Despite it all, my popularity was flourishing—from the daily greetings shouted down by my fans in módulo (cell block) 114 to a newer arrival named Sergio—a different man from the longstanding 118 mozo Sergio mentioned earlier—a little-too-much, touchy-feely man from 118B who could not stop calling me “George.” Even when Michael and Rubén tried to explain to him the difference between George and John—like Jorge and Juan—the plump thief could not get it. The sounds of the two names must have been indistinguishable to his flaite brain sensors. So, I just started calling him “Roberto” instead, which puzzled Sergio, a “mangy dog” in his own way, though I tamed him by feeding him BBQ potato chips daily. Doing so wrought other benefits. Seeing my stiffness and wrenching left shoulder pain while stretching each morning before formation, Sergio seemed to enjoy wrapping his arms around my chest from behind and lifting me off the ground to adjust my back. He was shorter than me but still had adequate strength. I wondered what else I could train him to do. Newcomer Sergio’s affectionate behavior was characteristic of certain mentally limited inmates whose social skills had been stunted by institutional life and whose attachment came out as physical rather than verbal. He was, in his own way, like a large dog who had decided I was his favorite person—and managing his affection was not unlike managing a friendly mastiff. The chips were treats; the back-adjustments were his way of being useful; the kissing of the forehead was the only kind of tender expression he had access to. None of it was predatory. None of it was sexual. It was simply the affection of a man whose mind worked differently from the men around him.

Solomon wrote in Ecclesiastes 11:1-2, “Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days. Give a portion to seven, and also to eight; for thou knowest not what evil shall be upon the earth.” That passage had become something of a governing text for my life in módulo 118. I did not give food, cigarettes, time, instruction, or kindness to the machucados because I expected repayment—indeed, most of them had nothing to repay with. I gave because generosity is a Christian duty, because Galatians 6:9-10 commands us not to grow weary in doing good, and because the bread cast on the waters has a way of returning in forms one never anticipated. In prison, that return was often not material at all. It came in the form of loyalty, protection, information, immunity from most violent acts, and the kind of rough affection that men who have been abandoned by the world offer to the one person who treats them as human beings.

An Unlikely Political Career

Cristián was certainly convinced that my leadership talents went far beyond instructing useful machucados. He implored me not to “escape” to Italy once I was free. I was, he said, the “cultured leader” of a new and growing movement that Chile needed to remove the corrupt politicians ruining the country. I had to chuckle at the thought of me being a “great leader”—sitting in jail while being prodded along by an artistic alleged sex offender, disguised as an armed robber, who could not even muster the energy or interest to read nine Bible verses. He had publicly identified himself as an armed robber to conceal a sex offense, which the other inmates discovered several months later. Pamela was more optimistic, citing Luke 19:40, that “the stones would immediately cry out.” Cristián was one such stone. For her, he was a harbinger of things to come for our life, and his comment was just as memorable as the image of Louis bathing in the manger-like wash basin. She was pretty sure that my time would come and that the Lord would use me extensively. So were many other Baptists and Libertarians, like Valentín, who had finally finished getting Suffering Unjustly ready to publish.

Pamela’s citation of Luke 19:40 captures an essential aspect of God’s providential methods. The point is not merely that God’s purposes cannot be silenced. The point is that God will use whatever instruments are at hand—including the most unlikely ones. Cristián was no theologian. He was, by his own admission, an undisciplined artist who could not be bothered to read a few verses of Scripture. And yet God used even his offhanded observation on a prison patio to encourage a man who desperately needed encouragement. The stones cry out in strange places.

Fame on the Patio

The machucados seemed to be fascinated by my walking back and forth each morning, just as they were amused by me rolling up my pant legs and reading such a thick book out in the sun—neither of which was easy to do in the larger, violent, general-population módulos. While walking, I would hear them taunt me from beneath the open, stable-like bodega: “Hey, Donald Trump!” Or Sergio calling out, “George, how many books have you written?” Or Michael suggesting that I give one of my books to his pal, Luis Ahumada. I would humor them, saying, “Eleven, working on twelve, and as a Libertarian, I have no use for Trump.” Of course, the machucados had no idea of the differences between Republicans, Democrats, and Libertarians, nor did they understand political philosophy. They were trying to make some well-meaning connection with me, as if they were making contact with the crew of a recently landed UFO in a Nebraska cornfield.

Being a Gringo, an author, a reader, the best chess player—a game that mystified them—one who sets and accomplishes goals that all could observe, and a Baptist pastor, probably added to the attraction. In prisons or gulags, one cannot buy too many friends. And most of my well-wishers seemed content to be amicable just because I was “famous” or a stand-up guy. The point is not vanity. The point is that in a closed society where status is typically established through violence, drug connections, or corruption, a man who earns respect through intellectual accomplishment, generosity, and moral consistency becomes a living argument for another way to live. I did not set out to be an evangelist through chess and sandwiches. But the bread cast upon the waters has its own logic, and it does not always return in the form one expects.

Even men from módulo 114—visible only as silhouettes leaning against the external sewage pipes running down the walls—would yell out greetings, asking how my morning had gone. “Not well; I am in prison,” was my standard reply. Chess, reading, and writing were fine, but being imprisoned for something I did not do was not, nor was the lack of medical care, chronic shoulder pain, diminished vision, and other dangers I faced, not to mention lack of visitors due to the Covid-19 lockdown, lack of friends, lack of marital relations, or lack of income. How could anyone be “well” or “fine” under such disadvantages, filth, and otherwise hellish conditions?

The Chess Milestone

Optimism about my case reigned among the men of 118, especially from Miami. I was generally content with myself, though the optimism ran in the background, only emerging here and there. I had been focused on beating Rubén and Ismael in chess to reach the next milestone: fifteen hundred victories, against only 137 losses and 33 draws. In the context of prison, that number represented something more significant than competitive achievement. It represented fifteen hundred occasions on which I had sat down, concentrated, imposed mental discipline on myself, and engaged another human being in an activity that required patience, foresight, and self-command—all qualities that the prison environment systematically erodes.

Chess had become, in fact, one of the principal ways I maintained my sanity. The board was more than a board. It cultivated habits of thought that kept the mind from the entropy that destroys so many incarcerated men. A man who would not sit still for abstract exhortation might sit for a chess lesson, and while he sat, he might listen, ask questions, or reveal his real troubles. Even the machucados who could barely follow the game were fascinated by the spectacle of concentrated thought. Michael, who preferred modified checkers and could not even identify which piece was a castle without help, would stand there egging on challengers, hoping for an upset. When Ivo—one of the better players I faced in prison—was being freed the following day and spent his last night in 118A, the impromptu match drew Miami, Ismael, Rubén, and others as spectators. I beat him in the first game. In parting, Ivo said, “American, I am proud to be able to say that I played chess with you, and I can’t wait to tell all my friends that I did so.” Once again, my fame left me speechless. I simply smiled and shook his hand.

Redeeming the Time

The Apostle Paul wrote to the Ephesians, “See then that ye walk circumspectly, not as fools, but as wise, redeeming the time, because the days are evil” (Ephesians 5:15-16). He wrote the same to the Colossians: “Walk in wisdom toward them that are without, redeeming the time” (Colossians 4:5). That phrase—“redeeming the time”—had become the governing imperative of my incarceration. The Greek word Paul uses, exagorazomenoi, carries the sense of buying up an opportunity, of purchasing something valuable out of a marketplace before it disappears. Time in prison is the most wasted commodity on earth. Men who enter with skills, knowledge, and discipline often leave with none of these intact. The prison does not merely confine the body; it dissolves the mind through monotony, idleness, and the relentless degradation of every routine. The man who does not actively fight this process will succumb to it. Redeeming the time is not a pious suggestion; it is a matter of spiritual and psychological survival.

I started each morning the same way I had for months: doing eighty-five push-ups against the upper frame of my bunk. In mid-November, I had started with twenty-five and had been adding one more every day. Due to my hand surgery in 2016 that fused the bones in my right hand, I permanently lost the required flexibility in my right wrist to do push-ups on the floor. I followed these up with ninety hands-on-hips twists and some stretching in my cell. My body had many more pains and limitations than when I entered prison over fourteen months earlier—marking an almost forgotten time when I religiously went to the pool four times per week and swam a total of seven kilometers. But the exercise routine was just another manifestation of the purposeful monotony that I cultivated against the purposeless monotony that characterized prison life for those who had surrendered to it.

My reading supply line was serious business. Indeed, I was on my twenty-fifth book since being taken captive by what I sometimes called Satan’s henchmen. I use the phrase because the Chilean judicial system, in its actual operation, functions as one of Satan’s most effective instruments in the modern world. At least I was able to keep my mind refreshed and fertile through reading books, even though Satan’s partner in crime tried to hinder their supply. During the last visitation, I had broken the rules, holding one book under each armpit inside my jacket as I walked, and had given them to Pamela at the visitation table without a hitch. I was not being rebellious. I just had to find a way to return the books she brought in through encomienda—ridiculous gendarme rules notwithstanding—to avoid the accumulated weight in case I had to change cells.