Sam Sheldon

Carole and I had a disciplined visiting routine during my time in prison. The institution’s “point” system strictly regulated the amount of time visitors could spend with inmates, and we carefully planned each visit to maximize our connection. That’s why Carole surprised me during our regular evening call when she said that she would visit the next morning—completely unscheduled.

“Why the surprise visit?” I asked, puzzled.

She didn’t offer much detail, only that she had something important to share. When I pressed, she simply said, “It’s everything you’ve been working toward.”

I was taken aback. We had been married for several years by then, building a future together despite the barriers of incarceration. We shared everything, so the secrecy unnerved me.

“Promised to whom?” I asked, but she wouldn’t budge. “I’ll tell you tomorrow,” she said.

The next morning, Carole made the two-hour drive to the prison. She was the first to check into the visiting room, eager to share her news. After we sat down, she recounted the extraordinary chain of events.

“A man named Sam Sheldon called me,” she began, her eyes filled with hope.

I didn’t recognize the name immediately. She told me that Sam was an Assistant U.S. Attorney based in Texas. He had come across my work—the books I’d written from prison, the articles I’d published, and the initiatives I’d shared through our website. Moved by what he read, Sam told Carole he believed I didn’t belong in prison any longer.

“He said he wants to help,” Carole added.

The weight of her words left me momentarily stunned. By then, I had been incarcerated for more than 20 years, with another six to go before my release date. For so long, I had focused on staying productive, preparing for the day I’d reenter society. But to hear that someone—a federal prosecutor, no less—believed in me enough to intervene was almost too much to process.

Emotion welled up in me, an uncontrollable flood of gratitude and disbelief. I excused myself, needing a moment alone. In the bathroom, I let the tears come. I don’t know how to express the enormity of what Carole had just told. For years, I had been steadfast to demonstrate my commitment to change, but the system didn’t have a mechanism to recognize change. Prisons were designed to carry out a sentence, not to assess whether a person belonged in prison. The acknowledgment from someone of Sam’s stature made all the difference.

When I returned to the visiting room, Carole shared more details. Sam offered to assemble a coalition to support me, including Carol Zachary, Bruce McPherson, Tony Bisceglie, Jonathan Solovy, and others. Together, they aimed to persuade the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Seattle and the judge who had sentenced me to consider a petition for relief.

Their effort was monumental, but it was also an uphill battle. The legal climate at the time offered little room to revisit sentences imposed decades earlier. Despite their dedication, the petition didn’t succeed. Still, the experience gave me something invaluable: hope. Knowing that someone of Sam’s integrity and influence believed in my potential freed me in a way no legal motion ever could. It reminded me that my work mattered, even behind bars.

Years later, after my release, I had the privilege of meeting Sam Sheldon in person. By then, he had transitioned from the U.S. Attorney’s Office to Quinn Emanuel, one of the world’s most prestigious law firms, and later became a federal judge. Every time we met, I felt deeply honored by his support and belief in me.

Though Sam’s efforts didn’t lead to an early release, his trust gave me a renewed sense of liberty while I was still inside. For that, I will always be grateful.

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