White Collar Advice
What happens when you prepare for federal prison, do the work, come home, and still struggle to open a bank account? I’ve been home since 2009. In this conversation, we talk about earning a living after prison, the shame of a conviction, and trying work you’ve never done before. I share how handwritten prison blogs brought my first phone calls, why I refunded my first paying client, and what I regret about my early days home. We also talk about our families, learning to tell your story, and why preparing for release should begin long before you leave prison. Justin Paperny
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I finished Sam Harris's Free Will last night, 1 hour and 14 minutes on Audible, and it made me look again at how I went from USC and Bear Stearns to lying to FBI agent Paul Bertrand. Harris argues we don't choose our thoughts, our genetics, our parents, or our early experiences. That idea is dangerous in front of a judge. If your narrative suggests it wasn't your fault, the court and your victims will hear it that way. What I took from the book is sequence: a financial problem, the concealment, the concealment working, and each next step getting easier. Michael Santos once asked me whether it...
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A journalist keeps hitting me with one question: isn't what you do manipulation? So on question 11, I stop and read her the definition: to control or influence cleverly, unfairly, or unscrupulously. Then I walk through it. Sentencing advocacy is influence, yes, but so is the government's case, the defense attorney's argument, and sometimes a victim impact statement (I've seen people claim to be victims who weren't, including in my own case). Character reference letters can be used to manipulate too. But a defendant cannot shorten a sentence by manipulating a judge, because judges know the...
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A journalist writing about white collar crime sent me about 50 questions before our call. We cut it to 25, and I answered the first three here. Who I am and why anyone should listen to me: going to prison does not qualify you to give advice, and neither does failing. What matters is what you did with the experience and whether you built a record someone can look at. How I went from USC and Bear Stearns to federal prison: not one decision, but pressure, opportunity, and rationalization, convincing myself I was the good guy while I took commissions I was not entitled to. And whether I deserved...
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I got a call from someone new to our community, asking me to speak with his lawyer, a guy with more MVP awards than Michael Jordan, Kobe Bryant, and Magic Johnson combined. Two things stood out. The defendant didn't know his own guidelines were more than seven years, even after signing a plea agreement with points and restitution; how do you sign that and not know your number? And of course, he didn't want to go to prison. We got into what the government wants versus what the defense should ask for, and the lawyer told me, I'll do whatever you want me to do. I told him if the government wants...
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I look back on playing baseball at USC, where making the travel roster to Stanford felt like a big deal. I remember grounding out weakly against Cal State Fullerton reliever Mark Kotsay, who went on to a 17 year career in the majors, and the years I spent punishing myself over that at bat, a regret that followed me into federal prison. Today USC plays North Carolina for a shot at returning to the College World Series for the first time since 2001; back in 1995, my own USC team lost the national championship game to Cal State Fullerton. I tell this year's team to embrace it, win or lose,...
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On my way back from Santa Barbara, I stopped near Ojai and met with a woman whose husband had just surrendered to federal prison for ten years. I write about this meeting in my new book, After the Fall, chapter 14. She knew he was under investigation but not how severe; he kept her in the dark, and she expected two or three years, so everyone was stunned when they heard a decade. Every time he calls from prison he tells her he's sorry, but that doesn't help her manage the kids, the bills, the fallout, and the shame. She finally reached out to her father for money. He said yes, but not as a...
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Every time we spoke, she'd say just get him home from federal prison. Before he went in, her husband blamed the court, the lawyers, the judge, and the co-defendant who cooperated against him. In prison he complained about his bunkie, the food, the commissary, his job, and asked why he was in a camp with no fences when he owed restitution. After he came home he complained about his probation officer, the restitution amount, how she was parenting their kids, and the dinner she cooked. About nine months after his release, she quietly told him: my life was much easier when you were in prison.
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Nearly three years ago I spoke with a man who told me he was embezzling money. He was not the target of an investigation. I told him to stop the bleeding and not make it worse, and I referred him to five lawyers. He didn't call one. He had convinced himself, the way I once did, that another wire and another quarter would fix it and no one would know. He didn't fix it. The losses doubled. More victims, an indictment, a guilty plea, a conviction, and more than six years in federal prison. When we spoke again, he told me he wished he had taken my advice three years ago.
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Someone new to our community asked how Ippei got 57 months while his co-defendant, Matthew Boyer, got a year and a day. I told him it's not the right comparison. Ippei stole $16 or $17 million, and even if Shohei is the greatest athlete in the world and a billionaire, he's still a victim, and the case did real damage to his brand. But look at how the two men responded. Ippei blamed Shohei in his letter to Judge Holcomb; I read that letter and made a long YouTube video about it. Matthew treated it as an evidence challenge instead of a legal one. He built a narrative about what he would do going...
info_outlineJuly 9th, 2008, four or five months into my sentence, around 3:45 in the afternoon just after mail call. Michael Santos asked if I knew the new prisoner who had transferred in from another prison, about 20 feet away, loud, showing off, telling everyone there's no deal he can't close, the jets he flew on, the models he slept with. I said no. Michael said that's Roman Fabrizi. Walking the track that afternoon he told me Roman Fabrizi isn't a person, it's a type of prisoner: the one who mocks other prisoners who are willing to try and build, and who cozies up to staff hoping for a benefit, more halfway house time, getting home earlier. He used the phrase putting on airs. I didn't know what that meant. He said it's acting superior when we're not. We're human beings and we can all become better. I wrote about it in my prison journal the next day and it hangs in my office. It connects to CZ, who said in an interview this week that guards asked him whether they should invest in Bitcoin. He probably knows. If he had answered the way they wanted, they might have sent him home early or given him some benefit. He said I don't know, walked back to that antiquated prison computer, and kept writing Freedom of Money. If one of the richest and most successful men in the world can say I don't know, so can you. Don't be Roman Fabrizi. Don't put on airs.