Justin was released from Taft Federal Prison Camp on May 20th. He is doing well at the Vinewood Re-Entry Center in Hollywood where he will reside until July.
In the near future he will post a blog outlining his first few of weeks of freedom.
He thanks all of you for your continued support.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
It’s late Tuesday evening and I’ve just finalized my final day as a prisoner. I’ve taken my final shower, used the bathroom for the final time, and given away most of my personal belongings. I have two boxes of books that I’m carrying out with me Other than that, everything else remains behind. I’ve said good-bye to many acquaintances and wished them all well. I saw genuine joy in some faces, and in others I saw only sadness. I could relate. Many months ago, as I was beginning this term, I too felt as if my release would never come.
I had said good-bye earlier to my friend Michael Santos. He has been a huge help to me through this journey, guiding me through my writing projects and apprising me of prison aspects that only a long-term prisoner could know. His release date is not scheduled for several more years, though I will continue to draw upon his writing as I build a consulting career.
In a few more hours the guards will come for me. The feeling is light as if I am floating on some kind of cloud that is about to transport me out. For more than one year I’ve lived as a prisoner. In a matter of hours, the reverse metamorphosis will begin. Instead of changing from man to insect, I change from insect back to man. I don’t know the process exactly, but I know my time as a prisoner is nearly over.
My mother slept at my brother’s house so that they could leave Los Angeles early. I expect they’ll be waiting in the parking lot before the sun rises, as it’s a bit uncertain what time I will walk out. We’ll drive to a restaurant in Los Angeles where I’ll have a kind of reunion. My sister-in-law Sunny will bring the baby and I’ll enjoy the wonders of holding my niece, Clover, for the first time. I’ll see my brother, my dad, my step-mother, my step-father and my friends Sam and Brad. A joyous occasion awaits me in a matter of hours, and I’m as giddy as a boy on his bar mitzvah.
I don’t expect I’ll miss being a prisoner, although I will miss some of the people I’m leaving behind. I met some staff members who treated me with courtesy, and I met many prisoners from whom I learned. This is it for me, however, as I just heard the guard call my name.
My next report will be as a man of the world.
Tags: Home!
Monday, May 18, 2009
As I was growing up in Encino I had a core set of values that permeated my character. I worked hard, I studied hard, I was loyal and honest, and I was disciplined. Those values contributed to my enjoying a wonderful experience as a student athlete.
Upon graduating from USC, I entered the world of money management As a stockbroker, I lost my way. The values that characterized my adolescence yielded to the power of the dollar. I pursued commissions with a focus that blinded me at times to the type of person I was becoming.
In my book Lessons From Prison, I contrast the choices I made with those of my close friend, Brad Fullmer. I admire Brad for the work ethic that drove him. Following high school, he was drafted in the second round by the Montreal Expos. We stayed close through the many years he played and we are still close now. One of the virtues I admired most in Brad was his total commitment to his fans and his career. He worked as hard during the off season as he did when he was slugging through the 162 games of baseball. I understand that few people live with the type of discipline that Brad embodied. Unfortunately, many lose their way, as I did. In the months to come, I intend to speak with students from across the Los Angeles area with hopes of inspiring them to lead value-centered lives. Brad has agreed to join me on some of those speaking engagements to help contrast his life of discipline with the consequences that followed my poor choices.
While we were growing up together, Eric Sondheimer, a reporter for the Los Angeles Times, covered the young athletic careers of Brad and me. He wrote about high school athletes, and we had the privilege of making his acquaintance while he covered us at Montclair Prep. I know that Eric has many relationships with high school administrators and it is my hope that will help open some doors for Brad and I to speak.
Tomorrow is my last full day at Taft Camp. I’m enthusiastic to bring this phase of my journey to an end. I will eagerly work to contribute to the lives of others, and show all of the lessons I’ve learned from prison.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
I heard many people complaining that yesterday was their worst day in prison. With only a few more full days to serve, I can handle just about anything. I understand why yesterday felt so miserable for so many people.
For one thing, the temperatures have climbed to the triple digits. That’s not too surprising for this time of year in the Central Valley of California. What made the conditions worse, however, was the lack of air conditioning. The Taft Prison Camp is a modern facility, built sometime in the 1980s. It has an excellent HVAC system, though the city or the county was performing some maintenance work in the area. The administrators at Taft cooperated by turning the electricity off before 7:00 A.M. and leaving it off until around 10:00 in the evening. The buildings felt stifling without the air and to compound the discomfort, administrators locked many of the common area rooms in the housing unit. As prisoners, we understand that we’re not entitled to explanations. The disruption to the day resulted in many disgruntled inmates.
I coped okay with the sticky feeling of sweat on my skin and the extra noise in the housing unit. I spent a lot of time reading, writing and talking with a friend. By nine I lay on my rack and that was uncomfortable but not unbearable. It’s just that I’m used to climate control. Without air conditioning in this concrete shell of a building that is packed with 120 prisoners, sleep did not come easily.
Then came the worst event of the day. As I was sleeping, the honking sound of the fire alarm began blasting. Strobe lights were blinking in the dark unit. Then the guards walked through yelling, “Everyone out! Get up! Outside! Move it.” They didn’t stop. One guard was banging on a garbage can. I was wearing only boxers. I put my shoes on and joined every other prisoner from Taft Camp and walked outside at midnight. In a building of concrete and steel, I didn’t know why a fire drill was necessary at midnight. Nevertheless, we stood outside for 30 minutes before the guards permitted us back inside. My body was still sticky from the heat.
Not too much longer, I reminded myself. In fewer than 100 hours, I would be out.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Each day I learn more fascinating stories that describe why people come to prison. Sometimes these stories shock me, and sometimes they bring me sadness. I identify with white-collar offenders because I know what it is like to live in total disbelief that anyone in our society can consider us criminals.
This morning I had breakfast with a distinguished, well-spoken gentleman. The man’s name was Sebastian, and it turns out he was an internist from Los Angeles. Sebastian had just self-surrendered to Taft Camp with a 40-month sentence. He said it could have been less but his attorney had not counseled him on how sentencing guidelines worked. He did not understand that he could have received consideration by cooperating early, nor did Sebastian understand the importance of the presentence investigation. Better guidance of the federal prison system, he said, may have resulted in a lower sentence. Nevertheless, Sebastian expressed total composure and said he was at peace with his imprisonment.
I admired Sebastian’s equanimity. Most of the men I’ve met or interviewed expressed a real bitterness when they were saddled with sentences that they felt were longer that they deserved. Sebastian told me he was at peace because he said that he had no shame in the crime he committed. Faced with similar circumstances, the good doctor told me that he would do the same thing again.
When I asked Sebastian about his crime, he said that he was doing what he was trained to do. He administered medicine and helped people with their health issues. His clinic served a clientele that lacked insurance coverage. They were poor people, he said, but decent people who had been patients of his for years.
Cutbacks in social funding programs rendered many of his patients ineligible for sufficient medical coverage to meet their needs. Pharmaceutical companies inflated medication costs, and Sebastian’s elderly patients lacked alternative funding sources. The doctor said he treated the people for free, doing everything within his power to alleviate pain for as many of his patients as he could. He submitted bills for lab tests and pharmaceutical medication to Medicare, however, and by improperly certifying the expenses as within policy, Sebastian was guilty of health care fraud.
“I knew what I was doing and I accept the consequences. In fact, I’d do it again. That’s what I do. I’m a doctor.”
His composure reminded me of Henry David Thoreau. Sebastian was a selfless man and he said he’d rather serve a prison term for helping people cope with illness then deny them treatment because of a bureaucratic rule that he deemed unjust. If the government wasn’t wasting so much money on prisons, he said, more funding would be available for medicine. I learned some new lessons from Sebastian. The lesson of humility.