Book Exerpts - Life Saving Lessons - the diary of a white collar criminal

Excerpts from the book, Life Saving Lessons - the diary of a white collar criminal

By Jerome Mayne

"First Day of Prison"
(This entry is in the form of a letter to Pamela)

November 5, 1999

Dear Pamela,

I’m really here. I’m actually writing to you from the federal prison in Yankton, South Dakota. It’s only
been about 18 hours since I last saw you. I miss you so much. It’s so hard to believe. I’m really here.
In prison. Prison. I want you to know that I am okay. It’s scary, but I really am okay.

It’s quite a bit different than waking up next to you. I’m guessing you didn’t sleep too well, in our bed,
without me either. I just can’t believe it! Me. I’m actually in prison. By the time you get this letter, I’ll
have made it through about four nights. Hopefully, I’ll have slept by then. You too.

As I lay in my bed on the plastic mattress and the plastic pillow, I couldn’t help thinking about the events
that led me here. No one could’ve predicted that five years ago, when I met Milt, or should I say Brian
Paar, I would wind up getting convicted of conspiracy to commit mail and wire fraud and receive a 21-
month prison sentence. I can’t stop thinking about everything: getting arrested, spending 25 grand in
attorney’s fees, losing my company, house, cars, business associates, friends, and finally spending
my first night in prison.

Another prisoner in here was nice enough to lend me this paper, his pencil, this envelope and a stamp
so I could write you this letter.

After you and my mom dropped me off yesterday, they took me to a small concrete building called R &
D, which stands for Receiving and Discharge. They did the same things the FBI and the U.S.
marshals did when I was arrested 11 months ago. They took my finger-prints, and they also took my
picture again for my prison ID. They took my clothes and my bi-polar medication I had in my pocket.
This letter is probably going to reach you before you get the box with my clothes and shoes they are
sending. Anyhow, they are sending you everything that walked through the gate with me yesterday —
except me — so don’t be alarmed.

They gave me a pair of underwear and a set of socks. I don’t know what they were made out of, but I
wouldn’t know where to buy something that crappy. They also gave me a tan jumpsuit and faded blue,
floppy cloth slippers to wear until I went to the laundry department. I think the slippers and the jump suit
were hand-me-downs.

They have all my personal info from my pre-sentence investigation, so they knew I was on Depakote,
Wellbutrin and Paxil for my bi-polar disorder. Thank God. I was afraid they were going to think I was
trying to smuggle drugs into the place. I had to wait an hour and a half in a cold little room until the
prison psychiatrist came to see me.

He finally arrived. He had my pills and said I could go to the medical department once a day and they
would give me my dose. He also said that we would meet in a couple days and decide if I still needed
them. Maybe I’m crazy, but I’ve been on that medication for quite a while. I don’t think now is the time
to go off medicine that keeps me from feeling anxious and depressed. He wasn’t surprised when he
saw me shake and when I told him I was scared. I really tried to hold it together when I was with him
because I don’t know what they do with you if you freak out. Anyhow, he said I would adjust just fine. I
can’t wait until I feel just fine.

After meeting with the psychiatrist, they handed me a document, opened the door and pointed me to
the laundry department, which was about 200 yards away. It was surreal. There I was, a former
finance professional, father of two, walking across the compound, in prison, all by myself. There were
dozens of other prisoners walking and standing around. I was waiting for them to shout or point and
laugh or take bets on how long I would last in this place. A couple of them glanced over at me as I
walked by but no one really seemed to care. By the way, no one here wears the orange jump suits.
What a relief. They all wear either white T-shirts or button-up khaki shirts and khaki pants and dark or
black boots for footwear. I didn’t see anyone wearing a gray jumpsuit with floppy slippers except me.

Somehow, about halfway to the laundry department I got turned around and lost focus of the
nondescript door on the nondescript building to which I was pointed. The document they handed me in
R & D was not a map. I assume they frown on maps around here. I mean, it’s not like they pointed me
to a door labeled “Laundry.” There was no “Laundry” sign. Trust me, I checked. I tried to act like I
knew where I was going. I tried to match the walking speed of the other criminals because I’m sure
they all knew where they were going. I walked up to several doors and stood there just looking
around. It is impossible to look like you know what you’re doing when you walk up to four different
doors without entering. I was afraid to open them. God only knows what was going on behind those
doors. Finally, I saw a guy walk out of a door carrying a pair of pants. I don’t know why he was
carrying a pair of pants. I mean, he was wearing pants. Anyhow, there it was. I struck laundry.

The laundry department was hot and humid and full of other prisoners. It reeked of what I hoped was
soap. Prisoners were working in there. It turns out everyone here in the prison has a job. I don’t know
what my job will be yet. I gave my document to some guy, an inmate, because that was his job and he
asked for it. Some guy told me take off my jumpsuit while he went to find me a pair of khaki pants.
Never in my entire life has someone said to me, “Hey, take off that jumpsuit,” let alone a prisoner.
Anyhow, I took it off and suddenly missed my hand-me-down gray, jumpsuit. I have to tell you, honey, it
was quite uncomfortable standing in a room with ten prisoners wearing only stupid underwear and
crappy socks. I wasn’t embarrassed about the underwear or the socks.

Anyhow, I left there with four pairs of khaki pants, four khaki shirts, four white t-shirts, four pairs of white
socks, one set of gym shorts and a half-worn-out pair of black work boots. They put an iron-on patch
on all of my cloths. They all read “MAYNE 08657-041.” The guy told me that this is my name and
number. Really? I thanked Einstein. Well at least I won’t forget my number. They also gave me my
bed-clothes, which consisted of two off-white sheets (I think they were supposed to be white), one
black wool blanket, one gray bedspread and one off-white pillow case. I also got two towels and a
washcloth. Everything just barely fit into two large, white, nylon fishnet laundry bags.

The guy handed back my document and told me my next destination was Kingsbury. That’s the
building where I am housed, but I didn’t know it at the time. He didn’t open the door and point to
Kingsbury. I guess I was just afraid to ask. I left the laundry department, lugging my two big sacks of
supplies over both shoulders. It dawned on me at that point that I was not wearing or carrying anything
that belonged to me three hours prior.

I walked to the middle of the compound so I could get a good look at all the buildings. None of them
was labeled “Kingsbury” or looked like a building that might be called “Kingsbury.” At that point I didn’t
care if I looked like I fit in or not. I set the bags down because they were just too heavy. It was all I
could do to keep from having a total break-down.

As I stood there, center compound, I had a chance to get a 360-degree view. I let myself take it all in.
The sun was shining. Green grass. Colorful fall trees. Birds. It was the sights and smells of nature
and the outdoors. Except dozens of prisoners were walking and sitting about. Some were just sitting
on benches, smoking. Some of them were raking leaves and mowing the lawn.

Then I saw a beautiful rose garden. Then another and another. From where I stood, I counted four.
Maybe it was just odd to me because I was new, but prisoners were working in them! Some with
greasy hair, unshaven faces, tattoo-covered arms – and not all of them looked unhappy. These
hardened criminals were tending to flowers. It turns out that there’s a collage horticulture degree
program in here.

Just then one of the prisoners walked up to me and asked, “Where’d you come from?” Okay, now this
was my first social conversation with a real prisoner. His name-tag read “Mathews.” I didn’t catch his
number but it doesn’t matter. I didn’t know what he meant when he asked me where I came from.
Obviously, I came from the laundry department, but I didn’t want to insult this guy. I found out later that
many of the prisoners in here have been transferred in from other institutions around the country. So
when someone new shows up they want to know if you’ve seen one of their old buddies in Lompoc or
Duluth or wherever you might have been. I know this sounds stupid, but when he asked where I came
from, all I could say was that you and my mom just dropped me off. About eight other prisoners, who
were standing around, started laughing. Hey, at least they weren’t mad! I guess when you “self-
surrender” like I did, it’s not as cool as getting hauled in here wearing cuffs and chains. So that was
the price I had to pay for directions to Kingsbury.

Once I got to my housing unit, one of the guards showed me to my room in the basement. They call the
rooms “cells” and their roommates, they call “cellmates.” It’s not a cell like you might think. There aren’
t any bars, so I don’t get it. But I think I should start using the prison vernacular so I fit in.

First of all, the smell was horrendous. It still is. I guess it’s just one of those things I’ll get used to (I
hope). At least now I have gotten past the gagging part.

There are three bunk beds in my “cell.” I got a top bunk. Apparently, the lower bunk is a coveted spot
taken by those with seniority. I made it through the first night without anything really bad happening. I
know because I was awake for the whole thing. All of my cell-mates were sleeping. The snoring was
out of this world. It sounded like one of those carwash vacuums sucking air through two big slabs of
raw prime rib. Multiply that by five criminals. You thought I snored.

The guard poked his head in and shined a flashlight on each one of us three times last night in order to
count us. Apparently, they’ll be doing that every night. I pretended like I was sleeping. I was a little
scared because I didn’t know if I was going to get caught “pretending to sleep.” I mean, technically,
that’s tricking the guards. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to trick the guards around here.

My roommates are actually pretty cool. They all told me not to worry and that I’d be just fine. There
was that elusive “just fine” again.

I asked all of them what they were in prison for. Mike and Cliff are in for having crystal meth labs (not
the same case), Jamal sold crack to a DEA agent (not on purpose), Mac got caught with a suitcase
full of cocaine on a train from New Mexico to Los Angeles (it was his). And then there was Doc (he
loaned me the letter writing supplies).

Doc looks and acts like the warmest, most gentle physician you might find in a family clinic. It’s just
that he wasn’t wearing a white doctor’s coat. Anyhow, he used to be an ER doctor but he got himself
hooked on morphine. He got caught writing prescriptions to himself, which is a crime. He was
sentenced to six months of probation (no prison time) but also had the other standard felony
restrictions, like not being able to vote or have a fire-arm. He wound up in prison because one day he
realized he had an old rifle – a Musket – in his attic. He wasn’t supposed to have a gun, so he turned it
in to his probation officer. Since “having a gun” was a violation of his probation, they sent him here to
prison. That sounds crazy, doesn’t it? He doesn’t seem like a liar, but who knows?

I went to the chow hall for breakfast this morning. I really screwed up. I went through the line with my
tray and then had to find a place to sit down. I didn’t see any of my cellmates so I just went and sat at
an empty table. One of the other criminals came over to me right away and told me to move because
this was the table where the guards sit. How was I supposed to know the seating arrangements? It
seems like the guys watch out for each other around here. Everything right now is scary. I don’t know
what I’m supposed to be doing. I’m sure I’ll figure it out.

I have to go to orientation tomorrow in the chapel. I’m really looking forward to it. Maybe I’ll start to
understand how things work around here. They gave me a handbook to read before the meeting. It
lists things that are not allowed. If you do anything on the list, you can get sent to the “hole.” Anyhow,
the first thing on the list is “No Murder.” That really freaked me out, so I asked one of my cellmates how
many murders happen around here. He said, “none.”

I didn’t think it was such a stupid question. I mean, it was in the rule book. Why would we need to be
told to refrain from murder unless it happened from time to time?

I am going to write a letter to Karen, asking her about the boys coming to visit. I know you guys don’t
really get along but if she agrees, maybe you or my mom can bring them out sometime. The visiting
room is very nice, with an area for kids and their dads to read books and play with toys (we don’t have
to talk on the telephone through a glass window). I just don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t see them for 21
months. My mom said she would pay my ex-wife for collect calls that I make to them.

I have enclosed the forms you need to fill out so you can get approved to come and visit. If you send
them right back, maybe you can come next weekend? I know this is hard on you, and like we talked
about before, I don’t have any expectations about your coming here to see me. I mean, it would be
great and everything, but I don’t expect it.

I will try to give you a call as soon as I get phone privileges. It’ll be collect, but you can use the income
from my duplex to offset the costs. Oh, and if there is any left over, could you send $50 to $75 to the
prison? It has to be in a money order from the post office. Put my inmate number on the check,
08657-041, and they’ll put it in my account. I get to go to the commissary store once a week and buy
things like tennis shoes, pens, stamps and stuff like that.

I just have to tell you once again how sorry I am that you are going through all this. I know you said you
are in love and that’s just how it is. But I want you to know that if it becomes too much for you, I
understand. This isn’t fair for you. You’re not the one who committed the crime; I was. So you shouldn’
t have to go through prison. It’s strange how I was the one who messed up but everyone close to me
has to go through this too.

Write soon.

Love,
Jerome