TGIF

It's Friday evening around 4:30, just after our dinner of chicken lo mein, which in fact more resembled mushy spaghetti with peas. I'm torn about whether or not I should be looking forward to the weekend. The days between Friday and Monday, with few scheduled activities, definitely tend to drag. But I am so tired from this work regimen they're putting me through that all I want to do is drop.

I spent my day hoeing, raking, pushing wheelbarrows and hauling rocks. Don't ask me why, but of those, raking is my favorite. With raking, I'm able to zone out in a zen-like trance: rake, rake, rake rake; it's somehow relaxing. The other tasks are just hard work, plain and simple. To keep my spirits up, as I do them I tell myself that I'm getting a lot of exercise. Too bad I hate to exercise.

This camp is not called a "work camp" for nothing. The place is based on work and prisoners constitute almost all the labor. Without us, the place would quickly grind to a halt. There's an entire 800 acre dairy farm all staffed by prisoner-farmers (poor cows), there's the Air Force base where all the menial tasks are performed by prisoners, there's the groundsmen and the dishwashers, the orderlies and the laundrymen. The list goes on. There's even a prisoner at the beck and call of the commanding officer. Until we are assigned permanent jobs (after jumping through a bunch of silly bureaucratic hassles) we'll continue with the landscaping. I'm hoping for a job that leaves time for writing.

As may be expected in a system predicated on forced labor and a pay rate of approx $0.05 per hour, prisoners are not the most energetic workers. We're dedicated to doing our time with a minimum of effort, although there's no way way around the fact that hoeing, shoveling and the like are all very hard jobs. I was raised to work hard so struggle here with my inner drive to do a good versus the pressure from other prisoners to do as little as possible.

The entire system reminds me of the communist system in place in the Soviet Union and the early years of post-Soviet Russia in which workers, hired for life, received a pittance but could never be fired. The result? Everyone tried to do as little as possible. Same thing here. There's absolutely no incentive to exert yourself. What're they gonna do? Raise your pay to $0.06 per hour? There are some who try to work hard out of an inner work ethic, but they are held back by the other prisoners, who don't want to be made to look lazy (even though they are).

Perhaps that is too cruel - I'm not sure even the most intrepid workplace manager would be able to motivate this distinctly un-motivated work force.  The goal is to do as little as possible for as short as possible a period of time. If you think about it, after all, the camp represents a system of indentured servitude where you have men working in what is essentially a system of forced labor at commensurate rates of pay doing work - farming, distribution, land management, landscaping - that should and could be done by the private sector.

Well, enough thoughts of work for a Friday afternoon. Let us now turn our thoughts to the two glorious days of loafing that await. TGIF.

Greetings from Camp Cupcake

Note to readers: I'm sorry for the delay. There was some mix-up with my funds and I couldn't access e-mail (which, alas, does not come free in prison) until yesterday. But never fear: I've been diligently scribbling my thoughts with a tiny nub of a pencil in a yellow legal pad. Although I'm now on Day 7, I decided that at least for the first few days I'll give you a stream of consciousness directly from my journal about my thoughts and feelings. So without further ado, here we go with Day 3:

Day 3

This is my first real diary entry. Days 1 and 2 were just too scary and disorienting. I also lacked money for the commissary, so spent my time scrounging for scraps of paper and pencil nubs to scribble down my thoughts. What I ended up with were a few unintelligible pages of random thoughts:
  - this place sucks
  - how am I going to survive 2 years here
  - I'm going to run away

Stuff like that. You get the idea. I've basically been a walking zombie (for that I can possibly also blame the one-two punch of caffeine and nicotine withdrawal). 

To recap from memory and the snippets of jumbled scribbles: my mother drove me here, to this place affectionately called Camp Cupcake, two days ago to self-surrender. When we saw the place, she broke down and I had my first real second thoughts. It's not that the place appeared from
the road to be sinister or evil, but if you saw it you would most definitely not want to go there. The road to the complex fronts a barren field of dried grass edged by barbed wire. Squat gray buildings hover in the distance alongside a guard tower. My mother had to catch a plane so I sat on the trunk of a Eucalyptus tree across the street, staring at this place that would be my home for the foreseeable future. I couldn't imagine living there. Not even for a day.

There are actually three separate prisons here: Camp Lompoc (i.e., Camp Cupcake), the prison camp which I now call home, a low security prison and a medium security prison. The latter two are probably more what you think of when you think of prisons. Depressing places with marching guards, barred windows, yelling in the hallways, the clang of steel doors. I know this because I checked in at the medium - it's a dismal, dark, scary place.

Well, what can I say?  It took all the effort I could muster to stand up off the stump and walk down the long road to the prison. Self-surrendering is strange - as if you're voluntarily reporting for your doom. Finally, I entered the gate and told the frowning guard I was here to self surrender.

"ID please," he grunted.

"What? ID? Sorry. I didn't bring any." I thought I was suppposed to arrive with nothing but my body.

"Sorry, can't surrender without ID," he said.

"But, but..." I explained my situation - no ID, mom already left with my wallet, no way to get it back. He pointed to a metal bench. I sat there for about an hour before another guard arrived. Apparently they decided to let me in. Lucky me!

The man glared down at me. "Flip flops?" he asked. "What were you thinking? Don't you even know how to check into prison? What is this world coming to."

I didn't know that flip-flops were not allowed. I followed him silently to a concrete barrier and a gate. "Fire in the hole" the guard screamed. I jumped as a concrete and steel door slid open. To my right as I entered I saw a thick plate-glass window of a holding cell. Leering faces (mostly black and brown, I feel compelled to add) pressed against the glass stared out at me. One man, a tall, bald-headed gent, raised his fist, stared at me and banged the glass. Another flicked his wrist at me in some kind of sign (don't ask me what it meant).

"Oh no," I thought. "Please don't put me in there with them."

Thankfully, the guard led me to another cell, a tiny space with bars on one side, an open toilet on the other and nowhere to sit. "Won't put you in with the baby killers," he said. He then handed me a tiny pen and a reaf of forms. "Can you read?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Fill out what you can," he said.

I leaned against the concrete blocks and began to write. The first question? "Who to contact in the event of death." In my first act of minor subservience, I left it blank. I'm not planning to die around here.

My hands shook. A few minutes later another prisoner was led to the cell. We stared warily at each other. He didn't look too intimidating - a gray-haired man of about 60. A few minutes later another arrived: a barrel chested, huge-muscled young man. We focused on our forms and didn't speak, each of us nervous and wary of the others.

And so went my first hours at prison. I'm out of allotted time so will carry on tomorrow where I left off.

Original Post Date 5/11/14

A Long, Long Time

When I wrote this previous post way back in March, I comforted myself on the length of my sentence by telling myself that it was not that long, that I would get out quite some time earlier. I engaged in various contorted feats of mental subtraction: 50 months minus 12 months for drug program minus 6 months for good behavior (assuming, of course, that I behave). The month or two ahead of me before I had to report to prison also helped: it seemed an eternity of freedom, so much time that I could effectively put my sentence out of mind.

Now I'm asking myself: where has all the time gone? The months since sentencing flew by in an instant. Less than a week remains. I thought I was ready, that I'd prepared myself mentally. But now I'm not so sure. I'm not scared, really. A bit nervous, yes. But mostly it's just hard to wrap my mind around the fact that I'll be spending the next several years locked behind bars.

The truth is, as I approach my surrender date, my sentence is starting to seem like a terribly long time. It's hard to imagine an entire year behind bars, let alone almost three.  When I think back three years, to 2011, it seems like a different eon. In that period of time I've moved from Moscow to Israel to Wisconsin to California. I've held three different jobs, lived in different apartments, adopted a dog, bought and sold a car or two, seen my kids on their vacations, traveled to Greece, watched my savings dwindle to nothing, quit drugs. I've been charged and convicted with a crime and traveled to court in San Francisco three times. In that amount of time I lost my life as I knew it and slowly rebuilt a new one. It seems a very long time, filled with trauma and heartbreak but also joy: reunions with my family, the satisfaction of rebuilding a broken life.

Maybe because the past three years were so chock-full of experiences, both good and bad, it's hard to imagine spending the next three years locked up in Lompoc. I can't help but think to myself that by the time I'm set free we'll have a new president. My boy, who's now finishing 1st grade, will be entering 5th. My daughter will be in high school. I'll be closer to 50 than to 40; gray hair will have replaced blonde.

I suppose I'm hitting on the great punishment of prison. It's not so much the loss of freedom or profession or prestige, although those losses do hurt. It's not being labeled a felon for the rest of my life. What's worst is the loss of time. Time, after all, once lost cannot be regained. It's a precious commodity, the backbone of our lives. It's a finite resource that should be treasured and valued but is often taken for granted. And now a pretty big chunk of that time has been taken from me. It feels like a big loss. I no longer take time for granted. It's mine, damnit, and I want it back. 

This, come to think of it, is the reason I'm so determined to make something of my prison experience, not to waste my time. Because by doing something - writing, blogging, reading, exercising - I'll be able, to an extent, to reclaim the time that's been taken from me, the time that I've lost. Of course I won't be spending my time entirely as I would have otherwise. I won't be with my kids every day, or working to support my family. Things once lost cannot be entirely regained. 

It's tempting to wish for a Rip-Van-Winkle experience, where I close my eyes on May 5 and only open them again when I'm walking back out through those iron gates. If someone told me tomorrow that they could push a pause button and put me into suspended animation for the next three years, I'd actually be tempted to accept. But that would be a waste. If I do it right, I can make something of that lost time, reclaim it and make it mine. The very worst thing I can imagine would be, three years from now, to look back on my sentence as a complete and total waste of time. If that happens, I will have lost and "they" will have won. I'm determined not to let that happen.

Throw Away the Key

As I've written many times before, I broke the law and deserve punishment. I don't deny that. I also understand that incarceration serves various purposes: punishment, retribution, deterrence, reform. In my case, the judge recognized that I had made amends for my wrongdoing, suffered as a result of my crimes and was unlikely to repeat them. Instead, he based his ruling on the importance of societal deterrence. In other words, he reasoned, if I were not imprisoned, than others might think that crime, in fact, does pay. Makes sense, right? After all, if our society did not punish wrongdoers, where would that leave us? 

But if I were a taxpayer - which I no longer am - I'm not so sure I would be happy with the government's obsessive focus on punishment through imprisonment. Punishment can - and should - take many forms, forms designed to fit the criminal and fit the crime. Instead we take a one-size-fits-all approach, a primitive approach informed by the old adage: lock 'em up and throw away the key.  

Let's take my example, not because I am somehow emblematic of the problem, but because I know it best. First the facts in favor of punishment. I committed a theft, that theft was complicated, sophisticated and wrong. Despite the fact that the wrongdoing took place overseas, I broke the law of the United States. In layman's terms, I stole a shit-load of money from a man with an even bigger shit-load, spent it on crazy luxury goods, and got caught red-handed. 

On the other side of the ledger: I have no criminal record, lived a law-abiding life leading up to and following my wrongdoing, am not violent, have small children that depend on me for their wellbeing, was not at risk of a repeat performance, and was succeeding in making amends for the wrongs I committed by working hard to repay the oligarch. 

This was, in essence, the argument that played out at my sentencing hearing, with the prosecutor arguing one side and my lawyer arguing the other. Now that sentencing is over and we can look back at the whole thing with some dispassion, I am curious where other people stand on the question of what punishment I deserve. There are no right or wrong answers here. That's what makes criminal justice so complicated. But since I have the bully's pulpit I will tell you what I think. I hope that you will weigh in with your views. 

First off, I will tell you the truth: compared with the other losses I collectively suffered as a result of my wrongdoing - loss of my family, my career, my savings, my reputation - imprisonment is a trifle. Really. These other losses were the true punishment of my wrongdoing, the true deterrence. They are the most vivid examples to me and, I suspect, to others, that crime does not pay. 

Because of this, I believe that the judge's decision was faulty: societal deterrence was not at issue, not really. What rational person, after all, would risk losing their children, their livelihood, their reputation for the hope of some ill-gotten cash? My example already serves as a deterrent without the added bonus of imprisonment. Imprisonment here is just the icing on the cake. Unfortunately, it is icing our government is unable to resist. Instead of focusing its resources and using them wisely, the government slathers icing on every cake that comes along. The result is both expensive and wasteful. 

When I think that our government will be spending $40,000 per year just to lock me up, it seems like such a terrible waste of resources. And my example is not even the best. What about all the hundreds of thousands of prisoners serving lengthy time for selling an ounce of pot? Or those who do not belong in prison at all but a mental institution? Like me, up to 80% of prisoners suffer from some form of drug addiction. Prisons have become our overpriced, inhuman solution to too many of society's ills. 

In our society, we have children living in terrible poverty, entire families who in the best case scenario could only hope for maybe one-fifth of that amount - if that - from the government to help them survive. My imprisonment, quite literally, is taking food out of the mouths of children. In an age of limited resources, how do we justify that?

My view - and, yes you could say it is somewhat self serving - is that we should at least try to tailor the punishment to fit the crime: real, valid alternatives do exist. In my case, I truly believe that a thoughtful, tailored, cost-effective punishment would consist of some form of home confinement or halfway house living, close monitoring, careful restrictions, and the requirement that I both work and devote a large proportion of my earnings toward restitution. Studies show that such an approach costs anywhere from 50-90% less than prison and is just as effective. The simple fact is that I am worth more to both society and the victim as a productive member of the community. Instead, society will be supporting me.

I'm not arguing for some pie-in-the-sky abolition of imprisonment. In my view, it will always be necessary to incarcerate certain people - those who have committed violent crimes or are otherwise truly a danger to society. Even for some particularly serious white collar crimes, such as that committed by Bernie Madoff, prison may be expected and demanded as the only fitting punishment. But in our age, mass imprisonment is old fashioned, ineffective, overpriced and obsolete. Imprisonment should be the nuclear option, reserved for violent criminals who are a true danger to society but is, unfortunately, currently the default option for almost all crimes. For the non-violent criminals who make up the vast majority of our prisoners, the prisoners like me, like low-level drug offenders, what is so wrong about a solution focused on halfway houses, ankle bracelets, close monitoring, drug testing, rehabilitation, treatment? Such punishments are deterrent enough.

That's not being soft on crime; it's being smart on crime. Can we truly, as a society, be unable or unwilling to implement an approach that is in all our best interests?  I have more faith in our country than that. If the NSA can monitor all our e-mail, after all, we should be able to track, control and rehabilitate our non-violent felons, not with bars and barbed wire, but with ankle bracelets and treatment.

My Community

Think about your life, what is important to you, how you spend your time. If it is anything like mine, it is focused on a close circle of friends, family, neighbors and co-workers: happenings on your block, in your town, at work. If you have kids, as I do, add school and homework and your kids' friends and activities to the list of how you spend your day.

Pretty simple. 

Of course, social media has allowed us to keep in better touch with far-flung friends and family. But when you get right down to it, most people's lives even in this day and age are basically local, focused primarily on what is close at hand: on their community, in other words. It is simple human nature: we want what is important to us to surround us. Setting aside the fact that I am involuntarily separated from my children by 6,000 miles, and despite the fact that I spent much of my life abroad, my life is, and always has been, mostly local. My community, by choice, has always been close at hand.  

Thoughts of what is important to me - friends and family and children: my chosen community - have been on my mind a lot lately. I've been struggling against the thought that I am about to lose them, lose my community, when in fact that is not the case. I will be separated from them, yes, but it's not as if I'm falling off the face of the earth. 

Thoughts of my chosen community set me to wondering about how I will react to my new involuntary community, my prison community, will be like. Will it be like moving to a new town? Will I make friends? Will I assimilate? Will my life behind bars take such precedence in my thoughts and concerns that I will no longer even look toward the outside world, toward my real community? 

I understand from former prisoners with whom I spoke that this is an issue - the issue of where you belong, how you fit in, what you care about - with which many inmates struggle. As in all aspects of life, your immediate surroundings exert an inexorable force over daily life, over what concerns you, what you focus on, how you spend your time. Assimilation - fitting in - is essential, of course. Standing apart in doomed defiance from any community is a recipe for disaster. But where do you draw the line? It's a real conundrum; one for which I do not have an answer. This is an issue I know I will struggle with; in fact, I'm struggling with it already.

While I understand that some degree of "fitting in" will be the magic key that opens the door to a successful experience (and yes, I do think of my time in prison as an experience that can be successful), I feel a tremendous resistance toward letting my prison life become my focus, my "real" life. I'm not exactly sure why this is. In part, I suppose, it feels as if doing so would be some sort of defeat, an acknowledgment that the system somehow got the better of me. Assimilation also seems to suggest that I will, in a sense, be letting down my real, permanent community - my friends, my family, my children - by letting my new circumstances, my temporary community, become my focus. I want to focus on what is important to me over the long run, and that is most definitely not my fellow prisoners or life behind bars. 

All communities have some mix of good and bad, hopefully more the former than the latter. Unfortunately, and perhaps not surprisingly, the prison community seems to be the reverse: quite a bit more bad than good. I hear about aspects that I know I will really just not like: the onerous rules, the unjust prison hierarchy, the need to be constantly on your guard, the race relations that seem to guide much of life behind bars. Can it really be the case that I should not speak with someone just because he is black or hispanic? The very fact that this will be a primary consideration in this new community of mine grates against certain fundamental beliefs. In real life, if I found myself in such a situation, you would find me on the next U-Haul out of town.

Maybe it's this aspect - the very involuntary nature of the prison community, the necessity of passively accepting it without question or comment - that makes it so difficult to accept, that encourages me to resist. There's no U-Haul out of this town, no town-hall meeting where you can speak up. I know that I need to get beyond that, to accept the community as my own. I've done it before, when moving to a new country with foreign ways and customs. I know I need to find a balance that I can be comfortable with between my temporary community and my permanent one. I know that a successful stay through assimilation is not only in my interests but in the interests of my chosen community. But I suspect that it will be a struggle, a struggle that may very well play itself out on the pages of this blog. 

Boxers or Briefs: Starting Over Down the Line

Devoted readers may have noticed that for the past several days I've been writing about things other than yours truly: The Last Mile, Prison Camps, other people's mistakes. I'm not sure if that makes for better or worse reading - I haven't received comments on that either way - but for me it's a good sign. It means that I am thinking about other things - my newfound cause of prisoners' rights, other people's problems - and not myself. 

I'm afraid that readers of this blog may have the wrong impression, the perception that I'm some angst ridden navel gazer. That's actually not the case. At least not usually. Although I'm introspective and empathetic, more often than not I'm content if not happy, focused on others more than on myself, loathe to draw attention to myself. Most of the time, I actually smile and even laugh. As I already wrote, narcissism comes with the territory of becoming a felon, but it's not my normal - or preferred - state of mind. 

Lately, in fact, I've been feeling pretty content out here in the eternal sun, focused on doing what I can for my family's return - which consists mainly of putting Ikea dressers together - and hanging out with relatives over bagels and lox. But every once in a while something happens - usually something tiny - to bring me back to reality.

Today, for example, I received a less-than-friendly call from my friends at American Express. Though they apologized profusely for botching my name, I could tell that I was not exactly at the top of their favorites list. That led inevitably to memories of their calls of a very different sort - begging me to sign up for a Platinum Card - just a few short years ago. Now, I'm not yearning for the dissolute part of my past life - the drugs, the thievery, the materialism. Nor am I focused overly much on material things. But it was nice to be able to pay the bills. 

Then, later this afternoon, as I stared down at a pile of dirty clothes, I was struck by the thought that soon I will have no use for them. Should I just throw them away, I wondered, or wash them and stash them away in someone's back closet? That led to a question that I do not know the answer to: do they give you underpants to wear in prison? Do you have a choice between boxers and briefs?

For some reason, when I do find myself thinking about my situation, the thought of prison appears to me as a void, something to endure. Rather than think of that, I seem to magically transport myself to that happy day two or three years down the line when they open the gates and set me free. But for some reason, when I think about that moment, I don't feel happy at all. I feel worried. What worries me is that I'll be starting over. From scratch. With nothing. 

I think of coming out back into the world with not a penny to my name and not even a can opener or pair of flip-flops in my possession. When I left high school for college the thought of starting out was exciting. I remember buying my first bottle opener - a fancy bunny model - and how happy I was over a choice well made. Not any more. Over your lifetime you tend to accumulate enough things that it becomes difficult to start over again from nothing. As my possessions dwindle down toward zero I wonder whether I'll have it in me at the age of 46 to do it all over again. I know I will, because I have to, but the thought is intimidating and at least a little bit scary. I pride myself on my self reliance. I don't like to ask others for favors or help. But I see that day down the line where my survival may depend on it. I truly hope that's not the case.

It's strange, when I think about it. Here I am, facing prison in a month or so, and what seems most scary to me is not prison itself but what comes after. That's not to say I won't be counting down the days and hours and minutes for that longed for day of freedom. The hope and anticipation of being back together with my kids again is way too strong. But I've been a lawyer for almost half my life. Not that I loved it but it was like a crutch, a way to make a decent living that I happened to be good at. Now that is gone. My savings are gone. My dog is gone. Even my bed is gone, off to some deserving home. 

Let me stop before this dissolves into self pity or pathos. I know I will survive. I always have. Maybe I'll even thrive. I've done that before too. My family still depends upon me and I have some skills - writing for one, nuclear physics, for another - that no one can take away. 

So before I cue the melodramatic music let me say for the record that all will be well. But I can't help but wonder - with a bit of excitement but a bunch more trepidation - what the future holds. 

Go Directly to Jail

Well, I have news.  And, unfortunately, it's not good.  

How I wish I was telling the world, as I have at various times in the past, that I'm the proud father of a new baby, or that I married my sweetheart or that I published a novel.  But no.  Not today.  Today, my news is bad.  Thankfully, I don't have cancer, nor is a close family-member sick.  News related to death, dying and sickness is always the worst.  But among the various sorts of non-medical bad news, this is about the worst that I can think of.  Worse than getting fired, worse than divorce.  Worse - dare I say it? - than having your dog die.  In fact, my news ranks right down there with a burning house or a broken leg.  Come to think of it, I'd actually rather break my leg. On a good news scale of one-to-ten, my news is about a zero.  One if I'm generous.

Sorry, I didn't mean to drag this out, especially since I already more-or-less gave the news away in the title. But now that it's time to announce my news to the world, or, in any event, to my own limited readership, it's surprisingly hard to say.  It's bad, it's embarrassing, it's pathetic.  If I had a rock to crawl under, I'd be doing it right about now.  But here in sub-zero Wisconsin, all I've got are snow drifts.

So here goes....Scrunch up my face, open my mouth, force the words from my throat:  

I'm going to jail.

There.  Putting it in tiny type helped a bit.  As did the fact that, for me anyway, writing is easier than talking. But it was still hard.  The truth is, I can hardly believe it.  I know it's true but it seems like a bad dream, like I'll wake up and it will all be gone.  I'm not saying I'm exceptional, or that I don't deserve punishment.  But as bad as it sounds to say, I always thought of jail as a place for someone else. Which, come to think of it, is probably what most convicted felons say.  Or wish.

The announcement is not exactly cathartic.  I didn't really expect it to be. But I decided to put it up here for all to see as a way to, at the least, come out from the cave I've been hiding myself in.  My friends and family all know already anyway and telling them was much harder than writing the news in my blog.  I sprung it on them as a wonderful Christmas/New Year's present. Now they are diligently drafting me letters of support, telling the judge that, despite my misdeeds, I am still a good person.

In this post I am not going to discuss my crime or my punishment.  That's all for later. But I do want to emphasize that my crime was a nonviolent one, committed while I was a lawyer in the Wild East (Russia) for a notoriously corrupt oligarch.  That said, it was still a crime, a federal felony no less.  And I in no way intend to try to justify myself or blame others.  To paraphrase Popeye: "I yam what I yam and I done what I done."

Going public is actually not for me, although to keep myself honest I pretend that I'm writing a personal journal. I've been hiding away from the world in shame for far too long. By pretending all is well I realized I was doing a disservice. My true and abiding hope is that through honestly sharing my experiences, I may be able to prevent someone, sometime from actually committing a crime. I don't overestimate the influence I will have, but even if just one person questioned their actions as a result of my mistakes I would have brought some meaning to my senseless crime.

I don't intend to leave you hanging.  Or not for long anyway.  In coming posts, I will chronicle my experiences as I wend my way through the criminal justice system and face my punishment.  Let me take you along with me on a vicarious trip I hope you will never have to take and have not taken before. In fact, by writing I hope that I can prevent at least one person from taking this very trip.  All you criminals out there: please read my blog!!!

There are several moving, heartfelt blogs out there written by ex-cons (several of which are listed in the favorite sites link on my homepage), but, maybe unsurprisingly, the thoughts and experiences of this population are underrepresented on the internet.  As an eternal optimist, I decided to try to make the best of a bad situation and use my gift for writing to chronicle my journey.  In so doing, I  hope that maybe I can open hearts and minds, and raise awareness of important issues related to incarceration and the criminal justice system.  I hope too that I can help others going through the same thing as me. Being labeled a felon can make you feel awfully alone, upset and confused. Knowing that you're not the only one out there can be of some comfort.  As I've already said, I also hope that maybe my writing will deter others from following in my footsteps. My experience?  It's not worth it.  Crime doesn't pay.

As I like to say, just because I did a bad thing doesn't mean I'm a bad person.  Unfortunately, we as a society are often too quick to categorize, placing people into baskets of good or bad, worthy or not worthy. I hope that I am able to bring some subtlety to the topic, to open a few eyes, and to further debate.

I'M GOING TO JAIL.  

There we go.  I said it again.  No turning back now.  

Welcome to My Relaunched Blog

Dear readers,

Welcome to my relaunched blog.  While I originally focused on writing for the aspiring writer, the twists and turns my life has recently taken convinced me that I have more to contribute by honestly discussing my criminal past and incarcerated future.  I will take you, my readers, along on this journey with me in the hope that you will never have to go where I am going or that, by reading about what I have done, you may live an honest life and avoid my fate.  

I have finally overcome the overpowering temptation to withdraw from the world, to hide in shame from what I have done.  Society automatically labels felons as bad, unworthy people. I used to agree.  But now that I find myself on the other side of the fence I realize that, though I may have done wrong, that does not, automatically, make me a bad, unworthy person. So I am now coming out, coming clean. 

I anxiously await all your comments, criticisms and contributions.  Blogging is a two-way street after all.  My ultimate goal is for this blog to serve as a forum for those facing prison time, those already serving time, and the families of defendants and felons.  It is a difficult process for all concerned when you or a loved one becomes a defendant in the criminal justice system or goes off to jail.  Regret, remorse, fear, separation, rejection, despair: these can be overpowering emotions. Please write.  I will consider guest posts and will make as many comments as possible available for public view.

You may be wondering about the name of my blog, Diary of a Wimpy Con.  The fact is, I'm a mild-mannered wimp, a regular, unassuming guy - hence the name of this blog.  While the prospect of prison terrifies me, it should be interesting for readers to follow my progress and learn how a meek, gullible guy manages to survive in prison. In my several remaining months of freedom I plan to post on my experiences with the criminal justice system, discuss my wrongdoing and delve into my thoughts and feelings during this difficult time. Once in prison, the focus will shift to my life behind bars.  

As you may know, prisons are still in the dark ages when it comes to technology. This project would not be possible without the help of a devoted family member who has graciously agreed to manage this site, post my missives and forward me comments.  I may continue to post on writing and the writing process but those posts, to avoid imposing on my family member's offer, will be less frequent. Those posts will be available on the blog under my pen name devoted to writing: elidahle.blogspot.com.  

I look forward to hearing from you. Please also provide your e-mail so that you can receive my posts as they occur.

Leigh