Thirty
Days in The Desert
by
Eric
Goldwine
Eric
Goldwine
Ericgoldwine@yahoo.com
602-434-7742
Chapter
1
My
eyes are awake before they ever open. First thing I notice is that I
am lying in a soft bed. I haven't slept in a bed in weeks, and
knowing that I am in one now makes my stomach drop. My eyes open and
search for the clock in the dark, hoping to see midnight or one AM.
Hell, even five AM, at least that would give me one more precious
hour with my family. Finally coming into focus, I can clearly make
out the red lights telling me the alarm will go off in two minutes.
The breath leaves my lungs and I can barely find he strength to
refill them.
Curled up next to me like a mini-heater is my
four-year-old son. My pregnant wife is sleeping on a small pad on the
floor. The pad had been my place for the last few weeks, ever since
we moved in with her parents. They have a guest room for us but the
bed in it can barely fit an adult and a child, so I had been choosing
the floor to save my wife's back the pain. However, knowing that this
would be my last night to spend with my son as well as my last chance
to sleep in a bed for the next month, my wife wanted me to sleep in
the bed.
As
I reach over to turn off the alarm before it has a chance to go off,
I look down and see Amy looking up at me. Neither of us at this point
can even manage a smile, we just stare for a moment. Both of us
trying to read the others face for any sign of lost resolve. She,
worried for my safety, me, hoping she has the strength in her to go
through the next 30 days alone. Finally, she smiles and I am strong
again, reminded of all of things she has forgiven me for and with
that I am finally able to roll out of bed.
The
two of us work together in silence to get dressed and ready for the
day. Eventually I get Tyler up and dress him. He is too sleepy to
talk and can barely sit up as I slide a long sleeve shirt over his
head. Once he is fully dressed I give his hair a tussle. "What
do you want to eat buddy?" I ask. "PBJ," he manages to
mumble as he slides off the bed and heads out to join his mother in
the kitchen, already making their lunch for the day. None for me
though, I honestly have no idea when my next meal will even be.
I
decide to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for myself as well
and take the first bite without thinking. As soon as the taste hits
my tongue, I'm hit with an immediate sense of regret. I look at Amy
and she can barely keep from laughing. Sheriff Joe Arpio is notorious
for serving his inmates peanut butter sandwiches and hours before his
deputies take me into custody at court to serve a thirty-day sentence
in the notorious Tent City Jail, I made the decision to have my last
meal as a free man be a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I finally
break down and start laughing causing Amy to do the same. Soon Tyler
is laughing along with us pretending he gets the joke and for a
single moment everything feels normal.
"At
least I'll get work furlough in a couple days and I'll be able to get
something real to eat," I say as I lean in to kiss Amy on her
cheek. She kisses me back. "Just be careful and make it back out
to me," she responds as we linger in each other’s arms for a
moment. Then suddenly we are out of time and wrangling Tyler out the
door to the car.
The
car is an old blue station wagon that had been beaten to hell long
before we got our hands on it. Not that long ago I drove a 2008
Mitsubishi Lancer GTS, my baby. The only car I ever loved. Amy had
the soccer mom crossover SUV, a birthday present a couple of years
earlier, and she couldn't have been happier. After I got laid off
however we started to fall behind. At the same time Amy hurt her back
and had to take leave from her job. The only money we had coming in
was the two hundred and fourteen dollars a week from unemployment
which wasn't even enough to pay rent. Then I got the first DUI.
I
wish I could give you details about it but I was black out drunk.
Luckily nobody else was in the car with me. Also lucky that the three
passengers in the van that I hit got away without a scratch, at least
that's what I was told. I never met them face to face but my public
defender said they were fine. He also said he could get me off with
just six days in jail, and he meant it too.
With
a DUI and a hit and run on my record, the only job I could talk my
way into was seasonally selling sausage at the mall. Let's just say
it didn't pay too much but it was something. It wasn't enough though.
Soon everything we owned of value was sold or pawned, including our
wedding rings. We spent our nights with the lights off while repo men
knocked on our doors looking for the cars we were hiding in the
garage. Eventually they were able to get the soccer mom SUV and I all
but hand delivered my baby's keys when I got my second DUI. Suddenly
my public defender wasn't so sure he could get me the six days.
The
lucky timing of my paycheck along with Amy's first check after
getting back to work got us a six hundred dollar oxidized blue
station wagon with detached headlights, leaking oil, a dying
transmission, and a random overheating problem. The kids thought it
was cool though. My step daughter, Jessica, loved the backwards
facing rear seat, and both kids loved how we let them pick out some
Christmas decals from the dollar store and go crazy decorating the
car.
At
the beginning of 2013 my mall job ended. Eventually we had to abandon
our house, find homes for our dogs, and take the few things we had
left and move in with the only family that would have us. Amy's
parents were great and I was glad she would be somewhere safe while I
wasn't with her. She was also able to find a second job being a nanny
during the week and I was able to get a job slinging breakfast for
barely above minimum wage. Hopefully we would be able to get an
apartment soon after I got out so we wouldn't be in their way for
long.
Her
parents' house was in Maricopa City, which is roughly forty miles
outside of Phoenix. A real pleasant drive, unless you are constantly
checking the temperature gauge of your junker car for it to spike. We
travel in silence broken intermittently by Amy asking me if I forgot
something. “Did you remember the quarters?” I show her the
ten-dollar roll. “Yup”. “How about your bus pass?” I nod my
head as I take out my wallet to double check. The single day bus pass
is not hard to find in my wallet; there is only three things in it in
total. The bus pass, my state ID card, and a bank card for an account
with no money in it. I hadn't really looked at my wallet since I had
cleaned it out and it strikes me how pathetic it looks. It used to be
packed with credit cards, store discount cards, business cards,
random receipts, pictures, and of course, cash. Now it looks deflated
and sad. There are only three cards and they can all fit into one of
the several pockets that had been previously stretched out. I will
have to be searched when I am taken into custody and then every time
I reenter tent city after my furlough leaves, so I wanted to clear
everything out to make it simple. Plus, all of the credit cards,
cash, and business cards were completely useless or nonexistent now.
Half
way through our trip, we get off the isolated highway that leads to
Maricopa City and merge onto the I-10 freeway that will take us into
the heart of Phoenix. As we start to pass a wide array of businesses
I start to subconsciously make a list of new places to apply at. I
have spent the last 3 weeks of my unemployment doing little other
than riding the bus in circles and applying at any place that I could
think of. The only bite I had gotten was from a breakfast and lunch
diner as a short order cook making only a dollar over minimum wage. I
used to run multiple restaurants just like it, making three times
that amount. Before my DUI's I had interviewed for several similar or
even better positions and on two occasions actually received
fantastic offers, both of which evaporated once they knew I would be
going away to serve an, at that point, undetermined amount of time in
jail only to get out with no valid driver’s license and the hassle
of probation. I was happy to be currently employed but I needed to
keep my eye out for something better. The baby will be here in five
months and I can't even currently support the mouths I have now.
The
entire trip seems to pass in a blink while I am drifting off thinking
about my current job status, and I soon find that we are exiting the
freeway two blocks away from the Maricopa County superior court
house. For the first time I can feel my heart rate rise noticeably
and my anxiety kicks in. That sudden feeling when you find yourself
next in line to get on a ride at the carnival. Now, more than ever, I
want to do anything I can to avoid having to go through this, but I
cannot waiver. Amy must sense my fear, or maybe it is her own,
because her hand finds mine as it rests on my knee.
She
navigates through the one way streets to the courthouse and I realize
that she is not going near any of the parking lots. I quickly pull
out my phone and check the time. The traffic must have been worse
than usual because it is close to eight and she only has a few
minutes to get to her nannying job. She plans to drop me off in front
of the courthouse. There are no real parking spots there, so I am
going to have to jump out quickly before the early morning downtown
traffic backs up behind her. I had gone over the entire list of
problems I might run into this morning and did everything I could to
minimize or avoid all of them, but it somehow never occurred to me
that I might not have a chance to say a real goodbye to Amy and
Tyler.
No
time to panic, however, as Amy pulls up to the courthouse curb.
Frantically, we stare at each other for a moment before I reach out
and put my hand on her stomach, feeling the outline of the baby. My
other hand quickly goes behind her neck as I pull her in for one last
kiss. As I pull back I can feel her grip on my shirt refusing to let
go. I give her my best confident smile. “Two days,” I say.
“I
love you,” she replies. “I love you too babe,” is the only
thing I have time to say before I can hear the first angry horn
coming from behind us. I toss my phone into my day bag that has
everything I will need when I get out on leave, and I jump out of the
car, shutting the door behind me while opening the back door. I give
Tyler a firm hug and tell him that I love him. He smiles and says
“Have fun camping dad!” I have enough time to lean out and shut
the door before the car behind us lays heavy on the horn again.
Weakly I wave goodbye to Amy and as I see her pull away, I get a
glimpse of her wiping away her tears.
The
car that was behind us, with the very functional horn, pulls up
slowly as the very large, mean looking driver yells some sort of
curse at me. I smile at him and flip him off. I am unfairly angry at
him for cutting my goodbye so short and a smile and the bird are
something that I feel will sufficiently drive him up the wall.
Normally I wouldn't want to antagonize someone but what the hell. I
mean what is he going to do, get out and pound the crap out of me in
front of Joe Arpio's office? Of course he drives off, although
infinitely more infuriated at this point, and I turn to find myself
at the bottom of the steps leading up to the courthouse.
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. Being the beginning of the day, the front lobby is
packed. In the Superior Court everyone is expected to show up by 9 am
and cases are seen whenever your lawyer and the court are ready.
Immediately
inside the front door is the security checkpoint; plenty of armed
court officers herding everyone through metal detectors and x-ray
machines. I've been going to court almost every week for 3 months and
have gotten them down to a science, but I still get oddly nervous
when I go through, 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 in a dish with my wallet, roll of
quarters, and my copy of The Lord of the Rings trilogy, then place
the dish on the conveyor belt of the x-ray machine. I am through the
metal detector and gathering 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 which display lists of everyone expected at court
today and at which floor/courtroom they are supposed to appear. It
takes just a few moments to spot my name and then I am 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. I quickly head to the clerk's 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 DUI
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 court trying my first case was dragging it out a bit, my lawyer
on this case was able to get it wrapped up more quickly. Which was
just as important as it was lucky because the second charge was a
felony, and since we were able to get the plea in before the first
charge was tried, 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 now because it 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 able to pull off getting
the judge to add that I could serve 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 incorrect.
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 and
not the actual DA, the judge thought it would be best to delay a week
for verification. She rescheduled for today and added that I would be
taken directly into custody at the time of my plea.
The
day after all of this had happened, I went to court for what had been
my first DUI 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. I would still have to surrender for the other charge
though, 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 too
preoccupied with waiting for my lawyer and anticipating when the
courtroom would open to focus enough to even 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 outer doors to the courtrooms 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 decent looking long
sleeved shirt which I thought would appear nicer 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
spent two separate nights in Fourth Avenue jail for each of my
arrests, I knew all too well how important these things were in
lockup. These 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 most fun day plan, but it didn't seem that bad
compared to Fourth Ave. Other than that, I have no real clue what any
of it will be like, except that I will be kept in holding cells until
I reach the furlough yard and then I should be let out on my own.
Besides
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
precisely 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 defender's assistant. He has a busy schedule
today so he sent me to handle your plea." 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, you're 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 dropped 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 judge’s 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 gotten that look through time on
the job. I'm glad my plea is worked out already because I can't
imagine a world in which my public attorney would stand a chance
against her.
I
settle myself back into my seat, opening my book to try to 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 judge's 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
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 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 affect 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 anyway.
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 that thought by just pushing it back like it was a shot you
had to get at the doctor, basically treating it like something that
will suck but will suck 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 when the judges brow bunches 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
anyway, 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 reopens 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 questions meant to make sure the plea
is air tight. Were 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 a Sheriff's officer is approaching 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 the cuffs to my wrists. I can't
help but laugh to myself; 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 nearby. 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 frightening 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,
what’s 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 within 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 Year’s 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 too 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 knew 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 stricter. 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
chain 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 cashier’s
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 too 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 a 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 nurse’s 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 Percocet. 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 fidgeting 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 referring to the breathalyzer 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 a while,
have to do probation and alcohol classes. Not to mention get a
breathalyzer 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 breathalyzer 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, it 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 block 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 too 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 work release
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 someone’s breath close to my face.
I open my eyes and see the meth head inches away from me, staring
right into my eyes.
Chapter
5
I
don't dare move. Instead I study everything about his demeanor,
trying to figure out what he wants. His eyes are as wide as he can
keep them. They seem to never stray from my gaze even though they
appear to be trembling slightly. His face is sunk in enough that I
can clearly see his muscles protruding from clenching his jaw. Acne
and scabs cover his face. I cannot see his hands, he is keeping them
low and out of my field of vision. The intensity of his gaze is
borderline frightening, the silence is worse.
“You're
fucking smart, aren't you?”
I
have no idea what to say so I kind of just shrug, my head never
leaving my make shift pillow.
“Yeah,
you are.”
I
can't tell if he is telling himself that I am or if he is telling me.
“I
guess you could say I know a little bit about a lot of things” is
the only thing I can think to say. It must have been the right thing
though because he seems to relax a bit and lean back a little before
continuing.
“Yo,
so I need you to help me out.” Who wouldn't want to help a meth
head out six hours into their sentence. Of course there was no way I
was going to turn him down.
“What's
up?”
“Well,
ya see, I'm on probation right and they're trying to page two my
ass.” Page two is a reference to when you violate your probation
and they prosecute you with it. It can mean increased probation
restrictions or an immediate return to jail or prison. Knowing that
he is being page two'ed does nothing to calm me.
“Ok”
I respond flatly.
“Well
the thing is it's not my fucking fault right.” He finishes the
sentence and then sits there waiting for me to ask why. Part of me
wants to see how long he will wait.
“What
happened” I choose to ask instead.
“Well
I was just chillin at my house, smoking some G.” He starts his
story off with him smoking meth and still thinks whatever happened
next isn't his fault. “…and I got this neighbor right. He's a
fucking piece of shit. You know I caught him beating the shit out of
his ten year old niece on his front lawn once so I went up to him and
knocked one of his teeth out because that's some fucked up shit
right. Well ever since then we don't get along to well. Now that
piece of shit doesn't do shit all day but get high and he leeches off
of his old lady who works like three jobs but he just takes the money
and blows it on dope and if she gets a little lippy then he puts his
filthy fucking hands on her. I mean does that shit sound right to
you?”
What
the fuck am I listening to? I decide to just shake my head.
“Yeah
so after I knocked his tooth out he tried to get the cops on my ass.
Like, I got a record because I fought my cousin once and I beat him
with my chain, but that shit should stay in the family and somebody
called the cops, probably my fucking neighbor. Whatever, so I did
time right, but I'm putting that shit behind me, ya feel? But I got
this probation on my back and they won't let me do shit, right so I
get to feeling like I'm locked in a fucking cage again even though
I'm on the outside and it's really fucking with my head. So like I
said, I was getting high, just minding my own shit right, I mean I
was at my house, I didn't start shit. But then I hear my neighbor and
he's all outside and shit calling my name. I don't trust that spick
fuck so I grab my chain and put it around my neck, let him know I'm
real right, and I go outside. He's trying to sound all neighborly
and shit, telling me he wants me to come over and see some kind of
shit, I don't know what the fuck he was talking about, but then he
says he's got some weed so of course I was like cool let’s hang and
I went over to his house. But like once I was in there I got a really
bad vibe you know. Like he wouldn't sit the fuck down or anything and
he wouldn't turn his back to me so I'm thinking what the fuck is with
this motherfucker right. Is he planning on jumping my ass or some
shit because I don't see no fucking weed right. So I step up right,
get in his face and ask him what the fuck his deal is right. Now he
acts all fucking offended and shit, like he didn't have any shady
shit planned right!? Well I'm not about that shit so I go to leave, I
mean, I'm on probation right, I don't need to be fucking with that
kind of shit so I try to do the right thing by leaving. Well that's
when his punk ass cousin comes in the living room. I guess he was in
the back playing video games and probably waiting to jump my ass but
since I made a scene to fucking early I must have ruined their
fucking timing and shit so he came wandering out unprepared for my
ass so I pulled off my chain and started giving my fucking war cry
and shit. Now they are all trying to tell me to calm the fuck down
and get the fuck out but that was just a cover cuz I know they
brought my ass there to pay my ass back but I wasn't having it.
Anyways, bitch ass spick neighbor gets too fucking close so I swung
my chain and I swear all's it did was wrap around his forearm but he
just hits the floor screaming right. That's when I figured out that
they didn't want to beat my ass they wanted to get me page two'ed and
locked the fuck back up so I just took off running. The fucked up
thing though was I dropped my chain so when the officers got there
they had my chain and they asked if I knew whose it was and I was
like that's mine officer, because I ain't no fucking liar and I
wanted to get my chain back anyways. Next thing you know they are
throwing me in cuffs and hauling me to this fucking hell hole. So
what do you think?”
It
takes me a moment to process that he even stopped the story. He said
everything so fast I could barely tell when he was stopping to take a
breathe.
“What
do I think about what?”
“You
know, like I got a good case right, I mean they entrapped my ass
right.”
“Uh,
yeah I guess you could go to the judge with that.” Holy shit.
“Well,
yeah, it's like I fucking said right, I was just sitting around my
house, I wasn't doing shit. But then he calls me over and promises me
weed and shit. I'm mean yeah we had beef in the past but...”
It
goes on like this over and over again for the better part of an hour.
He retells the story from the beginning although every time it
includes a different facet that wasn't there before or the situation
changes a little, sometimes making the meth head look better,
sometimes worse. At one point the story turned more into how he
thought the neighbor had been trying to put the moves on his
girlfriend and that's what motivated the fight, another time it seems
that they were almost related as the neighbor’s girlfriend could
have been the sister of his girlfriend. The details coming so fast
that they all tended to blur together a bit. The whole time I was
nodding in agreement and giving the occasional “yeah that's fucked
up alright” but overall doing as little as I could to inspire him
further. This was due to the first thing he said to me. He was on
probation. He wasn't sentenced like the rest of us and already headed
to jail. He was completely free this morning and has just been
arrested. Instead of being held with the others during intake he was
put here with us. Everyone else in our group I can view as relatively
safe because they already have their fates cast, but not this guy.
Add that to the fact that he is spun on meth and he is a virtual
powder keg waiting to go off. I quickly decided to tread carefully.
He only wanted advice because he believed I was experienced in law
and could help him. I was going to play that part as far as I could
to keep him calm.
Finally,
after what seemed like an eternity, a guard came to door and unlocked
it. Meth head disappeared with lightning speed and I could hear him
vaulting back up onto his bunk. The guard called out a name and I
could hear meth head respond.
“Yeah,
uh yes sir.”
“Grab
your blanket and step out of the cell.”
Meth
head scrambled to follow the directions but still managed to leave
the blanket behind on his first attempt. Once he was out the door
was shut again. Moments later we could hear the door to the block
opening and shutting signaling that he was definitely taken away from
our group.
Moments
later I started to hear snickering coming from the other bunks. The
snickering soon turned into laughter which in turn gave way to
uproarious laughter.
“Holy
shit! How fucking scared were you through that shit?” someone above
me asked.
“Yeah,
that was a fucking experience alright.” I responded letting out a
laugh that was more out of relief to have that end than anything
else.
“To
bad you guys didn't exchange information, be a shame to see a
friendship like that go to waste.” At that we all started roaring
again. It felt good to have the tension be broken. Everybody at that
point was chiming in their opinions.
“Dude
that guy was scary as shit.”
“Man
how did you stay so calm, I was up here and I was scared as hell!”
“What
the fuck was his deal”
“Are
you going to be his lawyer now?”
“Fuck
no!” I responded. “I didn't have the heart to tell him I just
watch a lot of cop shows!”
Soon
though our attention goes back to the naps we were all supposed to be
taking and we all start relaxing again. That idea was short lived
however, as a guard came shortly after to take all of us away. We
lined up and left the block single file, leaving our blankets in a
bin next to the door on our way out.
More
hallways and turns bring us to a room without any bars. My first
impression is that it feels like a locker room. Simple rectangle with
a metal bench going around the edge. However, at the back of the room
there is an officer looking at us through a pass through window and
behind him are tall piles of black and white striped uniforms and
pink underwear.
“Strip
down and keep your clothes in an organized pile, then line up to the
window and wait for your name to be called.”
This
was most definitely not part of the plan. At no time was I supposed
to surrender my clothes and I definitely was not supposed to wear
prison stripes and those damn underwear. Can't argue though so I do
as I am told and strip to my birthday suit like everyone else.
You
always have nightmares about standing naked in front of crowds but it
is incredibly easy when everyone else has to do it as well. Soon my
name is called and I go up to the window. He instructs me to show him
each piece of clothing I have as he documents them and I put them
into a plastic bag. The bag is then sealed and taken away from me and
I am handed my new uniform. Well it's new to me at least. I get one
striped shirt and matching elastic waist pants, a pair of those
damned underwear as well as a pair of matching pink socks and a pair
of orange rubber prison sandals.
I
sink back towards the wall and put everything on and then wait for
everyone else to go through the list. Afterword’s we are told to
line back up in a single file and the officers then begin to shackle
us. We get handcuffed and chains wrapped around our ankles, secured
with padlocks. We are then taken along another long trip through the
corridors. By this point I am completely turned around. It must have
been at least a ten minute walk this time, ending at a corridor that
actually did look a little familiar. Long, with a row of cell doors
on the right side. The officers stop at the first door and call out
three names. Those inmates are unshackled and put into the cells. The
door shuts behind them and the group moves to the next door where
names are called again. This time my name is on the list. My hands
and ankles feel good to be free again even if they were not locked up
for long.
This
holding cell is just like the one I went into after being finger
printed only it's a little bit longer. The cell was already almost
full by the time I got there and now it was overflowing. Still, I
managed to get a small spot to sit down on the floor that let me lean
against the bench that another inmate was sleeping on. Everyone in
this cell seemed exhausted and quiet. No grandstanding or loud
conversations. This group seemed to be made up again of mostly people
being processed in from their arrest. They are either waiting to see
a judge or have already seen the judge and are waiting to be
processed either out on the street or put into circulation, getting
rotated through cells until their next court appearance. It feels
like it should be after four pm so the chances of anyone else seeing
a judge today is almost zero so everyone seems to be settling down
for the night.
As
I sit there I too start to reluctantly accept the fact that my plan
has been completely tossed and have no idea when I will get out of
Fourth Ave.
Chapter
6
In
the mid fifties the kid's show Wallace and Ladmo started it's over
thirty-five year run on Phoenix's local television station, KPHO.
Every child growing up wanted to be a guest on the show or in the
audience so they could have a chance to win a coveted Ladmo Bag.
Ladmo Bags were given out to children for winning contests and such
and were filled with all the goodies kids loved. Soda, chips, candy,
even coupons to local family entertainment establishments, all packed
into brown paper bags with Ladmo Bag printed on the front. Not
getting a Ladmo Bag had become synonymous with having a bad child
hood. Of course the Maricopa Sheriffs department started referring
to the sack lunches that they handed out to inmates as Ladmo Bags
turning it into something an adult would never want to have.
A
Sheriff Joe Ladmo Bag was know to consist of an orange, a peanut
butter sandwich, a cookie, and a bottle of juice. Prior to getting
arrested, the only other detail that I knew about them was that the
juice was a very specific kind. It came in a barrel shaped plastic
container with a foil top lid. This kind of juice was wildly popular
with parents in the mid to late eighties because of how inexpensive
it was and the fact that kids downed it like crazy. The reason of
course being that it had no real juice in it at all, mostly just
sugar and added artificial flavorings.
It
must now be some time around six pm Because the door to our cell
opens and there stands two officers leading a pair of inmates on work
detail handing out the Ladmo Bags to the rest of the jail inmates, us
included.
Making
sure not to make any actual contact with us, even though several
inmates tried asking things like what time it was and when they were
getting moved, the two inmates on job detail scoop up armfuls of
Ladmo Bags and quickly hand them out to everyone in our cell. When
this lunch program was first instituted they used the generic
label-less brown lunch bags, hence the connection to the show's bags.
However today they just hand them out in clear, thin, plastic bags.
I
take mine and turn it over a few times to see what is in it. As
expected I saw a small loaf of wheat bread, a small plastic packet of
thick peanut butter, the juice barrel, the orange, and the cookie.
The cookie is what I was looking for because each of the last two
times I had the honor of having a Ladmo Bag the cookie was different.
First being an oatmeal cream and the second time being a much blander
ginger snap. I spot the ginger snap in my bag and frown.
Even
though the last thing I ate this morning was peanut butter and jelly,
I still eagerly start ripping apart my loaf of bread to spread the
peanut butter. It was after all twelve hours since I had eaten or
drank anything, not wanting to drink from the top of a jail toilet.
After ripping up the loaf I carefully reached back into the bag for
the peanut butter. In my experience the peanut butter was rarely
sealed right and if one was too eager to grab it they would end up
with it all over their hands. It was then that I noticed something
different. I had a second loaf of bread.
I
looked around and noticed I was, as far as I could tell, the only one
with a second loaf. My lucky day.
I
spread some peanut butter on the first loaf and started tearing into
it. It is so dry and thick that my first instinct is to rip open the
juice to wash it down, but that would be a mistake. The juice isn't
that big and you don't want to be left with that damn peanut butter
in your mouth after you were done. Instead I take another bite and
while I struggle to break that down, I start ripping open the orange.
Alternating bites between the sandwich and the orange gets it down a
lot smoother. Soon I'm down to the back up loaf, the cookie and the
juice.
The
guy next to me looks to be done with his and visually still hungry. I
nudge him with my elbow and hold out my extra loaf. He takes it with
a nod and starts tearing into it. This is how things develop in
confinement. All around me I can see people handing out their fruit
for trade or goodwill. Nobody knows anyone here and we all feel safer
making friends.
I
turn back to my ginger snaps. As I pop the first one in my mouth I
start to rip open the juice. The combining sugars make me near
blissful. After giving up drinking I went straight to food, in
particular, sweets. My diet having been mostly comprised of high
sugar content alcohol and mixers left my body craving them badly when
they were gone. Chugging a soda now gave me the same emotional fix I
used to get from filling a glass with sprite and vodka. Of course the
drinking had already given me a horrible health image and the eating
and soda consumption only served to worsen that so at current I was
roughly ninety-five pounds overweight.
My
physical health was something that was on my list of taking care of.
It was second though, to my mental health.
Soon
everyone was finished up with their meals and we started to try and
sleep a bit. If nothing entertaining is happening in the cell, which
more often than not there would be something going on, then everyone
usually tries to revert back to sleeping to help move the time along.
I
still didn't have enough room to lay down but after a while the
officers came in to stir the cells again and they moved just enough
people out of ours so that I could stretch out a little.
Around
me I could see other inmates take the toilet paper rolls from the
toilet in the back to use for pillows. Other inmates pulled off their
shoes or their jail sandals to use. Some were smart enough, and not
hungry enough, to eat their bread so they used that. I opted to just
use my arm and curled up.
If
I actually slept it was sporadic. It's nearly impossible for me to
actually relax right now since I have no idea what I'm doing here or
where I am going. Eventually though time does begin to pass. The cell
doors open from time to time to either move people in or out, but
nothing really changes until eleven-fifteen at night. I know it was
eleven-fifteen because the large black man that entered our cell at
that time proudly told us.
“Caught
a look at the deputies watch, It's eleven-fifteen right now.”
He
was met with mixed thank you's and groans as he made his way to the
center of a bench and asked them to make some room. I could
immediately tell the cell was going to liven up because this guy had
personality and judging by the look on his face he wanted to have
some fun. Tell some stories or jokes, that kind of thing. It would be
a welcomed change to the cell atmosphere so I pushed myself back up
to a sitting position and decided to start things off.
“Thanks,”
I said to him. “Where are you coming in from?”
“Processing,”
he replied. “Just finished getting my fingers printed by some fine
ass dark skinned girl with a fat ass!”
This
comment gets the attention of a few other inmates and soon a lively
discussion is engaged revolving around the body parts of the several
different officers currently on duty. The male officers of course
being degraded while the female officers were also being degraded,
albeit for different reasons. That runs it's course quickly though
and soon the “what are you in for” game starts up again.
Like
me, most people are in for DUI or drug related charges. There are a
few robbery and domestic abuse charges in here as well but none of
the inmates with more severe or violent charges are in jail stripes
yet, so they have been charged but not yet convicted. The only ones
that stand out to me are our large time keeper and a man leaning in
the corner who randomly yelled out “I was just trying to sleep and
those fucking cocksuckers spilled my booze and drug me in here!”
Nobody had asked him any questions before his outburst and nobody
seemed to want any further details after. He just went back to
rocking back and forth in the corner. In my opinion he was mentally
ill and probably homeless, something that almost everyone here had
picked up on as well, and when your locked in room with someone who
is mentally ill you don't want to do anything to encourage another
outburst.
Our
timekeeper friend was a different story though all together. The more
attention he received the more excited he got. Soon he was standing
up and pacing the cell. Giving out what looked like a comical lecture
on how to steal from different department stores. His favorite seemed
to be Walmart.
“Man,
I tell you, Walmart has been such a blessing to me and my family.”
He said as he strode around the cell. “Whenever we have been in
need, Walmart has been so wiling to just give us what we wanted. All
you have to do is look confident and you can walk out of there with
whatever you want. And they got a policy that says that if a suspect
crosses the threshold of the exit then they is free to get away with
whatever they want.”
Wanting
to keep him going, I continually kept asking him questions or hitting
him with jabs to keep him laughing and entertaining us.
“Quick
question.” I chimed. “What are you in here for again?” This was
met with laughter from the entire group as he had already told us
earlier that he was booked on suspicion of robbery.
“Hey
now, it ain't like that!” He flashed us a big old jolly smile as he
turned to me. “They brought me in on “suspicion” of robbery,
not robbery. Ya see what I'm sayin. They ain't got shit on me. I
mean, they know that I did it, which is true. I'm guilty as fuck! But
they can't prove that I did it. Shit, judge will probably throw it
out before my first court date.”
One
of the few inmates that was comparable to the large size of our
Walmart spokesperson asked the obvious question. “So what you gonna
give me to not testify that you confessed!”
“What
you want?” he replied incredibly fast. “TV? Laptop? I can get
whatever you want son! Tell you what, I'll get you one of those new
sound bars everyone's got! Blow the roof right off your trailer!”
“Hold
the fuck up” I managed say through my own laughter. “You can be
as confident as all hell, but if you try to walk out the front door
of Walmart with an expensive, unbagged item, they are going to ask
you for your receipt.”
“I'll
have a receipt motherfucker!”
“Yeah,
hows that?”
“I'll
go in, buy the sound bar, in cash, then leave. Then I'll come back an
hour later, go to the back and pick up the exact same sound bar, put
it in my cart and take it and the fucking receipt from the first damn
time right the fuck up to customer service. I'll tell them I decided
I didn't want it after all and get a refund. Simple as that. Lemme
ask you something. You ever go through a Walmart parking lot without
seeing a receipt someone just threw away? Hell I see them every damn
time and I check every damn one of them. Sooner or later you will see
one with a tv or some shit paid in cash. I grab that up, go right to
the back and find the exact same TV, go get paid son!”
Another
lovely skill that I would have never known about if I hadn't gone to
jail.
This
goes on for a bit longer, keeping us all entertained until finally
the door opens and it's my name that is called. This time it is a
short trip around a few corners and then I'm put back into the exact
same cell I was in when I learned how to cut Percocyt with lime
juice. Curious, I make my way to the back of the cell, where the
other door is and a couple of other inmates with stripes on are
gathered.
We
share a mix of head nods and “whats up's” and then I ask them
where they are headed. All of them say Tents. I start to get nervous
again thinking I must be close. This is a cell for people either
coming in or out of Fourth Ave and I am definitely done with the
coming in part. Plus I'm finally with a group of people in the same
process as me. Realizing this we quickly introduce ourselves.
There
is Pablo, a tall, thick Mexican. He tells us he is in construction
and got caught on his third drug charge and now will be doing a full
year in Tents on work release. That is the longest you can serve and
still be allowed to stay in Tents.
Next
is Brian. He is a young black man and this is his second time through
tents though he doesn't say what for. He says it is just for two
weeks though. He also comes off as being gay because of his
mannerisms. I wonder if he is afraid about how he will be treated
because of this, he doesn't seem to care though.
Then
there is John. John is still in his street clothes but he said he was
on the way to Tents just like us. John is a young upper middle class
white man going into Tents for a forty five day trip for his second
DUI as well but his story was a bit more interesting than usual.
“So
the cop pulls me over” he starts off as he pushes his long blonde
hair out of the way. “I was speeding so I figured oh well, I got
caught. He asks me for my license and registration and as I open my
wallet I immediately notice that I left my weed card on top.”
Arizona
is one of the states that had legalized the medical use of
Marijuana. To legally purchase or possess it you had to have a doctor
authorize it for you and then the state issue a card that would allow
you to purchase from approved dispensaries.
“So
the cop never takes his eyes off of my weed card, not even when he is
pretending to look at my paperwork. Finally he asks me if I smoked
any weed that day and I said no, that I hadn't smoked any since
yesterday. Big mistake. He asks me to get out of the car and runs me
through a sobriety test. Like I said, I was sober since the day
before so I passed without a problem. Well the officer disagrees,
tows my car so they can search it, even though if I did have weed on
me, which I didn't, it would have been legal to carry! Hauls me off
to jail and they blood test for weed. Test comes back positive.”
“But
you said you were sober?” I ask.
“I
was sober. Turns out in Arizona they don't have any laws on file for
THC to be active in your system to bust you for a DUI, you just need
to fail a drug test. Weed stays in your blood for up to a month after
you smoke it. As soon as the cop saw my card and I told him I had
smoked sometime in the near past he knew he had me dead to rights.”
“That's
fucked up son. Couldn't you fight that though?” Pablo asked.
“I
tried, my father and I spent over twenty thousand dollars on lawyers
but we came up dry. Until the laws for DUI's catch up with the
Marijuana laws people are going to get screwed. “
Such
a weird circumstance. Prior to ever getting a DUI, I saw a substance
abuse therapist and he wanted me to get a weed card. In his opinion
it would treat my depression and anxiety without destroying me like
alcohol did. Guess I could have been screwed either way.
A
few minutes later the doors opened and an officer came in with a list
of names. “When I call out your name, step out of the cell and line
up against the wall to get shackled. The bus to LBJ is leaving in
fifteen minutes and if you fuck around you will be left behind here
for another twenty-four hours.”
Lower
Buckeye Jail, or LBJ as it was always referred to as, was the closest
county jail to Tents City. I had always heard it was a rough place,
filled with violent offenders with short tempers and sentences.
Towards the end of the list of names, the officer called out Johns
name.
“But,
but I'm not going to LBJ.” He half asked.
“You're
on the list so step out and get shackled or rot here for another
day.” was the officers reply without ever even looking up from the
list.
Not
wanting to stay here, and who could blame him, John sullenly exited
the cell.
A
little bit more time went by, no idea how much, but eventually the
cell door opened and a new set of officers were there and this time
they were calling for inmates to step out and get shackled to board
the bus bound for Tent City.
Chapter
Seven
Pablo,
Brian, and I are all called out of the cell one by one then
handcuffed and shackled. As an added precaution we are all chained
together to prevent one of us from making a run for it. We are led
down a few more hallways before coming to a door that leads outside.
“We'll
be seeing you all again soon.” One of the officers said as they
were handing us off to the officers waiting outside the doors.
Brian
was the only one of us brave enough to voice what we were all
thinking. “Not me, I ain't never coming back here again.”
The
officer just gave a small chuckle and rolled his eyes. “Sooner or
later, everyone of you come back.” With that, he closed the door.
I
always wonder if that officer had really become jaded towards inmates
or if he was trying to inspire us to not come back in some way. If it
was what he was doing, it worked. I never wanted to step foot back
inside that jail again and his words helped to solidify my resolve.
The
officers take us through an underground parking garage. About a
hundred feet from the door is what looks like a brown school bus at
first glance. The gold sheriffs emblem on the side is unmistakable
though. So far in my short life of crime I have ridden in a police
car on my first trip to Fourth Ave and then in a police van on my
second trip. Now I get to ride in a bus.
As
we get to the door of the bus we are disconnected from each other one
by one and then led inside. Rather than the bus having seats like you
would expect to see, each side of the bus has a row of small cages.
Each cage is about a yard wide and has a seat that faces the front of
the cage. We are led to the back of the bus to our cages. Once
secured we sit and wait for a little while being only guarded by a
single officer who sits in the drivers seat. Of course we are all
shackled and locked in cages so it's not like we need much more than
that.
We
start back up with idle conversation again, making sure at first to
keep our voices low. Mostly we just make jokes about what it's like
to be be in a jail transport bus since we have all seen them in
movies and on TV. After a few more minutes the officer up front yells
for us to be quiet and reminds us not to talk to other inmates during
transfer. As he finishes we can see the door to the jail open up
again and as the light spills out we see the officers bringing
another string of inmates towards the bus. This time though, they are
female.
Four
in total. Like us they are led to the door of the bus then one by one
unchained from the rest and led to her personal cage, difference
being that their cages were to the front of the bus. There are maybe
ten cages total and then a row of seats in the front. Since we have
the three cages towards the back and they have the four in the front
there isn't that much room actually between us. As if realizing that
at the same time, the officer gives all of us another warning about
not talking during transport. Another officer joins the first and
takes the seat behind him as he radios in that we are on our way.
Soon the bus lurches forward and we are on our way.
It
is a cold night in Phoenix and the air in the bus is just as cold. I
can hardly tell though because I am too busy trying to catch a
glimpse out of the window to see where we are going. I know where
Tent City is but I'm nervous so I cannot help myself. Pablo on the
other hand doesn't seem interested in anything other than the girls
on the bus. He started talking to them in a whisper until he got one
to respond. She was the only one of the four that didn't look scared
or sad. Like most male inmates she seemed to have an almost hardened
look of calm about her. Whether it was an act or not she definitely
knew how to look cool in the situation. The other girls, none of them
look over 21, all seem lost and panicky. The only female jail I know
of is Estrella which doesn't have a very good reputation which would
explain their concern. A thought hits me though and I realize I have
no idea if women are permitted to serve in Tent City. I don't care
enough to ask anyone and Pablo is to busy trying to get a phone
number to ask her any questions that I might be able to overhear and
learn from so I just file that away for later.
The
entire trip takes maybe fifteen minutes before we get to the jail. We
pull up to a large chain linked fence that pulls open for us and then
closes again after we pass. The guards park near a building and then
begin to take the girls out of their cages and leading them into the
only door to the building we can see. We wait for a few minutes with
just the driver again until a pair of officers come out and do the
same thing for us.
Getting
out of my cage was a bigger relief than I thought it would be. I
hadn't realized how cooped up in there I was feeling until I got to
stand up and get out since I was so distracted with where we were
going. I am the last off the bus and I shuffle my way behind the
others through the door to the jail.
Inside
is a large oval room. There is a guards station to the left as we
enter and then holding cells line the wall to the right all the way
around to the opposite side where there is hallway headed out. In one
of the cells near the hallway I can see the heads of the women who
came before us.
As
one of the guards starts removing and collecting our shackles and
handcuffs another starts going through our paperwork. We are each
asked a few random questions to make sure we are who we say we are.
On the last two times I was being released from Fourth Ave they had
done the same thing only a bit more rigorous. It donned on me at the
time that at some point in time an officer let the wrong prisoner out
so now they had to double and triple check before release to make
sure it was the right inmate, a thought that to this day still makes
me smile. Now they are doing the same thing to make sure that we are
the right inmates coming into jail. The questioning isn't as intense
though, I guess more inmates are trying to get out of jail than in.
After
confirming who we are they move us to one of the cells near the rooms
entrance, on the opposite side of the room from the woman's cell.
There is already an inmate in our cell when we get there, an older
looking man with long hair who looks as exhausted as we do. The cell
itself is very small in comparison to what I had been in all day.
Circular and maybe eight feet in diameter. Again, another room
designed to hold us without letting us get comfortable.
After
the officers shut the door I find I cannot hold in my curiosity
anymore.
“So
is this Tent City?
“Kind
of” Brian said. “This is the processing room for both in yard and
release yard. Estrella too.”
“So
where do we go from here?'
“From
here we will get our bunk assignments then they will throw us on the
yard.” At this Brian leaned back. “That's it for me, I'm going to
in yard so I'll be stuck there for two weeks.”
“Not
me,” the older man interjected. “I'm getting furlough for my
thirty days, so I guess I will be on a different yard than you.”
Brian
just shrugs.
“Yeah,
we are heading to the release yard too,” I motion to Pablo. We
introduce ourselves. The older man is Marty. He is in on a page two
because he got in an argument with his ex wife and she called the
cops. Since he was on probation they rolled him up. The lawyer fees
would have been to expensive and the court was offering work furlough
so he took a deal.
So
far I have still been lucky. Whenever I have been asked about why I'm
in here I have gotten away with just saying a DUI. If anyone
questions why I'm doing thirty days for it I just say it's because I
go two in a row. This answer so far has satisfied everyone's
curiosity. Hopefully I will process out for release before anyone
gets to curious about it. After that I don't plan on doing much other
than eating and sleeping in here so I hope to avoid getting to close
to someone and them getting bored enough to want to know any more
details. It's not that I think it would be a bad thing if other
people knew what I did, I'm just too ashamed to tell them. I can
still hardly look at myself in the mirror so explaining it to
criminals in jail that I am locked up with is not something I look
forward to and will avoid if I can.
After
what seems like forever since all of our patience for sitting in a
room and staring has been exhausted, we are finally moved. Once
again we are pulled out of our cell and handcuffed. This time without
shackles. We are lined up and marched down the hallway.
The
officer leading us this time seems really relaxed compared to the
other ones that had been ushering us all day. Several times he turned
his back to us to open a door or lead us. This is another reminder
about where we are. Tents is low security for non violent short
timers. Who would want to risk being given a longer sentence locked
up in LBJ or Durango at this point? The officers know this. From here
on out they are our babysitters and we don't pose as much of a threat
to them.
After
a few gates and turns we come up to a few pallets of boxes filled
with empty water bottles.
“Grab
one bottle and keep moving,” the officer says, barely breaking
stride.
I
grab my bottle and quickly follow. The hallway itself feels like
being in a high school at night. Dark and quiet with similar scenery.
We pass by several rooms that are closed by doors rather than the
thick metal locking jail doors. At one point we pass through a hall
with one wall covered with windows. Passing by it quickly I can make
out bunks staked two high but other than that it is too dark to make
out what was inside.
The
officer brings us to a door finally that opens up into a brightly lit
cafeteria. Going through feels like stepping into a whole different
world. The cafeteria is lit just like the cells in Fourth Ave, bright
as hell. The first thing I notice is at the far end of the room, near
what looks like a large exit and restroom area are dozens of inmates
in stripes are fighting for position around a few sinks so they could
get enough soap and water to shave. The environment is loud and
chaotic, something I wasn't expecting. I'm so caught off guard I
don't hear the guard tell us to sit and have to be pulled to my seat
by Pablo.
The
walls surrounding the cafeteria are covered with lockers while the
entire floor has bolted down stainless steel tables with seats. We
take our seats at the table closest to the door we just came through
which is also near what looks like a glassed off bank teller window
that is so reflective you almost cannot see through it. Next to the
glass is a speaker.
“Stay
seated until the speaker calls out your name,” the officer states
and then he passes our paperwork through the teller window slot and
leaves through a door on the other side of the window. I'm shocked
that we are suddenly left unguarded. Nobody else seems to be bothered
by that fact. Brian however does give us all a mournful look.
“Hate
to tell you guys but you just got dropped off on in yard.”
Chapter
Eight
I
cannot even comprehend what Brian just said.
“In
yard” I say, half questioning.
“Yup,
in yard. You guys are in the wrong damn place.” he responds with a
cringe. “Everyone in here does their time inside only, no release.”
“Relax”
Pablo tells me, probably because he can see the worry on my face. “We
are probably still just processing. Last time I was here I heard them
calling people for furlough transfer all the time.”
Brian
just shrugged. “I hope you're right, for your sake's.”
Shit,
this was not part of the plan or anything I had heard could happen. I
can quickly start feeling my anxiety creeping up my spine and my
hands start trembling. I need to keep calm.
“What
are those guys over there doing?” I motion towards the guys
shaving.
“Food
factory guys. It's their job to go prep the food for the day so they
have to get up earlier than everyone else and get ready. They are
huge on shaving here so you gonna get checked every day.” Brian
said. “No beards or goatees allowed boys, sorry.”
I
run my hand over my goatee. I hadn't trimmed it in a few days so
shaving it off completely would not be fun. I can see Marty doing the
same thing.
Looking
around the rest of the cafeteria the only other things I notice of
interest are the two TV's mounted at the front of the room, one
playing ESPN and the other on the Weather Channel, and the two clocks
posted on opposite ends of the room. I am relieved to see that it is
three-thirty in the morning. Not that the time itself matters, just
the fact that I have access to a clock is reassuring.
We
wait at our table watching the food factory workers finish up getting
cleaned up and they work their way out the exit. I take note that in
between the two banks of sinks seems to be a large restroom area.
Everyone seems to make their way through it and I can see a urinal
from where I am sitting. I also notice that before going in, the
inmates have to go to the other side of the exit to a hanging chain
that holds several rolls of toilet paper and pull off a portion prior
to going in. I'm locked up with people that cannot be trusted with
toilet paper, nice.
To
the left of the bathrooms is another opening that looks from here to
be a shower room. It is almost halfway in the middle of the room so
everyone showering would be visible to the majority of people in the
room. Just great.
All
of the Food Factory workers finally finish up and exit the cafeteria
leaving the room unnervingly quiet. An occasional inmate comes in
from time to time to wander around but other than that there is
nothing else going on.
Eventually
the speaker breaks the silence by calling Marty up. He goes to the
glass and says “Yes Sir.” The only response is “bunk number
1512”.
“Are
we going to be moved to the furlough yard soon?” he asks but the
man behind the mirror doesn't seem interested.
“Only
thing I know is what your bunk number is.” And then he calls up
Brian. Next comes Pablo then finally me.
“Bunk
1904.”
As
he finishes an officer comes in from the exit and tells us to follow
him. We head out into the cold night and I get my first glance at
Tent City. Honestly it isn't much since all I can make out when we
exit the door is three military tents in front of us. It's to dark to
see any further.
The
officer leads us down a ramp to ground level and then takes us around
the corner of the cafeteria. A little bit further and we are taken
into a large gated cage area. Once inside the officer tells us to
strip.
I
know I live in Arizona but it is late January and four in the morning
so it's not likely to be over forty degrees outside. A few days in
the past week when it rained it got below thirty even. So being asked
to strip naked outside isn't something I was keen on doing. I don't
have time to object however because the officer sees me hesitating.
“I
said strip, now!” he yells as he pushes me forward.
Not
wanting another push I start peeling off my clothes.
“Toss
your dirties into the hamper on the right. Keep your sandals and
follow me.” The four of us follow him, naked and shivering, over to
a wall filled with clean sets of clothes.
“Grab
a set of thermals, stripes, socks and underwear. Fast.”
This
time we don't need any added encouragement. The four of us start
rummaging through the piles looking for the right sizes. This time we
are adding thermal pants and shirt to the uniform which is a welcomed
addition giving how cold we are.
Once
dressed we are told to move further down the line and grab three
blankets. Of course they are pink. They also hardly qualify as
blankets being barely thicker than sheets. After our arms are full of
them the officer points towards the exit to the laundry area and
flatly says “go find your bunks.”
And
that is it. The officer is staying behind and we are being sent out
in the dark to find our tents and bunks. Luckily for us Brian and
Pablo have been here before. Brian helps Marty find his tent while
Pablo takes me since we are in the same one.
“Try
to keep quiet when we get there. Don't want to make a first
impression by waking everyone up early.” He stops in front of a
tent and opens the flap half way and looks at the floor before
shaking his head and shutting the flap.
“The
numbers are written on the floor of the entrance. First two numbers
are the tent number, last two are the bunk number. I'm
nineteen-oh-one so tent nineteen first bunk. Bunk numbers start at
the bottom left near the entrance. Bottom bunk is one, top bunk is
two and so forth going around the room. Bunk numbers should also be
painted on the bunks but we won't be able to see them.”
“My
bunk is nineteen-oh-four, so I should be next to you only on top
right?”
“Yeah.”
We
reach another tent and he peaks inside again. This time he must see
the right number because he looks back at me and gives me a thumbs up
then pushes the rest of the way through the flap.
I
follow, trying to be as quiet as I can. It is almost completely dark
inside so I stop as soon as I am in to see if my eyes will adjust. It
helps a little bit and I can now make out the shape of the bunks
lined up on both of my sides. Remembering what Pablo said, I reach
out with my left hand and feel the metal bunk. I can feel it shift as
Pablo gets settled in his bunk on the bottom. I reach forward and
feel the first bunk end and then after a moment of drifting in midair
I make contact with the next bunk.
I
stop and listen and soon hear someone breathing on the bottom bunk.
My eyes haven't adjusted enough yet so I move as carefully and slowly
as I can get into my bunk.
I
move closer to the bunk and I can see there is a plastic coated foam
mat on top of the metal frame but nothing else. I put my blankets on
the mat and try to unfold them to cover the entire mat. I have no
idea if it is clean or not and don't want to risk it.
It's
not the easiest task though. My body hasn't recovered from being
exposed to the cold yet and I'm shivering bad enough to make my
movements harder to control. Eventually I feel that they are straight
enough and decide to try and climb in. The inmate below me is laying
with his head towards the middle of the room so I move towards the
wall of the tent hoping that if my footing slips it wont bother him
to much. I poke around with my foot and find a small metal panel at
the very end, probably there to keep the mat in place. I push off of
it as I grip the top bunk and end up sliding up to the top rather
than hopping. It has to look ridiculous. I'm just glad I made it up
on my first try. Pablo is probably a foot taller than me and they put
him on the bottom while my short fat ass has to jump up to the top.
As
soon as I get up my entire blanket set up falls apart. Nothing is
anchored down so every move I make just makes it worse. I am trying
to keep one blanket on the bottom while using the other two for a
pillow and a top blanket. After tossing for a minute I become to
afraid that of waking my bunk mate so I get up on my knees and spread
one blanket out. Then I quickly lay on it and throw the other two on
top of me and give up on the idea of a pillow. My feet are still
hanging out and that is when I realized that my sandals are still on.
I reach down and pull them off, making one last ditch effort to
cover my feet up and then I realize that I have no idea what to do
with the sandals so I just kind of tuck them next to me and try to
close my eyes.
The
cold is still overwhelming, keeping my body tense. Not to mention
that my anxiety is killing me since I have no idea where I am or when
I am getting to where I need to go. It is cold, dark, and I am
surrounded by sleeping strangers all of which are convicted
criminals. I have been up now for almost twenty-four hours but sleep
seems no where in site. I lay there shivering, wondering if my wife
is able to sleep. I hope she is not too worried about me. I hope she
is warm, safe, and sleeping. Three things I'm not.
For
the first time today I have no expectation of someone coming at any
moment to move me to somewhere else so I try to relax and look around
a bit. The cold doesn't subside however and soon I find myself
pulling my blankets over my head to try and trap more heat underneath
them.
And
there I stayed until Kate Smith woke me up.
Chapter
Nine