I first read The Stranger by Albert Camus in federal prison after my late friend Andrew Altchuk introduced me to it. I tried to read it, but I didn’t understand it. I wasn’t even close.

I remember underlining passages, rereading chapters, and thinking there had to be something I was missing. The writing felt distant. Meursault, the narrator, came across as indifferent and cold. I assumed the problem was the translation, but in reality, I knew the problem was me.

Last week, while reading with my daughter at the Barnes & Noble in Irvine, I picked it up again. My first thought: “I remember when Andrew handed this to me in that prison library. It was just after he handed me ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’ by Hemingway.”

I started flipping through it and knew within seconds the book would hold a different meaning now. That’s the thing about reading: the words don’t change, but you do. I’ve lived a lot of life since leaving federal prison on May 20, 2009. This time, as strange as it is to admit, the book made perfect sense. Frankly, it didn’t just resonate. It mirrored how I live now in ways I couldn’t have imagined back then.

A Brief Summary

Meursault is a French Algerian man who doesn’t grieve the way people expect him to. When his mother dies, he doesn’t cry. He doesn’t express much of anything. A few days later, he starts a relationship, goes on a beach trip, and ends up killing a man under circumstances that feel more random than intentional.

At trial, the court cares less about the killing than about how Meursault behaved after his mother’s death. The crime matters, but his failure to conform, his refusal to show remorse, emotion, or even pretend, becomes the reason he’s condemned.

In the end, he accepts his fate. He looks at the world’s absurdity with clarity, not bitterness. And that clarity brings a kind of peace.

As Meursault says near the end:

“Since we’re all going to die, it’s obvious that when and how don’t matter.”

That line sticks with me. Writing it again, “Since we’re all going to die, it’s obvious that when and how don’t matter”, at 8:46 a.m. on June 20th, helps me process it. It’s not some throwaway sentence in a novel. I know it speaks to fate, the fate that I was going to prison, or back to Camus, the fate that we will all die.

Lying on the Floor in Sam’s Office

Before prison, I lived very differently. I didn’t embrace my fate. When I was under investigation, I reacted to everything: emails from my lawyer, phone calls, and court updates. Every new piece of information rattled me.

One day, I sat with my friend Sam Pompeo in his real estate office in Calabasas. Sam was one of the few people who stood by me after UBS fired me. He gave me a job. He mentored me when most people kept their distance.

Earlier that day, I learned the government would be asking for 41 months in prison. I couldn’t handle it. I didn’t respond with composure or clarity. I collapsed, literally. I lay down on the floor in his office. People walked by and stared. It wasn’t a good look for me or Sam. Trying to be kind but honest, Sam quietly said, “Hey, bud, I think you should get off the floor.”

When I finally left his office, I drove to Johnny Rockets. I ordered a double chili cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake. I ate until I felt sick. Then I walked outside and smoked several cigarettes, still trying to understand what I’d heard.

I sat there thinking, “This isn’t fair. How did I get here? This isn’t the life I expected.”

That’s what many defendants feel. Some go numb. Some spiral. Some drink. Some drive drunk. Some take their lives. I didn’t do that, but I understand how someone could. I was in a fog, reacting to everything, refusing to accept reality… my fate. I was trapped between shame and self-pity, convinced I had lost everything and too fragile to see the bigger picture.

Then I’d go home, smoke, and ask myself:

“Why did I lie to the FBI? Why did I hire that lawyer? Why didn’t I respond better? Why didn’t I speak up? I knew it was wrong. What I would do for a do-over.”

Machiavelli wrote:

“The wise man does at once what the fool does finally.”

When I read that line from The Prince in prison, the shame returned: 

“I am indeed the fool. There is no doubt. It’s why I’m here, in this hot hellhole instead of building a family and business.”

Letting Go of the Act

When I came home from prison, I wasn’t at peace.

I had served one year. That’s it. But I thought if I was going to build credibility, I needed to sound like someone who had seen it all. So I tried to talk like an expert on everything related to prison. I didn’t lie, but I managed impressions, rounding out the edges of what I didn’t know. As a gifted communicator, I could work my way through it.

Eventually, that wore thin. I felt dirty. Not because anyone called me out, but because I felt it.

So I stopped.

I began to say what was true: I had served a year. My experience was limited in some ways, deep in others. I leaned on my partner, Michael Santos, who had served 26 years. I told people plainly: I learned from him. I built alongside him. I became someone who could teach not because I knew everything, but because I had lived through something and kept learning.

The more I accepted that, the more things grew. And more importantly, the better I felt. I could speak plainly and sleep well at night.

Public Criticism, Private Calm

One of my YouTube videos recently went viral. The usual wave of comments followed:

“You’re a thief.”
“You should still be in prison.”
“You only have that watch because you stole from people.”
“Another Jew who stole to make $ and is stealing again. Free Gaza, you Jewish thief.”

Years ago, those words would’ve wrecked me. Now I glance at them and move on. I’m indifferent to it because I know who I am.

Still, that kind of detachment brings a strange isolation (not sadness), just a sense that fewer people can relate.

Camus writes:

“I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world.”

That line fits. Because I’ve known the alternative, lying on my friend’s office floor, asking, “Why me?”

Being Alone in My Thoughts

I’ve come to value solitude and indifference more than I ever expected. I like being alone with my thoughts. I don’t shun it. I look forward to it. I like trusting my own mind, as much as some love or loathe it. I am just me, and it feels good.

That sense of aloneness, of standing slightly apart, has become more familiar with time. But I don’t see it as a failure. I’d rather feel that quiet distance than feel fake or lost in someone else’s narrative.

Groupthink played a role in my conviction. Trying to please. Going along. Falling in line when I should’ve stepped back. I didn’t trust myself enough. I do now.

As Camus wrote:

“I laid my heart open to the benign indifference of the universe.”

Visibility Isn’t Connection

I’ve stood on stages and told the story of my conviction to thousands of people. I’ve been on TV. I’ve written books. I’ve shared my experience so many times, in so many formats, I’ve lost count.

And yet, despite all that exposure, I sometimes feel alone in a way that’s hard to describe.

It’s not sadness. It’s distance. Like walking through a crowded room while carrying something that only you can feel the weight of. That feeling doesn’t bother me anymore. I prefer it to the alternative, trying to keep up, trying to say the right thing, trying to be liked.

Now I say what I believe. I share what I’ve learned. And I let people respond however they want.

Standing by What You Believe

There’s a moment in the book when Meursault realizes that if he had cried at his mother’s funeral or acted differently at trial, he might’ve been spared. But he won’t do it.

He won’t pretend to feel something he doesn’t.

And that’s what stayed with me most during this re-read. His refusal to fake it. His willingness to suffer the consequences rather than betray himself.

I’ve come to admire people who go to trial and maintain their innocence—even when they know the odds are against them. The federal system doesn’t reward that choice. But some people accept the sentence because they won’t say something they don’t believe.

Camus didn’t try to make Meursault likable. He made him honest. And that honesty cost him everything. But in the end, he still says:

“I had only a little time left and I didn’t want to waste it on God.”

That line comes after the prison chaplain visits, offering Meursault comfort through religion. Meursault refuses. He doesn’t pretend to believe in something he doesn’t, to make death easier. For him, false comfort is worse than discomfort grounded in truth.

I don’t quote that line to reject God. I quote it because I respect its clarity. Meursault wants to face the end as he lived: awake, honest, and unwilling to fake belief for comfort. That mindset, living without pretense, even when it costs you, is something I respect deeply.

Last Thoughts

I’m not Meursault. My life looks nothing like his. I have a wife, two children, a business, a team, and a mission. I care about people, enjoy building, and believe in helping others.

But I understand him now. I understand what it means to accept the world’s absurdity and still choose to act with intention. I understand what it means to walk alone sometimes, not out of bitterness, but because you’d rather follow your own thoughts than get swept up in what others need you to be.

That clarity is something I value more than attention, more than praise, more than being understood. And I would’ve never seen that in this book if I hadn’t lived through my own consequences.

Sixteen years later, I’m grateful I picked The Stranger back up.

This time, I was ready to understand it.

Justin Paperny