I’m not going to mention his name or the kind of financial crimes he committed, but he’s my dear friend and today he surrenders at a Federal prison, where he will most likely spend the next three-and-a-half to four years.
He didn’t shoot anybody or rob a bank.
It was an investment situation, and it went south, and he just couldn’t bring himself to tell people that he had lost their money.
Richard Nixon could have told him that the cover-up is always worse than the crime.
We had dinner last night, which I took as a great compliment.
He could have spent his last evening with anybody, but he chose to spend the time with me.
He was much calmer than I am about his situation.
Indeed, in his mind, he did the crime, and now it’s time to do the time.
I asked him if he was relieved that the clock was finally starting.
“Definitely,” he said. “I’m actually interested in this new phase of my life. I’m looking forward to seeing what it will be like.”
He told me he’d gotten lots of advice, some from consultants and some from ex-felons.
Don’t be too smart, because the guards might not like that.
Don’t make friends too quickly.
Don’t paint too clear a picture of your misdeeds, because someone could call his lawyer, claim that you’ve got millions stashed away somewhere, and cut his term short at your expense.
I envied him his moral clarity and his sanity.
I’m sad because, his misdeeds notwithstanding, he’s a super guy.
Smart, funny, compassionate, interested, a great listener.
OK, and a felon.
Nobody’s perfect.
My son graduated middle school last month. When my friend comes out, my son will be graduating high school.
That is an unfathomably long amount of time for me, but he appears to be taking it in stride.
I told him I was concerned that his placidity might desert him once the reality of being locked up, sometime around 11:00 am Eastern today, sets in.
He agreed.
“I might hit a wall,” he said. “But I’ll deal with that then.”
We talked about how we will be able to remain in contact—by phone, by email, by letter, and with the occasional visit.
He has to get sorted out first.
He was excited about the fact that a local library, part of a regional system, allowed inmates to check out books.
The small pleasures of life.
My kids were asking about him.
“Could he take in supplements?” they asked.
No, I replied.
“Books?”
No.
“Toothbrush?”
I don’t know, I said.
It sounds like a cliché to say that we only recognize our freedom when it’s taken away, and I’m extremely conscious of mine as the day unfolds.
They say that prisons are full of innocent people, or at least people who claim to be innocent.
In that case, my friend may be an outlier.
He knows what he did, and he makes no bones about it.
My friend is around 65; not the age when you want to start this sort of new chapter in your life.
I’m looking for a moral of the story with which to leave you.
I’m afraid I don’t have anything deeper than this: Don’t commit crimes.
I’m going to miss my friend.
Maybe in the course of your busy day today, take a peek at the sky, or your office, or your loved ones, and remember that freedom is a damned fine thing.
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Photo: Getty Images