I laughed when she asked me why. “ ‘Due to safety and security reasons, no cameras or recording equipment will be permitted . . . ,’ ” I said. I had it memorized. I told her I’d been given no further explanation. She said she would ask again—and she said that they were committed to telling my story, either now or after I was released.
I called my mom to tell her about the latest developments. She didn’t answer that day or for the next several days. I finally reached her friend Kimberly and found out that Mom had been hospitalized with pneumonia. Apparently, she had forgotten to close the doors to her house at night a couple of times and she nearly froze to death. I felt panicked. She should not have been living alone anymore. I wanted to be with her and comfort her—but I could do nothing.
- - - -
Fall turned into winter. I was still running hard, even with the temperatures dropping. In fact, the colder it was, the better I liked it because not so many guys were outside. My workout group stayed strong and committed and kept logging miles. I kept teaching classes, cleaning the pool table, trading for vegetables and fruit, giving speeches at Toastmasters, taking naps, and reading as many books as I could get my hands on.
Of course, I didn’t want to be here. Loss of freedom was a terrible thing, but I took a strange comfort in the deprivation. No rent to pay, no food to cook, no grass to mow. I was sent to prison as punishment, but I would survive it, damaged in many ways but stronger in others. But so many others were caught in the blast. My family was being punished. The charities that I had raised millions for were being punished. The taxpayers footing the bill for this monumental waste of time were being punished.
Before I had arrived in West Virginia, I assumed that I would most need to fear the inmates, but in fact, the prison staff presented the most cause for concern. Some of them were fair and decent, but many of them seemed to view their job as an opportunity to make lives miserable.
One CO I knew only by his nickname, Johnny Cash, called me into his office when I was in the middle of a visit. This had never happened before so I was surprised to hear my name being called.
Cash was leaning back in his chair with his feet on his desk. He held up a pill bottle and said, “I found hydrocodone in your locker and I’m sending you to the hole.”
I stood motionless. I had absolutely no clue what he was talking about, but I knew this was serious. “There must be some mistake. Why were you in my locker anyway?” This was maybe not the best question to ask, but I couldn’t help myself.
“I’ll go in your goddamn locker anytime I please. In case you hadn’t noticed, you are an inmate. Now I want you to tell me about the narcotics I found.”
I lifted my hands in an I-have-no-clue-what-you-are-talking-about motion.
He yelled, “Are you trying to hit me?”
I was speechless. CO Harvey, another guard who was there but had been silent until now, chuckled.
Johnny Cash tossed the bottle to me. “Here, take your stupid stomach pills back. But don’t forget, I can set you up anytime I want. Now go enjoy the rest of your visit.”
They had taken a bottle from my locker that contained two antacids and used it to screw with me. They were still laughing as I walked out.
- - - -
As the holidays approached, visits slowed down. People were busy with their lives. Many friends sent cards, but I could tell they didn’t know what to say. I didn’t blame them. Hallmark didn’t have any Have a lovely Thanksgiving in the hoosegow! or Enjoy your incarcerated Christmas! cards.
My mother was back home but still recovering from her illness and couldn’t travel. I did have a visit from Brett and Kevin just before Christmas. Kevin was still doing well, but Brett’s downward spiral was continuing. I could tell that he was uncomfortable sitting in front of me, knowing that I knew what he was doing. But I didn’t want to use my only time with him for a lecture, so we just ate crappy food from the vending machines and talked about Carolina basketball. We quoted way too many Austin Powers movies, with Brett saying to Kevin, “I knew you were crazy, but now I can see your nuts.” We laughed so hard that the CO on duty told us to quiet down. Kevin leaned over to me and said, “What’s he going to do . . . kick you out of prison?”
It was a good visit but I wanted more. I wanted to feel as if I were their dad, as if what I said mattered. I wanted to be a part of their lives—not just someone they joked around with. After they left, I recalled a conversation that I had with Chris Justice not long after I reported to Beckley. He had told me not to expect too much of my family and friends. He said that their early enthusiastic support would eventually fade. The letters and e-mails would slow down. The visits would become less frequent. But, he added, this was not necessarily a bad thing. It meant they were living their lives and not spending every day worrying about me.
“Don’t make your family do your time with you,” he had said.
I told myself it was selfish to want more. Brett and Kevin had to go on without me for a while longer. They were giving me what they could.
- - - -
Christmas arrived, and as a present to myself, I decided to run a marathon that day—and for the next eight days. Howell, Ashe, Bootsie, Eric, Patrick, David, Adam, and at least a dozen more guys joined me off and on. Mostly, I ran slow and steady, but on New Year’s Day, I went after it to see if I could break three hours. I finished in 2:58.
In mid-January, my dad came to see me. He maxed out the visit by arriving at 9:00 a.m. and staying until 3:00 p.m. We talked about the case the entire time. Dad was still so angry. I thought I was, too, but when I searched inside myself, I simply did not find the same rage anymore. Staying angry made it difficult for me to sleep and impossible for me to think straight. I had to let it go to keep my sanity. Sobriety had taught me that bitterness was nothing more than self-inflicted poison. I had to survive prison on my terms. Acceptance did not equal agreement. Fists up wasn’t the only way to fight.
With strong encouragement from my father, I filed a Rule 33 motion asking for a new trial. While my other filings covered a broad spectrum of issues, this filing was based primarily on Brady material. We contended that the prosecution knowingly withheld exculpatory information from me. The prosecution never disclosed that they were investigating other people who might have been directly involved in falsifying and forging my loan applications. To put it mildly, this was a serious violation of the rules of justice.
I had been in prison for about a year, with only six more months to serve. The thought of having to endure a new trial was akin to having my testicles twisted in a vise, not something I would normally volunteer for. I wanted justice; I wanted to see my conviction overturned—but I had seen what the justice system did to people who fought them. My sentence was nearly over. What if a new trial got me five years . . . or seven . . . or more? In so many ways, I just wanted to move the hell on with my life.
My workout group shrank and grew as some guys got out and others came in. Shorty was released in late March. He didn’t even say good-bye. I started to see that everybody in Beckley would get out someday, but that Beckley—like prisons everywhere—would always be full. There was no correction, no rehabilitation, only humiliation and overcrowding and neglect—and, most likely, lasting damage.
- - - -
In mid-April, I was called into my case manager’s office. John Carter was a retired Marine and a disciple of Johnny Whacker, so I avoided him. Usually he called me in to tell me I needed to complete some course or sign some paperwork. But on this day, he had some good news: he was issuing me my release date from Beckley.
On June 20, I would be headed to a halfway house in Greensboro, he said. I’d be given five hours to report to them, and I would be there for two months unless they released me to direct home detention. I thanked him and left his office. What I didn’t tell him was that I was considering turning down the halfway house and serving my last tw
o months at Beckley. I had a plan: I wanted to run the two hundred miles from Beaver, West Virginia, to Greensboro—back to my life.
One evening in late April, I called Brett’s cell phone. I just wanted to hear his voice. He picked up the phone, and as soon as I said hello, he confessed he’d been doing hard drugs for six months—“mostly heroin.”
My heart dropped. I felt nauseated. I didn’t ask questions. I was afraid of what else he might admit—and I knew prison ears were listening. The line went silent for an unbearable instant.
“But, Dad, I’m going to rehab.”
A family friend had found a ninety-day drug rehab for him in Baton Rouge, and my father had said he would pay for it. As Brett spoke, his voice gained strength. He had been at the bottom and now had a solution. I recognized the relief and optimism he was feeling. I was so grateful that my friends and family had stepped up to help him. I knew it would not be easy—but at least I was sure that for the next three months, Brett would be safe.
I had always known Brett and I are a lot alike. We both want desperately to please and to be loved. We are sensitive, and when things go wrong, especially when we disappoint the people we love most, chaos follows. Hurt feelings become a catalyst for destructive behavior.
It was so hard to pull back from that place, especially when you felt wounded, too. Much easier to say, “Screw it! I’ve already fucked up so much that I might as well get high and escape to a better place.” After all of these years, I had learned that wasn’t the answer, but Brett was young and vulnerable and didn’t yet understand that what looked like a bunker was actually a bottomless pit.
“I’m proud of you, Brett.” I tried not to let my voice crack. “I’m here for you.”
The hollowness of that declaration killed me. I wanted to be there for him. If it would have helped my son, I would have walked out the door, crossed the yard, and bushwhacked off this mountain to be with him—and faced the consequences later.
But I had to stay rational. Brett’s decision to go to rehab made it clear what I had to do. I would leave Beckley on June 20 and go to the halfway house in Greensboro. If I stayed in prison just so I could run home, some grand gesture for my own satisfaction, I’d never forgive myself if something happened to Brett or my mother in those two months when I could have been close to home.
I told Howell my plans. He understood. His own mother had passed away a few months earlier, and his request for a furlough to go to her funeral was denied. I watched him suffer through losing the most important person in his life and agonize over not being there with his family. I knew I couldn’t risk that.
With my departure date less than eight weeks away, I suddenly had a long list of things to do. I told my workout group that I would soon be leaving. Before any of us got teary, I warned them that they better not slack off after I was gone.
I had answered ten to fifteen letters a day while I was in prison—and I had saved every one. Many of them were from people I had never met—sober people or those who were still trying to find sobriety. Some had written to me dozens of times since my arrival. Now, with my departure approaching, I wanted to make sure I answered every letter I had left to reply to—and let people know that I was getting out and that they could reach me by e-mail.
In the midst of my preparations to leave, I received a letter from Kimberly saying that Emory University wanted to archive my mother’s life work: plays, articles, interviews, everything. I was elated that Mom would get the recognition she deserved, but saddened that she probably wouldn’t comprehend what an honor that was. Kimberly said we would wait to box up Mom’s writing until she moved into a care facility.
That same week, I also received a large envelope in the mail—the answer to my latest appeals. Based on Howell’s assessment and my dad’s confidence, I was optimistic that I would at least be granted a hearing in front of a judge allowing me to present the newly discovered evidence. I opened the envelope and scanned the letter. Not only was no hearing granted, but we were also chastised for even asking the court to consider such a thing. The judge felt that we had not proven our case and even implied that we were wasting the court’s time.
It was time to let it go for now, to focus on the future. I was lucky to have a job offer from my old friend Steve Lackey, who owned Endurance Magazine, in Durham, North Carolina. He had offered to hire me as a writer and to help develop some ideas he had for events. I also had a place to live, thanks once again to my amazing, loyal friend Chip Pitts, who had agreed to let me move back into his guest room, knowing that I had no idea when I’d move out.
On May 1, I was allowed to leave Beckley for an appointment in town. I had been bothered by groin pain for several weeks, and Doc thought I had a hernia. My request to see a doctor had finally been granted. I rode to the local hospital in a van, sealed off from the driver by a metal wall. I peered out the window and marveled at a world that I had not seen for fourteen months. I glimpsed a woman grabbing a towel out of her backseat before heading into a tanning salon, kids on playground swings, a dog riding with his head sticking out of the car window, a pretty woman with sunglasses in a convertible, her hair flying back. There were hotels, grocery stores, restaurants, gas stations, and people—people in normal clothes, doing normal things, coming and going, free to do as they pleased.
I was allowed to sit in the waiting room with no handcuffs. I had on my prison greens, but nobody seemed to notice. This was a prison town and West Virginia was a prison state, so the people who lived here were used to seeing this uniform. A nurse even offered me a cup of coffee and I eagerly accepted—after my prison escort nodded his approval. The coffee was weak but still fantastic—my first cup of non-instant in fourteen months. I considered asking if I could go to the hospital cafeteria for a bite to eat, but I didn’t think they would accept stamps as payment.
The doctor confirmed that I did indeed have a hernia. He looked at his schedule and said he could work me in for surgery in October. I thanked him and told him I was headed home, but that I appreciated the diagnosis. He wished me luck, and in his voice I heard kindness and concern.
- - - -
On June 1, the New York Times ran a second column by Joe Nocera about my case. Once again, he told my story and expressed his disbelief that not a single top executive at any of the firms that nearly brought down the financial system had spent so much as a day in jail. “For whatever inexplicable reason, prosecutors really wanted to nail Charlie Engle. And they did,” Nocera wrote. I was grateful that Nocera once again acknowledged my plight, but whereas his first article had given me hope, this one made me feel anxious. Despite all the evidence, I no longer had any hope that my conviction would be overturned.
On the same day, I spoke to Dad and he told me that a film crew from NBC’s Rock Center planned to be in front of the prison waiting for me when I walked out. I hurried to end the call; I did not want the Beckley eavesdroppers to know anything about a camera crew. Dad and I continued the conversation through e-mail, using a kind of secret code. I told him to be careful and not to get me in trouble—or get himself arrested.
- - - -
My last few weeks at Beckley passed surprisingly quickly. I stayed busy reading, teaching addiction classes, working out with my group—preparing to say good-bye to my friends. I never expected to make real friends in prison. Unlike the closing of other chapters in my life—graduations or relocations—these good-byes felt final. I could not have contact with them again, even after they had been released. I suppose this rule was meant to prevent ex-cons from conspiring to commit new crimes, but the result was that many guys walked out of prison without a single person to talk to. It gave real poignancy to that last handshake. What could I do but say, “Good luck. Have a nice life”?
As anxious as I was to get out, I realized a small part of me was going to miss the simplicity of life in prison. Here there was only good and bad and worse. Nothing was hypothetical. I
faced few decisions. When I first got to Beckley, I had heard guys talk about how much less complicated life was in prison than on the outside. Now I understood what they’d meant. Still, I had no desire to come back. I was ready to face complications.
As my release day approached, I felt my hunger—for all things—returning. I was hungry for love, starved for adventure, ravenous for freedom. I wanted to gorge on fresh tomatoes and sweet corn, devour art and movies, race through the woods.
In prison, my insides had been scraped out, the sludge of my ego washed away.
Who would I be when I left this place? I believed that I would be the absolute core of who I was supposed to be, and all the space around that core would be filled with love and truth and humility and simplicity and passion. I knew that eventually my ego would catch up and climb back aboard, but I didn’t plan to let it drive.
CHAPTER 14
Throw roses into the abyss and say: “Here is my thanks to the monster who didn’t succeed in swallowing me alive.”
—FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE
I walked out the prison doors and saw my dad. He greeted me with a hug and a Venti Starbucks triple-shot mocha with whipped cream. I wasn’t sure what I was more excited about. I was allowed five hours for the four-hour drive to the halfway house in Greensboro. I wanted to stop and eat, but not until we had crossed into North Carolina. I had had enough of West Virginia. Since my clothes were stored at Chip’s house, I had asked him to pack a bag for me and give it to Dad. I changed in the car, loving the feel of my own shorts and T-shirt.
A camera crew from Rock Center had been on the prison grounds, waiting to film me leaving Beckley, but officials got wind of it and sent them away. One of the crew called my dad’s cell phone and asked to meet at a rest area to interview me there. Technically, I was on a “furlough” and prohibited from talking to any media. I had signed a form agreeing to that. While I had certainly bent a few rules at Beckley, I decided that it was best not to take chances now. I said no. Once my time in the halfway house was completed, I could do as many interviews as I wanted.
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