I'm lucky that I have a good woman who loves me dearly and will stand by me; I'll make it in the free world.
Tim I have felt so lonely, afraid and depressed since my heart attack that I have just been floating along in a fog. And then I got your letter and it made me smile, cry and then realize that life is not over because of this heart attack. I can get my strength back and get back into life.
Thank You Tim for giving me the spark I needed. I also want to thank you for sharing your feelings about our relationship years ago; I had no idea that I had such an affect on you. And although I know it's your basic goodness and intelligence that have brought you the success you have achieved, I truly appreciate your offering me some credit for helping you through.
I remember sitting in the hole at M-R after my stupid escape; writing you long letters and awaiting your replies.
So you are going to be a writer. I can't wait to read your first book; maybe someday you can help me write the story of my 28 years in prison.
Well Tim, I have rambled long enough. Thank you for brightening my life once again. I wish you and your family the very best for the holidays and the coming year. I am enclosing the address and phone number I will be paroling to. Please write again if you find the time.
Always and forever,
Paul
Afterthoughts
Early one morning, recently, I drove south on the Bridge/Sag turnpike in route for my morning coffee fix. It was late autumn, and the leaves had turned brown and were gently falling. Two miles out of town, about halfway between Sag Harbor and Bridgehampton, I passed a couple of crack dealers lingering on the side of the road. One of them looks familiar and slightly nods. I keep going. It's one of the few African American communities nestled among the Hamptons-Bridgehampton, East Hampton, and Southampton. It's mostly poor and seems out of place in a region that houses some of the most expensive real estate on the eastern seaboard. I'd heard locals refer to this stretch on the turnpike as Lionel Hampton.
Some things, like racism and marginalization, never really change much. It just isn't as overt as it once was.
When I reach Route 27, I turn right and pull into a Starbucks, where I'll order my caffe latte, like I do every Sunday morning at 7:45. It's a crucial stop on my way to my morning meditation meeting at the Wainscot Chapel.
I'm feeling particularly vulnerable this morning, and in need of a meeting. I had given an interview on CBS News on Logo, and the network had been running the story throughout the weekend.
"Why am I doing this?" I say aloud.
I often talk to myself when I'm alone in the car. Most people, who see me doing this, would just assume I'm talking on a speakerphone, but I find it an opportune time to speak my thoughts out loud.
For the past several years, I've been an advocate for prisoner rights. I sit on the board of Stop Prisoner Rape, a human rights group that's dedicated to ending sexual violence against men, women, and children in all forms of detention. I visit a dozen of cities a year in my various advocacy work. Mostly, I just share my story to help put a human face on the issue.
A few weeks earlier, I testified before the National Prison Rape Elimination Commission, and the New York Times ran my story nationally. I also wrote a Times Op-Ed piece, titled "Unsafe Behind Bars," and everyone in my community seemed to have read it. Before this, very few had known I'd been to prison. I was putting myself out there in a very public way, and I was starting to doubt why I'd done it in the first place.
I had had it all-a successful career in the software industry, a Senior Vice President title, and a comfortable six-figure salary that went along with it. My past had been clearly behind me. I was a kid then, and who I was at that time had nothing to do with who or where I was at today. But ever since I walked into a video store in Manhattan and saw some kids laughing at a depiction of prisoner rape on the TV monitors-I decided it was time to do something. In short, I became a human rights advocate dedicated to ending sexual violence in prisons.
But now I was feeling fearful about my future and doubting the sanity of that decision.
"Are you sure this is what I'm supposed to be doing?" I said out loud.
I could almost hear the doors slamming shut behind me-to the privileges and respectability I once enjoyed as a software executive. Now that my prison history was public knowledge, what kind of future could I hold in the corporate world?
For twenty-five years, I have kept my end of a bargain I had made with God. If he gave me the opportunity to do the work, I would do the workno matter what it was.
"Are you sure, God?" I said again. "I'm afraid, and I'm not sure I can do this. Can you send me a sign?" Though I felt a little silly hearing myself say that, because if it were signs I were looking for-all the opened doors in front of me should have been the clearest indication that I'm on the path I'm supposed to be on.
From the moment I decided to write a book, people came from out of nowhere to help me. The Ashawagh Hall Writer's Workshop, in East Hampton, for one, adopted me as if I were their relative. And my friends at Stop Prisoner Rape elected me to their Board of
