Category Archives: mandatory minimum drug sentences

Welcome to the Country

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VINCE

To say that alcohol lowered my inhibitions would be an understatement.  It pretty much rendered me retarded.  That said, here are a few things that I probably thought were funny at the time.  Keep in mind that these are only things I remember doing or people told me I had done in a blackout.

  • To impress “the ladies” I once downed an entire bottle of bubbles. You know, the kind you put the wand in and blow through it.  What followed must have been amazing to see because several people stated they couldn’t believe I had done that.  Within one minute I started throwing up (with considerable distance) a clearish-pink foam that expanded even more once it hit the ground.  The carbonation in the beer accelerated the bubbling process in my stomach and became fairly painful.  I groaned in pain while heaving, making a noise no animal on earth would use as a mating call.  After a few minutes it was over, I was surrounded by foam.  Without hesitation I grabbed a fresh beer.
  • Standing by a river with friends down in Iowa, I found a dead fish and took a bite out of its belly and spat it out at one of them at which point I started throwing up, he started throwing up and in no time at all we were all on the ground doing the same and trying not to laugh which was not easy.
  • Passed out, blacked out on a canoe trip I was responsible for not only tipping a canoe, but sinking it forever along with the oars, cell phones, cooler, cigarettes, and clothing. I don’t know why I was naked, but I do know that it was a long walk back to my friend’s truck.  Hey, at least we didn’t have to carry a canoe back!
  • Nothing makes a better combination than alcohol and shot guns. Especially when I don’t have any glasses or contacts.  So, one day a few of us went “hunting.”  We would usually look for squirrels, crows, or anything that moved.  I saw a crow circling overhead and decided it was mine, even though we were using slugs.  I “aimed” and fired four times, missed, reloaded and missed four more times.  I saw one of my friends running toward me to I smiled and waved at him.  He didn’t look too happy.  He informed me that I had actually been firing wildly at a bald eagle.  We put the guns away.

[ANNE: I got a postcard from Vince, in which he wished me a fun trip.  Then he couldn’t resist adding, “Germany sounds like a lovely place where they have loved people of our faith for a long time.  Just remember, if somebody asks you to take a shower in a large metal room, run!”  Vince has always been a joker.  One of my favorites was the time he got kicked out of Hebrew School for writing his name on a name tag as “P. Ness.”  I had to act serious in front of Vince and the rabbi, who was humorless and thus terrible with teenagers, but I laughed out loud when I was out of earshot.]

A Visit, at Last

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ANNE

I went to visit Vince on Sunday, for the first time in over eight months.

Given my last experience with visiting, my subsequent six-month ban, the fact that my last four letters to him were destroyed, and that he’ll soon be released, I thought I could skip this visit.   But he really wanted me to come.  I’m his only visitor, so he hasn’t seen anyone from the outside for a long time.

Friends made suggestions for what I should wear to prevent a repeat of the unfortunate “low-cut blouse” episode.  A nun’s habit, suit of armor, a sleeping bag, a burqa … the list went on and on and it was all very ha, ha, ha but I was really very anxious.  It’s indescribable unless you’ve experienced it firsthand—the feeling of being at the mercy of a stranger in uniform—the powerlessness, uncertainty, and fear.  And I’m not even in prison.

Problem was, I don’t own a T-shirt or a button-up shirt or a turtle neck.  I don’t like clothing that constricts around the neck.  I was inspired to put on one of my uncle’s dress shirts—the uncle who died in December whose shirts I took for Vince.  I could have fit two of me inside it.  The sleeves fell down six inches below my fingers and the shirt tails fell to my knees, but it I could button it up to my neck.  Maybe it would bring me good luck.

The hour-and-a-half-long drive to Willow River went smoothly and I arrived a few minutes before visiting hours.  The gate was closed so I pressed the intercom button.  A voice told me to leave the grounds and wait on the highway until visiting hours started.  I looked at my cell phone and said, “You mean, in four minutes?”  “Yes,” he answered.

A year ago I would have made a sarcastic remark but I wasn’t going to take any chances.  I said, “Okay” and backed down the drive.  I killed the engine and reflexively reached for my cell phone, then realized I had not left the grounds so I started the car up again, drove out to the highway, and sat there on the side of the road with my emergency lights on as cars and trucks zoomed by me.

After four minutes I drove back in and the gate was open.  This facility is much smaller than St. Cloud or Moose Lake.  There were no bars, metal doors, metal detectors, or guards behind plexiglass.  My hand was shaking as I filled out the visitor-request form, but within 10 minutes I was waved into the visiting room and there he was.  When I hugged him I could feel how much weight he had lost.  “People would pay to come here!” I said, laughing.  “I know, mom, I’ve never been in such great shape in my life,” he said.

“And by the way, I just got a demerit because you arrived early.”

What a splash of cold water!  Vince got a demerit because I arrived four minutes early.  It would be one thing if I had known this was a no-no, but I had checked the visiting rules online the day before and they said nothing about it.  “Don’t worry about it, mom.  That’s just how how it is.  There’s no way of knowing what the rules are until you break one.  They’re looking for a reaction, and I won’t give it to them.  Just don’t show up early when you come to pick me up on my last day.”

“If I were staying in longer, you could do a video visit,” Vince told me.  “They’re promoting it heavily—one hour for only $99.95!”  We burst out laughing at the absurdity of it, but he explained that a hundred bucks was cheap for the many families who had to drive from Chicago and pay for hotel rooms.

Our two hours together flew by.  I drove home and felt completely drained.  Two hundred miles, two hours with my son, two weeks til he comes home.

Small Comfort

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VINCE

My squad mates made it official.  I will be the caller for the graduation march on September 8.  It’s a good feeling.  I’ve been working hard in many areas including marching in our squad formation.  It’s tough to get 17 men to turn at the same time on the correct foot, while singing our cadence.  But I know I’ll do well.

—

Yesterday I worked K.P. (kitchen duty) for only the third time since my arrival.  I didn’t go as much as most people because I’ve had a job that interfered with the scheduling…blah, blah.

I actually enjoyed it.  I worked about 14 hours in the back of the kitchen.  They were excited to have somebody that knew what he was doing.  I got to use the big Hobart slicer and was happy to discover that I still had good form.  And, I did not cut any fingers off.

This morning after our run we came back inside our barracks to discover that it had been “inspected.”  It happens about once a week.  If anything is wrong, they take the drawer out and empty it out on the bed.  In my case, I didn’t roll one of my underpants correctly so I had to re-fold my shirts, socks, sweats, and undies.  I’m usually one of the few that doesn’t get flipped but I knew I had been slacking for a few days.  It was just a little friendly reminder.

—

Flag detail is going well.  I’ve been on it three times and we haven’t dropped it.  I was the safety today.  My arms stay under the flag while it’s being folded.  It’s pretty cool.  I always wondered how the flag was put into such a nice triangle.  Now I know.

I’m I study hall right now.  Every Mon, Wed, and Fri we get an hour at night where everybody is quiet.  So quiet.  I can’t wait until I’m able to just go find a quiet place—and read, write, or do nothing at all.  I can’t wait to sit in a comfy chair and kick my legs up.  We have to sit straight up with the entirely of the bottom of our boots flat on the ground.  All day.  Every day.  Well, I mean when we’re sitting.

[ANNE: I received a postcard from Vince informing me that my last three letters to him had been destroyed.  There was an explanation given for only one: it had contained an image of a website.  All I could think of was that he had been urged to ask me for a list of AA meetings in our neighborhood, and I had copied a list off of the AA website, printed it, and mailed it to him.  I checked the Department of Corrections website and it said nothing about images of websites not being allowed in letters.

Man, was I upset!  Especially since I have an upcoming visit with Vince–the first in eight months.  Did they know about the blog, and were they pissed off about it?  Did they just not like the content of my letters for some reason?  Or was it totally capricious?  Would they find some reason to deny me a visit, after I drove for two hours to get there?  Would I be able to keep my mouth shut if they did?  I don’t have answers to any of these questions.  All I can do is try my best to suck it up if the guards give me any grief.  Trouble is, I am really bad at kowtowing to authority.]

Whole Lotta Saggin’ Goin’ On

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VINCE

My blue plastic chair, when in its proper place with me sitting properly in it, faces the bathroom.  Luckily for me, there is a shower curtain that usually is pulled over the eight foot entrance.  Usually.  Well, say 50% of the time.  So, anytime I look up from reading, writing, or reflecting, I have little choice but to see inside the bathroom.  And every time there’s a lot going on in there as you can imagine there would be with three urinals, three toilets, and eight showers.  I see a lot more skin than I ever want to see again.

I say that to say this: I’m glad that at no point in my life was I morbidly obese.  It’s no secret that our country is fat.  Well, there are a lot of fat criminals, too.  Unfortunately, at a place like this, people tend to lose a lot of fat, but not a lot of skin.  It’s … unsettling.  It makes me cringe.

And now a short list of things I want to eat my first day out: An avocado, sushi, a Dairy Queen Blizzard ® with both Reeses ® cups and Butterfinger ®, and although I don’t believe it’s technically edible, a large cup of quality coffee.

—

50 days to go.  Have I ever mentioned my fear of needles?  I must have.  Well, my name was called to go to health services and when I walked down the corridor and rounded into the room, I froze.  On the table in front of the bad man wearing blue latex gloves was a pile of syringes.  I couldn’t speak and I knew he could see my color draining away so he said, “It’s just Mantoux, to screen for tuberculosis.”  This was about the best news there could have been.  I can handle a needle going almost anywhere as long as it isn’t a vein.

Only twice in my life has a needle entered directly into my bloodstream.  Once in Hazelden in 2001, and once when I went to the hospital when I thought I was dying.  It turned out I had Salmonella, which they found out through my feces.  I was actually angry that my blood work came back clean.  It took four nurses to do the blood draw: one to remind me to keep breathing, two to talk to me while the fourth stole my blood.  I don’t think I heard much of what they were saying.

I’m also afraid of surgery.  I can’t listen to people talk about it.  I can’t watch it on TV, or look at pictures of it.  I don’t think I will ever have surgery, however necessary, because it combines my two least favorite things.

[ANNE: I too hate having blood drawn, and I have fainted a couple times, once hitting my jaw on the side of a table while I was going down.  Vince fainted once, just listening to someone talking about surgery.  I don’t know if it’s a physical or psychological thing (could Vince have learned or inherited this aversion from me?).  I’ve learned to ask for three things: 1) a “butterfly” needle, which is thinner than the standard one; 2) that I lie down while they do the draw; and 3) that they talk to me to distract me.  Health care folks are always happy to do these things; they don’t want me falling onto the floor any more than I do.]

Prison News Round Up Part II: The Good News

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ANNE

In the same weekend as all the depressing news stories I listed two days ago, there were these two uplifting ones.

The Week published an excerpt of this article in Runners World.  Yes, Runners World—about a program at the Oregon State Penitentiary that allows outsiders (even women) to go inside and run with prisoners.  They even race half marathons.  For some inmates, the outside runners are the only visitors they see.  I am not a runner, but I’ve always been an exerciser—I go nuts if I skip my daily walk and I’ve been pretty faithful to weight training for 25 years.  I swear by exercise as the best medicine for everything from depression to anxiety to all sorts of physical ills.  So way to go, Oregon!

Second good news article: The good old New York Times can be depended on to run something about America prisons almost daily.  Usually it’s extremely depressing, but this past weekend there was this one about dogs in prisons that will make you dog lovers out there weep.  It made me weep, when I got to this line: “One older inmate cried when he met his puppy. ‘I haven’t touched a dog in 40 years.’”  It made me wonder how heart-wrenching it must be when these guys have to turn their dogs over after they’ve been trained to detect bombs, which is what the program does.

Vince and I wrote about the dog-training program at Moose Lake, where he was before boot camp.  Only about six prisoners out of a thousand get to participate, so it sounds good but it’s not exactly at scale.  As I’ve mentioned, I do foster care for kittens through the Humane Society.  Every day from about April through August, I get dozens of emails a day from them looking for fosters for cats and kittens.  Below are just two photos from the 13 emails I received today.  For some reason the world doesn’t seem to be flooded with stray puppies or dogs so much, except those taken in from domestic violence situations, which require months of special care.  Could it work to have prisoners foster kittens?  Is that a cray-cray or a win-win idea?

478cfb96-ca59-41c4-88e8-4f7206e744d1Kittens

—

I got some good news—my visitor request was approved!  That means that after I get home from Berlin I can visit Vince.  By that time, it will have been eight months since I’ve seen Vince.  The ban was for six months, but due to me being denied a visit, and to two chunks of international travel, it’s stretched out to eight.  And yet on every visitor application and in the information for families that the Department of Corrections publishes online, they tout the importance of family connections.  Ha.

Prison News Round Up

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ANNE

I am leaving for Berlin in two days, so I’m going to review a pile of prison-related articles that I’ve accumulated—over a period of one weekend—that’s how often prison is in the news.  I’ll give you the downers first, then the positive ones.

Ohio is having trouble obtaining drugs used to execute people, so the Ohio DOC has obtained an import license from the Drug Enforcement Administration to buy sodium thiopental and pentobarbital from overseas.  Wow.  Where overseas, I wonder?  They “decline” to name the countries.  I’m thinking China, North Korea, Iran, or Yemen, since these are our fellow members of the death penalty club.  In case that doesn’t work, Ohio legislators passed an “execution secrecy law” (I am not making this up) in hopes it would get small-scale drug manufacturers called compounding pharmacies to sell them the drugs.  These are unregulated companies that have been in the news for sickening people with contaminated pharmaceuticals.  But hey, if you’re trying to kill someone, who cares what the quality of the drug is?

In Wisconsin, there is a prison guard shortage that has prompted two correctional facilities to call in guards from other institutions and pay overtime.  So let me get this straight—we pack our prisons full of nonviolent drug offenders, which costs us taxpayers an arm and a leg, then we have to pay overtime to get guard coverage, which costs us more.  Great system!

Which leads me to this editorial in the Minneapolis Star Tribune, “Finding solutions for overcrowded prisons.”   I like the opening line: “Either Americans are the most evil-people on Earth or there’s something terribly wrong with their criminal-justice system.”  They mention something that’s news to me: “It’s a stretch to suggest that the bloated prison population is due mainly to the sentencing of nonviolent drug offenders.  It’s not.  Most of the increase comes from locking up greater numbers of thieves and violent criminals and keeping them behind bars longer.  Even if all nonviolent drug offenders were set free today, the prison population of 2.2 million would drop to only 1.7 million … Still, on the margin, granting early release to nonviolent offenders and shortening sentences to better match crimes seems a sensible step….”

This information is new to me, and I wonder why I haven’t read it elsewhere.  Everywhere else, the narrative is that, if we just release all the nonviolent drug offenders, our prison population will be drastically reduced.  But if there are more violent criminals in America than elsewhere, maybe we are the most evil people on earth.

Still, 2.2 million total prisoners minus 1.7 million nonviolent drug offenders is 500 thousand people—not insignificant.  And when you figure it costs (on average) $31,000 a year to keep someone in prison, that’s over $1.5 billion a year.

On the same day, there was this feature article about Damon Thibodeaux, an 18-year-old who was wrongly convicted of rape and murder who spent 16 years on death row before being exonerated and freed, in large part due to the efforts of Minneapolis attorney Steve Kaplan.  Thibodeaux had been raped and beaten on a regular basis by his step “father” since the age of five and so he was easily bullied and manipulated into confessing to the crime.  It’s a heart-rending story, but it has a happy ending.  As I’ve written before, an important element of recovery from anything is feeling that you belong.  And Kaplan has gone the distance to help Thibodeaux adjust to life after prison by including him in family and other social gatherings.

And there was this little factoid in The Week: that every day, on average, a dozen people die behind bars.  The leading cause?  Suicide, in local jails; cancer elsewhere.

Below are some prison-related images.  The bully one made me shudder, because it’s how I felt when I was kicked out of Moose Lake for wearing “revealing clothing.”  It wasn’t about my clothing; it was a power trip.  Related to that is an interview with Richard Zimbardo, who led the Stanford Prison Experiment in which students were assigned to be prisoners or guards.  The “guards” quickly became sadistic.  “I lost my sense of compassion, I totally lost that,” said Zimbardo.

Next time, the good news.

DesktopBully

Pistoled Off

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VINCE

A curious thing happened last night while we were all sleeping. There was a large boom. That is all we have been able to come up with. An incredible, loud boom that woke up everybody in all three barracks.

From where I lay, I could not see a clock. And even if there was one in my view my glasses were stored for the night. I could tell right away that everybody else seemed spooked. None of the usual elements associated with a noise you can feel were present. No soft tapping of rain on the roof. No creaking of window frames from wind. No random bright flashes of light. And no fading echo of thunder.

We do know that somewhere nearby is some sort of military facility. On occasion I’ve seen those gigantic helicopters with the twin propellers flying by low, enough to get our attention. So that is possibly the source of last night’s disturbance. Nobody here knows what a sonic boom sounds like so here we sit confused. That’s the whole story, I hope somebody out there can tell me with certainty what happened out there.

—

I have another favorite author. Bill Bryson has a way of reeling in my attention from page one. This week I picked up “In a Sunburned Country.” Cool. The first and only nonfiction book I had ever read prior to “A Short History of Nearly Everything” (my first Bryson experience) was six or seven years ago. Anthony Bourdain’s “Kitchen Confidential.”

I should say that I’ve read many books I suppose in school that would be nonfiction thus negating my last paragraph.

Anyhow. “In a Sunburned Country” is amazing for the first 77 pages I’ve been able to squeeze in since last evening with my busy schedule. It makes me want to travel, especially to Australia. I mean, who wouldn’t want to go there? If you’ve never read Bill Bryson, give him a shot.

—

51 days to go. 131 already down.

Last night the four blue-hat squads had a marching test for a chance to perform in a parade on National Night Out on August 4th. Well, the same people that didn’t want to help us out with pushups also didn’t care about marching. We didn’t do very well. Four months in and the same guys still have significant difficulty with left and right turns. They also happen to be the only guys in our squad that are here on pistol-related charges and/or don’t have drug problems. They have one more thing in common but it would be rude to mention it.

Squad Squabble

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VINCE

We start Flag Detail tomorrow. We had a two hour training session yesterday on how to raise, lower, fold, carry, and store both the Minnesota State Flag and the American Flag. I will be involved in the process roughly every three days as we rotate. I’m a little nervous about it. Not because of punishment for doing something wrong, but because I have respect for the flags and I want to look good doing the job.

However … If somebody, even by accident, lets any part of either flag touch the ground, and staff finds out about it before we front-and-center about it, our sister squad and ours will owe 2,000 blue-hat pushups. That’s 2,000 sets of 40 divided up between 34 guys that need to be documented and completed over the next however many days are left when the potential event occurs. So needless to say, we’re going to be careful.

If it does touch the ground and we admit to it we split up 200 sets. EZ

—

It’s been a long day. I’ve run 4.2 miles, lifted weights for an hour, sat through three hours of treatment, cleaned the treatment building (my job), eaten three terrible meals, read the last 100 pages of my Bill Bryson book (awesome!), written four pages for you guys, written four pages on cross-addiction for treatment, and … well, that’s good enough right? My wrist is sore, so I say good day.

—

Less than 24 hours after writing the post about the Flag, somebody in my squad dropped it. The whole thing. Right on the ground. I was not in that five-man formation so I’m not feeling the “heat”, but I will be responsible for some pushups. The officer in charge of the detail isn’t here today so I can’t tell you much more.

—

As a squad we owe 200 sets of boot camp four-count pushups. That’s 40 each set. That’s 8,000 divided by 17 of us. That’s for one squad member dropping the flag, then being honest about it. Yesterday we knocked out 37 sets as a squad. We should be done in a couple days.

What surprised me is that a few of us quite vocally stated that they didn’t want to help at all. Their argument was based on the fictional idea that we wouldn’t help them if they had dropped Old Glory themselves. I feel a lot of anger toward them for that. We are over four months in and should be working as a squad, but some continue to have negative attitudes and no desire to change.

All that said, I know that I can only control my thoughts, feelings, and actions. And I am not staff. I just wish staff would do something about these people instead of pushing them through the program and back out on the streets. I’ve worked so hard to be where I am now, and it just doesn’t seem fair. And it isn’t, is it?

Rip Van Winkle

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VINCE

India squad (that’s my squad) got to watch a graduation ceremony today.  It was pretty cool.  Every month, two squads graduate, and two squads that are two months away from the door get to watch.  So, now we know what to expect.

It’s a huge deal, being released from prison.  It’s literally the only day most prisoners look forward to.  The big difference for us is that we aren’t leaving through locked doors and razor-wire fences.  Going home for us means the beginning of a new challenge: Phase II.

“Mastery items”: that’s a synonym with hobbies.  You’re right Mom, agate hunting is a good diversion.  So will be running, weight lifting, cooking, and meetings.  All things I enjoy doing.  We’ve spent some time going over our mastery items in treatment and they will be on our daily/weekly schedule that I have to submit before I leave, and every week thereafter.  They don’t want us getting bored out there.

Another batch of new guys arrived less than an hour ago.  They are fun to watch.  They’re so scared, many of them shaking so hard they have trouble buttoning up their shirts.  Four months ago, I was the same.  We started out as squad number 12 of 12.  Today, we are 4 of 12.  And we (most of us) got our blue hats yesterday!  We are now a senior squad.

We can now teach what we have learned.  This is a very dangerous position to be in for some of us as we are held to the highest standards.  Mistakes are punished no longer with pushups, but with interventions (gigs) or L.E.s (Learning Experiences).  Most people that get kicked out of boot camp are blue hats.  I don’t think I will have any trouble.  I’ve been a good boy so far.  I’ve done all I can to show that I’m paying attention here.  I will most likely be the leader of our squad during graduation march.  Some of our squad still can’t call right on their right foot.  Officers will be paying more attention to them now.

[ANNE: A friend sent me a story from the New York Times Magazine: “You Just Got Out of Prison, Now What?”  It follows a couple of ex-cons who volunteer to pick up men being released, then spend a day trying to ease them into a world very different from the one they left when they were incarcerated.

They pick up a guy named Dale Hammock.  He had been pulled over for not wearing a seat belt and the cops found a bag of meth in his car.  Since it was his third offense, he was sent away for 21 years.

Twenty-one years.

It’s got to be overwhelming to walk out the gates.  The volunteers take him to Target to buy jeans.  Have you noticed how many choices there are for jeans?  In 1994 it was Levis, Lees, or Sears jeans.  Now there are dozens of brands and styles—boot cut, skinny, extra long, straight leg, relaxed, low rise, and on and on.  I haven’t been in prison but I feel overwhelmed by all the choices.  The same is true in chain restaurants, which now make you sift through five menus with hundreds of options, and in the grocery store.  A couple times I have walked out of a store without buying anything because I was too paralyzed by the choices to make a decision.

Then of course there is technology.  The volunteer showed Hammock something on his smart phone and Hammock asked, ‘‘Everything now, you just touch it, and it shows you things?’’  God help him.]

Empathy 101

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VINCE

Tired.  Sometimes I don’t even notice it until about this time of day because we’re so active then we eat a huge dinner then come to study hall or an AA meeting for an hour.  I’ve been sitting down for five minutes and it’s really kicking in.  Exhaustion.  But we are not only not allowed to sleep from 0520 to 2120, we are not allowed to have the appearance of sleeping.  We cannot have our eyes closed for more than a three count (the speed of which is determined by any correctional officer) or we get formal discipline.  Yesterday, they caught somebody with their eyes closed who was going to be graduating and leaving tomorrow.  Well, not now.  They added a week stay at boot camp.  That’s not something I want to do.  So, I tell myself over and over that I have plenty of energy, and find a task, like writing, to keep my brain going.

Over the past week, our squad has been working on victim impact letters.  Our job was to think of five people, places, or things that have been directly affected by our crimes, and write a letter from them, to us.  This is the first time in four months that I actually saw some real emotion.  A few guys chose society, a few their children.  I chose my Mother.  And my mother is a good writer.  🙂

I write a lot.  For every post you see out there, I write an equal amount in here.  Most of what I write in here will never be seen, most of which is mundane and would not provide anything entertaining.  Some of what I write I will eventually share with you, just not until I leave here.

I shared my letter in class today and it was very well received, especially by the people that care about things and can understand big words.

If I had written this a year ago, I think I would have felt like a piece of $@*t.  But I’ve become close with her and I’ve changed a lot of my behaviors and thinking patterns and am heading in a very good direction which I know is a huge part of making amends.  Am I just rambling on?  I really want a nap.

Long story short: I love you Mom.  I’m sorry I was a crappy son for so long.  I am fixing it now.  I’ll be home in 56 days!

[ANNE: I am dying to know what “I” wrote to Vince, but he hasn’t sent me a copy of the letter.  I have had a lot of ups and downs over the last 20 years of his addiction.  The worst was when he relapsed after nearly five years of sobriety.  During those five years, even though he wasn’t using, he still had some really big attitude problems and unproductive ways of thinking.  Now he seems changed.  I am really excited for him.  Our relationship feels transformed.  Whether it is real and lasting once he is released remains to be seen.]