by Rajat Gupta
Soon, my maiden voyage to the so-called Rec-yard was over. It was one of the more humiliating experiences of my incarceration, but at least I had gotten some fresh air. I resolved to come out whenever I got a chance. Rec was also an opportunity to talk to other inmates—a welcome change from our solitary cells. The universal topic was the silly reasons people were in the SHU. Once we got past that, however, I had interesting conversations with many of my cage-mates, provided they were willing to keep pace with my walking. Other times, I just appreciated the feeling of the sun on my skin.
One day, there was a kid I’d never seen before in my cage. He had just self-surrendered a couple of days before and was headed to the camp. A very bright young man of Chinese ancestry, he was a Cornell graduate in computer science and a computer whiz. He’d worked for a hedge fund and was accused of being a Chinese spy and stealing secrets. He had really no option but to fight hard and was now in for a two-year sentence. While his case dragged on, he had started an online school to offer computer science courses to all ages, which was already taking off. His mother was going to run it while he was serving his time.
My new companion was an ambitious kid who wanted to change the world. I enjoyed talking to him. We walked back and forth in the small cage and ninety minutes went by fast. He would quiz me about how to build a business and how I was able to be effective in my philanthropic pursuits. He was intellectually curious and a fast learner. I started looking forward to the rec because I found talking to him very interesting and invigorating. One day, I told him I would like to learn something from him on topics I knew very little about. He was enthusiastic about the opportunity and turned out to be an excellent teacher. One day, as we paced the chain link fence, he gave me a ninety-minute lecture on cryptocurrency that explained the topic better than anything I’d ever read. I finally understood it. Another day we covered drones or quadcopters and all the technical as well as regulatory issues surrounding them.
I was now looking forward to my daily visit to the cage, but I learned that if you were not perfectly ready when they came for you, they might just skip you for the day. On other days, they would announce that the weather was not good enough, although I suspected this was just a way of minimizing their workload. I knew they didn’t care that much if we got wet. Indeed, one day, when it was drizzling, many of us went out anyway. After thirty minutes, it started raining hard. The COs made no attempt to get us inside, and everyone just got soaked. When we finally came in, there were no extra clothes, so I had to stay in my wet clothes until they dried on my body.
Even when we were separated by steel doors, I was amazed at the sense of community that developed among the SHU inmates. People created “fishing lines” from the small plastic covers on the utensils we got for the meals, which could slide under the door and transport small gifts, such as extra coffee or newspapers, from room to room. I was impressed at the ingenuity of my cell neighbors.
I still needed to inform Herb, Pramath, and my sisters of my predicament and tell them not to come. I hated for them to make the long trip for nothing. Herb had been a true friend throughout this nightmare and had stood by me from the beginning. As for my sisters, they had made an enormous effort and planned quite a bit in advance to use their limited vacation time to visit. But as they say, “man proposes and God disposes.” Reading the Gita so intensely all these days was teaching me to be even-tempered in the face of setbacks.
I wrote a letter to Sonu, but was not confident she would get it in time. I made requests and appeals. Again, the process seemed designed to humiliate: the only writing instruments they allowed were short pencils about three inches long with no sharpeners. I would chip at the wood with my nails, and sometimes try to file it against the metal edge of the bunk, but to little avail. I had to struggle to fill out the forms with my blunt pencils, and writing legible letters was tortuous. Eventually, the counselor came to inform me that all my appeals had been denied. I asked him to call Sonu. I also asked him when I was heading back to camp. Like the case manager, he was evasive.
In addition to these frustrations, day-to-day living in the SHU would have tested even the most accomplished yogi. The COs seemed to actively make life difficult for the inmates every step of the way. The process of getting clean clothes was another exercise in humiliation. They came around with a trolley stacked with clean jumpsuits and underwear, and you were expected to strip naked in front of the CO, slip your dirty clothes through the opening in the door, and then take the clean clothes in exchange.
Counselors, case managers, the unit manager, the warden, and others would randomly walk through the SHU at various points. The only way to have a conversation was to shout through the door and hope you could catch their attention. If for some reason you were reading or writing or resting, bad luck for you. It might be several days before you had another opportunity. At one point I was reminded of what they say about growing mushrooms: keep them in the dark and throw shit at them. That’s how they treated us. I had done nothing to deserve this treatment and nor had most of the people in the SHU. But in a way I felt sorry for the staff at that prison. If your work, day after day, encourages you to treat human beings rudely and with indifference and contempt, what kind of person must you become? How does it affect your behavior toward other people, toward your family and friends? I tried to practice empathy and even forgiveness toward the prison staff. If I am part of the Universal Self, I told myself, the idea of helping others follows, as does the idea of forgiveness toward all, and the idea of joy in others’ success becomes natural.
There is much discussion in the Gita about the virtues or divine attributes that we should aspire to. These include things like fearlessness, purity of mind, charity, sacrifice, truthfulness, absence of anger, renunciation, kindness to creatures, gentleness, modesty, freedom from restlessness, forgiveness, fortitude, freedom from malice, absence of haughtiness—the list goes on and on. I weighed up each quality and tried to honestly assess where I had expressed it and where I had come up short. I resolved to do better—to be unattached to my losses, to be kind toward the COs no matter how provocative their conduct was, to respect and be humble toward my fellow prisoners.
I’ll admit I did not always live up to these lofty ideals. The counselor, in particular, was hard to forgive: he seemed particularly mean-spirited. Despite my spiritual aspirations, I could not resist taking a small measure of revenge. The only calls I was allowed to make were those with my lawyers, and for these calls the counselor had to come and get me from my cell, take me to the phone, and then stand and wait outside until I was finished. So I asked my lawyers to schedule legal calls every few days, not an unreasonable frequency given my new appeal. I took some satisfaction in making him stand there for an hour or more each time I took a call.
As the days turned into weeks, with no indication of when I would be allowed to leave the SHU, I was ever more grateful that I had insisted on keeping my Gita. Sometimes it was confusing, sometimes repetitive, and occasionally it seemed to contradict itself, but it lifted me out of the confinement of my cell and the inner prison of my anxious mind. I studied the timeless teachings on the impermanence of worldly attachments, the eternal nature of the soul, and the meaning of selfless service. When I was not reading, I worried incessantly about my family. I received occasional letters from them, but I was not confident that all my mail came through, or that my replies ever reached them.
Anita’s letters, in particular, were painful to read—I could feel her loneliness and depression, although she tried hard to reassure me. She was struggling with some health issues, and I worried that she was not doing enough to take care of herself. She confessed that she had stopped answering the phone because she just could not bear to tell one more person the story of my current circumstances. The mail was piled high on her desk.
Anita also reported, to my great distress, that my devoted old dog, Rufus, was ailing and could barely move. “I think he is holding out for you to come home,” she w
rote. Tears filled my eyes reading her words: I had been hoping against hope that my dear friend and walking companion would still be around when I came home. But each letter brought more sad reports: she had taken Rufus to the vet, but it had been a struggle, as his hind legs and hips no longer worked at all. She didn’t think she could put him through that again.
“He must be suffering a lot,” I wrote to her. “For his sake, he should be put to sleep. Celebrate his life. He gave us a lot of joy. I am glad we had him. Death is part of life and he will always be with us.” That night, as I lay on my hard bunk, my mind was filled with memories: walking with Rufus along the street near our home, the ocean breeze ruffling his golden coat; Kushy, as a teenager, playing with him on the beach; the soft noise of Rufus snoring as he slept at my feet in the study on a winter evening. I would miss him.
“You won’t believe how empty the fridges are these days,” Anita wrote in her next letter. “With just me here I hardly buy any groceries. The house feels terribly empty. I can’t imagine how it will be without Rufus. He mostly sleeps these days but at least he is here.”
Finally, I received a letter from Aditi informing me gently that my old friend had been put to sleep. She and Kushy had been there with Anita when the vet came to the house to give him the shot. I should have been there too. He’d been a faithful friend for so many years, accompanying me on daily walks. I mourned him alone in my cell, wishing I could at least call and talk to Anita about his final days. I worried about her, alone in the house. Only the mystical beauty of the Gita could banish the encroaching dark thoughts that night. I studied the now well-thumbed pages till dawn.
One morning, the CO came to my cell and told me to pack up my things. My solitary confinement had come to an end. I had been there seven long weeks—all because of a pillow. It was a cruel and unusual punishment, but strangely it was also a gift. I will never forget those weeks—not the humiliations or the draconian rules, nor the spiritual journey I took and the way it filled me with purpose and peace. As my father taught me, one cannot always control what happens in life, but one can always choose how one responds. I read the Gita three times, cover to cover, in Sanskrit and English, and I practiced meditation with more diligence than ever before in my life. I left that cell a stronger man, more resilient in spirit and more accepting of my fate.
Release
My father left prison with a long, deep scar on his back and a permanent limp—a lifelong reminder of what he had suffered, lost, and gained during his incarceration. On the day I became a free man, January 6, 2016, I bore no such reminders, besides a few more gray hairs. I was in the best shape of my life, thanks to my daily ten-mile walks and challenging pushup regime. I also felt spiritually stronger. As I finally stepped outside the prison gates, clutching a few plastic bags filled with my belongings, I realized that in a strange way I would miss the place—or at least I would miss the people I had gotten to know there.
I paused to look back for just a moment, and then turned toward my freedom. The coming weeks would test my equanimity and forgiveness, I knew. How would it feel to re-engage with old friends and colleagues, some of whom had turned their backs in my hour of need? How would I rebuild my life and envision my future, with so much of my legacy now tarnished by my conviction? What would I do with the time that remained to me?
Epilogue
When I stand before thee at the day’s end
thou shalt see my scars and know that I had my wounds
and also my healing.
—Rabindranath Tagore, Stray Birds, 290
December 2, 2018
Today, I turn seventy, and it seems somehow fitting that I am writing these final pages of my book on this milestone day. A seventieth birthday is certainly a good moment for reflection, introspection, taking stock, and thinking about how best to use the limited time one has remaining.
In ancient Indian philosophy, it is said that there are four stages in life. Brahmacharya, the first stage, literally translates as “bachelorhood.” It is a time to learn, influenced primarily by parents and teachers, and prepare oneself for playing a productive role in society. The second stage, grihastha, is family life, a time in which one builds a career and a family. Its objectives are to be a productive member of society, to acquire wealth, reputation, and influence, and fulfill responsibilities to family and friends. Vanaprastha, the third stage, literally means “forest life”—the time when one begins to detach oneself from worldly things. It is a time for giving back, as one’s focus turns from oneself and one’s family to the good of others and society at large. The final stage of life is sanyas, or renunciation. It is here that one lets go of material things and even relationships, preparing to leave this world. One’s focus becomes self-realization and the achievement of a tranquil and serene state.
Looking back, I can see how these stages have unfolded in my own life, sometimes overlapping. My formal education was complete around my first quarter-century, and my next several decades were devoted to career and family. Somewhere during that period, my focus naturally began to shift toward giving back to society, something I continue to do to this day. I hope I will have a few more years with the energy and capacity to make a difference in the world. In prison, I was forced to practice detachment and given the opportunity, perhaps, to begin my sanyas.
Of course, no one’s life moves smoothly through these stages. My life seemed blessed until that fateful day in 2009 when everything began to go wrong. Looking back at what happened to me, what I did, and what I could have done differently, there are no simple answers. From one perspective, I lost nine years. I fought so hard and for so long, yet I lost almost every battle. Should I have just given in and got it over much faster? From another perspective, those nine years were one of the most important periods of my life. After my indictment, I came to know who my real friends were. I learned how precious my family and friends are through their unwavering support. My journey through the criminal justice system taught me how flawed it can be. My time in prison was an extraordinary experience. I feel deep gratitude for what I learned there, for the friendships I made, and for the person I became.
At times, of course, I let myself imagine how things might have been different. Would this drama ever have unfolded if I had simply stuck to my decision to resign from the Goldman board in 2008? Would my case have had a different outcome had it occurred in a different time? Perhaps. There’s no doubt that in the years following the financial crisis the deck was stacked against anyone accused of financial crimes. As a 2012 Forbes article mused, perhaps in those years we had “a tainted jury pool, an entire society that has a bias against anyone with a coat and tie.” And understandably so, given the government’s failure to prosecute those truly responsible for the economic meltdown. My case was just one among several that the author, Walter Pavlo, listed, in which circumstantial evidence was deemed enough to convict. “In each of these cases there was no absolute certainty that each of these men were involved in insider trading, yet juries found them guilty … and did so quickly.” In my case, it took less than half a day. “Has that standard [of guilt beyond a reasonable doubt] been lowered by the economic times?” he asked.1 I think there is little doubt that the answer is yes, and I paid a heavy price for it.
Above all, the choice not to testify continues to haunt me—not because I know the outcome would have been different, but because at least it would have allowed me to accept the outcome better, knowing I had done my best in every way. The fact is, I succumbed to fear in that moment, and that is something I find it hard to forgive myself for and to live with.
I find it painful that I could not continue on my journey of giving back to society in an impactful way. The loss of my reputation and my position of leadership—the hard-won fruit of those first two stages of my life—is also hard to bear. But the truth is, that was all lost long before my decision about taking the stand. The day the SEC charged me, the damage was done, and no matter what I’d done differently during the
trial, I’d already paid that price.
In the end, however, I accept that perhaps this course of events was simply my destiny. It is not my job to understand why, it is just my job to make the best of it. Again, I remind myself, life is a series of experiences. None is inherently good or bad—it is what you make of it. I am thankful to have been reminded of what really matters in life.
In the last several months, as I’ve been completing this book, I have been saddened to read the press coverage on the organization that features most prominently in my story: McKinsey. I grew up in McKinsey and believed in the values it stood for: integrity, client interests first, partnership, and so forth. While I have no knowledge of the specific incidents in which the firm has been accused of wrongdoing, I do know that people on the inside feel that much has been unfairly portrayed and taken out of context. And I know all too well how that feels. I take no pleasure in seeing the organization I led go through its own reputational crisis, but I cannot help but wonder, if my case occurred now, would McKinsey still take such a “holier than thou” attitude and judge me without a fair hearing? I wish the firm well, and I hope that it finds its way back to its core values.
As for me, in the last few years, I have tried to reintegrate with society. Relearning some of the mundane tasks of life, getting reacquainted with the tools of modern living. Slowly, I have reconnected with old friends and I have spent a lot of time with my family, particularly my granddaughters.
On the personal front, my network of friends has shrunk considerably. I have become much more introverted and reflective. I am hesitant to make new contacts, uncertain how they will view my recent past. I wonder, should I reach out to people I knew before, but have not been in touch with these past nine years? What would be the purpose? While my friend circle is smaller, in many ways it is deeper. All you really need are a few good friends and a loving family.
