“Why haven’t you been released on probation before now?” I asked. “And why such a long sentence?” He replied that he had been out now and then, fathering six children by six different women. Some of his children were adults, while others were still children or babies. He had tried to escape four times previously, once shooting a carabinero (police officer) multiple times—even after the cop was on the ground—all of which undermined any probation possibility. The cop lived, but the charges of attempted murder of a police officer, robbery, and related crimes had added up to him spending almost thirty years in jail—about two-thirds of his life.

Now he spent his days preparing food for other reos, hoping to receive a dominical early-release benefit soon. He further confirmed that I was a vivo and not a choro, which I found amusing. I just thought it strange to be talking so casually with a man like Angelino, who seemed like an everyday kind of guy that one might meet in public. I imagined there would be lots of such nice guys in eternal hell, too, just like in this terrestrial one. Angelino could just as well have been living next door to me in Reñaca, just as he was in the cell next to mine. Or he might have been a man who broke in and stole my possessions.

The encounter was instructive theologically. Here was a man shaped by sin from childhood—not merely personal sin but generational, familial, systemic sin. His candor about being “born with criminal DNA” was, of course, not a statement of Reformed theology, yet it touched upon a truth that the Scriptures teach plainly: “Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive me” (Psalm 51:5). Angelino had never known any life but crime. The total depravity of man does not mean that every man is as wicked as he could possibly be, but it does mean that sin corrupts every faculty—mind, will, affections—and that apart from the regenerating work of the Holy Spirit, no man escapes its dominion. Angelino’s family had lived under that dominion for generations. That he was writing about his experiences, that he could speak with intelligence and even a kind of rough honesty about his life, did not alter the fact that he remained, so far as I could tell, unregenerate. Pleasant company in this terrestrial hell—but unless God intervened, destined for the eternal one.

Earthquakes and Ordinary Courage

I returned to my cell alone that evening, happy to have good food and pizza, even if the night was interrupted by a long 5.9 Richter-scale earthquake with its epicenter in the Farallones ski area above Santiago. Such magnitudes are no big deal in Chile, and Pamela and I continued our conversation while our respective buildings shook without much fuss. Thirty minutes before, a 7.0 quake struck Antarctica, but concerns about a tsunami hitting Valparaíso were quickly discarded.

Still, there was nothing quite like being in a prison cell when an earthquake hit. The walls shuddered, the iron frame of the bunk rattled, and one was reminded with visceral force that the building enclosing you was not designed with your safety as a priority. If the structure collapsed, no one was coming for you quickly. You were locked in. The key was with a guard (or hanging in his office) who might or might not be in any hurry to open doors. It was a moment when the spirit of fear could easily assert itself—and a moment when the spirit of power, love, and a sound mind had to be consciously chosen.

The next day was a typical Sunday—private worship in the morning and the Historic Baptists Zoomcast in the evening. There was a little jolt of an earthquake, 3.7 on the Richter scale, as I lay on my bed. Once again, no big deal. I got part of my laundry back from Miami that had to be refolded and put away (he always left clothing items inside out and folded them that way). I also got my sheets back, clean, and fitted them across my new mattress.

I made seven scrumptious chicken, pork, cheese, and guacamole burritos downstairs. I ate two, Miami had one, Ismael had one, and Rubén had one. Then one went to Franco and another to ranchero Tito, who had seen and asked for one when he entered the dining room. Tito specialized in stealing items from purses and backpacks without the owner’s knowledge—a pickpocket by trade. Yet everyone thought these simple burritos were exquisite. The sharing of food was one of the primary mechanisms by which community was maintained in 118, and I do not think it is too much to say that it was, in its own rough way, a reflection of the fellowship meals that characterized the early church. “And they, continuing daily with one accord in the temple, and breaking bread from house to house, did eat their meat with gladness and singleness of heart” (Acts 2:46). We were hardly the Jerusalem church. But the principle of shared provision and mutual gladness was recognizable even on the patio of a Chilean prison.

Visitation and the Sustaining Power of Presence

Cisternas arrived on time on January 25th—visitation day. Pamela, however, arrived thirty minutes late. “The taxi ran into some fog, which caused a delay,” she said. That fact did little to alleviate my disappointment—I had been counting the minutes. She managed to leave 40,000 pesos for me at the gendarme service window, along with my necessary medications.

Our visitation was terrific, even though she thought I had lost weight—a view not shared by those in 118. We almost immediately took off our required masks and moved to sit very close to one another, accompanied by all the marital affection one might expect from loving spouses who had not seen each other in a month. In total, there were nine reos and nine visitors. No other módulos had visitation that day. I also gave Pamela two books I had read to bring home—another action that was technically against the rules, but then again, so were hugging, kissing, touching, handholding, and so forth. The gendarmes did not care. The excessive government rules affecting people under the Covid-19 quarantine were ridiculous, if not Draconian. Pamela and I had come to believe by 2021 (even more firmly by 2022) that the so-called “pandemic” was not as severe as the government and media had led everyone to believe. Thus, the gendarmes were not enforcing those rules. Even the wall-mounted gel alcohol dispenser behind Pamela was empty.

The visit was a reminder that courage in confinement is never purely individual. Pamela’s faithfulness—shopping for pants, delivering encomienda bags, making the long taxi ride through fog, transferring money to fellow inmates’ accounts on my behalf—was itself a form of the spirit of power. She was not behind bars, but she bore the weight of my imprisonment daily. The wives and families of prisoners are often the unsung bearers of courage. They endure humiliating lines, invasive searches, financial strain, social stigma, and the relentless anxiety of loving someone they cannot protect. “Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favor of the LORD” (Proverbs 18:22). Despite Pamela’s foibles, I found that proverb truer in prison than I had ever found it outside.

The Supreme Court and Resting in Providence

The biggest news of this period was that the Supreme Court finally heard my appeal. Lawyers Guillermo Améstica, Fabiola García, and David Zúñiga filled me in on the details. The court’s decision was expected to be released on February 17, 2021. Judges Haroldo Brito Cruz, recently the Chief Justice, Leopoldo Llanos Sagristá, Juan Manuel Muñoz Pardo, a Substitute Justice, and two lawyers acting as justices—Diego Munita Luca and María Cristina Gajardo Harboe—presided over the hearing.

Améstica was happy with the outcome. He, Zúñiga, and Francisco Bustos all said that courtroom number 2 was particularly favorable for me, although they were unsure exactly why. I just took it by faith that it would have been worse in another courtroom. I was also concerned that Carlos Kunsemuller was not among the presiding judges—a man whom Améstica had previously attached such importance to as an expert in attempted murder cases. Now Améstica did not seem to mind his absence. Why then had the defense chosen to postpone the hearing during December, waiting for Kunsemuller, if he was not really necessary after all?

One clear thing was that the communist lawyers for Ahumada—Carlos Oliva and Rita Díaz—did not show up. Améstica speculated that they were not paid. Neither did the vile Prosecutor Paola Rojas show up. The District Attorney’s office sent a replacement, Hernán Ferrera. It was vacation time, after all. I was represented by the Public Defender’s national group, but was disappointed that star attorney Claudio Fierro, whose presence had been anticipated for months, did not argue my case. Instead, Sebastián Undurraga del Río was sent in to pinch-hit—a fact that made me uneasy. “At least they didn’t just pick him up last-minute from a Santiago homeless shelter,” I mused. Still, I was not fond of surprises, and I was a little displeased that Améstica had not explained things well.