In today’s video on Sam Bankman-Fried, I’m reflecting on a piece of criticism that recently landed in my mailbox. It’s intriguing how my past as a USC baseball player and the use of props in discussions about white-collar crime can strike a nerve. Yet, these personal tidbits offer a unique perspective that often goes missing when we cover serious issues, like white collar crime, federal sentencing and federal prison.

Let’s stroll down memory lane to my USC days in 1995, where Montell Jordan’s “This Is How We Do It” was not just a chart-topper but an anthem that would blare on repeat before our games. I remember those days clearly—three simple wishes on game day, one of which was to escape that overplayed tune. Little did I know that this song would serve as a perfect analogy for the media’s coverage of Sam Bankman-Fried, saturated to the point of becoming white noise.

The fixation on Bankman-Fried has reached a fever pitch, with every glance and gesture analyzed for hidden meanings and political cues.

This hyper-analysis prompted me to step back from the cacophony despite the lure of participating in the relentless discourse. While working on a white-collar crime documentary in Los Angeles—a process I’m well-acquainted with following my involvement in the ‘Operation Varsity Blues‘ on Netflix—I stumbled upon a quote attributed to Bankman-Fried: “I was a really negligent student.” Assuming the quote’s authenticity (because if it’s on Google, it’s got to be true, right?), it serves as a springboard into a broader conversation about negligence, not just in academia, but in life and leadership.

Negligence, a term I’m intimately familiar with from my journey through sentencing, can manifest in various forms, from casual attire to disregarding how the government perceives one.

Had I been in Bankman-Fried’s shoes, I would have implored him to consider the government’s view of his actions and strategize accordingly rather than fall into the trap of blaming others—a playbook used too often by Elizabeth Holmes.

As someone who’s served time in federal prison, I’ve witnessed the fascination with celebrity downfall and the schadenfreude accompanying it.

It’s a peculiar aspect of our culture, this mix of voyeurism and a strange sense of justice when the mighty fall. But beyond this spectacle lies actual human cost and, as expressed in Lessons From Prison, a need for genuine introspection. In our discussion, we move beyond the superficial to the heart of mitigation and the value of character reference letters. These characters letters, often mishandled, can backfire if they enable rather than speak to the defendant’s character. This is where Bankman-Fried and many others falter, failing to present themselves authentically and proactively at sentencing. But it doesn’t end at sentencing. The journey through federal prison and the subsequent release plan are crucial. It’s about owning one’s story, learning from it, and using it as a tool for growth—not just for self-improvement but to positively impact others.

As I wrap up this reflection, I urge those like Bankman-Fried to shed the negligence that has marred their past. It’s about seizing the opportunity for change and not letting past mistakes define his federal prison term. The road through federal prison and beyond is filled with ups and downs, but it can lead to redemption and transformation if walked with purpose and clarity.

So, to Sam Bankman-Fried and to all who find themselves at this crossroads, let this be a moment of awakening. As Santayana wisely said, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” Let’s remember, let’s learn, and let’s move forward.

Thanks for watching!

Justin Paperny