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About a year ago, Michael Santos and I had a tough call with an executive in the Midwest. He hasn’t been sentenced yet, and I’m not going to dress this up into one of those fake stories you see online about someone facing hundreds of years and somehow walking away with probation. I can’t stand that kind of marketing. What I can tell you is this: once he started acting—once he stopped staying quiet—he felt better.
The problem started with his lawyer. The lawyer told him not to prepare, not to research, not to ask questions. “Stay off the internet. Nothing to do until discovery is over.” The executive accepted that advice. He told himself, I hired a lawyer. He’s the expert. I shouldn’t upset him.
When he tried to bring up what he’d learned from our judge interviews, the lawyer dismissed it.
“That’s a liberal judge, doesn’t apply.”
“I read this might help,” the executive said cautiously.
“Forget about it.”
Finally the lawyer snapped: “Stop. No more questions. You hired me for my expertise. Don’t do anything until I tell you.”
That silence made him idle while the government was working full time against him.
I told him the analogy that came to mind. When I was a young father, we had a nanny for my daughter. I’d read parenting books, noticed things I didn’t like, but I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want to upset her. She was taking care of my child. Many defendants treat their lawyers the same way. They don’t want to push back. They don’t want to question. They stay quiet, even when it hurts them.
In his case, the silence got so bad the lawyer stopped calling back, missed meetings, and billed without preparing. That’s when the executive called us. Michael told him directly: “You expect your lawyer to guide you and show you a plan. Instead, you’re reminding him of basic facts. He doesn’t know your life. That leaves you idle while the government builds its case.”
We reminded him of what’s real: probation isn’t likely if there’s a mandatory minimum. Prosecutors aren’t motivated to help you. Judges aren’t neutral. If sentencing is coming, you need mitigation. Mitigation means showing a fuller picture: 56 years old, no prior record, husband, father, child struggling with depression, decades of law-abiding life before making terrible choices under business pressure. That’s context. That’s what influences a judge.
Michael told him to start small. Write something. Create something. Incremental steps give you back control, and writing is cathartic. Michael lived it. In 1987, he went to prison and started writing. He educated himself. He mentored others. Over time, those small steps built into books, lectures, advocacy, reform. But it began with a single page.
That’s what we told the executive to do. Whether he goes to prison or not, he now has something tangible to point to. If he serves time, it will help him engineer an earlier release. If he doesn’t, it shows his family he used this period wisely.
Too many defendants treat their lawyer like a nanny—afraid to challenge them, afraid to ask questions, afraid to prepare. That silence hurts them. Judges don’t want silence. They want proof.
The question is: are you going to sit idle, or are you going to build your own record before someone else writes it for you?
Justin Paperny
