CHAPTER 8

CHAINS AND MIRACLES

SINCE MY FIRST NIGHT AT CAMP ENGLEWOOD, I hadn’t been able to forget that my imprisonment wasn’t just a legal matter. It was a spiritual one.

In fact, I saw a reminder of that almost every evening. It was a giant, glowing cross that comforted my whole family.

Known as the Mount Lindo Cross, it is the largest lighted cross in the United States. A landmark for countless people in the Denver area, it stands nearly 400 feet tall in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains —illuminated with bulbs that make it visible for miles.

It is part of the Mount Lindo Cemetery and Mausoleum. The property owner’s father had wanted to be buried there, with a cross marking the spot. His wish was carried out —and the cross was positioned so his widow could view it from her house. The lights were first switched on in 1964 —on Easter.[3]

It was an interesting history, but history wasn’t on my mind when I looked at it.

Each night after visitation Gari and the kids would leave through the door to the west. I’d go out the door to the east, then walk 30 yards across the parking lot to my room at the camp. In that gap between the buildings, I would see the cross.

I couldn’t miss it; it was big and bright and right in my face. It felt like I was living right under it. And in a way I was.

It was a guiding light, a symbol of what was going on with the family and with me. It seemed to say, Things are under God’s control, and you’re here to learn some hard but necessary lessons.

In a way, it lifted me above my circumstances. But it also reminded me how I’d ended up in those circumstances and dragged my family along.

So as I walked those 30 yards almost every night and looked up at the cross, the comfort of its presence mingled with my sadness.

Having a view of a famously huge cross wasn’t the only visible evidence of spiritual things at Camp Englewood, of course. The prison had a part-time, volunteer chaplain who showed up on Sunday nights to lead chapel.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t working too well.

I discovered that when I attended my first Sunday night meeting. Out of a population of 100 inmates, there were only three of us —plus Chaplain Halsey.

He was slender and quiet. Discomfort, fear, and a lack of confidence seemed to be written all over his face.

For some reason he’d set up the four metal folding chairs facing each other —so close that we could feel each other’s breath.

So here we were —Chaplain Halsey, me, and two of the toughest-looking guys I’d ever seen —practically nose to nose. And the chaplain asked us to sing “Jesus Loves Me.”

I could see in the eyes of the other inmates that they were already looking for an escape route and mentally crossing next week’s meeting off their calendar.

I thought, Are we trying to make this as uncomfortable and awkward and unappealing as we possibly can?

I didn’t really want to get involved, to fix things. I was here to shut up and learn something, not to be a Christian leader. But I’d learned a few things about cultural relevancy at Denver Seminary, and couldn’t help noticing how irrelevant the chaplain’s approach seemed.

Well, I thought, maybe I could help a little. It seemed obvious why nobody was coming to these meetings.

So later I decided to ask the chaplain a question. I tried to be gentle. “You don’t like doing this, do you?” I said.

There was a long pause. Finally he said, “You’re right. I don’t.”

I had one more question, also gentle: “Why don’t you do something else?”

He didn’t answer right away. But apparently he took my suggestion to heart.

Within a month we had a new chaplain.

His name was Del. He was tall, wore glasses, and had a huge smile. A hearty soul with a great laugh, he exuded friendship and encouragement. He was comfortable and made us feel the same —unlike his predecessor.

The inmates who knew him loved him. Attendance at chapel more than quadrupled immediately. It helped that we talked him up to other inmates, but it was Del who attracted others with his care and his obvious interest in fulfilling his mission.

Even Del couldn’t do it all; he was only there an hour and a half one night a week. But he made things more fun and more in line with who we were.

Still, it was discouraging to see so few of the overall prison population interested in spiritual things. Sunday night attendance topped out at around two dozen.

I knew that most inmates —like most people outside —had misplaced priorities. It always saddened me to see this demonstrated every day at dinnertime. That’s when about 50 guys would gather in a hallway after everybody was accounted for in “standing count.” A guard would yell, “All clear!” Then the guys would run full speed to the mess hall.

Since dinner usually tasted like dog food to me, I was always amazed that this group would sprint and shove to get there first. They never showed that kind of interest in chapel or in Prison Fellowship’s Bible study on Tuesday nights.

If anyone needed to know what God had to say, it was these 100 guys who’d gotten themselves into federal prison. But like their counterparts outside, they preferred the dog food the world had to offer. It was a pathetic snapshot of mankind that burned itself into my brain.

Hard Pressed

Prison life often seemed like a spiritual battle. At least it was reminiscent of a Bible passage:

We are hard pressed on every side.

2 CORINTHIANS 4:8

Every day in prison, I felt threatened from all sides —by the prison system, by other inmates, by the judicial system, and by a few disloyal friends on the outside.

When it came to the prison system, the guards were constantly threatening to send you to The Hole if you messed up. Some seemed to make up rules and enforce others selectively. Seldom did I personally have a problem with a guard —but I felt threatened at all times because of the way I’d seen other inmates mistreated.

Such was the case with Leo. He was about my age, 42, short and bald and generally irritating. He held strong opinions, which he was always eager to express in a loud and squeaky voice.

Leo had been a lawyer on the outside. His specialty was defending drug dealers. He’d done it so well that the government had decided, “We’re sick of you, so we’re just going to put you in prison.” At least that was how Leo told it.

One night an inmate who’d soon be leaving prison gave his transistor radio to another inmate. A guard got wind of this, and for some reason was taking issue with it.

A few of us watched as Leo stepped into the conversation. “I’m an attorney,” he said. “And I don’t think you’re reading that rule the way it’s written. Here’s the way I think it’s intended . . .”

“No,” the guard said, scowling. “You’re not an attorney. You’re an inmate.”

“Well, at the moment I’m an inmate,” Leo argued. “But I’m also an attorney.”

Steaming, the guard headed for Leo’s room. “I’ll show you you’re not an attorney,” he said.

The guard grabbed a bedsheet and unfolded it in the middle of the floor. Crashing and banging his way through the room, he emptied all the closets and cabinets. Then he took everything he’d collected and threw it in the middle of the sheet. Finally he bundled up the sheet like it was Santa Claus’s bag and dragged it down the hall.

He threw the whole thing in the dumpster. Not just Leo’s belongings, but all his roommates’ stuff, too. It was all they had, and had taken months to accumulate from the commissary and wherever else they could scrounge it. Now it was gone.

The moral of the story was clear: “You may think you’re a minister, attorney, husband, father —but what you really are is an inmate. A number. Nothing more. Don’t get confused.”

Another message the prison system seemed determined to communicate was even more threatening.

The rifle range was just 30 yards from the front door of the prison camp. We’d hear the cracking of gunfire frequently as the guards —and the physician’s assistant —practiced.

Maybe there was a good reason for that. But we inmates thought it was a little strange. Couldn’t they put that somewhere off in the distance? I wondered. Or is this to remind us, “We’ve got guns and you don’t”?

Struck Down

Then there was the threat from a second direction —other inmates. My constant fear of violence wasn’t unfounded.

I saw the truth of that firsthand in a heart-stopping incident about two months after coming to Camp Englewood.

It was evening, and a long line of inmates were waiting to make phone calls. There were only two pay phones for 100 prisoners. All calls had to be collect. Each person could have a 10-minute conversation.

But one guy, Kurt, had been on the phone for 40 minutes. Kurt had the inmates stacked up deep, and there was no sign that he was about to yield. Nobody seemed eager to make him, either; Kurt was about six foot four, overweight, arrogant, and not well-liked. Edgy and jumpy and dangerous-looking, he always talked too much.

I was next in line.

Another inmate, Anthony, was three or four people behind me. He was skinny, about five foot six and 125 pounds. He looked like a college wrestler. Usually he seemed pretty cheerful, but not that night.

Finally Anthony decided he’d had enough. He stomped across the parking lot to the weight room in the mess hall, found a two-and-a-half pound weight, and put it in a white tube sock.

Walking back toward me down the hall, he swung the weighted sock like a weapon. I could see he’d done this before; he knew what he was doing.

I, on the other hand, had never faced a situation like this. My thoughts went into overdrive. Now, outside of prison, you’d step out of line to stop him. “Anthony, don’t do that. Kurt will be off the phone in a minute. You can have my spot in line. Don’t make it worse for yourself.”

But this wasn’t the outside. I remembered what Julie in the Cold Room had said, “You didn’t see it. Keep your mouth shut. Mind your own business.”

Only seconds remained before it would be too late. I should stop Anthony. This is not going to go well.

But I could guess the consequences if I tried to intervene. Besides being assaulted myself, I’d probably be punished for fighting. I —and my family —might be caught in the middle of a blood war or a court case between Kurt’s and Anthony’s relatives.

I told myself, I’m not really seeing what I’m getting ready to see. I’m not going to be involved in an attempted murder.

Anthony stepped around the corner toward the pay phone.

I stared as he swung, the weight burying itself in Kurt’s forehead with a sickening thud. It looked as though Kurt’s head had been split in half.

Within seconds, the hallway was soaked in blood. Some of us ran for towels, first for Kurt and then to clean up the blood before the guards could see it. Other inmates ran to find the guards —not to get help, but to score points by snitching.

Soon the guards came racing in. Kurt and Anthony were handcuffed and taken away —probably to The Hole. We assumed Kurt would get no medical attention —and probably would die anyway because his wound already looked fatal.

We never heard from either of them again, and I never heard anything about the incident after that. But I never forgot it, either —or its stark reminder that in prison, danger was always just a heartbeat away.

Perplexed

As for the judicial system, I’d felt hard pressed by it since the first day I’d been called by the FBI. Now it crossed my mind almost daily that the government could do whatever it wanted —and that I had little control of the situation. I stayed permanently concerned that an agent, prosecutor, or judge might pounce on me again from out of the blue.

Most of the time I kept my thoughts about justice to myself. But one day, after I’d been in the camp for a few months, I was invited to share them —with a panel of federal judges.

Camp administrator Mr. Swanson called me into his office one afternoon and said, “Mitchell, I want you and Alex to speak to 13 federal judges who are touring the facility tomorrow.”

I sank lower in my chair. If there was anything I didn’t want to do, it was to risk the wrath of the judicial system. Finally I said, “I’ve only seen one federal judge in my life, and that didn’t work out too well for me. So I think I’ll pass on talking to 13 of them.”

Mr. Swanson was a good guy, and I liked him a lot. But he was also in charge. “This is not a request,” he said firmly. “It’s an instruction as to what you’ll be doing tomorrow.”

I sighed. “Yes, sir. And what do you expect me to say?”

He explained that the judges would ask me and Alex questions, which we were to answer honestly.

I wasn’t sure why Mr. Swanson chose us. Alex was articulate, so maybe he figured we would be good spokesmen. But it put me in a bad place —not just taking a chance that I’d displease a bunch of judges, but that other inmates might see me as a snitch or a pet of the guards. Prison was an awkward place to be when 99 other guys began to wonder what you were up to.

But I didn’t have a choice. I decided to be honest and shoot from the hip —so to speak.

Next day a couple of guards took Alex and me into a small room adjacent to Mr. Swanson’s office. My stomach was churning.

The guards led us to the front of the room, where we faced a seated group of 13 professional-looking people with serious expressions. About one-third were women. Both genders seemed uncomfortable, as if this was their first time in a prison.

I felt like a monkey on display at the zoo. I was even more nervous when I saw the five guards standing at attention against the wall. This would be a chance to make a lot of enemies.

Our conversation began when I was asked to describe prison life. I said that in my opinion they, as part of the judicial system, had little if any idea how the Bureau of Prisons actually worked. I told them that the sentences they gave inmates were powerful enough; they could soften their method of delivery for the benefit of our families and still accomplish their goal.

“The weight of your words is enough,” I said. “You don’t have to deliver such heavy words with such a harsh method. It is already devastating to the families involved.”

When I said that, I noticed one of the female judges quickly putting on her sunglasses to hide the fact that she was starting to cry.

It made me think, The judicial system really doesn’t know what prison feels like. All they know is that they’re doling out sentences to lawbreakers.

Trying not to look at the line of uniformed figures along the wall, I also told the judges that they were under the illusion that the guards were here to serve and even to help the inmates. In fact, I said, they were here to intimidate.

When it was over, I knew nothing had changed.

Except that I’d given the system one more reason to make sure I’d never escape its grasp.

Persecuted

Lastly, I felt oppressed by people on the outside who ignored me and my family —or worse.

Ninety-nine percent of our friends and family members supported us completely and were of great help to us. But in a few cases, Gari and I felt attacked by those who chose to toss a little more dirt on our graves.

One local businessman wrote me a note, admitting, “In an effort to hurt you more, while you were gone I said things about you that were not true.”

I wasn’t sure why he did that, but it hurt us deeply as he verbally tore into me, my family, and our reputations.

So I felt oppressed and attacked from all four sides —the prison system, the inmates, the judicial system, and rumors started by a few disloyal friends. But I hoped to share the apostle Paul’s experience, the one he described in the rest of that 2 Corinthians passage: “We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed” (2 Corinthians 4:8-9).

With all this oppression, it often seemed I was in chains.

The Bible verse my brother-in-law had dreamed of appeared to confirm that I was “in chains for Christ.” Gari saw me in a different kind of bondage, as her note had revealed: “I sense God breaking the chains that have bound you daily. But there is great pain, because our chains are in us deep and pulling them away hurts.”

I’d never experienced literally being in chains.

But I was about to.

One night in February —Tuesday the 4th —a guard told me, “Tomorrow morning you’ll be picked up at 6:00 to go to the federal building.”

I swallowed. “So what’s this about?”

“I don’t know.”

Fear flooded through me. It’s happening, I thought. There was some issue. More charges were going to be filed against me. The government was going to make my imprisonment permanent. My worst nightmare was coming true.

When I woke up early the next morning, my fears seemed to be confirmed. As if I were a serial killer, terrorist, or mental patient, I was shackled and chained. The cold steel links were heavy, making a chinking sound as the locks snapped shut.

It was hard to walk, and the muscles of my arms began to burn when I couldn’t stretch. A prison van drove me to downtown Denver. I rode in silence.

Inside the federal court building, no one seemed able to tell me why I was there. I found myself taking an elevator to a holding tank in the basement.

I was there for hours, waiting. Still in chains.

I didn’t feel like Samson, the biblical strongman wrapped in chains. I felt more like Jonah, trapped in the belly of the great fish. Or the New Testament’s Paul and Silas, shackled in jail. But unlike them I wasn’t singing, and no earthquake rumbled to my rescue.

Finally a deputy came to get me. Clinking and clanking, I trudged to the elevator and felt it rise.

Minutes later I stood in the office of the Deputy U.S. Attorney.

He looked the way he always had during the investigation, wearing his dark suit and tie, studious in his glasses. But he seemed surprised and flustered to see me shackled and chained.

A paper sack from Wendy’s sat on his desk. “I . . . thought you might like to come in here . . . for a burger and a shake,” he said.

And that was it.

There were no questions for me, no purpose for this meeting other than to say hello and have a hamburger. No doubt he had no idea I’d be shackled, chained, and held in the basement for hours. Whether out of guilt or some other motivation, he apparently was just trying to be kind.

Nice thought, I told myself. Bad execution.

I was relieved to know that the government wasn’t ready to interrogate me or extend my incarceration, at least not yet. But it was a pretty awkward lunch.

It reminded me that the judicial system seemed to have no idea what the prison side was doing. It also made me think, I guess God doesn’t want me to miss any part of the federal prison system —including being shackled and chained.

That night, I was sore but finally liberated from the bindings I’d worn for most of the day. Glad it’s over, I wrote in my journal.

But of course it wasn’t. God had other lessons for me, and school was just beginning.

Gray-Bar Hotel

I was so convinced that God wanted to correct my course, in fact, that I wrote a song about it. I’d loved playing and singing music since I was a teenager, and it seemed a natural thing to do.

The Lord had even provided accompaniment.

My first week at camp, I was exploring my new surroundings. In a closet at the end of an unfinished hallway I discovered an old and worn guitar. It was not quite full-sized but bigger than a toy, with steel strings that could still be tuned. No doubt it was worth less than $100, but it was priceless to me.

I was amazed to find it. The camp was like a sterile environment; everything allowed was accounted for, and everything else was contraband. The guards confiscated the latter and got rid of it.

Yet here was a guitar. It was as if God were saying, “I have a gift for you. It’s here because I thought you might have some fun playing it.”

So I did. Almost every day. It was comforting to entertain myself —and eventually other inmates. And the guards never tried to take it away.

One day an idea for a song came to me. I ended up calling it “The Gray-Bar Hotel,” a term for prison that I picked up from the other guys. I even asked a young Native American inmate to work the phrase into a beaded belt that he made for me. I’d worn the belt for two or three days before the guards noticed it and said, “No, not funny. Contraband.”

But they couldn’t take away the song title —or the lyrics. The song went through at least two versions, but when I sang and played it for some of the other guys, I could tell they understood all too well what it meant. It went something like this:

When the judge looked down at me and said, “You’re going,”

I knew that it was time to make a stand

I knew that it was time I started growing

Into everything it means to be a man.

So I kissed my wife and hugged my son and daughter

And tried to force just one more painful smile

I said, “You all be strong; I won’t be gone too long

But they’re takin’ me away for a little while.”

Chorus:

Now I’m stuck in the Gray-Bar Hotel

It’s a little bit like livin’ in hell

I stare out from the bars in my cold and lonely cell

I’m stuck in the Gray-Bar Hotel.

Well, that first night when they locked me down

I will not forget that sound

When that jailer turned that lock and key

I stared out to the prison guard and said,

“This life I choose is hard,

But it’ll make a better man of me.”

So I kissed my wife and hugged my son and daughter

And asked the Lord to heal and make me well

Prayed hard that I would learn every lesson

They teach here at the Gray-Bar Hotel.

Gari’s Story

When Bo went to prison, it was during the high school basketball season. Andy found it tough not to have his number one fan in the stands. It was difficult for Bo to miss the games too. Our good friend Everett Dye went to all of them, taking copious notes on Andy’s every move.

Andy also felt pressure to be “the man of the house” in Bo’s absence. I tried hard to let him know he didn’t need to do that.

I had no help on that front from one of Andy’s coaches. When Andy told him what we were going through, the coach claimed Andy was the man of the house now. And the coach was going to do him a favor by being even harder on him than normal —because that would make him a man!

Angry, I confronted the coach. He said the same thing to me.

I told Andy we’d just have to live with it. But we didn’t tell Bo; he couldn’t have done anything about it, and knowing would have caused him more pain.

Meanwhile, Ashley was a tremendous help at home —doing most of the chores I couldn’t manage. It was also a joy to watch as dozens of prison visits and tons of cards and letters brought her closer to her dad.

I could see when we visited Bo that he desperately needed us. He lived for those times, drinking in our encouragement. The two days a week when he couldn’t see us were especially difficult for him.

Sometimes visiting him was terrifying. He’d tell us what was happening in the camp, about guys he’d met. He didn’t tell us all of it; we already couldn’t bear having him there, and knowing the whole truth probably would have made it worse.

We prayed constantly for him. We prayed he would be smart as a fox, that God would give him wisdom and things to say and ways to survive. And for protection. We prayed for that all the time, still fearing he would be raped, or worse. As Bo said, we truly felt threatened from all sides.

I was also concerned about finances.

Fortunately, Phil Anschutz kept his promise to keep paying us and to hold the job open for Bo. I was so thankful for Phil —and so upset with others who chose to disassociate from Bo, thereby causing us to lose income we’d been counting on.

But then I realized the Lord had freed Bo from other sources of stress by having these tough financial things happen. I became grateful, which helped keep my resentment in check. When I was tempted to make some angry calls, I thought, No —I need to make my way through this entire time in such a way that the Lord is pleased with me, so that when I look back I have no regrets.

But I knew how precarious our financial situation was.

I kept telling Ashley and Andy that God was in control and we’d be okay. I wasn’t just saying that to reassure them. I believed it. I could see it every day when Bo faced danger and the Lord answered our prayers for protection, and when friends helped us financially.

And I could see it as He began to use prison to free Bo from the spiritual and emotional chains that had bound him for so long.