From Bliss to Captivity: My First Days in Federal Prison

Olivia

Olivia. The lovely Olivia. She had long, beautiful, brown hair—the kind of hair you see in shampoo commercials. I was 29, and she was 23. Olivia had beauty and brains—the product of a life spent in private schools. She graduated from Southern Methodist University. She grew up in a beautiful home in Highland Park (Dallas). And for some reason, she was absolutely infatuated with me. The feeling was mutual.  

One night at dinner after a glass of wine, Olivia blushed bright red and earnestly told me that I was "the perfect guy.” She thought that she had hit the relationship lottery. It felt like a dream. She awakened an incredibly powerful wave of emotions in me. Life was grand.  

Until it wasn't.  

It was not meant to be—not Olivia and me.  

Olivia had been in Aspen for a week, and she was eager to come back. She flew back early and met me at a quaint little restaurant/bar in Dallas called Sambucca. The reunion was magical. A week apart felt like a year. The lights were low, her perfume was intoxicating, and we were utterly absorbed in each other such that the rest of the restaurant—and the world, for that matter—melted away. Time ceased to exist. Eye contact with her was electric.

And then came the fall.  

A Long Fall

That was the last time I would ever see Olivia. Just an hour after we parted, I was picked up by the Feds. I was tossed in Dallas County jail for the night. The next morning, I was promptly picked up by two federal agents and taken to Seagoville Federal Detention Center (outside of Dallas).  

I was still wearing everything from the night before. I still smelled like Olivia's perfume. I was immediately stripped of my possessions and given an oversized prison jumpsuit. I was told to put my belongings in a box and to provide an address so that the detention center could ship them home. I then placed my belongings in a box. It felt like I was burying Josh, and I was entering the afterlife—in particular, hell.  

Becoming Federal Prisoner #96054-080

The world had dangled everything in front of me and cruelly yanked it away before kicking me into a pit, a pit of my own making, but a pit nonetheless.

The feelings that Olivia and I thought we shared proved to be nothing more than a fleeting sugar-high that dissipates as quickly as it appeared, leaving me drained. Olivia was actually really nice and gracious about the whole thing, but we had only known each other for a short period. Those superficial feelings—as strong as they were—never had a chance to stick. Pure bliss was replaced with pure agony and uncertainty and sorrow.

Walking into the Seagoville Detention Center was a radical contrast to my previous night with Olivia. The detention center is like a big football field. It has two tiers of cells, and there are about 200 or so inmates being housed in each wing. Of the 200 inmates, I was assigned to live with the worst possible one. As I walked with my bedroll up the stairs to my new home, about ten young Black guys began yelling and screaming, "Check that white-ass MothaFu****”; "Check his cracker ass." I guess the prison movies do accurately depict the first day of prison. Hollywood got it right.  

One of the guys was named Rambo—an 18-year-old kid from the projects of D.C. (and, yes, he looked like Rambo). He would be my new roommate.  

I spent the next six months taking pills and sleeping 18 hours a day. I gained about 60 pounds. My athletic physique turned doughy. I would really just get up for lunch and dinner and then go back to sleep. I was the walking dead. I was utterly overwhelmed by my circumstances.  

My body started reacting to the stress. My face was covered in painful boils. I had debilitating migraines that (literally) blinded me. My blood sugar went haywire, which caused other health problems. I developed a thyroid condition. I was always tired. My spiritual and emotional tanks were bone dry. I was sick with debilitating regret.  

An Intellectual Renaissance

After about nine months of eating pills and sleeping, I started reading, studying, and writing. It was as though I was trying to fill my brain with as much knowledge as possible to fill the hole in my heart. I studied everything, but I lived and breathed the law. There are great writers, good writers, average writers, and poor writers—I was pathetic.  

Still, I spent my days and nights studying every facet of federal criminal law and trying to become better at writing. It's been almost 15 years now, and I'm still trying. I stayed in the law library from about 8 a.m. until about 8 p.m. I devoured the law.  

It gave me a sense of purpose. Then I had a literal library of books in my cell. I would stay up reading and writing until 2 a.m. I clung to learning and reading and writing like a drowning man clings to a life raft. (There's not a lot to do at a pretrial detention center. It's a lot like county jail time—no recreation, no outside, no classes. You just sit in a large room all day.) I had an insatiable hunger to learn.  

It was my lifeblood and my lifeline.  

The Chess Master and The Last of the Golden Swindlers

I forged two friendships on the inside—Tommy Quinn and Vince Bazmore. The Wall Street Journal dubbed Tommy as The Last of the Golden Swindlers, claiming that he had made more than $500 million in stock schemes: https://www.wsj.com/articles/SB10001424052748704187204575101863502272290

Tommy was an attorney-turned-stock-promoter. In his 40s, he moved to the south of France. There, he had a 20-room mansion overlooking the French Riviera. He was the sharpest 70-something-year-old man that I've ever met. Watching such an articulate, present, whip-smart man in his 70s was actually inspiring. And he was in shape.  

Vince looked a lot like Tyler Perry. He was about 6'3”—a big guy. And he was a Chess Master. He, too, was off-the-charts smart. Vince oozed charisma. He was in for mail fraud.  

Tommy had the large handicap cell, which became our little clubhouse. We would sit and talk for hours, discussing every possible subject. Both Tommy and Vince had some great stories. Tommy came out smelling like a rose. He received just six years. Vince received 25 years, but his sentence was reduced dramatically on appeal. Tragically, at 45 and while still in federal prison, he was diagnosed with a brain tumor. His wife fought tooth and nail to get him a compassionate release. Vince spent a month at home before he died: https://www.wfaa.com/embeds/video/287-8386482/iframe?jwsource=em

Vince was a white-collar offender. And he was smart. He certainly had people skills. He was also very charismatic..When we would walk to the law library, inmates from other housing units would scream, "Hey, it's the Chess Master!" Vince was larger than life.

And aside from being super smart, he was incredibly funny. To top it all off, the guy had a heart of gold. We clicked instantly and our friendship took off. Vince was different from the other prisoners. People in prison are extremely petty. There was an older guy who was struggling financially. His family had abandoned him. Vince had two lockers full of food, about $800 worth. I watched him just give the guy everything.

This might seem trivial, but this is a grand act of compassion in prison—$800 worth of food in prison is life-changing.

That act of compassion really stuck with me. Vince did it without a second thought. 

When I came back from the courthouse after receiving a 30-year federal sentence (with no parole), I was absolutely sick. I wanted to curl up in a ball and die. Vince took the time to come in and cheer me up. When I had problems getting people on the outside do things for me, Vince would have his wife help me.  He was a very sensitive guy in that respect. I never had to ask for anything. He had high emotional intelligence. He would just offer. If you wanted the shirt off of his back, it was yours. His timing was impeccable. He constantly picked me up emotionally.  He was such a light. He was going to be a lifelong friend.

I watched him talk about how his daughter and wife were visiting college campuses. You could tell that it broke his heart that he was trapped in prison while life was passing him by. 

He once told me a joke. Vince (a Black man) said, "Tommy was white when being white actually meant something." Tommy was in his seventies.

Vince was always cracking jokes like that. He didn't take anything too seriously. It was refreshing to find that a white man and a Black man in prison, where everything is strictly racially divided, could joke about race. 

Here's Vince's wife and family in an interview in which they talk about Vince:

I'll never forget Vince or Tommy.

The Journey Continues 

After the pretrial center, I was eventually sentenced, then shipped to a maximum-security U.S. Penitentiary, which made the detention center look like a day spa.

Throughout my incarceration, I continued to build on the foundation of legal knowledge I had developed, ultimately starting a nonprofit focused on helping deserving federal prisoners. This mission became my new purpose, allowing me to channel my experiences into something meaningful.