This was my first night ever in jail and I was in shock.
This 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
one 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 means no
amount of money, power, celebrity or lawyer connection was going to get
me my freedom.
After this reality sunk in I became resigned and went along with the
rules as best I could determine what the rules were. They seemed to
change from officer to officer. This one wanted silence, that 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
twenty-four 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. 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, tight-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 monotone, memorized method. "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. 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 filed 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 original blanket back and realized she was
right. My blanket was rough. This was something I needed to know and I
don't remember being taught this 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 cell mates
were in the mood for a good old gospel tune. 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, apparently foreign to 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.
Finally, sleep came, but it didn't last long. I was awakened at five in the morning — breakfast time. I was up now and it was something to do, so I ate and then tried to sleep some
more. Every fifteen to twenty minutes they called out names, opened
doors or yelled out orders. One girl, in the next cell, started crying
frantically because she missed the bus to County. I found out later
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! 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'm, 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 my picture were put in my permanent record. Like the "F" I got in tenth grade gym class, for smoking in the locker room, these things would forever follow me through life.
It was now about ten a.m. and I wondered when the end would come. In 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 pajamas!
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. If someone had walked in they would've thought they were at a bridal shower. We were hardly what anyone would call hardened. 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.
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 related 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
thirty, 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 videoed 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
|
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 girl on a bike whose husband,
also on a bike, had run a red light. My husband received a Class B misdemeanor. Also less than mine. Hmmm.
|
My husband received a Class B
|
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 goodbyes 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 cell block. I
slithered my greasy self to the checkout desk where I was reissued my
clothes and my belongings. In a dark closet I shed my prison p.j.s 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.
Such a smell I had never smelled before and I hope to never smell
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 twelve-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. Silently we three drove across the river. It wasn't funny, yet.
Eventually we received our bikes back from the police. 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.
|
Bernadette Noll lives in Austin with her husband Kenny and their daughter Lucy. After five months of life, Lucy has no record to speak of.
|
|
