criminal justice
‘Recalled’ Podcast: Fr. Joe Ciccone, Fr. Rix Thorsell & Rev. Jeff Grant Discussed Our White Collar Support Group’s 300th Meeting
I joined Fr. Joe and Fr. Rix on their podcast, Recalled, to discuss the 300th meeting of our White Collar Support Group, Mon, March 14th, 7 pm ET, 4 pm PT. Please join us! – Jeff
White Collar Support Group: We are a community of individuals, families and groups with white collar justice issues who have a desire to take responsibility for our actions and the wreckage we caused, make amends, and move forward in new way of life centered on hope, care, compassion, tolerance and empathy. Our experience shows us that many of us are suffering in silence with shame, remorse, and deep regret. Many of us have been stigmatized by our own families, friends and communities, and the business community. Our goal is to learn and evolve into a new spiritual way of life and to reach out in service to others. This is an important thing we are doing! To join our next support group meeting: info@prisonist.org.
Watch on YouTube:
Father Joe Ciccone Opens Up the Inaugural Interfaith Service in Honor of N.J. Governor Phil Murphy, Lt. Governor Sheila Oliver and Their Families:
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Law 360: After ‘Varsity Blues’ Conviction, Gordon Caplan Starts Over, by Cara Bayles
Some people mentioned in this article are members of our White Collar Support Group that meets online on Zoom on Monday evenings. We will celebrate our 300th meeting on March 14, 2022, 7 pm ET, 6 pm CT, 5 pm MT, 4 pm PT.
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Reprinted from Law360.com, Feb. 25, 2022, By Cara Bayles · Listen to article
Law360 (February 25, 2022, 4:43 PM EST) — When Gordon Caplan felt the handcuffs click around his wrist one day in March 2019, he thought his life was over. And in one sense, it was.
Caplan had been the co-chair of the international law firm Willkie Farr & Gallagher LLP. He had helped build up the firm’s private equity practice. He was named 2018’s “Dealmaker of the Year” by The American Lawyer, one of the top 50 merger and acquisition lawyers by the Global M&A Network, and a private equity MVP by Law360.
But in 2019, Caplan gained a different kind of fame when he was indicted in the “Varsity Blues” college admissions scandal.
“My persona was based on my career,” Caplan told Law360 in an interview. “And losing that meant losing my persona. I was very proud of what I built and what I had done and accomplished and was always trying to do a bit more. And then, in a moment, it was gone. No one’s fault but my own.”
Caplan admitted he paid William “Rick” Singer, the mastermind of the scheme, $75,000 to have a test proctor change his daughter’s ACT score. The scandal made national headlines, and its shame ran deep. Willkie cut ties with Caplan. He pled guilty to a single count of conspiracy to commit mail fraud and honest services mail fraud, served a one-month prison sentence and saw his law license suspended for two years. His fall was so sudden and so complete, he contemplated suicide.
“As soon as I was arrested, I knew my life had changed dramatically. And to be direct, for a good portion thereafter, I didn’t think I would survive. I didn’t think I wanted to survive, to live,” Caplan said. “But once I decided to live, then it was about just moving forward through my own created, very difficult situation. That’s what I’ve been doing since, one day at a time.”
Now, nearly three years after his arrest, Caplan is trying to start over, with a new company and a law license newly reinstated by a New York appeals court.
Returning to a profitable law practice will be “not impossible, but difficult” for Caplan, according to Stephen Gillers, a New York University School of Law professor with expertise in legal ethics who has studied attorney disciplinary proceedings in New York.
The two-year suspension imposed on Caplan by a five-judge panel of the First Judicial Department was appropriate, Gillers said, because his crime concerned a personal matter and did not involve his work as an attorney, and because Caplan has paid the price for his crime in other ways.
“He has suffered a great deal as a result of what he did. He has a felony conviction. He is humiliated. He lost his perch at a major American law firm,” Gillers said. “And it’s almost certain that he will never have the same income from law practice that he had before all this happened.”
But that is no longer the point for Caplan, who described starting over as “invigorating.”
“It’s not what I hoped for. It’s not what I ever dreamed would be the case. It’s not easy,” he said. “But what I always loved about what I did was building, and now I’m building again in a different way.”
For 18 months, he has been building up a strategic advisory business called Dutchess Management. The limited liability company, started in 1998 as a holding company for his family’s investments, now has 10 employees from various phases of Caplan’s life.
Two of its employees Caplan met during his longtime involvement with the New York nonprofit PubliColor, which offers after-school arts programming to middle and high school students who are at high risk for dropping out of their underperforming schools.
Dutchess’ chief operating officer is Anna White, who worked with Caplan for years when she was the coordinator of Willkie Farr’s private equity practice.
And then there is Bill Baroni, who serves as an adviser at Dutchess.
Baroni’s résumé includes a stint at Blank Rome LLP, serving as a New Jersey state senator, and working as co-head of the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey. Baroni also served time in federal prison for his role in the George Washington Bridge lane closure scandal, known as Bridgegate, before the U.S. Supreme Court overturned his conviction. In a unanimous decision written by Justice Elena Kagan, the court found that because the lane closure that caused the gridlock was motivated by political retribution, not money or property, the fraud charges couldn’t stick.
But Baroni had already spent three and a half months in prison by the time his conviction was overturned. He met Caplan in 2019, as he was preparing to serve out his sentence in the same facility in Pennsylvania where Baroni had been incarcerated.
“We were introduced because I wanted to know what it was like,” Caplan said. “And right away, he came up and saw me and met with my family. And when I was inside, he kept in touch with my family every single day. And he’s become an incredible partner and a very good friend.”
Baroni echoed that sentiment, recalling the first time they spoke on the phone, late one Friday night, and feeling “from that first conversation that this was somebody whose contribution to criminal justice reform was going to be something he’d take seriously.”
“I will take the people who have spent time in federal prison over most of the people I worked in politics with,” Baroni said, adding that prisoners are more honest, more loyal, and have been through something “really hard.”
“What I and Gordon and others have committed to is doing something with that experience to make positive change in the system,” he said.
Baroni and Caplan have worked together on the Prison Visitation Fund, which gives money to family members to ameliorate the costs of visiting loved ones incarcerated in out-of-state federal prisons. They advocated for Kyle Kimoto, who was sentenced in 2008 to 29 years in federal prison for running a telemarketing company that had engaged in a deceptive credit card scheme. Then-President Donald Trump commuted his sentence in January 2021.
Dutchess Management has worked on prison condition and reentry projects as well, according to Caplan. He said Dutchess has advocated for getting people released from jail due to health issues at the height of the coronavirus, sought early release for people who were over-sentenced for drug or white collar crimes, helped the International Bar Association get people out of Afghanistan, and worked with the Aleph Institute, which helps people rebuild their lives after a conviction.
Dutchess also does traditional business advising work. Its LinkedIn page says it aided Hudson’s Bay Co. and Insight Venture Partners — both former clients of Caplan from his Willkie days — on a stand-alone e-commerce company for Saks Off 5th.
“The team and I get deeply involved with businesses that are evolving or going through transitions and helping them get through it — through a lot of analysis, through negotiation, through some investing, through coordination and introducing them to other opportunities,” Caplan said. “The world is going through an industrial revolution on steroids. Everything is being digitized, and COVID has only accelerated that. Traditional businesses that don’t understand that and/or haven’t been able to jump on that are left behind.”
While Caplan doesn’t yet know what his newly reinstated law license will mean for the scope of work that Dutchess does, he said he hopes to “prove worthy of it.”
“Now I can use the legal part of my brain on problems again, and I hope to put it to good use,” he said.
Caplan speaks of Dutchess’ profitable work and its pro bono efforts as both being integral to the organization.
“I’ve built a small group of extremely bright, hardworking people who are focused on helping growing and evolving businesses get difficult things done, and at the same time, doing a tremendous amount of work to help people that could use our help that are not otherwise for profit,” he said.
It’s not unusual for people with past white collar convictions to return to their former careers with a new sense of purpose, according to Jeff Grant, an attorney and minister who runs the White Collar Support Group. The group boasts 450 members and holds weekly video chat meetings in a format not unlike that of Alcoholics Anonymous, with the serenity prayer, member testimonials and resource sharing. They discuss a topic each week, which might be something concrete, like the First Step Act, a 2018 federal law geared toward reentry after prison, or something more philosophical, like gratitude.
Nor is Caplan and Baroni’s new focus on criminal justice reform unusual. Many members of the support group — which Grant says is diverse, but majority white, mostly male, and skews toward people in their 40s and 50s who were fairly successful — have emerged from their convictions and prison time with a transformative life experience and a fresh perspective.
“For Gordon or Bill or anyone from our support group who you would ask, there’s just a new definition of success,” Grant said. “I have more opportunities to have a profound place in the advancement of society. Some people don’t have to go to prison to do that. But I did.”
Grant was disbarred about 20 years ago for dipping into his clients’ escrow accounts, then served a nearly 14-month federal prison sentence for applying for a fraudulent disaster-relief loan for his law office, falsely claiming it was impacted by the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks. His addiction to prescription opioids was in part to blame for “a waterfall of bad decisions,” he said.
After prison, Grant went to divinity school. He started the support group a few years later, out of a concern that people with white collar convictions like his were “suffering in silence and isolation all over the country.” The support group — which has always been virtual — took off during the pandemic, as video calls became the norm, and after the group was featured in the New Yorker.
“Prison is not the worst thing that can happen to you,” Grant told Law360. “The worst thing that can happen to you is not having a comeback story.”
Grant’s law license was reinstated last year. His law firm’s website mentions both his past opioid addiction and his federal prison sentence — hardly the typical fodder of an attorney bio. But Grant is interested in working with people in crisis, who are going through what he dealt with.
“There aren’t many lawyers who will help someone prosecuted for white collar crime to navigate the system, and navigate their lives and their issues all the way through to a place years out where they have a chance of getting their life back or living a life that’s joyous,” he said. “Criminal defense lawyers, you usually don’t see them again after sentencing.”
Baroni would agree. In addition to working at Dutchess, he also teaches criminal law at Seton Hall University School of Law. He said that legal academia often focuses on investigation and prosecution — Fourth Amendment issues, trial practice — but not the “third phase” of criminal law, which he calls “jail to home.”
“It’s coming back to society, it’s getting civil rights back, it’s conditions of incarceration,” he said. “There’s an entire body of law there that even a number of criminal defense attorneys don’t necessarily appreciate or focus on.”
Caplan said in his former life as a corporate deal lawyer, he didn’t give much thought to issues of incarceration. Now, he said, he’s lived it. And while he had the resources and family support to navigate reentry, the difficulties of banking and getting insurance and starting a new career, he knows most people don’t have the same resources he enjoys.
“I think the overwhelming majority of people in prison are there for basically drug offenses and-or relatively petty fraud offenses, and the sentencing at the federal and state level in this country is extremely punitive,” he said. “And then the conditions in federal penitentiaries are not geared to success. They’re geared to failure. Recidivism is extremely high. Being a felon — that’s a life sentence. Even if you spend a month in jail, if you’re a felon, you’re a felon for life.”
The Journal of Failure Vol. 1, by Fellow Traveler Jeff Krantz
Jeff Krantz is a member of our White Collar Support Group that meets online on Zoom on Monday evenings. We will celebrate our 300th meeting on March 14, 2022, 7 pm ET, 4 pm PT.
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Reprinted from Medium, Feb. 18, 2022
“…They’ve got a name for the winners of the world, I want a name when I lose”
An Introduction
Even without wading too deeply into the sea of affirmational pablum that populates the internet, particularly that which lives on in the self-publishing platforms of Medium and Substack; the trend of couching one’s topic of choice, within a format of bullet-pointed, Panglossian optimism, is pervasive and appears to be the prevailing method of acquiring the number of readers necessary to give voice to one’s literary aspirations and maybe earn oneself a couple of bucks to supplement a day job’s wages to boot.
Admittedly I’ve based my observations above on an impossibly minuscule sample size that in no way should be mistaken for something that could be substantiated with any plausible, statistical credence. To be blunt, my conjecture is wrong. Wrong and easily disproven for any one who’d like to have a go. The research is perfunctory with enough factual truth to keep things on the rails. All in all, it’s a nice piece of writing that fails.
Most stories of failure that come over the transom, tend to be tales of those who have overcome impossible obstacles while bucking stiff odds. Defeat arises to amplify victory, mutating into validation; a banner of triumphant determination in the face of sacrifice. Stories of true failure are rendered quietly. The soundtrack of defeat lacks an orchestra. There is no moment of uplifting accompaniment. It’s a day-by-day grind, that eventually wears smooth.
Failure stands in stubborn opposition to articles like: “Grit is a Key Ingredient for Success”
Over the past ten years I have frequently been wrong and wronged, both mundanely and spectacularly. Much of my experience, whether voluntarily or compelled, has been re-examined as anecdotes recounted to a predictable cast of recipients: family members, friends, lawyers, therapists, doctors, and support groups. All of whom, to a lesser or greater degree, have, seemingly, had only my best interests at heart. In my recountings of defeat, there have been moments of petty ridiculousness and those of life-altering tragedy. The implications of these stories have burrowed deeply within my mind; hibernating only now and again to deliver moments of occasional respite for my otherwise preoccupied mind. I hold no illusion that attempting to exorcise the collection of failures stored securely in the terrariums, bell jars and shadow boxes of my mind where such things are maintained and where I spend far too much time and where they occupy far too much space, will be a futile endeavor. Maybe I can reduce their footprint some, perhaps they’ll become a bit more subdued.
I don’t have a plan for this, the little corner of the self-publishing world that I appear to be claiming, but whatever it turns into, (if anything) I don’t foresee telling it in order, I will, however, try to to give enough context so you have some idea where you’ve landed in the narrative. I absolutely promise to leave out the punchy, bullet-pointed sentences and the optimistic promise that some aspect of your life can be resolved reading whatever I put forth in seven hundred and fifty words or so.
“In this the most dubious of worlds everything happens dubiously”
Prison Journalism Project: A Three-Hour Bus Ride to Check Email, by Jeff Grant
Jeff Grant is a member of our White Collar Support Group that meets online on Zoom on Monday evenings. We will celebrate our 300th meeting on March 14, 2022, 7 pm ET, 4 pm PT.
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Reprinted from prisonjournalismproject.com, Jan. 7, 2022
Life in a halfway house comes with rules and constraints
As I approached Watkinson House on my first day out of prison in Hartford, Connecticut, I saw there was a large group of guys hanging out in the parking lot.
It was summer so they were all wearing baggy shorts, long t-shirts, flat brimmed baseball caps and Nike Air Force Ones. I recognized the uniforms. They were probably on a cigarette break before they hustled back inside to watch a few more hours of mind-numbing television.
The front porch smelled like old wood in need of a paint job, but the door had a very modern surveillance system. I pushed the buzzer and looked up into the camera. A businesslike yet gentle woman’s voice asked me if she could help.
I quickly rifled through my now institutionalized brain for the shortest and most succinct answer possible. “New resident,” I replied.
The door buzzed open and I stepped inside. To the right, another large group of men sat in a dayroom watching television. The office was to my left where two women sat behind a counter. I introduced myself and presented them with my papers and my bag of clothes.
The familiar process started all over again. There were forms to fill out and drug tests to take. I had an initial meeting with a counselor. They searched my bag and my body — aerosol containers, sharps, electric shavers and alcohol-based products were either discarded or tagged and stored.
Once processing was completed, I was escorted up to a room up on the third floor where I would have three roommates; I was assigned an upper bunk and given a supply of sheets, blankets, towels and basic toiletries — I was an old pro at this already.
I started to make my bed when my first roommate walked in — a bald Latino man named Hector. He looked pretty tough; his arms were sleeves of gang tats. He looked me up and down, and then asked if I was a cop. I said no, and then I asked him if he was a cop. He smiled. I think he liked my response.
I could also tell that he was stoned. When my other roommates showed up, it was pretty clear that they were all stoned. Hector pulled out a bottle of some cheap liquor, and they all got drunk right there in the room. I suppose that they had a right to be suspicious when I didn’t drink with them, even after I told them that I would be five years sober in a few weeks.
Nonetheless, Hector — stoned, drunk and barely able to speak — had an idea: He had a few tests to put me through to prove I wasn’t a cop.
Hector asked me if he could continue to store his cell phone and charger in a hole in my mattress. He had been storing it there while my bunk was unoccupied. We both knew that cell phone possession charges were among the most egregious offenses in prison. It wasn’t a big leap to guess that they weren’t allowed in the halfway house either and that we could get sent back to prison if we were caught.
I told him to forget about it — I was White, not stupid. He seemed delighted with this response.
For his next test, Hector took off his shirt, exposing his hairy tattooed body — he explained that he liked to shave his body hair so that his chest and back were smooth. He proposed that I shave the hair off his back.
I figured that this was my Mendoza Line — I was in a halfway house my first night out of prison about to shave the back hair off of a Latino gang member. When I was finished, we wrapped our arms around each other and laughed.
He pulled a big plastic box out from under his bunk and showed me a huge cache of sundries. He was running a bodega for the benefit of the guys who couldn’t get passes out of the house. Of course, he marked them up two to three times their cost.
“Go ahead, Papi,” he said. “Take one. No charge.”
I went for the Old Spice push-up anti-perspirant stick. Things went pretty smoothly with Hector from that point on.
The halfway house had a culture unto itself, but with none of the checks and balances of prison. Quickly dissipated was the prison culture that honored respect.
For example, in prison, if I were in the television room and put my book down on my chair, nobody would have touched it for hours. At Watkinson, my book was pushed onto the floor and I found a guy sitting in my seat.
In prison, phone calls were automatically cut off after 15 minutes. In the halfway house, guys hogged the phones for hours even though there were lines of other guys waiting.
In prison, meals were served in a line and doled out somewhat systematically. In the halfway house, it was a cattle call of first come, first served. I wound up eating a lot of cereal and peanut butter those five weeks.
Watkinson House did however have Alcoholics Anonymous meetings most nights and took us to even more meetings in the van. Fortunately, as a federal client, I was eligible for a pass in three days (it took Connecticut clients 20 days to get a pass). As soon as I was issued a pass, I could go outside on my own.
I had not been on a computer in 14 months. I was hoping that I’d at least have some email. I met with my counselor to find out how and where to do that because there were no computers available to clients at the halfway house.
The only place that she could think of was at the state’s employment agency, called CT Works, which was a pretty long bus ride from downtown. Clients who achieved level four status were allowed to go to the public library downtown and use the computers there, but I was short-termer and only had a level one status.
I received instructions for a pass and then filled out a request. I explained exactly where I wanted to go and why, including the address and phone number I got from the Yellow Pages in the office. My pass was approved, so on my assigned day after breakfast, I was handed a three-hour pass — barely enough time to accomplish my mission – along with directions to CT Works at the edge of the city. I walked out the door of the halfway house feeling like a free man.
It was my first taste of freedom. The one-mile walk to downtown felt great. I caught my first sight of the Connecticut state capitol, a rib joint, and the arena where the Hartford Whalers used to play. But mostly there were people, real people, and they were going to work, wearing work clothes and sitting on benches eating breakfast.
I got to the center of the city and found the bus stop on Main Street in front of the State House where I would catch the No. 40 bus to CT Works. I asked a few people in line to make sure I was waiting for the right bus — with only a three-hour pass I didn’t have any room for error. They were very kind, especially given that I was dressed like a guy only a few days out of prison.
It took about a half hour to get to CT Works, located in a large factory building that had been restored and repurposed into a business incubator housing all sorts of services for poor people. I had to register to become a client and then wait in line for a computer. By the time I finally got on a computer, two hours had passed since I left Watkinson House, and I was worried about getting back in time. I logged on to my Yahoo account and saw I had lots of spam but no messages.
Now I had to hustle. The bus stop for the No. 40 bus back downtown was across the street. Every minute seemed like an hour, as I waited for that bus to come from Windsor back into Hartford.
Time seemed to slow down as I thought about the repercussions of arriving at the halfway house late. When the bus got downtown, I still had 20 minutes to walk up the hill back to Watkinson House. But the bus had let me off on Main Street in front of a Burger King.
The poster with an Oreo shake in the window looked so good it practically had my name on it. I knew I was not supposed to stop anywhere unless I had a pass for it. But it was as if my body had a mind of its own. I couldn’t help myself. I found myself in line ordering the biggest shake they had.
Soon, I was walking up the hill and slurping down my shake. At the corner before I got back to Watkinson House, I licked the last drops off the straw and threw away the remnants in a dumpster behind one of the housing projects.
I walked into the house on time and the women behind the desk were practically falling out of their chairs laughing. I asked if everything was okay.
One of the women commented that it was a good thing I was leaving in five weeks — I would never make it there if I couldn’t figure out how not to not to drink a Burger King shake on the streets without a pass. She said at least five people saw me.
The blood drained from my face. I was busted. Was I going to go back to prison over a milkshake?
She told me to relax, the feds were way too busy to bust guys over something like this, but she also gave me a warning. They sometimes take away the people they don’t like for the smallest infractions. The people they like, they leave alone.
She turned out to be right. In my five weeks there, there were shakedowns where they would overlook stuff from some guys, but handcuff and take away others.
Jeff Grant
Jeff Grant is an ordained minister with more than three decades of experience in crisis management, business, law, reentry, recovery and executive and religious leadership. After serving almost 14 months in a federal prison for a white collar crime when he was an attorney, he is dedicated to helping people move forward in their lives. Earlier this year, Jeff’s New York law license was reinstated and he was featured in The New Yorker magazine. Jeff hosts a weekly online White Collar Support Group, is the host of the White Collar Week podcast and is the editor of prisonist.org.
White Collar Support Group 300th Meeting Reflection – Anonymous, FL
The author is a member of our White Collar Support Group that meets online on Zoom on Monday evenings. We will celebrate our 300th meeting on March 14, 2022, 7 pm ET, 4 pm PT.
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“If you are going through hell.. keep going.”- Winston Churchill
I joined the White Collar Support Group last year, after I pleaded guilty to healthcare fraud. I am not known to reach out for help too often, one of my shortcomings, but I knew this was something I could not face alone. I had not told anyone but my spouse about my legal troubles and hid it for well over 2 years. I knew I had to seek out others who had exposure to the impossible to understand American justice system. I found the group through a Google search and a link to an article in the New Yorker magazine titled, “Life after White Collar Crime”.
I was a bit hesitant at first to join, worried it might be some strange cult, but after talking with Bill from the group my nerves were settled. I did not feel judged and was able to express my feelings at that point in time. I logged on to my first Zoom meeting that week and mostly just listened to the different stories being told, but I found everyone to be incredibly honest and real. I was moved so many times during the meetings that I had to turn the camera off because I did not want anyone to see a tear rolling down my cheek.
I always feared making mistakes since I was very young because I did not want to be judged. I put extreme pressure on myself to excel at everything I do, so much so that it ended with disastrous results. What I found in the group is that most of them have felt this same pressure and also (temporarily) destroyed their lives as well.
Through the group I have watched others go through what I have gone through and also what awaits me. As I get ready to self-surrender this month, it gives me great hope that all these smiling people will be at the Zoom meeting when I return to society stronger and better than before. I know life after serving will be hard, but I have confidence that with the help of Jeff Grant and the group members, it will be much smoother than doing it alone. I am forever thankful for finding this group.
White Collar Support Group 300th Meeting Reflection – Mike Neubig, Ohio
Mike Neubig is a member of our White Collar Support Group that meets online on Zoom on Monday evenings. We will celebrate our 300th meeting on March 14, 2022, 7 pm ET, 4 pm PT.
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300. For the over 425 men and women who have attended any of the White Collar Support Group’s 300 meetings hosted by Jeff Grant, this is a meaningful number. For those who have been indicted, convicted and /or served some sort of sentence for a white collar crime, every waking minute of every day is filled with worry and suffering.
The worry centers around: how will I pay for a criminal defense lawyer? Will I be able to survive incarceration mentally and physically? How many years will I be away? How will I support my family financially? What will happen to my spouse and family relationships while I’m away? How will I rebuild my professional life after my release? What is wrong with me that I was able to commit a crime? Would it be easier to take my life?
As brutal as these questions seem, every one of them and more fills the obsessive mind of convicted white collar justice impacted individuals, and their families. In an instant, the problems of yesterday that seemed so significant, turn into ones of basic human survival and what seems like life and death at every turn.
The negative effect on one’s psyche is immeasurable. Often times, hopelessness and depression set in, daily tasks become difficult, and it is near impossible to imagine a future with anything but the present pain. Life seems like it’s over and that you are alone as no one has experienced exactly what you have.
Fortunately, for the over 425 attendees of the group, there is hope. Every Monday night, a we gather on Zoom. We in attendance range from those with recent arrests and indictments, to those who have been out of prison for more than twenty years. We have our routine of the serenity prayer, the introduction of new members, resource sharing, then a new topic relative to the challenges with which we all struggle. Often, much of the session is dedicated to supporting those who have an upcoming sentencing hearing or are soon to report to prison.
Those who have attended one of Jeff’s meetings can tell you that the impact on their lives is immediate. Attendees get questions answered, receive encouragement that they will make it through this difficult time, receive advice on how to handle their stage of the process, and realize that they are not alone in their crime, nor the collateral damage associated with it. One after another, attendees state that they are ecstatic to have found this resource and express gratitude for the care and concern of everyone. And the wish that we had all found this group earlier in our journeys.
Although much of what the group members are experiencing are a few years past for me, I can say that the meetings remain the safest, least judgmental and most accepting space I have available. There is something about commonality, shared experience and true acceptance that brightens the human spirit and allows me to move forward knowing I am not alone, there have been many before me and there is light at the end of the tunnel.
As the group moves toward its 300th meeting, the days of suffering will surely continue to pile up. But thanks to Jeff’s selfless dedication and the caring hearts of the group’s members, those days will be more manageable. We have a resource and friends to reach out to and in the end, all will find a renewed life of hope and acceptance.
White Collar Support Group 300th Meeting Reflection – Gregg Johnson, FMC Rochester, MN
Gregg Johnson is a member of our White Collar Support Group that meets online on Zoom on Monday evenings. We will celebrate our 300th meeting on March 14, 2022, 7 pm ET, 4 pm PT.
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I found the White Collar Support Group in July, 2021, 8 months after my ordeal began. Prior to finding the support group, I was afraid & alone. Jeff’s group brought me peace, comfort & camaraderie. I realized I wasn’t alone & that others were going through a journey similar to mine.
The weekly meetings gave me something to look forward to…a sense of purpose. Both to hear & provide insight as everyone is there to learn & to teach. I only had 2 months of meetings before beginning to serve my sentence, but I look forward to re-joining the weekly meetings upon my release.
I know my journey is long from over, but I won’t be going through it alone… Jeff & his support group will be there for me, just as I will be there for every member of the support group! I’m fortunate to have found this support group to walk through this journey with.
White Collar Support Group 300th Meeting Reflection – Timothy Litzenburg, VA
Timothy Litzenburg is a member of our White Collar Support Group that meets online on Zoom on Monday evenings. We will celebrate our 300th meeting on March 14, 2022, 7 pm ET, 4 pm PT.
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