Mr. Miske and Me: The Boss and the Bail Agent

Reflecting on Michael J. Miske

This month, the Honolulu community learned of the passing of Michael J. Miske, who died on December 1 at the Federal Detention Center. While his name often invoked controversy, I’d like to share a personal account of my interactions with him and reflect on the lessons I’ve taken from his life.

My first professional interaction with Mr. Miske was over a decade ago when A-1 Bail Bonds was contacted to post bail for him. At the time, he was charged with a class C felony stemming from an altercation during Pro Bowl weekend in 2013. For context, a class C felony is the lowest level of felony in Hawaii and almost always results in a reduced charge or a probationary outcome. Despite this, Mr. Miske’s bail was set to an extraordinary $250,000—more than 10 times what would typically be set for such a charge.

For anyone who owns a home, has strong ties to the community, and voluntarily cooperates with law enforcement, such a high bail is unjustifiable. Bail, in theory, is intended to ensure a defendant’s appearance in court and protect public safety. But in this case, the amount set did neither. As a successful businessman, Mr. Miske was going to post bail regardless of whether it was the appropriate $11,000 or the excessive $250,000. Keeping him detained pre-trial served no purpose other than to punish him preemptively, cripple him financially, and deliver a clear message: the hand of the law might not be able to put you in jail for long, but the collateral damage will ensure you learn a lesson.

Looking at the bigger picture, the case itself was weak from the start. It arose from a nightclub altercation—an environment inherently chaotic, poorly lit, and filled with people who are often under the influence. The likelihood of securing reliable witness testimony was minimal, and the victim, NFL star Trent Williams, was unlikely to participate in such a low-stakes case.

Traveling repeatedly from the mainland for a case that would almost certainly be resolved with probation or dismissal wouldn’t make sense for someone of his importance to his team; it would also be another speculative violation of the NFL’s substance abuse policy. For those that don’t follow the NFL, Trent Williams is one of the greatest left tackles of all time, and left tackle is arguably the second most important position in football.   

Reports suggest that Mr. Williams and his entourage were behaving unruly at the nightclub, allegedly smoking marijuana inside the venue. This isn’t the first time Williams has faced scrutiny related to marijuana use; he was suspended twice during his NFL career. The first suspension came in December 2011, sidelining him for four games after multiple failed drug tests reportedly for marijuana. The second occurred in November 2016, when he received another four-game suspension for violating the league's substance abuse policy.

The fact that Mr. Miske self-surrendered and cooperated with authorities should have worked in his favor. Cooperation shows goodwill and reduces the risks law enforcement faces when pursuing an arrest. Yet, he was treated as though he barikaded himself and forced a swat team to kick in his door—the poor treatment was more about his reputation than the facts of the case.

The Michael Miske I Saw

I first encountered Mr. Miske as a young man in my 20s, and to be honest, he was someone I highly respected. He was confident, in control, and walked the line between two very different worlds: the streets and the boardroom. He had built a sprawling business empire, which included a successful pest control, plumbing, and solar company.  He also employed people, who much like himself, were hard working experts in their field; but may have also had run-ins with the law.  

Unlike many who stumble into wealth through inheritance or the overnight success of a crypto boom, Mr. Miske's rise was the result of years of hard work in legitimate business. He wasn’t a legacy admit to Punahou, nor was he handed opportunities through family connections or alumni networks. Instead, he built his businesses from the ground up, making his success all the more remarkable.

The Case for House Arrest

Although Mr. Miske would ultimately be proven guilty of 13 felony counts in Federal court, it’s crucial to remember that punishment begins post-conviction. At the time of his death, he was still in the latter part of his sentencing process. I firmly believe that years ago, he should have been granted release on house arrest, equipped with an ankle monitor and under the conditions his attorney meticulously outlined. The proposed plan included 24-hour video surveillance, private security at no cost to the government, and various restrictions to ensure public safety. Despite this, the court deemed the package insufficient and held him without bail for years on end, effectively punishing him before a verdict was ever reached.

It’s worth noting the double standard that emerges in cases like this. During the COVID-19 pandemic, many defendants with health issues were granted early release or reduced sentences on humanitarian grounds. Mr. Miske, who had been in custody since the pandemic began and had documented health problems, was denied the same outcome. His death in custody highlights the systemic failure to prioritize the safety and well-being of detainees, particularly those awaiting sentencing.

The bail advocates who champion the federal cash-free system as a fair alternative were conspicuously silent here—another example of how advocacy often disappears when the defendant is unsympathetic; “fair-weather advocacy,” in unchallenging times is all that crowd is good for.

To those who argue that releasing Mr. Miske on house arrest posed a risk, I would offer a different perspective. The purpose of bail is to ensure a defendant returns to court, and Mr. Miske flawlessly demonstrated reliability in that regard. In previous cases where I posted his bail, he always remained in contact, attended court dates, and never raised suspicion of flight risk. Additionally, the notion that he was a flight risk in this case was nearly impossible—his assets had been frozen, and he was a lifelong resident of Hawaii with deep ties to the community. Under house arrest with 24-hour monitoring, there was no viable threat of him fleeing. I think it really came down to the optics of letting someone who owns an ocean front house, stay on house arrest— plain and simple.

As for safety concerns, we must look at the facts. Mr. Miske’s death in custody is irrefutable proof that he was not safe in detention. If safety to the public were the primary concern, house arrest would have posed no greater risk than detention in custody. In fact, I would argue that being in custody could make a defendant like Mr. Miske more dangerous. If he were indeed a “shot-caller,” as some alleged, the logistics of communicating orders from inside custody—where proximity to others in related cases is unavoidable—are arguably more dangerous than the controlled environment of monitored house arrest. Being at home would have removed him from direct physical proximity to others in custody who might either 1) carry out his bidding or 2) become targets of his retribution for cooperating against him.

The greater issue, however, is how society frames cases like this. Because Mr. Miske was an unwelcome figure with a controversial history, the system seemed to justify treating him with less dignity and care. We chose to ignore the higher standard to which we should hold ourselves. He was denied bail, effectively punished before his sentence began, and ultimately died in custody—a tragic and unnecessary outcome that should give all of us pause.

Lastly, I want to share a personal observation. For those who believe that Mr. Miske’s death in custody is a fair trade because he was accused of being a killer, they entirely miss the point. Inmates dying in custody is unacceptable. Punishment for a crime cannot be treated as a quid pro quo, where death in custody becomes a substitute for what a court would have rightfully determined.

Mr. Miske’s story is a reminder that the safety and dignity of those in custody should be paramount. Whether the defendant is a controversial figure like Michael Miske or a fictional villain like Hannibal Lecter, no one deserves to die in custody. It is the state’s responsibility to ensure their safety. 

Let’s strive to do better,

A1 Nick