function in society. Prison had
become the only world where he felt comfortable.
In listening to Alan, and the prisoners with whom I was
confined, I realized that prison gave me an opportunity to
become more tolerant of others. In one of the books I read, I
came across the writings of John Dewey, who had been an
influential educator from the University of Chicago. Dewey’s
work suggested that the bad man was the individual who,
regardless of what good works he had done in the past, had
ceased trying to make the world a better place. The good man,
on the other hand, was the individual who, regardless of what
bad he had done in the past, was striving to improve his own
life as well as the lives of others.
In prison I had to live with guys like Road Runner, Dopey,
Alan and others whose life stories differed in remarkable ways
from mine. These people had not been blessed with the
privileges that I had taken for granted. For such people, loving
families, stable, comfortable surroundings, and career
opportunities were abstract fantasies that they could not
imagine themselves enjoying. Their lives had been one struggle
after another, and an end to the turmoil did not seem in sight.
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 Intro to Philosophy
By understanding the people around me, I empowered myself
to endure what were really nothing more than the temporary
inconveniences of my relatively brief stint in a federal prison
camp.
Equally important, my exposure to others helped me
understand some of the flaws that had contaminated my own
character. Michael’s brief lesson on the ancient philosophers
Aristotle and Sun Tzu suggested that I must know myself and
my enemies. I did not perceive that he meant enemies in the
sense of other people who were out to ruin me. My battle was
with a sense of entitlement that I had to conquer.
In loving and providing for me, my parents had removed
the concept of struggle from my life. From my earliest
memories, I believed that I had won the parent lottery as my
childhood felt idyllic. Such a background eased my life, though
it did not imbue me with the lasting virtues of good character,
as my parents would have hoped.
Upon listening to the stories of the prisoners, I could
understand how some of the men around me had made
decisions that led them into troubles with the law. What excuse
did I have? I was born with every advantage, and yet decisions
I had made reduced me to the life of a prisoner. Aristotle’s
prescription for introspection would help me understand the
motivations that drove me and how to prepare for a better life
ahead.
Had I embraced the concept of knowing myself and
knowing my enemies as I ventured into the professional world,
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perhaps I would have lived more responsibly. Upon my first
encounter with struggles as a stockbroker, I began taking short
cuts. Rather than pursuing lasting success as my cousin, Todd
Goodman, observed, I chased the temptations of quick and
easy commissions. Cheating became easy to rationalize, as I felt
entitled to more.
As I served my sentence in Taft Camp, I came across an
article in a business newspaper that described the work of Jim
Ratley, a consultant who spoke on the motivations for fraud.
Mr. Ratley said that perpetrators need to be in a position where
they can commit fraud, they need the money, and they must be
able to rationalize their crime. It was his way of describing the
fraud triangle of opportunity, pressure, and rationalization. I
should have known better. The more I thought about the
motivations that drove my decisions, the more catharsis I felt
come over me. I felt a cleansing, as if taking the steps I needed
to become whole again. I had fallen off course early in my
career.
While in pursuit of the next big commission, I had allowed
my values to fall askew. Only in realizing, acknowledging, and
owning such flaws in my character could I let them go and find
strength to heal. The alternative would have been to cling to a
negativity that seemed to prohibit growth for many of the
prisoners around me.

132

 13
Visiting
During those first several months of my sentence, I kept
up with my friend Arthur’s formidable exercise regimen. His
discipline and total commitment to fitness really inspired me.
Each morning we ran or rode the stationary bicycle for 90
minutes. We followed the cardio routine with 30 minutes of
abdominal work. In the afternoon we returned for at least one
hour of strength training. Taft Camp did not have weight
training equipment, though pull-ups, dips, pushups, and work
with exercise balls sufficiently transformed my physique.
With between three and four hours of exercise, seven days
a week, I felt as if I were really making progress. I shed more
than 25 pounds relatively quickly while simultaneously picking
up speed, endurance, and strength. During my first weeks in
the camp, I played in a tennis tournament, but other than that
week-end event, I did not engage in any organized sports. I was
all about the tangible results of personal training.
As a man in prison, I think I needed those clearly-defined
goals. Many of the men with whom I served time in the camp
found exercise therapeutic. While pursuing our professional
careers, we had neglected our health. In time, our bodies and
fitness levels deteriorated. Rather than investing the necessary
energy to stay in shape, we procrastinated or accepted our
growing waist sizes as an inevitable by-product of aging.
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In prison, people sought to correct years of neglect
through rigorous exercise regimens. I knew several men who
lost in excess of 100 pounds by regularly walking and dieting.
The separation from society, and clearly defined release dates,
motivated many to work toward better health.
Thriving through confinement had the same meaning as
thriving through life. When we as individuals understood our
lives, understood where we wanted to go, we could set plans in
motion to assure success as we defined it. We simply had to
know our environment, as well as our strengths and
weaknesses.
Determined to realize some individual gains first, I asked
my family and friends not to visit until I had served six solid
weeks. I was writing home frequently, easing their concerns by
assuring them that I was adjusting well. My friend, Walt, the
speaker on ethics, who had served time before, had written a
few timely letters that buoyed my spirits at critical moments. I
appreciated those assurances that the months would pass.
My mother and stepfather, Ken, drove north from Los
Angeles to spend a Friday with me for our first visit. Visiting in
the camp was like visiting in an airport waiting area, or small
cafeteria. My mother and Ken checked in by presenting their
identification at an officer’s desk. The officer in charge would
verify that visitors had been approved by checking names
against the inmate’s visitation list and then admit the guests
into the visiting room.
Understandably, my mother was quite emotional about the
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 Visiting
trauma of visiting her youngest son in prison. She had never
suffered what she considered the public humiliation of visiting
in such a controlled atmosphere. Once she sat at the table,
however, I think she was able to see that the camp was not an
oppressive environment. Vending machines were available for
snacks. Children were playing and affectionate with their
fathers. Husbands and wives were bonding by holding hands.
The visiting room was a place of ease.
After the officers had processed my mother and Ken, he
called for me through an institutional intercom page. I felt
enthusiastic, as if I were a child who had performed well in
school and couldn’t wait to show off his report card. My
weight had dropped to college levels. I had quit smoking. I had
made progress that those who loved me would notice.
We enjoyed a wonderful few hours together as I assured
my family that I was well. Michael and Carole were visiting that
day, so I was able to introduce my mother and Ken to a friend
I had made inside. The visit eased my family’s concern, as they
were able to see that prison camp differed in remarkable ways
from the stereotypical prison images portrayed through
popular media.
Following our visit, however, officers gave me a stark, no
nonsense reminder that I remained a prisoner. As our guests
checked out of the visiting room, the other prisoners and I
who had been visiting needed to wait for an officer to search
us before we could return to the camp. The search required
each inmate to strip naked for an inspection that would
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confirm we were not smuggling any contraband.
“What’s all this about?” I asked Michael as we waited our
turn for the search. Six weeks had passed since officers first
admitted me to Taft Camp. For the most part, I had grown
accustomed to the environment. I didn’t appreciate the
reminder of my imprisonment.
“Don’t let the little things bother you. Strip searches are
one of the inconveniences of prison. Expect that they can
come at any time. As long as you know and abide by the rules,
the inconveniences shouldn’t disturb you any more than a fly
buzzing around. This is all part of prison. Embrace it.”
Michael’s ease with prison seemed surreal. How could a
person endure more than 20 years and walk through every
indignity as if degradation like strip searches were normal?
Taken as a whole, he had spent more of his conscious life in
various prisons than he had known in normal society. In a
sense, I suppose prison had become normal for him. I had a
hard time reconciling the length of time he had served with his
steady, purpose-driven demeanor.
“Do they strip search in all prisons?” I wondered if every
prison operated the same.
“In camps, the wardens have discretion on whether
officers strip search after each visit. Some strip search random
inmates, some do pat downs, some don’t search at all. Depends
who is in charge. Here at Taft, everyone gets naked.”
“How about in higher security? What’s visiting like there?”
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“Much more oppressive. In FCIs and USPs, the guards
strip search inmates on the way in and on the way out. Several
guards walk around the visiting room, and surveillance cameras
record everything going on. There’s considerably more tension,
especially in higher security. One of the privileges of camp
placement is that visiting is easier on the families.”
“How so?”
“When your family comes to visit,” Michael explained,
“they drive in, park, and after a simple, friendly check in, they
sit in a relatively stress-free environment.”
“So how is it different in higher security?”
Michael laughed. “Visiting in some higher security prisons
is like visiting a war zone.”
“Come on.”
“Compared to camp, that’s no stretch. When I was in the
penitentiary I didn’t even want visits. The visits caused more
stress.”
“What was it like?”
“First of all, just approaching the prison was traumatic.
Family members had to check in at the security tower, where
guards were patrolling the prison with visible assault rifles.
Then the visitors had to proceed through metal detectors and
submit themselves to searches and degrading questions.
Officers would wave some kind of drug detecting wand over
their clothing. If the wand detected a residue of drugs, they
would send the visitor away and remove the visitor from the
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 Lessons From Prison
inmate’s list. Despite the wand’s notorious inaccuracy, many
people lost visiting privileges. If they sat in a taxi and got
residue on their clothing, handled money with drug residue,
anything, the dreaded wand would pick up the scent. Babies,
old people, anyone could be denied visiting.”
“Couldn’t they appeal the decision or something?”
“In higher security, guards are much more suspicious of
everyone. It’s a much different environment from the camp.
There is a zero-tolerance attitude, and that extends to family as
well as prisoners. They are assigned seats. Inmates cannot walk
around or leave their assigned chair without permission. Even
to use the bathroom, the inmate must wait for a specific time,
raise his hand for permission, and then use the toilet under a
guard’s direct supervision. It’s dehumanizing, but you get used
to that as well.”
“That kind of place makes camp sound like Disneyland.”
“Remember that. A lot of camp prisoners take the relaxed
atmosphere for granted. They become comfortably numb and
forget that they’re serving time in a federal prison. Stupid
decisions wake them up in a hurry. Once they get transferred
out of the camp to a secure prison, they realize how good they
had it in minimum security. By then, it’s too late.”
“But that doesn’t happen too often, does it?” As we left the
visiting area, our discussion continued about higher security.
“You’ve seen it, haven’t you? Since you’ve been in the
camp you’ve seen several guys taken away. First they went to
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SHU. They spent time locked up, and then they were
transferred.”
“What’s SHU?”
“The Special Housing Unit, though there isn’t anything
special about it. It’s like a concrete bunker, a self-contained cell
where prisoners are locked inside for 24 hours a day. It’s the
punishment spot, kind of a jail within the prison, otherwise
known as the hole.”
“Does everyone who gets sent to the hole transfer to a
higher security prison?”
“No. The staff uses an objective custody and classification
schedule that determines each inmate’s security level. That
calculation takes into account such facts as the inmate’s
criminal background history and the adjustment record he has
built in prison. Depending on the type and frequency of
disciplinary infractions he received, he may suffer sanctions
that can include the raising of his security and the loss of good
time credits. Sometimes, disciplinary infractions can lead to
transfers out of the camp, or even new criminal charges.”
“Like fighting?”
“Fighting is only one example. There are as many ways to
have problems in the camp as there are ways for a driver to
have a traffic accident. People smuggle in cell phones, they
drink alcohol, and they gamble on card games or sports. It’s
not as important to contemplate all the ways a guy can have
problems. A guy gets more value from thoughts and strategies
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 Lessons From Prison
that will help him emerge successfully. By knowing what he
values and what he wants, any prisoner, regardless of where he
is confined, can assure that every step he takes leads him
closer.”

140

 14
The “U” Shaped Curve
By the conclusion of my third month, I was feeling much
stronger about my adjustment. Friends and family were driving
up to visit with regularity, my exercise routine was progressing,
and I was even getting along with Road Runner and other
diverse groups of my fellow inmates. I kept my eye on my
release date, understanding that tolerating any inconveniences
of prison lessened my chances of disrupting the smooth
passage of time.
Whereas I had once been a prison neophyte, after three
months I had completed more than 25 percent of my time
inside. The novelty and trauma had worn off. I still had some
nights when I woke and struggled with insomnia. With
thoughts about home, my dog, and all that I missed, I couldn’t
fall back into sleep. A friend gave me a reading light and
suggested that I make productive use of the time by reading.
Prison was all about adapting. Regardless of what was going on
inside or out, a successful prison experience required the will to
adjust, to evaluate change and adjust.
Like millions of Americans, I had a lot changing in my
world as I advanced through the summer months of 2008. The
financial markets were crumbling, decimating the value of
investments that I had worked hard to build since the start of
my career. What distinguished my predicament as a prisoner
from those who did not live with any restrictions, was the
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 Lessons From Prison
freedom to manage my accounts.
Prior to my self-surrendering, my friend Walt, warned me
that prison administrators frowned upon inmates who had any
active involvement with business decisions. He told me that in
prison, officers monitored and recorded every conversation
over the inmate telephone system. One of the many prohibited
acts that could result in severe sanctions was using the
telephone to conduct business transactions.
Forewarned of such information, I made preparations
before self-surrendering that I thought would protect me. I
transferred my equity portfolio into a managed account where I
believed that my broker would use his professional judgment
to make market decisions. I gave my business partner
discretion and access to resources in order to manage my real
estate interests. While I served my sentence, I expected all of
my business affairs would move along without complication.
Not so.
After a few months I received information from the major
Wall Street brokerage house where my stock market accounts
were entrusted. As a consequence of my felony conviction, a
compliance officer notified my personal broker that I would
have to close my accounts. When my broker explained that I
was in prison and therefore incapable of making any changes,
the compliance officer froze my account, prohibiting my
broker from conducting transactions on my behalf. As a
prisoner, I was stuck, utterly incapable of responding to the
rapidly deteriorating market conditions.
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 The “U” Shaped Curve
Just as the equity market crumbled, my real estate
investments took a dive. The credit crisis that paralyzed
markets across the globe was much harder to navigate from
within prison boundaries. Whereas I thought I had protected
myself by giving discretion to others, falling asset values
required that I raise cash in order to hold onto my positions.
My imprisonment made me impotent to handle my own affairs.
I spoke with Harold, another white-collar offender with
whom I was serving time. He had removed all possibility of
financial stress prior to his self-surrender. Rather than deal with
fluctuating markets, Harold told me that he had completely
liquidated all of his financial investments soon after learning
that he was embroiled in a struggle with the criminal justice
system. “I had enough stress in my life,” Harold said. “I didn’t
need to complicate matters by worrying about money as well.”
He had put all of his resources in government-secure bonds.
If I had a do-over, I would have taken better precautions to
protect my resources. As a prisoner, I found that I lacked
access to current information, and rules prohibited me from
acting decisively. Although I could occasionally catch a glimpse
of the CNBC ticker, telephone regulations and other
institutional obstacles discouraged prisoners from managing
their own affairs. Although individual circumstances varied,
experience convinced me that Harold’s approach of eliminating
all possibilities of financial complications would serve incoming
prisoners best.
While expressing my frustrations to Arthur, my friend and
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 Lessons From Prison
workout partner, he counseled that I ought not to worry about
what was transpiring beyond prison boundaries. “You’re a
bright guy.” He tried to mollify my anxieties about what I
could face upon release. “There’s nothing you can do from
here, so it’s best you just forget about the outside. Concentrate
on making the most of this experience and don’t worry about
what you can’t control.”
Arthur served his time with total contentment, not a care in
the world. His exercise regimen carried him through. He had a
supercilious air, and I enjoyed the time we spent together. Yet I
had second thoughts about his guidance when, during one of
our evening conversations, he belittled another man’s
optimism about the possibility he found for employment upon
release at a hamburger chain.
“You’re a prisoner working at a job in the chow hall wiping
down cooking grills as it is,” I pointed out. “Wouldn’t it be
better to be outside working at McDonalds?”
“I only work here because I have to,” Arthur said. “I
couldn’t bring myself to work in a place like this if I were free.”
In prison, I noticed many people adjusted in ways to ease
the pain of confinement. For Arthur and me, that meant a total
devotion to exercise. Others forgot about all they were missing
by immersing themselves in recreational activities like table
games, television or hobby-craft projects. Far fewer numbers
committed themselves voluntarily to education or independent
study programs.
The prevailing idea, apparently, was to forget about the
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 The “U” Shaped Curve
outside world entirely in order to make it through the prison
term. I noticed a problem with such adjustment patterns when
I listened to men express genuine fear as their release dates
approached.
Edward was a typical example. He had been a real estate
operator for many years. I say operator rather than real estate
investor or broker, because the ventures he described seemed
more like a scheme than a genuine business. As Edward
described it to me, he led seminars through which he
encouraged those in the audience to apply for government
guaranteed housing loans. In exchange for assigning over full
management discretion of the property, Edward guaranteed an
attractive rate of return to those who signed up with his
program.
When changing market conditions rendered Edward
incapable of living up to his end of the bargain, massive
defaults on the real estate loans ensued. Those defaults led to
criminal investigations and charges against Edward for
operating a Ponzi scheme. He pleaded guilty and served three
years in prison.
I met Edward as he was approaching release. He told me
that he dropped a considerable amount of weight while serving
time through regular exercise and dieting. An avid sports fan,
he also joined others in watching ESPN religiously. A wake-up
call came for Edward, however, when he received written
notification from the U.S. probation officer who would be
supervising his release. Edward showed me the letter, which
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stated categorically that the conditions of his release expressly
prohibited him from any type of employment related to sales
or promotions.
“Up until the time I received that letter from my probation
officer,” Edward said, “I always intended to earn a living
through sales. That’s all I know how to do. Now I don’t have
any idea how I’m expected to earn a living.”
As I listened to more and more people express anxieties
about the obstacles awaiting their release, a pattern began to
emerge. Regardless of whether a man served a sentence of one
year or ten years, when the release date approached, a new kind
of anxiety set in. My friend Michael described it as the Ushaped curve.
The U-shaped curve measured a man’s path through
confinement or adjustment. To understand the theory, Michael
told me to think of society as being above the U and the prison
community as being below the curve of the U. As man enters
the criminal justice system, he begins descending through the
U. He feels himself leaving society behind and anxieties plague
him as he moves deeper into an unknown world. The man
begins to adjust, and he grows more acclimated to the world of
confinement. He falls into a routine of exercise, television,
sports or recreational activities. By the time the man moves
halfway through his sentence, he will have adjusted in ways that
sets him at ease with the prison community, which lies below
the metaphorical U.
In advancing through the halfway point of his sentence, the
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 The “U” Shaped Curve
prisoner begins to experience those anxieties again. The
comfort level dissipates because he is ascending the U,
knowing that he soon will leave prison behind and return to
society. Table games, recreational activities, and four-hour
exercise days will cease. The time of rent payments, car
payments, and stress over paychecks comes closer every day.
As a prisoner’s time moves beyond the halfway point,
regardless of the length of his sentence, the theory of the Ushaped curve suggests that anxieties return.
As Michael and I were in his cubicle discussing these
patterns one day, he asked me to rate my own adjustment. I
had passed through the first 25 percent of my time in prison
and felt pretty much at ease. I was running much longer
distances and at a much faster pace. In fact, I felt proud that I
was running faster than anyone in the camp. My strength had
returned, and I knew that I had worked myself back into the
best shape of my life. People were noticing.
“On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the highest, what
level would you rate yourself with regard to the commitment
you’ve made to fitness and getting yourself in shape?”
I leaned back in my chair, flexed my arms, and rubbed the
developing six pack of my abdominals. “No question about it.
I’ve been exercising as hard as I possibly could. I’d give myself
a ten.”
“I’d agree with you. But you’re talking about Edward, who
is finishing up a three-year term. He’s scared to death about
what he’s going to face outside. How much thought have you
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given to where you’re going to be when you reach that step?
On the same scale of one to ten, what rating would you give
yourself with regard to preparation for release?”
His second question deflated my pride as quickly as a pin
popped a balloon. I scratched my head. “Wow. I guess I
haven’t thought about it enough. I’d have to rate myself pretty
low. Probably a one.”
“Bingo.” That was the ah-ha moment Michael was trying to
elicit. “People don’t succeed by accident and they don’t fail by
accident. Even in prison, the decisions we make determine the
opportunities that open. The sooner you start preparing to
ascend the U, the more confident you will be when release
comes.”
“All I’ve been thinking about is exercise.”
“That’s right,” Michael said. “You need to realize that no
one is going to pay you outside for how many pull-ups you do
or how fast you can run. The sooner you acknowledge this, the
better off you will be in allocating your time in here.”
“What do you think I should be doing?”
“Every man needs to decide that on his own. Stephen
Covey, an author whose work I admire, suggests that
leadership requires us to live proactive lives, that we begin with
the end in mind, that we put first things first. You’ve got to
know where you’re going. Then you can ensure that every step
you take is leading you in the right direction.”
“I haven’t even thought about it. For the past three years
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my life was crippled with legal problems. Since I’ve been in
here, I’ve just been unwinding, getting myself together. I
haven’t given any thought to what I’m going to do once I’m
out.”
“Have you ever read Dante?”
“What?”
“The Divine Comedy,” Michael said. “It’s a trilogy that
Dante wrote several hundred years ago.”
I knew Michael liked to draw lessons from books he read.
“What’s it about?”
“Dante began his story as if he was a man walking through
a forest. Three beasts were pursuing him, rapidly closing in.
Those animals were symbolic, representing the vices of lust,
greed, and ambition. They threatened to consume Dante and
ruin his life. As Dante came to the end, with nowhere else to
turn, he met the ghost of Virgil, a legendary Roman poet who
lived more than a thousand years before Dante. Did you ever
hear that story?”
“No. What’s the point?”
“In Dante’s epic poem, Virgil offered Dante a way out of
the forest, a way to escape the three beasts of lust, greed, and
ambition that threatened to consume him. The only catch,
Virgil told him, was that Dante had to put himself through hell
in order to prevail.”
“What does that mean?”
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“In that poem, Virgil agreed to escort Dante through the
various circles or rings of hell. Virgil pointed out the people
who were supposedly suffering through the inferno, though it
was up to Dante to draw lessons from the journey that would
help him avoid such a fate.”
“I still don’t get the message.”
“The message suggests that you’re at the edge of the forest
buddy. I’m your Virgil, ready to escort you through the hell of
prison. I can point out what others are doing to keep
themselves in the struggle, but it’s up to you to learn the
lessons that will change your life. You’ve got to confront and
conquer your own demons.”

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Introspection
Michael’s lesson on Dante stuck with me. There were vices
and flaws in my character that I had to work on. I served time
in prison for deeper reasons than ignoring the tell-tale signs of
fraud at the GLT Fund. I was not in control of my ambition. I
lusted for more, and I allowed greed to cloud my judgment.
Despite my knowing that Keith Gilabert was perpetuating a
fraud, creating victims out of his trusting investors, I
rationalized myself into believing that I wasn’t doing anything
wrong.
I began spending time alone, tormented with thoughts
about how my life had gone astray. The time in prison camp
wasn’t so bad. I never felt threatened or abused. There were
aspects of discomfort, but nothing more than I could handle,
and confinement itself was far less stressful than I had
imagined. I could adjust and assuage the longing for home with
hard-driven exercise routines.
Once Michael pointed out that I had to confront the
flawed motivations that led to my disgrace, I hit a turning point.
I was not alone in having been a man whose vices led him into
prison. Hundreds of men were walking the same track with me.
They were educated professionals who led distinguished
careers. I met several attorneys, money managers, brokers, and
even a few doctors. The prison did not seem to discriminate
against anyone. People of all social classes and socioeconomic
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backgrounds were serving time. Every day, newspapers
reported of professionals who had been accused of
wrongdoing.
At the same time Bernard Madoff’s $50 billion fraud
erupted, a distinguished white-glove lawyer, who ran a large law
firm bearing his name, was locked in prison for having set up a
scheme to defraud his clients out of more than $300 million.
As a man from the educated and privileged class, I did not
set out to become a criminal. Until my period of introspection,
I couldn’t even bring myself to accept that I was a felon. I had
not held a gun to anyone’s head. Such delusions appeased my
conscience, though they did not lessen my culpability. I had
had every advantage. And on some level, the abuse of my
privilege rendered my actions as despicable as any other
criminal.
To conquer my demons, I had to confront the pernicious
influences of lust, ambition, and greed. That meant
introspection and knowing oneself, as Aristotle taught.
Through those valuable lessons, I could contemplate how I
wanted to emerge from confinement.
As far as formal educational opportunities were concerned,
administrators limited us. Prisoners could study in classes that
would lead to high school equivalency certificates and
independent programs that Taft Community College offered.
Neither of those options interested me before I hit the turning
point in my sentence. I had to advance deep into the U-pattern
of my adjustment before I became convinced to prepare as
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effectively as possible for release. I only had nine months
remaining to serve. If I had more time, I may have sought to
advance my formal education through independent study, not
through a community college but through a university that
offered such options.
Those who lacked high school equivalency, however, were
mandated to attend GED classes. An individual’s level of
success in the business world would not exempt him from the
compulsory program in federal prison. All federal inmates
qualified to earn a maximum of 54 days in good time each year.
Those good days were issued each year automatically to
inmates who avoided disciplinary infractions, provided the
inmate either had a high school equivalency certificate, a
diploma, or participated in the GED program.
Staff members relied on the Presentence Investigation
Report to validate whether an inmate had earned a high school
diploma. I met one inmate who had graduated from high
school decades earlier. Since the PSI report did not verify the
inmate’s graduation, however, staff members required him to
study through courses in math, English, and social studies in
order to qualify for maximum amounts of good time credits.
Inmates who had higher levels of education and selfdiscipline could work toward earning university degrees.
During Michael’s term of imprisonment, he earned an
undergraduate and a graduate degree. The option to advance
formal academic credentials existed for those imbued with
motivation and determination, though formal educational
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programs were not the only method to prepare for release.
Since I only had nine months remaining to serve, and I
understood that my criminal conviction would prohibit me
from working as a licensed securities professional, I thought
about the career changes I would have to make. I made a
personal commitment to choose daily activities that would
prepare me for success. Under no circumstances did I want to
conclude my sentence like Edward, or like so many other
white-collar offenders with whom I served time. Anxieties
about how they would earn a living paralyzed them as their
release dates approached.
The economic crisis of 2008 deepened as we advanced
through the summer months. Unemployment rates soared to
unprecedented levels. As more Americans felt the squeeze of
financial pressures, more professionals rationalized their way
into exploiting opportunities to ease their personal economic
struggles. White-collar crime rates were skyrocketing and the
experiences I had of having gone through the system felt
relevant.
I thought about how much my friend Walt had helped my
mother when he eased her concerns during the troubling times
before my sentence. He had added meaning to his life by using
his experiences to teach others. Walt built a career by speaking
with audiences about the importance of ethics and by helping
others make better decisions. The thought of working to
empower others appealed to me. During the remaining months
I was scheduled to serve, I contemplated steps I would take to
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refine my communication skills. My goal became to add value
to the lives of my fellow citizens.
One lesson I learned in prison was that adversity was a
universal, human condition. We all faced it at one time or
another. In my case, adversity came in the form of troubles
with the criminal justice system. Other people faced adversity
of a different nature. They may have struggled with obesity,
alcoholism, depression, relationships, or personal financial
complications.
As a prisoner, I lived in the midst of personal struggle. Like
Walt, my challenge became to overcome, to help others make
better decisions, and to convey strategies that would guide
people to reach their fullest potential regardless of the adversity
in their lives.
As a federal prisoner, I obviously lived with limitations.
The sanction imposed required that I lived within the rules of
the institution for the duration of my sentence. For many,
those rules served as an excuse for apathy. Rather than
preparing for the challenges certain to confront them upon
release, many inmates accepted what I perceived to be a
mistaken premise that they were helpless. “There isn’t anything
I can do from here.” That was the common refrain I heard
from the it’s-not-my-fault crowd, those who insisted that they
shouldn’t be in prison.
Certainly, prison brought limitations that people did not
want to endure. Those who focused on what they could not
accomplish missed opportunities to strengthen themselves. A
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cliché held that misery loved company, and in prison I was
immersed in it. Inmates found a sense of therapy in
complaining. They found solace in talk-radio programs
spewing conspiracy theories, and they comforted themselves
through sympathetic listeners who clung to explanations on
reasons why outside forces precluded their success.
Thriving through the adversity of confinement would
require that I transcend the limitations. Instead of focusing on
what I could not achieve as a consequence of my conditions, I
thought about what I could. Just as prison anchored people
with restrictions, I found that it also offered some advantages.
Namely, prison offered time to look inward. The more I
understood about my weaknesses, the more I could work on
developing strengths. Through a deliberate course of action, I
could make the absolute most of the nine months I had
remaining to serve. During my first three months I rated
myself a ten on the scale measuring my commitment to
physical fitness. For the remainder of my term, I pledged to
devote that same intensity to my total preparation for release.
In realizing that I wanted to model a career on Walt’s
example of turning a weakness into strength, I knew that
developing my communication skills would help. I may not
have been able to gauge market conditions or interact with
prospective clients from prison, but through deliberate practice,
I could train myself to use English more effectively. Regardless
of what career opportunities would open upon my release, I
understood that developing my vocabulary, along with my
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speaking and writing skills would require a conscious effort. I
also mastered the federal prison system and the policies
administrators use to manage institutions.
During the first four months of my sentence, I followed
Arthur’s pattern and countless other prisoners by devoting
myself to exercise. I had been working out for up to four hours
daily. With my new focus, I made the commitment to devote
twice as much time to understanding words, sentences, and
paragraphs.
As soon as the officers cleared the morning census count at
five, I gathered my Oxford dictionary and the writing books
my mother had sent me. I walked to a quiet room where I
could sit at a table to work. I made the decision to write every
day. Since I did not have a writing instructor, I began to learn
the craft through independent study. My self-assigned project
was to document the prison experience.
I didn’t have access to a word processor. But like every
other prisoner, I had access to Bic writing pens that I could
purchase from the commissary and all the writing paper that I
needed. In forcing myself to write about my observations,
experiences, and interactions with others, I realized that writing
was hard. It required discipline, and I kept at it, knowing that
just as I could work myself into shape by exercising, I felt
certain that deliberate practice would improve my writing skills.
I sent the work home to my mother. Writing about prison
became therapeutic for me. For my mother, however, receiving
daily descriptions brought her an understanding of the
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 Lessons From Prison
circumstances challenging my life. She felt comfort in receiving
those tangible pieces of evidence each day that verified I was
making the most of a bad situation. I wasn’t wasting away a
year of my life with excuses and conspiracy theories; the term
was serving me.
In listening to my mother describe how the daily
description eased her concerns, and knowing how much Walt’s
descriptions helped her before my confinement began, I
decided to reach out by publishing my observations of prison
life and the lessons I was learning through a daily blog at
justinpaperny.com.
My motivation had two prongs. On the one hand, I wanted
to contribute to the lives of others. Prior to my coming into
the criminal justice system, I never thought about how it could
ever influence my life. I was sheltered from the world of jails
and prisons. As a consequence of my not having known
anyone who had gone through the system, I didn’t give it any
more thought than I gave to the disease of leprosy. I believed it
was bad, though something that would never touch me.
As the complications of my struggles immersed me into the
turbulence of the criminal justice system, I came to know it
intimately. By speaking with other white-collar offenders, I
realized that they had been like me; totally oblivious to myriad
ways that criminal proceedings and prison could influence their
lives.
By writing about the lessons I learned from others, as well
as my own observations and experiences, I felt as if I could
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make a meaningful contribution to society. Others might find
value in my work, and perhaps it could help them make better
decisions. I know that if I had had access to information earlier
in my experience, I would have made decisions differently.
Those forewarnings would have saved me hundreds of
thousands of dollars and perhaps spared me criminal
prosecution.
Besides wanting to help others through distributing my
writing more widely, I felt that creating a daily blog would
prepare me for the career I could pursue upon release. I
admired Walt for the ways in which he was able to help others
understand the importance of ethical behavior. Those in his
audience had numerous theoretical textbooks they could rely
upon to study such esoteric concepts as duty ethics taught
through Kantian philosophy.
Walt brought those theories to life by describing how bad
decisions he had made led to his being locked in a prison cell,
to losing his family, and to all of the ramifications that follow
criminal convictions. Students may learn lessons through
debating the wisdom of John Stuart Mill, Jeremy Bentham, and
other philosophers who discuss abstract theories of ethics. I
know real life, modern-day examples make the concepts easier
to digest.
The daily blog would document more than one man’s
journey through prison. I also would express what I learned
from others. My hopes were that writing those entries would
provide depth and breadth to my content. At one year, my time
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 Lessons From Prison
in prison would be substantial, but by talking with others I
could learn and offer considerably more information about the
prison experience. Michael had served more than 22 years in
prisons of every security level, and I had access to hundreds of
other prisoners who had gone through the system. Everyone
had a story. In writing daily content for blog posts, I could
create value with a digital library.
Not knowing much about the technology of blogging, and
not having direct access to the Internet, I had to train myself
through reading. I asked my mother to send several books that
would educate me on the subject. This project, too, assisted my
adjustment.
In serving a prison sentence, an individual had to condition
himself to reality. The system would rip away autonomy that
most Americans took for granted. Once in prison, rules and
policies dictated when, how much, and what prisoners ate.
Administrators would assign where inmates slept, and with
whom they would share space. Rules determined how much
time prisoners could spend visiting or communicating with
family and friends. The rigid structures of confinement stifled
prisoners, and those prisoners who adjusted poorly suffered
from depression, anxiety, and feelings of being marginalized or
irrelevant.
I remember when I first began serving my sentence. If I
heard of someone being released, I felt a sense of sadness
paralyze me. The other prisoner’s good fortune made me
realize how much more time I had to serve. There wasn’t
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 Introspection
anything I could do to influence my release date. Because of
that helplessness, I felt the full force of being a prisoner.
When I decided to begin focusing on the methodical plan
to prepare for release, I raised my energy to a whole new level.
Instead of allowing the system to control my life completely,
the personal investment I made to improve my writing skills
and to understand blogging brought the feeling that through
my own efforts, I could determine success.

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Writing to Connect
Since I could not access a computer, I co-opted my mother
to build my blog. She worked together with a Web designer
and they constructed a simple blog that would allow my
mother to load my entries. With that joint effort, I felt as if I
were really participating in the world. Prison boundaries may
have confined my body, but through those daily blogs I was
sending my thoughts out into the world. That interaction freed
me, bringing back a sense of the humanity that prison had a
tendency of ripping away.
By launching the daily blog, I set a clearly-defined goal.
Simultaneously, I announced that goal to the world.
Accordingly, I wasn’t only a prisoner anymore. I felt as if I had
accepted a responsibility, a duty, and others would hold me
accountable. Whereas I had been working early to improve the
craft of writing for my own edification before, by launching the
blog and announcing that I would publish each day, I gave
myself an obligation. Suddenly, I had relevance. Others were
reading my work, and I welcomed that sense of connectivity. I
wanted to recommend that strategy to others.
I felt my writing skills improve through the work, though I
also valued the input I received. For one thing, my mother felt
less anxious about my welfare because she was intimately
involved with the blogging project. With the daily postings,
however, I began to receive feedback from total strangers.
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Some were about to come into the system, and they
appreciated the glimpse inside of what they would face. I’ve
heard and experienced that the greatest fear of all was the fear
of the unknown. My work would shed a beam of light on the
obscure world of prison and remove some of that unknown
that people fear.
Writing had never been a part of my life prior to
confinement. The more I wrote, however, the more therapy I
found in the practice. As I interviewed other prisoners to write
their stories, I often listened with sadness. Many told me how
their confinement contributed in the destruction of their family
relationships. Danny, a fellow white-collar offender who had
been married for 15 years was crushed because his wife was
leaving him after his first year of three in confinement.
“Did you try to sustain or nurture the relationship through
writing?” I asked.
“What’s there to write about? I’m in prison. She didn’t
understand that I was living the same day over and over and
over again. That’s what ruined our marriage. She said she didn’t
feel connected to me anymore.”
Danny suffered the fate of many prisoners I met. He felt
helpless. I explained to him how forcing myself to write was
helping me through prison, yet he insisted there wasn’t
anything to write about. To paraphrase a stanza from a popular
poem, Danny couldn’t see the forest because all the trees were
blocking his vision.
There was a great deal that those who served time couldn’t
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 Lessons From Prison
control. Prisoners who capitulated to the system, who
completely surrendered to it, rendered themselves impotent.
They seemed to set themselves up for further loss. As their
release dates approached, they suffered even more. Any
prisoner, who walked out of prison gates without a plan, or at
least preparations for the obstacles and challenges ahead,
subjected himself to a continuing cycle of hardship. I learned
this reality from the countless people I interviewed, many of
whom had returned to confinement after release from previous
terms. Surprisingly, some of those people were well-educated
professionals who served time for white-collar crimes.
Jack, for example, was a prisoner I had met. One of his
ventures went bad, and upon investigation by authorities, the
Justice Department charged Jack with violating securities law.
He was convicted and sentenced to three years.
I would have expected a well-educated professional like
Jack to rebound from his legal setback. When I met him, he
was serving a one-year term for having violated the conditions
of his supervised release. Jack had a law degree. If anyone
should have known how to overcome the obstacles wrought by
confinement, it should have been him. Despite the advantage
of his education, Jack’s life was disrupted in a significant way
for a second time. I was convinced that had he done more to
prepare himself Jack would not have violated the conditions of
his supervised release. The more stories I heard from others,
the more convinced I became of the need to push myself with
goals of increasing intensity.
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By the time I had completed my sixth month in prison, I
crossed the tipping point. That meant I had more prison time
behind me than I would have ahead of me. I had learned a
great deal about the prison experience by then. Much more, I
learned lessons that would help me through the remainder of
my life. Surprisingly, I began to realize and truly embrace the
concept that even through adversity, we as human beings could
empower and enable ourselves. The ways in which we chose to
adjust would make all the difference.
My hopes were to pass along what I was learning. I felt
such an opportunity when, as I was standing in the midst of a
hundred other inmates waiting for mail distribution, I received
a letter from a woman who identified herself as Jane. Jane
wrote because of her deep concern for her son, Ron, who was
locked in a detention center in Oklahoma. She didn’t
understand why her son was not in the type of camp that my
blog entries described.
From her letter, I understood that Ron had been convicted
of bankruptcy fraud. His sentencing judge had imposed a 15month term and had granted Ron the privilege of selfsurrendering to serve his sentence. Ron was a resident of Idaho,
and the Bureau of Prisons had informed him that
administrators had “designated” him to serve his sentence at
Taft Camp in California. To save travel expenses Ron would
have to pay, however, his attorney advised him that he could
self-surrender to the federal marshals in Idaho, and the
marshals would transport him to Taft Camp.
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 Lessons From Prison
Ron accepted his attorney’s misguided advice. On the day
the judge ordered that Ron begin serving his sentence, Ron
presented himself to the marshals in Idaho. He waited in a
series of Idaho holding facilities for three weeks, being
processed from one jail to another. He finally boarded a
prisoner transport plane that flew him to Seattle. He was
processed into the federal detention center near the Seattle
airport and remained locked in a cell there for another three
weeks. Then the marshals chained Ron up again, and he joined
the prisoner-transport flight. He thought he was flying to
California. Instead, after stops in several states, the plane
landed in Oklahoma, at a federal transit center. The marshals
booked Ron into the federal detention center at the Oklahoma
airport. He had been locked in that detention center for two
weeks when his mother’s frantic search for information led her
to my blog. She wrote in search of advice or guidance.
In self-surrendering to Taft Camp, I was fortunate to have
avoided the indignities of being transported around the country
through the prison transport system. Wanting to learn as much
as possible about the prison system, I interviewed scores of my
fellow prisoners. From them I learned a great deal. My research
revealed that many of my fellow inmates had received advice
from their attorneys that was similar to what Ron had heard.
As a consequence of their self-surrendering to the marshal
service rather than to their specific prison, they endured a
much harder beginning to their prison journey than I
encountered.
In transporting prisoners, I learned from speaking to others,
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the marshals do not make direct flights. Economy required
them to transport thousands of prisoners each day in the most
cost effective manner possible. They also must factor security
into their decisions as more than 80 percent of the prisoners
they transported would serve sentences inside prisons of higher
security than camps.
Since the marshals did not have the time to distinguish
which prisoners had been convicted of heinous, threatening
crimes like murder, and which prisoners were convicted of
bankruptcy fraud, the marshals treated every prisoner with the
same security precautions. That meant each person was
stripped searched at the beginning and end of each transport
day. Each man stood for a mug shot and fingerprinting and
processing at each stop of the transport day. When traveling,
each prisoner’s ankles were bound in steel shackles with
walking chains. Another set of steel manacles bound each
prisoner’s wrists to a steel chain wrapped and locked around
his waist. The entire journey challenged each prisoner’s
equanimity.
What Ron was experiencing, in allowing the marshals to
transfer him, meant that he would arrive at Taft Camp on the
marshals’ schedule. They were following a protocol that
allowed them to transport prisoners to various designations
with various senses of urgency. Those who had pressing court
dates took priority over those who had been sentenced and
were looking to travel on the cheap to cushy prison camps. He
could spend longer than three months in transit moving from
one federal detention center to another before the marshals’
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 Lessons From Prison
logistics schedule would transfer his custody to the officials in
Taft.
Upon gathering the information about the prisoner
transport system, I responded to Jane and told her what I had
learned. Three weeks after I wrote to her, a young man who
had just arrived at Taft Camp sought me out. He introduced
himself as Ron, and thanked me for having taken the time to
write his mother. Although my letter could not change any of
the immediate struggles Ron and his family were enduring, at
least the forewarning of what was to come helped pull them
through.
I really appreciated the genuine gratitude that Ron
expressed. It reminded me of the experience my mother had
had with Walt. Once an individual was targeted by the criminal
justice system, it was as if a journey through a labyrinth had
begun. Each individual would have to make a series of
decisions, and each of those decisions would determine
whether the journey was severe or relatively stress free. In
having information about what was to come, people could
proceed through the labyrinth with one eye open. And, as the
aphorism held, in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man was
king.
Walt’s information had comforted my mother. I was
pleased to learn from Ron that in writing Jane, I had alleviated
his mother’s anxiety as well. The energy I was investing in
writing the daily blog, as things turned out, was not only
bringing meaning into my life. I was also contributing to the
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lives of others. Somehow, such activities brought a sense of
connectivity. It helped me realize that despite my
imprisonment, I continued to share a common humanity with
all.
In Greek mythology, as I recall, a goddess by the name of
Pasiphae mated with a bull with which the goddess had fallen
in love. Together, Pasiphae and the bull had an offspring; the
creature was half bull, half man, and was known as the
Minotaur. Since the Minotaur fed on human flesh, a craftsman
named Daedalus built an incredibly intricate and complex
labyrinth to confine the Minotaur. Still, the beast remained
dangerous, a threat to all mankind.
Theseus, a legendary hero of ancient Athens, whom some
believed to have been the son of the god Poseidon, sought to
save mankind by killing the Minotaur. To succeed in slaying the
beast, however, Theseus would have to undertake a dangerous
journey. No one had ever escaped the labyrinth alive, according
to Greek mythology. Yet Theseus could only come close
enough to kill the Minotaur if he were to descend into the
labyrinth, a maze so intricate that he would never find his way
out.
Ariadne, however, who was the Minotaur’s human half
sister, gave Theseus a solution. She gave him a ball of thread,
which he unraveled as he went into the labyrinth. After killing
the Minotaur, Theseus followed the thread to lead his way out
of the labyrinth.
In progressing through my prison journey, I read through a
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considerable amount of classical literature. Those stories of
wanderings and struggles and odyssey helped me realize that I
was not alone. For centuries, ever since man had been using
words to memorialize life, adversity has been a constant. We all
relied upon others to help us through, and in so doing, we
advanced as a civilization.
With statistics showing that more than six out of every ten
people who came into prison failed again upon release, I
realized that the criminal justice system was like a modern-day
version of that symbolic labyrinth from ancient Greek
mythology. This system of so-called corrections had morphed
into a Minotaur-like beast that fed on human flesh, rendering
failures of all who proceeded through the labyrinth. Although I
may not serve in the role of Theseus, who slew the beast, by
writing about what I had learned from others, and describing
my own experiences, I could provide the thread that others
could follow to find their way home and emerge stronger than
when they began the journey.

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The Turning Point
I was down to my final five months in prison. Letters from
people who had been reading my blog continued coming in. I
continued my work of interviewing my fellow prisoners for
news on how I could help those who were struggling through
their own complications with the criminal justice system. I felt
a sense of usefulness. The more I focused on a purposeful
adjustment, the more I seemed to empower myself through
confinement. Writing and connecting may not have been the
solution for every prisoner. In my case, however, the more
time I served, and the more I interacted with others, the more I
realized how valuable clearly identifiable goals became.
Robert was another offender who served time for a whitecollar crime. He had been a CEO of a retail chain and had
enjoyed a degree of success through his long career in business.
His 48-month journey through the prison system, however,
was killing him with bitterness.
Robert was in his late 50s, and he was in his final years of
confinement when we met. He served time as a consequence
of convictions related to securities law. Nevertheless, he
insisted he was not guilty, and that he did not belong in prison.
I did not have enough information to make any judgment
with regard to Robert’s guilt or innocence. In serving time with
him, however, I could see that rancor and envy ate away at him
like a cancer. He complained about injustice. He bickered with
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staff constantly and many officers disciplined him for
infractions resulting in his loss of good time, privileges such as
loss of telephone access and punishments that included
frequent trips to segregation.
Robert’s adjustment pattern made his journey through
prison much more difficult than it needed to be. Each man
chose how he would adjust to adversity, and the choices he
made determined or influenced his peace of mind. Although
Robert could not undo the legal procedures that resulted in his
confinement, he alone made choices regarding how he would
respond to the setback of imprisonment.
My observations and experiences convinced me that those
who set clearly identifiable goals during confinement stood in
the best position to buoy their spirits. Robert had considerable
experience in the world. Many within the prison population
would have appreciated opportunities to learn from him. He
could have taught classes or he could have worked individually
in a mentor capacity to help others who wanted to learn.
Robert could have exercised or engaged in independent study
programs. Myriad activities could have helped him through his
term. Instead, he succumbed to the negativity and seemed to
drown in his own misery.
I attributed my successful adjustment through confinement
to will and determination. I made the choice to thrive. That
choice required that I contemplate how I wanted to emerge
from confinement, and what specifically I wanted to
accomplish.
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To ensure my final five months felt productive, I set the
personal goal of writing and publishing a manuscript that
would detail the lessons I had learned through prison.
Considering the fact that I had never written for publication
before, and that I had never before written anything more
complex than a college term paper, I understood the goal
would challenge my skills and my discipline. The project would
serve two purposes, however, and I embraced each with
enthusiasm.
On the one hand, writing about the lessons I learned
through prison would help me convey a sense of hope to
others. I distinctly remembered the sense of apathy that came
over me as I was struggling through the initial stages of my
troubles. I remembered the sleepless nights and the bad
decisions I made as a consequence of my ignorance regarding
the criminal justice system. By writing about what I had learned,
I could make a meaningful contribution to society. Others who
found the work might rely upon it as a sense of proof showing
that unexpected trouble with the law did not necessarily have
to translate into total personal destruction. In my case,
confronting adversity helped to recalibrate my life and
rejuvenate my spirit.
Writing the book would also serve me personally. In setting
the goal, I would have to exercise discipline, as my release date
was approaching rapidly. By investing several hours each day in
writing, I felt convinced that I could finish a draft in time to
convert the manuscript into a book before I walked out. If I
were to succeed with such a goal, I would have tangible proof
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that even through the struggle of confinement, an individual
could channel energy and overcome adversity.
By writing every day, I felt as if I were building a ladder
that would lead me out of the depths of my struggle. That
approach could be constant or proactive. Whereas prisoners
like Robert saddled themselves with worries, complaints, and
resentment, those who sought adjustment patterns that allowed
them to control their own destinies, so to speak, empowered
themselves.
By immersing myself in this writing project, I had much
more enthusiasm to carry me through the final months of my
sentence. Since I knew that I had 150 days remaining to serve,
and I knew that I wanted to complete the manuscript long
before I walked out, I woke earlier each morning. To reach my
goal, I sat down to begin writing before four. In the solitude of
a quiet room, with my pen in hand, I felt at peace, as if I were
not in prison at all.

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Ethics
One of the many wonderful books I read during the nearly
13 months I served in prison described strategies to advance
executive careers. In What Got You Here Won’t Get You
There, a successful business coach wrote about the different
skill sets executives had to develop in order to reach the
highest levels of their profession. Aggressive, competitive
instincts could contribute to a successful individual career in
sales, though the executive who aspired to world-class
leadership would have to motivate entire teams and ensure the
enterprise reached, or preferably, exceeded its stated goals.
Many people who had to endure a prison term could
benefit from that same advice. The strategies necessary to
advance through the troubling first months should transition
into strategies that would ensure the individual concluded his
term in the strongest possible position. The sooner that
transition took place, the more likely the individual would
become to emerge successfully.
Arthur, Edward, Robert, and other prisoners with whom I
served time never seemed to grasp this concept. To cope with
confinement they devoted themselves to activities that would
not have much of a relationship to the challenges that would
await them upon release. Prisoners, I became convinced, had a
duty to anticipate the challenges ahead. Those who made
adjustments and developed skill sets that would facilitate the
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lives they intended to lead, positioned themselves for success.
Such advice had a sophomoric feel. In prison, however,
few men appreciated the wisdom of it until they had advanced
so far along into their sentences that they lacked the time to
make meaningful and measurable changes. The activities that
were filling their days at the end of the sentence had a
remarkable resemblance to the activities that filled their days
during the first weeks of their sentences.
I had been on that same course. Exercise consumed the
early months. The running, the strength training, and the
dieting kept me going. I kept a journal of each day’s
performance, of every meal I ate. Had I not had that fateful
discussion with Michael about my level of commitment to
preparation for release, I likely would have stayed in that mode.
Such were the patterns that contributed to so much failure in
prison.
My plans upon release did not include aspirations for any
kind of career in professional athletics. Physical fitness would
always represent an integral part of my life moving forward,
though the four hours of daily training were disproportionate
to the goals and plans of my future. I had to advance through
several months of my term before I felt strong enough even to
set meaningful goals and plans. Once I did, however, I felt as if
I had opened a new adjustment pattern that would assure my
success.
The career I previously had led as a professional in the
financial services sector likely was over. It had come to an end
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because of the bad decisions I had made. The pursuit of shortterm gratification resulted in the sacrifice or forfeiture of a
personal code of ethics. As I watched the financial crisis of
2008 spread across the globe and the reports of law
enforcement investigations into white-collar crime, I truly
began to comprehend the severity and magnitude of this
problem. Lessons I learned from prison, I knew could help.
These lessons began with my deeper understanding of the
corporate culture from which I came.
The professional culture in which I was groomed rewarded
those of us who contributed the most to the firm’s bottom line.
At the brokerage house of UBS, the importance of ethics,
integrity, and honesty purported to convey the corporate
culture. Daily practices and compensation schedules, however,
belied such platitudes. The giant financial services firms
rewarded those who brought in the money, and as current
events showed, corporate America was content to feign
ignorance with regard to ethical noncompliance.
In my own case, my partner Kyle Smith and I had every
reason to suspect that Keith Gilabert was perpetuating a fraud
with his GLT Fund. The trading losses of that hedge fund were
unsustainable, though he continued to raise new capital. When
confronted with further evidence suggesting an on-going fraud,
Kyle and I did not terminate the account or notify authorities.
We had commission schedules to meet. Instead of complying
with a supposed ethical code, we manufactured a letter that we
hoped would provide us with plausible deniability. That way we
could continue to rape the GLT Fund for commissions while
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Gilabert continued to defraud investors.
Our superiors at UBS understood that the letter we
generated misrepresented our responsibility. The letter
apprised clients of the GLT Fund that Keith Gilabert executed
all trades at his own discretion. Further, the letter avowed that
UBS did not accept any responsibility for performance. It
blatantly contradicted the brokerage house’s commitment to
ethics and integrity.
Our superiors at the global banking giant did not chastise
Kyle and me for generating the letter. Instead, they applauded
us for our ingenuity in keeping the account alive. UBS wanted
Kyle and me to milk the GLT Fund for every last penny in
commissions and interest. No one sensed a duty to the higher
call for ethics.
As events transpired, news reports made clear that Kyle
and I were not alone in our misplaced values. At the same time,
UBS was not alone as a corporate entity that tacitly encouraged
the pursuit of short-term profits, consequences be damned.
Lapses in ethical commitment lay at the heart of responsibility
for the financial crisis that had crippled our economy. The
more white-collar offenders I met in prison, the more clarity I
had of this problem.
Bob was one acquaintance I had met who served five years
as a consequence of his conviction. As I did, Bob graduated
from a well-known university and embarked upon a business
career that was filled with promise. Within a few years of
graduating, he was earning a six-figure income by selling
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 Ethics
advertising. As the Internet became a more ubiquitous
presence in society, Bob saw opportunity. He launched his own
company, and within a few years of forming his company, Bob
succeeded in raising capital and liquidity through an initial
public offering.
As chairman and chief executive officer, Bob felt pressure
to exceed analyst expectations for quarterly performance.
Investors expected a report card every 90 days, and Wall Street
had an insatiable appetite for growth. If Bob’s company failed
to deliver the numbers, investors would punish the stock. They
would sell it off in massive quantities, causing millions in losses
of market value.
During the technology bubble of the late 1990s, Bob
explained that profits didn’t matter as much as revenue growth.
When reports came in that Bob’s company was not going to
meet revenue growth expectations, the chief financial officer
suggested that Bob authorize a barter agreement with one of
the company’s suppliers. That strategy would allow both
companies to meet Wall Street expectations. In not disclosing
the barter agreement, however, both Bob and his CFO
understood that they were misleading investors about the
company’s performance.
Bob authorized the barter agreement. The practice lasted
for three consecutive quarters before Bob and the CFO agreed
to resume reporting numbers that accurately reflected the
company’s hyperbolic growth. The stock performed well and
years passed before anyone ever noticed the financial
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shenanigans.
An audit of the company’s financial records, however, led
to an investigation. Like many white-collar offenders, Bob
continued a string of bad decisions as a consequence of living
in denial. Following his conviction, his judge imposed a fiveyear sentence.
I learned a valuable lesson from Bob. He was a man who
believed that he had a strong sense of core values. The pressure
of living up to Wall Street expectations compelled him to go
along with a plan for financial subterfuge.
Bob was not alone. Thousands of students graduated from
business schools every year. I read the insightful work of Jana
Schrenkler, a professor of business at Saint Mary’s University.
Through one of her articles on ethics, I read about the
challenges professors faced in trying to educate future leaders
on the importance of making values-based decisions.
Without personal examples to draw from, Professor
Schrenkler found that many students would miss the message.
They would have read stories about corporate rogues and
scoundrels, yet those case studies would not tell the full story.
Students would, understandably, ask such questions as “What
were they thinking?” and “How could they let it get so bad?”
Business school professors would not have the answers.
Then the students would graduate. They would embark
upon careers with clear consciences and solid sets of core
values. Once they entered the corporate culture, however, they
would face conflict and ethical dilemmas. How would they
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respond? In time, they too would encounter pressures, which
might come from an unsettling desire for promotion or
recognition. Opportunities for advancement would present
themselves. Would the professionals have the moral resolve to
make values-based decisions?
As an enlightened society, we would like to believe that all
American citizens understand the concepts of ethics and good
citizenship. By opening any newspaper today, however, we
read of people accused of criminal acts whom others believed
to lead sterling lives. I was once one of those upstanding
citizens. I desire to reconcile with society and prove worthy of
such a reputation again. To that end, I want to share these
lessons I’ve learned from prison. By providing these personal
experiences, perhaps I could help others to epitomize the
discipline and forthrightness necessary to resist temptations
that could otherwise compromise their ethical code.
In learning from Bob, others, and from my own
experiences, I knew that a giant chasm existed between a
corporation’s written code of ethics and the practices that
prevailed within the corporate culture. As the founder and
CEO of his company, Bob told me that he was instrumental in
writing the ethical code. Besides that, the Sarbanes-Oxley Act
required Bob to sign all financial reports in order to verify their
veracity under penalty of imprisonment. Despite writing the
ethical code, and requirements imposed by corporate reform
legislation, Bob was one of the hundred white-collar offenders
who walked the track with me inside a federal prison.
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My own experiences with UBS and Bear Stearns were the
same. A written code of ethics meant nothing if it was not
followed. An ethical code started at the top and leaders had to
communicate that ethical code throughout the organization.
Most importantly, I learned that regardless of the corporate
culture, if an individual made a commitment to embody
personal honesty, integrity, respect for others and to live as an
open-book, that individual would triumph over every ethical
dilemma.
Ironically, I knew all of this growing up as an athlete in
Encino. I saw these values in my parents, in my brother and in
my closest friends. They began to slide as I entered the
financial services sector, and I had to come to prison to learn
them again. Unfortunately, I wasn’t alone.
“What got you here won’t get you there,” as Marshall
Goldsmith advised, turned out to be more than the title of a
book. Although he was writing for executives who aspired to
lead the world’s largest corporations, the wisdom Mr.
Goldsmith dispensed had relevance for every human being. My
reflections led me to conclude that the metaphorical U that
Michael described applied to more than just prison adjustment.
The human experience necessitated that we all learn different
lessons as we advanced through different stages in life.
One of the lessons all of those who walked the prison yard
with me could use concerned the importance of making valuesbased decisions. What did that mean? The more I thought
about it, the more I learned about values-based decisions from
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Professor Schrenkler’s writings, and the more I considered
what other former executives told me, the more I realized that
those who relied upon a corporate written code of ethics to
form their center found gray areas through which they could
subvert the code.
In my case, Kyle and I generated the letter for GLT Fund
investors to absolve UBS of liability, not to look out for the
interests of clients. Our motivations were wrong, and everyone
associated with the letters we generated, with the exception of
the client, understood that the letter violated the spirit in every
line of UBS’s written code of ethics.
When we as individuals slid into the gray area, we
simultaneously made ourselves more vulnerable to the
pressures that could lead to decisions with the potential to tear
our reputations, our careers, and our lives asunder. Character
flaws brought my fellow prisoners and me through the turmoil
of the criminal justice system. We may not have thought of
ourselves as criminals, though weaknesses in our moral code
and a willingness to descend further into the ethical gray areas,
led us to succumb to the pressures.
When we made that descent, we exploited opportunities.
We rationalized our decisions. Rather than leading in ways that
were inherently right, and making decisions that were
consistent with our duty to act ethically at all times, we
embraced that ends-justified-the-means approach to every
problem.
On account of us operating from narrow and personal
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rather than global perspectives, however, our so-called endsjustified-the-means approach to decisions was nothing more
than excuses. We used them as a crutch to rationalize our
crimes. I heard such excuses from many of the men with
whom I served time. Those were the moral lapses that brought
us inside prison fences, or that “got us here.” What type of
changes were necessary “to get us there” back to the right side
of good citizenship?
I had this discussion with Mark, who was in his third year
of a seven-year sentence as we walked around the track at Taft
Camp. He was a mild-mannered man in his mid-fifties, not
bitter about his imprisonment, though not willing to accept full
responsibility for the underlying reasons behind his
incarceration. To me, his story sounded like a clear slide into an
ethical gray area. It was a slide that an individual with a
stronger sense of right and wrong would not have made.
Mark was a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania and
had earned his MBA from the prestigious Wharton School of
Business. Following his university years, he built a career
working for a global construction company based in Southern
California. Mark earned an excellent living as an executive with
the firm, but an extra-marital affair led to his employment
being terminated, and a divorce decree that decimated him
financially.
With employment rates being high in the early 2000s, Mark
did not find many companies who were willing to hire men in
their 50s. He sublet an office and began accepting work as a
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 Ethics
consultant on construction and development projects. In that
capacity, Mark met Gary, who leased an office in the same
building. Gary represented himself as a real estate developer
who built housing projects in emerging countries.
“I’m working on putting a project together in Nigeria,”
Gary told Mark. “Would you be interested in flying over to
complete some feasibility studies and due diligence in Africa
with me?”
Mark accepted Gary’s offer. Gary had had a relationship
with some government officials in Nigeria. The development
would provide multi-family housing projects that a municipal
government was going to subsidize. Gary’s company,
supposedly, was going to oversee the development. Mark flew
over to gather data that he would rely upon to publish a report
supporting the viability of the project.
While in Africa, Mark collected information from local
contractors, from suppliers, from labor organizations, and
from government officials. He had all the data necessary that
would allow him to write a detailed report that would estimate
project costs, time lines for completion, and revenue streams.
Gary paid Mark handsomely for the professional report,
authenticated with Mark’s gold-plated academic credentials.
With Mark’s report in hand, Gary published a glossy
brochure that described the government subsidized housingproject development in Nigeria. He used the brochure in a
prospectus he was sending out to investors with expectations
of raising capital. Gary’s company offered investors a
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 Lessons From Prison
guaranteed rate of return that attracted millions of dollars.
Unfortunately for the investors, Gary never had any intention
of building housing projects in Nigeria.
Mark had been under the impression that Gary was paying
him to perform services for a legitimate enterprise. He agreed
to return to Nigeria several months later on Gary’s behalf to
undertake due diligence responsibilities for a second project.
While gathering his data, however, Mark discovered that Gary’s
company had not made any progress on the first project. Mark
knew that the first project had been completely funded and
that the time line had long since scheduled it for occupancy.
Not even the building permits, however, had been secured.
That discovery led Mark to conclude that Gary had not
been forthright. Upon his return, Mark expressed his concerns
to Gary. “I’ve paid you to perform the due diligence and write
the reports,” Gary responded to Mark’s inquiries. “Why don’t
you leave the project analysis to me?”
Mark said that he was not comfortable with Gary’s
response. Yet Gary had already paid Mark tens of thousands of
dollars for his services, and Mark was not in a position to
refund the financial advance. He completed his report for the
second project and accepted full payment. Though Mark told
Gary that he would not undertake any additional assignments
from Gary’s company.
Gary said he was disappointed with Mark’s decision, but
that he did not want to part on bad terms. Gary handed Mark a
cashier’s check for $100,000 and told him the check was a
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 Ethics
bonus for a job well done.
“You don’t owe me any money,” Mark told Gary. “You’ve
paid me in full.”
“Consider it a severance agreement,” Gary said. “Contrary
to whatever conclusions you may have drawn, our company is
doing some good things for the Nigerian people. I want you to
know we appreciate the services you’ve rendered in having
advanced the development.”
Against his better judgment, Mark accepted Gary’s check.
He used those funds to begin rebuilding his life. Two years
later, however, FBI agents arrested Gary for orchestrating a
Ponzi scheme. He had used the glossy reports to dupe gullible
investors. Over the course of the conspiracy, Gary raised more
than $20 million. That money funded a lavish lifestyle for Gary
and his Nigerian co-conspirators, though it did not fund a
single housing project.
Each of the thousands of brochures that Gary had sent out
featured a photograph of Mark and offered a bio that boasted
of his credentials. When investigators inquired about Mark’s
involvement, he provided a candid history of how Gary had
retained him to perform the due diligence. Mark even showed
the agents the field notes he had taken to prepare his report.
“Yet there came a time when you suspected a fraud,” the
agents pressed Mark.
“I figured something was not right. That’s why I stopped
doing business with Gary.”
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“Then why did you accept the $100,000 payment?”
“He wanted to pay me a bonus. I accepted.”
The agents didn’t buy it. Investors had relied upon Mark’s
credentials as a form of validation for Gary’s supposed
development. Prosecutors charged that Mark had discovered
the fraud. In not reporting it, he had not only allowed the fraud
to ensnare many more victims, but the prosecutors charged
that Mark had accepted a six-figure payment as hush money.
As Mark and I walked the track at Taft Camp, I
sympathized with the seven-year sentence that he served. He
insisted that he was not a part of Gary’s Ponzi scheme. “The
man had paid me for services rendered,” Mark asserted. “I was
not part of any fraud. When I suspected that something wasn’t
right, I ceased to have any association with Gary.”
That may have been true, I acknowledged, but Mark did
not have an excuse for accepting the $100,000 payment. His
separation from Gary, therefore, was not complete. That
acceptance of ill-gotten gains was the crime that resulted in
Mark’s imprisonment.
“If the guy wanted to pay me a bonus, then why should I
turn him away?” Mark felt frustrated.
As a prisoner, I sympathized with Mark. As a man who was
struggling to right his own ship, however, I knew that a
commitment to a higher moral code would not allow a man to
accept money that he believed to be tainted. That was the
lesson I had to learn. It was the way I needed to live my life
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 Ethics
moving forward.
Making values-based decisions did not require any written
moral code. All ethics required was for a man to ask a series of
questions, to put all dilemmas to the moral test. Would my
decision mislead anyone or obscure truth? Could I justify my
decision to my unborn child whom I wanted to consider me a
man of honor? Would others judge my motivations and actions
as being consistent with the concepts of integrity and of good
citizenship?
In the past I had ignored such questions. Instead, I focused
on what I thought was best for me, for my immediate profit.
From that perspective, I could justify a lot, but I could not live
as a good man. Even if I made decisions from a so-called gray
area.

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 19
Moral Codes
Lawrence Kohlberg, a former Harvard Professor, became
well known through his writings on moral development.
According to Professor Kohlberg, each individual made
decisions from one of six stages. The deciding factors
determining an individual’s stage of moral development hinged
on the reason behind a choice more than the choice itself.
For example, most people have a familiarity with the earlyAmerican writings of Henry David Thoreau. Thoreau lived
under the tutelage of Ralph Waldo Emerson, of New England,
and achieved a great deal of fame for his book On Walden’s
Pond. In that book, Thoreau argued for the beauty of a
minimalist life. Thoreau believed man should strive to live as
one with nature, in harmony with the people and land around
him.
According to Thoreau, man should not pursue an
acquisitive life. By creating and hoarding and expanding,
Thoreau felt convinced that man’s rapacious and covetous and
insatiable desires would lead to ruin. He personified his
philosophy by building a small cabin and subsisting by taking
nothing more from the surrounding land than what he needed
to survive.
As an American, however, Thoreau had an obligation to
pay taxes. Knowing that those taxes represented revenues the
government would use to fund expansion and what he
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considered to be an unjust war, Thoreau refused to pay his
taxes. Authorities responded by locking him in jail. By today’s
standards, others might judge Henry David Thoreau as a tax
cheat.
Professor Kohlberg, on the other hand might have
considered the underlying motivations and reasons behind
Thoreau’s decisions not to pay taxes. Thoreau revealed those
motivations in the less well-known book, Civil Disobedience.
One passage in that book described Thoreau’s response to
Emerson’s question about what Thoreau was doing in jail.
The question, Thoreau answered his mentor’s inquiry, was
why wasn’t Emerson in jail? Thoreau believed jail was the only
place for a just man in an unjust society.
Thoreau did not support American aggression as
manifested through its Spanish-American War. Rather than
contributing tax dollars that the government would use to fund
more expansion and kill more human beings in the insatiable
pursuit of more tax dollars and power, Thoreau chose to object.
He willingly paid the price personally by sitting in jail, and he
made such a choice because Thoreau felt deeply that it was the
right choice for our society.
Thoreau was thus making a values-based choice of the
highest order. He stood proud of the choices he made, and
invited the world to hold him accountable, to judge him. That
was decision making from a very different premise than the
premise I had used in my decisions as a stockbroker.
I met many people in prison who served time for tax
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 Lessons From Prison
evasion. As I listened to their stories, and the reasons behind
their actions, I understood that the motivation driving their
decisions were much more in line with selfishness than with
the higher levels of moral reasoning that Thoreau embodied.
Like I was, they were scheming to keep as many nickels on
their side of the table. When caught, they sacrificed their
reputation and their freedom.
Steve was serving a four-year sentence on account of his
conviction for tax fraud. He had owned a chain of electrical
supply stores. He was also a real estate investor. Steve owned
apartment buildings and other rental units. When making
modifications to those properties he owned, Steve used
supplies from his own stores. Rather than pay the costs for
those supplies out of his personal income, Steve declared the
supplies as expense deductions from his corporate books. An
audit exposed Steve’s deliberate efforts to evade taxes, and
prosecutors charged him with multiple felonies.
As I listened to Steve’s story, I realized how many business
owners operated in the same way. They begin with small
compromises they used to fill their pockets. Owners of retail
establishments made deals with customers to avoid sales tax.
These people did not consider their actions criminal.
Prosecutors, however, saw things differently.
Living according to a code of ethical behavior would mean
that an individual never had to look over his shoulder or cover
up behavior that could bring shame and criminal prosecution.
White-collar offenders who felt certain that their decisions fell
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 Moral Codes
ethically short, into gray areas rather than violations of criminal
codes, filled our nation’s prison camps. Few could accept that
they were felons.
Marty was one white-collar offender who struggled through
his 20-month sentence of bankruptcy fraud. He and his wife
had been collectors of what was known as Americana art. They
purchased furniture, paintings, sculptures, jewelry, ceramics,
and other museum quality pieces. They developed reputations
among other collectors as having discerning eyes for value.
Marty wrote regular columns for many art publications.
Besides collecting art, Marty worked as a corporate lawyer
for a publicly traded business. In time, however, some
decisions led Marty into financial difficulties. He and his wife
were forced to file bankruptcy in order to protect themselves
from creditors. In order to complete the legal process, Marty
and his wife had to categorize and value all of their assets.
In submitting the list of assets that Marty and his wife
owned, Marty chose to cite the prices he paid for various
objects. Some of those objects had appreciated in value by
significant amounts over the years that Marty and his wife
owned them. Instead of identifying an eighteenth-century
armoire of superior craftsmanship, Marty’s form indicated that
he owned a movable wardrobe cabinet of negligible value.
Marty’s form claimed ownership of a coffee table, not a clawfooted table that was hand carved from oak in the 1800s.
He was not lying when he identified valuables as furniture
and paintings. An unsuspecting bankruptcy court trustee would
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 Lessons From Prison
accept receipts of Marty’s purchases from decades before as
benchmarks for their valuations. Marty was a professional
collector, however, and he understood the true value of his
holdings. The bankruptcy forms he submitted were therefore
fraudulent. When the government brought criminal charges
against Marty for bankruptcy fraud, the prosecutor also
charged his wife as she had signed the forms as well.
Serving time in prison felt bad enough for any individual.
Yet when criminal decisions ensnared loved ones as well, the
pains of confinement could feel magnified. Marty was unable
to talk with his wife. They needed to obtain permission from
the prison administrators in order to communicate by mail.
Obviously, they could not visit. While Marty served his
sentence at Taft Camp, his wife served her term in a federal
prison for women that was located in Texas.
As a lawyer, it would have seemed that Marty would have
known the consequences of providing misleading information
on an official government form. He clung to excuses that the
information he provided was factually accurate. Marty had
listed his assets and he had listed the amounts he had paid for
them. Those numbers, however, understated the true market
valuations. Although Marty could appease his conscience by
claiming the violations an “ethical gray area,” the dissembling
violated the law and resulted in imprisonment for both Marty
and his wife.
The truth was that during the more than 12-months I
served inside the boundaries of Taft’s Federal Prison Camp, I
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met and interacted with hundreds of white-collar offenders.
Each had a reason to justify why he was in prison. Some
claimed it was an overzealous prosecutor. Others, like Marty,
adhered to stories that they had violated ethics and not the
criminal laws. As a prisoner I knew that the only way to
reconcile with society was to own my decisions. I felt a sense
of cleansing by acknowledging that I alone was responsible for
my troubles with the law.
During the months that preceded my incarceration, I really
didn’t grasp the empowering aspects that would come with a
complete acceptance of responsibility. I reversed my course of
steadfast denial that I had initially set upon when UBS fired me,
but that was more of a legal decision than a true change of
heart. In the beginning I told lies to attorneys, to my family and
friends, even to myself. I couldn’t bring myself to admit that I
had made decisions that not only violated my code of ethics,
but also the criminal law.
After failing that lie-detector test, my attorney convinced
me to plead guilty and cooperate with the prosecution of my
case. I agreed, and I answered all questions truthfully. I sat for
hours with government attorneys answering questions. The
underlying reasons behind my decisions, however, were to
minimize my exposure to sanctions. I cashed in my retirement
account and surrendered a $100,000 check to the government
before sentencing, not because I felt a deep sense of remorse,
but because my attorney advised that such a gesture would
boost my standing during sentencing.
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What Got You Here Won’t Get You There. As I came to
the conclusion of my time in prison, I kept thinking about the
title of that book I read by Marshall Goldsmith. Just as I had
made decisions as a stockbroker in a misguided effort to
advance my career and my short-term personal income, when I
was responding to the legal complications that threatened my
future, my motivation was a pursuit of the least possible
sanction.
Those months I served in prison brought me a different
motivation. I didn’t have any options or angles to play that
would lower my sentence or reduce the financial sanctions that
awaited me. The judge had sentenced me to a fixed term. I
would serve that time in its entirety whether I lived in denial or
whether I reflected on the motivations that drove me to prison.
Ironically, on account of my having had nothing more to gain,
I gained the most. Through listening to and learning from the
men around me, as well as my own introspection, I learned
lessons that I would value for the rest of my life.
A journey through prison would not be an elixir, but I
knew that it prepared me for happiness and peace and
tranquility in ways that nothing else could. On account of my
experiences of living in confinement, I felt better prepared to
resist the temptations of those three beasts of lust, greed, and
ambition. I had traveled through my own rings of hell. And
because of what I had learned, I knew that my decisions
moving forward would pass the ethical test. They would be
rooted in honesty and integrity. They would be respectful and
show my respect for the dignity of others. Because of what I
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had learned, I could make values-based decisions moving
forward and that would make all the difference.
My readings in prison exposed me to many philosophers,
and I was awed at how the wisdom from centuries past
remained relevant today. George Hegel’s writings instructed us
that those of us who didn’t know our history were doomed to
repeat it. Had I known more about the nature of man, perhaps
I would have had more appreciation for the nefarious
influences of lust, greed, and ambition.
I found hope in the timeless debate over human
motivation encapsulated in the work of Thomas Hobbs and
John Locke. Both men lived in the 17th century, and their
work influenced the shaping of modern civilization. The work
of Hobbs instructed us that man was a selfish beast by his very
nature, and that laws were necessary to keep him in order.
Locke, in his brilliant essay on human understanding, argued a
contrary position. Locke insisted that man came into the world
with a blank slate, or tabula rasa. He said that man was not
inherently evil or good, but that our behavior had roots in what
we had learned from our own experiences and perceptions.
I agreed more with Locke than with Hobbs. As a child, I
was influenced by the good role models around me. Through
sports, I learned and lived by the virtues of good citizenship.
After graduating from USC, however, I moved in a different
crowd. By immersing myself in the world of money
management, I became exposed to values of a lower order. The
potential threat of laws did not stop my slide into behavior that
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violated the laws of ethics and the criminal code. As Locke had
written more than 300 years before, I learned bad behavior
from the environment in which I had submerged myself. The
good news was that through lessons from prison, I armed
myself with new knowledge. They would help others and me
going forward. My challenge would be in helping others learn
these lessons before they felt the pull of pressure, opportunity,
and rationalization.
I wanted to make some kind of contribution to society and
I felt convinced that I could add the most value serving as a
guide to others. Michael had told me that story about Virgil
educating Dante regarding the consequences of bad decisions.
In Homer’s famous story of Odysseus, I learned the
instructional value that could live for centuries through the
recording and telling of personal struggle.
The temptations that led me to prison were the same type
of enticements that had been ruining or challenging human
lives for centuries. Adversity could bring pain and suffering for
us and for those who loved us. Through proper perspective,
however, we could learn lessons. We could grow. We could
share our experiences with others, and through such
contributions, perhaps embolden others to face their own
struggles with courage. By telling my story, I hoped to enable
my listeners by providing a thread they could use to find their
own way through the labyrinths of life.
My tale was not exceptional. I succumbed to the
temptations of greed and short-sighted self-interest. That slide
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in ethics led to complications with the criminal law.
prosecution resulted in my serving one year in prison.

A

Although the struggles were unexceptional, they were not
unusual. Our nation’s prison system confined more than 2.4
million people. Many Americans tended to think of those in
prison as being of criminogenic backgrounds. As a prisoner,
however, I learned the startling reality. Twenty percent of our
nation’s prisoners, or nearly half a million people, stood
convicted of white-collar crimes.
Who were those white-collar offenders? They were doctors
serving time for health care fraud. They were lawyers serving
time for bankruptcy fraud. They were accountants serving time
for tax fraud. They were financial professionals serving time
for securities fraud. They were business executives serving time
for bank fraud. They were politicians serving time for honest
services fraud. In other words, they were educated people who
knew better but succumbed to what others have called the
fraud triangle. What was the message?
Moral crisis was part of the human condition. We
constantly faced dilemmas. People who graduated from
business schools, law schools, medical schools and other
professional programs burst onto the scene with high
aspirations, and all too frequently, six-figure debts. They too
would face the pressures. In time they would have
opportunities that would tempt and lure them, that would test
their moral convictions. Through these efforts to share what I
have learned, I hoped to arm them with strength to stay true to
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the righteous path, to make values-based decisions.
My work may help disillusion misperceptions shared by so
many Americans. When I graduated from USC I never felt the
need to learn about the criminal justice system. Prison
experiences, I thought, would never be a part of my life. The
other white-collar offenders with whom I walked the track at
Taft Camp felt the same way. We were wrong, just as millions
were wrong when they compromised their ethics under
delusions that their class of social status would immune them
from prosecution.
Besides offering preventable lessons, I could also offer
advisory lessons. Despite good intentions, bad decisions or life
circumstances sometimes led us into adversity. This was a
universal, human condition. When such challenges came, I
hoped that those with whom I shared these lessons could find
confidence to power through. We may succumb to temptations,
but time immemorial offered countless examples of our
resilience. We could thrive through turmoil and emerge
stronger from adversity.
The question was would people listen. Plato, the immortal
philosopher, wrote about the challenge of conveying lessons to
be drawn from human experience. In his classic book The
Republic, Plato told his story known as “The Allegory of The
Cave.”
In that fable, Plato asked his audience to imagine a
subterranean cave. A group of people had lived their entire
lives in that cave. Not only were they confined to the cave, but
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Plato described their movements and perspectives being
restricted because they had lived their entire existence fastened
to a pole behind them.
As a consequence of their circumstance, the people in
Plato’s cave could not comprehend or fathom the fullness of
life. They had nothing more than what they could learn from
their limited perspectives. By only being able to look straight
ahead, they misperceived shadows for reality. Reflections from
bouncing light rays brought illusions that those in Plato’s cave
felt certain were authentic.
That life of limited perspective was all that the dwellers of
Plato’s cave knew until one of the inhabitants broke free. He
climbed out from the cave and emerged into all the splendor of
the world. For the first time, he saw more than the reflection
of light. He felt the power of light itself, with the sun beaming
upon him and illuminating all around him. Suddenly life was
more than a collection of shadows that he saw projected on the
wall. Instead, he saw and experienced life itself.
Upon his discovery, Plato’s cave dweller returned to the
subterranean chamber that had heretofore been his only world.
He was eager to share the lessons that he had learned about the
world, to help others exchange their illusions for the beauty of
reality. Instead of embracing those lessons, however, Plato told
us that the fellow cave dwellers rejected such descriptions.
People have a natural propensity, Plato’s allegory instructs,
to perceive the world in accordance with their own
perspectives. Conveying lessons from human experience
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represented one of man’s greatest challenges. That was why
Hegel advised that we had a duty to record our histories. We
had to do our best to instruct others in order to prevent the
cycle of mistakes. What got you here won’t get you there. I
would do my part to enlighten others through the lessons I
learned.

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Perspectives
Another Greek myth tells the story of Sisyphus, a man
condemned to Hades as a consequence of his misdeeds. For
eternity, Sisyphus was required to roll a boulder up a hill. Each
time he reached the top, the bolder rolled down again,
requiring Sisyphus to start from the beginning.
Prison could, at times, feel like a similar punishment. Just
when the adjustment feels as if it’s working well, disaster can
strike. The prisoner must pick himself up and begin again. That
was the reason that preparations were so crucial.
In December of 2008, I was in my eighth month of
confinement. By then I felt as if I really had my adjustment in
order. I had gone through the rigorous physical training
portion, made the transition, and fully invested myself in an allconsuming program that I knew would help me emerge
stronger than when I began my term.
I was exercising daily, in doses that I expected to sustain
for the rest of my life. I was reading at least one book a week. I
was interviewing other prisoners to broaden my knowledge of
the human experience. I was writing blogs each day and
devoting several hours to the writing of this manuscript.
Only five full months of imprisonment awaited me. I felt as
if I were as prepared as possible to advance through with
deliberate purpose. I had set clear goals, time lines for
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completion, and felt as if I were the captain of my own ship,
steering it through turbulent waters toward the bay of
tranquility. Then, without forewarning, I received disastrous
news from home. My beloved dog, Honey, had passed away.
The loss was surprisingly deep, magnified because I had
not seen Honey for eight months, and because I looked
forward with such eager anticipation to holding and playing
with her upon my release. Some would think the pain within
me was too much, or exaggerated. After all, I was a 33-year-old
man, well-educated and somewhat accomplished. I was at an
age when others had enjoyed marriages and children. Though I
had neither. For nearly the past 14 years, Honey was the family
that welcomed me home at night.
When I self-surrendered to the prison camp at Taft, I left
Honey in the care of my mother. During my frequent calls
home, my mother always assured me that Honey was well and
missing me. She sent photographs of the dog regularly, and if
rules had permitted, my mother would have brought Honey to
visiting.
In the evening after our Friday visit on December 19th, I
called home to ensure that my mother had returned safely.
Upon hearing my mother’s voice, I could sense that something
was wrong.
“What is it?” I asked. “Is it Honey?”
My mother held the phone in silence, unable to add to the
complications of my imprisonment.
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“Did Honey die?”
My mother began to cry. At that moment, I knew that my
world had irrevocably changed. Nothing would bring Honey
back. While standing there, in the openness of my unit talking
on a wall-mounted telephone, the emotions poured out of me.
For that moment, I felt naked, helpless, and inconsolable.
I wanted solitude, to grieve alone. As a prisoner, however,
a man must accept that privacy does not exist. I retired to my
cubicle and climbed onto my rack, feeling both exhausted and
drained. The night was difficult to pass through. Unable to
sleep, I had to pause from my grieving and consider
perspective.
Despite the need I felt for comfort, I had a sentence to
serve. I had made significant strides in my mental adjustment
over the previous eight months, and I could not allow Honey’s
death to unnerve me. Adversity and difficulty and struggle were
part of the human experience, and I could not allow myself to
fall apart.
Prior to the growth I had made as a response to my
imprisonment, I lacked a strong enough center to cope with
difficulties. When I learned of my troubles with the criminal
justice system, for example, I lied to others and refused to
accept responsibility. Instead of acting responsibly, I sought
solace through midnight runs for double cheeseburgers and
marathon sessions of online chess. In prison, however, there
were no escape routes to hide from loss.
I had and would always have a love for my dog. Yet I had
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to embrace that the passing of life represented a part of the
journey through which I and all others were traveling. The
circumstances of life did not stop simply because my
imprisonment had removed me from daily interactions with my
family and community. Struggles would continue to come, and
as a well-adjusted man, I knew that I would have to confront
them with dignity and strength.
Imprisonment was much harder on family members than it
was on prisoners. We could adjust. Our family members and
loved ones knew so little about our environment that they
worried incessantly. As I lay on my rack during the evening
that I had learned of Honey’s death, I knew that my mother
was worried about how I would react to the loss. I made a
commitment that when I hopped down from my rack in the
morning, I would memorialize my memory of Honey by
writing a blog. Then I would walk around the track for a
couple of hours until my mother would wake. At 10:00 a.m. I
intended to call her and set her mind at ease about my wellbeing.
I had lost a dog. Honey had been my pet since I was in
college. And I loved her dearly. Yet I was in prison with people
who had suffered losses of a far greater magnitude. Men with
whom I spoke told me sad stories of being abandoned, without
warning, by wives and children. Others had to struggle through
news that their homes were being foreclosed upon and their
families were being evicted. Men who had been removed from
their families through years of imprisonment had to confront
the reality that they could not provide effective guidance to
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children who were succumbing to drugs, gangs or other
improprieties that could bring detrimental consequences to
their lives.
Some long-term prisoners had a method for coping. Frank,
for example, had been incarcerated for 15 years. He suggested
that the best way to serve time was to forget about the world
beyond prison boundaries. Since there was nothing he could
do to influence that world, all he wanted to know about was
the world in which he lived. That strategy, he said, would help
him escape the pain that came with inevitable losses on the
outside.
Such an adjustment was too extreme. One of the
philosophy anthologies I read referred to Aristotle’s theory of
the golden mean. I understood the theory to mean that in
adjusting to life, Aristotle was advising us to find balance,
perspective. We had to prepare for the best, yet simultaneously
we had to embrace the reality that there would always be more
struggle to come. Although the news of Honey’s passing shook
me at first, I felt as if my measured reaction demonstrated a
new maturity or evolution. Instead of allowing personal
challenges or the complexities of life to derail me completely,
the lessons I had learned prepared me to respond appropriately.
I felt more composure, more equanimity, more capable of
evening out the vicissitudes of life. Besides grieving for my
own loss, I empathized with my mother and took affirmative
steps to ease her anxieties.
One month later I was hit with more news from the “real
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world.” Though it was of less momentous importance than
Honey’s passing, a message from home threatened my stability.
As a consequence of my criminal conviction, I received notice
that a lawyer had launched a lawsuit against me for a
considerable sum. Besides the troubling development of one
lawsuit, Kyle Smith made threats to sue me for disclosing the
unethical and illegal scams he employed to bilk investors out of
higher commissions. The irony was that, in an effort to
pressure me, he even threatened to sue my 66-year-old
unemployed mother because he surmised that she had typed
my blogs and manuscripts. The imminent end to my
imprisonment, I had to acknowledge, would not bring an end
to my struggle. More to come.
Challenges in life would never cease. By anticipating them,
however, we could empower ourselves to respond
appropriately. I regret not having made better preparations for
life following graduation from USC. I had more privileges than
most, more opportunities to distinguish myself in positive ways,
and to make meaningful contributions to the world. Instead of
living up to my potential, my reflection while I served my time
in prison convinced me that I had floundered.
I could not turn back the calendar pages, though like any
person I could make better decisions as I moved forward. By
recognizing the bad decisions of my past, I could take
corrective actions. That understanding was the underlying
reason that I studied so many writings in ethics and philosophy
during the months I served in prison.
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Between the time I graduated from college, and the time I
surrendered to prison, I could not recall having read a single
book. Against the sage advice I had received from my
distinguished cousin, I pursued financial success. That myopic
approach to life was what began my slide away from the values
I had learned at home and as an athlete.
The readings and reflections that carried me through my
sentence made a compelling case for a more balanced life.
Besides the simple focus on work, career, and finances, I had
to set goals that would not neglect my health and fitness, as
well as my responsibilities to make contributions to the larger
community. I could never allow apathy to creep in and
contaminate my life again. With a constant pursuit of learning,
I could prepare to respond well to whatever challenges might
come next.
While I served my sentence, life moved on. Besides the
difficulties like the passing of my dog, and being served with
lawsuits that complicated my financial standing, our family
grew with a new baby. I felt saddened that I could not celebrate
the joy at home of learning that my brother Todd and my
sister-in-law Sunny were going to have their first child.
An inability to participate fully in family affairs was one of
the consequences of confinement. What I could do, however,
was strive to prove myself worthy of the love I had received.
Instead of self-pity for problems my own bad decisions had
created, I could add meaning to my life by learning more,
contributing to the lives of others, and preparing myself to
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make values-based decisions. Such a commitment would
prepare me to live as a better son, a better brother, a better
uncle. It would also help me live as a better husband once I
found the woman with whom I would share my life.
Existentialist philosophers like Nietzsche, Sartre, and
Heidegger wrote that man could overcome any obstacle. If he
just had the courage to prepare, to face obstacles head on, to
set meaningful goals, he could pick himself up from any
predicament. Man could make himself stronger, better, more
capable of meeting his challenges that were sure to come if he
lived with more self-direction.
The 12-plus months I served in prison may not have been
significant in relation to the totality of my life. They were
profound, however, in the insight they brought. Whereas I had
graduated college with the singular pursuit of a higher income,
I didn’t give a single thought to what I was becoming as a
human being. As a consequence of my not having direction, or
a strong center, without even knowing it, I let myself slide. I
became heavy. I struggled with both low spirits and lethargy. I
was envious, selfish, and shallow.
That lack of direction, together with misplaced goals and
values, sent me on a course that could not help but lead to
unhappiness. I lived a lie. Although I did not set out to scheme
or defraud, neither did I exercise the good judgment or show
the qualities of good character to prevent the fraud from
perpetuating. Instead, I facilitated it. When caught, I
compounded my problems by scheming to cover up my crimes.
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My penance did not come from the year I served in prison.
Penance came through the battles that played out in my mind
and the lessons that ensued through introspection. I left prison
ready, prepared for whatever adversity or challenges would
come.
I was living a story, one from which others could learn.
Rather than hide from shame, I would shine a light on the
consequences that followed a disregard of ethics. Professors
could offer students theoretical perspectives, and human
resources departments could craft written corporate codes for
employees to follow. As a man who had endured all aspects of
the criminal justice system, I intended to offer perspectives
from what others had taught me and from what I had
experienced. In so doing, I knew that I could add value to
society, helping others make better decisions before their lives
tacked off course.
For those who did find themselves in the crosshairs of the
criminal justice system, however, the information that follows
would help them make better decisions.

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Guide Through System
As a university student, and as a young executive in the
financial sector, I would have welcomed more training in ethics.
Particularly, I would have found value in listening to stories
about the consequences that followed allegations of
wrongdoing. Such information would have shaken me out of
my complacency, and it may have checked my sense of
entitlement.
I’d like to think that by reaching out I could make a
connection with those audiences that I addressed. Perhaps
when faced with ethical dilemmas of their own, those who
listened to my presentation would have a clearer understanding
of what could happen to those who began to compromise in
their commitments to making values-based decisions.
Prior to my imprisonment I had a conversation with a
journalist from a leading business magazine. During the
interview, I expressed my opinion that the criminal justice
system could ensnare anyone. The journalist took umbrage at
my remark.
“I’ve been a journalist covering business for 20 years,” he
told me. “During that time I’ve never been tempted to break
the law. That’s why I’m intrigued with people who seem to
disregard the rules by which others live.”
My intentions were never to patronize those with whom I
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spoke. Certainly I recognized that my own character flaws were
not an indictment of all in society. What I hoped to convey was
that there was a time in my life that I, too, would have been
offended at the suggestion that I was prone to criminal
wrongdoing. I served time with hundreds of educated
offenders who, like me, never envisioned the prospect of a
criminal conviction. By describing what I learned, I simply
hoped to contribute to the education of others.
As media reports showed every day, however, the criminal
justice system was in no danger of extinction. Man has fallen to
the allure of temptation since the beginning of recorded history.
People of all walks of life would feel pressures of some sort.
Those who perceived opportunities and lacked a full
appreciation for the ramifications of their actions would
continue to succumb to temptation of wrongdoing. They might
even rationalize their actions and insist that they did not do
anything wrong.
All that I have learned and observed from others, as well as
what I have experienced, could prove of value to those people
as well. Had I found access to such information while I was
still employed at UBS, I would have made better decisions. By
clinging to my steadfast denials and immersing myself in the lie,
I truly aggravated my problems. What I learned as a defendant
was that the best way to avoid problems with the criminal
justice system was to live in accordance with the principles of
good behavior. Those who crossed the line, however, would
put themselves in the best possible position by accepting
responsibility at the soonest possible time.
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Take a lesson from the international scandal that
surrounded Bernard Madoff. He had been a pillar of the
financial community and one of Wall Street’s most
distinguished names. He also admitted to being one of the
world’s most effective con artists. Despite a massive and
deliberate criminal scheme that made victims of thousands,
prosecutors did not lock Madoff in a cell as a common criminal.
Instead they allowed him to live in opulence while lawyers
negotiated the most favorable sanction possible for a man who
masterminded a $50 billion fraud.
There was a reason that the government allowed Madoff
the privilege of quasi-freedom. It was because he had come
forward and agreed to cooperate before law enforcement even
suspected wrongdoing.
The sooner an individual accepted responsibility for his
actions, the more likely he was to receive favorable
consideration from the criminal justice system. Every day that
passed after a crime took place exposed the defendant to
deeper sanctions. I learned this lesson not only from reading
the headlines of the Bernie Madoff scandal, but from personal
experiences and from listening to the experiences of others.
Taylor was a pension-fund manager who served time with
me at Taft Camp. He was responsible for the oversight of
more than $100 million in retirement accounts. In an effort to
make up for poor performance, Taylor began to camouflage
results. His efforts deliberately mislead investors, and his
deceptions were responsible for $20 million in losses.
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After more than nine months of perpetuating the fraud,
Taylor could not manage the stress. Authorities had no idea of
his wrongdoing, and they were more than willing to accept
Taylor’s full cooperation. Taylor did not approach the
authorities with a lawyer or with any requests for special deals.
He simply laid all of his actions on their desk, explained his
motivation and accepted what consequences followed.
Had Taylor not come forward, there was no telling how
much time would have passed before authorities would have
discovered the fraud. As a result of Taylor’s full cooperation,
acceptance of total responsibility, and total remorse, the system
was much more lenient on him than it otherwise would have
been. Taylor told me that he decided to come forward because
the guilt was eating him up inside, and he couldn’t take the
pressure any longer.
I have not had any legal training, and I would never
presume to disperse legal advice. Lawyers had a crucial role in
our system of justice that could never be displaced. Rather than
making a judgment call on Taylor’s decision to come forward
to authorities without legal counsel, my intention in telling his
story was for readers to understand that the justice system
treats those who cooperate freely with more leniency.
In my own case, readers should note the disparity in
treatment between my former senior partner, Kyle Smith, and
me. Whereas I told lies and took active steps to cover up my
wrongdoing, Kyle took action. From that first moment that
our supervisors at UBS called us in for questioning, Kyle
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understood that full cooperation would put him in the best
light.
Kyle retained a top-notch criminal defense attorney. He
told his lawyers everything he could about our relationship
with Keith Gilabert’s GLT Hedge Fund, including our
complicity and the ways we profited from the fraud. Regardless
of his motivations for coming forward, Kyle’s lawyers
succeeded in absolving him from a criminal prosecution and
the huge financial sanctions that would have followed if he had
not come forward. Most white-collar offenders delayed their
acceptance of responsibility. Instead, they denied wrongdoing
and tried to explain away their actions. Every day that passed,
however, exposed defendants to more severe judgment from
the system.
As prosecutors devoted more resources to a criminal case,
the more vested they became. That was the reason they offered
the most favorable consideration to those who came forward
soonest. The worst decision a criminal defendant could make
was to lie. I learned that the hard way.
When I initially retained counsel, I told him a story that
completely cloaked my criminal wrongdoing. That ridiculous
strategy may have been rooted in my humiliation, but it
brought severe consequences.
I could not bring myself to come clean. It was as if by lying
I could somehow retain a self-image of respectability that I so
desperately wanted to maintain. Once I told one lie, I had to
cover it up with another. In time, I wasn’t only lying to my
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attorney, but also to government lawyers who insisted upon
debriefing me. Without even comprehending the severity of my
problems, I committed additional felonies with the lies I told.
Those who anticipated that they could become defendants
in a criminal case could serve themselves best by understanding
both the options available, and the ramifications that would
follow the choices they made.
By not allowing myself to come to terms with the problems
my decisions had created, I kept digging myself in deeper.
Rather than acting assertively and working with a plan to bring
about the best possible outcome, I was playing golf with my
fingers crossed, ridiculously hoping that the government would
be too busy to fiddle with what I perceived as a trifling matter.
From my own experience, and from what I learned by
listening to others, I became convinced that too many
defendants came into this system without a full appreciation
for the cynicism and severity associated with every step in the
process. Defendants wanted to believe that law enforcement
officers, prosecutors, even the courts would understand. In the
white-collar criminal defendant’s mind, everyone in the system
would recognize that he wasn’t really a bad guy, and that he
didn’t deserve to be treated like a criminal. Such
misperceptions make the defendant vulnerable to further
problems.
The sooner a defendant accepted full responsibility,
expressed remorse and demonstrated his contrition, the more
he could influence his outcome. Those who believed
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investigators or prosecutors would identify with a criminal
defendant, or that law enforcement officers would feel some
sort of common humanity with him from the outset did not
understand how justice was dispensed.
Those who made their profession in law enforcement
identified with the losses of victims, not the struggles of
criminal defendants. Justice to them meant a commitment to
protect society and the people who suffered as a consequence
of crime. Such a view conditioned those who worked in the
law to attribute all actions by defendants to selfish motivations
or self-preservation. Those who committed their careers to law
enforcement listened as criminals told lies every day.
Investigators asked questions that provoked defendants to
incriminate themselves; the motive of law enforcement was to
solve the case, not to ease the conscience of criminal
defendants.
Too many defendants spoke with law enforcement officers
in the same way I did. In the beginning, I felt certain that the
government lawyers would see me for a nice guy. I lied with
hopes that I could escape formal accusations of wrongdoing.
The government knew that I was lying, but the investigators
allowed me to continue. Each lie I told exposed me to further
sanctions.
The many men with whom I spoke in prison convinced me
that law enforcement officers relied upon a defendant’s feeling
of vulnerability. They were trained to ask questions in ways that
would strengthen the prosecution’s case, not to provide
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defendants with a way out. The Fifth Amendment to the
constitution provided American defendants with the right to
withhold answers to questions by law enforcement. It did not
excuse them from the sanctions that would come to those who
lied.
Those of us who served time in federal prison learned such
lessons too late. An individual did not have to answer
questions by law enforcement officers. If he did, however, the
individual would serve his interests best by either speaking with
complete honesty or not saying anything at all.
Once an individual had reason to believe that he might
become a target of a criminal investigation, he should seek
guidance from legal counsel. That decision seemed obvious.
Many men in prison, however, did not grasp the importance of
working honestly with counsel. Like I did, they sought
someone who would affirm delusions that they would be okay.
What a criminal defendant needed was an attorney who would
throw a bucket of ice-cold water on him and shake him into
reality.
At the same time, defendants would serve themselves well
by listening to others who had been through the gauntlet of
justice. That meant personal experience with every aspect of
the system. I learned more from my conversations with Walt
Pavlo than I did from anyone else, and I wish that I had sought
his counsel much earlier in the process. Talking with someone
who had gone through the system did more than prepare
defendants for what was ahead. Such conversations could also
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help an individual understand how decisions early in the
process could influence outcomes that would not reveal
themselves until years later.
Once an individual became a defendant, a time would
come when he would have to either plead guilty or contest his
innocence. The defendant should have complete trust with his
attorney when he made such a pivotal decision. When I tried to
lie my way through that polygraph test, my attorney sat me
down and laid out the facts for me. “You’re going to prison,”
he told me in no uncertain terms. “The best thing I can do for
you now is to work out the most favorable deal possible.”
If I had had enough foresight to speak honestly with my
attorney from the outset, the resolution to my case would have
been handled much sooner. As a consequence of the bad
choices I made, I wasted hundreds of thousands of dollars; I
made matters worse for those who loved me and supported
me; I delayed the healing that could have begun much sooner.
Following a conviction, the defendant would have to
participate in a presentence investigation. A probation officer
would conduct the investigation, and it would culminate with a
formal report known as the PSI. The PSI document would
provide the judge with background information on the
defendant, but it would have much more far-reaching
consequences, as both the prison administrators and the
probation department would rely upon the PSI for all future
evaluations of the defendant.
I spoke with too many defendants in prison who told me
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that their attorneys did not grasp the ancillary significance of
the PSI. Although the document might influence the sentence
the judge imposed, the real importance of the PSI was the
influence it would have with regard to the individual’s
confinement. Since most attorneys did not have intimate
experience with the prison system, they could not anticipate
the ways it would influence a defendant’s confinement. In most
cases, prison administrators would rely upon information in the
PSI to determine where an individual would serve his time; in
which programs they would allow him to participate; the type
of work assignment and bunk assignment he would receive;
and even the length of time they would authorize the
defendant for halfway house time.
Those who had experience in progressing through
confinement as prisoners were in the best position to shed light
on such matters as the PSI’s relevance. I met many people in
prison who learned this reality the hard way. As a consequence
of their proceeding blindly through the presentence
investigation, they responded to questions in ways that exposed
them to more difficult living conditions, and longer terms
inside prison boundaries. Not knowing anything about prison,
their attorneys only concerned themselves with the sentence
that was going to be imposed.
The investigation began with a formal meeting between the
defendant and the probation officer. The defense attorney was
sometimes present for the meeting, but in other cases the
defendant met with the probation officer alone. Either way, the
defendant had to recognize the legal significance of the
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meeting. The probation officer would ask questions about the
individual’s background, and the probation officer would
record the answers provided by the defendant.
Then the probation officer would investigate. Through that
investigation the probation officer would make a determination
as to whether the defendant was cooperative, accepting of
responsibility, and remorseful. Those findings would have a
definite influence on the sentence and the manner in which an
individual served his sanction. As in all interactions with law
enforcement officers, the defendant would be well served to
understand the far-reaching consequences of the answers he
provided.
After the PSI was completed, the next phase in the journey
would be the sentencing hearing itself. Although defendants
did not have the power to reverse prior decisions that led to a
criminal conviction and sentencing, there were actions he could
take in advance of sentencing that might mitigate the sanction
imposed. Likewise, the defendant could behave in ways that
would exacerbate the sentence. As a prisoner, I heard stories of
both.
Gregg had been a successful CEO of a publicly traded
corporation. In that capacity he had a duty to provide investors
with accurate and timely information that detailed the financial
health of his company. The government charged Gregg with
fraud in an alleged scheme to pump up the excitement in his
company, so that the share prices would rise, allowing him to
profit while he unloaded millions of shares from his own
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account.
After his conviction, Gregg went public with his anger at
the Justice Department. He claimed that the prosecutors were
not interested in justice, but in securing convictions that would
bring them national headlines. In interview after interview,
Gregg asserted that he was a victim of investor hysteria.
Markets had gone down, people had lost money, and
prosecutors were scoring political points by bringing criminal
charges against the rich. He said they were destroying
capitalism, and that his conviction should be an outrage to
every true American. Gregg assured the hosts of financial talk
shows and reporters from the financial press that his company
had been sound when he made his reports. The shares
liquidated from his account were the result of margin calls, not
some conniving scheme to enrich himself. He was a victim of
market forces, just like everyone else.
Neither the probation officer, who was completing Gregg’s
presentence investigation, nor the U.S. Attorney was pleased
with Gregg’s public outburst. The government had made the
case that Gregg authorized the liquidation of personal holdings
he had in his company while he was publicly urging investors
and employees to buy. That conflict resulted in his conviction
for fraud, and he faced a prison term with a guideline range
that capped out at five years.
As a response to Gregg’s effort to lambaste the
government in the media, Gregg’s probation officer concluded
that Gregg felt no remorse. She thought of him as an
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unrepentant manipulator of the public trust. The probation
officer wrote him a scathing PSI. She wrote that Gregg had
abused his position of authority to enrich himself, and that his
outbursts in the media contributed to a lack of trust in financial
markets. She urged the judge to enhance Gregg’s sentence in
response to his recalcitrance.
During the sentencing hearing, Gregg’s prosecutor also
urged the judge to depart upward from the sentencing
guidelines because of Gregg’s defiance. He had harmed the
pursuit of justice with the media spectacle he created, the
prosecutor insisted. Such actions were worthy of a more severe
sanction than he otherwise would have received. The judge
agreed and sentenced Gregg to serve seven years.
The merits of Gregg’s argument were not as relevant as the
forum he chose. Had he reserved his argument for the appeals
court, the judge would have imposed a term that was within
the guideline range. Gregg’s public outrage thus cost him an
additional two years in prison. In retrospect, he told me, the
more prudent course would have been silence. The passion at
the time inflamed Gregg, however, and he said he could not
contain his rage. He signed up for anger-management courses
in prison, but those classes were not going to erase the extra
two years he served.
Geoff responded to his conviction differently from Gregg.
Geoff was in the business of designing Web sites. His small
company advertised its services on Internet search engines and
through direct marketing. Upon identifying customers, Geoff
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and his team worked with the client to design, build, and
maintain effective Internet strategies to enhance the client’s
business.
One of Geoff’s clients ordered a Web site that would
attract prospective investors. Geoff worked with the client in
designing the Web site, and then built the site in accordance
with the client’s expectations. Geoff did not know that the
client had been using the Web site to fish for investors who
would prove gullible enough to dump money into a Ponzi
scheme.
Government prosecutors charged that Geoff should have
known that his client was promising unrealistic returns to
investors under the doctrine of “willful blindness”; the
prosecutors charged Geoff with being complicitous in the
fraud. Geoff insisted that he did not know anything about his
client’s scheme to defraud investors. As far as Geoff knew, he
said that he was building a Web site for a legitimate business.
Nevertheless, to spare himself the possibility of a lengthy
prison term, Geoff accepted a plea agreement that exposed
him to a prison term of between two and three years.
Unlike Gregg, Geoff did not rail against the government
with accusations of injustice. Geoff did the opposite. He
volunteered to speak at local business organizations to describe
what he had learned about corporate responsibility. Geoff used
his story as a tool to help other businessmen understand their
duty to know more about their clients. Those speaking
engagements led Geoff to work with inner-city kids who had
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been marked as at-risk adolescents. He not only spoke with
them about his imminent prison term, he mentored several on
the consequences that followed bad decisions. Geoff then used
contacts he had in the computer industry to donate computers
and software so that he could set up a workshop facility that
would train the at-risk adolescents in developing computer
skills. Geoff’s selfless efforts to make contributions to society
impressed his probation officer. During her presentence
investigation, the probation officer learned that Geoff had
been volunteering his time and energy to help improve society.
She believed that Geoff’s efforts demonstrated a commitment
to reconcile with the community. As a result of that assessment,
the probation officer suggested that a downward adjustment
from the sentencing guidelines might be appropriate in Geoff’s
case to reward his post-conviction rehabilitation.
At sentencing, the judge agreed with the probation officer’s
assessment. The prosecutor did not object. Instead of imposing
a term of between two and three years, as called for by
sentencing guidelines, Geoff’s judge imposed a split sentence
of ten months. Geoff was to serve five months at Taft Camp,
where I met him, and five months of home confinement.
Following the PSI report would come the sentencing
hearing itself. Our adversarial system of justice would require
the prosecution to present its best case for the appropriate
sanction. Then the defense attorney would counter with a case
on reasons why the defendant should receive some type of
consideration for mitigating circumstances. The episode was
like a well-choreographed and predictable script, with
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prosecutors asking for more severe sentences, and defense
attorneys arguing for leniency.
Judges presided over such sentencing hearings as a regular
function of their responsibility. They were expected to listen to
both sides without bias, and then rely upon their wisdom and
discretion to impose a sentence that was in accordance with
law. Defendants would be well served to understand the gravity
associated with the sentencing hearing.
I was well advised prior to my sentencing hearing. My
attorney told me that I could put myself in a more favorable
light through voluntary efforts to make amends. I did the best I
could, and the judge noticed.
Other prisoners I met regretted that they did not play a
more active role in preparation for their sentencing hearings.
Instead of participating at all, they stood mute before the court,
allowing their defense attorneys to express the reasons that
warranted leniency. My assessment from listening to others
suggested that defendants could serve their interests better by
taking proactive steps to demonstrate their remorse.
A good consultant could help with sentencing preparations.
Consultants could work with defendants to prepare them for
both the presentence investigation, and for the sentencing
hearing. Judges were accustomed to listening to defense
attorneys expound upon the virtues of their clients. What they
heard far less frequently were expressions of sincere remorse
from defendants themselves. Sentencing consultants could help
the defendant compile sentencing packages and coach them to
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deliver effective presentations during the hearing itself.
Following the sentencing hearing the defendant must be
prepared to encounter the prison system. Proper preparations
would ensure that he not only survived prison, but that he
thrived through prison.
My having spoken with Walt before self-surrendering truly
helped. I could identify with Walt’s background. Like I was,
Walt was a college-educated executive who had never expected
to serve a day in prison. Bad decisions led to criminal
convictions and prison terms for both of us. Since he had gone
through it all before, I found real value in speaking with him
prior to beginning my term.
I had asked my attorney what prison was going to be like.
He couldn’t answer in a way that would prepare me for the
journey. I had read a book on the experiences of climbing
Mount Everest. Yet if an aspiring mountain climber wanted to
undertake the journey of climbing the world’s tallest mountain,
he would do better to speak with someone who had reached
the peak rather than seek information from someone like me
who had only read about someone else’s experiences.
The worst parts about prison, I came to learn, were the
months of anxiety that preceded it. Those who didn’t
understand anything about life inside had a rougher go of the
initial journey. They began their terms with the misperception
that life in prison would be the same as life outside. It was not.
There were rules, both written and unwritten. Not knowing
and understanding them could lead to altercations with both
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prisoners and staff members. Those altercations could result in
longer and more onerous terms than necessary.
Some of the lessons I learned from the other prisoners
who began their terms without having a clue about prison
culture were that some lived with too many misperceptions
that were delivered through popular media, and that
inappropriate adjustments at the outset could lead to an
avalanche of problems.
The basic incoming process was an uncomfortable routine
of paperwork, fingerprints, photographs, interviews and
inspections. It was somewhat demeaning, but foreknowledge
of it all helped steel me for the few hours of discomfort. As far
as life in prison was concerned, those admission rituals hardly
mattered at all. What did make a difference, on the other hand,
was the way an individual adjusted as soon as he stepped onto
the prison compound.
Even in a minimum-security camp, everyone’s eyes would
be on the new guy. Some of the prisoners would have come
from professional backgrounds, but others would be prisoners
who had served many years or even decades of their lives
inside prison boundaries. It was best for incoming prisoners to
understand that a basic social structure existed, and those who
violated prison protocols did so at their own peril.
I was fortunate in my adjustment. I had a better
understanding of what to expect because of my conversations
with Walt before self-surrendering. Besides those informed
consultations, I met some nice people within my first minutes
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at Taft Camp. People like Drew, Arthur, and Michael helped
my adjustment.
Unfortunately, those who lacked such guidance sometimes
crossed lines from which there seemed no return. Tom told
me about his difficult journey. We had struck up a
conversation while we were in the library. Tom said that he had
worked as a computer programmer and that his conviction for
software piracy led to a three-year term. He self-surrendered to
the camp at Lompoc, but within his first week he had become
labeled the camp snitch.
Tom’s problem began in the community television room,
he said. He was watching a news program, when another
prisoner walked up and changed the channel to a reality show.
Tom said that he took a stand, asserting that he had been
watching the news. The other prisoners responded by taunting
Tom. Feeling threatened, he said that he walked away from the
television room directly to the officer’s desk and reported the
altercation.
“I had only been in the camp for a few days,” Tom said. “I
didn’t want any problems. Speaking with the guard seemed like
a better approach than accepting the other prisoner’s challenge
to a fight.”
The officer locked Tom in segregation. Tom did not want
to go, and he did not understand why the guards were
punishing him for doing what seemed like the right thing. The
prisoner who challenged Tom was also sent to segregation, and
administrators transferred the aggressor to the higher-security
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prison. After a few weeks, Tom said he returned from
segregation to Lompoc Camp. By then, his reputation as a
snitch had been indelibly etched in stone.
There were 350 inmates confined in Lompoc, Tom told me,
and he said that he felt as if every one of the other prisoners
were conspiring against him. He exaggerated, of course, but the
year Tom served there seemed unbearable. He would return
from his work assignment and find that while he was gone,
other inmates had poured urine on his pillow or smeared feces
inside his sheets. He said that he did not feel safe, as he had
enemies that he couldn’t even identify.
On two separate occasions, Tom turned himself in to the
guards for protective custody. That status meant that he was
locked inside a cell, without access to a telephone or to
recreational activities. He had hoped that the animosity would
die. It did not. Each time the administrators returned Tom to
the camp, the harassments began anew.
Tom served his first year under the difficult conditions.
Then he was successful in transferring to Taft Camp, where he
hoped to begin serving his sentence as one of the low-key
inmates who seemed to move through the prison with
anonymity. He was not so fortunate. Apparently, there were
other prisoners at Taft Camp who had been at Lompoc Camp
while Tom was a lightening rod. They quickly spread the word
that Tom was a snitch.
Writing about prison adjustment patterns would require
volumes of literature, much more space than a small book
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could provide. I served nearly 400 days in a federal prison.
Through my blog at JustinPaperny.com, I tried to record much
of my daily life. Each day of my journey, however, provided
me with enough experiences to lead seminars on the
importance of preparation.
To master the time inside prison boundaries, an individual
needed to envision how he wanted to emerge. If he could start
serving his time with that clear picture of how he wanted to
walk out of prison then he could select the adjustment plan
that would work best for him. Those who began serving their
time without a plan, unfortunately, sometimes made bad
decisions like Tom. In those cases, circumstances would
complicate the adjustment, and prison would become a living
hell.
If a person knew how he wanted to emerge from prison,
then he could set clear goals in place. Those goals should have
meaning and contribute to the individual’s overall life purpose.
Those who focused only on getting through the sentence often
found that they reached the end with an entire new set of
anxieties that would hinder their ability to re-enter society.
Thriving through prison required preparation.
Preparation began by developing a clear understanding of
the prison environment. Tom wanted others to understand
him before he had any idea of how the subcultures that
dominate inside prison environments operated. Believing that
he had to take a stand with the television led to his severe
adjustment problem. His choice may have seemed an obvious
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lack of discretion, but during the time I served in prison I saw
scores of prisoners who served difficult terms because of poor
choices they made once inside prison boundaries.
By understanding the environment, and understanding the
way he wanted to emerge, the individual could chart a course
that would lead to success. I had help. That help led me to
turning my year in prison into one of the most productive
periods of my life. I became physically fit, emotionally sound,
spiritually balanced, and intellectually prepared. As a
consequence of my adjustment, I thrived through prison, and
walked out of those gates much stronger than when I walked in.
Preparation was the reason behind my successful journey.

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 Epilogue
During those middays of spring 2008, I walked into the
federal prison in Taft with a very different mindset. I was
overweight, and I felt threatened by the challenges of the 18month sentence I was scheduled to serve. As I came closer to
the spring of 2009, however, I felt as if the Justin Paperny who
was walking out of prison was far different from the Justin
Paperny who had walked in.
Although I began with delusions that I wouldn’t make it
through, my time in prison had come to an end. In the final
weeks, I read about the severe economic crisis that was
plaguing our country and spreading. Government statistics
showed that with more than 11 million people out of work, the
unemployment rate exceeded 8 percent. Another 20 million
people were underemployed, working jobs that were beneath
their qualifications. The times were far more challenging than
when I began serving my time.
When I self-surrendered, I knew what Walt had told me
about prison, but nothing more. As I completed my term, I
knew that I would be walking into another scene of
unfamiliarity. I was returning to what I had read was the most
challenging economy since the Great Depression, and I would
have the stigma of being an ex-convict with a felony
blemishing my resume. If the unemployment rate in America
was 8 percent, I expected that it exceeded 50 percent for
people who had just walked out of prison.
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Besides the financial torrents through which I would have
to swim, I was releasing from prison to a halfway house. Once
there, I’d be assigned to yet another strange bed that had been
occupied by hundreds or thousands of derelicts before me. I’d
have to adjust to new conditions of confinement, both
interacting with and sharing bathroom and eating space with a
new group of strangers, all of whom had felonies and
challenges of their own.
My term in prison had come to an end, though three years
of what was known as supervised release awaited me. I’d met
several men in Taft Camp who were serving time because their
probation officers had cited them with violating the terms of
their conditional release. They described horror stories of living
in society with limitations that would require them to submit to
continuous scrutiny and oversight.
Regardless of what I’d heard about supervised release, life
in the halfway house, or what I read about the wicked job
market awaiting me, I was walking out of prison with total
confidence and optimism. The preparations I had made
assured me that I could navigate my way through whatever
challenges were to come. With the lessons I had learned, I felt
certain that I would thrive through all adversity. Moving
forward, I would always make values-based decisions, pursuing
happiness by keeping everything I did, everything I said, and
everything I thought in harmony.
My strength was rooted in a clear understanding of the
values by which I would live. I knew that challenges awaited
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me. They would always await me. More to come. Yet I also
knew what I had just completed. During a single year in prison
I had brought both balance and discipline to my life. Through
exercise, I worked myself into excellent physical shape. By
contemplating how I wanted to emerge from prison, I set a
schedule and work ethic that allowed me to connect with
thousands through the written word. I came to live by the
motto, “if you say you’re going to do something, you do it.”
Introspection and readings in philosophy opened my mind,
imbuing a deeper sense of purpose with which I could move
forward.
Greed and misdirection were the character flaws that had
brought me to prison. My misdeeds, my crimes as a money
manager, were symptoms or indications that I was on a course
of self-destruction, making victims of others. That was the
past; it was what got me here.
I was leaving prison with a better understanding of the
world, a better grasp of my relationship to others, and more
appreciation for the responsibilities that came with good
citizenship. Those realizations assured me that I would live
with more balance. The new foundation that had come with
my deliberate adjustment through confinement gave me a
perspective that I did not have before. I felt stronger because
of it. I knew that I could rely on my new perspective to get
there.
Yes, I would encounter struggles. So what? Struggles, I had
come to accept, were part of life. The answers were not to be
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 Epilogue
found through double cheeseburgers and online chess. I could
never allow adversity to cripple me, no matter how bad the
pain. I had to persevere, as I had learned in coping through the
loss felt with the death of my dog.
Through my adjustment to prison, I learned that I could
handle struggle just fine. I would learn what conditions or
expectations both the halfway house and probation officer
would have for me, and I would live in compliance. I would
evaluate the tough economic conditions outside. Through my
understanding, I felt confident that I could create opportunities
that would add value to the lives of others. I knew that I would
find my place in the world.
There was a lot I had left behind, and a lot had changed
during the year I had been away. Decisions I had made were
responsible for separating me from the lives of friends, family,
and community. I looked forward to proving myself worthy of
the support I received from all as I returned to society, a better
man because of my experiences.
Friendship came with responsibilities, and in making
decisions that had led me into troubles with the criminal justice
system, I had let my friends down. Felony convictions carried a
stigma, yet despite the disgrace that came with my troubles, my
friends stood by me in ways that both humbled and
strengthened me.
Whereas my business partner had gone into selfpreservation mode, hanging me in the process, my friend Sam
Pompeo stepped up to bolster my spirits. Despite the
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termination of my employment at UBS, Sam insisted that I join
his real estate practice as a full partner. He defended me to
colleagues when the Department of Justice released press
announcements that humiliated me as a felon before the Los
Angeles business community.
Sam’s friendship carried me through that tumultuous
period between my firing at UBS and my self-surrender to
prison. I needed strength then and Sam delivered. As a
consequence of his standing proudly beside me during a time
of need, I was able to grow through my confinement. The
growth I made brought me a new sense of appreciation for the
meaning of friendship. It meant more than accepting the
support that others generously gave. Friendships came with the
responsibility of reciprocating, and I looked forward to
rebuilding my friendship with Sam as I walked out of prison
boundaries.
Likewise with Brad Fullmer. Brad had been like a brother
to me since childhood. While I served my prison term, he
stood right there beside me. Despite the round trip drive of
several hours, Brad and his wife Elana visited me regularly
while I served my sentence. They wanted to ensure my spirits
were strong. I appreciated the numerous ways they reached out
to me through my journey. As I walked out of prison, I felt
stronger because of their friendships, and I looked forward to
joining them at home.
Besides my friends, I had an incredibly loving family to
which I was returning. Each member inspired me to work
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 Epilogue
towards becoming a better man as I served my sentence, and I
felt a debt of gratitude for their support.
My mother Tallie and Ken, my stepfather, and my father
Bernie, and my stepmother Ronda, served this sentence along
with me. My parents never imagined that they would be visiting
a son in prison, yet they endured the humiliation of sitting in a
room full of felons, holding and embracing me as if I were
deserving of their pride. I loved my parents deeply, and I felt a
sense of duty to live the rest of my years as a son who would
prove worthy of such support.
My family members did not deserve the shame. As I served
my sentence, I realized how many victims both my crime and
my initial response to it had caused. At first I was blind to the
widespread fallout. All I thought about was how my own life
was falling apart. While in prison, I saw the bigger picture.
By engaging in behavior that violated the universal code of
right and wrong, I contributed to a fraud that cost millions. My
actions influenced a diminishing trust in the public markets.
Family and friends had to endure the shame of reading about
my crimes in newspapers. My dear mother had to read about it
over and over while typing my daily blog entries that I sent
home. And each family member suffered the humiliation
willingly as they drove to the prison, submitting themselves to
rules and inspections in order to sit across a table from me.
On 22 January 2009, my 34th birthday, my brother Todd
and his wife Sunny brought a special gift to our family. That
was the day that Sunny gave birth to Clover, my niece. I was
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running the track on the morning of Clover’s birth, with tears
of both joy and sadness falling. I was elated to have a niece, but
saddened that crimes I had committed resulted in my not being
able to celebrate together with family on the momentous
occasion of my brother and sister-in-law’s first child.
As I concluded my time in prison, I walked out realizing
that I was returning to a loving family. That privilege was an
honor that came with obligations. I could never allow myself to
fall off course again. Instead of concerning myself with the
selfish motivations that led to so much shame, I owed a duty to
live in accordance with the principles of good citizenship.
Through this recalibration, I intended not only to prove
myself worthy of the love I had received from family, but also
to find the woman to whom I would devote my life. I was 34years-old when I concluded my prison term. The self-absorbed
life I lived prior to confinement did not suit me well for a
committed relationship. I was walking out of prison with a new
set of values, one that brought a new sense of meaning to my
life.
Whereas I had once shunned what I had presumed to be
the fetters of commitment, and sabotaged relationships
whenever I sensed a woman who was coming too close, I was
leaving prison a new man. Instead of focusing on my own
wants and desires, I looked forward to finding and nurturing a
love that would last forever. I had lived alone for far too long,
and while suffering through the loss of Honey, I realized the
incompleteness of my life.
240

 Epilogue
Besides the year I served alone in prison, those readings of
philosophy together with introspection helped me realize how
empty life was without a woman to share it. I didn’t know
where or when I would find her, though in the loneliness of my
prison rack, I thought about the woman who would become
my wife. I wanted to see her, to know her, to touch, and to feel
her. At the same time, I was glad that she was enjoying a real
life somewhere, and not suffering through my imprisonment
along with my family members I had hurt.
As I walked out of prison, I knew that my life was about to
begin. Everything I had done up until that point was in
preparation for what was to come. I had made some bad
decisions, but the lessons that had come from them, I knew,
promised to make me a better man. I was ready to live as a
good friend, a good son, a good brother, a good uncle and in
time, an excellent husband and father.
I also recognized my responsibility to live as a good citizen,
and that meant making contributions to society. Walt had given
of himself through his public speaking to universities and
businesses. Instead of allowing the disgrace to die and build a
new life, he offered his story to others, exposing himself to a
life of ridicule so that others could learn the consequences that
follow unethical behavior. Reading about such lessons could
not compare to the interactive lessons Walt offered audiences
by talking about what he had learned from his crime.
I admired Walt’s courage in telling his story to audiences
across the world, though I knew he paid a heavy price in not
241

 Lessons From Prison
allowing the past to settle. I had an opportunity to sit for an
interview that Professor Kelly Richmond Pope coordinated.
She taught business courses and the importance of ethics to
students in the graduate school at DePaul University. Kelly’s
colleague, Karen Chodzicki, joined a film crew who flew out
from Chicago to the Taft Prison Camp to record my responses
to questions. I opened up, describing the humiliating details of
my crime with hopes that others could learn from my lessons.
The exercise was part of my atonement. As I walked out of
prison, I didn’t know whether I could continue telling the story
of my shame, though Walt’s commitment to contribute to the
education of others inspired me.
I knew that I would have to find employment to sustain
myself, though I sensed an obligation to offer my experiences
to others. That was part of my redemption, and the motivation
for waking each morning before three. I needed to memorialize
all that I had learned through my nearly 400 nights as a
prisoner. The energy invested was therapeutic, and I hoped
that others would find value in the work.
In returning to my community, away from prison as a
quasi-free man, I knew that I had values to live as a good man.
As I had learned from the writings of that great American
educator John Dewey, the good man was he who, regardless of
what bad he had done in the past, was committed to living in
ways that would make society better. I was ready. My
contributions to society would come through the lessons I
could offer, and the example I would live moving forward.
242

  

 

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