The Curious Case of Christopher Comtois (Part IX)

Franklin

     The nights were becoming unbearable.  There was no hope of anyone coming to see me, no interaction with other inmates after it got late, constant noises as new people were brought up after their arrest and although the lights were dimmed it wasn’t dark enough to get any real sleep.  Night number three was more of the same as the first two.  Maybe I slept and maybe I didn’t, it was hard to tell.  There was little activity outside at the corner of 14^th and Cherokee.  The clock tower screamed at me every time I looked in its direction.  To say that my thoughts were all over the board is an understatement.    The night time was like riding the slowest roller coaster ever created.  Neil Diamond sang “Thank The Lord For The Nighttime.”  I wasn’t.  Although I love Neil Diamond.  One minute my mind had me getting through this mess and the next I’d envision being 65 and still in a Florida prison.  I thought and re-thought every move, every interaction, and every possibility.  I created multiple scenarios of what would happen next.  I beat myself up for doing or not doing more to help myself, regardless of whether it made sense or not.  I began to understand how a person could go crazy.  I made resolutions about what I’d do differently if I ever got through it.  I talked to God.  I evaluated decisions that I had made years earlier.  I solved the world’s problems.  At least once an hour I’d pick up the Bible and read and re-read it.  I was slowly becoming a biblical scholar.  The only true focus of the night was getting to the morning.  It did not help that I was constantly being asked what time it was.  There were so many times that I wanted to yell, “It’s two fucking thirty!” or whatever time it was emphasized with an F-bomb, but I kept my composure.  There was no reason to get upset since I’d probably want to know the time if I couldn’t see the clock.  I understood and accepted my position as official jail time keeper.  My thoughts the first day and night were much different than those during night number three.  At first I was mad that I couldn’t run and train for my marathon or that I’d miss days of work or that I wished that I could get one more pillow.  As Monday became Tuesday I had nearly forgotten about my training and had resolved that I would probably lose my job and I really didn’t care.  I just wanted out.  I had had enough.  I was tired of asking for simple things and not having answers and being looked at by the police officers as nothing more than a criminal.  I was below them.  I had no rights and no control and was sick of it.  Somehow, though, I was growing comfortable with the routine.  I was slowly becoming a veteran of the felony floor.  A few times I was able to offer information to a new inmate who had just arrived.  More of my original crew had left and soon I may be the only one left.  Maybe I’d run into them out at County.  I found it amusing that perhaps I’d already have friends out there.  The one main thought that kept me going was the prospect of Tuesday bringing new information.  I was sure that my “official” meeting with the police would happen soon. 

     Breakfast came at the normal time with the normal crappy food.  I was pretty sure that I’d lost probably at least five pounds since I arrived.  The lack of food and constant stress was taking its toll on me.  Ice Cube was still in a cell near mine and he asked me early on Tuesday towards the end of breakfast if I was going to have a visitor that night.  I told him that I assumed that I would.  He wanted to know if I could give a message to my friend to get word to his mother about where he was and how to get him out.  He hadn’t had any visitors and had no way to call anyone.  I told him that if someone came to visit me I’d do what I could for him.  There was a new guy in a cell across from mine that sat next to me at breakfast.  He had light black skin and a big afro that he had tied back.  He seemed friendly and we started a conversation that continued after breakfast.  It was annoying talking to someone in another cell since you could see them but couldn’t hear everything they were saying.  It was muffled.  I hated lying on the floor and talking through the gap under the door but at least you could hear everything much more clearly.  I can’t remember what he had done to get into jail but we talked about what I was going through and a random assortment of small talk.  More new friends.  I wanted to call my mother to find out what was going on and if she had found out anything new and sometime before 6am we were allowed to use the phone.  Out of probably 50 guys on the floor I was the only one who wanted to call anyone.  “Keep it short,” I was told, so I called back home to Missouri and got to talk to my mom for five minutes or so before she went to work.  She had already been told by my aunt that my crimes had something to do with an underage girl.  I didn’t bother going into my own personal theory but I assured her that more than ever I knew that this whole thing was a big mistake.  She seemed worried and worn down by the weight of it all.  She was happy to hear about Dave and I told her to expect a call from him or to call him herself.  She said she would once she got to work.  After I hung up it didn’t look like the officer was coming so I quickly called Kira.  The call only lasted about two or three minutes but it helped to raise my spirits as I prepared to head back to my cell for another long wait until lunch.  I estimated that I had been in my cell for probably 22 hours each day.  The three meals, short phone calls, one shower and visitations added up to just over two hours per day, give or take an hour depending on the day.  22 hours in a ten by ten cell with one book, one bed, one sink, one toilet and one window was mind numbing.  I was coping, though.  I was proud of myself for keeping my composure.  I had been able to endure what was previously thought to be unendurable.  If someone had told me what I’d have to do while in jail and the tremendous amount of down time with nothing to do I’d have bet the house that I couldn’t do it.  But I was doing it.  I didn’t know for how much longer my good nature would hold up, though.  I kept up the conversations with the new guy and Ice Cube when an officer came to my door and waited for it to unlock.  I was already standing when it opened and he told me to follow him, which I did.  I didn’t ask any questions of where we’d be going.  He led me though the administrative office and I knew that we were heading to the conference rooms.  Standing in the doorway that led to the rooms was a man wearing beat up jeans and a t-shirt with a flannel shirt without sleeves over the top.  He looked like a trucker.  He was young, probably in his early 30’s.  There was a badge hanging from a necklace chain around his neck.  The officer that brought me from my cell veered to the side and the man wearing the flannel approached me holding out his hand for me to shake it.  He said, “Hi, Chris, my name is Harrison Franklin.  I’m on the bomb squad and I also handle extradition cases.”  Finally!  I shook his hand and told him that it was a pleasure to meet him.  He turned back towards the door leading to the conference rooms and started to walk towards them.  The officer standing off to the side stepped behind me and it was obvious that he wanted me to follow Officer Franklin. 

     Since Saturday morning when I was first arrested I had been waiting for nothing but this moment.  All I wanted was to know exactly what was happening and to have the opportunity to talk to someone who was officially a part of my case.  My heart was beating and my sleep deprivation was gone.  I took a deep breath as Franklin opened a conference room door and held his arm out to allow me to enter first.  I reminded myself of what Dave had told me to do.  I trusted him and went over his instructions in my head.  Do not accept extradition.  Do not give out any information.  Remember that this man is not your friend.  He seemed nice but I had to stay the course that Dave laid out for me.  I entered and Franklin asked me to sit as he pulled out his chair and sat down across from me.  He had a thick file folder that he opened and began shuffling through some forms.  I put my defenses up and waited to hear what he had to say.

     “Chris, I’m here to advise you of your rights and to explain your options moving forward.  Feel free to ask me any questions that you have at any time.  How’s your day going?”  How’s my day going?  I laughed.  This wasn’t part of the script that Dave gave me.  Could I answer it?  Should I engage him in small talk?  He was pleasant and I didn’t feel like he was threatening.  “Not too bad,” I said, “I’ve been better.”  He sympathized.  He explained the process.  He would read me my Miranda rights and then ask me a series of questions.  At the conclusion of his visit I would be bound by whatever decision I had made in regards to extradition.  I told him that my lawyer had advised me on what was going to happen and that I understood the process.  “Good.  Good.  So this will be easy,” he said as he shuffled through some more files in the folder.  He had been reading them as he spoke with me. 

     He pulled out a sheet from the bottom and then began to read me my rights. I had the right to remain silent.  Anything I said could and would be used in court against me.  I had the right to an attorney.  If I could not afford one I could be appointed one by the court.  He concluded by finishing off with whether I understood my rights, which I answered “yes” to.  I felt suddenly very nervous.  I had kind of coasted along since Saturday and now it was all becoming very real.  I was now officially in custody, which I found funny since I had been in custody for three days.  I had wanted to get this thing moving and now the train was leaving the station.  It scared me.  Anything I said could now be used against me.  I should watch what I say.  I’d hate for it to be read back to me at my trial.  I regained my inner composure and remembered what Dave had told me.  Franklin asked if I had any questions before we continued.  I didn’t.  He pulled out a sheet of paper and turned it so I could see it.  He explained extradition.  There were two boxes in the middle of the page, each had two or three sentences next to them.  If I chose to waive my rights and extradition, the state of Florida would then have ten days to come and get me.  He went on to tell me that once they picked me up it could take up to two weeks for me to get back to Florida.  They may be picking up other prisoners along the way.  Kind of like a really bad road trip, I thought.  There was no protocol for the length of time that it would take to get to the final destination.  I could also choose to not accept extradition.  In that case, I would appear in front of a Denver judge, probably sometime later that day or tomorrow, and a bond amount would be set for me.  If I was able to post the bond I would be set free and would then have 30 days to make my own way to Florida to turn myself in.  If I could not post the bail, the state of Florida would then have up to 90 days to come and get me.  Since I already knew what I was supposed to do, I told him that my choice was to not accept extradition.  He checked the appropriate box and filled out a few other lines on the paper. After he was finished he put an “X” next to a line toward the bottom of the page and turned it towards me to sign next to it, which I did.  He took back the paper and started putting the folder contents back together.  It seemed like we just about finished.  I knew what Dave had told me but sitting there across from this officer who had a folder that was dedicated to me was overwhelming.  I thought about the only thing I wanted since this all started:  information.  I had spent hour upon hour just wanting to know why I was there.  Mind numbing hours of worry and now someone with answers was four feet away and his attention was squarely on me.  I couldn’t help myself. 

      “Can I ask you a question?” I asked.  “Of course,” he said.  “Can you at least tell me what I’m charged with and why I’m here?  I’ve been in jail since Saturday morning and no one has been able to give me any information.  I have no clue why any of this is happening.”  He hesitated.  I got the sense that he wanted to leave and get on with whatever he had up next.  I was just a formality.  He had done this hundreds of times before, I thought, and it probably wasn’t the favorite part of his job.  He looked at me briefly and then opened the folder again and flipped through some of the documents and read a little of others.  “So you have no idea why you’re here?”  I said no.  I’m quite sure that by that point in my jail stay I was looking ragged.  I hadn’t cut my hair since the summer as I thought it would fun to grow it out for a “Mountain Man” look.  It was kind of awful.  I looked like a poor man’s Tom Petty.  I hadn’t slept and I probably smelled a little foul after wearing the same clothes for over three days.  I looked anything but professional or believable.  I actually probably looked like a child predator.  As he sifted through more of my file I continued telling him how confused I was and that I was a teacher and that I was missing school and I kept on talking and rambling.  He explained without looking up that he wasn’t supposed to give me any other information than what he had done in regards to my rights and extradition but he could see that I was worried.  He read one of the papers to himself for a brief moment and then said that I was being charged with holding a girl against her will in a stairwell in Orlando and committing a lewd act and that there were several charges related to that.  I was frozen.  My stomach was in knots.  As he told me this I could see a page of what appeared to be a narrative about whatever the story was that “I” had done.    I could feel the adrenaline taking over my body.  I felt myself on the edge of losing control.  I suddenly blurted out that I had not ever done anything like that ever in my life.  I was nearly pleading with him.  I’m sure that I looked desperate.  I tried to remain calm and remember Dave’s instructions but since I knew that I had not done what he had just told me that I did that I shouldn’t have anything to worry about.  “When did this supposedly happen?” I asked him very franticly.   He flipped through the report he was reading and he said “January.”  January?  “What year?”  I immediately came back with.  “This year,” I responded.  “January of THIS YEAR?”  JANUARY OF THIS YEAR?? I nearly jumped out of my chair and I almost fell on the floor.  Everything I had been focusing on since the moment I was taken from my doorstep was in relation to the school year I spent in Orlando last year.  “This happened this year?  Are you sure?”  He showed me the date on the top of the report.  My mind was running at full throttle.  The date was the first Saturday in January of THIS YEAR.  In just a few seconds I had hundreds of thoughts flood my head.  I immediately knew exactly where I was during that entire weekend.  I was visibly excited and animated.  I tried to regain my composure and remember focus on Dave’s rules.  I took a breath and asked him if I could possibly call my lawyer immediately as there was a phone on the table.  He said he didn’t mind.  Awkwardly I asked if he could please step outside the office.  I felt that he probably shouldn’t let him hear what I was going to say.  He went out into the hall and closed the door.  I called Dave and hoped that he was available.  He was.  Without pause and probably incoherently I began, “Dave, this is Chris Justice.  I am meeting with the police now and I just found out the date that all of this stuff they are charging me with happened.  Dave, it was this year!  It was early January of 2002.   Just two months ago. I haven’t been to Florida since I moved here in August.  I wasn’t even in Orlando when it happened.  It was the last weekend of our holiday break from school.  I went to a dinner party with my buddy Kermit and some school board members then Kermit and I went up to ski Vail that day.  I was in Vail all day and then home the rest of the weekend.  In fact, I think I still have the lift ticket from that day.”  He asked me to slow down.  The more I went on the more I immediately remembered.  “I used my debit card several times that day.  I used the phone to make long distance calls.  It was this year!!”  Dave said that this was great news and that he’d be down to see me as soon as he could.  I hung up and Franklin came back into the room.  I was beyond excited and I decided that I didn’t care if I talked to him or not.  I was running in full throttle.  I was innocent and had nothing to hide.  Without asking him I just went into what I had just told Dave.  He was a police officer and part of the department who was holding me.  He wasn’t just some guard that had nothing to do with my case.  Here sitting across from me was someone who could possibly help me, I thought.  I took him through the entire weekend in question and the fact that this was some horrible mistake.  The more I talked the more it seemed to me that he was really listening.  I said that I realized that he had probably heard cries of innocence before but that I was really innocent.  I’d do anything to make this nightmare end.  As I went on and on he finally said that he’d look into it.  It felt like he meant it.   I was just so totally dumbfounded that whatever put me in this horrible place had happened just a few months previous.  I kept shaking my head as he opened the door and we walked back towards the offices. 

     I made small talk as we walked.  I asked him how long he’d been a police officer, if he had any kids, etc.  He seemed like a good guy.  Not just a nice guy but someone who I would hang out with in a different circumstance.  The closer we got to the cell area the more I didn’t want to go back in.  I was enjoying our conversation and I was emotionally charged with excitement.  He kind of handed me off to one of the guards and told me that he would come back and see me at some point.  I hoped that he would.  As per usual, my mind went to a movie reference, which in this case was from “The Jerk.”  After Steve Martin finally gets his name in the phone book, he proudly states, “Things are going to start happening to me now.”  After nearly 72 painstaking hours of incarceration, I believed that things were truly starting to happen.  I had a lawyer and now I had an officer assigned to me that I persuaded to perhaps have at least a small percentage of doubt that I was supposed to be there.  Things were looking up.  But the return to my cell always began the slow fade back to total boredom, worry and my wild imagination.

     Luckily it was near lunch time.  It had been a busy morning.  I began to go over and over what had just happened.  My entire line of thinking since my arrival had been totally thrown overboard.  As I sat motionless in thought I simply couldn’t believe that what I was being charged with had happened in January.  I have always had a very vivid memory and my friends know this.  I can often recall events from long ago with perfect clarity.  I remember conversations, what people were wearing, what the weather was like as well as when it took place.  I am often the final word on how or when something happened among my friends.  They know me well enough not to doubt me.  Even nights (or days) that involved ridiculous levels of alcohol consumption I can recall with details.  It’s actually kind of funny since I have trouble on a day to day basis remembering where I put something, where I’m supposed to be and when I’m supposed to be there.  My short term memory is awful but my long term memory is near-perfect.  There have been times that I’ve lost something only to remember where I put it many months later.  And now I was recalling everything from a weekend that I was supposedly in Florida holding a girl against her will in a stairwell and doing something awful to her or with her, I wasn’t sure which since Officer Franklin didn’t elaborate.  My brain is like a filing cabinet with all of these memories filed away and I can pull them out in less than a second for reference.  Once I found out when I was allegedly in Florida I immediately knew where I actually was and exactly what I was doing.  Kermit and I were both on our school holiday break.  We went to a dinner party at the home of one of the school board members at my school on Friday night.  It was snowing.  We left the party around 8pm and drove up to Vail to meet up with my buddy Andrew.  We went out in Vail Village that night then got up to ski fairly early the next day.  Andrew worked for the resort and hooked us up with free lift tickets.  It was an awesome powder day.  After we got done we waited at his place to wait for the traffic to clear.  We ordered a pizza, ate it and took off.  We got back into Denver after dark and stopped by Baja Fresh to get some food.  We rented a movie and stayed in that night.  The next day was the last day of the break and we basically did nothing.  The NFL playoffs were on and we each stayed on the couch for hours on end.  There was absolutely no doubt that I could not have been in Florida.  It was impossible and I knew that I’d be able to prove this fact unequivocally.  I used my debit card several times over the weekend.  I made long distance calls from our home phone.  I had school board members as witnesses that I was at the dinner party. I had Kermit, who would be able to testify that I was with him for the entirety of Friday through Sunday and even into Monday.  I had Andrew up in Vail that could verify that I was up skiing with him.  I even had the lift ticket, which would have the date on it.  I knew that I left it in the trunk of my car when we unloaded our skis and boots when we got home.  It was still there.  I was able to spell this out in detail to Officer Franklin and I’d be able to tell Dave whenever he came around to see me again.  He would be able to begin to put all of this together by interviewing my friends, accessing phone and bank records and getting the lift ticket from my car.  It was a no-brainer.  The trouble was the fact that I was still sitting in jail, which now was upsetting me exponentially since it was undisputable that I couldn’t have been in Florida when someone was using my name did whatever he did.  But who the hell was using my name?  Was it someone that I knew?  And what exactly did he do?  I knew I’d have plenty of time to think about it further, but the door was unlocked now and lunch had arrived.  Although I was belligerently tired I was running on adrenaline and walked out to catch my jail friends up on what had just happened. 

     I told them everything.  Not a detail was left out as everyone at my table and anyone within earshot listened to my story.  Just as I had never really had too many interactions with the types of guys that I was sitting with, they didn’t know too many teachers who were wrongly accused of a crime, arrested and sitting in jail.  Not too many people walking the streets knew anyone like that either.  I know that I didn’t.  It was all so baffling.  Even as I sat there and updated everyone on what was happening to me I still couldn’t believe that it was really happening to me.  There were other times that I had this feeling but it honestly felt like I was outside of my body.  I was watching someone else’s life unfold.  It was such a stark departure from normal life that I had to laugh that it was me sitting there at lunch in jail telling other criminals how I got there.   By the time lunch had come around some of the guys at the table were new and asked questions that other guys who had been there for a few days answered for me.  I was not only a jail veteran but I was a popular inmate.  On some weird level I was happy that I had been able to handle what had been thrown at me up to that point.  Some people would simply crack.  It would be too overwhelming to deal with, but here I was laughing with a room full of accused criminals over a meal of bologna sandwiches, apples and pudding.  The pudding was a welcome new addition.  I didn’t go unnoticed by me.  It had been a banner morning and it was still early in the day.  Things were definitely starting to happen to me now. 

     The period of time from lunch until dinner actually flew by.  I read the Bible for at least the 25^th time and felt a little bit of the load lift from my mind.  I was actually retaining the words I read and not having to backtrack every few minutes.  I continued my observations of the locals on the street.  I was starting to see familiar people coming and going.  I had entire lives constructed in my head.  I thought that this experience was something that I should probably write about after it all wrapped up.  I wrote for my high school newspaper and started out my college career at Mizzou as a journalism major.  I wrote for the school paper during my freshman year and then again my sophomore year at Iowa State.  I had transferred for the worst of all reasons:  a girl.  My entire life I had only wanted to go to the University of Missouri and I left after one year for a girl.   In hindsight, I agreed with what my dad told me when I first announced my plans, “You’re an idiot.”  But I stayed the course as a journalism major for a few years before it was evident that I was not really the best of students.  I changed my major to physical education when I realized that I thought that I was better suited for working with kids.  Eventually I woke up from my idiocy-induced coma and finally went back to Mizzou and spent another three years getting my degree in P.E.  Six and a half years spent in college.  I could think of worse things, like being in jail, but in retrospect, I probably would never have found my way to working at the camp in Minnesota had I not still been in college to see the ad in the school paper when I was 23.  Working there changed my life in so many ways that I couldn’t comprehend a life without having gone there.  I met so many people from all over the world of a like mind.  Most of my friends from home and from my childhood didn’t really have many ambitions of travel or adventure or ever really leaving the area where we grew up.  But I had always had a drive within me to do more and experience more than most people I knew.  I knew the day I arrived in Minnesota that it was something special.  I ended up spending seven summers there and then had just spent my first summer at a similar camp in Maine the summer previous.  But through this life journey since high school I had stopped writing, which was one of my passions.  I very much wished that I had a pencil and paper so I could keep some notes on what was happening to me.  Letting my mind wander during the day and focusing on positive thoughts and past experiences was an escape that helped me churn through the ridiculous amount of down time that was suddenly thrust upon me.  There was only so much lying on the floor and talking through the crack that I could do.  I could nearly recite each gospel in the Good Book and it started to feel like I was cramming for a Biblical Studies exam.  Thinking and daydreaming and trying to stay creative were all I had to do between the realities of the happenings outside of my cell.  I thought often of my friends and my family and how truly lucky I was to have them all in my life.  There were many, many times during the previous few days that I had convinced myself that I would never see many of them ever again, but after my visit from Officer Franklin I had a new hope that things were going to work out in my favor.  I just didn’t know when or how long I’d have to wait for that to arrive. 

     Dinner came and went without anything different than before.  More random conversation, more new guys and the loss of some others.  Word had spread, apparently, that I was getting regular visitors at eight o’clock since I had arrived.  I think that I had at least six guys ask me at dinner if I could get messages out to either friends or family if I had someone visit me that evening.  Ice Cube was still there and I guess that he had mentioned our previous conversation to a few of the guys.  Word spread quickly.  Sure, why not, I told them.  I didn’t mind helping.  I joked around with a few of them saying that if I helped them out that they would have to promise to stay out of my neighborhood after we were all out and free.  They would have to put the word out that Grant Street was off limits to any car thefts, breaking and entering, vandalism, muggings or any of the multitude of crimes that they told me that they had committed.  I also asked for safe passage if I ever found myself in their part of town.  These guys didn’t know how to take me, I thought.  I could tell that most of them truly were amused at some of the things I said to them and that we did have some sort of weird jail friendship.  I did notice that others, mostly guys from the other side of the floor who I didn’t have too much interaction with, were not amused. They saw our tables laughing and joking and every once in awhile I’d catch a glance from an especially rough looking dude who I probably didn’t want to have any problems with.  I didn’t know any other way of interacting with people.  I certainly didn’t grow up in their world but my view of life had always been that we’re all in this thing together.  I was friends with all sorts of different groups in grade school and high school.  I didn’t care.  People are people.  I never took myself too seriously and it had gotten me along pretty well, but I wasn’t oblivious to the fact that there was truly a criminal element where I was currently living and that “my way” was not always going to work.  I only felt comfortable with the guys I was with because I had been talking to some of them since the moment I arrived.  New guys on our side of the floor were kind of stuck in the circle that we had created.  But I knew that I wasn’t on my turf and that things could change in an instant.  I didn’t want to find myself in a situation that was way over my head.  The thought did cross my mind on several occasions that one of the guys who just watched me may be someone that I’d come across if I were transferred to County, and from what I had been told, real trouble did happen out there, regardless of how wonderful they all made it out to be. 

     At the end of dinner I asked a guard who I had spoken with a few times if there was any way at all for me to get a pen and paper just for a moment so I could write all of these messages down so I could relay them to whoever visited me that night.  I could tell that he really did want to help us out but there was no way he could do it.  Although he had heard everything we had been talking about it was totally against protocol to do what we had asked.  The guys who wanted me to get messages out to their people were all within range of my cell and we decided that closer to visiting time they would again tell me their infomation and I’d try to memorize it all so I could relay to my friend.  This at least would give us something to do to kill time for a few hours before eight o’clock.

     It as getting close to 5pm when the same guard as before came to get me.  Dave was back to see me.  I met him in the same conference room that I was in with Officer Franklin.  He again has his legal pad out and I again commented on it.  He was beginning to get the picture of who he had volunteered his valuable time for.  He said something about how impressed he was at how I was handling all of this.  Immediately he pulled out what looked to be the same report that Officer Franklin had with him earlier.  It was the arrest report.  He said that he had just gotten it faxed over to him from the Orlando PD.  He had read it several times and told me that there was some really bad stuff in it.  I asked him if I could read it.  “Yes, but let’s get to work now.  I brought a copy for you if you want it.  You can take it back to your cell with you if you like.”  He explained that inmates could keep anything given to them by their lawyers in relation to their case.  I asked if a beer and a pizza could possibly be in relation to my case.  We went to work.  I took him through the entire weekend in question.  I gave him every name of people that knew me that I had contact with.  I told him every place we visited, what we did and how long we stayed there.  I relayed as many phone numbers of my friends that I knew.  I gave him permission to get copies of my bank statement and phone bill.  I told him where the lift ticket was located inside the truck of my car, which was parked outside my house.  He asked me a lots of questions.  The one that he kept coming back to was whether or not I had any idea about who could have done this.  Did anything strange ever happen to me when I lived in Florida?  Had I ever had any record of someone stealing my identity?  A stolen credit card or something?  I told him no on all accounts.  I didn’t have any idea of who was using my name or why.  Dave told me that he had left a message for Detective Geoff Laney in Orlando and I told him, which I had previously forgotten, that I had left him a message on Saturday before I was arrested.  The one new piece of information that he had for me was that he would be representing me in court the next day.  He thought, as I did, that I’d have to appear in front of the judge myself to have a bond set.  He was given the time for my appearance, which would be on Wednesday afternoon, but was told that I did not have to be there if I didn’t want to.  He advised me not to go.  I really wanted to go and I told him so.  It would get me out of my cell for a block of time and the only thing that really kept me going on a day to day basis was the hope for a break in the monotony.  He explained that due to the nature of my crimes that it was better that other inmates who would be sitting in the courtroom awaiting their time in front of the judge not see me and hear what I was being charged with.  He had spoken with other lawyers and they highly advised me not to attend my bond hearing.  I hadn’t even thought of it like that.  I had been unfiltered for three days with the guys on my floor.  I was innocent, but I understood what he was saying.  It was smart not to go, as much as I would have loved to get out of my cell and actually be somewhere else.  Kind of like a field trip.  I didn’t focus on it too much as I sat across from him but I did put the fact that a bunch of guys knew exactly what I was charged with in the back of my mind.  I knew that I’d over think it late that night.  I asked Dave if he had any idea of how long it might be until I could go home since it was so glaringly obvious that I had more than enough to show the Orlando or even the Denver PD that I was not the guy that had done these crimes.  He didn’t know.  He had never been a part of anything like this but he honestly didn’t see me having to go back to Florida.  There were many, many factors involved in it all and that we would have to just wait and see.  He hoped that he would be able to speak with Detective Laney very soon.  We ended our meeting by me asking how much he thought my bond would be.  I realized with all of what we now knew that this may all be over very soon, or so I hoped, but if I was given a bond amount that was manageable that I may be able to get out sooner and deal with it all from my home.  With a good toothbrush and the freedom to shower when I wanted and make phone calls at my leisure.  Dave thought for a moment then said that he figured it would be somewhere in the $50,000 range.  If I used a bail bondsman I could get out for an un-refundable $5,000, I didn’t have $50,000 or $5,000 or $500.  I may have had a hard time if my bond amount was $50.  I was discouraged since I briefly thought that I may be sleeping in my own bed on Wednesday night.  Dave said that he would get to work immediately on calling my friends and putting together my timeline of where I was when I was supposedly in Florida.  I thanked him several times again and he made me stop thanking him.  We shook hands and he told me to hang tight.  He’d be back either before or after my hearing the next day.

     I didn’t get back to my cell until just before visiting time.  My guys in the cells around me were eagerly waiting for me.  Although they couldn’t see the clock I was sure that they were growing anxious for me to return so that we could go over whatever information they wanted me to relay to whoever was coming to see me.  As I walked down the hallway I could hear them yelling down the hallway for me.  I passed them and told them that we still had a little time to get things together.  I knew that they were all really banking on me relay information to someone in their lives to let them know where they were.  I couldn’t imagine spending the past three-plus days in jail without being able to tell anyone how I was going or where I was.  It had to be terribly frustrating.  When I finally got back into my room I was very conflicted.  I had just been given an encyclopedia worth of information in the span of half a day.  There was so much to take in and I was very anxious to begin to process it all.  It was a new feeling being in my cell and kind of wanting to be able to stay there for awhile.  I knew that I would enjoy seeing one of my friends and I did want to help the guys out but I really wanted to read my arrest report.  But it wasn’t like I had plans after the 20 minute visiting time so I just set the report down and began to talk and listen to the list of instructions that I was to try to get to the outside world.

     It was like playing an ice breaker name game at camp.  One guy would tell me the contact information for the person they wanted my friend to get in touch with and the message they wanted them to relay.  I’d say it and then the next guy would do the same.  “OK, call Jackie at 303-390-3599 and tell her to bring $500 to the jail to bond out Vince. Got it.  Call Jackie at 303-390-3599 and tell her to bring $500 to the jail to bond out Vince.” Then I’d listen to the next one.  “Call Jackie at 303-390-3599 and tell her to bring $500 to the jail to bond out Vince.  And call Aunt Rosie at 303-838-9883 and tell her that Greg is in jail and he’d be in County by Thursday and to visit.”  I’d repeat the first then the second and then get new information and do it all again and add the next one.  Over and over.  I’d mess up something and then start over.  I was horrible at the name game and I was less than optimistic that this would work.  I thought that I’d probably end up having Jackie going to Country and Aunt Rosie bringing $500 and so on.  As a guard came to get me I told the guys that I’d give it my best shot.  I kept saying it all over and over as I was walked to the visitation room.  The more I did it the more I screwed it up.  I wasn’t running at 100% mentally and was so scattered that by the time I saw Aimee sitting down at the table behind the Plexiglas I had completely tangled everything up.  She picked up her receiver as I did the same.  I was happy to see her again.  Everything happened so fast during the day that I nearly forgot that I hadn’t been able to use the phone to talk to anyone since very early in the morning, which felt like months ago.  “Thanks for coming back. I’m supposed to give you a bunch of information for you to make some calls for my new friends.  They have been drilling me for the last 45 minutes so I could memorize who to call and what to tell them,” I tried to explain.  Aimee just looked at me.  “But I’ve screwed it up.  No way could I tell you what the hell I’m supposed to do.”  I also realized that it would take up the entire 20 minutes trying to figure it all out, so I just let it go.  Maybe I’d tell them all that I had told her everything perfectly and leave it at that.  Aimee and I spent our time together just catching up.  I filled her in on everything that had gone on.  We were still in a state of shock that this was how we had to talk to each other.  She had spoken with her parents, she said, and they offered up the possibility of posting my bond if it was something within reason. Her dad wanted her to relay to me that I could call him collect if he just needed someone to talk to.  We could discuss the bond once I found out the amount.  I knew their home number and told her that I would call him the next day.  Word was slowly getting out with a few of our mutual friends.  She had asked during her previous visit whether or not she could talk about it with anyone else.  I didn’t care.  Maybe they would all come down and picket the jail like that group used to do for James Brown.  “Free James Brown!” they would chant and hold up signs.  I told her that if she did organize a protest group that it would better if they marched up and down 14^th and Cherokee so I could see them.  We were joking as usual.  There would be no protest.  But she did say that she didn’t realize that I had a view of the street from where I lived.  We spent the last few minutes talking about her few days of the workweek.  Right before she left she told me to look outside my window in 20 minutes and she would stand down on the sidewalk outside my window and wave to me.  She said some things that I don’t remember that made me laugh and then that was it. Time to go back to my cell.  Those visits were like gold to me.  They made me feel relatively normal for a brief few moments.  I was always so happy and stress free when I saw one of my friends and always so depressed when it was over.  They were going back home to freedom and I was heading back to the night time and my thoughts.  Time sped up so much during visitation but immediately powered down to energy saving mode when they were over.  I had no idea how I was going to cope with night number four.  I dreaded it.  Even though I had more than the Bible to read I knew that the darkness and lack of the ability to sleep coupled with my imagination was incredibly daunting and scary.  It truly was metaphorically a jail. 

     I knew that I’d be questioned about how it went with the information delivery system.  When I got back to the darkened hallway a few of the guys stood up and I just gave them the thumbs up sign.  I didn’t feel like going into it and I didn’t really feel like talking to anyone. I was brutally tired and just wanted to lie down and try to read what Dave had given to me.  I got back to my cell, stretched out flat on my bed, unfolded the report, which was a five or six page narrative, and began to read.  It was haunting.  It was a story in which I was the main character.  It began with “Christopher Carl Justice, of 275 Grant Street, Denver, Colorado, walked into the Radisson Hotel at (Orlando address) at approximately 6:00pm and met up with group of cheerleaders who were in town for a Christian Cheerleaders competition” and then went on to describe the entire events of the night.  It wasn’t pretty.  It went into graphic detail about what “I” had done.  Instead of saying “he” it always said “Chris Justice” as if it were fact.  I had done some very bad things. 

     I was personable and charismatic.  I was in a Christian rock band.  The coaches and cheerleaders all enjoyed listening to me tell my tales of life on the road.  I knew Britney Spears.  Later in the night I went upstairs in the hotel and made my way to one of the rooms that had an open door.  Four cheerleaders that I had previously met let me come in.  My pants were wet because I had been in the hot tub.  I took them off in the bathroom and put on a towel but kept my shirt and black ski cap on.  I told more stories about my music career.  My towel fell to the floor several times exposing my genitals.  I tried to warm up my feet by putting them under one of the girl’s rear end as we sat on the bed.  I asked them sexual questions.   I had a heavy odor of cologne that I told them was Drakkar Noir.  The girls were tired and finally I left the room after I put my pants and shoes back on.  I hid in the stairwell until one of the girls left the room to go back to hers, which was one floor below.  I talked to her from a distance and assured her that I only wanted to escort her back to make sure she was safe.  It was very late at night.  When I held the door open for her I grabbed her from behind as she walked past me.  I moved her down the stairs with one hand holding her arm and my other hand around her neck and covering her mouth.  I whispered sexual things to her.  I felt up her dress from behind.  I unbuttoned my pants as I kept hold of her and I masturbated to climax.  I let her go and made my way down the stairs and out of the building. 

     I read it again.  And again.  I probably read it ten times before I thought about what it said.  At the end of the report it had a list of five different felony charges, all written with my name at the beginning of each sentence.  Kidnapping was the first.  Sexual contact with a minor was next.  Lewd and lascivious was next and I forget the final two.  All felonies.  All really, really bad.    And the person who wrote this report, Orlando Detective Geoff Laney, sounded like he truly believed that I was the one who was responsible.  My name was mentioned no less than 50 times.  I counted.  I was horrified and scared unlike any fear that I had encountered in my life.  This was no former student saying he was me and groping some girl he brought home.  This was really awful stuff.  The kind of thing that really sick people do to others.  I didn’t rob a bank or forge a signature on a check or steal a car.  I had held a 14 year old girl in a stairwell with my hand over her mouth and beat off.  I had exposed myself multiple times to other 14 year old girls.  I was 33 and a teacher.  Not only was I going to go to jail but I was going for a very long time.  Everyone would know what I had done and I’d die in prison.  I’d die in prison after being raped and beaten multiple times.  I read it again.  Every time I’d read it I’d get to another part where my name started the sentence and be followed by one of these terrible things that it said that I had done.  Me.  My whole name was there.  My social security number.  My address.  Laney had gone to my school and asked my friends questions while he thought that I was a grown man who masturbated on a 14 year old Christian cheerleader.  How much had he told them?  Did I have friends in Orlando who thought that I did this?  Maybe he didn’t tell Amanda what it was I was being investigated for but he had to have told Todd or Pam or Dave or Mr. Wudke.  The entire school had to be talking about this.  Kids that I taught believed that their former teacher was a pedophile.  Parents that I knew very well thought that I was a pedophile.  A slew of Orlando Police were so convinced that I was a pedophile that they had me taken from my home over 3000 miles away.  Even Officer Franklin knew exactly what I was charged with and probably thought that he was talking to a pedophile.  There was no way that he was going to help me.  He was a police officer.  Dave had warned me that they may act like they were trying to help me and be my friend.  He had read the report and knew exactly what I had supposedly done before he even met me.  I was totally fucked.  A police officer in the state of Florida was called to a crime scene almost exactly two months ago.  He interviewed everyone involved.  He pieced together what had happened.  He investigated and it somehow led to me.  He dug though my past and went to my former employer and interviewed my friends and co-workers and former students.  He probably talked to other people that I knew.  He spent eight weeks putting this all together and wrote this report and finally felt that he had enough to have me arrested.  And I was going to have to go to Florida to stand trial for this.  The victim and the witnesses had been told that a suspect had been arrested.  By the time I would go to trial enough time would probably have passed that their memories would have faded a little.  What if when they saw me they decided that I was the guy?  What if they really wanted me to be the guy they met and their recollections would morph into my face being the one they see?  You read about innocent people getting out of prison after 20 years all the time.  I didn’t want to be one of those guys.   I was terrified.  It was the middle of the night and my imagination was out of control. My stomach was so tied in knots that I found it hard to breathe.  Over and over I read it and each time I’d create a new terrible ending to this nightmare.  I couldn’t stop reading it.  I must have gone through it a hundred times or more.  I’d stop and think and go back to the beginning again and again like a masochist. 

     This was the darkest night I had ever spent.  I don’t think I moved from the bed from the moment I got into my cell until it was time for breakfast.  I had the same feeling you get if you really think hard about the reality of death.  You can really freak yourself out if you hone in on the finality of end of your life.  There is nothing I love more than living, which may sound obvious to most, but I had always been well aware of how short our time on this planet is.  Life is a gift that we have been given and I was determined to make the most of mine.  I wanted to do everything and see everything and experience everything.  I do not like standing still and crave forward momentum.  I hate when people say things like, “That was the best time of my life” because I always want to be looking forward instead of back.  My best times were always in front of me, I thought.  I was paralyzed by what I had read and convinced myself that this was the end of the line.  The deck was stacked against me and my fate was that of a child predator who would die in prison. I was totally exhausted and probably near a breakdown. I had never had one before but I was sure that I was close to my first.  I found it nearly impossible to pull myself out of the spiral that I was in. The morning was coming and I just couldn’t take another day.  I suddenly remembered that I had forgotten to look out and see Aimee waving up at me just as the lights came on and day five was about to start.