113. Earning Freedom (2.1) with Michael Santos Prison Professors

I’m reading from chapter 2 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term
For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com
Month 13 The court paid my public defender, Justin, to represent me after I cut ties with Raymond.  Now that I’ve been sentenced, however, I’m without much access to legal counsel.  Justin will prepare a direct appeal, but he won’t be available to help me understand how to navigate my way through the 45-years I must serve.  I don’t even know what that means and I wonder whether the judge really intends for me to languish in prison for longer than I’ve been alive.
Unlike the federal time that I’m serving, most of the other prisoners in my housing unit at the county jail face problems with the State of Washington’s criminal justice system. From those men I learn that all 50 states maintain their own criminal justice and prison systems, with different rules and legal codes. As a federal prisoner, I have little in common with them.  Still, by listening to the more experienced prisoners around me I become familiar with concepts like “parole” and “good time.”
The federal prison system is in transition, abolishing parole and significantly reducing the amount of good time possible. Since my convictions stem from crimes I committed prior to the date of the new law’s enactment, I’m part of the old-law system where parole still exists. Still, the statute under which I stand convicted, “the kingpin statute,” is one of the few crimes under the old law that doesn’t qualify for parole eligibility. Of the 45-year sentence that my judge imposed, I’ve learned that I’m only eligible for parole consideration during the final two years of my sentence, the portion imposed as a consequence of my perjury conviction.  Still, it’s all very confusing to me and I don’t know how many years I’ll actually serve in prison.
To pass time I read legal books in the jail’s law library.  From those books I understand that a good-time provision under the old law authorizes prison administrators to reduce my sentence if I remain free of charges for disciplinary misconduct. Still, according to calculations I make on a piece of lined writing paper, regardless of what I achieve in prison, I’ll serve more than 26 years.  That doesn’t make much sense to me, as I didn’t have charges of violence or weapons, and only consenting adults were involved in my crime.
The length of my sentence doesn’t haunt me as much as Lisa’s legal issues. She’s now in Miami, where she receives more family support while her lawyer works through the best possible plea agreement.  The entire situation is a mess I’ve created. I try to comfort her during our nightly telephone calls even though I’m powerless to protect her.  Our only connection is on the phone, but the conversations we have don’t seem to be enough.
I ask her to pray with me, but she always snaps back “I don’t want to pray, Michael.”  It stings as if she’s slapping me when she uses my name instead of a more endearing term. “You’re supposed to get me out of this mess,” she says.
“I’m trying, Lisa. I’m trying. No matter what happens though, we still have each other and with God’s help we’re going to get through this.”  I’ve never been religious, but during these traumatic times I find strength through prayer and I want her to join me.
“How?” she wails. “How do you think we’re going to get through this if you’re in prison and I’m in prison?  How is God or prayer going to help us through that?”
“You’re not going to prison, honey. God’s not going to let that happen. I can feel it. The judge sentenced me to far more time than everyone else, and I’m sure he slammed me with all the time he intends to hand out in this case. It’s over.”
“That’s not what my lawyer says,” she argues through tears. “He told me I could get five years. Five years, Michael! I can’