Accountability, Failure—and the Joy of Starting Over

White Collar Advice | Sunday Newsletter | April 13, 2025

In 1912, the Titanic left Southampton bound for New York. It was billed as unsinkable. We know how that ended.

What’s less known is what followed.

After the sinking, blame spread like wildfire. The British Board of Trade blamed Captain Smith. American inquiries pointed fingers at the shipbuilders. The White Star Line’s chairman, J. Bruce Ismay—who survived the sinking—blamed the lookouts for missing the iceberg. The lookouts blamed the absence of binoculars. Others blamed the weather, fate, bad luck.

No one claimed responsibility.

No one asked, What could I have done differently?

It’s easy to look back at historical disasters and think, “Well, I would’ve owned it.” But the truth is, when we go through our own personal breakdowns—whether it’s in business, relationships, or life—it’s human nature to deflect. We find external causes. We tell ourselves stories that protect our ego. We seek validation from others who are also stuck.

The cost? Progress. Peace. Growth.

As Lavinia Valetta wrote in 1903, “Blame is the lazy man’s apology.”

Another example.

In 1967, during a pre-launch test for the Apollo 1 mission, a cabin fire killed astronauts Gus Grissom, Ed White, and Roger Chaffee. It was a devastating moment for NASA. They could have deflected blame—onto the contractors, the engineers, the design process.

But they didn’t.

NASA paused everything. They investigated. They overhauled systems. They acknowledged how avoidable the tragedy was. Then they rebuilt—with humility. That tragedy, owned fully and transparently, laid the groundwork for Apollo 11 to land on the moon just two years later.

There’s a simple pattern: progress doesn’t happen when we make excuses. It happens when we take responsibility.

I also remember 1982. I was seven, but I’ll never forget how scared my mom was to let me take Tylenol. Seven people had died in the Chicago area after taking capsules laced with cyanide. It wasn’t Johnson & Johnson’s fault—someone had tampered with the product after it left their control.

They could have pointed fingers. Instead, they pulled 31 million bottles off the shelves. Voluntarily. They issued nationwide warnings. They reengineered packaging across the industry. They absorbed a massive financial hit, and in doing so, they redefined what leadership and responsibility look like.

That moment stuck with me. My mom didn’t remember the names of the victims, or even all the details—but she remembered that the company did the right thing without being forced. They didn’t hide behind lawyers or PR campaigns. They just acted.

Despite that lesson—despite being taught to do the right thing even when it’s hard—I still made choices that betrayed my own values.

I became involved in a government investigation. I lied to the government. I lied to my lawyers. I received a longer sentence than I should have. And I wish I could say the moment I was sentenced, I snapped back to the principles I was raised with. I didn’t.

It wasn’t until I went to prison that I began to recalibrate. Only then with help from a mentor did I begin to reconnect with the values that guided me as a younger man. Humility. Responsibility. Accountability. Integrity.

Let’s talk baseball…

I’m still in touch with teammates of mine from USC and friends who had very successful careers in the major leagues—some of them earning more than $75 million. I can tell you many of them took steroids to advance their careers. And even to this day, especially those who were never caught, they rationalize and say there was no other way. “Had I not taken steroids, I wouldn’t have made it to the major leagues because everyone else was doing it.”

I also have friends who have been caught using steroids and in retrospect were grateful they were caught and feel cleaner accepting responsibility and acknowledging it.

As Don Wilder once said, “Excuses are the nails used to build a house of failure.”

People often ask me what would have happened had I never been caught for my conduct. I’d probably be a miserable, entitled, arrogant stockbroker who thinks the rules didn’t apply to me.

The fallout from my actions was severe, but I earned those consequences. But I’ve also earned everything that’s followed. I say that not with arrogance, but with pride.

The rebuilding is fun.
The failing is fun.
The starting over is fun.
It’s fun to do your own thing and try.

Earlier this week, I received a phone call from someone who’s been home from prison for over a year.. Despite serving his sentence, he can’t get over what happened. He blames people who cooperated against him, the government, his judge. Being through it all, he has yet to look inward and truly understand that perhaps he is somewhat culpable for his life, period.

When I went to prison, it was easy to blame UBS, my former partner, my co-defendant. And there were always people willing to listen. In prison, misery loves company.

It wasn’t until I found a mentor who helped me take control of my own life—or as he says, become the “CEO of my own life”—that I felt empowered when I said I was responsible for my plight in life. I felt empowered when I said I can build my way out of this. I felt empowered by asking for help and acknowledging how little I knew.

“You will never improve yourself if you cling to the idea that someone else is responsible for your limitations.”
— Dr. Helene Gayle

That phone call compelled me to find the blog I share below, eighteen days before I walked out of Taft Federal Prison Camp. At that point, I wasn’t finished figuring it all out—but I had stopped lying to myself. I was starting to do the hard work.

Eighteen Days Until My Release From Taft Federal Prison Camp

By Justin Paperny | May 1, 2009

It’s a new month and the last month I’ll begin as a prisoner. There were times during this sentence when I felt so far away from the month of May. My work carried me through. Now we are here, and in eighteen more days I will walk on the right side of prison boundaries.

When I leave Taft Camp I want to feel totally free, cleansed of all the wrong that I’ve done and prepared to live the rest of my life as an honorable man. This sanction has brought a measure of wisdom, a feeling of wholeness that did not exist before I wore a prisoner’s clothes. I tried to express that evolution through my book, Lessons From Prison, and I hope to live up to those words I wrote.

The lessons keep coming, incidentally. Indeed, I’ve decided to move forward with more consideration for the influence my words can have on the lives of others. In the past, I have been completely forthright about the bad decisions I made as a stockbroker at Bear Stearns and UBS. That honesty was necessary, I thought, in order to help white-collar offenders and students of ethics understand the gray areas of corporate culture, and the weakness that follows those who fail to make values-based decisions.

Upon leaving this prison term behind, I am completely committed to living an honorable life, and I encourage others to hold me accountable. Yet in moving forward, I’ve come to the conclusion that in revealing the bad decisions I made, I don’t have to reveal the names of others who joined me in abandoning the principles of good conduct. As I wrote in Lessons From Prison, a wise man is one who is secure in judging himself, yet tolerant in the judgment of others.

The pursuit of a values-based life means that I make good decisions, and that all of the decisions have root in honor. I must strengthen my core, and to succeed in that endeavor, I must release all negative energies. There can no longer be room for grudges, for petty jealousies. I must move forward as a man of good character, wishing good will, happiness and success to all.

There is a power that comes with forgiveness, and I move forward with a clear heart. I had once clung to beliefs that others had wronged me. In retrospect, I realize that I am who I am and I am where I am because of the decisions that I made yesterday. Today I am thinking of the man I strive to become tomorrow, and that requires a pursuit of excellence and good. These are the empowering lessons I’ve learned from prison.