jail.

it's been well over a year since i got in trouble with the law. the events that followed as a consequence of my mistakes are far more memorable to me than what led up to it.

the basic timeline: consume pills > get in car > rear-end another car at a red stop light > move car to side of the road > attempt to get out of car to talk to driver of other car > fall > cops arrive > fail all coordination-related tests > get taken to local booking station to do proper breathalyzer > pass test as there was no alcohol in me > get asked to do blood test and refuse > cops question if i had been given date rape drugs > get put in another car to lakewood jail >>>

it was an early august afternoon when all this occurred and the light was still out as i was driven to lakewood. by this time, my head had cleared. i knew i was in some trouble, but not to what extent. the drive from the local station to lakewood took about 10 minutes on surface streets. it wasn't my neighborhood, but i was familiar with the area. i asked the lady cop where we were going and she said in a reassuring tone that they had to finish my paperwork at a full facility, a process that generally takes only a couple of hours. thinking i had been through the worst, this piece of information calmed me a little.

before this, lakewood had a been a place my friend and i drove to on random afternoons. the destination was lakewood mall: the ultimate place for ghettofab sight-seeing. only here could we buy an orange julius from the food court (yes there was fried chicken), browse the latest in gangster attire (fubu, doorags, etc.), and sit and discuss the science of sagging pants. this time, it wasn't a mall and i wasn't going to get a smoothie. still, the people i observed inside the jail walls weren't too different from the ones in the city's mall. mostly black and most definitely ghetto. this is jail, after all. 

i was handed over to another lady at lakewood. up to this point, everything was paperwork and interrogation. when she told me to go to the corner marked "x" with blue duct tape to get my mugshot taken, the tears began to fall again. they continued to fall as i pressed my finger, one by one, onto the scanning device, replaced my sandals with gym socks, and moved into the holding cell. i guess this is where they keep everyone post-paperwork. it's pretty much a square cell with benches lining two walls and a phone on another. it was now early sunday evening and i ran through the list of possible people to call. to my knowledge, only landlines could accept collect calls and the only two i knew were home and office, both off-limits. i was hoping, but not realistically expecting for the passenger who was with me to eventually come and bail me out. i also didn't think i would be kept for more than 24 hours.

somewhere in between being served dinner by some guy in an orange jumpsuit and getting moved into a more permanent location, i realised i was staying. my new home had two sets of bunk beds, one already being occupied when i was shown in. any attempts at asking about my status were left unanswered. feeling defeated, i take the bottom bunk. i don't know the time, but it's late. my cell mate was a girl around my age, white. she had been there since friday or saturday evening after being taken in for having an eighth of shrooms in her bag. she was the passenger when her driver was pulled over, but he was let go. i listen to hear story, but am distracted at every noise. naively, i associated the sound of footsteps and jingling keys with freedom--finally, they were coming to let me go. what began as optimism quickly revealed itself to be false hope. 


the bottom bunk is lined with a green "mattress", similar to the mats used as cushion in gyms. i was given a sheet and blanket. i split my time laying down and sitting up, neither being very comfortable positions. there are moments i'm able to sleep until finally, morning came. we're led back to the holding cell in the front room and there are some new faces. this was our opportunity to make another phone call. i had brief thoughts of calling the office or house, but the fear of reactions from both stopped me from trying. instead, i asked the lady again about my status. 


"why am i still here? i thought it would only be a few hours."
"you? you had crack in your bag."


one of the girls in the shared cell broke out in laughter, but the initial shock of this news silenced me. she was right. kind of. i remembered the small bag of coke in the zipper compartment, inside a leopard print coin purse i usually stashed things away in. the last piece of the puzzle brought some relief. at least i knew, and knowledge was oddly comforting, even if it wasn't the best kind. we stay in the cell for a while. the images of everyone in the cell are still very clear to me. i didn't really know jail protocol so had no idea who had been there and for how long. the laughing girl was a petite mexican with greasy hair. she sat across from me with her back against the wall, legs bent in v shape. next to her was an older white lady in a very short skirt and low top. her short hair was dyed a dirty blonde and there were still areas where hairspray was holding. fuck me, i was in jail with a crazy mexican and a prostitute. i don't know if she sold sex, but it's the only way i'm able to remember her. the shroom girl was also there, along with two others i later share a room with. 

these girls don't seem to be phased that they're in jail. perhaps it's experience, i thought. someone ends up offering useful advice. i learn that unless you are bailed out, you stay in jail until tuesday when everyone gets to see a judge. this can't be good. i joke around a lot about disappearing without a trace, but this is the closest i've ever come to it. no one except the passenger knows where i am and i haven't heard from him. i haven't contacted friends, family, or work. one of the girls says something about a bail review and points to a sign posted outside, something about calling a hotline. i try the number several times, failing to get through. finally, someone picks up and i ask her how i can bail myself out. the woman on the other line explained patiently that the procedure was to interview and validate my information to potentially let me go on my own recognizance. she needed a phone number of someone who would verify my information. i suppose i got lucky, because the only number i knew by heart was the friend from highschool who had kept the same number through the years. i gave her the information, hoping that i hadn't mixed up the sequence and was told that i would get an answer within 24 hours. i hung up, wondering which would come first: the answer or the judge.