My Story: A New Life - Part III
Continued from A New Life - Part II
This post consists of some memories of the two weeks I was held in Wayne County Jail. This was technically at the beginning of my recovery, although I didn't have a very strong sense at the time that I was getting better. It felt as though I was trapped at the bottom, and might finally be down for the count.
As is noted somewhere in AA's Big Book, "How dark it is before the dawn!"
I wrote this entry in bits and pieces over the past couple weeks. I had a hard time staying focused on these memories - being relatively recently, the pain and misery are still fresh. I hope to get the next installment of this series up soon.
Being processed into the jail is a particularly miserable experience. The ground floor includes a large, rectangular room with about fifteen or twenty holding cells around the perimeter. In the center of the room is an office for sheriff's deputies, who orchestrate the movement of incoming and outgoing prisoners as they are shuffled from one spot to another. All of these cells are overcrowded during my time there. The benches lining the walls are stuffed with men sitting shoulder to shoulder. Those not fortunate enough to find a spot on the bench sit or lie on the floor, which is dirty and strewn with the remainders of lunch: bits of bologna and bread, crushed juice cartons, and sandwich baggies. Each holding cell contains one stainless steel toilet, usually overflowing with toilet paper and feces. Many prisoners are still in their street clothes and haven't been thoroughly searched, so contraband is plentiful. I occasionally catch a whiff of marijuana. I don't mind that; what bothers me is to see guys with cigarettes. I haven't had one in the three days since I was arrested, so the urge to smoke is powerful.
My first two nights are spent in "quarantine" on the top floor. There are a dozen of us, and as many bunks. I'm told that we are lucky not to be sleeping on the floor, as is often the case due to overcrowding. We stay in the quarantine cell while we wait for the results of our TB (tuberculosis) skin test. Also during this time, we are interviewed by a deputy to determine where we will spend the remainder of our time, based on demographics, prior incarcerations, et cetera.
I am assigned to the "new" jail, built in the early 1980s to accomodate the ever growing population. (Not Detroit's population - the jail population). In the new jail, which is connected to the still operating old jail, prisoners are housed in units called "rocks". My rock is 6 North. It consists of a common area with tables/seats bolted into the cement floor, a shower, a toilet, and six two-man cells. A glass-enclosed booth for deputies is opposite the cells, and overlooks our rock as well as 6 South.
There is an extreme cold spell in the Detroit area in the winter of 2003-04, and the jail seems not to have much of a heating system. 6 North is especially chilly since it's situated in a corner of the building. And wouldn't you know it, my cell is on the end, so two of the four walls border the frigid Michigan winter. I keep my thin, county-issue blanket wrapped around me at all times. One night I can actually see my breath.
Ordinarily there would be a television hanging from the ceiling in one corner, but ours was taken out for repairs prior to my arrival. Its absence is the singlemost cause for complaint among the inmates. Some consider the lack of TV to be cruel and unusual punishment. I feel the harsher cruelty is our exposure to mold which covers parts of the ceiling.
During the daytime, our cell doors are opened, and we are free to hang out in the common area. There is always a card game in progress, as well as chess, and sometimes dice. Nobody has real dice, but someone has fashioned a pair out of compacted tissue. Nothing like jailhouse innovation.
Another trick I learned is how to do a prison tattoo: 1) Make "ink". Small, eraserless pencils are for sale - separate the graphite, grind it into a powder, and mix it with toothpaste. 2) Using any sharp object you can find, carve the desired design into your skin. 3) Now, simply rub your ink-paste into the cut, and wait awhile before washing. Voila, you are branded with a classy new status symbol!
I opt not to get any skin art. In fact, I don't take part in very many of the typical 6 North activities. Although I speak at length with some of my "rockmates" over the next couple weeks, I spend most of my time by myself. I don't plan to make any new friends here. I sleep about twelve hours a day, including naps. I pace the length of the rock, wrapped in my blanket. I write letters with my stubby little pencil. I meditate. I pace some more.
I try to get my hands on some reading material. A library cart pays a visit to our rock one day, and I manage to get a copy of John Hersey's The Single Pebble (very good), and the latter half of Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird. I've seen the movie, so I'm able to jump right in to the action.
Both books get me choked up a various points. I'm not usually a very emotional person, but I'm certainly in a vulnerable state due to my circumstances. And, in addition to having to contend with nicotine withdrawal, I am going through symptoms of anti-depressant discontinuation. I haven't been able to convince the jail's medical staff to let me have my Paxil. So, as the days go by, I become increasingly loopy. I feel lightheaded and dizzy, and my thoughts race. Paranoia begins to set in. I start borrowing scraps of paper (I have no money in my account to buy my own) on which to record the details of every conversation I have with deputies and other jail employees. With my dull pencil, and resulting achy hand, I scrawl backup copies in case the originals are confiscated. In flights of mania, I make lists of short story ideas and books to read if I get sentenced to any time.
One of the worst things is not knowing how many charges I have pending against me. When I speak with my parents on the phone (our rock has one, for outgoing collect calls only), they say they haven't been able to get a straight answer from anyone. As the date of my first court appearance draws near, a vague sense of dread sets in. A big part of me wishes I could stay indefinitely on 6 North, where at least I would be fed and protected from the evil dealers on the streets.
At night, after we've been locked into our cells, and I'm sitting against the cold wall of my upper bunk, I sometimes have a sense of calm and clarity. Each of the walls facing outside has a tall, narrow window of frosted glass, through which pale, yellowish light from the adjacent parking lot shines. I feel almost as though I'm not in a jail cell at all, but a chapel. I begin to feel as though I'm safe in the world; as though I will make it through whatever the future has in store for me.
Continue to A New Life - Part IV