Walking Cliche | Chapter 2

May 25, 2009

Are You in the Circus?

"Throw it away. This suit is not fixable."

That's what the woman at the cleaners told me when I brought in the same suit I'd worn to my sentencing fifteen months earlier.

The suit had been too tight the day Judge Wilson sent me to prison. Now, after countless laps around that dusty track, it hung loose. So loose it looked absurd.

"Really, that bad? I think I just need to put a new hole in this belt to tighten it. I feel good about it," I told her as she practically strong-armed me into throwing it in the trash.

She had a motherly instinct; she knew what was coming.

I used my first four-hour pass from the halfway house to run six miles through the streets of Hollywood, enjoy a cup of coffee at Starbucks, stop at Barnes & Noble to buy Why Good People Do Bad Things, and talk with a nice woman who tried to throw my suit in the trash.

I was preparing for the four-hour pass I had the next day. I intended to follow through on one of my prison commitments: walk through downtown Los Angeles and introduce myself to lawyers.

Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment. Part of me liked knowing I was going to wear that huge suit while walking through the same streets where I had been sentenced. I was going back, this time because I chose to.

And with fewer funds (to put it lightly), I wasn't ready to buy another suit.

I remembered a line I'd copied into my prison journal from Thoreau: "That man is richest whose pleasures are cheapest."

The next morning, I waited anxiously at the halfway house for my four-hour pass to begin. I'd been practicing my pitch since 4 a.m. and rereading Lessons From Prison.

I was already wearing the suit and appreciating the feel of Kiehl's lotion on my face. Different from the pasty lotion sold in the Taft commissary.

It was the beginning of a game I played constantly after prison: "Wow, this is so much better."

People at the halfway house started asking questions while I waited outside for my mom to pick me up. I didn't have permission to drive yet.

"Dawg, where you going with that big suit on, the circus?" one said.

So clichéd, I thought. The circus. The good old circus cliché. Thank goodness I don't do that.

People were curious and bored, not much different from prison.

Rather than engage (one reason people have called me aloof or reserved), I smiled and stayed focused on my plan.

With traffic and the drive downtown, I would have about two and a half hours to make it happen.

"I wrote a nice letter to Michael," my mom said as we drove.

"He'll read it and respond, I'm sure," I told her.

My mom had driven me to hundreds of baseball games. She knew I didn't say much before something important. For 45 minutes in the car, I said almost nothing. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It helped.

The Cold Walk

The lobby inside 333 South Grand Avenue in downtown Los Angeles was packed.

It felt like the security guard watched me more closely than any prison guard ever had. It was as if he knew I planned to sneak past him, walk uninvited into law firms and peddle my book.

I was paranoid.

For about seven minutes, I played dumb on my phone and pretended to be busy. When I saw him duck around the corner, I made my move and slipped into an elevator with a huge bag of books over my shoulder.

All I could think was: This is about to happen. It's going down.

I was taking my book to lawyers who were going to love it.

This is it, man. I wish Michael could see me now.

I had mapped out the lawyers I planned to visit based on location and connection. I'd served time with some of their clients and assumed name-dropping would help.

I think you know the cliché about assuming.

"Hi," I said. "I'll only take 30 seconds. I'm not selling anything. My name's Justin Paperny. I just got out of prison. Quite a journey. I help people your firm helps: people under federal investigation, facing sentencing or about to surrender to federal prison. I served time with Matt Case, who suggested I reach out. I wrote this book, Lessons From Prison, from prison.

"I brought a few copies to give to Mr. [lawyer's name]. Some firms keep them in their conference room for scared defendants, like me. I'd love to meet the person I should hand these to."

My delivery was strong. So strong that I expected her to say, "Wow, congrats. Who writes a book from prison? That's impressive. Before I connect you to Mr. [lawyer's name], will you sign a copy for me?"

Instead, she stared at the suit and asked, "Who are you?"

"Justin Paperny. I'm not selling anything. I'll only take 30 seconds."

I was so nervous, with so many people staring at me, that I started giving the same pitch again. You'd never think I was once a stockbroker who raised hundreds of millions of dollars.

While standing there with all those eyes on me, I did the unthinkable. I started repeating the most overused cliché in history.

Damn it, I thought. Straight to Nietzsche? I'd been free from prison for five seconds and I was quoting Nietzsche?

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

"Jason," she said.

"No, Justin," I said.

"Yeah, just leave the books. Or take them. No lawyer is available to see you."

Some version of that happened nine more times.

One lawyer even threatened to call my probation officer.

"What part of the no-solicitation sign can't you read?" she asked.

The Mirrored Wall

"My God, they hate me," I told myself as I stared into a mirrored wall outside the elevators on the tenth floor. Time on my pass was running out. "This isn't going as planned."

I thought about something Morgen, a developer serving 12 years at Taft, used to say. He loved quoting paradoxes.

"We're living the shrinking paradox," he told me once in the chow hall.

"What's that?" I asked.

"You've got to get smaller before you can get any bigger," he said. "Lose the weight, the noise, the ego. That's the trade."

Standing alone on the tenth floor in an oversized suit, I finally understood what he meant.

"Now what?" I wondered. "Get in the car, or visit one more office?"

I already knew the answer.

When I struggle, I think about baseball. Baseball conditioned me for failure and rejection.

The highlight and low point of my unimpressive career at USC came after an 0-for-5 game against the Japan National Team. I struck out three times. We had also stolen their signs in the first inning, so I knew every pitch that was coming.

After the game, Coach Mike Gillespie told me he was proud of how I responded. He said no one would have known if I went 5-for-5 or 0-for-5; all that mattered was that we won.

That experience came back to me on the tenth floor. I picked up the bag and walked into one more office.

Find a Mark Werksman When You Come Home

"Hey, I'll only take 30 seconds. I'm not selling anything. My name's Justin Paperny…"

Okay, you know the rest of the pitch.

"Hold please," she said.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I'll get Mark."

Now this I wasn't prepared for. After all of these rejections, I wasn't ready to actually speak with someone.

"Justin, Mark Werksman. How can I help you?"

"Mark, every lawyer has ignored me today. One even threatened to call security and my probation officer. I just got out of prison. I wrote this book, Lessons From Prison. It would've helped me when I saw United States of America v. Justin Paperny.

"I'd be grateful if you'd review it and consider giving it to your clients. I'm not a lawyer, and I'll never give legal advice. I'm grateful you came out and shook my hand. Truth is, I've got to get back to the halfway house. My mom's waiting in the car. I'm on a four-hour pass. Will you please take the books?"

"Would be my pleasure," he said.

He probably took pity on me.

Didn't matter. I'll take it.

When I left his office, I felt good about the day. Even if Mark had thrown me out too, I had done what I wrote that I would do.

Nothing I've experienced since, live television or speaking in front of 15,000 people, compares to that cold walk through Los Angeles.

"Mom, we've got 33 minutes to get back to the halfway house. If not, I could end up back in prison. And not Taft, but MDC downtown. Let's party."

"So, how did it go?"

She knew I was ready to talk.

"Mom, I had a good day."

"Oh, they loved the book. I knew they would!"

"Oh no. Hated it. Didn't take it. One lady threatened to call my probation officer. Only one lawyer shook my hand. But I did it. The epilogue of Lessons From Prison says, 'If you're going to do something, you do it.' I got thrown out, but I did it. I'm thrilled. Please drive faster."

After I checked in at the halfway house, I went straight to my room. My bunkie John, who had served 40 years for robbing banks, was sitting in a chair reading The Catcher in the Rye.

"Hey, John," I said. "My mom got you a sandwich. You want it?"

"Sure."

I paused.

"What are you, five-ten, five-eleven?"

"About that."

"You want my suit? It doesn't fit."

"Yeah, sure."

I was careful how I asked. Prison and the halfway house are emasculating. You never want to presume someone doesn't have anything. I wanted the offer to carry respect, not pity.

I lay on my bed and wrote about the day in my journal.

The next morning, the phone rang.

"Justin, Mark Werksman here. I read most of your book. Would you send me ten copies? I'll hand them out to my clients."

"It would be my pleasure," I told him. "Thank you, Mark."

Sixteen Years Later

As I wrote this in September 2025, I thought about another paradox Morgen introduced me to. He called it the growth paradox.

Everything that grows takes longer than you think, then sometimes seems to happen all at once.

The morning after the cold walk, Mark called and asked for ten copies of Lessons From Prison. It looked like something had changed overnight. It hadn't.

Before that phone call, there were mornings in the quiet room with Michael. I read passages 20 times and walked the compound carrying a hundred index cards. Other prisoners mocked the blog. My mom typed the pages I mailed home.

Then Mark said, "I read your book."

Not, "I loved your book."

"I read it" was enough.

What I didn't know was that one walk would lead to years of business with Mark. I've called it the million-dollar walk because that is what the relationship eventually produced. Mark also became a mentor and a friend.

None of that existed when I entered his office in a suit that didn't fit, carrying books that almost no one wanted.

I wish I had started building on January 15, 2005, the day UBS fired me. Or three months later, when the FBI showed up. I could have started when I pled guilty. I could have started before I ever stood in front of Judge Wilson.

It wasn't until October 12, 2008, more than three years after the FBI came to my home, that I wrote my first blog with Michael at Taft.

Oh, how I wish I'd started earlier.

Chapter 2 Reflection Journal

Morgen told me I had to become smaller before I could become bigger. What title, income or reputation are you still trying to carry into a life where it no longer fits?

What are you doing that you expect someone else to instantly value?

After ten rejections, I walked into one more office. Where is the next office for you?