Prison Wars: An Inside Account of How the Apocalypse Happened By Martin Sanger. Martin Sänger

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      “I’m not petty. I don’t get caught up in the drama of life. I see all the business machinations I get involved in like television shows or a movie. It’s just entertainment. We all die sooner or later. There is no need to get too wrapped up in any of this stuff.”

      “So you have a detachment from the world.” I probed.

      “I guess so, if you want to put it that way. I never thought about it that way. It sounds kind of negative the way you put it.

      “I don’t think of it as negative. I realize that every moment is blessed and that this moment of being alive is the greatest success one could ever have. I constantly celebrate the miracle of life. I lean into life, no matter what comes my way.”

      He paused and closed his eyes. This was the first time I had seen this habit.

      “Yeah, maybe I’m somewhat detached from everything except my family. That is the one thing that I take as a vital concern, that I really sweat about the outcome of. But even then . . .” His smile and shrug expressed his calm about their well – being too.

      “Right on!” I exclaimed. “A sax playing Buddhist with a therapist, that’s just the sort of thing that makes good copy.” Then I caught myself. “Oh yeah, spiritual trainer. I’ll remember to print the right one. Don’t worry.”

      “I don’t.” He shrugged and smiled broadly and I believed him.

      Such was my first encounter with Quentin Longus. He was magnetic, I wanted to be around him. It felt like it must feel to have a guru. And I mean that sincerely. I am skeptical of such things generally. But he made it all seem real. His restful demeanor was genuine. He looked you in the eyes with a sort intensity that made you feel like you could open up to and trust him. He had an immense and transformative presence.

      As would be expected, he beat me badly in tennis. I’m sure his beating me partially resulted from my not being an experienced tennis player. But it also reflected his inner calm. When he made a stupid mistake, he didn’t get flustered. His strokes and serves were done with amazing grace. His cultivated calm permeated him, his business efforts, and his tennis completely.

      On that very day, Quentin taught me that who we are and how our lives come out are intimately connected. He would later tell me that how you do one thing is how you do everything. Frantic people get frantic results. Focused people get exactly what they are after. And I felt (perhaps due to my ever present insecurity) that I had much, much more to learn from him.

      His having mentioned the possibility of working with him made me feel both lucky and nervous. I was anxious that it not fall-through. But, I told myself, even if I should never meet this man again, I would never forget his presence. That smile of his could calm people going down in a crashing plane. And since I often felt like I was going down in flames . . .

      Quentin brought mayhem upon America. History will regard him as a super villain. It will position him somewhere between Benedict Arnold and Genghis Khan on the infamy scale. That’s the reason why this historical record is so important.

      Few knew the inner workings of this man. None but those who had spent time with him privately could grasp the true nature of his soul before the rise of Prison Wars. I trailed him through every significant phase of the Prison Wars venture. As what we did led to total disaster, my being positioned so closely to him made writing this account both an act of redemption and a moral necessity.

      Perhaps Quentin served as an unwitting alchemist. On that day he partially transformed me into a luxury-expecting tennis player. He taught me not to worry. I believe his spirit was then entirely free from bad intentions. He lived in bliss and thought of nothing else. And so perhaps his life, and its impact on us, should change the way we normally quip about ignorance; Ignorance is bliss, but it can lead to hell.

      CHAPTER TWO – PRESS CONFERENCE

      I told all my friends (both of my friends) and my colleagues about my meeting with Quentin and how excited I was about it. But between the time of our first encounter and the press conference we only spoke twice.

      A few days after I returned to Omaha, Quentin called to tell me of the logistics; which hotel, flight, limo company etc. were to escort me. And right before my departure date, he called again to confirm that I was coming.

      Though I had Quentin’s number I was too nervous about accidentally blowing my opportunity to call him. Both times he called me the same dynamic applied. In disbelief, and not wanting this to fall through, I tried to sound unexcited and businesslike.

      Quentin treated me like an old friend. He apologized for not contacting me more often. He had been really busy getting final negotiations and logistics ready for the big night and promised we’d have some real quality time to talk after the press conference.

      “Sounds great,” was all I could say. My head and heart had to process both the fear of blowing this opportunity and tremendous excitement. This emotional balancing act percolated under every word.

      Though I was honored and felt his warmth from our first handshake, trusting is hard for me. After each call I felt jaded, evil, and dirty. He had love and trust while I had skepticism. Had the world made me so gun shy of people? Was it my upbringing? It was almost unnerving to talk with him. My lack of love became more apparent to me each time. It was if I were being readied for a therapeutic immersion I might not be able to handle. That period filled me with the type of tension that must precede religious conversions.

      I was intrigued by the potential of our relationship. Not having many connections with people--and those just being with run-of-the-mill folk -- friendship with him seemed like a rare and strange blessing. Like a beggar confronting Jesus, I wasn’t sure why I was worthy of such attention.

      Looking back, perhaps he chose me because I was average. It is easier to trust folks that haven’t swum with big sharks. Perhaps it was out of an admiration for my writing. But I’ve never thought my writing was that special. Perhaps he just enjoyed bestowing blessings on good people that seemed to need love.

      Such were the sorts of questions that besieged my worried brain in the weeks preceding the big event. Even after the limo picked me up, after I flew for a second time in his private jet, and I was dropped off in front of the Sunset Hyatt, I could barely believe that this was happening to me.

      The Wilshire Beverly was the normal place for large corporate announcements in Los Angeles. Both of my previous assignments covering mergers were held there. The Hyatt on the Sunset Strip in Hollywood had an entirely different atmosphere. In retrospect, choosing it was a stroke of genius. The rich-meets-poor, party-infused atmosphere of this adult playground was perfect for the juvenile spectacle being announced.

      The Sunset Strip is Hollywood’s hottest street. This was the first time I had seen it at night. The whole thing is television. Though it was night, the street was lit as brightly as a movie set. The sidewalks were full of women that looked like supermodels. All of the guys looked like they are top-of-the-chart rock stars. Never had I seen such a concentration of people wearing tight, vinyl and leather pants.

      The excitement builds in the Sunset Hyatt elevator. How fantastic you are is measured by how high you go. I remember predicting that the order of the passengers leaving. The couples all went first, then went the heavier businessmen, then went the sleek young businessmen, the scruffy partiers left and then we three hit the top.

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