Chapter
Two
I
need to take a deep breath and hold it for a moment to calm my nerves
before I ascend the steps to the courthouse and make my way through
the front door. Since its the beginning of the day the front lobby is
packed. The way the superior court works is that everyone is expected
to show up by 9 am and then cases are seen as soon as your lawyer and
the court are ready.
Right
inside the front door is the security checkpoint, plenty of armed
court officers herding everyone through metal detectors and x ray
machines. I've gotten these down to a science to get through quickly
at this point since I've been going to court almost every week for 3
months but I still get oddly nervous when I go through. Almost like
I'm afraid I forgot to leave my rocket launcher at home and I'm going
to cause a scene. When I get to the front of the line I pull off my
belt and watch, the only metal items I am wearing, and put them i a
dish with my wallet, roll of quarters, and my copy of the Lord of the
Rings trilogy then place the dish on the x ray machines conveyer
belt. I am through the metal detector and picking up my things while
everyone else seems baffled that their keys are setting off the
alarms.
After
clearing security I head to the left for a quick look at the large
scrolling monitors with the lists of everyone expected at court today
and which floor and courtroom they are supposed to appear at. It
takes just a few moments to spot my name and then I am headed off to
the escalators to head to the third floor.
The
third floor is less crowded for now but will fill up fast once
everyone else catches up so I quickly head to the clerks desk to
check in before there is a line and then take a seat in front of
courtroom D. It's my third visit to this courtroom but oddly enough I
have never made it inside. Every time my public defender, this one
being different from the public defender that is handling my first
charge, rushes me off to a conference room to discuss the status of
the case. He is incredibly over worked and usually quite late and has
not once remembered my case without me reminding him of the details
but I can't complain because I ended up with a great plea deal.
Because
the courts who were trying my first case were dragging it out a bit,
my lawyer on this case was able to get this one wrapped up quickly.
The reason that was a good thing was it was a felony charge and since
we were able to get the plea in before the first case we were able to
treat it as my first offense rather than my second. It made my first
case shoot from 6 days in jail to an automatic 30 because it now
would be considered my second offense but that was irrelevant. If the
felony was charged as my second offense I would have been lucky to
get away with 180 days, but as my first offense the DA was willing to
give me the minimum sentence of 30 days. My lawyer for the first case
was then able to pull off getting the judge to add that I could do
that sentence concurrently with any other offense so I would get away
with doing 30 days total for both charges. All of this was figured
out at the very last minute, happening so fast my head was spinning.
All that I cared about was that I would not only be out before the
baby was due but also with enough time to get us settled and take
care of Amy for the last few months of the pregnancy.
The
one hitch was that when we tried to submit the plea deal for the
felony charge the judge noticed a clause that was wrong. Basically
they had copy and pasted the plea together from another case to save
time and left in a section that said I would get my license back
immediately after my release. The MVD has me on file as suspended
for the next year, and both lawyers agreed that it was a mistake but
since it was the DA's assistant presenting the plea the judge thought
it would be best to delay a week to make sure. She rescheduled for
today and added that I could be taken directly into custody at the
time of my plea.
The
next day I went to court for my other charge, plead guilty and agreed
to self surrender on the same date as my other plea to line up the
charges. The trick is, if the DA forgot to fix the paperwork then the
judge could push back another week meaning I would have to serve 37
days instead of 30. It was the last wild card in the deck and I was
hoping not to draw it.
As
I sat and waited I couldn't get myself to relax at all. I was
to concerned with looking out for my lawyer as well as when the
courtroom would open to focus enough to crack my book. Also, for the
first time since I could remember I was without my phone. It was my
lifeline to everything and knowing it was out of my reach until I got
out in two days made me feel somehow incomplete.
Luckily
it's not too long until the courtrooms outer doors are opened
and I get to make my way inside. As I find a seat I begin to wiggle
out of my pull over hoodie. Beneath that I have a descent looking
long sleeved shirt which I thought would look much better in front of
the judge. Under the long sleeve I had another thick shirt. I had
read up that processing into Tents could take up to a full 24 hours
and it was important to dress in layers and bring a watch and a
long book.
Having
had to spend two separate nights in fourth Avenue jail for each of my
arrests I knew all to we'll how important these things were in
lockup. They were two of the longest, most miserable nights of my
life and I was thankful they were behind me. Today if all goes as
planned I will be taken into custody inside the courtroom. From there
I should be taken to the holding cells behind the courtroom until
eventually being transferred to tent city for processing and
incarceration. Not the funnest day plan but it didnt seem that bad
compared to fourth ave. Other than that I have no real clue what any
of it will be like other than that I will be kept in holding cells
until I reach the furlough yard and then I should be let out on my
own.
Other
than myself there is only the court clerk in the room setting up so I
take a seat on one of the benches and crack open my book. I get
persicely three paragraphs in when the doors behind me open and
I hear my name called. I turn to find a woman I've never seen before.
Petite, Asian American and by the looks of it extremely exhausted.
"Yes"
I respond as I rise to meet her.
"Follow
me please" she says as she turns and heads back out the doors
and towards one of the side offices. I gather my belongings and head
in behind her. By the time I get into the office she already has
folders out of her briefcase and spread on the desk while she is busy
rummaging through her purse. "Stupid allergies " she
mutters as she sniffles. Finally finding a tissue, she quickly blows
her nose then quickly turns to me.
"I'm
Mindy, I'm your public defenders assistant. He has a busy
schedule today so he sent me to handle your plea today." She
motions for me to sit across from her as she picks up one of the
files on the table with her other hand. "Let's see, your
pleading guilty today for a domestic violence charge correct?"
Oh
crap. "No" I quickly correct her. "I'm pleading to the
DUI, class six felony... undesignated."
"Oh"
she says as she drops the file in her hand and picks up another. She
opens it, looks quickly at the first few pages then drops it as well
and grabs a third. "Ah here we go. Class six felony...plea for
30 days."
"That's
me" I respond with a half smile.
"Thirty
days for a felony, how did you pull that off?" She asks as she
double checks the file.
"Just
lucky I guess." I reply dryly. I've gotten this question a few
times and it always makes me feel uncomfortable. It's like
someone is staring you in the face and screaming "YOU SHOULD BE
PUNISHED WORSE THAN THIS YOU MONSTER!" My attempt at a joke is
apparently lost on her because her only response is to raise one
eyebrow and sniffle so I switch gears. "The original plea
was for ninety days but for some reason the DA came back with thirty
days the next week, we never had a clue as to why."
Not
exactly the truth but there was no way I was going to voice my
suspicion as to why the plea was really changed while I was still in
the courthouse and unconvicted. Mindy seems to like my second
response better because her attention is back to my file.
"Looks
simple. Go ahead and go take a seat back in the courtroom and I
will let the clerk know that we are ready to go before the
judge. I saw the DA"s assistant out front so we should be able
to get started as soon as the judge is ready."
I
say thanks and head back to my seat in the courtroom. I'm no longer
alone in there as I can see one of the clerks has made her way next
to the judges desk and a lawyer has taken a seat at the prosecutor's
table. I assume that she is the assistant for the DA today and I
quickly take note that she is focused and stern even though she seems
too young to have earned that look through time on the job. I'm glad
my plea is worked out already because I couldn't imagine a world in
which my public attorney would stand a chance against her.
I
settle myself back into my seat, this time finally opening my book to
try and relax. I don't even get through the explanation of Bilbo's
birthday when suddenly the clerk is calling for all to rise. In the
movies the criminal always remembers the name of the judge that put
them away but I don't even catch this judges name as she makes her
entrance. I've seen six judges so far and I realize I don't remember
a single one of their names.
In
any case the judge tells us we can take a seat as she settles down
herself and takes the first stack of papers from her clerk. She
doesn't even look up from the file as she calls my name and asks me
to step forward. As if on cue Mindy suddenly returns to the courtroom
and meets me at the defense's desk.
Mechanically,
the judge asks me if I saw the presentation in courtroom A prior to
today's hearing. I lie and say yes. I've seen the presentation twice
before here and seen the video equivalent about a hundred times at
the other courthouse as it plays there on a loop prior to court
proceedings so I didn't feel the need to do it again. It is
pointless either way because the only thing of importance in the
presentation is what rights you might be waiving by accepting a plea
agreement and how that might effect your status as a citizen if you
are not already a full citizen, all of this will be repeated by the
judge prior to her accepting my plea anyways.
Judge
what's her name starts listing off the details of the charges and
goes through the presenting of the plea. I'm already starting
to feel the tension building in the center of my chest and running
through to my spine. Soon I will be surrendering my freedom. I had
been able to deal with the idea b6 just pushing it back like it was a
shot you had to get at the doctors, basically treating it like
something that will suck but will sick worse if you think about it.
But now it's right in front of me and more real than ever and I'm
finding it suddenly hard to maintain my calm. I haven't had a drink
in two months, i haven't even craved one either, but now I'm
wondering how long it will be until that changes.
Even
through my worries I can spot the judges brow bunch together while
she is reading through my plea from a mile away. My gut drops, they
didn't fix the error. I watch helplessly as the judge addresses
the prosecutor. "The notes say that there was a problem
with the wording in the plea, has that been resolved yet?"
Obviously
caught off guard the prosecutor starts flipping through her file. "I
wasn't aware of any discrepancies."
Now
visibly annoyed, the judge says "Right in the terms, there is a
section allowing the defendant to regain driving privileges
upon his release. The notes say the DA was to review the terms
and if inaccurate, amend that section. Are you aware if the DA was
able to review the plea?"
"I'm
not seeing any notes that would suggest that he had your
honor."
The
judge snaps the file closed. "Well I don't know if we can
continue with the plea unless we can get clarification. Do you know
if he is in the courthouse yet?"
The
prosecutor is shrugging her shoulders and Mindy is wiping her nose.
Time for a hail mary. I raise my hand.
"Excuse
me your honor." The fact that both of her eyebrows skyrocketed
tells me that that was the last thing she expected but I continue
anyways, I have nothing to lose at this point. "The part of the
plea in question would definitely benefit me but I have no problem
agreeing that it should be removed. The MVD clearly stated to me that
my license was revoked and I won't be eligible for reinstatement for
a year."
The
last words seem to linger in the air for an eternity until the judge
finally pulls her gaze away from me and slowly reopened my file.
"Well, since the defense has no objection to amending the plea
does the prosecution have any objections?" The prosecutor kind
of shrugs, content to move forward and the judge keeps on rolling.
The
judge then asks me a series of question meant to make sure the plea
is air tight. We're you promised anything that was not in writing?
Are you aware of all of the rights you are giving up by taking this
plea? At any time did any officer of the court put your nuts in a
vice to get you to sign the plea? General stuff like that to make
sure you cannot come back later and call shenanigans. I answer with
several "yes ma'am no ma'am s" and in no time at all the
judge is announcing my guilt and asking for the bailiff to take me
into custody. For some reason I feel oddly disappointed that
the judge never banged the gavel.
I
look to my right to find that Mindy has disappeared into thin air and
ahead of me is a sheriff's officer approaching me while pulling a set
of handcuffs from her belt. She asks me to put my hands out in front
of me and I comply while she secures them to my wrists. I can't help
but laugh for a second because the handcuffs are pink.
Chapter
3
In
the 1990's Sheriff Joe, under the guise that inmates were stealing
underwear, mandated that all of the inmates must wear pink underwear.
Openly this was supposed to stop the inmates from stealing them but
the public all believed, and supported, that it was a way to
demoralize the inmates by removing their masculinity. Some people
also believed it was because Sheriff Joe hated the way that inmates
would wear their pants sagging down to expose their underwear and
that making them pink would make the inmates stop. Of course this
didn't work because nobody feels bad about other people knowing that
you are wearing pink underwear if they are also wearing them as well.
The funny thing that newscasters intentionally leave out whenever
they are covering the story, which is often, is that sagging pants
originally started in the prison system as a way to advertise to
other inmates that you were available....sexually. Kids who saw
inmates doing it but not knowing why thought it was something only
bad ass prisoners did and wanted to emulate them. Before long teens
were trying to look hard by sagging their jeans from coast to coast
unaware of what it meant. Today in Arizona you will find most of the
inmates sagging and exposing their absolutely fabulous pink
underwear.
Like
I said, the media and public ate up the entire stunt. It wasn't long
before Sheriff Joe was signing pairs of pink underwear at events and
fundraisers. He soon decided to extend the program to include pink
socks, thermals during the winter, and of course, handcuffs. During
my first stay in Fourth Avenue Jail I had to be clothed in stripes
but luckily not the underwear. In Tent City I will be in a yard where
street clothes are permitted so it had never occurred to me that I
might end up wearing pink so the handcuffs caught me off guard. The
officer secures them loosely and then leads me to a door on the left
side of the room. On either side of the door are large glass windows
behind which I can see another officer waiting to open the door for
us. I've seen this setup in other courtrooms and know that this room
is where inmates that are locked up while awaiting trial will be
waiting for their chance to go before a judge. As is the custom of
every inmate in county jail that is not on furlough or processing,
they will be dressed in black and white stripes with the pink socks
and underwear and orange sandals whether they are already convicted
or not.
Going
through this door is the end of all that I know for sure about what
will happen.
We
get to the door and the other officer lets us through. We pass by
him and head to the left to another set of doors. These lead to a
holding area where the officer asks me to remove all of my personal
belongings and place them in a bag. I remove my quarters and my
wallet. She documents them then asks for my book and my watch.
“I'm
sorry but my lawyer told me I would be able to bring these through
processing.” I say this while handing them over without complaint
so she knows I'm more asking if I will get them back rather than
challenging her.
“That
will be up to where you are headed.”
“Furlough
yard at tents.” I say as if she cares.
She
doesn't seem to not completely care because she actually responds.
“If you're going to Furlough they should give you everything back
when they process you in. I'm going to need your shoe laces and the
string from your hood if it has one.”
Saddened
by the loss of my watch and book I move on to the laces. I have to
remove them because at some point in time a prisoner decided to hang
himself or strangle another inmate with his laces and now they are
all removed during intake. This is why we can't have nice things.
Luckily she doesn't take my hoodie which is a comfort because I will
need it to keep warm later as well as it doubling as a pillow as I
will probably be in a holding cell for the rest of the day and they
consist of a concrete floor and a concrete bench lined with metal
bars placed about four feet apart making being comfortable next to
impossible. After everything is accounted for and bagged up she does
a pat down to make sure I am not hiding anything else then leads me
to a holding cell near by. She says nothing as she shuts the door
behind me and I find myself completely alone. For some reason I
never considered being alone as a possible outcome for the day and I
find it oddly unsettling. Every other holding cell I have been in had
been over packed with people, most either drunk, high, or completely
insane. A frighting experience to say the least for someone who is
not used to it but now I find myself alone and feeling like I miss
the entertainment of loudmouth criminals bragging about what they got
away with in the past and bitching about what they got brought in for
this time.
This
cell is similar to the ones I have been in before except that it is
half the size and circular in shape rather than rectangle. I take a
seat to the left of the door and try to relax but I can't. As of this
morning I am sober for one month and twenty-one days. Not exactly
enough time for one to gain control over the anxiety and depression
that my drinking had been hiding for almost a decade. It is now that
I realize that the loss of my watch and book are going to have a much
higher effect on me than I first thought when I handed them over.
I've lost the last of the things that gave me a sense of security and
without them I can already feel the tremor in my hands begin to
increase. My chest tightens as my breathing becomes erratic. Soon my
jaw begins to hurt from me teeth being clenched and all of the weight
on my back seems to be centered into one painful spot right behind my
heart.
I
have to fight to focus on something to distract me. I end up
randomly picking Texas Hold'em hands then doing the math to figure
out the probability of them hitting followed by the probability of
them being vulnerable. It takes a while but I eventually get my
breathing to regulate. Luckily my hands have even started to stop
trembling when the door opens again and the same guard lets another
inmate into the cell with me. He is a tall and well built Mexican
with a babies face. I'm guessing he's barely even over eighteen and
probably more scared than I am.
He
picks a seat opposite of me and we both sit in silence for a minute
trying to act as if neither of us is actually bothered by our
situations. Soon though the need to talk in order to keep the
silence from driving us crazy wins us over.
“Hey”
I start off with. He says hey back and as he speaks I can hear how
young and scared he really is. Feeling for the poor guy I try to get
his story out of him. “They just take you into custody too?”
“Yeah”
he says as he starts examining the room.
“How
long are you doing?”
“Sixty
days” he says coldly.
“Ouch”
I grimace. “Where do you have to do it?”
“Tents”
He leans back against the wall behind him as he says it and lets his
shoulders drop.
“Not
too bad though” I try to keep his spirits up. “Are you getting
work release or furlough?”
“No,
whats that?”
“It's
where they let you out so you can go to work.”
“Oh,
no I have to stay in the whole time.”
Up
until now I had only heard of people in tents getting work release so
I'm a little taken back. “There sending you to tents and you have
to do sixty days straight without getting out? Do you mind if I ask
what you did?”
A
small smile breaks finally breaks through is morose demeanor. “I
broke Shannon's Law.”
“Shannon's
Law,” as soon as I say it out loud I remember. “You shot a gun in
the air?
“Yup.”
He seems to be almost ashamed to be in for a small crime but it is
actually something that gets taken seriously in Arizona. Shannon's
Law was written after a fourteen year old girl was struck and killed
by a stray bullet that was fired into the air and then fell back to
Earth. It was already illegal to fire a gun withing city limits but
this meant there would be actual time to serve rather than a fine or
a commuted sentence.
“I
was at a New Years party” he continues, leaning forward and
starting to open up a bit more. “Everything was going OK but at
midnight one of my friends pulled out a gun and let out a couple of
shots. We had all been drinking and at the time it didn't seem like
too bad of an idea. There must have been a cop already in the
neighborhood though because by the time it was my turn and to let off
a round the cop came right around the corner with his gun drawn on
me. Next thing I knew I was face first into the ground and
handcuffed.”
“Wow,
that's tough.” The kid can't even be twenty yet and he's going to
have a gun charge following him for the rest of his life.
“What
about you? What did they get you for?
“DUI”
I say almost too fast. I doubt he can tell by my tone but the shame
of my crimes crush me on the inside as I say it. I can only hope
that he doesn't ask for to many details. Up until now I haven't found
myself in many situations where I have to describe what I've done but
like now, when it happens I'm immediately overwhelmed with so many
negative feelings all at the same time and I find it hard to compose
myself. Plus, even though this is a random person that I'm meeting
for the first time in jail, I for some reason still feel the need to
have this guy have a positive image of me and I cannot imagine anyone
having that if they new that I got two DUI's within three months of
each other and the last one was a felony because I was driving with
my four year old child in the car.
“Yeah,
I hear most people are in here for that. How long did you get?
“Thirty
days” I cringe even more inside. Not because I have a lower
sentence than him but because thirty days is a long time for a first
time DUI so anyone in here that knows a bit about it will pick up on
the fact that I either have multiple DUI's or that I did something
much worse. Luckily for me he doesn't seem to notice.
“That's
not too bad I guess. Do you get any of that work release?”
“Yeah,
I get the work furlough.”
“What's
the difference?
“Furlough
is more strict. With release they just let you out for twelve hours
a day, five days a week no matter what your work schedule is. I will
have to give them my work schedule and they will only let me out an
hour before I start work and then I have to be back an hour after I'm
scheduled off.”
“What
happens if you don't make it back on time?”
“I
have no clue.” In all honesty the thought had never occurred to me.
I make a mental note to make sure I definitely know the consequences
as soon as I can.
We
make some more idle chit chat for a few more minutes and are
eventually interrupted by the guard opening the door and telling us
to both stand and walk out. As we exit the cell we see two more
guards spread out on either side of the doorway.
“Walk
in a line and stay directly behind me.” One of the guards says to
us then starts to lead the way with the other two guards following
close behind us. They take us to the end of the hall where we see
two sets of elevator doors. It takes me a moment to notice that there
are no buttons on the wall to activate them however. The guard in
front of us grabs his mic mounted on his shoulder and says his name
and that they were taking two down. Moments later one of the sets of
doors open and we are led into the elevator. My eyes quickly dart to
were there would be a panel of buttons to choose floors and see just
a stainless steel panel. None the less as soon as everyone is inside
the elevator the doors close and we start moving down. I keep
looking around and soon spot a camera and it all clicks into place.
To prevent a convict from trying to make a run for it all of the
elevators are controlled from somewhere else.
After
we get out of the elevators which have gone down a completely unknown
amount of levels, we are led down a few more hallways before we stop
in front of another holding cell.
“Against
the wall” the guard orders motioning to the wall on the opposite
side of the door. We line up and wait for him to pull out his key
chaiin and open the door. Once opened he motions for us to move
inside then shuts and locks the door behind us. This cell has five
or six other people already waiting in it but there is still plenty
of room for us to go in and have a seat without being shoulder to
shoulder. As soon as the guards shut the door behind us everyone
turns to a well dressed older Hispanic man.
“Fourteen
years!” shouts one of the inmates.
“Yeah,
fourteen years and I got lucky it was that low” said the Hispanic
man. “My last charge had just fallen off of my record so they had
to charge me as a first time offender otherwise it would have been
twenty-five or more.”
“Fucking
hell, what did you do?”
The
inmates seemed to be in the middle of the “what brings you to a
jail like this” game when we came in and everyone was so shocked
that this guy had such a long sentence that they almost didn't even
know that we came into the room.
“Forgery”
he replied nonchalantly. “I found a guy who had stolen a check
printer from a bank. He was printing out all of these fake cashiers
checks and using them to buy crap from people off of Craigslist. He
gave me a few bucks to go and make the transactions for him. I guess
he had done it way too many times before I had gotten into it because
the second one I went to turned out to be a sting and since I
wouldn't give up the guy who made the checks they charged me with the
forgery.”
“Why
the hell didn't you just give up the guy that made the fucking checks
in the first place?” another inmate asked.
“Because
he's the kind of guy that would kill you before you ever had a chance
to testify, that's why” he responded almost rhetorically. “That's
not the worst part though. See when I was a young kid I used to run
in a gang and I got popped a few times. All of my gang tat's were
all documented when I was booked and that came up during my
sentencing. Since I'm considered a known gang member I got to do all
my time up in high security, secluded from everyone else.”
A
silence fell on the whole room. It was such an odd feeling, being
next to a man who knew that he was at the very beginning of a
fourteen year prison sentence that he knew he would be spending alone
for the most part. I couldn't help but think back to how the maximum
sentence that I could have been faced with was up in the five to
seven year range. How easily it could have been me that everyone was
listening to on the edges of their seats in this cell.
I
don't have to much time to dwell on it however because soon the door
opens again and a guard starts calling out names and telling those
that he called to exit the cell and line up against the wall outside.
Only the long timer is left behind as everyone else from the cell is
marched off.
No
elevators this time, just what felt like miles of corridors winding
around corner after corner in what seemed like an maze intentionally
designed to confuse you so you couldn't find your own way out. At one
point we even seemed to have been brought outside in what felt like
an underground parking garage but then quickly we were rushed through
another door and back inside.
We
finally made our last turn and the air is knocked right out of me.
My chest immediately tightens as the realization of where I am
quickly sets in.
I'm
back inside Fourth Ave jail.
Chapter
4
“It's
just the processing area” I tell myself, trying to relax. “This
is probably just a quick stop on the way to Tent City.”
The
processing area of Fourth Ave is basically a long hallway that starts
with a nurses station to screen inmates and people who are being
brought straight off the street by officers for any current injuries,
illnesses that could be spread to other inmates, and to gauge the
inmates current state of mind to see if they are depressed or
suicidal. After that you head to a bench that runs most of the way
down the hallway to start your intake paperwork. Here you will get
your mugshot before confirming your identity then finish with a
screening from ICE if applicable. Since Arizona runs along the
Mexican border, the federal Immigration and Customs Enforcement
agency uses this as point to screen out any illegal immigrants.
Twice I have been through here and they have never taken notice to
me. There is nothing Hispanic about my name so I guess they always
look past me.
I
get a nudge in my back from the inmate behind me and I regain my
nerve and move towards the officer at the front of the line who is
waiting there to take off my handcuffs. Once freed, I take a seat on
the bench next to the inmate that was in front of me.
Apparently
since we are all convicted we get to skip the nurses portion of the
intake and move straight towards the mugshot portion. Soon my name
is called and for the third time in my life I have to have my face
documented for public record. I can't even look straight at the lens
as the flash goes off. I know that anyone who Google's my name now
will be able to see that picture and be able to see just how horrible
I have become.
I
make my way back to the bench and start scooting down the line with
the rest of the inmates towards the end as we are checked in one at a
time. Because the room is filled with just as many officers and
guards as there are inmates we all seem to naturally stay quiet.
There is no way to get away with any smart ass comments in here and
we are all to aware of how much power the officers have over us.
However, I can hear snickering and whispering start at the end of the
bench none the less.
I
lean forward to get a quick glance at what could be so important or
funny that it can't be held back in front of the guards. At the end
of the bench where the first in line from my group sits is the last
inmate, or police intake, from the group before us and she is a
female. Only criminals would see this as an opportune moment to hit
on a girl.
She
doesn't seem to mind, in fact she seems to be enjoying the attention.
But it isn't long before a police officer comes right over and
forces the males talking to her to get up and move back to the end of
the processing line. Shortly after the girl is taken off through the
doors to the security checkpoint never to be seen again.
Everything
goes back to being quiet and I keep moving down the line until I'm
next to go off through security as well, when an ICE agent points
over at me.
“You,
what's your name?” he asks.
I
tell him my name and he starts to look it up. I can tell by the look
on his face he doesn't like what he sees.
“Approach
the desk” he says as he waves me over. I can feel his eyes
studying me the entire walk over and before I get to him I know why
he called me over. My dark skin doesn't match my white name. I
remind myself before stepping in front of the agent that I need to
watch what I say. Outside and before I had a record I could get away
with throwing a little attitude to a cop who called me out for my
skin color but not in here and certainly not to an immigration agent.
He
starts asking me a list of questions including where and when I was
born, what was my social security number, and my parents name. By
the time I tell him where I was born I can tell that my lack of any
accent has already convinced him that I am not an illegal but he
pushes through with the questions regardless just to be sure.
When
he is done with me he directs me back to the bench. Once back I pay
attention to the next person who he asks noting that it wasn't one of
the three white men in our group or the single black guy but rather
one of the five Hispanic men. The agents tone with him gets darker
as soon as he hears the thick accent the inmate has and even though
he can answer all of the questions he asked me, the agent keeps
pushing with more specific questions. I find myself wondering if the
other Hispanic inmates will have noticed how easy it was for me to
get through. Will they hold it against me?
A
guard at the security checkpoint eventually calls me over. I go
through the door at the end of the hall and he tells me to take off
my hoodie and my shoes. I comply and he checks them both for anything
hidden then directs me through a metal detector. Once through, the
guard on the other side instructs me to face the wall and put my feet
in the two circles on the ground and my hands in the circles in front
of me on the wall. As soon as I do a third guard pats me down. This
search is always a lot more thorough than others you receive. So
much so that this guard wears medical gloves. It's not a cavity
search but it's damn near.
Once
they are convinced I'm not hiding anything, they give me back my
hoodie and my shoes and take me down the hall and around a corner
where I catch up to those from my group that went ahead of me. A
guard up front has a stack of booking slips and he is sorting through
them and calling us out one at a time to sort us into different
holding cells.
Inside
my cell I once again take a seat. These cells are rectangular with
doors on either end and a toilet directly in the middle. It also
has phones inside as well but nobody seems to be going for them since
they are all left off the hook with the handsets dangling towards the
floor. In my experience these rooms are usually just used for
transitioning inmates to other parts of the jail, both coming in and
going out, and my stay in them is never that long.
I
take the time I do have however to study who I am with. There are
still around five other guys that I came down with still with me but
there are twice that many that seem to be much rowdier, talking
loudly with vulgar language. Much more resembling a group of men at
a bar near last call. Sharing stories back and forth about what they
have done, where they did it, and who they did it to. In short, it's
mostly bullshit but it sure is an easy way to pass the time. My
guess is that most of that group is here from overnight lockups and
are on their way to be processed out onto the streets, hence the
higher level of excitement in their tone and behavior. They have
probably spent the last twelve hours in these cells and are close to
being able to get some real food and some sunlight so it's hard for
them to keep it in. I know some of the jails use Forth Ave to process
their inmates out as well but none of these guys have the look of
someone who has been locked up for any long period of time.
The
smallest guy in the cell also seems to be the most energetic of them
as well, having to stand on the bench just to be able to look the
other inmates in the eye while they are standing and to put himself
above the rest of the group.
“Nah
man, if you want to get your ass high as fuck without blowing your
fucking money then you gotta score some Percoset. It's cheaper than
Oxy. Then you crush that shit up, mix in some lime juice, and boil
that shit in a spoon. Put it in your vein and trip fucking balls.”
You
ever hear about how sending criminals to jail is just a way for them
to learn more about crime? This is what they are talking about. Jail
is full of wonderful little bits of information like this. Personally
I find it enthralling.
“Where
the fuck do you get the needles from?” another inmate asks.
“Easy,
everyone has a relative that is diabetic or some shit. Just find out
where they fill their drugs from and go in there and say your uncle
sent you to pick up some needles for him. If they look up his name
and see he has a script for them they will just sell them to you.
Fuck most of the time they don't even ask for ID!”
And
here I was thinking that the needle came free with the purchase of
every bag of heroin, like a Happy Meal toy.
The
group goes on like this for a while, no idea how long but long enough
to get relaxed, when the guards open up the same door they let us in
through. Again they have a stack of the booking slips and are
calling out names and lining them up outside against the wall.
I'm
almost disappointed when my name is called.
They
lead us into the room across the hall one at a time. In here are a
couple of guards and all of the finger printing equipment. First up
is something I have yet to see on any of the police drama shows. It
resembles a large copy machine only the glass where you would
normally put the paper you want copied is where you put your hand.
First they spray your hand with water, then they place your hand and
fingers on the glass in different poses to get every angle. The
machine records everything and will automatically update your file.
Then, I'm guessing out of old habit, they dip your hands in ink and
take your finger prints the old fashioned way.
Once
we get all of the ink off of our hands, they move us into another
holding cell. This one is the one I cannot stand. Rectangular like
the last one but with only one door at one end and the toilet at the
other. There are no phones in this room and there are metal rails
about every four feet along the bench. I figure they are there to
handcuff rowdy inmates to them but secretly I believe they are spaced
out perfectly so that inmates cannot lie down comfortably, forcing
them to lay on the floor.
My
experience with this type of room is that you are usually held for
longer periods of time if you are put in them. Again I get nervous
about staying in Fourth Ave instead of continuing on to Tents. I
easily reassure myself that they just finished our intake and are
probably just getting ready to move us.
There
are five of us being put into the cell with five others already
waiting in there when we arrived. Among them is the young kid I first
ran into. I can tell that the trip so far hasn't had a good toll on
him as he looks even further withdrawn. The rest of the group he is
in seems unusually quiet as well. I take a seat and start looking
them over and soon see that one of them is a well dressed black man
who has his stare locked onto a short, skinny Hispanic male with
tattoos and a shaved head. Everyone else in the group seems to have
their attention drawn to the guy as well but only the black man in
intensely watching him, almost looking as if he is expecting the
Hispanic man to jump up and attack him at any moment. The rest of
the group that I came in with must sense the tension as well because
nobody starts making conversation at first.
Studying
the Hispanic man for a few moments quickly confirms my first
instinct. His eyes are wide open and intense. His fingers can't seem
to stop figitting with themselves and his foot is bouncing his knee
up and down a mile a minute. He is high on meth.
My
experience with people on meth has taught me to tread carefully
around them. They can be very impulsive with their emotions and can
lash out quickly. The rest of the room can sense it to and are
probably sizing up his state of mind before they can relax.
The
silence is too much for my nerves so I go first.
“How
long do you think our hands are going to smell like that crap they
used to get the ink off?” I say to no one in particular.
Out
of the corner of my eye I can see the guy on meth snap his head in my
direction. I act like I don't notice and instead look over at the
few guys that gave me a laugh.
“The
smell doesn't bother me as much as the film it leaves.” One guy
responds as he gets up and goes to the sink to rinse his hands off.
“You
sure that's from the soap?” another inmate jokes and just like that
the mood breaks and almost everyone starts to relax. Only the well
dressed black man and the meth head who he is staring at remain quiet
and tense.
Of
course in a few moments all of our conversations are revolved around
our charges and our sentences. In jail everyone thinks they know
exactly every letter of the law and they are experts on all aspects
of the legal system so everyone is telling each other what they can
expect from here on out. Of course it's mostly bullshit. However of
all of the bullshit being shoveled around, mine seems to be holding
the most weight. There are two guys in the room who are unsentenced,
one of them for a DUI he got last night, and I end up in a
conversation with him on what he can expect. Since nobody is trying
to contradict what I was saying, everybody seemed to agree that I was
on the right track.
“Did
you blow?” I asked him refering to the breathalizer test that
checks your blood alcohol levels.
“Yeah,
they said it was .10. How bad is that?”
“Not
too bad, just over the legal limit. Do you have any other charges or
history?”
He
shook his head in response.
“Well
you might get away with just a day in jail then.”
“That's
it!” he seemed to be elated.
“For
jail time yeah, but you still will lose your license for awhile, have
to do probation and alcohol classes. Not to mention get a
breathalizer installed in your car.”
“Shit,
how long do I have to have that fucking thing?” he said now looking
dejected.
“I
don't know. A year probably. It's seems to be different for
everybody. I have to have one for two years.”
As
soon as I say it I regret it. Having to have a breathalizer for that
long is a dead giveaway for how bad my DUI's were. The well dressed
black man turns his attention from the meth head slowly to me.
“You
got a super extreme?”
Fuck.
“Yeah”
I respond too shortly. It's like putting blood in the water and it
feels like he is circling in on me now as he turns the rest of his
body to face me.
“Is
that all you did?”
I
could lie. It wouldn't be hard at all. I spent years telling my
wife lies about my drinking, so much so that I could do it at will
with no warning at all. I had become a master of deceit in my own
way. But when my wife forgave me for my last DUI I made a promise to
myself that I wouldn't lie about it, or anything else for that
matter, anymore. No matter how much it pains me I have to tell the
truth, something I have not come to terms with yet myself.
After
I told my wife I would never lie to her she started asking about
every time that she had suspected me of drinking and I had lied to
her. As an Atheist is was the closest I have ever been to being in
confessional. Every truth I told her brought on more feelings of
betrayal, tears, but then finally a feeling of forgiveness. I had
destroyed her wall of trust in me and with every truth I told her I
was trying to rebuild that wall one brick at a time. So even now, in
a cell full of criminals, I cannot manage to lie about what I did.
“No”
I hear myself say absently. “There was a minor in my car at the
time. Also it was my second extreme DUI within three months.”
I
intentionally put the second part last hoping that no one asks who
the minor was. I won't have to lie about it if nobody asks. I swore
to tell the truth not tell the whole fucking story every time
somebody asked right off the bat.
Everyone
seemed to have caught on to my tone that I wasn't comfortable talking
about it and the black man seemed to be content with my answers
because he dropped the questions. The entire room seemed to go quiet
for a minute until a dry, deep voice broke the silence.
“Are
you a fucking lawyer?”
I
didn't have to look at the meth head to know it was him asking, and
the way everyone was staring at me I could tell I was the one he was
asking.
“No”
I said without looking back at him. “I've just been through some
shit”. I tried to be as casual as I could as I said it.
“Bet
your fucking smart.” His response seemed more like a statement than
an accusation. Not wanting to set him off I finally looked at him and
half shrugged. He seemed to buy it since his knee started bouncing
again and he got a distant look in his eyes.
The
tension in the room broke suddenly as the guards came to the door and
called out the two guys who were unsentenced. After they got them
out they left the door open as one guard took the two off. Once they
were gone the two remaining guards called us all out and took us on
another long, twisting trek through the halls of Fourth Ave.
None
of the halls we were in now seemed familiar to me at all and I felt
relief to seemingly be out of Fourth Ave all together. Eventually we
ended outside of a large two storied room lined on one side with
actual jail cells on both floors and inmates in stripes walking
around inside. I recognized it from movies as what was referred to
as a block.
As
the first guard got to the door of the block he knocked hard on the
glass and waited. On cue the inmates inside walked either to their
cells or to the far end of the block away from the door. He then
unlocked the door and led us in.
“Grab
one blanket and head into that cell” he said pointing to the
closest cell to the entrance.
There
was a pile of blankets folded neatly next to the cell and we each
grabbed one and hurried into the cell as the inmates on the far end
of the cell started to bark and yell towards us. Nothing about what
they said scared me, it was the way they looked that made me uneasy.
We were a group of minor offenders headed to tents. I didn't know
where we were exactly but I could tell these were criminals who had
done something bad enough to warrant them not being able to be kept
in low security. They were all well built and heavily tattooed.
I
looked back at the guards and saw one smiling. This was all part of
the game the guards play with inmates. They keep us away from telling
time. They keep us constantly in brightly lit white rooms with the AC
on full blast and move us around constantly to keep us from getting
comfortable. Now we are given a cell with the luxury of bunks and
blankets but only feet away from dangerous criminals. Everything
they do to us in this part of the jail is to keep us scared or off
tilt.
As
they close the door locking us in I stay near the door and watch the
guards leave the block and lock us in. The inmates on the block seem
to stay on their side of the block and keep a distance from our cell.
They are there to scare us but they are clearly instructed to not
get close enough to us to actually pose a real danger.
I
turn back and find an empty bottom bunk. The lights are really dim
in this cell so we all take the cue that we are supposed to use this
time to catch a nap. I get comfortable, using the blanket as a
pillow and welcome the nap to past the time. Closing my eyes I start
to think about how so far this hasn't been that bad. Halfway through
the day already and it shouldn't be to much longer until I get to
Tent City. I figure I will spend the next day acclimating to it and
before I know it I will be out on my first furlough break. Maybe this
wouldn't be as horrible as I had thought. My ears hardly even
register the sound of someone slipping off of their top bunk or the
footsteps as they got closer to me. But there was no way I could
miss the acrid smell of someones breath close to my face. I open my
eyes and see the meth head inches away from me, staring right into my
eyes.
