144. Earning Freedom (13.1), by Michael Santos Prison Professors

Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term, by Michael Santos
Chapter 13.1
Going to the SHU at Lompoc Federal Prison Camp
 
2007
Months 232-233
 
It’s Wednesday, April 18, 2007 and our family is making excellent progress.  While Carole studies for the final exams to complete her first semester of nursing school, I’m finishing the writing projects that I began with Lee Nobmann’s sponsorship.  Despite the six years of prison that I have ahead, I’m making progress, living a productive life, and that makes all of the difference in the world.
While work at my desk, the door opens. I see Mr. Dorkin, a guard who joyfully equates harassing men in minimum-security camps with protecting the homeland. It’s 2:00 in the afternoon when he interrupts my typing.  Dorkin’s a guard I avoid, and I don’t like seeing him in this space that I consider my sanctuary. He has a reputation for annoying prisoners, and now he is annoying me with his glare.
Mr. Brown, my supervisor, stands behind Dorkin, and I get the sense that something isn’t right. Dorkin is grinning. “Santos,” he commands. “Stand up, take your hands off the keyboard, and put them behind your head.”
Not a stranger to these orders, I comply. Dorkin puts his big hands on me. He pats my chest, my waist, and then runs his fingers along the inside of my belt. He pats each of my legs, swiveling his two-handed grip down each leg to my sneakers, then he inserts his finger between my shoe and ankle.
“Would you prefer that I take my shoes off?” I ask.
“There’ll be plenty of time for that. Just keep lookin’ straight ahead.” Mr. Dorkin orders. “Okay, drop your hands. Put ̓em behind your back.”
He unsnaps one of the leather pouches of his black belt and removes the cuffs. The familiar sound of clicking metal teeth follows cold steel closing around my wrists. I wonder when such intrusions into my life will end, if ever.
“What kind ̓a contraband am I gonna find in here?” he asks.
“I don’t have any contraband,” I state unequivocally, wondering what this moron wants with me.
“Gee. I’ve never heard that before,” he says sarcastically. Then he spins me to the door, grabbing the chain between my handcuffs to steer me toward it. “Let’s go. Move it.”
Dorkin marches me down the hallway and out into the sunshine where I see a white Dodge Intrepid waiting. He opens the car’s rear door and, with his palm on my head, he pushes me into the back seat. He straps the seatbelt over my waist and then slams the door shut. I look through the tinted window at Mr. Brown, relatively certain that this will be the last time I see him.
Through the black metal mesh separating his seat from mine, Dorkin taunts me. “Got anything to say, Santos?”
I continue staring out the window, immune to his heckling. “Take me wherever you’re taking me and do what you’ve got to do.”
“That’s the way you wanna play it?” Dorkin uses his authority like a weapon and he’s accustomed to having an effect on prisoners. When I don’t respond, he scowls because I’ve spoiled his game.
Silently, I watch as we pass through the eucalyptus and pine trees. Although I don’t know why I’m being harassed this time, I’m pretty sure I won’t be seeing Lompoc Camp again. At the double gates that lead to the Special Housing Unit, Dorkin pulls the radio from his belt, brings it to his mouth says: “Got one for SHU.”
The gates open and he drives inside, parks in front of a second gate, and turns off the car. Another guard walks toward the car and opens the back door.
“What we got here?” the new guard asks. “Another genius from the camp?”
“Ten-four,” Dorkin says. “Lock ’im up. Captain’s order.”
The guard orders me out of the car, gripping the handcuffs behind my back as I scoot off the backseat and exit the vehicle. He steers me through the gates and into the building, then deeper inside the windowless, concrete maz