CHAPTER 5

A DANGEROUS PLACE

THE WALL OF COLD, GRAY BARS slammed shut behind me as I stood in the prison “trap,” waiting for whatever came next. My heart hammered as the steel-barred door in front of me began to roll aside. This time the tinny voice from the ceiling speaker said, “I’ve got one leaving the trap.”

Forcing myself to step into Cellblock A, I thought, Everything I was afraid of was pretty accurate.

I seemed to be moving in slow motion. I felt the way I had when the judge pronounced my sentence —in shock. I couldn’t hold a thought, much less a prayer. I tried to be on my toes, alert, on defense —but all I could manage was inching toward whatever might happen next.

The door slammed shut behind me. I stood alone.

But I wasn’t —far from it. About 100 men were crammed in the cellblock —a space about 50 yards long. The two tiers of cells were unlocked because it was daytime; some inmates played Ping-Pong or cards in the open area in the middle. The racket was deafening as they yelled over each other.

But no one was there to show me what to do next —no guard, friendly or otherwise, saying, “Come fill out your registration form and check in.” I just stood there with my trash bag containing five pairs of underwear, one Bible, one small radio with earphones, and a few other items.

The crowd in the distance looked mostly younger than I was. I couldn’t tell whether they were checking me out or not. I didn’t know it at the time, but my freshly washed white T-shirt made me stand out like a strobe light. Most of these guys had been arrested on the streets of Denver, handcuffed, and brought straight to this place. They’d had no time to gather a trash bag of clothes. They wore prison-issue shirts and pants and shoes either too small or too big. Nothing they wore fit as well as mine did.

Suddenly, though, all this was pointed out to me. Out of nowhere one of the biggest, meanest-looking guys I’d ever seen stepped right into my face.

“That’s my T-shirt you’re wearing!” he roared. “And I want it right now!”

I froze. Being six foot three, I could at least look the man in the eye. But I had no idea what to say.

Fortunately, God did.

I heard myself declare, “Well, I just got here, as you know. And this is my T-shirt. I know this because I watched my wife write my name on this shirt last night.

“My name is Bo,” I said, “and Bo knows T-shirts!”

I was borrowing from Bo Jackson, the great two-sport athlete featured in a national advertising campaign called “Bo Knows!” that was popular at the moment.

Apparently the large, menacing man was a fan of it too. He broke into a smile. Then his smile turned to laughter. Finally, without another word, he walked away.

I knew my comeback had come from God, since my brain didn’t seem to be working.

It took a while for my breathing to return to normal. When it did, two other inmates approached me. “You did a good thing there,” one said. “If you’d given that guy your T-shirt, you’d have given him everything else you have too.”

Whether the inmate intended it or not, I took that to mean I would have been assaulted sexually. I was thankful to God —and Julie in the Cold Room —for preparing me to sidestep this danger.

You’ve just passed the first test in Federal Prison 101, I told myself.

But a new wave of fear swept over me —followed by a wave of disgust over how pathetic my situation was. The good thing I just did was keeping this weirdo from taking my T-shirt? Come on. How low can we sink here?

When I was finally able to speak, I asked the two guys, “What am I supposed to do now?”

They pointed toward the far end of the cellblock. “That guy up in the guard station will tell you which cell you’re in.”

“Thanks,” I said, and started walking.

I felt 100 pairs of eyes on me, sizing me up. Who’s the new guy? What’s he all about? If this wasn’t another planet, it was close.

Welcome to your new home, Bo, I thought as I walked the gauntlet. Get used to it.

I avoided the stares. You’re probably never going home, I reminded myself. Accept the facts. Your old life is over, and the quicker you adjust to being inmate number 23386-013, the better things might go for you.

After what seemed like hours, I reached the guard’s office on the second tier, overlooking the whole cellblock —anxiously awaiting what would come next.

The painful journey was just beginning.

Home Sweet Home

Sitting at his desk, surrounded by stacks of papers, the officer gazed out a big glass window. He was businesslike, but sort of friendly. I didn’t know whether he was making an exception in my case, but he seemed to know he didn’t have to push me around.

“Follow me,” he said. We walked halfway down the top tier of the cellblock, passing one empty cell after another, each pretty much like the one before —housing a bunk with crummy-looking army-green blankets and little else. Most inmates were down in the middle area.

The guard stopped and pointed. “You’re in here,” he said.

The door stood open. No one was there. The guard walked me a little farther down the hall where I got a blanket, a sheet, and a pillow, then he ushered me back.

A cloak of sadness, doubt, and shame settled over me. I’m not sure I can do this. Wow. What a life I’ve carved out for myself here. I must really be a bonehead.

When the guard left, I explored my new home. It didn’t take long. Pacing it off, I discovered it was just six by nine feet —good news for a claustrophobic guy like me.

The bunk had a two-inch-thick mattress that looked and felt like it had been there for 40 years. There was one metal folding chair, a sink, and a toilet with no privacy. Two small steel lockers were stacked vertically.

The glass-block window in the back was three inches tall and about eight inches thick. I could barely make out the light that glinted from the large rolls of barbed wire surrounding the prison. The front door was solid steel with a small window about three inches high and six inches long —just enough for the guards to see inside during lockdowns.

I’m pretty sure this is not where I’m supposed to be. If this is a white-collar prison camp, I’ve missed it.

I was sure the judge hadn’t done this intentionally. Others I’d talked to were sure he had —that it was all part of the drill to mess with me. But I thought, He has no idea how bad this is.

In the middle of that tiny cell, I sighed. Either the judicial system has no idea what the Bureau of Prisons system is like, or the judge is just having a lot of fun somewhere thinking about me checking into this place.

Even if Judge Nottingham wasn’t aware of the conditions here, he knew what he was doing when he sentenced me to 11 months. If he’d given me 12 months, I could have petitioned to have the sentence reduced. But with less than a year, no petitioning was allowed.

I did hold on to one ray of hope, though. Julie in the Cold Room had explained that for every 30 days I served with “good time,” I would get three days off the end of my sentence. And someday, when I was transferred to the minimum security camp next door, I’d get three days off for every 30 I spent there. “Subject to change,” she added.

She’d handed me a document that stipulated my mandatory release date —September 14. That was the longest I could be incarcerated.

If I didn’t mess up, on September 14, 1992, I’d be out of the system.

That was something to hold on to. Okay, it’s January now. Can I get to September?

It motivated me —and probably many other inmates —to follow the rules. Keep your mouth shut, the system was saying. Don’t compound your problem by getting in trouble.

Still, September seemed light-years away. I’m never going home. Something’s going to happen. Some other charge will be brought against me. They’re still looking at my 20-year driving record, and they’re gonna find another time that I sped or ran a stop sign or something. I’m in here forever.

I tried counting my blessings. For instance, I wouldn’t have to worry about probation when my sentence ended —assuming I lived that long. Most inmates had at least five years of probation, if not 10, during which they’d have to report all their earnings, all their travel. They’d be chained to the Bureau of Prisons the whole time. I had no probation.

Most had restitution to pay too. I had none, thanks to the judge.

But didn’t the lack of probation or restitution prove I shouldn’t be here at all?

I brushed that away, telling myself, Okay. God’s in control, and He put me here to learn something. I must really be hardheaded for Him to use federal prison as His classroom.

So from day one, I began to wonder: What is wrong with me?

Finally I set my trash bag of belongings down with a clunk on the metal chair.

Almost immediately another inmate walked in and said, “Follow me.”

I obeyed, though I wasn’t sure it was a good idea.

Who is this guy? Where are we going? Am I breaking the rules by doing this?

I didn’t want to do anything that might draw attention. Some people assumed otherwise, predicting, “You’re going to be like Paul in prison and help so many people.”

Not me. I’m going to shut up, fall on my knees before God, and learn the lessons He has for me so that maybe I can have another chance at life.

That vow flashed in my mind like a neon sign as this guy led me to a cell in the corner of the block.

There a man named Kenny told me that he, not the guards, actually ran the cellblock. He controlled what went on day-to-day. If I followed his instructions, I wouldn’t have any problems.

Specifically, he informed me that he kept the schedule on the two pay phones inmates had access to. I was allowed one collect call each day, and 6:10 a.m. was the only time slot he had available. I could take it or leave it.

I took it. Listening intently, I was sure he could sense my fear. To impress me further, he added that he had $50 million waiting for him when he was released. He’d earned it dealing drugs.

Prison was just “a cost of doing business,” he said. His five-year sentence wouldn’t last as long as the $50 million would. So it didn’t bother him all that much that he was here.

As he talked, I relaxed a little. I didn’t know whether he was really in charge, but at least he was making more sense than most of what I’d encountered so far.

Kenny ended with this advice: “Put on the coat they gave you and walk around the yard for the hour you have to be outside today. I know you probably don’t feel like it. But do it. It will help you get through today.”

As I left, I thought, It’s scary to think the guards might not be running the place, but it’s nice to think that somebody is.

A Wonderful World

After only an hour behind bars, I experienced my first prison miracle. At least that’s how I saw it.

I was barely settled in my cell when I heard my name being shouted.

I stepped out and looked down the cellblock where the guard was standing at the railing outside his office, bellowing, “Mitchell! You’ve got a phone call!”

What?

How was that possible? I didn’t know much about prison yet but I knew it didn’t involve incoming calls. It was hard enough to call out, as I’d just learned from Kenny.

Who could it be? I strode as quickly as I could to the guard station, picked up the receiver, and heard a familiar voice. Ginger had been a friend since college, now married to one of my best friends from high school, Roy Wilson. She was a successful businesswoman.

And a resourceful one. Ginger had tried to think of a way she could reach me. She knew one guard in the federal prison system, but had no idea where he worked. So she found his number.

It just happened that he worked at the Englewood Federal Detention Center.

It just happened that he’d been on duty when I’d walked into the cellblock.

She told him my name. “Yeah,” the guard said. “He just got here. Hang on.”

As usual, Ginger’s voice was cheerful, strong, and steady.

She asked if I was okay, and said she and Roy were sorry I was there. “What can I do for you?”

It was so encouraging to hear her voice. When our conversation was over, I hated to put the phone down.

But that call was only half the miracle.

The guard turned to me. “While you’re here,” he said, “you might as well call your family and tell them they can visit tonight if they want to.”

I couldn’t believe it. I knew that when Gari and the kids dropped me off, they’d wondered what was going to happen to me. By now they probably were scared that I’d been beaten up —or worse.

So I picked up the phone again. Gari had just arrived home. Now I was able to tell her that I was okay and that she and Ashley and Andy could see me that very evening.

A coincidence? We didn’t think so. We saw it as another one of those whispers from God.

A few hours later, the guard came to my cell. “Exercise,” he said.

Remembering drug-dealer Kenny’s advice, I pulled on my prison-issue coat and grabbed my little transistor radio from Radio Shack. About 20 other guys were headed outside, and I followed.

The frigid January-in-Colorado air hit me as we reached the prison yard. We had a tiny space —about 100 feet square —to just walk around in circles, over and over. Not what I’d call exercise, but at least we were outside.

Marching around and around with the others, I switched on the little radio. I set the earpieces in place and tuned to a local channel.

The first song hit me like a ton of bricks.

It was Louis Armstrong singing, “What a Wonderful World.”

I see trees of green, red roses, too,

I see them bloom for me and you,

And I think to myself,

What a wonderful world . . .[1]

I tried to clown my way through it, thinking, Wow, what a joke! I’m in prison, day one, in the yard walking in circles, alone and away from my family, and I’m hearing this song?

But I couldn’t laugh. All I could do was cry.

I knew the others noticed but I didn’t care. My brokenness was sinking in, and I couldn’t stop it.

As I marched, a question for God kept coming to me: Are You sure You’re in control?

Along with that, a crazy-sounding list of rules echoed in my head: Stay on the lookout, mind your own business, don’t let anyone touch you . . . and oh, by the way —don’t forget that it’s a wonderful world!

Well, not at the moment, it wasn’t.

Maybe this, too, was a whisper from God. But it didn’t feel like one.

And those wouldn’t be the last tears I’d shed in prison.

A Perfect Evening

Dinner was at 4:15 p.m., served in a room that had all the charm of a Siberian laundromat, and the food was worse than the ambience. I could only guess the identity of the stuff slopped on my plate. Each inmate ate with a tiny plastic fork about three inches long —too small to serve as a weapon. I started to wonder whether I might starve here.

But I didn’t stay focused on the food —not when I had my family’s visit to look forward to.

I didn’t know much about visitation, since nobody had explained it to Gari or me, except that visiting hours on Monday were 5:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m.

Shortly after dinner, I got word that I had visitors. I wanted it to go well, but I found myself overwhelmed with where I was and what I was putting my family through. By the time I reached the visitation area, I was in tears again.

The room was small, with several tables. Gari, Ashley, and Andy sat at one. When they saw me and how hard I was crying, all of them burst into tears too.

Our reunion was awkward. We weren’t allowed to touch without permission, much less hug. Everything was monitored closely.

At one point, when I’d composed myself enough, I decided to try the vending machine in the little room.

A guard eyed me as I walked past his desk.

Out of habit, I asked, “Would you like a soda?”

The guard motioned me over. “It’s not a good thing for you to ask me if I want a soda,” he said quietly. “Just go get yours. But thanks.”

I winced, embarrassed. I guess that does look like sucking up to the guards. Guards were people, too, but it was clear there would be no friendly give-and-take with them.

It was a short visit, but it was better than nothing.

After an equally awkward good-bye, my family was gone.

I followed a guard out of the room and into another.

Where I was strip-searched.

They had to make sure no one had passed me any contraband —a weapon, a file, some drugs.

It was the perfect end to a perfect evening.

Lights Out

When I returned to my cell, I had a roommate.

I said hello. He said nothing.

In fact, he would never say a word to me —or to anyone else. I had to guess which bunk was his, and which locker.

I didn’t know what his name was or what he was in for. I thought he might be one of the drug guys, like so many seemed to be.

All I knew was that he was about five foot ten and around 170 pounds. That wasn’t much to go on.

Maybe he was a murderer. Maybe he would try to kill me in my sleep. Or was he a sex offender? Would he try to assault me in the middle of the night?

Eventually I learned the truth from another inmate. Sam was in prison for attempted murder. He’d attacked his wife and children, almost killing them. He was awaiting reassignment to a “deeper” part of the prison system.

If I’d known that, I’d have been even more nervous.

It was going to be a long night. I hadn’t slept the previous night, and I probably wouldn’t get any rest now, either.

When “Lights Out” was announced at 10:00 p.m. and the doors were locked, I discovered my cell’s location was a blessing. There was just enough light from the center of the cellblock that I could stand by the door and read my Oswald Chambers devotional book for at least an hour, trying to relax myself enough to crawl to my top bunk and fall asleep.

The sleep part didn’t apply tonight, though. Besides the round-the-clock yelling of inmates, I was on high alert, not knowing whether my silent roommate might have plans for me. When I finally lay on that lousy mattress, I couldn’t doze. Instead, I started thinking again.

I considered how I might defend myself. This must be what it means to be institutionalized, I thought. If this guy touches me, I’ll kill him.

I couldn’t believe I was thinking that way. I guess I’m already reconciled to never going home, I told myself. Yet I also kept reminding myself that God was in control, and that I must really have screwed up for this to be part of His perfect plan for my life.

How could I believe God was in control —and fear my roommate so much that I was ready to kill him?

Not all my thoughts made a lot of sense, but one thing seemed clear: One night here is enough for me to learn my lesson, if that’s what Judge Nottingham had in mind.

But my mandatory release date was definitely not tomorrow.

Sometime that night I found my little burgundy fake-leather journal. I scribbled in tiny letters:

JANUARY 6: I cry at the thought of my family . . . NO sleep at all. Very noisy. Guys screaming out like in a hospital. Feeling awful! Scared, apprehensive, ashamed, out of place.

That pretty well summed it up. Putting down the pen, I stared into the darkness.

Gari’s Story

My heart broke on that cold, dreary morning in January as my husband stepped out of the car, kissed me good-bye, and walked through the door of the prison.

I couldn’t even visualize the place inside. I had the strange feeling that Bo was Alice in Wonderland and he’d just gone down the rabbit hole into who-knows-what. I had to put my faith in God and trust He was protecting Bo.

When Ashley, Andy, Phil, Dan, and I returned home, I thought of what our family had been doing there just a few hours earlier —eating breakfast and praying. Now Bo wasn’t there. It felt so strange. We really didn’t know what to do next.

We’d been told we wouldn’t hear from Bo for a few days until he had permission to make phone calls or see him for at least a week. That was a painful prospect. For more than 21 years, we’d told each other, “I love you” almost every day. Even when we were apart, almost always we would connect by phone and say those words. And now —nothing.

I couldn’t know what he was experiencing, who he was meeting, what was happening to him. This must be how wives feel when their husbands go off to war, I thought. All I could do was pray.

The kids and I scattered and the house was so quiet. We seemed to be waiting for something but didn’t know what it was. I was frozen in disbelief that this had happened to our family —and especially to Bo.

My swirling thoughts and feelings were suddenly interrupted by the telephone. Probably a friend checking on us, I thought.

But when I answered the call an operator said, “Will you accept a collect call from Bo Mitchell?”

The next thing I heard was Bo’s voice. He was okay —and we had permission to visit him that night!

I was astonished. He tried to explain what had happened, but I couldn’t take it all in. When I hung up, I yelled for the kids and told them the news. Our joy lit up the house.

Driving up to the prison that evening, we didn’t know what to expect. Confused about where to go, we kept circling in the dark until we figured it out.

We were nervous as we walked through the door and checked in at a window. An officer told us to put our purses and coats in the bins behind us, and step through the door into a small hallway with a closed door at the other end. It was like a trap.

The door behind us clicked shut; a moment later the door in front of us clicked open. We walked into an area that looked much like a small high school lunchroom.

Finding a table with four chairs, we sat down. The officer called on a phone to say Bo had visitors. We waited several minutes. I could see the tension on Ashley’s and Andy’s faces.

And then, all at once, there was Bo, entering through another door.

But he looked so different. He was in prison clothes that didn’t fit too well, but that wasn’t the worst of it. His face was red, and he was crying and clearly upset.

This made us all start crying too.

He sat down at our table. We stared at each other with stunned disbelief.

I wanted to reach across the table to touch him, but it wasn’t permitted. We were told there was to be no contact, and the guards were watching everyone in the room intently. It was scary and strange and sad.

Bo stopped crying long enough to tell us why we were able to see him that night —and that we could visit every night as long as he was there! Amazed, we realized the Lord had made this happen. He was already answering our prayers. I was so grateful that we could see Bo; I could tell he needed us desperately.

We hadn’t been there long when a guard said it was time for Bo to go. As we stood up, I asked the guard. “Can I give him a hug and a kiss?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “Very brief.”

The officer watched carefully. It wasn’t much of a hug, but it would have to do. We all said our good-byes.

I hated watching Bo walk back through the door. But I had to trust the Lord to keep him safe in this dangerous place.

As we drove out of the parking lot, we were all so disoriented —and crying so hard —that I took a wrong turn. A guard patrolling the grounds drove up next to us, saying we were going the wrong way. Finally we found the right road.

Driving home, I recalled how hard Bo had cried —and now we were all doing the same. I thought, Someone in this group has to quit crying. And that person will be me. I vowed that the rest of the time Bo was in prison I wouldn’t cry unless I was by myself.

There were times Bo and I did shed tears together in the months ahead as we went through this sad and difficult time, but I was never again undone emotionally as I was that first night.

By the time we made it home, I was so full of pain and stress I thought I would explode. I was beginning to see that dealing with Bo’s imprisonment would be unlike anything I’d ever done. I felt I’d been cast off a cliff; I was falling and didn’t know whether anyone or anything would catch me. Nothing I knew seemed to apply here.

Even though it was icy, dark, and 10 degrees, I had to get out of the house. So I took our two Japanese Chin dogs for a walk.

I passed a home still displaying Christmas lights and decorations. On the very top of the roof sat a Star of David. It had always comforted me when I stopped to look at it. But that night, as I looked at that star, my feelings were much more complicated. I believed God was in control of everything, but I needed His right-here, right-now help.

I shook my fist at Him, telling Him, You’re in control, and You’ve allowed this to happen. Now You’ve got to send me something to get me through this night. It was more a desperate plea than an angry request.

Somehow I had to be the leader of our household. I needed supernatural strength because I still wasn’t well. I needed relief from the overwhelming stress and fear. I had to be strong for Bo and make our children’s lives as normal as they could be in this abnormal time.

I needed a promise that things would be okay.

Back at the house, I started reading Psalm 66, looking desperately for comfort, help, and hope. Before I knew it I was reading verses 10-12:

For you, O God, tested us;

you refined us like silver.

You brought us into prison

and laid burdens on our backs.

You let men ride over our heads;

we went through fire and water,

but you brought us to a place of abundance.

The words were like burning flames on the page. These verses described exactly how I —how we —were feeling.

We were being tested, refined, brought into prison —but the Lord knew all about it. We had the hope of being brought to a place of abundance someday.

In the margin of my Bible I wrote, These are the first words of blessing from God, the first night Bo was in prison.

Like Bo, I believed we were in this mess for a reason. We were being sifted —an idea we’d learned from the Bible’s account of how Satan asked God for permission to sift Peter in Luke 22:31. We were all scared to death, not knowing what to expect. But we trusted God would use this to refine and purify us.

I was able to sleep peacefully. God had spoken to me and it was enough —at least for that day.