So, who the hell is Craig H. Holte?

That’s a great question. If you happened to come across this blog while trending toward the end of the Internet, you may not know him personally. I think, though, that even many of his close friends may not completely know how to answer that question as well. Hopefully, we’ll get to dig into that down the road. For now, all I can tell you is what I know. So, here it goes.

Like most of my close circle of buddies, I haven’t a damn clue how we met. I mean, I know it was at school and most likely had to do with sports. We’ve known each other since probably high school, let’s just say ninth grade. I don’t think he was at my middle school, but we definitely played together in football in ninth grade. And then that followed throughout the rest of high school, including several years playing together next to each other on the offensive line. Positional units, especially linemen, tend to grow close the more they play together. Something about understanding what it’s like to be in the trenches, I guess. Too many people would write this as a comparison to soldiers in the trenches in war, but come on. That’s so worn out. Those people fighting the Taliban or ISIS or others we deem our ideological enemies are fucking real Americans who willingly and flat-out knowingly, before they even head off to basic training, understand that if the shit hits the fan, they are going to put their life on the line and even go so far as to give it, if that’s what’s called for for them to protect the freedoms they and we hold sacred. So, no, it’s not the same as that and I won’t be a shitty-ass writer who makes that comparison. But the affect isn’t too far off, and the bond too, if only a partial exponent as strong.

As a baseline, let’s say we’ve known each other since 1984. We’ve hung out, studied, goofed around and drank together, went to dances with our dates together, sped down dark roads together – literally, and maybe even somewhat in a metaphorical sense – and crashed at each other’s houses. He was there for my big high school graduation party, all of my big New Year’s parties, and several other highlights of a youth spent circling too much time around booze. But he was never the big drinker. Nor was he the boisterous one. Or really the peacekeeper, father figure, or fighter. He was always the quiet one, thoughtful. Even back then, he was specific, defined with the words he used. Deliberate. Moderated. He didn’t talk much, definitely not to just hear himself, but when he did, other than just goofing around and off the cuff, he always seemed to put weight behind whatever he was expressing. And even then when we were messing around, his quick wit seemed more focused than most. It struck me as interesting because I, on the other hand, had trouble keeping my mouth shut. And you could probably put that into the present tense “have” as well. No question we contrasted in our expression of self as much as our builds contrasted outwardly, him at 6-4 and 200-ish pounds, and me at 5-7 and 200-ish pounds, plus. Not much has changed on either front a quarter century later.

For whatever reason though, it just fit. We became fast friends because our personalities matched up so well and we had such a large group that everyone had a little different role. I was the big mouth with SMS. No, that wasn’t the ’80s first texting service. It’s called Short-Man Syndrome, and throughout my teens and early 20s, it was in high gear. Aaron was the dad of the group. Really still is even though he thinks we’ve all matured enough that he doesn’t have to, or shouldn’t have to, watch over us. Boy is he wrong. And then there’s Rush, the gold-chain wearing, muscle-shirt bound “athlete,” and then Rich, the biggest drinker and goof. Carlson, the fun-loving one who took the brunt of many a joke and learned to give it back nearly as good, and Dwin was the loudest motherfucker you’ve ever heard. He also had the biggest heart. Boo, he was just a mountain of a man. Think of Andre the Giant Jr., just shorter. Allan, he was happy-go-lucky, at least on the outside, and loved going along for the ride, where ever it took us. And there were others, many others actually in this motley chorus of teenage friends, but this core is who Craig built a life-long bond with. It’s the bond of a shared brotherhood that has weathered at the edges and softened in the middle like many of us looking in the mirror every morning recently, but it still courses through each of our veins to this day. That clique was more than just a passing fancy as we floundered through puberty and into adulthood. It played a huge role in shaping the men we became, and it seems, served as a beacon of light and, to a degree, of hope, for Craig as he chose his path behind bars.

Speaking of being behind bars, some who just came across this blog may also decide to do a little sleuthing on their own. I know I would. It wouldn’t be the same as a first-hand account from friends who knew him then and are getting to know him again now, but in many ways, it’s the most likely way the world will know him going forward. We all live on the Internet and seemingly find our truth there, whether good or bad.

So, what does that good old Google Box have to say about my friend?

The first post that comes up when doing an online search for “Craig H. Holte” is a link to mugshots.com with the title “Who is Craig H. Holte?” It has this big, old disclaimer right at the top of the page that, in part, reads:

THE MUGSHOTS AND/OR ARREST RECORDS PUBLISHED ON MUGSHOTS.COM ARE IN NO WAY AN INDICATION OF GUILT AND THEY ARE NOT EVIDENCE THAT AN ACTUAL CRIME HAS BEEN COMMITTED. 

I didn’t add the all caps or bold. That’s the way they posted it online. Hell, I’d never write in all caps unless I’m under duress and trying to signal to those who know me that my captor is about to go all Saint Valentine’s Day massacre on me. No, that came from the site itself, which is doing everything it can to make sure anyone who ends up on one of its pages can’t come back to sue the publishers for false accusations, slander, defamation or any other legal mumbo jumbo.

Unfortunately for Craig, the fact that his photo is there, along with a lengthy transcript of his life inside the penal system, makes it quite obvious that he pled guilty and that he actually did commit a real crime. What they’ll find, after a little online detective work, was that he killed a man who happened to be his roommate at the time, and then took the body out the desert to bury it. At the time of his crime, he was living in northeast Phoenix, Ariz.

It was a long way from home. We grew up an hour from the Chicago suburbs in northern Illinois. Worn out even then, it’s a blue-collar town, once known as the Nut and Bolt Capital of the World. Not many people move away even though there’s few reasons to really stay. He had gone down to the Southwest to attend motorcycle mechanic school.

That wasn’t surprising. He always seemed to have a knack for all things mechanical, and you seemed to feel like you were listening to his mind from the inside as he spoke out loud, outlining how something actually worked. Think of how it would look if he was writing an equation on a chalkboard, and then put a soundtrack to that. There was an intelligence that seemed to be slightly covered, only a hint under the surface, simply because he wasn’t flamboyant enough to tell you straight out that he was smarter than you, even if he knew it, and even if it was only for this one very thing. But he had the confidence to know how much he knew and when to use it.

Now, let’s recap a little of this.

He was smart, but quiet. Confident, but not overzealous in gaining your attention. Fit in well with most crowds and really only his height made him standout as noticeable. Why was it then, that he, of all people, was the one who committed this felony? Wasn’t he smarter than that? We could probably sit down right now and look through our yearbook and my money would be on at least five other people from our class I could point out who would have been more likely to be sitting in that sentencing room for that specific crime when he heard the inevitable: he was going to jail for 18 years with no chance of getting out early.

The date was July 31, 1995, when he surrendered himself for the last time and started his stay “on the farm,” another term he liked to use. The next time he would step outside again as a free man wouldn’t be until 2013, May 22 to be exact. During that period, his prison stay included stints at 11 penitentiaries, with multiple overlays at the complexes in Yuma, Ariz., and Kingman, Ariz., which ended up being a fitting final stop on his journey as you’ll find out by story’s end. Along the way, he learned the ins and outs of the system, and the system within the system, just to keep his head above water. Playing sides would become a way of life – and sometimes the only means of staying alive, as it meant always keeping track of what you owed and what was owed to you, whether it was with another inmate or the guards whose supposed job was to hold you secure. Having the mental capacity to withstand the monotony, the bombardment of the senses, and the daunting stretch in front of him made him rely on instincts more than logic when relating it to daily life.

But to survive the long haul, not just merely being physically alive, to get to the end and return to society in somewhat of a whole being ready to contribute again in a positive way, that demanded an exceptional amount of logic, starting early on with how he went about planning his confinement.