CHAPTER 11

HALFWAY HOME

AS WE DROVE AWAY FROM THE PRISON on the day I moved to the halfway house, traffic startled me. Why were the cars going so fast? They seemed like weapons, missiles.

Had they always been that way? I haven’t been gone that long, I told myself, gazing out the window. But will I be able to get used to this again?

For a couple of hours I was actually able to go home.

When Gari eased the van into our driveway, I could see a big, yellow, homemade, poster-board sign affixed to the garage door:

WELCOME HOME DAD

Two green balloons flanked the sign. The letters were green and red and blue, and embellished with hearts and stars —like so many of the cards Ashley had sent me in jail.

Gari, Andy, and I crouched in front of the sign so Ashley could take a photo. Gari and I held our two dogs. We all smiled. We all looked pretty tired, too.

And I felt strange. My home until an hour ago was a 10-by-13 room. Now as I walked into my house, all I wanted to do was unpack, settle into my chair, and return to normal life. But that still couldn’t happen for four more months. Instead, my own true home was a place I could only visit occasionally for a few short hours in the days to come.

I still had to keep going, and as we headed for my next home in the halfway house, my weariness nearly matched my trepidation.

None of us really knew what might happen next.

Independence House

If the Detention Center had been like a heart attack and Camp Englewood had resembled quadruple bypass surgery, the halfway house was a blockage in three arteries requiring stents and a couple of nights in the hospital. All three were to be avoided if at all possible.

The Detention Center had offered nothing to do except sit in the cellblock and stare at the walls, talk to other inmates, or listen to the screaming. It was like a vise tightening on your head.

In the prison camp, you had the freedom to walk on the track or lift weights. The guards were always watching and the inmates were always dangerous, but the overcrowding wasn’t as bad.

At the halfway house, you actually were able to work if you had a job. You could earn the privilege of going home once in a while, though you had to return at night. The halfway house was less intense —but it was still prison.

It was supposed to be safer, with more inmates who’d been convicted of nonviolent crimes. I guess it was. And you’d think everyone would obey all the rules, being so close to being free —not wanting to mess up and get sent back inside. But it didn’t always work that way.

Like most halfway houses, Independence House was located in a residential neighborhood. Two stories, red and white brick, alley in back, tiny front yard. It stood on a corner at the edge of a series of storefront businesses. Three blocks away was East High School, the only school in Denver where I hadn’t been able to get a hit when I was on the Thomas Jefferson High baseball team.

No sign identified Independence House. If you’d seen the 30 residents hanging out on the sidewalk, you might have thought twice —or assumed it was a fraternity.

The person in charge was the halfway house manager, George. His office was to the left when you walked through the front door. He was much like a prison guard, but not in uniform. He was tough as nails and followed the rules. He was friendly to me because I followed them too.

George was of medium build, cheerful, and usually mellow. He seemed interested in the inmates. As far as I knew he wasn’t armed and didn’t have a gun nearby. I figured that if there was trouble he’d call the U.S. Marshals.

Soon I learned that George and I had a mutual interest: golf. And he liked golf balls. He wouldn’t let me bribe him with golf balls when I needed him to think of work I could do to earn more time at home. I did occasionally inspire him with golf balls to do that, however.

That was how it worked: Inmates could earn an hour or two at home on weekends by doing chores at the halfway house. That meant cleaning floors, pulling weeds, scrubbing walls, or vacuuming carpets.

I was anxious to earn as much time with Gari and the kids as I could. So I scrubbed the same floor, over and over, day after day. I did the same with the walls. It was, after all, a pretty small house. Pretty clean, too, the way I kept scouring it.

Family time became even more precious when I had to earn it. Before prison, I’d taken for granted freedoms like being with my wife and kids in my own home.

Now I cherished them.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t earned any family time during my second night at the halfway house.

Even more unfortunate, that night —May 23 —was our wedding anniversary.

I asked George whether the rules could be stretched to let us go out to dinner. He shook his head. I’d earned no work-release time, and he couldn’t advance me any.

He would, however, allow us to park our minivan at the curb in front of Independence House, where he could keep an eye on me. If we could scrape some food together, we could have a picnic in the car.

Not exactly the celebration I’d hoped for, but it was better than nothing. We bought some bread and cold cuts and made sandwiches.

Opening the back hatch of the Voyager, I sighed. I’d had about a day and a half of feeling pretty good, thinking I was partway home. Now I was seeing again the pain I’d put my family through. Here we were, unable to celebrate our anniversary in anything close to a romantic way.

I’m not really out of their control, I thought. I’m still in federal prison.

During our picnic, Gari and I started discussing how I felt about going back to work and getting out in the community a little. All at once a tidal wave of emotions flooded my mind and heart. I began to cry uncontrollably.

Between sobs I tried to tell Gari that I was afraid of the future. I tried to explain that I hoped I’d learned all the lessons God wanted me to learn in prison. I wasn’t sure I could handle being outside again. I feared I’d return to my old ways of trying to help everybody else and disappointing my family.

I wasn’t very articulate. Gari kept saying, “Give me a word picture to describe why you’re so emotional tonight.”

Finally one came to me, and I did my best to share it.

“Let’s say God gives us a dozen roses every morning,” I began. “And He says, ‘Here’s what you’re supposed to do. Go distribute these roses to everybody you come in contact with. That’s what it means to live the Christian life.’”

I explained that in my mental picture God didn’t seem to understand I was capable of handing out at least two dozen roses every day. So around the side of the house I had a little garden of my own. I’d take the roses He gave me, and then supplement them with another dozen. Then I’d spend the whole day like a lunatic trying to distribute the whole bunch.

I didn’t want to go back to being that person. I was beginning to see that God knew what He was doing. I had my hands full just distributing the roses He’d given me. I didn’t need to add more.

I wasn’t sure my picture was clear, but Gari seemed to understand.

When our “celebration” was over, I’d cried for about three hours.

That made me feel even worse. I couldn’t even make it through a talk over sandwiches without falling apart.

I’m still not really out, I thought.

Toeing the Line

Each time I was away from the halfway house and moved from one location to another, I had to place a call to George to notify him of my new location. He told the inmates that he could and would conduct surprise visits —to make certain we were exactly where we said we were, not off somewhere getting into trouble. Once again, I followed the rules to the letter.

Or intended to.

I blew it on my first full day out of the halfway house.

It was also my first morning back to work at the Anschutz Family Foundation in downtown Denver. I’d told George where I’d be.

Once in the office, I thought, I need a haircut. So at noon I went to see a nearby barber who’d been cutting my hair for years.

Seeing me, he said, “Hey, where have you been? I haven’t seen you in months!”

I settled into his chair, and he draped an apron over my shoulders. “I’ve been in federal prison,” I said, “and I’m still in federal prison.”

“No, you’re not,” he said with a chuckle.

That’s when I realized I’d forgotten to call George and tell him I was “on the move.” Jumping out of the chair, I reached for the phone —all the while praying that I wouldn’t be handcuffed and taken back to jail.

“I’ll show you I’m in federal prison,” I told the barber, and dialed George’s number.

“George,” I said sheepishly, “I have moved from the Anschutz Family Foundation office and I’m getting a haircut now. I forgot to call you, and I’m sorry.”

He said, “That’s okay. You’ll get used to this. Do your best and don’t worry about it this time.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

Or maybe two sighs. I was relieved that George hadn’t read me the riot act —or worse. I seemed to be dealing with nicer authority figures now. George had a heart, not just a heavy hand.

But I was also encouraged by the fact that the barber hadn’t known or believed that I’d been behind bars. Maybe there was a chance that my life would return to normal —someday.

I knew I was fortunate to have my part-time job at the Anschutz Family Foundation. Many Independence House residents had no job at all —and no prospects.

Worse, some of them seemed to have incredibly poor judgment. They’d sneak out at night, get drunk, and then get busted trying to sneak back in at 3:00 in the morning. Many times I witnessed one of the guys begging for forgiveness and a second chance as he was hauled off in handcuffs for doing something stupid. To be that close to freedom and mess up again was a risk I refused to take.

Gari told me she thought the halfway house was even more dangerous than prison camp, since guys would think, I’m out! They’d get careless and make mistakes.

I knew I wasn’t out. I’m still in federal prison here, I reminded myself. I’m in custody. I’m to report in. I’m to stay here.

Sometimes I worried about whether the prison system might hold me responsible for what some other guy had done. I’d be lying in a room where an inmate had snuck out the window and think, I hope I don’t get in trouble for his actions. Anxious to be released, I followed the rules and toed the line.

I was starting to see why the recidivism rate —the number of people returning to prison —was so high. Once you made it to the halfway house, what were you supposed to do? I had a job, a place to go, a family. But most guys just returned to their old habits.

They seemed to think, I’ve got nothing else to do, so I’m gonna do what I did before. Now I know how the system works. Prison is dangerous, it’s awkward, it’s lonely, but you get a bed and get fed and you don’t have to work. So I’m going back in.

I felt sorry for guys I’d met who’d probably just end up behind bars again.

One Saturday, about a month after moving to the halfway house, I’d earned three hours at home by cleaning Independence House from top to bottom. I relished spending a chunk of the day with my family.

The time sped by. Not wanting to leave but knowing I had to, I said good-bye to Gari, Ashley, and Andy —a little later than I should have.

I had to be back at the halfway house by 4:00 p.m., which was check-in time for all the inmates. My watch told me I was cutting it close —too close.

Hoping to make it in time for curfew, I raced back.

At 3:55 p.m., just a few blocks from the halfway house, a Denver traffic cop pulled me over.

I groaned.

This time I’m in big trouble, I thought. George wouldn’t overlook this one.

As the officer approached my window, I thought, Well, be brutally honest here. Maybe this guy will drive to the halfway house, let you check in by 4:00 p.m. with George, and then write you a ticket when you’re safely back in prison!

With a sinking feeling I rolled my window down.

“Sir,” I said, “I’m sorry I was speeding. But I’m a federal prisoner. I have to check in by 4:00 p.m. I don’t know the consequences of being late, but they won’t be good. If you could follow me just two blocks around the corner and give me a ticket in front of the halfway house, it would help.”

The officer stared at me, a half-puzzled, half-amazed look on his face. Then there was a hint of a smile.

“Well,” he said finally, “you don’t look like a federal prisoner. And I can’t imagine you’d make up that story. So get on your way —and slow down while you’re at it.”

“Thank you,” I said. I knew that wasn’t enough to express my relief and gratitude, but the clock was ticking. He returned to his squad car, and I drove off —making it just in time.

When my heart quit pounding so hard, I reflected on what had just happened. Once again I’d been treated with kindness by people in authority. And the policeman hadn’t assumed I was guilty. This guy actually believed what I told him, I thought. This is progress.

Maybe there was hope for me. I didn’t have to be defined by the FBI or my prison record. If a traffic cop was willing to give me a chance, maybe others would too.

It was a defining moment.

Not Myself

Understandably, friends and family wanted things to return to normal. So did I.

But there was something wrong —with me.

Before prison, most people had seemed to perceive me as a loud, confident, over-the-top individual and leader. But not anymore. Now they saw me as a guy who was crushed.

I could see why. Especially on the day I told Gari —and Helen and Everett Dye, who happened to be there —about a real estate opportunity. I believed it was a winner.

I was asked to raise the money for the transaction but I couldn’t imagine doing it. The thought of risk-taking and figuring out the finances and making decisions was too much for me.

“My brain’s not working,” I told them. “I don’t have confidence to do it. There’s no way I would feel comfortable asking anyone to invest in this.”

They said, in effect, “Please! You can do it! Come on! Wake up!”

But I shook my head. “No. I can’t do it right now.”

It was the same way when I was able to sit at a meal with my family. I’d be so happy to be home, even halfway. But when I’d look up, one of them would be staring at me.

“Why are you staring at me?” I’d ask.

Often the person would start crying, especially if it was Ashley. She or he would say, “I just want you to come home.”

I’d say, “I am home!”

“No, you’re not fully home.”

So I wasn’t truly myself yet. As Helen Dye said, there was still an underlying sadness about me that affected the way I looked, spoke, acted, and felt. It was a type of brokenness I’d never experienced.

Maybe this was a good thing, I thought. But I needed time. I wasn’t ready to do a complicated real estate deal. I needed more time in the incubator.

It was a bit like being pregnant, I guessed. You could be tired of it and want to be done with it and want to rush through it. But only God knew the real timetable. Only He knew my true “out date” —the day when I’d be released from my underlying sadness.

I wasn’t completely discouraged by the fact that I wasn’t there yet. And I was honest about it, telling everybody I wasn’t ready.

But some people didn’t believe me.

From time to time when I was in the halfway house, I’d get a call from coach Bill McCartney, founder of Promise Keepers. He was trying to encourage me.

“Bo, get your head up,” he’d say. “Quit looking at your past. Look to your future. Come to Boulder and speak to a men’s group.”

“Bill,” I kept telling him, “I am not ready. I’m so broken, what I mostly do is cry. I go to work. I’m trying to function again. But I’m still in a halfway house. I’m not ready.”

Later he’d call back and say, “You’re ready. Let’s go. Get up here and speak to this men’s group. You’re ready.”

Coach McCartney being who he is, he finally talked me into it.

I walked into a Boulder restaurant early on a Saturday morning. It was a typical men’s Bible study, with coffee and donuts and a guest speaker once in a while.

This time the speaker was me. I was supposed to have 35 minutes in front of 50 men, to share some of my story.

For 20 of the 35 minutes, I couldn’t say a word. I was in tears.

They’d probably never had a speaker just stand there and cry in front of them. Occasionally I could muster the ability to say something, but most of the time I just stood quietly, silenced by humility and brokenness.

I thought, What a waste of time for these poor men. They have to be miserable because I’m miserable.

When I finished, Coach McCartney walked up front and put his arm around me.

“You’re not ready!” he announced.

“Well, Bill, I think I tried to explain that to you,” I said. “Thanks for recognizing it.”

It was classic McCartney —he’d just been trying to love and encourage his friend.

I figured most of the guys in the room shared Bill’s final assessment of my preparation level. It was probably the worst Bible study any of us —especially me —had ever attended.

But there was sympathy, friendship, and understanding, too. I could tell the guys were on my side. While I’d been trying to speak, there was mostly silence. But I could see that some of the men were crying with me.

If I’d been able, I would have told the group in those 35 minutes how my family and friends —and Christ —had stood with me. I’d have explained how I’d been zapped with an awful sentence because that’s what God had in mind for me. It was a God deal. I was still on the bench, learning. I hoped I was learning the lessons I was supposed to learn and could move forward with my life —someday.

Obviously that day hadn’t arrived.

Finish Line

My mandatory release date —the day I’d be through with the prison system if I didn’t mess up —was set for September 14. All that rule-following had rewarded me with the maximum amount of time off allowed for good behavior.

I —we —were limping toward the finish line.

As the date grew closer, Ashley gave me another card. On the front was a picture of a twisted highway. It said, “Life’s Long and Winding Road.”

Inside the printed message was, “Detours are only adventures in disguise.”

Then she’d written this:

What an adventure you’ve had! Don’t worry about getting back into everything. Everybody can’t wait to have you back. And they’ll love even more having the “new, improved” Bo. You’ve grown so much and I admire you for it, and I have grown with you.

I love U,

Ash

P.S. Smile

I tried, wishing I could share her certainty.

Gari’s Story

When Bo was released from the prison camp, he was able to come home —sort of. It was strange because he couldn’t stay.

We were still scared of what might happen next —what the government or some halfway house inmate might do. On that second night at the halfway house, when Bo and I had celebrated our anniversary in the van, I was glad that he wasn’t literally behind bars anymore. But I could see in his face the devastation of his confinement. I guess he saw it in mine, too.

We just looked at each other and cried. We probably shared the same thought, too: Okay, we’re glad we’re here, and happy anniversary. However, we’re not exactly through with this yet. It was sad leaving him that night.

I was actually more scared about his being in the halfway house than in prison. There was less oversight and more opportunities for guys to get in trouble. That trouble could spill over on Bo. I hated the whole thing.

They might bring drugs in, sneak out and get drunk, get weapons —who knew? Bo was in a place with these potentially dangerous people and his safety depended on their actions. Were they violent people? I didn’t know, so we kept asking the Lord to protect him.

Bo’s release was a great relief, and I looked forward to restarting our lives. As soon as Bo was home, life went back to normal for Andy. I was glad he didn’t have to be the man of the house anymore and that Ashley could return to her sophomore year at the University of Kansas.

But Bo was a wreck and would need a long time to heal. We had to put one foot in front of the other, and found that re-entry can have its own tough moments.