On June 3, 2009, I stepped out of a halfway house in Los Angeles wearing a suit five sizes too big. It was the same suit I’d worn to sentencing. I’d lost weight in prison, but that wasn’t the only thing that had changed.

I had spent the previous year walking a dirt track in federal prison with Michael Santos. We talked about the commitments we’d made—what we’d say to our victims, our families, and to ourselves. I told him I’d rebuild. I told him I’d write. I told him I’d find a way to repay the people I hurt.

But here’s what no one tells you: it’s easier to talk about those plans in prison than it is to act on them when you get out.

I had just earned my first four-hour pass from the halfway house. Most guys use their first pass to see their kids, their partner, or grab a real meal. I used mine to sell a book. Because that’s what I promised I would do—help people avoid the mistakes I made and follow through on what I wrote in Lessons From Prison.

My mom drove me downtown. I was nervous. I asked her to slow down. I said maybe I shouldn’t do this today. She looked at me and said, “I don’t want to visit you in prison again. You’ve talked enough. Go do it.”

She parked. I stepped out into the city carrying 20 books and a shaky plan.

The First Office Threw Me Out

I didn’t have an appointment. I didn’t know anyone. I just walked into a law office and introduced myself as a guy who had served time in federal prison and written a book.

They told me to leave.

It happened again. And again. Lawyers looked me up and down. They could tell I didn’t belong. I had a huge suit on and no pitch. I felt out of place. But I kept walking. I had time and I had made a promise.

Michael used to tell me, “It’s daily. It’s incremental. Follow through.” That track talk felt far away now. But it was what pushed me through the discomfort. One office at a time. One rejection at a time.

One Lawyer Said Yes

Eventually, I walked into Mark Werksman’s office. He didn’t throw me out. He shook my hand, took the book, and said he’d call me the next day. He did. He ordered ten copies. Since then, he’s handed that book to dozens of clients.

That day didn’t change everything. It didn’t pay my restitution. It didn’t rebuild my reputation. But it was the first public step in proving I meant what I said inside.

It showed I wasn’t just sorry—I was working.

Judges and Probation Officers Have Seen the Talk

If you’re in prison or on your way there, chances are you’ve told someone—your lawyer, your spouse, maybe even a judge—that you’re going to use the time productively. You’re going to write, reflect, repay, rebuild.

They’ve heard it before.

They’ve read versions of it in sentencing memos, PSRs, and allocution statements. Most defendants never follow through. That’s not an opinion. That’s a pattern.

It’s why the burden is on you to prove you’re different. And proof doesn’t come through words. It comes through action.

Writing the book didn’t prove anything. Cold-walking into law offices on my first pass started to. That’s when the promises I made in federal prison started to mean something.

Your Suit Might Not Fit Either

You’re not going to feel ready. You might look ridiculous. You might get rejected. But if your highest value is making things right—not just with the judge, but with your victims and yourself—then trying matters.

Don’t wait until you’re home to start. And don’t think that just because you’re out, the hard part is over.

The hard part is doing what you said you would—when no one’s watching, when it’s easier to quit, when you feel like you’ve already paid enough.

The halfway house didn’t give me that four-hour pass because I wrote a book. They gave it to me because I followed the rules and earned it. What I did with it—walking into law offices to sell that book—wasn’t part of the rules. It was part of the work.

And the work hasn’t stopped.

What are you going to do the day you walk out?

Justin Paperny

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