 illustration by Bernadette Noll |
are you in for? “Uh, my husband went through a red light on his bicycle and I wouldn’t tell
the cop who he was.”
“You mean where he was.”
“No. I didn’t know where he was, I wouldn’t tell them who he
was.”
This was my first night ever in jail and I was in shock. Jail was the stuff of
movies, not of my life. But here I was in the slammer, the Big House, the Cage,
with no way out. (I know, I know — those terms refer to the state prison but
allow me just this one exaggeration.) I had made my allotted phone call and was
told, both by those on the inside and the outside, that there was nothing I
could do but sit out the night and hope to get out in the morning. I was
“unhobbyable,” which meant no amount of money, power, celebrity, or lawyer
connection was going to get me my freedom.
After this reality sunk in, I became resigned to the situation and went along
with the rules as best I could determine what the rules were. They seemed to
change from officer to officer. One officer wanted silence, one wanted answers
and wanted them fast. This one joked a bit, that one was more serious than
cancer. When first brought in, I had tried to make my own rules. I let my
Taurus, New Jersey, one-of-nine-children/speak-out-or-lose-out attitude take
over. This did not make me any friends, but hell, they weren’t going to let me
out — no matter what I kissed — so what did I have to lose?
When I asked about my rights, I was told, “You have the right to remain
silent.” This got quite a chuckle from several nearby officers. I didn’t know
that Texas law now says that they have something like 24 hours to read you your
rights. The one cop that I did know, from serving him free breakfast for the
last four years at a local cafe, denied ever having seen me before. This beat
all, including me. But they couldn’t take my dreams! And I dreamed of hot
coffee spilling all over certain parts of this man’s anatomy.
“This way, ladies!” A very large, tightly panted female cop led us into the
changing room. (My advice to the women cops is that they request a new tailor.
Those pants do nothing for the female physique.) She barked at us in a
monotonous, memorized manner.
“Take one of these outfits, small, medium or large. Take off all your clothes,
including your underwear and put them in a brown bag. Do not look around. Do
not talk. Just strip and dress. Come on. Come on. Move it.” All six or seven of
us did exactly as she said with nary a word to her or each other. We, all sizes
and ages and all walks of life, shed our street clothes and donned the lovely
gray polyester pajamas and non-matching sandals. And I don’t mean the shoes
didn’t match the outfit, I mean they didn’t match each other. I slipped one
foot into a size 9 and one into a size 7. Immediately, my feet began pouring
sweat inside the much-used plastic scuffs.
The next order of business was our bed supplies. We were marched single-file
through the linen room (and I use the term “linen” loosely) where we were told
to grab a blanket from the hundreds stacked on the shelves. I pick out a lovely
gray poly/wool blend number. Not that I had much of a choice. They all looked
the same to me. I felt its warmth and pulled it close to my body. “Ah,” I
thought, “fresh from the dryer.” Upon pulling it close to my face and inhaling
what I thought would be its freshly washed scent I realized that it was
actually fresh off the last body to use it. It reeked of someone’s sweaty bed
and caused visions of parasites to dance in my head. We were then issued our
thin, blue mats and led off to our cells.
I was led next to my jail cell built for two in which there were already
three sleeping bodies. Not a one of these girls was too happy to make room for
me. But after some unkind words and a not-so-gentle prod from the boot of the
jail maven, enough room was made for me so that my head would lie just inches
from the stainless steel toilet. In the ensuing scuffle and shuffle of mats and
blankets, our possessions apparently got mixed up. “You’ve got my blanket.”
“How do you know?” I asked. “They’re all the same.”
“No. I picked a soft one and this one is nubby and scratchy. I picked that
one out special.” Obviously, she had done this before. I didn’t argue. I took
my blanket back and realized she was right. My blanket was rough. This was
something I needed to know and I didn’t remember being taught in kindergarten.
I lay down, kicked off my slippers, and prayed for sleep.
Sleep would not come. It was hot and dirty and the foul smell crusted
inside my mouth and nose. I couldn’t toss and turn, for any movement would put
me flush against the toilet. I thought of ways I had seen them pass the time in
prison movies but I didn’t think my cellmates were in the mood for a good ol’
gospel tune. I lay stone-still and alternately stared at the ceiling and under
the bunk, rehashing the evening’s events. A sharp piece of metal protruded from
under the steel bunk and for just a fleeting moment, I considered cutting
myself. Not to kill myself, it wasn’t that bad, just to bleed enough so they
would have to take me out of here. Maybe a nice clean bed at Brackenridge. Oh,
sweet and precious sleep! Where were you when I needed you most?
I thought to myself that I would pay anything for something to read. Even the
phone book would have been welcomed at this point. Apparently, I hadn’t just
thought it, I had said it out loud. “For what?” grunted my floor mate,
evidently unfamiliar with the concept of an entertainment device that didn’t
require a remote control.
“For something to do. To pass the time. To make me forget where I am.”
“Oh. You like to read?” I would have liked to have known how to respond to
that.
I forced my eyes to close but my mind would not. The sounds coming from in,
out, and around the jail were not exactly conducive to sleep. Somewhere, a man
sniffled and snorted and cried like a baby. And I do mean like a real
baby. He gasped for breath and sounded like he was going to swallow his
own tongue. At one point, he even yelled that he wanted his mama. Finally,
sleep came amidst the scattered shouting, crying, moaning, and gibberish. I was
awakened at what I thought was the next day. So happy was I that sleep had
finally come, the night was over.
Never so sad was I to be wrong. The night was not over. It was breakfast time, yes, but it was
still only five in the morning. I was up now and it was something to do, so I
ate and then tried to sleep some more. Every 15 or 20 minutes they called out
names, opened doors, or yelled out orders. A girl in the next cell started
crying frantically because she missed the bus to County. I later found out from
many of the girls that County is much preferred to City. County is freer.
County has a yard. County has television. County has a magazine and book cart
and candy! I fell asleep and dreamed of County.
After what seemed another eternity my name was called. This was music to my
ears. I was getting out. I was free! Freedom wasn’t just another word for
nothing left to lose, it was a very tangible thing! I vowed to never again take
my freedom for granted. From now on, I would use my time wisely. I would be
kind to strangers. I would do good deeds. I was filled with the same feelings I
remembered feeling upon walking out of the dark confessionals of my childhood.
Full of hope and goodness and light.
But wait! If I am free, why the handcuffs?
“You ain’t getting out. You’re just going for prints and a photo. Ever been to
Glamour Shots?” So my prints and photo were put in my permanent record. Like
the “F” I got in 10th-grade gym class for smoking in the locker room, these
things would forever follow me through life.
It was now about 10am and I wondered when the end would come. I could only
wonder, for none of the guards was willing to share any details. When I was led
back in to the locked hallway, off which sit the cells, it was chaos. Well,
comparative chaos. The individual cell doors were open. Everyone was milling
about, chatting with each other and talking on the phone. I overheard a woman
actually making a drug deal with somebody on the outside. Well, ain’t this the
convict’s striped pajamas! We could make as many phone calls as we wanted, to
whomever we pleased.
My first call was to my own house. I still didn’t know for sure if my husband
had been arrested. No response. What I learned from this call was that each
transaction was opened with “This Is A Collect Call From A Correctional
Institution.” This surely limited who I would call. My parents, for
example, were definitely ruled out. I repeatedly called my dear friend Spike,
who accepted all my calls. My conclusive evidence on my husband’s arrest came
from her, as she was also accepting calls from him. We couldn’t have planned it
any better.
Back in the cellblock I happily joined in the boisterous conversations. The
ice was instantly broken by our common abhorrence for the system and by the
fact that most of us seemed to believe we had been duped. We shared our arrest
stories and some bits and pieces of our lives. Together, we figured out a way
to use the sandwich bag from breakfast as a hair tie. With my short hair I
didn’t need hair accessories, but I helped others assemble and apply their
bows. We laughed and shared as only women can do. I later learned from my
husband that the atmosphere in the men’s block in no way resembled the women’s.
They stayed in their cells, did not converse and were forced to give their
cookies to a large felon coming down off heroin.
The same girl whose blanket I had erroneously swiped showed us all how to peg
our pajama bottoms and roll up our shirts into a nice little cap sleeve. We
looked good! If someone had walked in they would have thought they were at a
bridal shower. We were not what anyone would call hardened.
Some of the multi-timers gave advice to us first-timers. They calmed us and
explained to us the system. One girl, who had spent some time in the real
Big House, for various crimes usually relating to checks and other items
which did not belong to her, assigned nicknames to a few of us. I was
christened Bicycle. I blushed at her blessing. I may have been locked up but I
was in! In my junior high days these were the girls I longed to be like and
longed to be liked by. Even now, at age 30, I felt the joy of their acceptance.
As the day passed, we were called in groups to appear before the judge. Here
is where we were finally read our rights. Actually, we were not read our
rights, we were video’d our rights both in English and in Spanish. Here
is also where we were finally told our actual crime and how much it would cost
to get out.
I was charged with a Class A misdemeanor for impeding apprehension, and let
out on personal bond. This, I found out from one of my cellies, was just one
step below a felony. My cellies were beside themselves with laughter and
surprise. For theft, hot checks, prostitution, and drugs they received lesser
sentences than I, a woman on a bike whose husband, also on a bike, had run a
red light. My husband, I found out from Spike, received a Class B misdemeanor.
Also less than mine. Hmmm.
After receiving all of this info we were again led back to the cells. The end
did not seem to be in sight or if it was, nobody was telling me. If there was
a true method to this madness, it eluded me. Now, night came again and I was
beginning to fantasize my escape. We were still allowed to lounge about the
hallway however, the new guard incessantly threatened us with our cells if we
didn’t calm down. She feared our festivities and so forbade them.
All day, and now evening, I had been bidding farewell to my cellies one at a
time. As each got out, a cheer erupted. The good-byes were hearty but hasty. No
time to linger. You go on, girl! Be good! Good luck on the outside! Don’t let
them get you down!
Finally, it was my turn. I waved and ran out of the cellblock. I slithered my
greasy self to the checkout desk where my clothes and my belongings were
re-issued to me. In a dark closet, I shed my prison PJs and put on my overalls.
I stank like I had never stunk before. Three or four bologna sandwiches, mixed
with the smells of the cells, the rankness of the blankets, and the odor of a
person hermetically sealed in a cement cage had given me a toxic stench and an
odd iridescent sheen. It was a smell I had never experienced before and I hope
to never again.
When I was handed my green knapsack I smelled the pound of French Roast coffee
I had purchased just before being brought in. Up until the handcuffs, it had
all been so normal, so routine. I was on my bike running the errands of Jane Q.
Citizen: bank, post office, grocery store, etc. Already it was all like a bad
dream. I was glad for the coffee and I buried my face in it in hopes of
eradicating the aroma which completely assaulted my olfactory.
Twenty-three hours after
my first encounter of the cop-kind, I exited to freedom and found my husband
awaiting me with his tail between his legs. We walked to the closest pint. It
tasted of the freedom of which I dreamed. After this quick, sweet beer we
walked back towards the station to retrieve our bicycles. We would ride off
into the moon and get far away from this hole I could only call Hell. This was
the type of place the nuns spoke of so often during my 12-year stay in the
parochial school system. They never told us it existed on earth.
We approached the claims desk and requested our bikes. After a bit of
paper-shuffling and a couple of brief phone calls by the officer, he informed
us that there was absolutely no way we could get our bikes out until Monday.
“And besides that, we might just hold them as evidence.” We walked out
dejected, dirty, disillusioned, defeated, disbelieving. We prepared ourselves
for the long walk home when there appeared, like a beautiful angel of mercy,
the colossal 1967 Chevy truck which belonged to our dear friend Spike. We
jumped in, not even asking how she knew we would be here and now. She knew
probably before we knew. Silently, we three drove across the river. It wasn’t
funny, yet.
Eventually, we received our bikes back from the police. Mine was returned the
following Monday morning but not without great hoops set before me at each
department desk. Nobody seemed quite sure what steps to take to get my bicycle
out of lock-up. I thought it odd that they hadn’t yet established a system
after so many years of policing. My husband’s bike, however, was not released
for two weeks. Kind of a drag since these bikes were not just our main form of
transportation, but our only means. Repeatedly, we were told to come back
tomorrow. Fourteen tomorrows I returned. I talked to countless faces and
desks. The final desk I encountered was manned by two kind, funny, human men.
They joked and talked with me as if we were all in this together. Through all
the mess, they actually made me laugh. This is my public thank-you to them.
Four months later, we finally made it to court accompanied by our amazingly
adept attorney. My husband was going to be let off with a traffic ticket. His
fine was paid by his time in jail. I received the same, although the officer
who arrested me (I’m still not sure which one of the nine who surrounded me was
the actual arresting officer) wanted probation, a large fine, community
service, and for me to take stress management classes. He didn’t like my
attitude.
I guess he’s never been to New Jersey.
This article appears in January 17 • 1997 and January 17 • 1997 (Cover).