“The most dangerous decision you can make is deciding the ending before even attempting to improve it,” I told him.
I was in New York to speak at a Goldman Sachs investment conference. After the presentation, I stayed behind to answer questions and talk privately with people who wanted a few minutes one-on-one.
One of them was a fifty-nine-year-old physician.
He had reached out the week before. After our call, I invited him to attend the event as my guest and suggested we sit down afterward before I flew back to Los Angeles.
When we met, he didn’t ease into it.
“I’ve been indicted,” he said. “Kickbacks to marketers. It went on for years.”
He explained that one of the marketers had been charged first and, through wiretaps, the government built its case against him. He didn’t argue the facts or minimize what had happened. He spoke calmly, almost mechanically, as if he had already walked himself through the outcome.
“I’ll lose my license,” he said.
“I’ll lose my money.”
“At my age, recalibrating isn’t realistic.”
He paused.
“I’ve been a doctor my entire adult life. I don’t know how to do anything else.”
There was no anger in it. No self-pity. Just acceptance.
“I’m already thinking about leaving New York,” he continued. “Between the cost of living and the shame that comes with this, I don’t see a reason to stay.”
I listened.
After a moment, he added something I’ve heard from defendants more times than I’ve heard my kids say, “Dad, can I go on YouTube and watch Mr. Beast?”
“No offense,” he said, “but this was easier for you.”
I didn’t interrupt.
“You were what—thirty? No kids? Easier to start over. I’m a doctor. I’m not a natural communicator like you.”
He gestured toward the conference badge on the table.
“You just spoke in front of thousands of people.”
Minutes earlier, senior executives from Goldman Sachs had come up to shake my hand. One managing director told me it was a shame I wasn’t allowed to work at the bank, that my experience and knowledge would be valuable there.
He wasn’t resentful. He said it as if the comparison closed the discussion.
Hearing it didn’t prompt the doctor to consider whether his own experience might still have value. It confirmed the opposite.
I’m too old.
I’m a doctor.
I’m not built for this.
Rather than focus on his questions about what prison would be like, I asked him a question.
“Do you know Theseus?”
He shook his head.
“Can I tell you a story?”
“Of course.”
“In ancient Greece,” I said, “Athens sent young men and women into a maze or labyrinth as tribute. Inside was the Minotaur—a creature so dangerous that once you entered, no one ever came back.”
He leaned back in his chair, listening.
“Everyone who went into the maze before Theseus accepted the same assumption you’re making right now,” I said. “That once you enter, the ending is already decided.”
“They just went in to die?” he asked.
“Some fought,” I said. “They ran. They tried to endure it. They all died.”
“Before he entered the labyrinth, he spoke to Ariadne—the daughter of the king who built the maze. She had watched every man before him enter.”
“Theseus listened,” I said. “Not because he was fearless, but because he’d seen how it ended for everyone else.”
“So what did he do differently?” the doctor asked.
“He didn’t go in empty-handed,” I said. “Ariadne gave him a thread.”
The doctor waited.
“That thread wasn’t a weapon,” I said. “It didn’t make him physically stronger. It didn’t guarantee anything. It just made sure that every step he took into the maze was connected to a way back out.”
“So what’s the thread?” he asked.
“For me,” I said, “it started with deciding how I wanted to live in and out of prison.”
I told him that when my securities licenses and real estate license were gone and my reputation had been destroyed, I believed many of the same things he was saying now.
That I’d never rebuild.
That I’d never make real money again.
That I’d never get married.
That whatever came next would be smaller and permanent.
“Meeting Michael Santos didn’t change what had already happened to me,” I said. “It changed what I did next. He told me to think about the end before the beginning—to start building assets that didn’t yet exist.”
I told him that meant writing every day when no one was asking for it, documenting work that no one may read, and preparing for a future that felt uncertain.
“I’m not telling you building new assets will work exactly as you hope it will or keep you out of prison,” I said. Clint Eastwood once said, “If you want a guarantee, buy a toaster.” In my case, I knew that if I didn’t invest the time to create a new narrative, this experience would define me forever. And as simple as it sounds, that’s not the person my parents raised.”
“This Minotaur story sounds fatalistic,” he said.
“It sounds practical,” I said. “Everyone Athens sent before Theseus had watched the same thing happen. No one returned.”
“But they fought, right?”
“Yes,” I said.
“And it didn’t help?”
“It didn’t,” I said. “Because the Minotaur never chased them. The labyrinth wore them down first.”
He leaned forward. “What do you mean by that?”
“The repetition. The confusion. The exhaustion,” I said. “By the time they reached the center, they weren’t thinking clearly anymore.”
“So they didn’t lose because they were weak.”
“No,” I said. “They lost because they entered trying to survive the same way everyone else had.”
He sat back. “And you’re saying that’s what happens to defendants.”
“I’m saying that’s what happens inside the system,” I said. “People don’t question the approach. They repeat it.”
“Repeat what?”
“They explain,” I said. “They argue facts. They behave as if the outcome is already fixed.”
“And that’s the mistake.” he said.
“That’s the maze. Theseus doesn’t accept the same premise. With guidance from Ariadne, he doesn’t accept that entering means disappearing.” I said.
“But he knows the Minotaur is real.”
“He knows,” I said. “That’s why he plans how to leave before he enters.”
He nodded slowly. “I see what you’re doing. This is still mythology.”
“Let me give you a real example,” I said.
“Clyde Gibson. Different facts than yours. Different charge. Same assumption.”
“What assumption?”
“That the ending was already decided.”
I told him Clyde pleaded to one count of aiding and abetting false tax returns. I told him Clyde’s lawyer said to expect prison—twelve to eighteen months—not as a possibility, but as the likely outcome.
“And Clyde believed that?”
“He didn’t argue with it,” I said. “He just didn’t let that be the end of the story.”
“What did he do differently?”
“He started preparing before sentencing, before the plea agreement, before the probation interview,” I said. “He wrote his narrative early. He documented his work. He volunteered. He led for his family, setting the tone that nothing would stop him from trying to earn the best outcome. He did a beautiful job of doing the work on days he would rather do just about anything else.”
“And these cynical stakeholders noticed?”
“They did,” I said. “Probation noticed. The judge noticed. Even the prosecutor said something unexpected in open court.”
“That Clyde wasn’t a threat and didn’t appear likely to reoffend.”
“And the sentence?”
“Probation.”
He exhaled. “So preparation changed the outcome.”
“It changed how the system responded to him,” I said. “That’s different.”
He nodded. “So the thread isn’t optimism.”
“No,” I said. “The thread is refusing to accept an outcome too early.”
He sat quietly.
“So you’re saying the system doesn’t really change.”
“I’m saying the structure doesn’t,” I said. “The prosecutor still controls the case. The judge still decides the sentence.”
“Then what actually changes?”
“How you enter it,” I said.
“The investigation, the PSR, sentencing—whatever comes next. Again, most defendants enter assuming the outcome is fixed, so they behave as if it is.”
“So they stop doing anything that could change it.”
“Why change if you don’t think it will help?” I said. “Most people in crisis react instead of build.”
“And the prosecutor?”
“The prosecutor doesn’t need to react,” I said. “They already framed the language.”
He paused. “So the Minotaur is the prosecutor.”
“The Minotaur is the system,” I said. “The prosecutor is part of it.”
“And it doesn’t chase.”
“No,” I said. “It waits.”
He nodded slowly. “So people walk into it exhausted.”
“They do,” I said.
“And Theseus avoided that.”
“Theseus avoided entering blind,” I said.
He looked down at his hands.
“So when I leave here,” he said, “nothing about my case changes.”
“That’s right. But you have a choice on how you enter the maze,” I said.
He sat quietly.
“I called you,” he said. “I came here. I’m not pretending this will be easy.”
“I wouldn’t believe you if you said it would be,” I said.
He gave a small nod.
“I’ll be back in Los Angeles and back to work tomorrow,” I said. “We can continue then.”
As we stood up, he said, “So the thread is the work.”
“The thread is refusing to wander,” I said.
Discussion Questions
1: What have you stopped doing in your case since someone told you to “expect prison” — writing, documenting, asking for feedback, preparing — and who told you that?
2: Which part of your case are you currently treating as finished even though sentencing hasn’t happened yet — and what evidence supports that belief?
3: If a probation officer or judge reviewed your actions from the last 30 days, what would they see that shows you didn’t decide the ending early?
