Category Archives: crime

A Soul Restored

VINCE

Ms. Maertz:

You should check out a guy named Mark A. Fagerwick. He has gone through boot camp and he writes (or maybe wrote) for the Pioneer Press. Just a thought.

[ANNE: Yes, Mark Fagerwick does write for the Pioneer Press, the St. Paul newspaper. I’m sharing his article here because it sums up boot camp well.]

‘Boot camp’ prison alternative — for me, a life-changing program

As a recent graduate (survivor) of the Challenge Incarceration Program, I can tell you that this program was and is the single most physically, mentally and emotionally demanding, challenging and ultimately positive experience of my 55 years.

In 2010, I was convicted and sentenced to 48 months in prison on a DUI charge. I entered St. Cloud State Prison with an attitude of deep resentment toward a system I felt had failed me by unfairly, over-zealously, over-aggressively and harshly judging me. I also harbored and presented a stance of arrogant superiority over my fellow inmates — after all, I was a successful, college-educated marketing communications professional and a deeply spiritual family man. I had achieved amazing accomplishments and attained an outward appearance of success normally associated with right living. I was not a “criminal” deserving four years in a state penitentiary (or so I thought).

The first 24 hours of C.I.P. changed all that.

I was immediately struck with the reality that all of our creator’s children make mistakes, poor choices and self-centered decisions that adversely affect families, loved ones and civilized society as a whole. And, that there are consequences for that kind of distorted thinking and the resulting arrogant, errant choices and behaviors. I am blessed to have been afforded the opportunity to participate in and benefit from this incredible, life-changing, life-giving program.

I owe a great debt of gratitude to the staff and supporters of C.I.P. for helping to realign my priorities, restore my relationships and reintegrate me back into a civilized society where I can affect a positive change in myself and those around me through my experience and by example.

While it is an unfortunate reality that many of my peers in the program will likely re-offend and return to incarceration, the successes far outweigh the failures. And, in my opinion, one successfully saved life and reunited family is well worth the effort. We all deserve a second chance.

C.I.P. is an incredibly powerful and effective program in the much-needed reform of our criminal justice and “corrections” system. While the traditional system of incarceration and the isolation and segregation of certain criminal elements from society is necessary and has its place for many, there are also many otherwise responsible, respectful, repentant individuals who simply lost their way, made horribly poor choices and who sincerely desire another chance to prove themselves and make amends for the wrongs they have done. These individuals are irreparably damaged by extreme and unrelenting exposure to and influence of the traditional prison environment and the unremorseful, habitual and often-violent offenders confined there.

C.I.P. promotes and facilitates an effective combination of intensely regimented discipline, essential cognitive behavioral insight, intensive chemical-dependency programming, rigorous physical training and strictly controlled physical labor, all underscored by positive exposure to an uncompromising but sincerely dedicated staff and a group of program participants who are truly seeking positive change and a better way of life. Surely there are detractors who feel that C.I.P. simply represents a time cut for criminals who “deserve” to serve penance for their crimes — and to a degree that could very well be the case for some. However, for those who take the program to heart, who utilize the tools and skills provided, and learn from their past, society will realize a true and valuable asset — a soul restored, a family reunited, a man completed.

A Roof of One’s Own

VINCE

Ms. Maertz:  [ANNE: I don’t know why he’s suddenly started addressing me as Ms. Maertz instead of Mom.]

Over two weeks in! Things are getting better. Actually a lot better.

Now, to answer your questions.

It’s true that I have to live in a half-way house in Rochester, or with an approved relative in another city, yes.

The reason that we can’t live with another person right away is that we don’t yet have the resources to do so, and while we’re here we don’t have the ability to locate a place to go. Not to mention when we leave, we have nothing. About $400-500, a pair of jeans, and a white t-shirt. (no bed, no lamps, no furniture, etc.)

The no-booze rule is an intensive supervised release (ISR) rule. Ultimately, of course, it’s up to us to maintain sobriety, but there can be no alcohol, drugs, firearms, bombs, etc. in your house while I’m living with you.

There are a couple guys in boot camp that will be in your area when I’m out. Eventually I will be working and will be allowed to move, I believe in as little as 30 days.

Your landlord has to know, by law, that I’m a felon, and my ISR agent will contact them before I’m approved to live at an address. If you own your own place by then it won’t be an issue.

I can start looking for a job on day one. I can start work any time.

The money I get upon my release can pay for a landline. In a lot of cases, agents actually prefer us to have a cell phone because of the tracking ability. I plan on getting a phone right away anyhow for sober networking and job hunting.

Thanks for the comments keep ‘em coming. Let’s get our story out there, it’s a good one.

Everything here is designed to transform every aspect of our lives. Starting with our thinking. I can’t even explain it. It’s better than Florida. How about that?

Love you, mom. Thanks for doing all the typing. I do see a lot of typos. Are they spell checked before they get posted? Also, we do NOT get body cavity searches here, FYI. I’m doing well. I like it here. This is going to change my life.

[ANNE: Typos? The nerve! I pride myself on my accuracy. But then, I have been under a bit of stress lately, which affects my concentration.

About 10 days after I moved to the new apartment, I found a condo I really like. Keep renting, or buy? That is the question. If I ever want to have a decent life in retirement, it’d be good to buy something very modest and try to pay it off. That seems very sensible. However I have to ask myself, “Am I making a $100,000+ purchase just to avoid talking to my landlord about my ex-con son moving in with me?]

Alcoholic, Not Anonymous

VINCE

Today is India squad’s (my squad) down day. Already, we’ve been busy. Doing homework takes a lot of time. So does ironing. We need to have seven creases on our khaki shirts and four on our trousers. Oh, also making our beds takes a while. That is what I struggle the most with.

I am a perfectionist. I didn’t really know that until I got here. Thing is, I can’t do anything here perfectly, so I become frustrated and angry with myself. That can put me in a bad mood, which I communicate with my body language. Like brightly colored smoke. Stay away from me!

I tell myself I don’t want to work on fixing my bunk because I know I can’t do it correctly. And I don’t want to ask for help because I should know how to do it by now and I don’t want to look like an idiot. Do I make any sense here?

I’ll be fine in a few more days. 171 days left. I will take advantage of every one of them.

I received the glasses my mom bought me a couple days ago. I’ve been told a couple times that Buddy Holly called and wants his glasses back, but they look much better than the ones I had.

Okay, this will be it from me for a while. It’s time to focus on Me and my treatment plan. I hope you’ve all enjoyed my writing. There will be more, and when I get out in September I will have plenty of time to write about more of my life experiences and my time here and in prison. I have a lot to write about. I’m not exactly proud of where I’ve been and things I’ve done, but it helps me a lot to think and write about it all. Some of it is certainly entertaining.

Last thing. I know many of you have made comments on the blog. Thank you. Feedback, whether positive or negative, helps me. And if you really want to make my day, you can write to me directly at the address below:

Vincent Maertz 244296

MCF-WR/CIP

86032 County Highway 61

Willow River, Minnesota 55795

USA

“Don’t take life too seriously. You’ll never get out alive.”

– Van Wilder

[ANNE: So there we are, no longer anonymous. If it’s okay with Vince, it’s okay with me.]

Thinking vs. Thinking

VINCE

I just can’t find the time to accurately describe our schedule. It does change daily.

Today I worked for seven hours doing laundry for all three barracks (182 men). Then, before I even had a chance to sit, we went out for drill and ceremony, where we marched for two hours.

Now I have to do my treatment homework, so that’s it until later.

Later. I forgot to mention that the CD treatment here is called Positive Changes. It was developed for the Minnesota Department of Corrections by Hazelden. Hazelden Center for Youth and Family worked pretty well for me back in ’01, so I’m hoping this cognitive thinking approach works for me because I just don’t think the 12 step program is for me anymore. Not to say I won’t go to meetings, when I get out, I just can’t get past the God thing, and I don’t like the idea of pawning my problems off on something that isn’t real.

Way off track there. It’s almost lights out time. Tomorrow is my down day. Good night.

[ANNE: I am a big fan of cognitive therapy, and it’s not the same thing as positive thinking, so I wonder about this treatment program called Positive Changes.

Don’t get me wrong, positive thinking feels a lot better than negative. If you are able to easily choose positive over negative thinking, why wouldn’t you?

But in my 55 years of living I’ve only met two types of people who espouse positive thinking: 1) people who have never faced any serious life challenges, who tell the rest of us, “Just think positive!” and 2) people who are living in a fantasy world, whose lives would be considered by most people to be a mess but who exclaim, “Isn’t everything great!” Actually, the name for this second one is denial—it’s a defense mechanism that protects us from harsh reality until we’re strong enough to deal with it.

I went to Alanon meetings and worked that program for years. I got a lot out of it. I wish Vince could switch the word “god” to “the group” or some other support outside himself that is a support to his sobriety.

Back to the question of thinking, positive or otherwise. In Alanon there are a lot of slogans like One Day at a Time and Live and Let Live. There was one that was simply the word Think. For years I had no idea what that one meant. Think!? That’s all I did! I worried, obsessed, and mentally gnawed on all my family’s problems.

Then one day, maybe soon after I lost my belief in God, I realized it just meant what it said—Think, you idiot! Use the mind that God—or evolution—gave you. Thinking is different from obsessing or worrying. I found it helpful to reason things out with another person who was outside of the situation. It may sound simple, but in alcoholic families we are dealing with people who are not rational but manipulative, indirect, and sneaky. Alcoholics are often brilliant and charismatic, but they’re also liars. People affected by them tend to be martyrs.

And you wonder why I want to move to another country?]

The Drill

VINCE

I’m starting to settle in. But we are warned not to get comfortable. Our punishments for minor infractions like falling out of formation, forgetting to remove or put on our hat when going outside or coming in, are pushups. Those are meant to refocus our attention on paying attention. And there are no shortcuts allowed here.

Somebody was using a pencil to wedge his green scrubby pad into his belt buckle to get some hard to reach copper. A CO must have seen him cheating on the camera and they called him out, took his buckle, smashed it with a hammer, and gave him a new one. That was after five days of scrubbing. To put that into perspective, I have been working on mine for nine days and I’m still not done. Of course, I haven’t been cheating.

My boots are not done. I’ve been polishing the leather tips of them with spit and ghost-coats after applying a thicker first layer a week ago. I have spent roughly 10 total hours just making circles with a thin blue rag. I’m also getting really close to done on my buckle. When we’re done, that frees up a lot of time for treatment and work crew.

The work crew consists of anybody that isn’t in school or doing something else. Today they went into the woods and raked. They actually raked the woods. I can’t really describe to you how pointless that seems, but that’s just one of many way they keep us busy.

Day 10. Getting into it. What used to feel like chaos is what actually makes our days go so quickly. We’re never in one spot for over two hours.

Schedule:

5:20 a.m. Wake up, Head Count

5:25 a.m. Make our beds (with 45 degree angles everywhere), shave, brush teeth, get dressed, put laundry in bins

5:45 a.m. On alternating days, run or do aerobics for one hour. Stretch for 10 minutes before and after

6:55 a.m. Get back to barracks. 57 men shower, pee, poop, get dressed in our khakis, everything looking sharp, belt buckle lined up with our fly and shirt (gig line), boots laced tight and laces tucked into the boot at the top, lockers organized, clothes properly folded, etc.

7:20 a.m. Count. We stand perfectly still at Military POA (Point of Attention) for up to 30 minutes, usually less

8:00 a.m. Chow time. We file in, stand at Parade Rest (feet shoulder-width apart, feet at 45 degree angles, hands locked behind our backs, eyes and head forward, no movement), then slowly move through the chow line. We eat quietly then file out. There are many details I’m skipping, maybe I’ll have time to write about them later.

8:40 a.m. Barracks cleaning

9:00 a.m. Some people go to school, others to morning treatment, some go to work. Work is either KP (Kitchen Patrol) or laundry (me), community work, all sorts of stuff really. I go to treatment at 1:00 p.m. until 4:30.

After evening meal, we do a lot of different stuff including more aerobics or running or going to the library or study hall.

Today we started treatment. Already I’m remembering a lot from my time in Hazelden 14 years ago. One similarity is that I still have to deal with a good number of people who don’t want to be here or don’t think they have problems. They weren’t aware that this was going to be such a big part of boot camp. We shall see how long that lasts.

The KFQ

VINCE

It’s really stressful here. People are constantly screaming at us. Today I was given contradictory orders by two different guards and I got in big trouble. I really felt like yelling back but I didn’t. Then ten of us had to use spades to till up four garden plots roughly 50×100’. It took us two hours, non-stop, but we did it. I felt pretty good afterwards.

All right, I’m exhausted. Yes, we get up at 5:20 a.m. Monday through Sunday, 182 days straight. Sundays are down days, but we’re still active.

Today was a busy day. It’s amazing how fast the days go when we keep busy for 16 straight hours.

We started out by taking about a three mile walk, at 5:45 a.m. When we get back to our barracks, 58 men cram into the bathroom, undress, then rotate our way through the showers. Then we hurry to get dressed, all of us still in the small bathroom area.

It takes a lot to change because we have to …

I don’t even know where that last sentence was going. Those last two paragraphs were all I had time to write yesterday.

[ANNE: Vince wrote: If the plan is for me to live with you, then your landlord has to be made aware of the situation ASAP, and you need to have a landline installed by the time I get there, and you cannot have any alcoholic beverages on the premises. Start talking with your landlord now just in case there is a problem.

Aaargh. I don’t want or need a landline. I really enjoy my beer or wine after work. And I surely do not want to have that discussion with my landlord, who I’ve never met but have only spoken to to complain about things that don’t work.

“Hello, I’m calling to let you know that my son will be moving in with me; he’s just getting out of prison for a drug sentence…is that a problem?” Right. That’s gonna go down well. Would I be asking permission, or just informing them? Will they have the right to say No? Maybe I will have to move. Maybe if I just don’t tell them, and don’t tell Vince that I didn’t tell them….

I love my son and I want to support his recovery, but I really don’t want to be inconvenienced by it. Does that sound terrible? Or am I already putting more into supporting him than most people would find acceptable? This is where the Kafkaesque Family Quagmire of family boundaries comes into play.]        

 

 

The KCQ

VINCE

Learning how to iron. Learning to polish boots. Still scrubbing my belt buckle. Marching in formation is really difficult with 17 guys that have never done it before. People going in so many different directions. It’s absolute chaos, but we get to work on it every day. I’m exhausted, but dealing with it, as if my life depends on it, which it does.

We haven’t started chemical dependency (CD) treatment yet, that’s next week. But the general consensus from the people that have been in it is that it’s different and it is working for them.

AA in my opinion has turned into too much of a faith-based 12 step program. I have no interest in religion and am generally turned off whenever the subject comes up in public (yes, AA isn’t exactly public but I think I got my point across).

Anyhow, I’m excited to try out a different approach. Maybe this will be the one.

I can say this: they really come after us from all angles here. Mental, physical, emotional, and whatever other angles exist that I don’t know about yet.

This is not just the beginning of the rest of my life. This is the opportunity to enjoy the rest of my life, be a good, honest person, and break free from the evil spell of my addictions.

Failure is simply the opportunity to begin again. This time more intelligently.

[ANNE: I got into trouble again, unintentionally, this time with Vince. For six months, I’ve sent him every blog post, no matter what the content. His, mine…this has been part of the deal, so he can see I’m not editing him, or he can change or clarify something if he wants. But then I got his first letter from boot camp:

“I maybe didn’t clarify enough how important it is to never send me any posts, especially of the nature that you sent most recently. That subject is absolutely taboo. I thought you knew that. Send me the comments from everybody, and your posts. Sending me posts like the Kermit one could easily get me kicked out. No joke. So please think before you send.”

No, he had not told me not to send any of his posts anymore. Given all the conflicting, capricious rules and difficulty of us communicating, he could be forgiven for thinking he had. God, I could have gotten him kicked out of boot camp in his first week!

So there I went again, middle-aged mom wading into the Kafkaesque correctional quagmire (the KCQ—good acronym!).

Kafkaesque: having a nightmarishly complex, bizarre, or illogical quality, as in “Kafkaesque bureaucratic delays.”]

Buckling Down

VINCE

Intense. The only word that comes to mind to describe Day One.

I’ve been here only 8 hours but my feet are already killing me. My socks are black from wearing my boots for 15 hours a day. For up to an hour at a time, we have to stand at attention, feet together at the heels, toes out at a 45 degree angle, thumbs pointed down and touching the outside seams of our khakis. Head forward, eyes up, staring at whatever point in the wall we choose. No eye contact, no movement.

The next few days we will practice marching, military bearing, and double timing (running) everywhere we go when we’re outside.

There’s a lot to learn in a short amount of time. But I already get the feeling that the COs here actually want us to be successful, even though they yell at us a lot.

First chance to write in two days. The stress is really mounting. It’s my fifth day and I still can’t figure out how to properly make my bed. My hands are blistered and sore from scrubbing my belt buckle with a 2×3” green scouring pad. I’ve worn through five pads so far. Scrubbed them down to raisins.

Yesterday we did two hours of drill and ceremony, during which we must have done 200 pushups, some of which we did on the CO’s count. We go down on the count of one and have to stay there until he says two. Down doesn’t mean we can touch the ground. We have to stay an inch off the ground. Very painful. I was trembling at the end. Today I am very sore, but it’s our down day so I’ll recover.

All that aside, I’m feeling good about myself. I know I’ll succeed. All for now. Gotta scrub my belt buckle.

California Dreaming

ANNE

And then Kermit changed his mind. He just wasn’t ready to get married. It was too late for me to keep my job or housing. He mailed me a check to carry me over for a month.

So Vince and I never moved to California. Instead, we moved into a friend’s unheated attic that winter until we could get a foothold and start over. Then we moved again, and that didn’t work out, so we moved again. Vince changed schools three times that year. I started working as a freelance writer so I could say I was self employed instead of unemployed. Also because I was too depressed to get out of bed, so woodenly depressed that I wasn’t thinking about Vince. Facing the impact of my behavior on him would have produced such massive guilt that it would have pushed me over the edge.

But wait, there’s more!

I went back to Kermit, after months of him apologizing, begging, wooing, and having massive bouquets of flowers delivered to my door.

And so Kermit and Vince and I flew back and forth, and the hurled Coke can turned into me being hurled—hurled, punched, kicked, and strangled. Once, in the course of strangling me, Kermit broke his own thumb. I can still see him standing over me, as I choked and gasped my way back to consciousness. “You bitch! Look what you did—you broke my thumb!”

A few years ago I had an x-ray for some reason, and the doctor asked me about my old neck injury. “Looks like you had a pretty significant injury,” he said. I had no idea what it could be, until a few days later it dawned on me that this was probably from the time Kermit had tried to strangle me.

The only ones who knew what was really going on were the St. Paul Police, St. Paul Fire Department, and Vince.

Kermit and I went camping in the Grand Canyon, where he beat me black and blue in our tent (but only where clothing would cover the bruises; he never hit me in the face). I escaped to the car, locked myself in, and shivered through the night. Back in St. Paul, I went to the police, who photographed my bruises. They couldn’t do anything because Kermit was in another state, but I thought telling others would keep me from going back to him.

When I tried to cut it off, Kermit would call 911, say he was my doctor, and tell them he feared I was having seizures. Would they go to my house right away and check on me, breaking down the door if necessary? I would hear banging on the door at 3 am, and find firefighters with axes posed to smash down the door.

I kept flying out to see him, spending money I didn’t have. That’s right, Kermit never paid. One of his recurring accusations was that I was a gold digger, so although he made at least 10 times what I did, he never paid for my tickets. He did fly Vince out for the World Series, and they drove up to Oakland in a limo. He bought Vince an A’s hat and jacket and full collection of baseball cards. Vince was in thrall to him.

Kermit and I took a road trip to Napa and visited vineyards. He bought expensive bottles of wine for his “collection” Which never made it back because he drained them all.   He told me he had access to drugs he could use to kill me if I tried to leave him, and no one would ever be able to figure it out because, after all, he was a genius.

I can’t bring myself to write about how it ended, but it finally did, with an interstate restraining order against him.

Vince knew I had done the right thing but he was crushed to lose his idol. Was it this episode that set Vince on the road to prison—on top of not having a dad, growing up in poverty, having a depressed mom, and being genetically loaded for addiction, compounded by all his bad choices?

Doctor Wonderful

ANNE

People have asked how Vince can write so well, considering he dropped out of school at 16. First, I read and talked to him from Day One. Second, I got a full scholarship to send him to a Montessori preschool. Then, even though I am such a city person that I break into hives when I pass outside the city limits, I moved to a suburb in order to send him to the highest-ranked public school system in Minnesota.

Vince was 10 when I finally finished my college degree. That enabled me to get a new job that paid $20,000 a year—$20,000!—that seemed like a fortune. I also loved the job, which was at a private university. Vince and I lived in a safe and clean—if vanilla—subsidized housing project. I had pulled myself up by the bootstraps, and the future looked like it would only get better.

Here is where I “mom up” to the episode that really blew us off course and (I think) screwed Vince up.

As I type the words, “And then I met a man…” I feel my palms start sweating and my stomach tighten.

Let’s just call the man Kermit, because he was about as short, slippery, and spineless as a frog.

Kermit was originally from California and was finishing his neurosurgery residency in Minnesota. He adored Vince, the poor fatherless boy with the big brown eyes and quick wit, and Vince adored him. Kermit adored me, too, the spunky single mother with blonde hair and great legs who read novels by the pile. He only read medical journals.

Looking back, I guess I fell in love with him because I felt sorry for him. He had been abused by his mother. He told me about it in great detail. I tried to empathize by telling him about my alcoholic father who had beaten my mother in front of me and then committed suicide. He said that wasn’t the same thing at all—since my dad had died so long ago I shouldn’t blame my problems on him. Besides, Kermit would say as he slugged down his fifth rum and coke, you can’t hold an alcoholic accountable for what they do when they’re drunk; they can’t help it. Now, his mother was really abusive, and she didn’t even drink! The Witch was still alive. Becoming a brain surgeon had been his plan to escape from her and never have to ask her or his dad, who was a saint, for anything ever again.

There were a few episodes of foreshadowing, like when he got jealous and hurled a can of Coke against my kitchen wall, and left me to wipe up the mess. Or when a cop pulled him over for erratic driving, and he flashed his hospital ID and told the cop, “You wouldn’t want to throw me in jail, would you officer? I might be the one you need to operate on you if you get shot.” He laughed about it when he told me later.

But then he moved back to California to join a practice there, and begged me to marry him and join him. I said yes.

He was living in a penthouse apartment overlooking the Pacific, but he hired a realtor who started sending me full-color glossy profiles of million-dollar houses. “Just get rid of all your furniture and move out there asap!” he’s say. “You can go shopping wherever you want and buy all new furniture!” He had bought a red Maserati, but he would buy me an SUV—a Mercedes, of course—not a Ford! Vince would go to a private boarding school, and wait—what? When I expressed hesitation, Kermit accused me of not wanting the best for my child.

Alarm bells were going off in my head but I ignored them. My friends and family were beside themselves that I had not only met a man, but a rich one—a doctor! And so I quit my new job, gave notice on the subsidized townhouse, and gave away most of my belongings. We were moving to California! What could possibly go wrong?