I opened today’s webinar by acknowledging something I once felt every day as a defendant: I wasn’t living with dignity. I asked the group if they had felt the same. Silence followed for a moment, until Eileen spoke up on behalf of her brother, who is facing sentencing. She described the shame he carries and the stigma of indictment. Rhonda added how her family’s life completely shifted—friendships disappeared, her focus narrowed only on helping her son, and embarrassment made her reluctant to speak publicly about it.

Their comments reminded me of my own experience. During my case, I clung to relationships that had ended, believing a letter or endorsement could help me, even when the other person had already moved on. That wasn’t dignity. That was desperation. And I stressed to the group: a character reference letter is important, but not at the expense of your self-respect.

Collateral Consequences That Never End

I told the story of filling out my son’s baseball registration form. On page seven, the box asked: Would you like to be a parent coach? If you checked “no,” you owed a $500 donation. The coach knew I had played baseball at USC and asked why I wasn’t volunteering to coach. I explained my conviction. He understood, but the point is this: collateral consequences never disappear.

I can’t coach my son’s team, but I chose gratitude instead of complaint. I was grateful that someone even asked. Living with dignity means finding perspective, even in the face of lifelong penalties.

Lessons From Literature

I shared with the group that reading shaped my prison term. Michael Santos, my partner, gave me books I didn’t understand at first. I had to read them dozens of times. But they forced me to think differently.

Two examples I mentioned:

• Robert Greene’s The 33 Strategies of War: His strategy of “guerrilla war of the mind” applies directly to federal cases. Defendants tend to go silent until sentencing. That rhythm makes them invisible. If you disrupt the rhythm with documented progress—volunteer logs, certificates, proof of restitution—you get noticed.
• Al Pacino’s Sunny Boy: Pacino described an extra who walked off a film set in Italy because he refused to be disrespected. He lost his paycheck but kept his dignity. In prison, I saw men who lived with the same sense of respect. They cleaned the microwave even if it wasn’t theirs, or they worked hard at jobs many considered beneath them. Those actions mattered.

The contrast: other prisoners paid people to do their jobs or barely participated, rationalizing that certain work was beneath them. Saying you’ll live with dignity is meaningless without consistent follow-through.

The Wrong Friendships in Federal Prison

I admitted a mistake I made inside: befriending someone I called Arthur in Lessons from Prison. He constantly mocked others. Tattoos. Habits. Jobs. At first, I looked the other way. But when he ridiculed another man for celebrating a fast-food job after release—“I’d rather stay in prison than work in fast food”—I finally walked away.

That moment taught me that empathy matters. Some men made terrible choices, but they hadn’t had the advantages I squandered—supportive parents, education, privilege. Entitlement blinded me at times, and I had to break from it. Ending that friendship was uncomfortable—we still lived ten yards apart—but it was necessary.

Ron Throgmartin, who just came home from prison, added to this point. At first, he gravitated toward some white-collar prisoners. But he realized entitlement was poison. The men who obsessed over who they used to be—status, wealth, jobs—suffered most. The men who accepted their reality, leaned into discipline, and focused on getting back to their families did far better.

Small Habits That Restore Dignity

Ron also emphasized something simple but vital: dignity in prison comes from small daily choices. Showering. Shaving. Washing clothes. Respecting lockers. Doing jobs as if they mattered. These actions may sound minor, but they restore self-worth and build credibility with staff and other prisoners.

I reminded the group that you can fake it in phone calls or emails home, but your family will see the truth during visits. If you look disheveled, complain, or seem defeated, they’ll know. That only deepens their burden. Living with dignity inside isn’t just about you—it’s about sparing your family additional pain.

RDAP: Opportunity and Resistance

We spent a lot of time on RDAP—the Residential Drug Abuse Program—because it can shorten a federal sentence by up to 12 months. I explained the key steps:

1. Document history: You must show substance or alcohol use within 12 months before arrest. If it’s not in your PSR, you likely won’t get in.
2. Add evidence: A licensed counselor’s assessment strengthens your file.
3. Judicial recommendation: Judges often recommend RDAP at sentencing, but placement is up to the Bureau of Prisons.
4. Expect cynicism: Some coordinators resist reforms like the First Step Act. They assume white-collar defendants exaggerate to game the system. Evidence and consistency matter.

Ron shared his experience: he entered RDAP only to shave a year off. But he left convinced it was transformative. It wasn’t AA or NA—it was behavioral therapy. It taught him how to reflect, adjust relationships, and live more deliberately.

I cautioned the group not to sanitize the PSR. Many defendants omit alcohol or drug use, thinking it makes them look better to a judge. In reality, that omission can disqualify them from RDAP.

Release Plans and Cynical Case Managers

One question was, What if a case manager throws your release plan in the trash?

I said it happens. Some staff view release plans as self-serving paperwork. But you don’t stop. Keep a copy. Share with your lawyer. Update over time. Judges, probation officers, or regional BOP staff may revisit it later.

Art, a former warden, confirmed this. He urged everyone to keep stamped copies and share them with attorneys and probation officers. Judges occasionally call wardens to ask about specific prisoners. If you’ve documented progress, you’re prepared when opportunity comes.

Nicholas Kaizer, a defense lawyer, told the story of a client whose release plan was ignored initially but resurrected when policy shifted. Because he had built it early, he was ready when reform opened doors.

The lesson: don’t just write ambitious goals. Follow through. A plan without implementation is just paper.

Allocution and Narrative Strategy

Eileen asked whether her brother should submit a personal narrative before sentencing. His lawyer opposed it, claiming judges don’t want to read it.

I was blunt: judges want to hear directly from defendants. Many have said so on video. Narratives should not be excuses or rationalizations—they should explain:

• How you got into this case.
• What you’ve learned.
• How you’ll make victims whole.
• Why you’ll never return to another courtroom.

At allocution, I suggested keeping it brief but referencing the narrative:

“Your Honor, I submitted a detailed narrative. I accept full responsibility, and here are the steps I’ve already taken to repair the harm.”

The key: evidence, not adjectives. Judges distrust words unsupported by action.

Influencing Prosecutors and Judges

I shared an example with attorney Diane Bass. A client’s PSR recommended 41 months. But because he had documented restitution, over 100 hours of nonprofit service, and even a release plan, Bass convinced prosecutors to recommend 15 months instead.

That result wasn’t luck—it was preparation during downtime. While his case was delayed, he kept building evidence. Too many defendants freeze when the docket stalls. Progress made during quiet periods carries enormous weight later.

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Strategies From The 33 Strategies of War

I tied Greene’s strategies to sentencing preparation:

• Guerrilla War of the Mind: Break the rhythm of silence with consistent updates and proof of growth.
• Counterbalance: Keep advancing when courts or lawyers go quiet.
• Death Ground: Act as if there’s no later chance. Waiting until sentencing is too late.
• Chain Reactions: Small actions ripple outward. One strong letter, one therapy session, one volunteer log can influence judges, probation, or even clemency.

Final Lessons: Prepare, Document, Persist

I closed by stressing that preparation doesn’t stop at sentencing. Narratives, release plans, daily habits inside prison, and ongoing contributions outside all shape the opportunities that follow.

The central question I asked: Are you living with dignity, or are you chasing approval, begging for friendships, or waiting for policy to save you?

Dignity comes from preparation, documentation, and consistency. That’s what persuades judges, probation officers, and the Bureau of Prisons. That’s what influences your release and life after prison.

Best,

Justin Paperny