It didn't matter that I knew I was innocent. What mattered was what the jury would think. I put all my trust in Don (attorney) and tried to focus on the reality of the situation, a reality that inevitably would mean prison time. How much or how little became the subject of our discussions when he introduced the idea of a plea agreement. Don said he would approach the judge and prosecutor secretly about a possible bargain, even though in Michigan it was illegal under People v Killebrew for a judge to be involved in such negotiations.

The way I (mis)understood the Michigan Sentencing Guidelines was that the minimum sentence would be 6 years and the maximum 10 years. I would only be required to serve less than half my sentence. Don explained this phenomenon. Under a provision entitled the Emergency Powers Overcrowding Act, all inmates received a 50% time credit regardless of institutional conduct, and served no more than 1/2 their sentence (Texas, Florida, and other states have employed similar measures over the years). Therefore, even if I had to serve a ten year sentence, it would be cut to 5. Secondly, I was also eligible for "community placement" six months before my release - or at 4½ yrs. In community placement I would be transferred to a halfway house, allowed to work in the community during the day, and begin home release (furloughs) on weekends.

The numbers weighed heavily on my decision to plead. It never was an issue of pride or the fear of giving up few years of my life. The figure 4½ became a frame of reference for Jill's and my outlook on the future. My only focus was reunion with my family: By my release date Sean would only be 5 years old, just starting grade school, Suzanne would be 7, and Jill would be young enough to have more children. We detested the idea of my losing 4½ years with my family but the alternative - a "basket-ball sentence," as Don put it, and the vision of dying in prison was unfathomable. Over the next several weeks my family and I deliberated over a decision I might soon have to make.

During the Thanksgiving Holiday of 1984, while out on bond, I received an urgent phone call from Don. He told me that the judge had agreed to a deal: If I plead nolo to the Wright charge a guideline sentence would be imposed and the Jensen charge dismissed.   I told Don that I could not make the decision until I talked everything over one last time with Jill.  I would give him our answer in the morning.  He said, "No. I'm with Judge Ager and Prosecutor Noah and I need your answer now." I accepted the deal and was told to report to court the following Monday morning.

On the morning of the plea I almost reconsidered; imagining I might have a chance at trial. But the evidence - the blood typing, Crawford's testimony, the five, ready to testify similar acts witnesses waiting in the next room - and of course, the recurring vision of life in prison and ultimate separation from my wife and kids were the constant reality checks.

Don brushed aside concerns about serving part or all of the maximum; neither judges nor parole boards pay attention to the maximum because, as he told me, "everyone with even a fair institutional record is paroled at his minimum release date." Don thought, with time cuts, I could be out in 6.

Everything became surrealistic; people were talking fast and racing around me but I felt locked in slow motion. Don brought me back to the present and advised me that the judge would ask a series of questions about the voluntariness of my plea - if there had been any coercion or promises made, that kind of thing.  It was vital I answer "no" to these questions or it would "spoil the deal."

Feeling utterly helpless I followed him into the courtroom, stood before the judge, and entered my plea. The judge asked if I had been threatened or given promises to plea. I remember thinking, "Why is he asking me this? He already knows the answers." I dutifully answered "No" to his questions. Then he made a brief speech about his "thorough review of the evidence and police reports which proved beyond a reasonable doubt that I had raped Carol Wright and that he was therefore obliged to find me guilty of CSC 1."  And there went my irrational hope that he might actually have doubts about my guilt.  It was obvious he hadn't read anything about the case. My naivete was showing; I had actually believed that with a no contest plea a judge, in his infinite wisdom, could find me not guilty once he researched my case.

After my sentence and once imprisoned I was to learn (contrary to Don's reassurances that "everyone with even a fair institutional record is paroled at his minimum release date") that only 15% of inmates convicted of CSC were paroled at their minimum release date in 1984, a figure that has since gone down.  And by 1986 - no thanks to the "Willy Horton" scare campaign tactics of 1984 - Michigan repealed the Emergency Overcrowding Act and eliminated community placement eligibility for rape sentences.

Years later, when my appeal attorney, Gary White, and I tried to withdraw my nolo plea from the Jensen case, Prosecutor Kirk Tabby accused me of lying because at the time that plea was entered I had answered "no" to Judge Ager's questions about "promises made." Yet nobody ever accused the judge or other officers of the court of lying when they secretly agreed to the deal in the first place.