Rescued: A True Story of Redemption, Pardon, and Second Chances

By John P. Eschenbach

So, how does a high school dropout, drug addict, prison inmate, and convicted felon go on to have a successful 34-year career with the most extensive passenger railroad system in the U.S.? And then, another 10 years as a professional railroad consultant?

A series of bad choices led me to spend time in prison, but God watched over me. People came into my life who refused to give up on me. Through their ministry I found hope and the God of Second Chances.

We all search for meaning and purpose and many wish they could go back and get a second chance. This is the story of how I was given that second chance by God. As you read this book it is my hope that you will find the same loving father that I found. God worked miracles in my life to rescue and change me. He can do the same for you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John P. Eschenbach
• Release date: Oct 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005764005

John P. Eschenbach

John Eschenbach is a retired railroad professional and holds a Class A General Engineering Contractor's License in California. John is a life member of (AREMA) the American Railway Engineering and Maintenance-OF-Way Association. He and his wife Elise live in Vista, California, where they enjoy spending time with their children, and grandchildren. They are both active in their local church. John is also certified by the Prison Fellowship Ministry as a VIP facilitator. In his spare time, he hikes, reads, and spends time at the beach.

Book preview

Introduction

My search for a second chance

SO, HOW DOES A HIGH SCHOOL dropout, drug addict, prison inmate, and convicted felon go on to have a successful thirty-four-year career with the United States’ most extensive passenger railroad system? And then another ten years as a professional railroad consultant?

As you read this book, I hope you will find some of the same answers and the loving Father I found. Like many teens and young adults, I searched for meaning for my life, but I looked in all the wrong places. A series of bad choices led me to prison, but even there God watched over me. Quite frankly, I didn’t know God, and I didn’t care to know Him. But people came into my life who refused to give up on me, and I found hope and I was even rescued. I experienced the grace and mercy of a loving God.

Are you still searching for meaning and purpose in your life? Would you like to have a second chance at really living? We all search for meaning and purpose, and many wish they could go back and get a second chance.

My story shows you that you can. Unfortunately, some never recognize that the God of Creation is also the God of second chances. In the late 1960s, I was that troubled teenager searching for my meaning and purpose in life.

I had no idea how or where to look. Drugs seemed to be the answer, but they were just more lies from Satan, and my search lasted longer than was necessary. But the God I didn’t really know was faithful. He had a plan for my life. He granted me several second chances along my difficult journey. They were more like miracles.

Read on because I want you to see that if God could do the extraordinary and mind-boggling things He did in my life, He can do them in yours too.

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The day after Thanksgiving of 2020, I was enjoying my regular morning cup of coffee. I began the work of piecing together my life story. There in front of me, among my research papers, was an old FBI record dating back to 1970. It was a copy I had pulled out of my file relating to the Full Pardon I received from the Governor of the State of Maryland.

I began to wonder if my record was really expunged or did another legal process fall through the cracks.

The legal term expunged means having one’s criminal record erased completely from all data banks. In 1981, the courts in Maryland began the process of expunging my criminal records, or at least that was my understanding. In addition to the courts following through in 1981, they were to notify the FBI of this action when completed.

An FBI record in street terminology is called a rap sheet. I had spent five months writing an outline of events based on my old rap sheet in 1970. As I penned my outline, I wanted to be sure that my facts were accurate. Before this, I had not bothered to check my rap sheet until beginning my research for this story. I now needed to know, forty years later, if my FBI record was clean.

To obtain a copy of my current record, I needed to submit a full set of my fingerprints with a completed application and then receive my Identity History Summary.

On April 13, 2021, I jumped into my Honda CRV and headed to the post office in Rancho Bernardo, California. I paid fifty dollars to be fingerprinted at the post office. This was the fastest and most secure way for my complete set of prints to make their way electronically to the FBI.

That very afternoon I received a secure email from the FBI with a copy of my record. I was excited to have received such a prompt reply from the Bureau. However, I was not prepared to open the attachment they sent. I opened the email and found a current copy of my FBI record!

I thought, Are you kidding me? I couldn’t believe my eyes. I found five offenses dating back to 1970 that were still on my record. My jaw dropped, and my heart sank into the pit of my stomach. I was shocked and dismayed. How could this be?

The next day, I submitted a challenge document to the FBI regarding my record. I wrongly assumed that the Maryland Criminal Justice Department had notified the FBI to expunge all my offenses in 1981.

Would the criminal justice system of Maryland and the FBI follow through with clearing my record and finally complete an action that should have occurred forty years earlier?

Chapter 1

IT WAS AN EARLY MORNING in June 1967. My younger brother, Rick, and I shared a bedroom on the lower level in our home. I heard rap! rap! rap! on the front door. I peeped through the curtains, and my stomach turned into knots. Multiple police vehicles were parked out front.

The Baltimore County Police Narcotics Division was at our front door. We were living in Parkville, Maryland, at the time. They had a warrant to search the premises.

They identified themselves to my Mom and explained that they had a search warrant for drugs. They headed straight down to our bedroom and began their search. Mom was in shock. If she suspected anything she never said anything to me. They read me my Miranda Rights and handcuffed me.

I yelled and cursed like a typical drug addict as I screamed, Get out of my bedroom now!

While searching our bedroom, they found and confiscated my entire stash—ten ounces of marijuana, some LSD sugar cubes and postage-stamp-size glassine bags of heroin.

My heroin habit, which was funded by my drug dealing endeavors, became a costly mistake. They had me dead to rights.

Mom was brokenhearted and crushed beyond belief. She was in tears as they led me away. But a mother's love endures forever, and this would not stop her from praying for me each day and every night.

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Because I was a juvenile, the police released me in June, pending my trial. In September of 1967, the Baltimore County Juvenile Court ordered me to Spring Grove State Hospital in Catonsville, Maryland.

During my trial, the judge said, I have no idea what to do with a seventeen-year-old heroin addict. Mom pleaded with the judge for time to check with her insurance to get me treatment at a private facility. She had a terrible feeling about me being placed in a state institution.

He suggested that I be placed in a drug rehabilitation and treatment center rather than in jail. I was removed from the custody of my parents and became a ward of the state. Due to my use and abuse of illegal drugs, I was assigned to drug rehabilitation treatment. As the judge read the verdict, my eyes widened, and I took a step back against the rail behind my defense lawyer's table. The public defender representing me didn’t seem surprised. He added very little in my defense. I wondered if that was the best he could do for me.

As I awaited admittance to this psychiatric hospital, I wondered, What will happen to me?

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The late 1960s and early 1970s were turbulent times for our nation. With the war in Vietnam, my generation created a counterculture. This counterculture included free love, drug use, and a strong stance against war and the U.S. Government. President Richard Nixon’s resignation from office in August of 1974 was proof that I could not trust the government. I thought, A lying and deceitful President...really?

I bought into this counterculture completely. I really didn’t care what would ever become of my life. Would I die a drug addict or spend my life in prison? The drugs, failed relationships, and the disappointment of how I ended up in this state left me with no hope. And I thought, Spring Grove? Could this type of treatment really be of any use to me?

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Growing up as kids, we heard the horror stories about Spring Grove. We referred to the hospital as the Funny Farm. I remained in police custody until later in the day. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon when they drove me to the Funny Farm. But I wasn’t going to enjoy any sunny days for a long time.

They ushered me up a concrete sidewalk surrounded by a large, plush green lawn that led to the entryway of the gigantic Foster Wade Building. This was just one of many buildings on the sprawling 200 acre campus of the hospital. In this building, they were treating murderers and criminally insane patients. Many were severely schizophrenic. The building was initially constructed in 1925, the same year my mom was born.

This large stone structure mirrored the similar architectural features of the Maryland Penitentiary in Baltimore City.

I was scared to death, knowing they were going to lock me up. We made jokes about the padded cells and straitjackets at the Funny Farm while knowing little about what went on in there. I was about to experience the reality of their so-called treatment plans.

Entering the building, I could see two or three orderlies, also known as ward assistants, standing inside the large entry doors. They were really just glorified prison guards in disguise, which I didn’t realize. They were all dressed in white. I thought, Are these people doctors and nurses? That could not have been further from the truth. The care I received at Foster Wade entailed minimal visits from any doctors or even a nurse. And the orderlies were there to make sure we didn’t escape.

During my incarceration, this building was used to detain and treat the criminally insane patients from the State of Maryland. In my opinion, I didn’t believe that I was criminally insane, and I didn’t need to be locked up for their kind of treatment. It was evident to me that the hospital thought otherwise. The first part of my treatment was to lock me up in that secure facility.

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After my admittance, I was stripped of all my clothes. A large middle-aged man who was a ward attendant said, Put on these paper pants and shirt. They are to protect you from killing yourself. He led me into a small room called seclusion.

As he opened the steel door, I had a sick feeling in my stomach. He said, You will be in here until we get you off of those hard drugs. Slamming and locking the door shut was his final action during his shift.

The place smelled of stale urine and feces. Seclusion, I learned, is referred to as being in the hole. I would remain in the hole until I finished my withdrawal from drugs. I thought, Being in this hole is going to kill me...O God, if You are real, I need Your help now more than ever.

My seclusion room was constructed with concrete walls, with a hole in the center of the floor to relieve myself. It was a cold and dark room with very little ventilation. Meals were delivered three times