CARRIE: I have never asked what my father did, and to this day I don't want to know. It's a defence mechanism. Maybe I don't want to be disappointed. It's easier for me to say: "I don't care what he did. He's my dad and I love him anyway."

For a long time, we knew nothing about his troubles. I only found out he was on trial the week before he went to jail. He was always intense, always stressed. You would come down to the kitchen and check out his mood, but it was impossible to know if he had serious business worries or whether somebody had pissed him off at work.

His idea of a good father was one who provides everything. He would say: "You have a lovely home. You have cars and clothes. What more could you want?" That's a great line of his. I grew up in a house with three garages, a tennis court and a pool. Our last house was so big, we used to speak to each other over the intercom. But we never had enough furniture, because we were constantly on the move. He always wanted something bigger, better, more expensive. He hated the idea of the small rental house the family had to move into after he went to prison. It was shitty and cheap, but I found its size comforting.

My mom had given me a Pentax 35mm camera when I was 13 and I'd started taking pictures of my family. Then, around the time my father went to prison, when I was 15, I bought a medium-format camera for $300. I took pictures of the changing seasons through my basement window, the washing-up in the sink, my mom's face as she drove the 10-hour round trip to the prison. It's like there was a death, but without the dying. By the time he came home I must have had over 500 pictures stored under my bed. I never considered them art, or imagined they would mean anything to anyone but me, until a publisher saw them and said: "Carrie, these pictures are all about loss."

My mother kept the family together and she still does. She had three jobs and cared for three children, always loyal to my father. Every weekend she'd drive to Allenwood and I'd always try to get out of it, because I hated the prison visiting rooms and seeing my father lifeless and scared. On these visits no one ever said: "How are you coping? Do you miss me? Do you think about me?" He didn't want to know and we didn't want to tell him. We talked about movies and the weather. What kept me going was the thought that my parents had this fantastic loving relationship. That gave me hope when my brothers and I couldn't fill the void.

When Dad came out of prison he snapped right back into father mode. He wanted to get his life back together, get his family back together, and that was tough for us because we'd survived for so long without him. At the end of the 51 months we were different people; I'm sure he felt like a foreigner among us. He and my mom split up a couple of years ago, which was hard. But when the kids left home and they just had each other, it wasn't enough. Prison stripped away everything that he was, and I'm still getting to know him again. Being with each other means more now. He's come to see that sitting down with people he loves is at least as important as making money. The one thing he taught us is that family always comes first. But it's almost aggressive; like he'd say to me: "How can I make you happy? What can I give you?" He didn't want to know how anyone felt, just what steps he could take to make things better. Now I can say, "I feel like shit today, Dad," and we'll talk about it. That's a huge step for him.

I'm only now experiencing all the sadness and loss from when he was away. He's been very good about that. He said: "It's okay to feel sad, Carrie. You don't always need to be strong." He was with me when the book came off the press, and that was so emotional for me. I really needed him there.

We never have talked about his crime. I know he made mistakes - we all do - but the definition of that mistake in the eyes of the law doesn't interest me.

GLENN: I worked so hard for the good things in life and I was so afraid I was going to lose them. That's what happens when you come from nothing. One of my biggest desires was to have a beautiful home - Carrie grew up in one of the nicest parts of Long Island, and I worked all the hours God sent me to make sure that we held onto that life. But after you've been in prison you realise material things are not a big deal. What matters is being there for my daughter, not saying: "I'm too busy with work." Then seeing her face and knowing how important this small act is to her.

Carrie always had a problem. When she was 10 she wanted to be 20; at 20 she wanted to be 30. Always trying to live life too fast. She's real aggressive in her need to get on, to prove herself, and in that way she's exactly like me.

From a child, I liked to make money. I'd pump gas, sell hot dogs... By the time I was 20 I'd bought my own business, a valet service. I had about 40 stores up and down Manhattan. But I always wanted more. I overextended, I took business from the wrong people and problems came my way. One fella I was doing business with turned out to be stealing from me. Well, I got a little aggressive with him and words were said that weren't very nice. What I didn't know was that he was taping it and the FBI were listening in. Nobody got hurt, but I used real ugly, threatening words. He sent someone to threaten me, so I got someone to threaten him. They got me for extortion, for threatening behaviour. In America the Hobbs Act makes it a federal crime to interrupt commerce by either robbery or violence or extortion. The embarrassing truth is that I spent almost five years in prison for the sake of $65,000, and I lost the same again in attorney's fees. I was able to reflect on that every day for 51 months.

I remember Carrie coming into the house the night before I went to jail. She sensed I was in trouble. But she just walked out. I knew she was hurting, but I couldn't help her no more because I couldn't help myself. I think I was a good father. I was home every night and I was never drunk. The kids had parties; I went to their ball games. But my personality is very dominating and maybe that's intimidating. We clashed a lot when she was a teen. I didn't give her the space she needed. Maybe I didn't have that soft spot to talk to her about her feelings.

I wasn't good that way, but to my mind she had everything she could want for. Maybe I missed something there.

You can't comprehend what it is to be in prison. I went from living in a 15,000-square-foot house to a 10-by-10 cell. Within hours I learnt that if you can't live to the prisoners' rules, get ready to die. They will make your life one of horror and hell. They can torture you, they can rape you, they can scare you to death. If you nudge someone by accident in the dinner line, you can die. I went five months without speaking to a soul, just to survive. But I don't want to forget, because I think God put me there for a reason. And the reason is, a window opened in my heart.

When I came out, things were awkward. Wherever Carrie was, there was her camera too. I didn't like her taking pictures, but I didn't want to refuse her because she'd been through so much. The photographs in the book are one half of my apology to my daughter. I never asked her how she managed while I was away. Or how she felt. And maybe I should have. Her pictures told me all I needed to know.

When I went to prison, my family served their own sentence. I had to earn back their respect. I've become successful again, but most of all in my heart I know my relationship with my daughter is excellent. I tried hard to stop her giving up her job at Newsweek to go to college - she was earning six figures, for Chrissakes. I told her she was throwing her life away and she cried.

But you know what? She was right. Who am I to stop her? That was a big moment for me, because I realised that my job now is just to be there for her. Not to interfere, but to catch her if she falls.