Early in my career, I worked for a big, century-old bank. The bank’s building, an architectural jewel with gleaming marble floors and glittering, gold elevators, was a thing of beauty and the pride of Omaha, Nebraska. Every working day, I put on my banker’s uniform; white shirt, dark suit, modest tie, black socks, wing-tips, and, avoiding eye contact with my coworkers, I walked those marble floors, rode those gold elevators, and closed the door to my office until it was time to go. Almost convinced if I didn’t show up that day, no one would notice.
Friends told me this sounds like their dream job, but for me, it would be as close I would ever get to life in prison. Ten years ago, I made my prison break.