Click on the Google Preview image above to read some pages of this book!
Neil White was once was a man who lived by appearances - he owned expensive cars and a big house and worked at glossy magazines. When his bank balance couldn't keep up with his lifestyle, he started kiting - illegally depositing and drawing cheques between his two accounts. He got caught and was sent to prison.
The experience transformed him completely: the man who lived to impress became a man who could look beyond the surface of things in order to tap into the deeper, more important issues that run our lives. A journey which combines a slice of history with self-discovery,
In the Sanctuary of Outcasts is both beautifully written and utterly compelling.
A Conversation with Neil White, author of
In the Sanctuary of Outcasts
1. Why did the government decide to house federal prisoners with leprosy patients?
It was strictly budgetary, though I didn’t know this when I was an inmate. The leprosarium was expected to close unless Public Health Services found a rent-paying tenant. With enough empty space for 500 beds, it appealed to the Bureau of Prisons. But I don’t think anyone ever stepped back and asked, “Is this such a good idea?” Oddly, for me, it was.
2. Were you afraid?
My first day inside a man with no fingers waved to me, a legless woman in an antique, hand-cranked wheelchair chanted “There’s no place like home,” and a drop of spit from the mouth of a leprosy patient hit my cheek when he uttered the word “purple.” Definitely! I was afraid. And confused. And disoriented.
3. When did that change?
Within a matter of days. As I began to learn about the history of these secret people, I felt drawn to them, and to their stories. We shared a bond, a common experience. We were outcasts. The more familiar I became with Ella and Harry and Jimmy, the more I cherished our friendships. Living in their sanctuary, I rediscovered values I had ignored in my drive to succeed at all costs.
4. The narrative is pretty evenly divided between the leprosy patients and the inmates. Did you split your time equally between the two populations?
No. I spent the majority of my time with other inmates. But the leprosy patients were never far from sight, or mind. And the hours I spent with them was, by far, the most compelling. I’d been given a remarkable gift: time with the very last mainland Americans who were imprisoned because of leprosy. And they were fast dying off. It was an amazing privilege and opportunity. I didn’t want to forget even the tiniest detail. I was constantly taking notes.
5. Do you still keep in touch with the friends you made at Carville?
Yes. I see Harry two or three times a year. I’m on his speed dial, so he calls me most Sunday nights. He is one of the 15 residents who still live in a remote corner of the colony. I exchange letters with Doc. I see Father Reynolds when I can, but he’s now 500 miles away in the mountains of Kentucky. I also keep up with a handful of other friends from Carville, but there were just too many people and stories to include everyone.
6. Doc is back in prison, right?
Yes. After a six-week trial in late 2008, he was found guilty on 5 of 18 counts of securities violations. He was sentenced to serve 14 years. He sat in prison for five years awaiting trial. The U.S. Attorney offered to release him, with time served, in exchange for a guilty plea. Doc refused. He adamantly maintains his innocence.
7. There are some relatively famous Carvillians—Stanley Stein, John Early, Betty Martin—yet you focus on relative unknowns. Why?
Stanley Stein, a patient’s rights champion and author of Alone No Longer, died before I arrived at Carville, but his book was a wonderful reference. John Early, who forced Congress to establish a national leprosarium by checking himself into the Washington, DC hotel where Senators and the Vice-President were staying, was also dead by my time. I knew Betty Martin, the best-selling author of Miracle at Carville, but she pretty much kept to herself. The residents featured most prominently in my book weren’t crusaders or writers or advocates. They were just my friends. But virtually every Carville resident had a fascinating story.
8. Talk about the religious/spiritual themes in the book.
Religious scholars consider “pride” the original deadly sin. This is a story of the downfall of prideful men who have a chance at redemption. It is a story about taking responsibility (admitting our sins), humility (accepting powers greater than ourselves), and grace (finding peace in an unexpected place). Throw in the victims of leprosy, an ancient order of nuns, a Franciscan monk, the Catholic Church—I couldn’t avoid religious and spiritual story lines if I tried.
9. In the epilogue, you say the National Museum notes the existence of the prison as an aside. Why?
The prison was fully operational from 1992-1994. The museum’s curator is deeply interested in the period, but she never found anyone who documented the co-occupation. She wasn’t aware that Jimmy Hoffa’s lawyer, or Dan Duchaine or Doc had spent time at Carville. And because there was a Bureau of Prisons rule about fraternizing with inmates, she assumed the residents and the prisoners didn’t interact. Our time at Carville is a tiny sliver of the history. But it is a rich sliver. I plan to donate my papers to the museum. I hope other inmates will as well.
10. Why did you wait 15 years to write this book?
The search for meaning takes time. Years of reflection, in my case. I had thousands of mental snapshots. It took me a long time to figure them out. In addition, the very act of publishing the book (not writing it, mind you) goes counter to so many of the lessons I learned. Don’t care what people think. Live simply. Avoid the demeaning search for public accolades. I spent years going back and forth about whether I should write this story for publication, or keep it private. Ultimately, I felt it was something I should do. Finally, I waited this long because I wanted to get this story right. I was handed a precious gift—this amazing story of a forgotten time, a compelling cast of characters, equal parts comedy and tragedy. It had everything. I was afraid I wouldn’t do it justice if I forced the writing.
11. Memoir and memoirists have taken a beating recently. Did this affect your writing/research process?
Yes. We, memoirists, will forever be under intense scrutiny. As I was writing, I went to great lengths to document everything. Thankfully, while in prison, I took copious notes. I have literally dozens of file boxes of letters, diaries, notes and documents. As I worked to fact-check and verify the manuscript, I recorded my interviews, I reviewed every single page of notes I took during my year at Carville, I asked experts to read the manuscript for error, I sought out oral histories and documentary footage to corroborate what I witnessed. I agonized over every line. I did everything in my power to make it accurate and factual, but all institutions—mental, medical or penal—are plagued with rumor, lore and innuendo. Carville was no exception.
12. Why did you change the names of the characters in the book?
A diagnosis of leprosy can destroy lives. Not the physical effects as much as the stigma surrounding it. Some people still believe leprosy is a curse from god. Relatives of leprosy patients often guard the diagnosis as a dark secret never to be revealed. I changed the names of the leprosy patients to protect them, and their descendants, from any more cruelty. I changed of the names of inmates (the ones still living) in the interest of privacy.
13. How did the prison experience affect your children?
My children have fond memories of visiting me at the colony. Neil was seven, Maggie four. They didn’t know it was unusual. They made friends with the other inmates’ kids. They just sort of figured that all daddies do a little time. Interestingly, my children don’t seem to carry any shame or embarrassment about the narrative revealing the details of my crime, or how I lost $2 million, or the friendships I made with convicts, or the absurdity of pretending I was an undercover journalist when I was really an inmate.
14. How does your family feel about you going public with this story?
We’ve incorporated this story into our family history. My children and I have spent hours upon hours telling one another how we remember the experience. My mother is all for it. My father would never dream of this sort of “outing,” but he’s supportive. Linda, my ex-wife and Neil and Maggie’s mom, read the manuscript, encouraged me (even though she would write a very different memoir), and allowed me to use her photograph in the book. My ex-wife has been supportive. My wife, Debbie, absolutely fell in love with Carville and the residents the first time we visited. Though she’s also a very private person, she’s been behind me all the way.
15. How were you treated when you returned to Oxford?
One family let me live six months rent-free in their cabin in the woods. The owners of the local department store hired me as a marketing consultant, and opened doors for work with the Oxford Tourism Council, the chamber of commerce and the university. Hundreds of parishioners at St. Peter’s Episcopal Church embraced me, as well as my children. Teachers at the public schools invited me to help out in Neil and Maggie’s classes. English professors at Ole Miss encouraged me to write about the experience. Just about everyone was willing to give me another chance to build a life here. Oxford is home. And I am forever indebted.
16. You operated a magazine business when you were sentenced to prison. Today, you still work in publishing. What’s the difference?
I try to pay close attention. I operate a small publishing company. Our magazines and newspapers focus on improving the quality of the lives of our readers, whether promoting the value of higher education, the importance of financial literacy or opportunities for preventative medicine. We also spend a lot of our time doing pro bono work to promote artists, writers, filmmakers, public interest lawyers, churches and groups working on racial reconciliation.
In His Own Words
In 1993, I pled guilty to one count of bank fraud. My publishing business was running short on cash, so I kited checks as a form of bridge financing. When the FBI called, I invited them to my house, put on a pot of coffee and told them exactly what I had been doing. “It was just business,” I explained, certain they would understand.
Two weeks later, I ran into one of the FBI agents at a cocktail reception at our country club. He told me that during his 20-year career, I was one of only two criminal suspects who had not lied to him. He added that I’d still do time in federal prison.
I was never arrested, never handcuffed, never indicted and never posted bond. I signed a document accepting responsibility for my actions. Then, the judge gave me several months to get my affairs in order before I packed my bag and self surrendered at the federal prison at Carville, Louisiana. I had no idea it was an experimental prison that also housed the last leprosy patients in America.
From my first day in inside, I recognized that this odd coupling —housing leprosy patients with federal convicts — would make a great story. In fact, as a journalist, I couldn’t have dreamed up a more sensational setting. Within a week of my arrival at the colony, I made a secret pact with myself. I would not buy into all the inmate stuff. I would be an undercover reporter.
I carried a pencil and notebook with me at all times. I recorded events as they occurred. I had every intention of publishing an exposé on this strange government experiment upon my release. However, as the year progressed, I learned about the plight of the leprosy patients — the very last 130 Americans to be forcibly quarantined by the government. In the most unlikely of places and among some of the most unusual people in the world, I re-discovered the pleasures of simplicity and surrender, friendship and gratitude. Among these secret people, I found a new best friend in Ella Brown — an eighty year old, African-American, double amputee who had contracted leprosy at the age of twelve. Though not formally educated, Ella was a woman of great wisdom. As I fumed about my incarceration, struggled with my wife’s decision to leave me and planned for a grand comeback, Ella guided me: sometimes directly, sometimes with story and metaphor, but mostly by how she lived. She, along with Harry and Jimmy (two life-long leprosy patients) and Doc, Link and Jefferson (inmates with provocative world-views), helped me to re-discover values I had ignored in my drive to succeed at all costs.
So, I simply couldn’t bring myself to write the story as I’d initially intended. But I continued to take detailed notes for my entire incarceration . . . so I would never forget.
The story of my year in Carville was an extraordinary journey. I was grateful for the time I lived with the leprosy patients; appreciative of how it altered the course of my life; indebted to this group of men and women who were the last of their kind. I felt an obligation to get this story perfect.
I spent a decade reviewing my journals and re-living the mental images I captured during my imprisonment. I searched for meaning in every scene and event. I tried to identify why Ella and Harry and Doc and Link meant so much to me. And I spent twelve years studying with top creative writers to hone my writing skills and this story.
