Hosoi

by Christian Hosoi

  On one hand, things look good; on the other hand, the prosecutor isn’t having any of it. He objects, saying that I’m a danger to society and that in any case we should wait until the law on minimums is settled. The judge tells him, “Look, you do your job; I’ll do mine. I’m gonna give him what I’m gonna give him.” When the judge gives me downward departures for post-offense rehabilitation, the prosecutor goes nuts, shouting, “We object, your honor!”

  The prosecutor argues that post-offense rehabilitation is supposed to be for extraordinary circumstances. The judge then addresses everyone in the court, asking, “Has anybody in this courtroom—have you, sir,” speaking to the prosecutor, “ever had a sheriff write a letter on an inmate’s behalf?” The prosecutor is silent as the judge reads such a letter that came for me, and he says, “I think this is an extraordinary circumstance.”

  Bottom line, I get points down—court lingo for specific items that count toward a reduced sentence—and I’m now facing only seventy months. Including the time I’ve already served, that means only three and a half more years. After just a year, though, I get a letter saying that the prosecutors have appealed my case and had it overturned. Again, it looks like I’ll be doing the entire ten years. Ironically, I tell my wife nearly the exact same thing she said to me in that first prison phone call: that God has a plan, and that he’s in control and we have to trust him. Maybe God needs me in prison for a while to help some people.

  Around that time a lawyer calling himself David Goldstein contacts me. Goldstein says he can help with my case by qualifying me for what, in the sentencing world, is called safety valve. This would untie the judge’s hands regarding length of sentencing. All I have to do to qualify is get my earlier misdemeanor drug charges set aside. I’m thinking, Sick, we’ve got a chance. I tell Myles Breiner about it, and he’s like, “Yeah, this sounds great.”

  But first things first: it’s time to get baptized. In prison you don’t just find some water and get dunked; everything there has to be done in an orderly fashion. You have to sign up. Somehow I missed out when the list first came around, and now they say I’ll have to wait until the next time, or I won’t get a certificate of baptism. I’ve been cooperative in every way, but not this time. Now I say, “I don’t need a certificate; I’m getting baptized right now!” I’m the last person in the tank, but I make it. I jump in and get dunked as a symbol that I’m dead to myself and alive in Christ.

  I’ve made a lot of progress in my faith, but that couldn’t have happened without great mentors. One guy I’m blessed to have as a mentor is Bill Kennedy. We’re an odd pair for sure. He’s an older gentleman, in his fifties, and nothing like the skaters I grew up with. While we were on our skate-and-destroy street missions, he was a conservative and successful businessman. Still, we hang out all the time at Nellis; rules are laxer there, and we walk to chow together, pray together, walk to the movies or church, often talking about spiritual matters.

  Bill says this about our time in prison together:

  WE WOULD MEET FOR ALMOST AN HOUR EACH DAY. THEN I WOULD GIVE CHRISTIAN MEMORY VERSES AND HE MEMORIZED THEM ALL. HE WAS SO STEADY AND ALWAYS THE SAME, NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENED. YOU COULDN’T TELL BY LOOKING AT HIM IF HIS SENTENCE HAD BEEN INCREASED OR REDUCED. I MISSED HIM WHEN HE WENT BACK TO HAWAII. THEN WHEN I HEARD THE MIRACLE, THAT HE WAS GETTING OUT EARLY, I WAS AS HAPPY FOR HIM AS IF IT HAD BEEN MY OWN DAY.

  Bill has been in prison for eight years by the time I get to Nellis and meet him. Prior to that he ran a big company. Somebody cooked the books and he took the rap for it. He was told to lie on the stand to convict somebody the DA wanted in prison. He refused to lie and got twenty years because of it. He’s one of the people in prison who doesn’t belong there, but he serves his time patiently and with dignity.

  I tell Bill about the lawyer who has contacted me about safety valve. He warns me, saying, “Christian, you’ve gotta be careful. There are con artist lawyers who will take your money and run. Make sure this guy’s for real.” He asks the lawyer’s name and I tell him David Goldstein. Bill doesn’t say anything at the time, but he does suggest that I have my attorney, Myles Breiner, check him out. I call Breiner and say, “Make sure this guy’s legit.” He calls Goldstein and gets back to me, saying, “Oh, he’s totally legit,” confirming that Goldstein is okay. My family pays Goldstein $5,000 from money that’s been donated to us by my mom’s friend Tevis. A week later, the FBI informs Jennifer that the lawyer who has taken that money is actually named Harold Goldstein, not David Goldstein. Turns out Harold Goldstein isn’t so legit after all.

  Goldstein has taken our money, and now he’s been busted for running a scam. On the phone Jen’s crying, asking, “What are we gonna do now?” I tell her, “Our first lawyer”—this is before she jumped to her death—“is friends with people at the court right there in Orange County, where my misdemeanors happened. Call up and see if she can get my charges dismissed, as Goldstein suggested.” Jen calls her and discovers that the woman is still practicing law. She does right by us this time, getting the judge to sign off on everything. Now my priors are all set aside and dismissed, leaving me eligible for safety-valve sentencing.

  We send everything to Breiner and he’s like, “Done! You’re gonna get safety valve, no problem!” So we’re back up again, optimistic, right? Yes, but only temporarily.

  I’m flown back to Hawaii to face court again, and the adventure continues.

  Traveling on a plane as a prisoner is kind of a trip. You’re in the back row, cuffed to a waist belt next to a marshal who’s guarding you. The Hawaiian marshals take one handcuff off so you can eat and drink, but they won’t allow you to have Coke or coffee or anything with caffeine in it. (I guess they’re afraid you’ll get all hyper on them.) The L.A. marshals don’t take a cuff off, but they let you have caffeine; you have to eat by leaning down toward your food because of the waist belt holding your wrists. The Hawaiian marshal lets me have a Coca-Cola. It’s the first one I’ve had in years, and man, is it good.

  I’m in the courtroom for resentencing and my lawyer’s like, “Great news! You’re gonna get released, Christian.” My mom has flown out to Hawaii from the East Coast, and my dad is already there, of course. They sit with Jen.

  My lawyer makes a motion to release me right then, but the judge says he can’t do that. The judge considers his paperwork and says, “Looks like everything is dismissed and you can get safety valve; I’ll give you extra points down.” Looking at my attorney he says, “I’ll give him forty-one months.” I’m thrilled! That’s a lot better than the seventy months I was assigned in 2001.

  The prosecutor objects like crazy, saying he’s been on leave and hasn’t had time to prepare a case against me. The judge is clearly leaning our direction, but the prosecutor asks for more time. The judge grants him a week. During that time one of my cell mates, a guy who frequents the law library, finds a case law saying that set-aside and dismissed cases can still be used against defendants in federal court. I know that the prosecutor will find that case law if he has a week.

  I go back to court at the assigned time, and the prosecutor’s sitting back in his chair, kicked-back style, looking cocky. I know he has something. My lawyer, on the other hand, enters the courtroom with a downcast look. The prosecutor then offers the very case I was hoping he wouldn’t find and argues that my priors can’t be expunged.

  The judge wants to release me, but there’s only so much he can do. He tells us all to come back in two months’ time for another appearance, at which time he’ll hear from both sides and render a judgment. In the end an entire year will pass before I return to get sentenced again.

  During the intervening months, my lawyer tries to convince the prosecutor that he should give me credit because he’s going to testify against Harold Goldstein, the attorney who ripped us off. Breiner used to be a DA himself, and seventeen years earlier he worked with the guy prosecuting my case. The two of them are talking, shouting, battling it out, trying to out-lawyer
each other with how much they know about the law. Neither one of them will budge. My lawyer comes back, sits next to me, and says, “Christian, you didn’t turn anyone in. Now they’re going to use you as an example.”

  My attorney tries to get everything expunged but there’s no way they’ll do it. Another year passes before I return to get sentenced again. Right before I go back to court, I call my wife and it sounds like she’s jumping up and down, ecstatic over something. “They’re giving you credit for your lawyer and us helping with the Goldstein case,” she shouts. My lawyer filed a bad-faith motion. Once the DA receives it he agrees to give me credit.

  MIRACLE ON JUDGMENT DAY

  We’re in the courtroom again, finally, and the DA agrees to reduce my sentence. He wants me to be taken down only three points, though—which is equivalent to about thirty-six months—which means I’ll still do another year. Not bad, considering I’d been looking at four more years. The judge says, “Yeah, okay, I know the law says downward departures aren’t applicable here, but I’m gonna read them off anyway.” He reads all the downward departures that he tried to give me the first time, and he reads one of the letters from a sheriff again.

  It also states in my file that the arresting detectives called me a courier, or a mule. The judge says, “That right there says he’s not in a manager’s role, so that’s another point down.” The prosecutor isn’t happy with any of this, but to my surprise, he doesn’t object. The judge proposes that everything be applied to my case and he asks the prosecutor how he pleas. He stands up and I’m thinking, Of course he’s gonna object. To my surprise, he says, “No objection, your honor.” I look back at my wife as I hear the judge then conclude, “That puts you in the fifty-six-to-seventy-month bracket.” He says, “I’m giving you fifty-six months.” He looks down and reads something, then says, “It looks like you’ve served fifty-seven months already, plus six months good time, so you’re already seven months over.”

  My lawyer requests that I be released from the court right then. The judge replies that I’ll have to be processed out, which will take a few days. Nonetheless, I’ve gone from sitting in the courtroom thinking I’m gonna do a few more years, to heading home in a few days. Nobody can believe it’s happening, but I know that God has a plan.

  Two days later—June 4, 2004—they kick me out the prison door. My lawyer drives me straight to his office, where I meet up with Jen. I squeeze and hug her, and kiss her like never before. My dad is there also, and so is Block, filming it all for his upcoming documentary on my life. Jay Adams hands me a Big Mac. That’s something you can’t have when you’re in prison, and it tastes unbelievably good.

  I had done an interview with Sports Illustrated earlier that year, and it comes out right as I’m released. My attorney has the magazine in front of him. He opens it up to my story and says that the prosecuting attorney wants me to sign it for him. Despite our differences, I do: I write, “God bless you; thank you for everything.”

  That night my wife and I eat sushi and begin our honeymoon. What a night! I felt like a virgin all over again. The first full night of our life as husband and wife! The next day I go to a Honolulu skate shop called APB. They set me up with a board and I skate a park in Hawaii Kai with my original skate heroes Jay Adams and Shogo Kubo. Jeff Hartsel, a friend I met years ago in Hawaii, is also on hand. This is a day I’ll never forget!

  JUST RELEASED HOURS AGO. SUSHI DINNER WITH (LEFT TO RIGHT) MY LAWYER, MYLES BREINER; JENNIFER, MY WIFE; BLOCK; ME; AND CHUCK KATZ. HOW STOKED AM I?

  JEN AND ME. HOSOI FAMILY COLLECTION.

  I’ve had a bad knee for a while and I haven’t skated for four and a half years. I’m not sure how I’ll do, but when I get on that board it all comes back. I just roll into the park, do an axle stall over the bowl, and drop right into a rock ’n’ roll. I pull into a layback, then I ollie up these gaps. Dang, it’s unreal to skate again, especially being clean and sober. I’m not 100 percent, but in a short time it’s almost like I never stopped.

  Skateboarding is awesome, but the best things in my life have nothing to do with it. It’s all about my family and spreading the love and joy of my faith. I’ve learned a lot about ministry in prison, much of it from my mentor in Nellis, Bill Kennedy. Bill had a hunch all along that the attorney calling himself David Goldstein was really Harold Goldstein. He didn’t tell me that right away, however, because he had a feeling that God was telling him not to say anything about it. What he did was right, as it turns out, because if he’d said anything about the guy or if my lawyer had found out the guy was crooked, I would have done the whole time and wouldn’t have been released for years.

  SECOND DAY OUT. FIRST SESSION. HAWAII KAI SKATEPARK. © CESARIO “BLOCK” MONTANO.

  AN UNUSUAL SUSPECT

  One of the unlikely suspects God has used in my life and in the lives of thousands of others is the actor/producer Stephen Baldwin. He’s one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met. His family is big-time in the Hollywood scene, and Stephen was on his way up in the film world when he got saved. Not long after his salvation he attended a Christian festival where he saw skaters doing a demo. That’s how he got the idea for Livin’ It, a DVD where he tells God’s story through skateboarding. That all happened while I was in prison, where I heard talk of it in its early stages.

  Turns out Stephen and I know a lot of the same people. One of them is our friend Marcos, who grew up with me going to clubs and break dancing. It’s cool how they supported me when I was in prison, showing up together at a fund-raiser for me, on Harleys. Stephen came to one of our fund-raisers when I was in prison, and he met my wife there. Stephen and I had been aware of each other for a long time before that, though—since long before my drug use got bad.

  I’ll let him tell you the story of how he first got to know me:

  I WAS A “SIDEWALK SURFER” AND TOOK A SKATEBOARD EVERYWHERE WITH ME IN MY YOUTH. AROUND 1987 I WENT TO L.A. TO KIND OF KICK IT WITH MY BIG BROTHER, ALEC. HE INVITED ME TO ONE OF THOSE SEEDY HOLLYWOOD INDUSTRY PARTIES. WE COME TO THE DOOR AND I BUMP RIGHT INTO WINONA RYDER AND ROBERT DOWNEY JR. MY BROTHER INTRODUCES US, AND THEY’RE LIKE, “OH HEY, WHAT’S UP?” I’M LIKE TWENTY OR TWENTY-ONE, AND DOWNEY’S GIVING ME THE TOUR. HE SAYS, “DUDE, COME WITH ME. I REALLY WANNA SHOW YOU SOMETHING FRICKIN’ CRAZY.”

  HE LEADS ME DOWN THE HALLWAY UNTIL WE GET TO THIS ROOM WITH FLUORESCENT LIGHTS AND MAHARAJA MUSIC PLAYING. I LOOK IN AND IT’S LIKE THE MAHARISHI, THE GURU OF THE BEATLES, WITH HIS FOLLOWERS. THERE’S THIS DUDE SEATED UP AGAINST THE WALL IN RIPPED JEANS, A VEST, AND NO SHIRT. HE’S GOT LONG HAIR DOWN TO HIS WAIST AND THERE ARE LIKE SIX GORGEOUS CHICKS ON EITHER SIDE OF HIM. WE TIPTOE CLOSER TO THE DOOR AND ROBERT WHISPERS, “DO YOU SEE THAT DUDE?” AND I WHISPER BACK, “YEAH.” HE GOES, “DUDE, DO YOU F--KING KNOW WHO THAT IS?” I GO, “NO,” AND DOWNEY REVERENTLY SAYS, “THAT’S HOSOI.” THAT WAS MY INTRODUCTION TO CHRISTIAN. DOWNEY CALLS OUT, “DUDE,” TO CHRISTIAN, AND ALL OF A SUDDEN CHRISTIAN TURNS HIS HEAD MAYBE A CENTIMETER AND NODS A LITTLE BIT.

  I WOULD BE AT PARTIES WITH HOSOI TWO OR THREE TIMES A YEAR AFTER THAT FOR THE NEXT FIFTEEN YEARS. WE KNEW A LOT OF THE SAME PEOPLE, BUT I NEVER REALLY KNEW HIM AT THE TIME; HE WAS JUST THIS COOL GUY HANGING OUT AT THE BEST PLACES.

  MY JOURNEY OF FAITH LED TO MY GETTING INVOLVED IN A SKATEBOARDING MINISTRY. IT WASN’T LONG AFTER THAT WHEN I HEARD THAT CHRISTIAN HAD BEEN BUSTED. IN SMALL TALK SOMEBODY SAID, “IT MIGHT BE COOL TO GET A COPY OF OUR LIVIN’ IT VIDEO TO CHRISTIAN IN PRISON.” I HAD A WEIRD INTUITION THAT THERE WAS A CONNECTION THERE. I SOUGHT OUT JEN AND TOLD HER I WAS A CHRISTIAN GETTING INVOLVED IN A SKATEBOARD MINISTRY AND WANTED TO SEE WHAT GOD MIGHT DO WITH CHRISTIAN AND ME TOGETHER.

  IT’S LIKE A HOLY SPIRIT THING. I CAN’T EXPLAIN IT; I JUST KNEW I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE THERE. CHRISTIAN AND I HAVE SIMILAR HEARTS AND SIMILAR PASSIONS TO HELP CHANGE THE YOUTH CULTURE WITH THE GOSPEL.

  In the first week after I get out of prison, Stephen flies to Hawaii to visit me. I’m staying at my aunt Kuipo and uncl
e Dennis’s house, and he moves in with us for a while. Everybody’s wondering, What’s Stephen Baldwin doing here? We are strategizing on how we can do skate ministry. Since then I’ve participated in several outreaches with him, and we’ve seen tens of thousands of people give their lives to Christ as a result.

  I’m using my faith in other ways too. A few weeks after my release, my family and I fly back to California. I’m invited to participate in a big stadium outreach called the Harvest Crusade. The organizers have requested that I skate a ramp for their event at Angel Stadium in Anaheim. Skate a vert ramp in front of forty thousand cheering spectators! What could be better than that? Even the flight to California is awesome—no marshal, no shackles, no handcuffs.

  Once I finish the demo, the MC asks me on the microphone how it all feels, and I say, “Man, it’s awesome to be free in Christ!” The crowd just goes off, and I feel a tremendous rush of love.

  It’s kind of like the old days where I skate to the roar of the crowd, only this has a deeper meaning. While I was high for all the demos I did in the years just before prison, this time I’m not high or scanning the crowd for girls to hook up with. And I feel real love pouring in from everyone. But the love I feel on that ramp has nothing to do with my performance on a skateboard. It’s a love that anybody can have, offered freely to winners and losers.

  FIRST SESSION. ME WITH MY FIRST MENTOR, SHOGO KUBO, AND POPS HOSOI. HAWAII KAI SKATEPARK. © CESARIO “BLOCK” MONTANO.

  ALL ’80S ALL DAY VERT CHALLENGE 2008: ME, LANCE MOUNTAIN, AND TONY HAWK. © CESARIO “BLOCK” MONTANO.