Day 1: Commitment (Part 1)

No sooner had the sound of the judge's gavel reached my ears than I found myself being hand-cuffed by two Sheriff's Deputies. I was searched, pockets emptied, and taken away through "that door" - the door in a courtroom reserved for officers of the Courts and those pleading or found guilty. This was quite the shock as my lawyer told me that the norm was to allow "walk-ins" to the prison: the Judge grants up to 48 hours to report to the prison, but apparently, not for me. I was not even permitted to kiss my girlfriend goodbye.

The only thought I can muster at this point was that I have surrendered all my rights as an American citizen, and hopefully I will survive whatever happens after this, alive and well. It is an awareness that my life is now at the whim of my new masters - the Deputies and eventually the Prison Guards - and from here on out I will have absolutely no control, and they will have no accountability. There is no recourse for me, no appeals or airing of grievances. Shackled like a head of cattle, I am led into a holding area and put in a 5' by 5' room with six other men.

"Whoa, Sopranos shit up in here", says one of my new cell-mates. I did kind of stick out, in my one-and-only tailored suit (for interviews, wedding, funerals, and most recently: court appearances!). This waiting around was frustrating, but as I would learn - amazingly short. Only 30-40 minutes to get to know these chaps at various stages in the prison world: from County to be sent "Up State"; from State for additional County sentencing; newly convicted, like me; out of County temporarily to receive additional sentences.

Two other gentlemen and I were uncuffed, ordered to interlock arms in the same manner as when ushering Grandmothers to their seats at weddings. Except then we were handcuffed again. This process is quite comfort-inhibitive when your arm-mates are of varying heights. It being a hot and rainy spring day, the ride in the back of the County van to prison was the first of what would become many Worst Points.

"Y'all got time?" we were asked as we crab-walked into the van. Our van-mate had a broken, miserable look about him. At the time I wasn't quite sure what he meant - were we on our way to prison? Did we get serious time, measured in months or years? I just answered "90 days" in the most robotic tone as possible, to indicate neither apprehension nor relief that my sentence was that length. He nodded, and talked to the other of our usher-arm-trio who answered "6 to 12 Up State". They discussed their relief at getting to be Up State, where at least there were TVs, you could smoke, and there were things to keep yourself occupied. Optimism is clearly our most advantageous evolutionary adaptation.

This drive is miserably slow - especially given it is only a dozen city blocks. At the prison I am searched again and temporarily dumped into a holding cell. For a short time I share it with one of my new friends, but we are soon processed and separated. This cell is where I would expect them to keep serial killers. A small plastic window in the immense metal door - which is operated electronically. A small feeding slit in the door at knee height, perhaps 18 inches long by 4 inches high. There is a toilet and sink combination, and a metal cot attached to the wall. The waiting is simply maddening. There is no one in there to talk to; nothing to read, no television or radio. I welcome any calls from the COs (Corrections Officers) to sign forms, answer questions, and surrender my belongings.

I am strip searched and my clothing is taken. "Bend over, spread your ass, and cough twice. Turn around and lift your dick." Given the hour I spent interlocked to two other men, hand-cuffed in the back of a van with no fresh air, I take comfort in knowing I certainly wouldn't be attractive for whatever latent desires are smoldering in this CO's loins.

The Commitment COs are the worst kind of assholes. Grouchy old men who take pleasure in causing misery in others. Questions for their forms are asked in an ambiguous way: "Who is your emergency contact?" "My Girlfriend", I answer. But before I can giver her name, the CO asks the other "did the girl you fucked last night scream out this asshole's name?" "No?" "Then how the hell are we supposed to know who your girlfriend is, asshole?" This treatment is not so much upsetting as it is disorienting. Luckily I am blessed with a rather strong will and resolve and little bothers me, but the playground rhetoric of these guys is something I am not prepared for. I pretend they didn't say a word and reply with the information they need. I sign a form that is my receipt for my belongings, and the fact that I am came in with absolutely no cash is quickly noted by the COs. "This guy didn't bring in our pizza money for lunch!" Fine, I think, I can play this game and pass their little test. "So what does that mean?" I ask, and am told "now we just treat you like shit the whole time you are in here." For an instant my mind flashes with the image of The Pizza List - the list of prisoners who didn't provide some petty cash for the COs to steal, who are repeatedly gang raped and branded on the ass with swastikas by the Aryan Brotherhood (yes, I suppose being a fan of HBO's prison drama Oz might not be helpful). "I guess I'll just have to make it up by being polite." "If you are polite you'll end up someone's bitch." They asked if I knew what was happening to me and I said of course, and mentioned "I am supposed to be given immediate Work Release, whatever that may means for you gentlemen." "It means you get there when we decide to get you there." This is going to be a long 90 days.

All day I sit. An entire 8 hours - a full workday. I try to nap to no avail. Just at the point I start to drift off, I am called for more administrativia. An interview regarding my mental health by a pretty young co-ed; a retinal scan; fingerprinting; more paperwork. There is no order to this madness, and clearly efficiency is not a requirement for their processes. I overhear prisoners' conversations through our feed slits. Discussions of bail bondsmen, concerns about destinations ("they better not put me on the block with the faggots and pedophiles"). Another prisoner reports his receipt is not correct, and $100 is missing. CO shifts change to younger, more pleasant characters. I see the first of what I expect from watching Oz - evidence of CO corruption. An inmate calls a CO over and they have a whispered chat. A note is passed from CO to prisoner. The CO meets my eyes, and I yawn and turn away.

As our paperwork is returned my spirits are lifted as something is about to happen. At this point, any change is good. During my fingerprinting I asked the guard where I was going and when, and shared my sense of frustration and helplessness. He said that as long as there wasn't a big problem, I'd be in the Work Release area sometime after 7PM. Already I have noticed something about Prison Culture: guards will be belligerent, nasty, and hurtful when there is an audience. Alone, they may be helpful, so rather than plead for information in my cage, I waited until the guard could answer without breaking his role.

My paperwork was supposed to be just my receipt for my belongings. However I received someone else's receipt and someone else's form for requesting a Public Defender! I immediately notified the CO who looked annoyed (by the error, not by me). I don't know who that poor chap was who didn't get his paperwork, but I reckon when he offers the excuse "but I never got it!" it will not do him well. 7PM approaches and I'm informed I am about to be moved. Wearing my green canvas fatigues over the used undergarments, I place my blanket and alleged pillow into my green tub.

The green tub contains my complete "Welcome to Jail, Now Go To Hell" kit. Two sets of green fatigues. Two used white tees. Two used white briefs, with or without skid marks. Two pairs of socks with multiple holes. A flexible 3 inch toothbrush, and a combination toothpaste/body wash/shampoo that would probably be handy, say, after the apocalypse. A short pencil, a spork, and a cup.

Gathering all my belongings in the world, now contained in this green tub, I line up for transfer to Work Release.