What-ya gonna do? In order to properly start this sordid tale I feel it's best to go to its beginning - like the start to almost any story. It's around three in the afternoon on a Thursday when I arrive at a local liquor store. After carefully browsing the store's selection for the cheapest liquor I could find, Mr. Boston's Riva Vodka, I made my way to the counter to complete my purchase. Shortly afterward, I arrived home. I subsequently questioned my sister Colleen on whether or not she possessed any shot-glasses as my entire collection - which was quite substantial - has apparently been lost. Alas, she informed me she did not. Being the resourceful individual I like to think I am however, I simply cleaned a scoop for an empty protein-powder jar to make-do. Apparently this make-shift shot glass was more resourceful than I intended. Taking several back-to-back shots while playing Tekken Tag Tournament 2 were my last memories of the afternoon.
Coming out of a blacked-out state is similar to emerging from underwater, in the dark, after diving in from a decent elevation. You remember diving and surfacing relatively clearly but the trek into dark territory, to deliberately reference Under Siege 2, is often mysterious. It's around ten o'clock on the same Thursday. I'm in the upstairs kitchen and I'm angry. Oh and I don't remember one minute of the entire last six-plus hours. Apparently my father's solution to an alcoholic's supposedly angry tirade is to pour out said alcoholic's entire bottle of liquor. Shortly before-hand my first memory after emerging from a blacked-out state was looking for and failing to find my half-gallon of vodka. Now I'm not implying that drinking more at this point in time was the right or even a good decision, I'm simply stating that taking a supposed addicts "supply" while said individual is already supposedly enraged seems like a recipe for disaster. In this 'case' I know it was. After scouring both floors for my lost vodka I decided it was time to take my 'investigation' to the next level: interrogation. I 'questioned' my sister and father regarding the location of my lost love. Shortly afterward my father revealed to me he had poured out the entire bottle. And off the cliff I go, predictably. It's probably pertinent to know that at this point in time I'm entirely convinced he is simply hiding my liquor. In my irrational reasoning I've convinced myself that if I just push him to his breaking point, he'll reveal its location despite the fact he's already made it quite clear where it's located. After around what I think to be twenty minutes of failing to 'break' him I retreated downstairs and made an important decision. It was time to start trying. I exited the backdoor of my home, jumped my backyard fence and got into my car. A few minutes later I arrived at the gas station and bought two 24oz Four Loko's, each of which contain 12% "straight alcohol." As I approached my driveway, which for the uninformed reader consists of a long plant-lined tunnel, I noticed several squad cars awaiting my arrival. Without missing a beat I drove right past them and my driveway toward the neighboring development of Birkdale. From a satellite view of my home on Google maps it's quite evident that the neighboring development is simply waiting to buy my entire property. Aside from the street and one side of the property I currently reside in, Birkdale surrounds me. They obviously have no qualms making their intentions quite clear as there are two streets whose marriage seems inevitable, which stop right at my property line on two sides. So picking the tale back-up I pulled into Birkdale and traveled down one of the streets lining my property. I parked my Tercel - from hell - at the very edge of one of the dead-ends near my lot's territory. With my two Four Loko's in-hand I jumped my property's barbed-wire fence and trekked into my thickly-wooded backyard. Convinced the police wouldn't hear me, saddled in their cozy cruisers, I quickly and probably somewhat noisily approached my home from the back. As I got closer I attempted to mask my approach using stealth... slick. I got close enough so that I could see what wasn't going on inside my house while keeping an eye on both police cars. Ultra-confident in the security of my current position, sitting in on the ground in the woods beside my house, I decided crack open one of my Four Loko's. After several minutes of sitting out in the dark drinking, I decided it was time to investigate the police's intentions. I called one of my family members inside, my sister, on my cellphone. For some reason, she picked up. Making sure not to communicate my location I asked her why the cops were parked outside. She informed me my father had called them to arrest me for "communicating threats" and that I should stay the night somewhere else. Great advice to a drunken man sitting in the woods although nonetheless advice I should have taken, in retrospect. Instead, I decided to wait-them out. A smart decision from an idiot sitting outside at night... out-wait people on-duty sitting inside heated vehicles.
Yet somehow... my strategy succeeded. Around forty minutes later the police cars left. Told. From a strategic standpoint, whenever you're the most confident you're generally the weakest. For me that point was approaching imminently. After attempting to get back inside my house I realized that all the doors were locked. Although I had a key to my front-door, I 'reasoned' unlocking the font door would alert my father to my presence; so I took a different approach. Then after kicking in my back-door I again decided to change strategies. After finishing my first Four Loko I walked upstairs... beaming with victory. I waisted little time allowing said 'victory' to go unnoticed. I approached my dad to ensure his awareness.
With a smile from cheek-to-cheek I quipped "nice try."
"Thanks." He quickly responded.
"How many times do I have to tell you that the police are all slow, dimwitted idiots?" I asked. "They can't catch me, they're all fat, slow, lazy fucks."
"Congratulations, you win," he replied.
Around this time, my glorious victory rant was cut short as I looked outside my window to see blue lights blazing down my driveway. Slick. I headed toward my backdoor as rapidly as I could. Apparently it wasn't 'rapid' enough. As I exited there were immediately several flashlights on me along with voices instructing me not to move. Aforementioned voices then demanded I jump my back partially barbed-wire fence to slowly approach them. An interesting instruction but one I nonetheless complied with.
"What seems to be the problem officers?" I asked jovially as I walked closer.
I was immediately cut-off with the curt response of "don't talk." I was subsequently shoved against one of the officer's cars, searched and cuffed.
"What am I being charged with?" I asked.
I was met with the same response.
"I'd like to know what I'm being charged with," I persisted. To his lack of credit, the officer who detained me appeared to be somewhat of a newbie - or perhaps a savant playing his cards the smartest way he could by withholding any kind of information whatsoever. Apparently "communicating threats" is a relative term. For example, if I communicated any kind of threat in front of him I'd be charged with another crime (despite lack-of-evidence for the initial one). Shockingly the opposite did not apply as upon my insistence of asking my charges he proceeded to communicate probably a dozen or so threats toward me. One of which was related to the tightening of my handcuffs. The marks evident on my wrists afterward were clear indications they weren't very empty threats. After he had tightened my hand-cuffs and I continued to question the nature of my supposed crime he grew increasingly angry - as did I. After spending some time in his backseat to ponder my next move I came to yet another important conclusion. Once again, it was time to start trying.
There was a partition dividing the squad car's backseat into two sectors. I positioned myself as to use my head against the partition as leverage in conjunction with my feet pushing against the car's window to attempt to break the partition if he continued my silent treatment. Believe it or not, this was a decision he neither liked nor agreed with. Go figure that after having the cops called against you for communicating threats (not that any of them ever informed me of this charge at any point) communicating additional threats via body language isn't a great idea. I suppose hindsight is 20-20. Also go figure that he didn't notice anything I had just done despite the deliberate inordinate amount of noise I had just made in doing-so. My perceived power play not having been noticed by its target audience bothered me. My successive actions apparently made this clear.
I began pressing outward with my legs against the car's window, kicking it meanwhile. I'm not totally clear of what happened afterward as I suspect that you lose memory and consciousness after you're tazed (one of the threats that had been communicated to me earlier). Of course this also happens to be the case if you're really drunk. The fact that my entire body was sore the next day makes me somewhat unsure of the truth here. Regardless, the next thing I remember is pulling up to what I later learned was Mecklenburg County Jail-North (the recipient of the inaugural NC 2001-2002 “Large Jail of the Year” Award). Apparently I arrived several years late for the party.
After being "processed" for several hours, predictably without hearing any charges, I was sent to what appeared to be some type of jail counselor. I answered all of her psychobabble-related questions honestly, which was probably my first and only smart decision of the night, which was now the next-day. Afterward I was released into some type of prisoner containment room lined with cells on one side and phones on the other where you're allowed to make calls. Of course they were all pay-phones and all I had was $5 in paper-money. As a former NC "Large Jail of the Year" recipient it's surprising that it had no change machine. It wasn't surprising however, that after taking all my possessions I wouldn't have been able to use my aforementioned fortune anyhow. An interesting part of the mobile-phone revolution is that it's largely made pay-phones useless. To anyone who remembers 90's commercials it's evident this has also made collect-calls useless as cell-phones cannot receive collect calls, technically. I'll elaborate: by technically I mean cell-phones can, technically, receive a collect call - they just can't respond or hear who it is from. So what will happen is a person will receive a phone-call, then have no idea who it is or where it's from and be disconnected - but not until you can hear them pick-up and say hello, luckily. I wonder why that would be the case? I can't imagine who is benefiting from allowing that to happen while simultaneously using time which costs money. Anyhow... after failing to connect with anyone in my allotted time to make a call - between 3 and 5AM - the peak hours to connect a call (to Australia), I'm placed in one of the many cells lining the room and fitted with the traditional jail-bird attire. A trusty orange jump-suit which is surprisingly uncomfortable. Luckily, it made a terrible blanket in a room placed right under the vent-duct which was seemingly blasting air conditioning in March on an already cold night. Breaking character however, I was able to pass-out on the cold, hard floor for a much needed and frequently interrupted hour-and-a-half nap.
Unfortunately my stay at the former "Large Jail of the Year" was nearing an end. I was awoken by the sound of breakfast being served. Fortunately I was able to trade most of my breakfast to other inmates for their slices of white bread, which I devoured for their apparent entertainment and disbelief. After the breakfast festivities had concluded it was time for the chain-gang to start marching. I'm proud to state that I, along with another guy, were first in-line to get into the police van that would take us to jail central. Upon entering the locked and enclosed lack of space in the van, many of my van-mates began to complain about the temperature. Many felt it was too cold, which it was but were somehow shocked at how 'aggressive' the van's heating system was. Soon enough, however our journey to jail central came to an end. The van pulled into a highly secure facility in central Charlotte equipped to the teeth. After several more hours of 'processing' I was put into one of the jails many medical wards as that was apparently where I belonged. Although in retrospect this probably turned out to be a blessing in disguise, this decision dismayed me. I had high hopes of being put in some type of solitary confinement so I would have fewer friends to talk and listen to.
The medical wards are pretty much the opposite. They're large communal rooms with lots of cots, two bathroom stalls, several tables and even a flat-screen. They have large front windows that open up to the front guard station so that the guards can supposedly continually watch-over the enclosed individuals.
Immediately upon entering my designated chamber I was greeted by a seemingly more experienced inmate named Jack. Although it's not very difficult to describe his appearance, his character is even easier to describe assuming you've seen the movie The Shawshank Redemption. After several hours inside the ward to observe his behavior I'm convinced I'm being punked and he is Morgan Freeman made-up as a white guy. He is a born helper. As frequently as all of the other inmates turn to him with questions he doles out the sound advice of a veteran beforehand. One of the other inmates who was calling his mother later in the day during the phone-call grace period even asked him to come over to talk to her for him, which he of-course did. Gold. Anyhow, after being assigned a cot upon entering he instantly approaches me with his name and a hand-shake, instructing me to exchange cot-lining-pillows with the empty one next to mine because it's the 'comfortable kind.' Despite the fact I'm writing it, it goes without saying that he was utterly correct. Charming motherfucker! He proceeded to give me the "lay of the land," the "in's, the out's and the in-betweens." I proceeded to take nearly all of his advice like a love-sick teenage girl. He even alerted me up at every meal-time to make-sure I didn't miss it, despite the fact I was in cot #1, nearest to the door. I also continued to practice my bread-trade much to my ward-mates delight. They received the 'good' food while I received yeast-soaked flower and people-points, win-win. After I was able to manage a few hours of sleep Jack proceeded to query me about the nature of my detainment. I informed him of the situation: that legally, it was my first offense and told him what had happened. I had finally been informed of the charges slightly earlier after a meeting with a different jail-counselor individual, so I was also able to 'communicate' that aspect of my detainment to him. He proceeded to tell me that 10-days was the most you could get for a first-offense so minor and that I'd probably be out of jail today if it weren't Friday. I asked him why the day being Friday mattered and he told me that my arraignment would usually be next-day if I had been arrested earlier in the week. However, given that it wasn't, it would probably be pushed back over the weekend 'til Monday. Sweet. He also said that given the space issues in our facility that the judge would probably let me out after my arraignment given the 'weekend vacation' I had already served. He instructed me to go into the arraignment and after assessing the judge's response (assuming he hadn't already said to let-me-out) plead guilty to expedite the legal proceedings. His reasoning being if I had plead not guilty and claimed the authorities had no proof I would most likely be held captive until my court date: which predictably is 5/13. The 'beauty' of our legal system knows no bounds. A prisoner pleads guilty and gets out of jail more quickly than the same person who pleads not-guilty. Meanwhile any sensible person knows 'justice' is ultimately determined my money. Anyway I thank him for his advice, thought and candor. It's around this time where I come to the conclusion to change mind-sets given I haven't successfully gotten in-touch with anyone and have no realistic recourse. I decided to stop trying. Clearly I'm going to be there at least a couple of days. I made this decision around 3 o'clock just prior to when the phone-call grace period begins at 4:00PM.
After hearing the aforementioned phone call with Jack attending to a fellow cell-mate and his mother the phone is free. I again attempt to make several collect calls and subsequently fail every one. It seems my ironic talent for never forgetting has failed me yet again. Little did I know...
Apparently someone on the other end of one of said failed calls was doing some searching of his own. After receiving my call only to be disconnected, an individual with a seeming affinity for making big plays was concocting yet another. He reverse-traced my phone-call from the internet and discovered its origin. Upon realizing it was from jail he instinctively performed a quick mental analysis of suspects. Apparently my reputation proceeds me as I was either at or near the top of it. After an online search of recent detainees my name was discovered. He then made subsequent arrangements for me to be bailed out by another friend who came through in-the-clutch. Slick timing given that at the time I was watching March 'madness,' on the cell's flat-screen during the allotted TV-time for the night. At this point it's around 9:30. I'm watching some basketball game when I hear the guard calling my name and instructing me to "get my things." Still having little hope at this point-in-time I rise from my cot, put my jail-sandals on and collect 'my things.'
"Should I bring this box?" I ask referring to the bin we're handed upon checking into the ward.
"Yeah... bring it," he tells me. Against my best instincts I begin to have a glimmer of hope despite hearing from Jack earlier that it takes 7-hours or so to be bailed out anyhow. The cell door opens and I exit with my bedding and other supposed binned-belongings and follow the guard. He proceeded to lead me to the intermediate locked-down area between the ward and the long hallway where the other wards are located. My hope is somewhat quelled after sitting there for around 20 minutes. Government efficiency at work. Even when being released the psychology behind the process is designed to break you. After what seemed like an eternity I'm finally taken down two floors to a similar transition-type room outside of what I later found out to be one of the many infirmaries. I proceeded to sit in the pre-infirmary room for another annoyingly long period. Then did the same thing inside the infirmary once entering. After probably another hour-or-so I reached the ground floor of the jail and was put into a large mass-holding cell alone. Finally, after more than a day of wishing for it, my goal of solitary confinement was realized but my mind was racing too much to appreciate it. Typical.
Not a short time later I was transported back to the NC 2001-2002 “Large Jail of the Year," where I had initially been taken into custody. I was not surprised when the proceedings there took an inordinate amount of time. After being processed for the umpteenth time and subsequently being continually questioned about the processing details from the prior facility I was held in, my actual belongings were returned. My excitement is curbed when I realize that it's close to midnight on a Friday and the prospect of finding a ride home isn't very great. Auspiciously, I also notice my cell-phone is completely dead after several attempts to turn it on. Apparently luck and I just don't play well with one another. A short while later I'm inevitably released into the jail's "arrest processing center." Ironically enough the same type of pay-phone which I had felt betrayed me earlier would serve as yet another life-line. A key point at this juncture is the fact I still have no idea who bailed me out. As I did not yet think that anyone aside from my father and sister knew about my incarceration, I thought the identity of my saviour had to be one of them. Soon thereafter I realized this wasn't the case. By chance, someone in the lobby happened to have change for a dollar as the officers behind the counter refused my plea for assistance. Once again all of my calls fell on deaf ears, except one.
Somehow my "last call" was received by a friend who was awake and aware but unable to drive in his current state. He was gracious in giving me the information on a calling card he had so I could make other calls though, along with assisting me several times in communicating with other friends who were apparently aware of my predicament.
He also informed me as to the true identity of my bailer and the aforementioned process which resulted in my release. As I did not currently have the fiscal ability to get myself home I initially attempted to catch a bus as there was a stop just outside of Jail-North. The bus driver did not provide much assistance, as despite my frantic gestures to entice him to stop or even slow-down were evidently of no use. Fortunately I was able to get back in-touch with my friend and again he provided me with a way out in calling me a cab. Fortuitously though, the cab never came.
Later, I overheard the conversation between two fellow detainees who had similar mobile-phone power issues. A Hispanic woman who had been released earlier mentioned that she was awaiting her boyfriend's release and that he might have a charger that fits a droid, which the other male detainee she was conversing with could use to charge his phone if she could use it too. Luckily for me, shortly thereafter said male detainee lost his temper with the perpetual lack of assistance from the officers working in the arrest processing center.
"You better pray I never see either of you on the fucking street god damnit!" He shouted at the officers behind the counter. "You better fucking pray! I'll put a bullet right between your fucking eyes." I laughed inwardly as this was ironically enough the exact same reason I was supposedly arrested to begin with despite the fact that it wasn't witnessed by any members of the law, a large room full of people or myself. After he proceeded to state he was walking home and stormed out without consequence my laughter was quickly replaced my unbridled rage before I quickly realized the incident could potentially provide me with a charged phone. I then used the situation as a segue into conversing with the Hispanic woman about potentially charging my phone which she agreed to assist me with if her boyfriend indeed had one.
A couple of hours later her boyfriend was released and by some insane stroke of luck did have in-fact have a droid charger which I was able to charge my phone with and subsequently use to contact the very same individual who I found out was largely in-part, responsible for my release and somehow still awake close to 5AM. Big play. After contacting said player I was ready to make arrangements for a cab ride home. As I walked out into the parking lot to see a taxi already waiting I was speechless. So was the Hispanic woman and her boyfriend as they walked outside right behind me asking to use my phone. 'Generously,' the driver was more than obliged to take all of us to our destinations in the same cab.
Sometime after 5:13AM I arrived back in Huntersville at a friend's residence where I proceeded to savor my freedom 'til the next morning when I realized the additional consequences of my...
Reality Check.
Coming out of a blacked-out state is similar to emerging from underwater, in the dark, after diving in from a decent elevation. You remember diving and surfacing relatively clearly but the trek into dark territory, to deliberately reference Under Siege 2, is often mysterious. It's around ten o'clock on the same Thursday. I'm in the upstairs kitchen and I'm angry. Oh and I don't remember one minute of the entire last six-plus hours. Apparently my father's solution to an alcoholic's supposedly angry tirade is to pour out said alcoholic's entire bottle of liquor. Shortly before-hand my first memory after emerging from a blacked-out state was looking for and failing to find my half-gallon of vodka. Now I'm not implying that drinking more at this point in time was the right or even a good decision, I'm simply stating that taking a supposed addicts "supply" while said individual is already supposedly enraged seems like a recipe for disaster. In this 'case' I know it was. After scouring both floors for my lost vodka I decided it was time to take my 'investigation' to the next level: interrogation. I 'questioned' my sister and father regarding the location of my lost love. Shortly afterward my father revealed to me he had poured out the entire bottle. And off the cliff I go, predictably. It's probably pertinent to know that at this point in time I'm entirely convinced he is simply hiding my liquor. In my irrational reasoning I've convinced myself that if I just push him to his breaking point, he'll reveal its location despite the fact he's already made it quite clear where it's located. After around what I think to be twenty minutes of failing to 'break' him I retreated downstairs and made an important decision. It was time to start trying. I exited the backdoor of my home, jumped my backyard fence and got into my car. A few minutes later I arrived at the gas station and bought two 24oz Four Loko's, each of which contain 12% "straight alcohol." As I approached my driveway, which for the uninformed reader consists of a long plant-lined tunnel, I noticed several squad cars awaiting my arrival. Without missing a beat I drove right past them and my driveway toward the neighboring development of Birkdale. From a satellite view of my home on Google maps it's quite evident that the neighboring development is simply waiting to buy my entire property. Aside from the street and one side of the property I currently reside in, Birkdale surrounds me. They obviously have no qualms making their intentions quite clear as there are two streets whose marriage seems inevitable, which stop right at my property line on two sides. So picking the tale back-up I pulled into Birkdale and traveled down one of the streets lining my property. I parked my Tercel - from hell - at the very edge of one of the dead-ends near my lot's territory. With my two Four Loko's in-hand I jumped my property's barbed-wire fence and trekked into my thickly-wooded backyard. Convinced the police wouldn't hear me, saddled in their cozy cruisers, I quickly and probably somewhat noisily approached my home from the back. As I got closer I attempted to mask my approach using stealth... slick. I got close enough so that I could see what wasn't going on inside my house while keeping an eye on both police cars. Ultra-confident in the security of my current position, sitting in on the ground in the woods beside my house, I decided crack open one of my Four Loko's. After several minutes of sitting out in the dark drinking, I decided it was time to investigate the police's intentions. I called one of my family members inside, my sister, on my cellphone. For some reason, she picked up. Making sure not to communicate my location I asked her why the cops were parked outside. She informed me my father had called them to arrest me for "communicating threats" and that I should stay the night somewhere else. Great advice to a drunken man sitting in the woods although nonetheless advice I should have taken, in retrospect. Instead, I decided to wait-them out. A smart decision from an idiot sitting outside at night... out-wait people on-duty sitting inside heated vehicles.
Yet somehow... my strategy succeeded. Around forty minutes later the police cars left. Told. From a strategic standpoint, whenever you're the most confident you're generally the weakest. For me that point was approaching imminently. After attempting to get back inside my house I realized that all the doors were locked. Although I had a key to my front-door, I 'reasoned' unlocking the font door would alert my father to my presence; so I took a different approach. Then after kicking in my back-door I again decided to change strategies. After finishing my first Four Loko I walked upstairs... beaming with victory. I waisted little time allowing said 'victory' to go unnoticed. I approached my dad to ensure his awareness.
With a smile from cheek-to-cheek I quipped "nice try."
"Thanks." He quickly responded.
"How many times do I have to tell you that the police are all slow, dimwitted idiots?" I asked. "They can't catch me, they're all fat, slow, lazy fucks."
"Congratulations, you win," he replied.
Around this time, my glorious victory rant was cut short as I looked outside my window to see blue lights blazing down my driveway. Slick. I headed toward my backdoor as rapidly as I could. Apparently it wasn't 'rapid' enough. As I exited there were immediately several flashlights on me along with voices instructing me not to move. Aforementioned voices then demanded I jump my back partially barbed-wire fence to slowly approach them. An interesting instruction but one I nonetheless complied with.
"What seems to be the problem officers?" I asked jovially as I walked closer.
I was immediately cut-off with the curt response of "don't talk." I was subsequently shoved against one of the officer's cars, searched and cuffed.
"What am I being charged with?" I asked.
I was met with the same response.
"I'd like to know what I'm being charged with," I persisted. To his lack of credit, the officer who detained me appeared to be somewhat of a newbie - or perhaps a savant playing his cards the smartest way he could by withholding any kind of information whatsoever. Apparently "communicating threats" is a relative term. For example, if I communicated any kind of threat in front of him I'd be charged with another crime (despite lack-of-evidence for the initial one). Shockingly the opposite did not apply as upon my insistence of asking my charges he proceeded to communicate probably a dozen or so threats toward me. One of which was related to the tightening of my handcuffs. The marks evident on my wrists afterward were clear indications they weren't very empty threats. After he had tightened my hand-cuffs and I continued to question the nature of my supposed crime he grew increasingly angry - as did I. After spending some time in his backseat to ponder my next move I came to yet another important conclusion. Once again, it was time to start trying.
There was a partition dividing the squad car's backseat into two sectors. I positioned myself as to use my head against the partition as leverage in conjunction with my feet pushing against the car's window to attempt to break the partition if he continued my silent treatment. Believe it or not, this was a decision he neither liked nor agreed with. Go figure that after having the cops called against you for communicating threats (not that any of them ever informed me of this charge at any point) communicating additional threats via body language isn't a great idea. I suppose hindsight is 20-20. Also go figure that he didn't notice anything I had just done despite the deliberate inordinate amount of noise I had just made in doing-so. My perceived power play not having been noticed by its target audience bothered me. My successive actions apparently made this clear.
I began pressing outward with my legs against the car's window, kicking it meanwhile. I'm not totally clear of what happened afterward as I suspect that you lose memory and consciousness after you're tazed (one of the threats that had been communicated to me earlier). Of course this also happens to be the case if you're really drunk. The fact that my entire body was sore the next day makes me somewhat unsure of the truth here. Regardless, the next thing I remember is pulling up to what I later learned was Mecklenburg County Jail-North (the recipient of the inaugural NC 2001-2002 “Large Jail of the Year” Award). Apparently I arrived several years late for the party.
After being "processed" for several hours, predictably without hearing any charges, I was sent to what appeared to be some type of jail counselor. I answered all of her psychobabble-related questions honestly, which was probably my first and only smart decision of the night, which was now the next-day. Afterward I was released into some type of prisoner containment room lined with cells on one side and phones on the other where you're allowed to make calls. Of course they were all pay-phones and all I had was $5 in paper-money. As a former NC "Large Jail of the Year" recipient it's surprising that it had no change machine. It wasn't surprising however, that after taking all my possessions I wouldn't have been able to use my aforementioned fortune anyhow. An interesting part of the mobile-phone revolution is that it's largely made pay-phones useless. To anyone who remembers 90's commercials it's evident this has also made collect-calls useless as cell-phones cannot receive collect calls, technically. I'll elaborate: by technically I mean cell-phones can, technically, receive a collect call - they just can't respond or hear who it is from. So what will happen is a person will receive a phone-call, then have no idea who it is or where it's from and be disconnected - but not until you can hear them pick-up and say hello, luckily. I wonder why that would be the case? I can't imagine who is benefiting from allowing that to happen while simultaneously using time which costs money. Anyhow... after failing to connect with anyone in my allotted time to make a call - between 3 and 5AM - the peak hours to connect a call (to Australia), I'm placed in one of the many cells lining the room and fitted with the traditional jail-bird attire. A trusty orange jump-suit which is surprisingly uncomfortable. Luckily, it made a terrible blanket in a room placed right under the vent-duct which was seemingly blasting air conditioning in March on an already cold night. Breaking character however, I was able to pass-out on the cold, hard floor for a much needed and frequently interrupted hour-and-a-half nap.
Unfortunately my stay at the former "Large Jail of the Year" was nearing an end. I was awoken by the sound of breakfast being served. Fortunately I was able to trade most of my breakfast to other inmates for their slices of white bread, which I devoured for their apparent entertainment and disbelief. After the breakfast festivities had concluded it was time for the chain-gang to start marching. I'm proud to state that I, along with another guy, were first in-line to get into the police van that would take us to jail central. Upon entering the locked and enclosed lack of space in the van, many of my van-mates began to complain about the temperature. Many felt it was too cold, which it was but were somehow shocked at how 'aggressive' the van's heating system was. Soon enough, however our journey to jail central came to an end. The van pulled into a highly secure facility in central Charlotte equipped to the teeth. After several more hours of 'processing' I was put into one of the jails many medical wards as that was apparently where I belonged. Although in retrospect this probably turned out to be a blessing in disguise, this decision dismayed me. I had high hopes of being put in some type of solitary confinement so I would have fewer friends to talk and listen to.
The medical wards are pretty much the opposite. They're large communal rooms with lots of cots, two bathroom stalls, several tables and even a flat-screen. They have large front windows that open up to the front guard station so that the guards can supposedly continually watch-over the enclosed individuals.
Immediately upon entering my designated chamber I was greeted by a seemingly more experienced inmate named Jack. Although it's not very difficult to describe his appearance, his character is even easier to describe assuming you've seen the movie The Shawshank Redemption. After several hours inside the ward to observe his behavior I'm convinced I'm being punked and he is Morgan Freeman made-up as a white guy. He is a born helper. As frequently as all of the other inmates turn to him with questions he doles out the sound advice of a veteran beforehand. One of the other inmates who was calling his mother later in the day during the phone-call grace period even asked him to come over to talk to her for him, which he of-course did. Gold. Anyhow, after being assigned a cot upon entering he instantly approaches me with his name and a hand-shake, instructing me to exchange cot-lining-pillows with the empty one next to mine because it's the 'comfortable kind.' Despite the fact I'm writing it, it goes without saying that he was utterly correct. Charming motherfucker! He proceeded to give me the "lay of the land," the "in's, the out's and the in-betweens." I proceeded to take nearly all of his advice like a love-sick teenage girl. He even alerted me up at every meal-time to make-sure I didn't miss it, despite the fact I was in cot #1, nearest to the door. I also continued to practice my bread-trade much to my ward-mates delight. They received the 'good' food while I received yeast-soaked flower and people-points, win-win. After I was able to manage a few hours of sleep Jack proceeded to query me about the nature of my detainment. I informed him of the situation: that legally, it was my first offense and told him what had happened. I had finally been informed of the charges slightly earlier after a meeting with a different jail-counselor individual, so I was also able to 'communicate' that aspect of my detainment to him. He proceeded to tell me that 10-days was the most you could get for a first-offense so minor and that I'd probably be out of jail today if it weren't Friday. I asked him why the day being Friday mattered and he told me that my arraignment would usually be next-day if I had been arrested earlier in the week. However, given that it wasn't, it would probably be pushed back over the weekend 'til Monday. Sweet. He also said that given the space issues in our facility that the judge would probably let me out after my arraignment given the 'weekend vacation' I had already served. He instructed me to go into the arraignment and after assessing the judge's response (assuming he hadn't already said to let-me-out) plead guilty to expedite the legal proceedings. His reasoning being if I had plead not guilty and claimed the authorities had no proof I would most likely be held captive until my court date: which predictably is 5/13. The 'beauty' of our legal system knows no bounds. A prisoner pleads guilty and gets out of jail more quickly than the same person who pleads not-guilty. Meanwhile any sensible person knows 'justice' is ultimately determined my money. Anyway I thank him for his advice, thought and candor. It's around this time where I come to the conclusion to change mind-sets given I haven't successfully gotten in-touch with anyone and have no realistic recourse. I decided to stop trying. Clearly I'm going to be there at least a couple of days. I made this decision around 3 o'clock just prior to when the phone-call grace period begins at 4:00PM.
After hearing the aforementioned phone call with Jack attending to a fellow cell-mate and his mother the phone is free. I again attempt to make several collect calls and subsequently fail every one. It seems my ironic talent for never forgetting has failed me yet again. Little did I know...
Apparently someone on the other end of one of said failed calls was doing some searching of his own. After receiving my call only to be disconnected, an individual with a seeming affinity for making big plays was concocting yet another. He reverse-traced my phone-call from the internet and discovered its origin. Upon realizing it was from jail he instinctively performed a quick mental analysis of suspects. Apparently my reputation proceeds me as I was either at or near the top of it. After an online search of recent detainees my name was discovered. He then made subsequent arrangements for me to be bailed out by another friend who came through in-the-clutch. Slick timing given that at the time I was watching March 'madness,' on the cell's flat-screen during the allotted TV-time for the night. At this point it's around 9:30. I'm watching some basketball game when I hear the guard calling my name and instructing me to "get my things." Still having little hope at this point-in-time I rise from my cot, put my jail-sandals on and collect 'my things.'
"Should I bring this box?" I ask referring to the bin we're handed upon checking into the ward.
"Yeah... bring it," he tells me. Against my best instincts I begin to have a glimmer of hope despite hearing from Jack earlier that it takes 7-hours or so to be bailed out anyhow. The cell door opens and I exit with my bedding and other supposed binned-belongings and follow the guard. He proceeded to lead me to the intermediate locked-down area between the ward and the long hallway where the other wards are located. My hope is somewhat quelled after sitting there for around 20 minutes. Government efficiency at work. Even when being released the psychology behind the process is designed to break you. After what seemed like an eternity I'm finally taken down two floors to a similar transition-type room outside of what I later found out to be one of the many infirmaries. I proceeded to sit in the pre-infirmary room for another annoyingly long period. Then did the same thing inside the infirmary once entering. After probably another hour-or-so I reached the ground floor of the jail and was put into a large mass-holding cell alone. Finally, after more than a day of wishing for it, my goal of solitary confinement was realized but my mind was racing too much to appreciate it. Typical.
Not a short time later I was transported back to the NC 2001-2002 “Large Jail of the Year," where I had initially been taken into custody. I was not surprised when the proceedings there took an inordinate amount of time. After being processed for the umpteenth time and subsequently being continually questioned about the processing details from the prior facility I was held in, my actual belongings were returned. My excitement is curbed when I realize that it's close to midnight on a Friday and the prospect of finding a ride home isn't very great. Auspiciously, I also notice my cell-phone is completely dead after several attempts to turn it on. Apparently luck and I just don't play well with one another. A short while later I'm inevitably released into the jail's "arrest processing center." Ironically enough the same type of pay-phone which I had felt betrayed me earlier would serve as yet another life-line. A key point at this juncture is the fact I still have no idea who bailed me out. As I did not yet think that anyone aside from my father and sister knew about my incarceration, I thought the identity of my saviour had to be one of them. Soon thereafter I realized this wasn't the case. By chance, someone in the lobby happened to have change for a dollar as the officers behind the counter refused my plea for assistance. Once again all of my calls fell on deaf ears, except one.
Somehow my "last call" was received by a friend who was awake and aware but unable to drive in his current state. He was gracious in giving me the information on a calling card he had so I could make other calls though, along with assisting me several times in communicating with other friends who were apparently aware of my predicament.
He also informed me as to the true identity of my bailer and the aforementioned process which resulted in my release. As I did not currently have the fiscal ability to get myself home I initially attempted to catch a bus as there was a stop just outside of Jail-North. The bus driver did not provide much assistance, as despite my frantic gestures to entice him to stop or even slow-down were evidently of no use. Fortunately I was able to get back in-touch with my friend and again he provided me with a way out in calling me a cab. Fortuitously though, the cab never came.
Later, I overheard the conversation between two fellow detainees who had similar mobile-phone power issues. A Hispanic woman who had been released earlier mentioned that she was awaiting her boyfriend's release and that he might have a charger that fits a droid, which the other male detainee she was conversing with could use to charge his phone if she could use it too. Luckily for me, shortly thereafter said male detainee lost his temper with the perpetual lack of assistance from the officers working in the arrest processing center.
"You better pray I never see either of you on the fucking street god damnit!" He shouted at the officers behind the counter. "You better fucking pray! I'll put a bullet right between your fucking eyes." I laughed inwardly as this was ironically enough the exact same reason I was supposedly arrested to begin with despite the fact that it wasn't witnessed by any members of the law, a large room full of people or myself. After he proceeded to state he was walking home and stormed out without consequence my laughter was quickly replaced my unbridled rage before I quickly realized the incident could potentially provide me with a charged phone. I then used the situation as a segue into conversing with the Hispanic woman about potentially charging my phone which she agreed to assist me with if her boyfriend indeed had one.
A couple of hours later her boyfriend was released and by some insane stroke of luck did have in-fact have a droid charger which I was able to charge my phone with and subsequently use to contact the very same individual who I found out was largely in-part, responsible for my release and somehow still awake close to 5AM. Big play. After contacting said player I was ready to make arrangements for a cab ride home. As I walked out into the parking lot to see a taxi already waiting I was speechless. So was the Hispanic woman and her boyfriend as they walked outside right behind me asking to use my phone. 'Generously,' the driver was more than obliged to take all of us to our destinations in the same cab.
Sometime after 5:13AM I arrived back in Huntersville at a friend's residence where I proceeded to savor my freedom 'til the next morning when I realized the additional consequences of my...
Reality Check.
