Middle-Class Whiteboy Goes to Jail

The average person can sit with hands cuffed behind his back for a minute with minimal discomfort. After five, 10 or 15 minutes you really have to work at not freaking out.

The backseat of a police car is a lonely place; it's a mini-jail on wheels. You want the police to finish taking their report from witnesses on the street and get it over with so whatever is going to happen to you will happen. The windows are shut and it gets stuffy. People casually walk and drive by as free as you please, oblivious to the fact that other people in the world are wearing handcuffs. Thankfully it's 2 a.m., so the few people on the street in my neighborhood can't see me sitting in the patrol car in front of my apartment.

When the car starts rolling, you want the cops to drive faster. When you get to the station, they'll remove the cuffs; you know that, you've seen movies. But they cruise slowly down the deserted streets. You can't tell them to step on it. This isn't a cab. The two cops up front might be transporting a load of wood for all the interest they show in their passenger. They're practiced at ignoring all sorts of characters.

When you get to the station, you walk up the steps and see plainly dressed folks coming out. In real life, you interact with others in a split second, sizing them up and simply seeing who's who as you go through your day. You're who you are, your job, your life situation, your hairstyle, your clothing, your body, your facial attitude, the particular destination you're headed to that day. You're not used to people looking at you with your hands cuffed behind your back; that's not one of your usual outfits for the day. People look at you with a mix of curiosity and judgment.

I was animated when I was first placed in the holding cell. I figured this was the first and last time I'd ever be in jail and so I ought to absorb the whole experience, the better to write about it later. I asked a lot of questions. The police aren't really interested in interacting with prisoners a lot. They don't care what your name is, beyond getting it spelled right on their forms, who you are or what you do for a living.

With nothing to do, I stood right up against the bars and read all the little hand-written signs various cops had posted for the others, like This is not a pigsdye. Whenever a new cop appeared to ask me more questions, I'd straighten up with full alertness and answer in a clear, well-modulated voice, the better to let them know I wasn't a lowlife prisoner like some others they must have seen.

When I got bored absorbing my surroundings, which happened in about three minutes, I lay down on the bench of my cell and tried to sleep. The bench wasn't long enough for me and I'm only 5-9, so I crossed my legs and put my feet up on the wall. I closed my eyes but not for long. A cop came in and told me it was time to do my photo and fingerprints, which went quickly. While they were printing me, I looked down and saw the Polaroids they'd taken. I was surprised at how unhappy my face looked. I didn't feel that bad.

I was then able to call Jen, my fiancee. I lied and told her I was fine. I'd be home tomorrow, after the arraignment. The cop motioned for me to make the call short, and I hung up.

So far, so good. It was all a major pain in the ass but nothing I couldn't handle. I'm no buttercup, I told myself.

Then it all changed. A tall, skinny officer led me toward the back of the station after I'd hung up the phone. This was a surprise. I didn't know there were more cells. I'd gotten used to the front cell and felt I could sleep there with no real problems. As we walked to the back, the space got dimmer and the air grew stale. I began to pick up that smell common among the homeless, the sort of stench that drives subway riders to move to another car.

We came to the holding cells, where the fluorescent lights were blinding and intense. There were no empty rooms in the six-cell block, so the cop walked me back to the first one. The officer unlocked the door with an enormous key, I crossed the threshold and the door slid shut behind me. I stood, now disoriented, a little in shock. The cell was about 7 by 5 feet long. The other tenant was a husky Hispanic man lying on the wooden bench wearing shorts and a t-shirt. He was on his back and his eyes were closed.

The walls were covered with graffiti, which puzzled me. They'd stripped me of everything I had in my pockets, along with the laces from my shoes. How had prisoners obtained magic markers? An open window down the hall let cold air in. I was grateful for the circulation; the toilets had no flushing mechanisms. Waste had to be eliminated by a guard pulling a cord outside the cell. This meant that if anyone did anything in the toilet, there it stood until the guards decided to flush.

The Hispanic man spoke without opening his eyes. He said he was cold. I think that was his way of saying, "I acknowledge there is now another person in this cell." At first I didn't know whether or not to respond. Then I answered, "Yes." The sound of my own voice startled me. "Fuckin' bastards won't give me a blanket," he said. I didn't say anything. I decided that if I went to sleep, I wouldn't have to interact with my roommate, not knowing if he was a rapist, a murderer or a derelict. Since he had the only bench, my bed was the uneven, peeling concrete floor. I decided I'd rather have my head near the cell door than next to the toilet. I used my two hands as a pillow. I stared at the ceiling. In contrast to the walls, it was spotless, except for that black dust common to any wall or ceiling surface in New York City. There were spiderwebs between the bars next to my head. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

There is no such thing as sleep in jail. That peace, that feeling of concluding another day of your life, letting yourself drift into unconsciousness in a bed, in your home, doesn't exist. When your body becomes exhausted you will fall into a state that isn't exactly awake but isn't sleep either. The state can last for a few seconds or as long as an hour. It produces no renewed vigor.

At 7 a.m. we were awakened for a cup of root beer and a bun with bologna. I threw the root beer and the bun in the toilet and ate half the bologna. My cellmate told me he was in jail for drug possession. He'd been in the cell for 17 hours. When he was done eating, he reached into his pants and pulled out a packet of heroin. He ripped it open, sniffed up the contents in four quick snorts, then licked the package, crunched it up and threw it on the floor. "Fuckin' assholes missed it after three searches," he said.

We were led from our cells. There were eight prisoners; a quiet night, one cop told me. During a street parade when people get drunk and disorderly, the cell I had spent the night in can house as many as 10 prisoners, all standing up, all through the night, all vomiting, raving, high and drunk.

I eyed my fellow prisoners. They looked dead, beaten, barely functioning. I half hoped to meet some colorful characters, the Morgan Freeman of Shawshank Redemption, the Birdman of Alcatraz. But most of this crew were just plain dope addicts, and most of what came out of their mouths was complaints. These guys had been in and out of jail so many times, there was nothing new or interesting about it.

We were searched again. A cop handcuffed me to my roommate, who in turn was handcuffed to a third man, a fortysomething black man in filthy clothes. They led us out of the building toward a paddy wagon. It was now daylight. I hoped no one would see me. This shit was no longer amusing.

The paddy wagon turned out to have compartments separated by strong sections of fence; they are designed to keep prisoners away from each other, and also to separate male and female prisoners. Our compartment was made for two people and my former roommate didn't like it. They closed the door and he started yelling. I spoke in his ear as if to a small child. "It's okay man, it won't be very long, everything is going to be all right," and he quit. After a few minutes of silence, he began to shake. I really hoped he wouldn't throw up because there was literally nowhere to move. But he closed his eyes and simply quivered.

I looked at the other guys. Everyone was wearing shorts and everyone had massive scabs all over their arms and legs from shooting dope. A few minutes later a female cop escorted six women into the van. The fellows came alive. "Hey, baby, you can sit back here, plenty of room!" "Ssssssssss!" "Good morning, beautiful!" The women didn't acknowledge. I surveyed the ladies. Two young and attractive, one huge Hispanic woman, three older black ladies. All hard as nails, all as beaten down as the men. One was the girlfriend of one of our group; they'd been arrested together. They spoke to each other in Russian.

?

We drive a short distance to where a judge is going to see us. I'm told I'm lucky; this is a new building with a nice jail. They're right. There are no bars, just plexiglas, and a glass door instead of a sliding steel door. The room is large and all the men are led in. The toilet affords a modicum of privacy with a steel partition, and there's a stainless steel sink. There is also a pay phone. I start to feel a little more human. The phone doesn't work; every prisoner has a go at getting a dial tone, to no avail. I try leaving the receiver off the hook for a few minutes. I stand next to the phone and listen. After a couple of minutes I hear a dial tone. I'm a hero; the room cheers.

It's 8 o'clock; they tell me there's a light load of prisoners and that they expect things to move right along. Until then, there is nothing to do, nothing to look at except other guys sitting there. Christ, what a scraggly, ugly bunch. I stretch out on the floor. Nine o'clock comes. Ten, 11, 12,12:45. New faces appear, more heroin addicts, turnstile jumpers, two guys in for assault. The judges are going out to lunch at 1. I'm really, really sick of looking at the people I'm in jail with. I've long since noticed everything there is to absorb about this jail. I'm ready to process the experience, ready to move on. But I'm still here. I'm still not the boss. The blue sky looks especially wonderful through the bars of the window. I pace. I stop answering questions posed to me by any prisoner about anything unless it's something intelligent. Addicts are really boring and they talk a lot of shit. All they do is blame their situation on other people. They talk about how nice Rikers is, how they give you a bed and a tv.

I think about what it takes for me, a working person with a future and a life, to produce rent in New York City. Then I think of what it must be like for a heroin addict to try to produce rent, a job, a relationship, a life, and I see how jail is much, much simpler for these repeaters. One of the guys has been socked in the left eye; he has a huge bruise and the white of his eye is bloody red. I can't stand to look at him when he talks to me; I can't relate to what it must be like to have received a blow like that, followed by 12 hours in jail, instead of having a beautiful, sweet, loving woman like Jen to put you in a bath, give you an ice pack, hug you and help you heal.

The judge won't be back until 2, and that means I may not get seen until the end of the day. One of the guys with me was here all day the day before, didn't get seen, and spent another night in the tiny jail back where I'd come from. I get up and pace compulsively. Life becomes about small things: I want a cup of coffee; I want to talk to someone who isn't an automaton, someone whose entire life isn't a car wreck, someone who isn't doomed. Mostly I want to go home. I go into the toilet area, cover my face with hands and stand there breathing.

Suddenly my face screws up and tears start to come, silent drops falling down over my downturned mouth. I'm so, so, so, so sorry I tried to get that screaming couple on my street to go away; I should have settled for calling the cops as I'd done, and let the police do their job. But it was 1 a.m. and I'd been startled out of a sound sleep by an argument that was just going on and on. At first I had yelled at them to shut the fuck up; they had shouted back, and fired a bottle at the sill of my window, where it shattered and sent glass into our bedroom. Furious, I threw a section of a clay pot down onto the street, followed by a piece of plastic pipe. I was not aiming for the perpetrators; I just wanted them to leave.

I didn't hit any cars and the streets were deserted. But I'd been seen, and other people had called the cops. I went back into my apartment and back to bed. The cops showed up?one, two, three, four patrol cars. Four burly cops rang my doorbell. I opened the door and told them I was the one who had called them. They said there was a report of someone throwing debris off the roof. I gulped and denied it. They went up to the roof, came back down, rang my bell and said that in the future, just call the police and don't do anything like tossing stuff out windows. I thanked them and went back to bed.

Ten minutes later my bell rang again. Two sheepish cops said that the young lady wanted to press charges against me; she said a piece of debris had hit her and injured her arm. "I think she's full of it, but they want you to come down so they can say whether it was you or not. You fit the description." I looked at the cop. He wouldn't look me in the eye, and I knew what was going to happen. I put shoes on, grabbed my wallet and told Jen I might have to go to the station house, not realizing what that really meant. I kissed her goodbye. "I love you," she said.

I was charged with assault, possession of a deadly weapon, mayhem, harassment and reckless endangerment. The assault charge was a felony.

Now, 12 hours later, I was sitting with my face in my hands. All the others had been seen by the judge and either released or sent to a larger jail. A guy I'd been handcuffed to came back into the cell full of rage; they'd set bail for him at $1000. He didn't have it, so he was looking at another three days in jail until the sentencing. He'd knocked his ex-girlfriend, who had an order of protection against him, off her bicycle and punched her in the nose. "Stupid bitch. I don't know why she starts with me." He paced the room.

Finally I heard the most beautiful sound, the sound of my name being called. I spoke to the Legal Aid counsel and told her my side of the story. Up we went to the court. I slicked my hair, did a couple of jumping jacks and tried to look alive, responsible and respectable.

The D.A. wanted to set bail at $2500. My counsel told my side of the story. The judge made me sign an order of protection agreeing to stay away from the person who claimed to be injured; a ridiculous move, since I knew neither the person's name nor where she lived. The judge set a court date and released me under my own recognizance.

My lawyer said she suspected the case would be thrown out or the charges massively reduced, since I was provoked. I was free to go.

I stepped out of the building. The day was warm and sunny. I stood, letting the sun bathe my face and my body, allowing it to juice me, to fill me with energy. It was my sun, not rationed out by the penal system. My street, my block, my life. I ran as fast as I could down the street.