About Me
prison consultant
Me at 16 years old
prison consultant
prison consultant
At the age of 14 I left a disfunctional home and found myself sleeping on the roof of an auto repair shop in Sarasota, Florida.  Lying about my age I acquired three jobs and worked over 12 hours a day, my feet literally bled.  The businesses I worked for all paid minium wage and my bus boy job was strictly tips, needless to say it was not enough to get on my feet, especially as a 14 year old with no real life experiences.  I lost one job after the other due to not being able to shower or not showing up on time because I didn't have an alarm clock.  Pride, fear and ignorance kept me from seeking assistance from any homeless shelters for teens.  I began to meet other kids of the night and organized.  My plan was simple, we would go to the rich communities of Sarasota and break into cars, an almost victimless crime in our minds.  10 homeless kids on stolen three-wheeled granny bikes equiped with baskets, we acquired those from the 55 plus communities,  pedaling hungrily through the streets and dark nights of Southwest Florida.  Splitting up in pairs, for safety reasons, I assigned each pair a street or a section of a parking garage.  Barely a teenager, I was taken aback by the amount of money we were collecting not to mention radar detectors and guns left in gloveboxes by careless owners.  Each group (five paired up groups in total) hitting 100 cars a night, our quota, each car statistically having at least two-dollars worth of change or more.  Our profits easily topped $1,000 a night, not to mention the surplus booty stuffed into the overflowing baskets at the rear of the bikes.  I had organized what was and still is legandary on the streets of Sarasota, I was a boss at the age of 14.  We were never apprehened, never caught, this chewed at the heels of the local authorities so I left  for Bangor, Maine, where my father currently resided.  After running a small criminal enterprise in the heavily police patroled streets of Sarasota coming to Maine was cultrual shock to say the least.  I took advantage of my superior street knowledge and enlisted a crew in Maine.  I could go on for hours about what we did but it might suffice to just say if it was illegal in any shape or form and MADE a PROFIT my hands were tucked somewhere inside pulling the strings.  I had no less than fifty people working with or for me.
John Burgess was the first in my crew to get shot and killed,  at the age of 17.  He was climbing through a window and was shot at point blank range with a 12 guage shotgun.  The funeral was numbing, only his picture present and his mother crying in the back.  It was our funeral, we played our music, Bone Thugs and Harmony Crossroads blasting from the ceiling.  We did not cry, we didn't know how to.  Crimes got bigger, money came faster, the streets were mine.  If something was stolen within a 100 mile radius there was a good chance it made its way to one of my five apartments and was stacked up ready to be fenced off or sold.  Not even old enough to purchase a pack of cigarettes, I was selling expired beer back to local convience stores at discounted prices.  I was the man.  My last name being long and hard to pronounce to some, Morgenstern, I quickly earned the nickname "More Gangster" or "Morgangsta."  I deemed it fitting.  One thing I prided myself on was the fact that NO ONE was EVER arrested.  To this day the only crime that has ever "stuck" on my record is Armed Bank Robbery.  I was a mastermind, and this too was part of the demise of my crew.  Once the finally got me, someone told on me, my crew fell to pieces.  They were caught for stupid crimes or killed in the process of some stupid transaction.  The FBI said I was one of the best they ever encountered and without the rat I would never have been apprehended.
At the age of 19 I was tossed into a cell and sentenced to 85 months in Federal Prison.  It was shell shock, going from being the boss and being in control of every facet of my life to having absolutley no control.  The food was awful and I had a chip on my shoulder to say the least.  The first years are the worse, I spent over 12 months in solitary confinement, the hole or SHU, one month here two months there, my longest stint in the hole was three months.  They broke me, or so they thought.  
The first job in Federal Prison was in the Bakery.  Of course I looked for an angle, one that almost got me killed.  I would take over the oatmeal trade.  What is that you might ask?  With any prison the majority of the prison population works out.  Oatmeal is mixed with peanut butter and a complete form of protein is born, making oatmeal in high demand, everyone wants the stuff.  A "pack of oatmeal" consist of nine individual packs sealed in a sleeve of thick plastic.  One "pack" of oatmeal sells on the prison underground market of $1.50.  My cellie, "L," worked in foodservice as well, he worked the evening shift and was in charge of refilling the soda fountains (yes Federal Prisons have soda stations much like you find at a fast food chain).  My wheels in my head began to spin with ideas and possibilities.  When I first told "L" my idea he said, "Mike, you're crazy, it won't work, nope, it won't work but whatever... okay I'm down."  My plan was simple albeit risky.
The guards wake up the morning foodservice workers at 4 a.m. and we are marched to the kitchen.  We are counted in the chowhall and then led to the warehouse with carts to gather the items needed for each department.  I worked in the bakery with three other inmates and we reviewed that days menu and pushed our cart into the warehouse with a guard watching as we stacked our cart with 100 pound bags of flour, sugar, and whatever else was needed.  When everything was needed I put my plan into action, I hid behind a pallet and waited until the lights were turned off and the guard locked up the warehouse and escorted my coworkers back to the bakery where they were locked inside.  The first time was hell, it was pictch black and I got my fair share of bruises bumping into things as I tried to make my way to the lightswitch.  With the humm of florescent lights coming to life, and adrenaline shooting through my body, I went to work.  I quickly located the soda sectoin and carefully opened the cardboard box and withdrew the bulging bag of sweet syrup.  I dragged the bag of syrup to a drain in the floor and used a homemade knife or "shank" to puncture the side of it and drained it and discarded it.  Next I located the pallets of oatmeal, I'd never seen so much oatmeal in my life, it's usually handed out to us for doing a good job, at the guards distrection, and never more than one or two packs to an inmate and you'd be lucky if that happened twice a month.  I felt like a dog who'd discovered the box of treats.  Oh I was about to be a naughty dog...  I drained three more syrup packs and began stuffing, the now empty coca-cola and sprite labeled boxes, with hundreds of packs of oatmeal.  I came prepared, it's what I do, I reached into my pocket for the roll of tape I'd swiped from the education department along with a black magic marker.  I neatly retaped the boxes and drew a tiny smiley face on the front of each box that now secretely contained oatmeal.  I heard keys in the door and quickly retreated to my hiding spot.  It was my coworker, Barry, from the bakery, he purposely forgot shortening for the biscuits we were ordered to prepare for that mornings breakfast.  As he walked past me I jumped out of my hiding spot and said, "Let me help you with that," and together we loaded the shortening onto the cart and walked out of the warehouse together, the guard not knowing the difference.
Now locked in the bakery they all looked at me, "Did you do it?" they asked with utter excitement.  I replied, "You know damn well I did," and laughed.  We never made biscuits with so much enthusiasm again but that was only the first stage, the most dangerous stage, mainly because I could have been criminally charged with attempted escape, but still only one of many stages left to complete before we would all become kings of the oatmeal.
After breakfast was served I ran from the chowhall and found "L" sitting on the side of his bottom bunk, I slept on the top bunk.  I swung open our cell door and all but screamed, "It's done, there's at least 600 packs of oatmeal waiting for you."  It didn't seem to register and all he said was, "Okay."  Oh course he probably didn't believe me.  I explained that the boxes with smiley faces drawn on them were the ones we needed to get out of the warehouse.  That evening he went to the kitchen and began work.  He grabbed his cart and wheeled it into the warehouse with the guard at his side.  Finding the contraband stuffed boxes "L" loaded them onto his cart with the soda syrups actually needed and was escorted out by the guard who know none the better  that a sort of "bank robbery" had just occurred right beneath his nose.  A bank robbery of prison proportions.
Out into the chowhall (dinning room) "L" pushed the boxes of syrup and oatmeal where we had a "mule" waiting, "Headcrack," everyone has a nickname.  For three months we netted $900 a day in oatmeal profits splitting it according to risks taken by each party.  I eventually went to the hole for a month after being caught with a bag of coffee someone had requested I jack, "steal," for them from the kitchen, it went for $5 on the prison yard.
After coming out of the hole I got a new job placement, no longer trusted to work in the kitchen, and ened up in the library.  From there I obtained numerous college degrees offered by the bureau of prisons inculding a paralegal degree and a computer fundamentals degree.  I self-taught myself spanish over the years and eventually became the ESL (English as a Second Language) teacher.
A lot of things transpired while I was in prison, both good and bad, and I met some of the greatest people in the world as well as some of the most evil.  There are two types of people doing time they say, convicts and inmates.  I was a convict. For three years in a row I was voted, unofficially, the number one person to escape with in a little survey that was put out by other inmates.  We did things like that to pass the time, surveys and whatnot.  I wrote about a good memory I have from being there, one of many, not wanting you to think that your life is over, that only misery will follow.  There will be heart touching moments as well as times when you will contemplate killing yourself.  Prison is hell, but it's also what you make of it.  I have vast experiences,  REAL experiences, and I know the ropes.  I know all the do's and don'ts, the in's and out's, I will give you all that I have and assure you that no matter how dark one day might seem there is going to be a brighter one right around the corner.  If you were an astronaut preparing to go into space you would most certainly take courses and prepare for such an adventure.  Going to prison is no different.  It is a completely different world, one that I personally thrived in, never let it beat me down, and I made it out without so much as a scratch or a scar.  I believe  my street smarts and quick learning kept me alive and out of harms way.  I learned quickly and at times, because I have no real family or support, I  just didn't give a fuck, I think other inmates saw this about me and gave me space.  
By gaining my services I will give you my all, teach you everything I know and absolutely every angle of prison life that your are sure to experience.  My experiences will get you out alive and unscathed and able to hold your head high knowing that you succedded.  I see other companies offering services such as mine by individuals which I take a first look at and honestly laugh.  They seem like cheesy car sales men out to make a quick buck, their websites filled with flashy interviews and links, out of shape and overweight and trying to portray the tough guy image, if they walked into a prison like that, with that cocky atttitude, they probably wouldn't make it out alive.  Just their appearance alone screams that perhaps they were in "protective custody" and eating donuts all day while reading books that their aging mom sent them.  Mark my words YOU DO NOT want to end up in protective custody.  When in protective custody you are locked in a cell for 23 hours a day only to be let out to pace in a tiny caged recreation area.  You want to thrive in the prison, your time will go by that much faster.  You want to get involved in programs, learn languages, walk the track, things one in protective custody cannot do, not to mention if there is a riot the ones in protective custody are almost always attacked and or killed.   With my help you will blend right in, I assure you, and have a chance of doing a more positive "bid."  Prison is a dangerous place, make no mistake about it, but with my help you'll never put yourself in a situation to discover these dangers.
I wish you the best of luck and would love the opportunity to assist you in getting ready for the challenges that you are about to be confronted with.  Lift off is coming and you are about to be lunged into a world that might as well be called outerspace.
Michael K. Morgenstern