My Story — Why I Chose to Fight, What I Learned and Why I Help Federal Defendants
- Andrew Bassaner
- Dec 1, 2025
- 8 min read
Updated: 7 days ago
My Story Begins Long Before the Courtroom
For nearly two decades, I built and operated a highly profitable internet telephony business inside the floral industry. At its peak, the company generated close to six million dollars a year. If someone sent flowers across town—or across the country—there was a strong chance my technology handled the call, even though the customer never knew my name.
I built that business from nothing. I was a self-made entrepreneur, a husband, and the father of two very young children. My identity wasn’t aspirational—it was earned through long hours, constant risk, and real responsibility. I created something legitimate, functional, and valuable in a niche most people never think about.
Then everything stopped.
The Indictment That Turned My Life Upside Down
My wife and I were indicted in what lawyers politely refer to as a “complex federal tax case.” That phrase sounds technical and neutral. In reality, it’s shorthand for something far more strategic: a case where volume replaces clarity, paperwork substitutes for proof, and complexity itself becomes leverage.
From the very beginning, the narrative was shaped outside the courtroom—through press releases, not evidence.
That’s where the Department of Justice introduced one of its favorite phrases, used so routinely it has become boilerplate:
“Lavish lifestyle.”
“Lavish lifestyle” is not a legal term. It’s a public-relations shortcut.
It allows the government to skip the hard work of proving intent and jump straight to implication. Once those two words are used, the listener is no longer thinking about statutes, accounting, or burden of proof. They’re imagining excess. Greed. Moral failure.
From that moment on, the facts become secondary.
The phrase does exactly what it’s designed to do: it turns business activity into suspicion and success into motive—without ever having to prove either.
The Presumption of Guilt Problem
By the time potential jurors walk into a federal courtroom, many already carry an unspoken assumption:
“The Feds don’t indict unless they have a smoking gun.”
That belief is dangerous. It quietly erases the presumption of innocence and replaces it with blind institutional trust. The indictment itself becomes the evidence. The trial becomes a formality.
Once phrases like “complex case” and “lavish lifestyle” are planted early, the defendant is no longer viewed as a business owner navigating tax law. They’re viewed as someone who must have been getting away with something.
That assumption isn’t accidental.
And it’s bullshit.
Why I Fought Back
Once you understand that the system assumes guilt long before evidence is tested, you’re left with a choice:
Accept the narrative—or challenge it.
I chose to fight. Not emotionally. Not recklessly. But deliberately.
Because if you don’t dismantle the story the government tells about you, that story becomes your life sentence.
Two Trials and a Critical Decision — Becoming My Own Mouthpiece
Most people will never see the inside of a federal courtroom once. I faced a jury twice.
My first trial ended in a hung jury. That fact alone speaks volumes about the government’s so-called “case” against me.
In a system where 98.2% of federal trials end in a conviction, and where the overwhelming majority of cases never even reach a jury because they’re resolved through plea bargains, a hung jury is not an accident.
It’s a failure of proof.
The government doesn’t lose often. And when it does, it rarely stops. Instead of reassessing, it regrouped, recalibrated, and came after my wife and me again. This is where most people misunderstand how federal prosecutions actually work.
Federal trials are not just legal battles—they are financial sieges.
A single federal trial routinely costs a defendant hundreds of thousands of dollars in legal fees, expert witnesses, forensic accounting, discovery review, and preparation time. For most families, even one trial is financially crippling. Two trials are functionally impossible.
In our case, the pressure was multiplied from the start. My wife and I were separately represented.
At the first trial, I was represented by a federal defender, and my wife retained private counsel. That meant two defense teams, two parallel preparations, and double the financial exposure—just to defend the same set of allegations.
When the government forced a second trial, it wasn’t just a legal decision. It was an economic one.
They knew exactly what a second trial meant:
Another year of preparation
Another wave of fees
Another round of emotional and financial depletion.
This is not incidental. It is leverage.
The federal system doesn’t rely solely on evidence to secure convictions. It relies on exhaustion. It relies on the reality that most defendants simply cannot afford to keep fighting indefinitely. The longer a case drags on, the more pressure builds—not to prove guilt, but to surrender.
That pressure is what turns innocent people into "guilty" pleading defendants.
Plea bargains are often framed as “choices.” In reality, they are frequently the only financially survivable option left. When the cost of exercising your constitutional rights threatens to bankrupt your family, the system has already tilted the board.
By the time the second trial approached, the decision facing me wasn’t abstract or philosophical. It was brutally concrete.
That’s when I made a decision almost no defendant makes.
I represented myself pro se.
Not out of ego. Not out of recklessness. But out of necessity. Because when cost is used as a weapon, survival itself becomes strategy.
Knowing the law and being able to speak are two very different skills.
Most attorneys aren’t mouthpieces. They simply do not possess the verbal skills defendants absolutely need to survive inside a courtroom.
Many lawyers would struggle to hold their own in a high-stakes boardroom negotiation—where framing, confidence, and real-time persuasion decide outcomes. A federal courtroom is far less forgiving. Every word is weighed. Every pause is noticed. And the audience—twelve jurors—has already been conditioned to assume guilt.
A true mouthpiece is rare.
A silver tongue
Not intimidated by the judge
Someone who can think on their feet
Control the room
Absorb pressure without shrinking
A warrior with words when the consequences are real
I challenged the government once—and the jury couldn’t convict.
They came back for a second round.
So did I.
And when I couldn’t find the mouthpiece I needed, I became it.
The Results of Owning My Narrative
Representing myself did not result in a full acquittal—I want to be completely transparent about that.
But here’s what fighting back did accomplish:
Acquittal on the main indictment: Conspiracy to defraud the United States
Reduction in alleged tax loss: Over $1.2 million to virtually nothing.
Exposure of major flaws in the government’s narrative
A first trial ending in a hung jury
It took the government two bites at the apple to secure a partial conviction and only a fraction of the amount of so-called "loss" to the IRS.
These outcomes weren’t luck.
They were the result of:
Fighting
Believing in myself
Understanding the law
Communicating effectively
Refusing to roll over when I knew the truth
The Trial Tax — The Penalty for Exercising My Rights
Despite the reduced alleged tax loss and partial acquittal, I received a 42-month sentence.
Not because the conduct was severe. Not because the tax loss justified it.
But because I exercised my right to:
Go to trial
Cross-examine witnesses
Challenge the government
Represent myself
Force the government to prove its case—twice
The federal system punishes defendants who fight. This unofficial practice is known as the trial tax or trial penalty.
I paid that price.
Federal Prison, Compassionate Release, and Rebuilding From the Ground Up
I filed motions for compassionate release for both my wife and myself during a period when federal sentencing and release policies were shifting rapidly in response to COVID-19. Outcomes during that time were often inconsistent, heavily dependent on timing, institutional discretion, and evolving guidance rather than the original sentences imposed.
On paper, the disparity was significant:
In practice, both sentences were substantially reduced:
I was released after serving exactly twenty-one months.
My wife was released after nine weeks.
My decision to represent myself played a direct role in that outcome. By controlling the narrative, challenging the government’s assumptions, and refusing to concede ground unnecessarily, I was able to advocate not only for myself, but also in ways that materially benefited my wife.
The result was not symbolic. It was measurable.
Both releases occurred well in advance of the terms originally imposed—reflecting a combination of COVID-era policy volatility and the deliberate, unyielding defense strategy that carried consequences beyond my case.
When I came home, I rebuilt my life brick by brick.
I went to truck driving school and earned my commercial driver’s license. From there, I worked 70–80 hours a week behind the wheel. The work was demanding and repetitive, but it imposed structure where chaos had existed and discipline where uncertainty had taken hold.
Long hours alone on the road gave me time—time to think, to process what had happened, and to understand the system I had just survived. With the noise stripped away, patterns became clearer. Decisions made earlier took on new meaning. Mistakes, leverage points, and missed opportunities came into focus.
That time on the road didn’t just help me earn a living.
It gave me clarity.
Why I Created FederalDefendant.com
I started this blog for one reason:
To give defendants and families the clarity, steady voice, and real-world knowledge I never had.
I don’t give legal advice.
I’m not pretending to be something I’m not.
But I know:
What a federal grand jury investigation feels like
What federal indictment (along with my wife) feels like
What the possibility of your children losing both parents feels like
What federal trial feels like
What a hung jury feels like
What representing myself pro se feels like
What retrial feels like
What pre-sentence investigation feels like
What sentencing feels like
What self surrendering feels like
What self surrendering my wife feels like
What the Philadelphia Federal Detention Center feels like
What FCI Fort Dix Federal Prison & satellite camp feels like
What prison visits with two young children feels like
What winning—and losing—federal appeals feels like
What compassionate-release from prison feels like
What halfway-house—home confinement feels like
What 3-years of federal supervised release feels like
What family fear feels like
What rebuilding your life after prison feels like
I understand the emotional, practical, and advocacy sides in a way only lived experience allows.
I ALSO KNOW WHAT A COMEBACK FEELS LIKE
This is precisely why I now work as a federal prison advisor—to help others see these leverage points before it’s too late.
→ read federal prison advisor
If You’re Here, You Are Not Alone
If you’re facing a federal case, awaiting sentencing, or supporting someone you love—I know the fear, shame, confusion, and sleepless nights. This blog is for you.
I can’t give legal advice. I won’t promise miracles.
What I can do is tell you the truth about what this world feels like from the inside—and share the mindset and preparation that helped me survive it.
Whatever happens next, remember this:
You are not the first. You are not alone. And you do not have to face the federal system in the dark.
Next Steps
This is where working with a federal prison advisor can help bridge the gap between legal theory and real-world consequences.
→ read federal prison advisor
If you’re still trying to understand what’s ahead, these guides go deeper into the parts of the federal process that most people misunderstand:
The Pre-Sentence Investigation Report (PSR)
The PSR quietly shapes sentencing outcomes, prison designation, and programming. This guide explains why it matters and how defendants get hurt by treating it casually.
What to Expect at Federal Sentencing
Sentencing often feels predetermined because most of the decisions are made earlier. This guide explains what actually happens on sentencing day and why preparation matters more than persuasion.
If you want one-on-one guidance based on your specific situation, you can
← Return to Start Here: Federal Charges & Sentencing
