The Presentencing Interview
By: William, Dollar Bill
Tags: Memoir, Prison, Justice, Crime, Culture

The Presentencing Interview

Photo by Sora Shimazaki from Pexels

Unknown to most people who haven’t been through the ordeal is the statistic that 97% of federal cases end in plea bargains. And there are a few good reasons for that.

Take my case for example. Here’s how it was presented to me: I could plead to tax fraud and get 35% of my money back with the possibility of receiving probation only and no prison time.

Or I could go to trial, in which case I might get a healthy 80% of my seized assets returned were I victorious. But if I lost, I could serve 5 years in the slam — and lose almost everything. Win or lose, the legal bill would be an additional 250 k minimum. What would you do? And now you know why 97% of federal cases don’t go to trial.

Once the plea deal is signed, the next phase in the endless process is the pre-sentencing interview (PSI). This step is considered of paramount importance — as the interviewer makes a direct recommendation to the judge concerning your worthiness as a human being. The length of a defendant’s sentence could be affected significantly by the interviewer's report.

As such, many defendants bring their lawyers along to ensure they don’t say the wrong thing. My attorney charges $525/hour not just to attend — but to commute from New Jersey as well! With a legal bill that is already in the neighborhood of 100 k, I let him sit this one out!

My interviewer was a 53-year-old lawyer who once worked at Mercury Records — and has been employed by the US probation department for 18 years. The woman is intelligent, thoughtful, and compassionate. I got lucky!

The first words out of her mouth were “you don’t sound like an immigrant!” My response: “An immigrant! Where’d ya get that?!?!” Answer: Bureaucratic fuck up. Not the first — and certainly not the last in the process. Somehow, her file indicated I wasn’t a born-American.

From there the interview began. To my utter surprise, the meeting felt more like a date with a woman who was really interested in me and my life story than the threatening event so many defendants take it for. I talked about my childhood…and academic history…and family…and the remorse (or lack of same) I felt about my crime.

Obviously, the interviewer knew something about the defendant who sat before her (even if she thought I was an immigrant). It wouldn’t make sense that she (or he) would be blind to my circumstances.

No more than five minutes in, the woman looked me in the eye and said: “there should be a law against what they did to you!” Collecting what I owed was one thing — but seizing everything was another. Clearly, I was off to a flying start. And it was all clear sailing from there. Leaving my lawyer out was a good call.

After the interview was over (actually, in a phone call two weeks later), the same woman observed: “you have the most interesting life story of anybody I’ve ever interviewed on this job.” Of course, all this and $1.35 (now that I’m 65) will get me a ride on the subway. But it was nice to find an advocate in the process.

Once the IRS officers who came to my door successfully got me to incriminate myself so their agency could seize an additional chunk of my life savings, one of the agents had what I assumed was a moment of guilt: “Ya know. We thought you were gonna be an asshole. You’re actually a decent guy! I can’t promise that you won’t do time…but there’s a good chance you’ll get probation!” In my heart, I believe what he was saying was “I feel lousy about what we just did to you. I hope they don’t lock you up.”

Ya know…there’s a difference between a guy who makes a hunk of cash and spends it all on cars, bling, drugs, and gaming women…versus a schmuck who doesn’t spend a dime of it and lists the United Way and St. Jude’s Hospital as his beneficiaries. Will that make a difference? Only time will tell. But it seems like it should.

P. S. “A year and a day” (mother fucker), pronounced the judge. So much for getting probation. But hey! Would I have ever met PAUL MANAFORT — let alone lived with him in 70 square feet? Or boast JEFFREY EPSTEIN as my best prison friend had I not suffered a yearlong sentence from a tough judge? There’s a silver lining to every storm cloud. That’s the way I look at it.

Here’s what prison was like: