_{The FBI Showed Up. I Lied to My Lawyers. Then I Waited. (Click the Play button above to listen to the full Podcast)}

On April 28, 2005, the FBI knocked on my door. I didn’t handle it well. I told myself silence was a strategy. I told my lawyers half-truths. I convinced myself that acknowledging what I had done would be too embarrassing, too damaging.

That silence didn’t protect me. It gave the government the microphone.

When the plea agreement came, they had already done their homework. FBI Agent Paul Bertrand was working full-time on my case while I sat still, saying nothing. By letting them move first, I was weaker. The government wrote the narrative, and I was stuck reacting.

Then came the press release: “criminal,” “enabler,” “calculated.” The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal picked it up. Years later, those headlines are still there. Silence had let the DOJ define me to my family, to my community, to the world.

Three years later, on April 28, 2008, I surrendered to Taft Federal Prison Camp. Within hours, I met Michael Santos. By then, he had served 22 of the 26 years he would serve. He didn’t waste time. He built every day. He wrote, taught, and created. Walking the dusty track one morning, he handed me Plato’s Republic and told me I was staring at shadows.

For me, the shadows were the false beliefs I carried before prison:

• That expensive lawyers would protect me.
  
• That keeping a job was enough.
  
• That silence would help me.
  

By not creating anything of my own, I left my record empty. And when you leave it empty, the government fills it.

That changed on October 12, 2008. Sitting in a prison cubicle, I wrote my first blog by hand. My mom typed it up and put it online. That page became proof—evidence that I wasn’t just sitting still anymore. Over time, it grew into Lessons from Prison. It gave judges, probation officers, and case managers something to cite beyond the DOJ’s press release.

Looking back, I wish someone had told me this when Agent Bertrand first knocked: the government’s version wins by default if you don’t create. That silence doesn’t just hurt at sentencing. It follows you to the probation interview, the Bureau of Prisons, employers, licensing boards, even Google searches years later.

You can’t erase press releases. You can’t erase headlines. But you can build new assets—evidence that shows what you’ve learned and how you’ve changed. Judges care about proof they can hold in their hands. Case managers care about actions that match words.

Silence gave the DOJ control over my name, my family, and my reputation. Writing, creating, and documenting gave me a way to take some of it back.

So the question is: are you going to let silence write your record—or will you?

Justin Paperny