Why Not 2K?
My previous post of 3,965 words, which was, initially intended to be about my having started a batch of home brewed "lockdown" apple wine, turned into a flashback of when I was jailed in late 1999 into 2000 and had me nodding off at the keyboard as I neared the end of it.
I made sure that it had a beginning and and end, then hit the publish button, before flopping backwards onto the bed, where I slept, until well into the next day.
After perusing it the next morning, I discovered fewer mistakes than I might have expected, given that I kind of wrote "full steam ahead" without ever going back to proof read, but there were a handful.
Plus, I had forgotten to include the actual story, which I had set out to write.
It was like going to a store to get one thing, and forgetting it, only to come out with a cart full of other stuff. 3,850 words worth of it.
I never got to the anecdotes which stemmed from being locked up as a "material witness" for 123 days, from October 27th, when it began in Federal Way, Washington, to February 28th, 2000; when they let me out (because they couldn't legally hold me any longer) with plans to re-arrest me on any old charge, so I would be locked up and available to testify on their behalf, a capture which I managed to elude for about 2 months, while driving a Yellow Cab, using the identity of a deceased friend of mine, for which I had a "valid" Florida license.
Those two months saw the introduction of the complication that ensued after I picked up a 28 year old black lady, named Angela Washington, in my cab, whom I wound up dating, and then moving in with.
She was in between boyfriends because her prior one, a guy named Maurice, was going to be away indefinitely. This was because he, coincidentally (if you believe in those things) was the co-defendant in the murder trial of the guy that I was supposed to testify against. If they could locate me.
My plan was to keep driving the cab, and staying with Angela, while keeping an eye upon the progress of the trial (which had already been moved from January back to February, then March (whereupon they had to release me) and then April, then May...
This was due to their having trouble locating witnesses (go figure) and/or getting them to show up for depositions and such. I'm sure the State's Attorney, George Beteh, wished he could just keep them all locked in the jail, as material witnesses, until he needed them.
But, for the most part, they had jobs and families. My status as "a homeless drifter" made George feel at liberty to take my freedom away from me at will, just for the purpose of his prosecution.
And so, I fought back, injustice for injustice, by committing identity fraud and driving a cab right under their noses.
Story Within The Story #1: A Bottle of Pop
But, before they let me out in late February, my cellmate at the Duval County Jail had been a guy name Prevarian Reese. If his mother gave him that first name so that everyone who ever met him would remember it for the rest of their lives, then she succeeded, in my case, at least.
He was a light skinned black kid, kind of small, maybe about 5' 7'' and 125 pounds, who had a wild hairstyle which made me think that he might have worn dreadlocks on the street, and then had picked them out, during his "free" time at the jail.
But, he was about 19, and was probably in there for the same reason as me, which was in order to secure him, while he was waiting to testify against a bigger fish than he, probably to get his own sentence reduced.
About this, he was not telling anyone, because nobody likes a "snitch" in jail. Somebody his size, who was also there to rat on someone else already had two strikes against him.
I didn't have the same concerns, because the guy I was going to testify against had murdered a guy in cold blood, and a photo of the victim posing with his wife and young daughter had been splashed all over the news, making him Public Enemy #1.
Plus, Bobby (Quesnel) the killer, had only been in Florida a couple months, before the crime; not long enough to become affiliated with any gangs. Somewhere on that 8th floor was Maurice, waiting to testify against his "buddy," and probably homesick and dreaming about Angela, whom I wouldn't meet for a couple months...
So, Prevarian was placed in the same pod where I was, which was like a country club, compared to what was just a few floors above us, for his own protection.
But, I learned a lot about him because, since he couldn't read or write, I would transcribe letters that he would dictate to me, to be sent to his girlfriend, whom he called "baby mama," or his mother, whom he called "mama."
I would occasionally suggest a word or phrase, being careful not to make them sound like they were being written by a Prevarian imposter.
It turned out that I had a pretty vivid picture of the neighborhood where the Reese's lived; because I used to by pot there, maybe even from him, when he was disguised by dread locks. It helped me to compose the letters -being able to picture the neighborhood...
Prevarian and I had often shared the fruit wine that I brewed in the cell.
Brewing it was yet another way for me to fight back at the system: "A toast; to George Beteh!"
I especially remember the batch that I had started in the middle of December, to be ready for the big celebration of New Year's Eve, 1999.
He had removed the mat from his bunk, so we could stand on the rack and gaze through the narrow horizontal slit of plexiglass, which was our window, to watch the fireworks exploding over the St. John's River. From our vantage point, it seemed like we were almost eye level with them.
As we prepared to count down the end of 1999, we were also curious to see if the power would go out, and then jet airplanes would begin to nose-dive to the earth, while intercontinental ballistic missiles shot out of the underground silos at the nearby Roosevelt Air Force Base, and streaked skyward, passing by the incoming ones from Russia on the way out.
It was "Y2K," after all.
The computers in the jail going on the fritz, causing all the doors in the place to pop open at midnight, with the guards unable to coordinate a response because their walkie talkies were just flashing "12:00" would have been nice, in addition to the other things, we thought.
None of that having come to pass, we were still there in January of 2000.
By then, I had enough bottles fermenting to be able to keep us in wine at least every other night. And the jail kept the orange and apple juices coming as well as the occasional raisin topped creme filled cookies. Prunes, though, were apparently removed from the menu.
As I have said, the guards never shook down our cells looking for anything like it, since we were all there as material witnesses, and were kind of on their side, in that regard.
But still, I had devised a clever way to hide the air-tight plastic bottles with the "buck"* brewing inside them, by disguising them as rolls of toilet paper.
I would fashion a piece of cardboard into a cylinder about the right size, and then go around the outside with a few wraps of paper, so that, to the casual observer, it just looked like Prevarian and I were well stocked up on that particular item of toiletry. Even when guards did search cells, in my experience, they would kind of avoid the area of the stainless steel commode/sink/mirror -probably something to do with criminals excrement being perceived as being especially vile.
My biggest concern was having to regularly loosen the caps enough to allow the gas to escape with a hiss, reducing the pressure before the flanges around the bottom of the bottles blew outward, leaving them with elliptical shapes rather than with the fancy flanges that create the optical illusion of there being a really good 20 ounces of soda in them (more than the 20 ounces in the bottles of the competitors that don't employ such technology -it also makes the bottles easier to stack). This would coincide with a loud "ppfflapp!" sound that might arouse the curiosity of any nearby guard. If left unattended for too long, the things would explode like hand grenades spraying fermented apple shrapnel everywhere.
But, sometime in early February, I was on the docket for one of my pointless court appearances.
These were a pain in the ass to me.
I already knew that George Beteh was pulling the strings, and that, once I got to court, my case would be "continued" due to some folder not having been sent to the clerk's office, or my public defender having gotten the date wrong, or whatever. All orchestrated by the number 3 prosecutor in the state of Florida, who had his sights upon the governorship some day, probably. The freedom of a common citizen was only a drop in the bucket, compared to Mr. Beteh's zeal..
It was amazing how the public defender, whose job it was to make sure I was treated fairly, could be made to disappear for a particular reason, though, George Beteh would probably swear that there was "no collusion, no collusion at all..."
I would only be brought to court because of my "right" to a "speedy trial" and to give the outward appearance of due process being enacted. The last thing Beteh wanted to do was violate my rights, right?
It would be more accurate to say that he probably didn't want the state to be held liable, should I decide to sue them for false imprisonment or something, after I got out. He wouldn't trust me not to do that, based upon the principle of "it takes one to know one," or "those who don't trust others shouldn't be trusted," type of thing...take your pick.
It's the kind of sleaziness depicted in John Grisham novels, and not so much as in the C.S.I. episodes where the public defenders are heard to bellow things in the detective's office like: "If all you got is a 3 year old worthless check, then my client is walking!!" before the client does just that, leaving the detectives shaking their heads.
Collusion!
My public defender (if he was even there) would hand me a card with the date of my next unnecessary court date on it, and would avert his eyes from mine, as he gave me the supposed reason for the delay. One of the silver linings for me in that situation would be that I would become more acute at reading the subtle signs that someone is lying to me, which might come in handy, somewhere down the line.
The ironic thing was that, even the victims of worthless check crimes would rather see the culprit out on the street where at least there is the hope that he will work (and have his wages garnished) so that he can make some monetary restitution. So, even the judge must have thought it peculiar to keep seeing my name appearing on the docket. Unless, of course the judge was in on it. But, what am I saying; that would be collusion!
So, when the day rolled around in early February, when my case was due to progress, with another visit to court, I dreaded it. Sitting on my bunk and reading a Dickens novel suddenly seemed like a vacation.
At 5 AM, the electronic door to the cell would pop open, "Mckenna, court!" would crackle through the overhead speaker, Prevarian would stir just enough to mumble "good luck," and the long day would begin. I would have let the steam off of my buck bottles right before stepping out of the cell, to join the others, in the first of many "waiting" areas.
There is an unwritten rule in jail that you kind of watch your roommates stuff on the days that he has to go to court.
If you don't have at least this level of bonding between you, then you probably would find other cellmates.
This one would be where we would wait to be served breakfast a couple hours earlier than usual, since it would be impractical to feed us at 7 AM, with the rest of the inmates, then expect us to be ready for court a mere 2 hours later -not with all the waiting that we would have to do factored in.
My Rights
So, the pain in the ass would start for me, because I would only have the other dozen or so inmates to trade food with. I would be lucky if I could trade my green eggs for someone's oatmeal, then my milk for someone else's oatmeal, and then, if there was still an oatmeal hater left, my sausages for his oatmeal. I stayed my most healthy while incarcerated, by living off as much oatmeal as possible. It was as much due to my not eating the green eggs and greasy soymeal sausages nor drinking the cow's milk that I stayed in good spirits and health; but oatmeal is a wonder food.
Then the dozen of us would be daisy-chained together at the ankles, and the wrists, with a chain joining us all. For any one of us to make a dash for freedom, it would require the cooperation of the whole dozen, and our ability to run a twisted variation of the "three-legged race" that none of us had probably practiced since 5th grade. (Or, in Prevarian's case, since whatever grade he dropped out of).
If there was anything redeeming in the trips to the courthouse, it was in being able to see through the back window of the van that brought us to the jail, through the metal grate, and to be able to catch glimpses of the outside world, and see people going through their daily walks of life.
A lot of these people looked pretty miserable. Getting out of their cars, putting coins in the parking meter, frowning at their wrists, looking tired and disheveled. Sometimes the van would stop in traffic right in front of a bar that I would wistfully gaze at, remembering the beer and the game of darts that I once had, in another life. I would be happy to be out there, even if it meant I was just starting a work day at a job I didn't like; that I would leave at the end of the day and be free; until the next morning.
And I would see people trundling along, looking almost suicidal...Why don't any of them at least glance at the van and think: "At least I'm not in jail?"
At least I'm not handcuffed to a half dozen strangers, squinting into a sun that I haven't seen rise in weeks...
"Yeah, they have a lot to be miserable about..."
Of course, I wanted to yell: "Hey, do you want to switch places?!?"
I'll take your lousy job, your car that has a bearing about to go out, and your house with the cockroaches in the kitchen, along with your freedom, and you can sit here on the hard, wooden bench, crushed like a sardine between a wife beater and a small-time cocaine dealer. You say you took the gold ribbon in the three legged race, back in 6th grade? Hey, now!!
Then, the person on their way to wait tables through another hectic morning can instead worry about clutching on to the wife beater for dear life every time the van careened around a corner, or defeated the purpose of a speed bump...
Because if one falls face first, everybody goes with him.
It seemed like the drivers of the vans would take the corners extra viciously, most likely with sneers on their faces. After a little jerk of the steering wheel, the resultant cry of "goddam!!" coming from the back must be one of the fringe benefits of working in criminal justice. This would fit the basic personality profile of many of those who aspire to work in that field, if you ask me.
And the redneck driver would only crank the Garth Brooks on the radio all the louder, after someone invariably asked: "Yo, can you put on 95.1?" Which someone invariably would.
The message seemed to be:"It was the hip hop and R&B culture that led you to where you are now. Had you been more true to God and country; mom and apple pie; the occasional rodeo, then...well, listen, he's singing about it right now, let me turn it up!"
On the rare occasion when it was a black driver, then 95.1 FM would already be on; and the ride would be smoother, actually.
And the music would sound really fresh; like the sound of freedom.
After the van came to a stop in the sally port of the courthouse, and the radio was turned off, leaving only the sound of a dozen men breathing, and since our hands were already joined by handcuffs; someone would, invariably, offer up a prayer.
"...Father, God..." they would usually start with.
And then, it was usually the same prayer; asking God to "touch the hearts of the judge and the prosecutor," which always reminded me of the adage about "closing the barn door after the horses have already gotten out."
"Father God, we ask you to touch the hearts of the judge and the prosecutor..."
What about the heart of the guy that just had surgery to repair the damage that your bullet did to it?
95% of what is going to transpire in court has already been fleshed out between the parties involved, days ago, and so it really is apropos of closing the barn door after the horses are gone. The court's disposition this morning is just going to be a formality, I wanted to say, but they were busy with Father God.
I should become a judge, there would be people praying for me every morning...
Then, as the judge was probably just waking up, we would thrown in a holding cell, together with inmates from the other floors in our jail, along with those that had been brought in from other counties.
The Trials Begin
Then, the trials would begin. The trials in the holding tank.
Mostly, it was the black guys. They would all start to blab simultaneously.
They would talk about their cases in detail, as if the rest of us were a jury. They might be trying out whatever "defense" they were going to put up, maybe practicing what to say in front of the judge; or maybe just airing it in front of others, to see if it sounds as ridiculous as it might in the courtroom.
A lot of them admit their guilt ("of course I ain't gonna tell him that part of it...") which is just about the first thing a lawyer will tell a client not to do.
A lot of times, especially in the case of the young black guys, it sounds like they are really trying to fool themselves into thinking that they didn't do whatever it was. As if repeating; "for real, I wasn't even there that night, I'm telling you, I wasn't even there!"
"I'm so glad I hid the gun inside the TV, though, they never found that; or I'd be looking at at least 20 years!" Whew, Thank, you, Father God...
Sometimes, it seemed like they were looking for pointers ("No, don't say that; what are you, crazy? Never tell a judge that!).
And then there were the truly pathetic ones, with no logic at all to their arguments. "Why would I steal 60 cartons of Marlboro's I smoke Newports?! It don't make no sense, right? I mean everyone knows I smoke Newports; that doesn't make no sense at all!" (no, that doesn't make no sense at all...)
Most of the white guy's would sit silently.
And, at some point, my court appointed attorney would tell me that my case had been continued. Of course it had.
I might even spend the whole enchanted day in the holding cell, watching others go and then come back, in moods that ranged from one end of the spectrum to the other.
From the ones coming out of the courtroom saying: "Thank you, Father God!" ones to, in one case a young black kid coming back, who had actually turned "white" with fear. This showed up as almost a grey color.
He had obviously had the s*** scared out of him by the justice system.
But, I sat the entire day, which turned out to be a long one.
It wasn't until after 5 PM that we returned to the jail.
So, there was Prevarian, sitting contentedly in the cell, flipping through a magazine at around 3:45 PM.
He was kind of making sure that nobody came in and messed with my stuff.
But, along with guarding my shower shoes and my pillow, he was also making sure nobody stole my apple wine in progress.
When I got back late that evening, I noticed that something was amiss.
I saw a pile of sheets and blankets just outside the doorway to our cell.
As I ascended the staircase, I started to smell the distinct odor of fermenting fruit.
I looked in the cell. Both of the bunks had been stripped down to the bare mat. Prevarian sat on his, wearing only his boxer shorts. The smell of fermenting fruit was very strong.
He was, he informed me, waiting for the trustees to bring us both fresh linen and new uniforms.
He had been sitting on his bunk, looking at the pictures in the magazine, when there was a loud popping sound, as if someone had stomped on a milk carton, only "like 5 times louder".
Prevarian was hit with some flying fermenting fruit, though, the wall right behind the commode absorbed most of the force.
He just shrugged his shoulders, when I walked in. They (the guards) hadn't even searched for and taken the other bottles, which hadn't blown up (because they were at an earlier stage of maturation).
He asked me how court had gone. I told him that it was the same B.S. that I had already expected.
I wound up getting "written up" for having contraband (to wit: alcoholic beverage) in the cell. I took full responsibility for it, which did not surprise the guards, since they had noticed how many apples I seemed to have been having given to me by other inmates, but had kind of looked the other way.
Cell life quickly returned to normal.
I would be released "on probation" in less than a month, to roam free and in violation of it for another couple months, but would be back in time for the trial, during which it would be postulated by the defense lawyer for Bobby, that I was the actual murderer.
The theory revolved around the fact that I had babysat Bobby's girlfriend when she was little, and we all lived in Massachusetts; and that I had been found living with the girlfriend of the co-defendant after I was let out of jail on probation.
But, that will have to be the next chapter: The Angela Washington chapter...
That night, I transcribed a letter for Prevarian, that went something like: Dear baby mama. Today when I was sitting in the cell, one of my cellmates buck bottles that he was doing, blew up and got all over everything in our cell. It scared me really bad when it blew up; I didn't know what it was..
I didn't know what happened, but then I smelled the wine and saw it on the walls, running down. Now I am waiting for them to bring fresh linens so I can take a shower because I still smell like wine. We are going to be alright, though.
How are you doing....etc.
*Alcohol made in the Duval County Jail had the nickname of "buck," which I believe derives from the fact that getting drunk in there is "buck"ing the system.
In Virginia, it was called "mash"
I made sure that it had a beginning and and end, then hit the publish button, before flopping backwards onto the bed, where I slept, until well into the next day.
After perusing it the next morning, I discovered fewer mistakes than I might have expected, given that I kind of wrote "full steam ahead" without ever going back to proof read, but there were a handful.
Plus, I had forgotten to include the actual story, which I had set out to write.
It was like going to a store to get one thing, and forgetting it, only to come out with a cart full of other stuff. 3,850 words worth of it.
I never got to the anecdotes which stemmed from being locked up as a "material witness" for 123 days, from October 27th, when it began in Federal Way, Washington, to February 28th, 2000; when they let me out (because they couldn't legally hold me any longer) with plans to re-arrest me on any old charge, so I would be locked up and available to testify on their behalf, a capture which I managed to elude for about 2 months, while driving a Yellow Cab, using the identity of a deceased friend of mine, for which I had a "valid" Florida license.
Those two months saw the introduction of the complication that ensued after I picked up a 28 year old black lady, named Angela Washington, in my cab, whom I wound up dating, and then moving in with.
She was in between boyfriends because her prior one, a guy named Maurice, was going to be away indefinitely. This was because he, coincidentally (if you believe in those things) was the co-defendant in the murder trial of the guy that I was supposed to testify against. If they could locate me.
My plan was to keep driving the cab, and staying with Angela, while keeping an eye upon the progress of the trial (which had already been moved from January back to February, then March (whereupon they had to release me) and then April, then May...
This was due to their having trouble locating witnesses (go figure) and/or getting them to show up for depositions and such. I'm sure the State's Attorney, George Beteh, wished he could just keep them all locked in the jail, as material witnesses, until he needed them.
But, for the most part, they had jobs and families. My status as "a homeless drifter" made George feel at liberty to take my freedom away from me at will, just for the purpose of his prosecution.
And so, I fought back, injustice for injustice, by committing identity fraud and driving a cab right under their noses.
Story Within The Story #1: A Bottle of Pop
But, before they let me out in late February, my cellmate at the Duval County Jail had been a guy name Prevarian Reese. If his mother gave him that first name so that everyone who ever met him would remember it for the rest of their lives, then she succeeded, in my case, at least.
He was a light skinned black kid, kind of small, maybe about 5' 7'' and 125 pounds, who had a wild hairstyle which made me think that he might have worn dreadlocks on the street, and then had picked them out, during his "free" time at the jail.
But, he was about 19, and was probably in there for the same reason as me, which was in order to secure him, while he was waiting to testify against a bigger fish than he, probably to get his own sentence reduced.
About this, he was not telling anyone, because nobody likes a "snitch" in jail. Somebody his size, who was also there to rat on someone else already had two strikes against him.
I didn't have the same concerns, because the guy I was going to testify against had murdered a guy in cold blood, and a photo of the victim posing with his wife and young daughter had been splashed all over the news, making him Public Enemy #1.
Plus, Bobby (Quesnel) the killer, had only been in Florida a couple months, before the crime; not long enough to become affiliated with any gangs. Somewhere on that 8th floor was Maurice, waiting to testify against his "buddy," and probably homesick and dreaming about Angela, whom I wouldn't meet for a couple months...
So, Prevarian was placed in the same pod where I was, which was like a country club, compared to what was just a few floors above us, for his own protection.
But, I learned a lot about him because, since he couldn't read or write, I would transcribe letters that he would dictate to me, to be sent to his girlfriend, whom he called "baby mama," or his mother, whom he called "mama."
I would occasionally suggest a word or phrase, being careful not to make them sound like they were being written by a Prevarian imposter.
It turned out that I had a pretty vivid picture of the neighborhood where the Reese's lived; because I used to by pot there, maybe even from him, when he was disguised by dread locks. It helped me to compose the letters -being able to picture the neighborhood...
Prevarian and I had often shared the fruit wine that I brewed in the cell.
Brewing it was yet another way for me to fight back at the system: "A toast; to George Beteh!"
I especially remember the batch that I had started in the middle of December, to be ready for the big celebration of New Year's Eve, 1999.
He had removed the mat from his bunk, so we could stand on the rack and gaze through the narrow horizontal slit of plexiglass, which was our window, to watch the fireworks exploding over the St. John's River. From our vantage point, it seemed like we were almost eye level with them.
As we prepared to count down the end of 1999, we were also curious to see if the power would go out, and then jet airplanes would begin to nose-dive to the earth, while intercontinental ballistic missiles shot out of the underground silos at the nearby Roosevelt Air Force Base, and streaked skyward, passing by the incoming ones from Russia on the way out.
It was "Y2K," after all.
The computers in the jail going on the fritz, causing all the doors in the place to pop open at midnight, with the guards unable to coordinate a response because their walkie talkies were just flashing "12:00" would have been nice, in addition to the other things, we thought.
None of that having come to pass, we were still there in January of 2000.
By then, I had enough bottles fermenting to be able to keep us in wine at least every other night. And the jail kept the orange and apple juices coming as well as the occasional raisin topped creme filled cookies. Prunes, though, were apparently removed from the menu.
As I have said, the guards never shook down our cells looking for anything like it, since we were all there as material witnesses, and were kind of on their side, in that regard.
But still, I had devised a clever way to hide the air-tight plastic bottles with the "buck"* brewing inside them, by disguising them as rolls of toilet paper.
I would fashion a piece of cardboard into a cylinder about the right size, and then go around the outside with a few wraps of paper, so that, to the casual observer, it just looked like Prevarian and I were well stocked up on that particular item of toiletry. Even when guards did search cells, in my experience, they would kind of avoid the area of the stainless steel commode/sink/mirror -probably something to do with criminals excrement being perceived as being especially vile.
My biggest concern was having to regularly loosen the caps enough to allow the gas to escape with a hiss, reducing the pressure before the flanges around the bottom of the bottles blew outward, leaving them with elliptical shapes rather than with the fancy flanges that create the optical illusion of there being a really good 20 ounces of soda in them (more than the 20 ounces in the bottles of the competitors that don't employ such technology -it also makes the bottles easier to stack). This would coincide with a loud "ppfflapp!" sound that might arouse the curiosity of any nearby guard. If left unattended for too long, the things would explode like hand grenades spraying fermented apple shrapnel everywhere.
But, sometime in early February, I was on the docket for one of my pointless court appearances.
These were a pain in the ass to me.
I already knew that George Beteh was pulling the strings, and that, once I got to court, my case would be "continued" due to some folder not having been sent to the clerk's office, or my public defender having gotten the date wrong, or whatever. All orchestrated by the number 3 prosecutor in the state of Florida, who had his sights upon the governorship some day, probably. The freedom of a common citizen was only a drop in the bucket, compared to Mr. Beteh's zeal..
It was amazing how the public defender, whose job it was to make sure I was treated fairly, could be made to disappear for a particular reason, though, George Beteh would probably swear that there was "no collusion, no collusion at all..."
I would only be brought to court because of my "right" to a "speedy trial" and to give the outward appearance of due process being enacted. The last thing Beteh wanted to do was violate my rights, right?
It would be more accurate to say that he probably didn't want the state to be held liable, should I decide to sue them for false imprisonment or something, after I got out. He wouldn't trust me not to do that, based upon the principle of "it takes one to know one," or "those who don't trust others shouldn't be trusted," type of thing...take your pick.
It's the kind of sleaziness depicted in John Grisham novels, and not so much as in the C.S.I. episodes where the public defenders are heard to bellow things in the detective's office like: "If all you got is a 3 year old worthless check, then my client is walking!!" before the client does just that, leaving the detectives shaking their heads.
Collusion!
My public defender (if he was even there) would hand me a card with the date of my next unnecessary court date on it, and would avert his eyes from mine, as he gave me the supposed reason for the delay. One of the silver linings for me in that situation would be that I would become more acute at reading the subtle signs that someone is lying to me, which might come in handy, somewhere down the line.
The ironic thing was that, even the victims of worthless check crimes would rather see the culprit out on the street where at least there is the hope that he will work (and have his wages garnished) so that he can make some monetary restitution. So, even the judge must have thought it peculiar to keep seeing my name appearing on the docket. Unless, of course the judge was in on it. But, what am I saying; that would be collusion!
So, when the day rolled around in early February, when my case was due to progress, with another visit to court, I dreaded it. Sitting on my bunk and reading a Dickens novel suddenly seemed like a vacation.
At 5 AM, the electronic door to the cell would pop open, "Mckenna, court!" would crackle through the overhead speaker, Prevarian would stir just enough to mumble "good luck," and the long day would begin. I would have let the steam off of my buck bottles right before stepping out of the cell, to join the others, in the first of many "waiting" areas.
There is an unwritten rule in jail that you kind of watch your roommates stuff on the days that he has to go to court.
If you don't have at least this level of bonding between you, then you probably would find other cellmates.
This one would be where we would wait to be served breakfast a couple hours earlier than usual, since it would be impractical to feed us at 7 AM, with the rest of the inmates, then expect us to be ready for court a mere 2 hours later -not with all the waiting that we would have to do factored in.
My Rights
So, the pain in the ass would start for me, because I would only have the other dozen or so inmates to trade food with. I would be lucky if I could trade my green eggs for someone's oatmeal, then my milk for someone else's oatmeal, and then, if there was still an oatmeal hater left, my sausages for his oatmeal. I stayed my most healthy while incarcerated, by living off as much oatmeal as possible. It was as much due to my not eating the green eggs and greasy soymeal sausages nor drinking the cow's milk that I stayed in good spirits and health; but oatmeal is a wonder food.
Then the dozen of us would be daisy-chained together at the ankles, and the wrists, with a chain joining us all. For any one of us to make a dash for freedom, it would require the cooperation of the whole dozen, and our ability to run a twisted variation of the "three-legged race" that none of us had probably practiced since 5th grade. (Or, in Prevarian's case, since whatever grade he dropped out of).
If there was anything redeeming in the trips to the courthouse, it was in being able to see through the back window of the van that brought us to the jail, through the metal grate, and to be able to catch glimpses of the outside world, and see people going through their daily walks of life.
A lot of these people looked pretty miserable. Getting out of their cars, putting coins in the parking meter, frowning at their wrists, looking tired and disheveled. Sometimes the van would stop in traffic right in front of a bar that I would wistfully gaze at, remembering the beer and the game of darts that I once had, in another life. I would be happy to be out there, even if it meant I was just starting a work day at a job I didn't like; that I would leave at the end of the day and be free; until the next morning.
And I would see people trundling along, looking almost suicidal...Why don't any of them at least glance at the van and think: "At least I'm not in jail?"
At least I'm not handcuffed to a half dozen strangers, squinting into a sun that I haven't seen rise in weeks...
"Yeah, they have a lot to be miserable about..."
Of course, I wanted to yell: "Hey, do you want to switch places?!?"
I'll take your lousy job, your car that has a bearing about to go out, and your house with the cockroaches in the kitchen, along with your freedom, and you can sit here on the hard, wooden bench, crushed like a sardine between a wife beater and a small-time cocaine dealer. You say you took the gold ribbon in the three legged race, back in 6th grade? Hey, now!!
Then, the person on their way to wait tables through another hectic morning can instead worry about clutching on to the wife beater for dear life every time the van careened around a corner, or defeated the purpose of a speed bump...
Because if one falls face first, everybody goes with him.
It seemed like the drivers of the vans would take the corners extra viciously, most likely with sneers on their faces. After a little jerk of the steering wheel, the resultant cry of "goddam!!" coming from the back must be one of the fringe benefits of working in criminal justice. This would fit the basic personality profile of many of those who aspire to work in that field, if you ask me.
And the redneck driver would only crank the Garth Brooks on the radio all the louder, after someone invariably asked: "Yo, can you put on 95.1?" Which someone invariably would.
The message seemed to be:"It was the hip hop and R&B culture that led you to where you are now. Had you been more true to God and country; mom and apple pie; the occasional rodeo, then...well, listen, he's singing about it right now, let me turn it up!"
On the rare occasion when it was a black driver, then 95.1 FM would already be on; and the ride would be smoother, actually.
And the music would sound really fresh; like the sound of freedom.
After the van came to a stop in the sally port of the courthouse, and the radio was turned off, leaving only the sound of a dozen men breathing, and since our hands were already joined by handcuffs; someone would, invariably, offer up a prayer.
"...Father, God..." they would usually start with.
"Father God, we ask you to touch the hearts of the judge and the prosecutor..."
What about the heart of the guy that just had surgery to repair the damage that your bullet did to it?
95% of what is going to transpire in court has already been fleshed out between the parties involved, days ago, and so it really is apropos of closing the barn door after the horses are gone. The court's disposition this morning is just going to be a formality, I wanted to say, but they were busy with Father God.
I should become a judge, there would be people praying for me every morning...
Then, as the judge was probably just waking up, we would thrown in a holding cell, together with inmates from the other floors in our jail, along with those that had been brought in from other counties.
The Trials Begin
Then, the trials would begin. The trials in the holding tank.
Mostly, it was the black guys. They would all start to blab simultaneously.
They would talk about their cases in detail, as if the rest of us were a jury. They might be trying out whatever "defense" they were going to put up, maybe practicing what to say in front of the judge; or maybe just airing it in front of others, to see if it sounds as ridiculous as it might in the courtroom.
A lot of them admit their guilt ("of course I ain't gonna tell him that part of it...") which is just about the first thing a lawyer will tell a client not to do.
A lot of times, especially in the case of the young black guys, it sounds like they are really trying to fool themselves into thinking that they didn't do whatever it was. As if repeating; "for real, I wasn't even there that night, I'm telling you, I wasn't even there!"
"I'm so glad I hid the gun inside the TV, though, they never found that; or I'd be looking at at least 20 years!" Whew, Thank, you, Father God...
Sometimes, it seemed like they were looking for pointers ("No, don't say that; what are you, crazy? Never tell a judge that!).
And then there were the truly pathetic ones, with no logic at all to their arguments. "Why would I steal 60 cartons of Marlboro's I smoke Newports?! It don't make no sense, right? I mean everyone knows I smoke Newports; that doesn't make no sense at all!" (no, that doesn't make no sense at all...)
Most of the white guy's would sit silently.
And, at some point, my court appointed attorney would tell me that my case had been continued. Of course it had.
I might even spend the whole enchanted day in the holding cell, watching others go and then come back, in moods that ranged from one end of the spectrum to the other.
From the ones coming out of the courtroom saying: "Thank you, Father God!" ones to, in one case a young black kid coming back, who had actually turned "white" with fear. This showed up as almost a grey color.
He had obviously had the s*** scared out of him by the justice system.
But, I sat the entire day, which turned out to be a long one.
It wasn't until after 5 PM that we returned to the jail.
So, there was Prevarian, sitting contentedly in the cell, flipping through a magazine at around 3:45 PM.
He was kind of making sure that nobody came in and messed with my stuff.
But, along with guarding my shower shoes and my pillow, he was also making sure nobody stole my apple wine in progress.
When I got back late that evening, I noticed that something was amiss.
I saw a pile of sheets and blankets just outside the doorway to our cell.
As I ascended the staircase, I started to smell the distinct odor of fermenting fruit.
I looked in the cell. Both of the bunks had been stripped down to the bare mat. Prevarian sat on his, wearing only his boxer shorts. The smell of fermenting fruit was very strong.
He was, he informed me, waiting for the trustees to bring us both fresh linen and new uniforms.
He had been sitting on his bunk, looking at the pictures in the magazine, when there was a loud popping sound, as if someone had stomped on a milk carton, only "like 5 times louder".
Prevarian was hit with some flying fermenting fruit, though, the wall right behind the commode absorbed most of the force.
He just shrugged his shoulders, when I walked in. They (the guards) hadn't even searched for and taken the other bottles, which hadn't blown up (because they were at an earlier stage of maturation).
He asked me how court had gone. I told him that it was the same B.S. that I had already expected.
I wound up getting "written up" for having contraband (to wit: alcoholic beverage) in the cell. I took full responsibility for it, which did not surprise the guards, since they had noticed how many apples I seemed to have been having given to me by other inmates, but had kind of looked the other way.
Cell life quickly returned to normal.
I would be released "on probation" in less than a month, to roam free and in violation of it for another couple months, but would be back in time for the trial, during which it would be postulated by the defense lawyer for Bobby, that I was the actual murderer.
The theory revolved around the fact that I had babysat Bobby's girlfriend when she was little, and we all lived in Massachusetts; and that I had been found living with the girlfriend of the co-defendant after I was let out of jail on probation.
But, that will have to be the next chapter: The Angela Washington chapter...
That night, I transcribed a letter for Prevarian, that went something like: Dear baby mama. Today when I was sitting in the cell, one of my cellmates buck bottles that he was doing, blew up and got all over everything in our cell. It scared me really bad when it blew up; I didn't know what it was..
I didn't know what happened, but then I smelled the wine and saw it on the walls, running down. Now I am waiting for them to bring fresh linens so I can take a shower because I still smell like wine. We are going to be alright, though.
How are you doing....etc.
*Alcohol made in the Duval County Jail had the nickname of "buck," which I believe derives from the fact that getting drunk in there is "buck"ing the system.
In Virginia, it was called "mash"
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