The next morning I took my last shower at home and tried to suppress the building anxiety I was feeling.  Fortunately, the same sensation of numbness was also present, which made it easier to move forward, accept my fate, and do what had to be done without panic.  My father tried to put a positive spin on this experience, suggesting I do whatever I could to further my education while incarcerated.

“Get yourself a PEL grant, earn a college degree,” he told me.  “And try to behave yourself.  I bet it won’t be that different than my time at basic training during Korea.  You’ll meet a lot of interesting people, that’s for sure.”

I couldn’t bring myself to eat anything, so I just had some coffee before we hit the road.  Originally the plan was for Barbara and Dad to drive me together, but as things worked out Barbara had to work that day after all.  Instead, it was just the two of us.  If the directions were accurate (and I had called the prison switchboard and was told they were) it would take about 3 ½ hours to get there, with most of that time spend on Interstate 80.  I wasn’t much worried about the trip there; I was more concerned about my father trying to handle the return drive all by himself.  Prison was bad enough, but the idea of discovering my father had been killed on the highway would have pushed me completely over the edge.

The trip was generally uneventful.  While it was rather chilly, there wasn’t any ice or snow on the ground, and traffic was light once we got out of the New York City area.  We had to stop once for gas and a bathroom break.  At the store, my Dad picked up three chocolate muffins with chocolate chips.  One of these he handed to me, while he explained that he’d eat the second in the car, discard any evidence, and bring the third home to eat later with the claim that he’d only bought two.  Typical of Dad; he used to try and inject himself with a few drops of extra insulin so he could enjoy some ice cream immediately afterward.  You had to laugh at the childish streak he carried…one which I carry as well, even to a larger extent.

Eventually we left I-80 and headed north towards Williamsport.  Halfway between the who we found our way to the Federal complex at Allenwood.  While the brick buildings along the road had an institutional feel to them, they wouldn’t have seemed quite so sinister if I hadn’t known what was just around the corner.  There were no decipherable signs on the road, but rising to the crest of a hill I could see a large prison building on our right.  There was a sizeable parking lot, a brick building to the left, and then a compound surrounded by fences and vicious barbed-wire on the right – complete with guard towers at the corners.  The circular driveway up to the main entrance was chained off, a familiar sight in the post 9-11 era, so we had to park out in the main lot.  Neither of us were sure of this was where I was supposed to be reporting, but it looked much more foreboding than I had imagined.  All I could think to myself was “I’ve got to do 46 months in this place?”

I offered to go inside to ask if this was the proper reporting location, but Dad was afraid that once I went inside I might not be allowed out again to say goodbye.  So instead he shuffled in with me, which took a good five minutes.  If he wasn’t exhausted from the drive, I knew he had to be after that long walk.

In the sterile entranceway, a guard at the front desk looked up my name on his computer.  He shook his head at us.  “Nope, you’re supposed to report to the camp.  Make a left out of the parking lot and take your first right.  There’s no sign, so watch for the turn.”  Camp…yes, that sounded much better than the building we were in.  I tried to ask if I could pull the car around the driveway so my father wouldn’t have to walk all the way back, but the guard just shook his head and told me no.  So after another slow journey, we were back in the car, and on our way to my new home.

Pulling up at the right place finally, I got smart and made sure we said our goodbyes before I got out of the car.  I walked up a long flight of concrete steps and found what looked like a bank teller’s window.  An officer inside told me to wait out in the parking lot, and that another officer would appear shortly across the way and tell me what to do.

After about five more minutes of waiting, a short and very rotund officer came out of a door with a manila folder.  Shouting from across the parking lot, he had me confirm my name, Social Security number, and some other personal information.  Satisfied that I was who I said I was, he told me to approach and enter the building, and yelled to my father that someone would be out within 30 minutes to bring him my clothes and any other personal belongings.  With a wave, I left my Dad and walked through the door.  I was now a Federal inmate.