Finally Free (19 page)

As I thought about it, I was reminded how I had lost sight of everything, of all the good people who helped me reach the pinnacle of my career. I just had no strength—no strength—to say no to those who were negatively influencing me. Being in that moment—being in that situation—was so surreal because I knew that what I had done and what I had worked for really didn't matter anymore.

As a part of the prison system, you almost feel like you're a nobody. You don't exist to the world at all. You're just a guy with a name and a number.

I had so much downtime when I was in prison, I had to think
about how I arrived at the point where I was. How did I reach a level of success that I had wanted and had always dreamed of? How could I resurrect all of that?

I thought about my walk with God and how I used to read the Bible when I was in high school. I thought about the steps I took to get to the NFL. And I thought about who was in my life that was most important. I realized that without God, I couldn't do it; and that without God, I couldn't get out of prison. He's not a crutch, a temporary fix; He is the rock.

In January 2008, I was transferred to the famed US penitentiary at Leavenworth, Kansas. I no longer lived alone in a cell, but was in a large pod with about fifty other men.

My character was tested almost as soon as I arrived at Leavenworth, when it was made to look like I had some contraband. A guard walked up to me and threw a whole half-ounce of tobacco at my foot, trying to get me in trouble. I snapped and lost my cool with everyone. I'm not that type of guy, but at that point, I was ready to fight. I didn't care. I couldn't believe I was being set up.

All the inmates were pointing to the guard, saying the guard did it. The guard ended up coming and apologizing to me. So from that day forward, I knew they were out to get me.

Because I failed a drug test a few months earlier, I hoped to participate in the facility's drug treatment program. Being in the program would allow me to be released from prison up to a year ahead of schedule. I was led to believe that I qualified for the
program, but I never was actually admitted. Thus, I had to serve my full sentence. It was one of the most frustrating aspects of my stay at Leavenworth.

I wasn't looking for shortcuts; I knew that what I had done was inhumane and wrong. But I was disappointed because my attorneys and I believed I was fully eligible for the drug program and the possibility of early release.

Repeatedly, I would have interviews to enter the program, only to be rejected. I won't say I was treated differently. The guards treated me fairly—well, some did, and some didn't. I just don't think the prison officials wanted to let me go early. I think they wanted me to max out my time and show me they weren't going to do me any favors—that there weren't going to be any shortcuts and that I was going to do every day until the last day.

I think it was to make a statement. I don't believe it had anything to do with me personally, because when I was in prison, I wasn't a hardhead; I didn't give anyone trouble. I did get mad at myself for allowing this to happen to me and my family, and mad at the prison authorities for not letting me enter the drug program. But I never let myself get to a point where I was feeling depressed. I knew that wasn't my life. I knew I wasn't going to spend my whole life in prison. I couldn't fault the prison system—I shouldn't have put myself in prison in the first place. And if you're there, you have to abide by their rules.

I had a motto: “Tough times won't last, but tough people do.”

No matter who was there or how much money they had on the outside, an inmate was only allowed $70 a week ($300 a month). We couldn't spend any more than that on things like phone calls and commissary purchases. Those are the parameters that you have to stay within. It was very humbling.

I had a job in the prison earning twelve cents an hour working as a late-night janitor, which fit well with my “night owl” ways. The entire compound was locked down, and everyone was asleep when I'd be up mopping the floor. I slept during the day. By the time I woke up, which was two or three o'clock in the afternoon, it was like the day had already passed. It helped the time go by and helped me through the tough times. It helped to keep me isolated.

At the end of the month, my check was $11. I took pride in it. I was happy because I earned it. Having a true blue-collar job was something I'd never experienced before. It was hard work. Every three months, we had to buff the floors and strip them—me and two other inmates I worked with. We took pride in doing it because we wanted to make sure it was done right. I am actually glad I had that experience; I appreciate what I get to do for a living so much more now.

Kijafa hung in there with me. She was so supportive in my journey through prison, and she pulled me through that whole situation. She came out to visit me and wrote me letters. She let me know she was thinking about me—which meant a lot because I knew she had every reason to leave.

Without her, I don't know how I would have made it through. She was my confidant. There were days when I was sad and I was down. She gave me a sense of belief and stayed optimistic. She kept believing, and that helped keep my spirits up. I just couldn't ask for a better person in my life. That continues to this day.

One of my most difficult days at Leavenworth came when Kijafa brought our two daughters and my son, Mitez, to visit for two days. We weren't able to spend time together the second day, a Monday, because prison officials canceled visitation.

I visited with my family on Sunday and looked forward to seeing them the next day. On Monday, I sat in a waiting area and—through glass windows—watched Kijafa drive up in a truck and then saw Mitez run across the street toward the door. Everyone looked happy. But because someone else created trouble, the officials canceled visitation for the day. There was no more visitation that week until the weekend. When they canceled visitation, man, I cried so hard. I was so mad.

It was early in my sentence, which made it harder to deal with. There was nothing I could do. I'll never forget that a prisoner named Mr. Harlin came and found me. He was in his fifties. We called him “Old G.” There was nothing he could do to make me feel better, but he made me look at it from a realistic perspective: “It's their prison, and they can do whatever they want to do. You're in here, but you can't be mad at them. What are you going to do?”

It was one of the longest days of my life.

Your family is all you have when you're in prison. Other than that, it's like being dead.

The most difficult thing to deal with in prison was the death of my grandmother.

I remember calling my mother for her birthday. When she answered, I could hear a different tone in her voice.

“I wish I wouldn't have to tell you something like this in prison,” she said, growing quiet, “but your grandmother is in the hospital. And it doesn't look good.”

I dropped the phone.

Soon after, my grandmother died—the lowest moment of my time in prison. I'm still convinced that my grandmother's early departure from this earth is because of me—because of how heartbroken she was over my situation. The day I told her I was going to training camp—that was the last time I saw her.

What made it hurt even more was that I was not allowed to leave prison to attend her funeral.

It was devastating. I wanted to be there to support my family, but I couldn't. I was sitting in a jail cell.

Before I went to prison, I told my grandmother I was going to training camp. After the faith and the foundation she instilled in me, I couldn't bear to tell her the truth—that I was going to prison. And walking away from her house, I remember praying, “Please let me see my grandmother again.”

But it'd be the last time I saw her.

In a way, however, God
did
answer that prayer. When I look at my youngest daughter, London, I see my grandmother. Now, I see my
grandmother every day. I still can't believe London looks exactly like her. It's amazing. And it's a blessing that comes straight from God.

Twice, I was transported from Leavenworth back to Virginia for court hearings—first, for a state dogfighting case in November 2008, and later to appear in bankruptcy court in March 2009, less than two months before my release. (I'll describe how I got into money troubles in the next chapter.) Because of those times of transit, I spent time in eight different prisons, counting Northern Neck and Leavenworth. I spent short stints in two Petersburg, Virginia, facilities—one state and one federal; in Oklahoma City; in Suffolk (Virginia) Regional; in a small penitentiary in Leavenworth; and in the Atlanta Penitentiary. The various stops gave me a unique perspective on the diversity of prisons in America.

They all look different. They all have their own sort of serious mystique about them—their own personal feel—as you walk in. Yet all of them were just big and dirty. It was weird.

Some prisons, the inside may be green. In other ones, the inside may be orange. But they all had the same setup as far as the pods and the tiers. It was just scary, really scary. Those prisons were the worst.