The Curious Case of Christopher Comtois (Part XV)

D Block

     They weren’t lying.  The food was exponentially better at County.   I got to eat at a general cafeteria since I missed the regular lunch time where I’d soon be living.  I was starved and got to choose a hamburger, fries, some vegetables and unlimited refills of my water.  Unlimited refills!  Since I was on my own, I had a little more time than normal to eat.  The officer who escorted me over told me that he’d be back in a half hour or so to take me to D Block.  While I sat and ate the upgraded food, I couldn’t help but wonder what my new surroundings would be like.  I was nervous, kind of excited and overall just emotionally spent from the long transition from City to County.  I would be among some hard core criminals.  Only those with felonies are housed in D Block, I was told.  Included among the inmates would be some serving long sentences.  I figured that with more free time, the chances for trouble would increase.  I didn’t want to spend one more night in jail and it was now mid-afternoon on Friday.  I felt like I had been shuttled out of the City Jail under the cover of darkness and no one knew where I was.  I desperately hoped that I’d get to use the phone at some point during the day.  I felt incredibly anxious as my thoughts raced from worry about the DNA test and why I was still incarcerated, to Franklin and why he hadn’t come to see me since we both met with Laney two nights before.  I worried about my classroom and how they had dealt with a full week with their teacher in jail.  I wondered what Laney was up to and if I’d see him again.  In a strange way, I was concerned about Pepe’ and whether or not he got a new roommate after I left.  I assumed that he was all alone in cell number 13 since so many of us were moved in the morning.  By all accounts, he was a kind man who legitimately had no clue what was happening.  I had an eternal knot in my stomach as I could feel the clock ticking down to the weekend.  Once five o’ clock came around, I would have to surrender myself to most likely being in jail until at least Monday.  The thought nearly made me sick. 

     Just as I was clearing my tray and dumping my trash into the bin, I heard someone behind me say, “Hey, man!”  I turned to my right and looked over my shoulder to see my light skinned, afro buddy standing a few feet away.  He had just walked into the cafeteria as I was near the exit door.  He was only wearing a white t-shirt with his jail-issued shirt tucked into the green scrubs.  He obviously was prepared for the protocol.  “How’s it going?” I asked him.  “Good, man.  It’s good to be out here.  I hated being trapped at City for so long.”   He was just getting to eat since his group had missed their lunch time as well.  “Listen, man, I’ve been trying to catch up to for awhile cause I gotta tell you something,” he leaned in and said.  “Out at City, all was cool and I know your story and everything.  But you gotta watch it out here.  You can’t go tellin’ everybody why you locked up.”  I knew what he was getting at but I still asked him why.  “Man, that shit that happened in Florida is fucked up.  The dude that got you in this shit is in for it once they get him.  But right now it’s on you.  Don’t go tellin’ no one what that dude did.  If you tell your story, don’t tell no one what he did, cause right now it’s you.  Dudes that come here for doing that shit aren’t safe.  I know your cool and I believe what you tell me, but some dudes out here ain’t like me.  You get what I’m sayin’?”  I got it.  And I appreciated it.  “Hey, man,” I said, “Thanks.  I hope I’m out soon, and if things go the way I think, this story may be on the news.  I’ll give you a shout out.”  He laughed as he started to walk towards the food line.  “By the way, what’s your name so I can make you famous?” I said to him with a smile.  “Jerome.  But don’t be puttin’ me in no paper!” He walked back towards me as I put my hand out to shake his.  “Jerome, it was a pleasure,” I said.  “You, too, Chris.  Be safe,” he said as we shook hands.  He turned and walked away right as my escort officer came into the room.  As I turned to start my walk to D Block, I was mad at myself for not remembering his name.  I’d had many conversations with him over multiple days and was sure that he had told me, but I had always been bad about remembering names.  Something else to work on while I was in jail, I guess.  

     I had my photo name badge pinned to my shirt and a copy of the paperwork that I had to sign.  I didn't have socks or underwear on and my pants were about two inches above my feet.  The officer and I walked down a series of hallways and finally made it to a door that looked like one that you'd open to enter a gymnasium.  There was a large “D” painted on the wall.  He opened the door for me and walked in behind me.  Right next to the entrance was a desk where another officer was sitting.  The room was huge with two separate levels.  There were probably 40 maroon cell doors equally spaced out on each floor.  The second deck had a railing that encircled the entire parameter.  The entire space was shaped more like a hexagon.  There were several four-top wooden tables with chairs scattered around on the first floor.  Each table had a chess or checkerboard painted on the top.  I was sure that John was already playing a game somewhere in the jail.  There were two televisions mounted up on a beam across the room beyond the tables.  Half way across the room on the left was a bank of at least six phones.  A few bookshelves lined the walls and the restroom and showers were directly across from the desk where the officer was sitting.  The stairs to the second floor were directly to my right.  No one else was in sight.  "This is prisoner number 238, Justice," my escort told the officer at the desk.  He asked for my paperwork and unfolded the sheet that I handed him.  I was carrying my second set up of folded up jail clothes.  He flipped through a clipboard and said, "Come with me."  The officer who brought me to D Block left the room.  I followed the desk officer over to a storage closet, which he opened.  I could see blankets and pillows on the shelves inside the closet as well as a few of Pepe's toboggans on the floor.  He grabbed one blanket and one sheet and dragged a toboggan out.  He told me to grab the opposite end to help him carry it.  I instantly knew that I'd be somebody's roommate.  I didn't have time to really think about it as we walked past a few rooms and stopped in front a door marked "112."  The officer reached up to his radio mike, which was pinned over his shoulder, and called to "Open 112."  The familiar sound of the electronic lock buzz echoed through the room as the door cracked open.  We carried the toboggan inside and a young looking white guy stood up from his bed.  "This is your new roommate," the officer said.  "Get him up to speed."  We set the toboggan on the floor along with the folded up blanket and pillow.  The officer left the room and I could hear him check to make sure that the door had locked behind him.  My new roommate just stood there looking at me for a few seconds before he spoke.  "My name's Chris, what's yours?"  "Chris," I said.  "That'll be easy enough," he said as he laid back down on his bed.  I felt bad that I was intruding on his space.  It was obvious that he had been there for quite some time.  There were four or five small portable wooden shelves along the wall.  The room was much larger than in the City Jail.  Chris had some photos up on the wall that were obviously of his family or friends and some of the wooden shelves had books stacked inside.  Multiple sets of green jail clothes were folded up neatly on one of the shelves and another had white socks and t-shirts.  Two or three different pairs of shoes were under his bed.  His toiletries were on top of the shelf closest to his bed.  I could see the clock from the rectangle window of our door.  It was nearly 3:00 in the afternoon.

     Chris was probably 20 years old.  He was a bigger guy, but not fit.  He had short black hair and a few tattoos on his arms.  "How long you been here?" I asked.  "About six months.  I got another six months or so," he said without looking up.  I was standing behind his bed next to my toboggan.  "Man, I'm sorry you got a roommate.  I was on my own for four days back at the City Jail and then got a roommate who didn't speak any English.  It was interesting," I told him to try and connect on some level.  I really wanted to know what the schedule was but I didn't want to be the roommate who asked too many questions.  Chris seemed mild mannered, but he was, in fact, serving a year at the County Jail in the special felony area.  I decided that I had to feel out the situation before getting too comfortable.  "What brought you here?" I asked.  "Drugs.  Too many drugs.  Being in here has really helped me.  I was into a whole bunch of bad shit on the outside," he said.  I felt at little more at ease.  At least he wasn't in for manslaughter or something in the violent neighborhood.  "So, what's the story here?  I've never been to County and just spent the last week locked up for 23 hours a day.  It looks like we've got plenty to do out there."  Chris sat up in bed and I could tell that he really didn't want to get into a Q and A session.  He kind of hesitated but probably realized that he'd have to get the new guy up to speed at some point, so he'd just get it over with right off the bat.  "Things here in D are mellow.  We get good food and plenty of rec time.  Breakfast is at seven in the morning, lunch is around noon and dinner is around five, sometimes later.  We gotta be in our cells after breakfast for two hours then after lunch for two hours.  After dinner we get more rec time and then lights out is usually at nine or ten.  We outta be getting out for rec time soon."  I liked the sound of what Chris had to say.  I wouldn't have to bide my time by making up stories about what pedestrians on the street were doing or watching the clock tower.  I saw a pencil and paper on a shelf near Chris' bed so I figured that I may actually get to do some writing, which excited me.  There were TV's and phones, games and books.  It wasn't Club Med, but, for me, it seemed like the distraction that I desperately needed from the week that I'd just spent. Plus, my roommate spoke English, which would certainly help in speeding up the conversation process.  Chris laid back down on his bed and I took the cue to unfold my blanket and make up my toboggan.  I set my set of clothes on the floor.  I laid down and instantly realized how awful it must have been for Pepe' since the toboggan was as uncomfortable as you'd imagine a toboggan to be.  I just starred up at the ceiling and tried to get my mind to take a break from everything. 

     Less than ten minutes after trying to relax near the floor, I heard the now-familiar electronic buzzing sound of doors being unlocked.  Every inmate door in D Block was being opened at the same time and I could hear guys talking out in the main room.  I got up and pushed our door open.  Chris hadn’t moved.  Inmates were beginning to swarm the area, some taking seats at one of the multiple tables and others just walking aimlessly.  I asked Chris how long we’d be able to be out.  He sat up and told me that it would be at least a few hours.  “What is there to do?” I said while I watched more and more guys leave their cells.  Chris stood up and said as he pulled on the green shirt that had been draped at the end of his bed, “Whatever.  There are some books out there that you can grab, cards, games, whatever.  You can use the phone.  There is a basketball court where some guys play sometimes.”  He wasn’t outwardly friendly but I figured that he still wasn’t too enamored with having to give up his solo room.  I didn’t feel like he was looking for a new friend, so I wandered out the door to experience my first contact with my new neighbors. 

     I wanted to get the “lay of the land,” so I wandered around for twenty minutes or so just taking it all in.  Every race was represented:  black, white, Hispanic, Asian, etc.  Some guys looked disturbingly violent while others looked like me, just trying to stay in the shadows and mind their own business.  It was getting very close to the end of the work week and I was very aware that the five o’clock whistle would most likely signal the end of my hope of getting out and a chance to celebrate on a Friday night.  Many times throughout the week, when I had been at my lowest point and convinced that I’d spend many years in prison, I thought of the multitude of things that I’d miss.  Beer was high on the list.  I tried to remember the taste and imagined the sights and sounds of being out at a bar with my friends, watching football or playing trivia.  I had a picture in my head of what it would be like when I got out and how much fun it would be to celebrate the end of this ridiculous fiasco.  I really had my hopes up that I’d be out before Friday, and as the minutes ticked on Friday afternoon, those hopes melted away.  As I walked around and got familiar with my new surroundings, I felt like a kid who had been in time-out for a week and was suddenly at a carnival.  For nearly seven days, my recreation choices were limited to staring out a window, reading a Bible or my arrest report, lying in my bed, learning Spanish, keeping time for everyone and simply waiting for the next visitor, phone time or shower.  Now I kind of felt like I was on vacation.  Compared to where I had been, D Block really was like a resort.  When your life is condensed and your freedom removed, normal perception is altered from “regular” life.  Things that were mundane become important, like showers and toothbrushes.   All week long I craved anything more than what I had, which was next to nothing.  A five minute phone call was like gold and now I had an entire row of phones in front of me and upwards of two hours to use one.  Although I didn’t have any game-playing partners yet, I could grab a deck of cards and play solitaire.  If I had been assigned to the same cell block as John, I’m sure that I would have already lost at least two games of chess by now.  I could sort through the hundreds of books and begin to try to read something other than the teachings of the Twelve Apostles.  Taking a shower was an option, although I was very, very leery of putting myself in a bad situation.  I had no idea of what these criminals were capable of.  I was the “new guy” again and just wanted to keep to myself. I spent my emotions in the City Jail and just craved some time away from my thoughts.  I worried that there was some sort of awful initiation ritual in store for me or that somehow word of what I was accused of had made it into D Block.  It was the first fifteen minutes alone in my new world and I made sure not to get too comfortable.  The fact that I had to sign away my families rights if I was injured or killed stayed very much in the forefront of my head.

     John told me during one of our conversations that we could request a toothbrush, soap and a safety razor for the shower.  Although I entered jail with a full grown goatee, I nearly had a full beard now and it was itching.  Brushing my teeth for the first time in days became a first order of business, I decided.  I walked to the control desk where the same officer was sitting from when I first arrived.  “I was told that I can get a toothbrush here?” I asked.  Without saying a word, he opened a drawer and handed me the same shitty toothbrush that I had been using at the City Jail.  It is pre-loaded with toothpaste and takes ten minutes of brushing to get the small amount of flavor to come out.  I thanked him and put it in my pocket.  There was a sink back in my room, so I headed back to start the clock on toothpaste activation.  Chris was gone.  I think I saw him sitting at a table with three other guys.  I took the brush out of its wrapper and went to work on my dental hygiene.  While I brushed, I walked around the room and looked at the photos that Chris had up on the wall.  Most were shots of him and his family.  Everyone looked happy.  A few were of a girl that I assumed was his girlfriend, unless he really, really liked close up photos of his sister.  He looked like a normal kid from suburbia.  All of the photos appeared to be a few years old.  I wondered how a kid Chris’ age found his way into a year stint at the Denver County Jail.  Most everyone I had met back at City were guys that I’d never cross paths with in my life.  Chris looked like a bunch of the people that I grew up with and it was sad to look at his younger self with a happy family and a world of potential ahead of him.  Everyone has choices to make in their lives.  We are presented with a multitude every day, and some people are either hard wired to continually make bad ones.  Others, though, make bad choices due to circumstance.  During the ten minutes of brushing my teeth, I concluded that Chris had a family outside that missed him very much and that he got mixed up with the wrong crowd at some point in his life.  Hell, who knows, maybe he was a bully and troublemaker and his family was glad to have him behind bars.  I’ve always been the kind of person who gives people the benefit of the doubt and feel like I’m a pretty good judge of character.  Although I’m not always right, my first impression and gut feeling about someone is normally correct.   After looking at Chris’ pictures, I felt a little more at ease with my new living arrangements.  I didn’t think that he posed a threat, but I still needed to keep my guard up and watch what I did and said. 

     I walked back out into the main area that was now alive with activity and couldn’t decide what to do first.  It really was like I was on vacation at a resort and couldn’t choose between the 3:00 yoga class, eighteen holes of golf, water skiing or sitting by the pool with a margarita.  The bank of phones were staring me in the face.  All week long my life had been based on when I’d get to talk to someone on the outside.  I really needed to talk to Kira and I also wanted to see if Dave had any new information or if he even knew that I had a new address.  My mother was at work, so I couldn’t call her.   I could try to call Kermit for the first time since he’d getting home from work soon.  It had been so long since I’d been able to call anyone at a decent hour of the day that I didn’t know what to do.   It felt very strange to have so many options given to me all at once.  I knew from what Chris had told me that we’d get another block of freedom after dinner.  My overriding thought, though, was the possibility of some actual physical activity.  I hadn’t seen the basketball court and didn’t know where it was, but mindlessly shooting baskets seemed like the perfect thing to do.  In my “normal” life, even going a day without running or doing something active makes me stir crazy.  Running and playing sports were ingrained parts of my life.  I remember the first time I saw the high school track when I was little and feeling like it was sort of a holy place.  I took my mother out on a morning run when I was in 4^th or 5^th grade.  She only made it to the end of the block before turning around.  My father thought I was crazy when I’d ask him to drive me five miles away from the house so I could run home.  “I’m pretty sure that you got dropped on the floor when you were little,” he would say to me.  I ran my first half marathon just over two years prior back in Kansas City.  I had only been in Colorado for seven months, but my running had ramped up with the discovery of all of the unbelievable single track trails that the mountains had to offer.  I was in the middle of training for my first marathon when this whole jail thing started, but running quickly became an afterthought as the seriousness began to mount early in the week.  If I had missed seven days of running in my normal life, I’d go insane, but nothing about what I was going through was normal.  I regularly played pick-up basketball at the school where I taught, or used to teach, and I played rugby two or three times a week with the Denver Highlanders.   Running and playing sports gives me an outlet and personal release that nothing else in my life offers.  Being active, for me, is better than anything that a therapist could offer.  Although I could use the next two hours to talk on the phone, I needed to regain a sense of normalcy and balance.  Mindlessly shooting baskets seemed like the perfect way to spend my first recreation period in D Block.

     I went up and asked the officer who had given me my toothbrush where the basketball court was located.  He pointed towards a door in the corner behind the entrance.  As I walked away, he asked if I wanted a basketball, which would obviously help with the “shooting” portion of shooting baskets.  He tossed me a ball and told me to make sure to bring it back.  It felt good to be mobile and not under a time crunch like most times I was out of my cell at City.  I opened the door to the court and began bouncing the ball as I walked towards the baskets.  There were two courts that were actually outside and not in a gymnasium, which I originally thought.  It was more of a huge gazebo enclosed by chain link fence that served as the walls.  I could see the red bricks and barbed wire that surrounded the entire County Jail complex.  The whole enclosed area was much larger than the basketball courts and I thought about running some laps, but the dock shoes didn’t exactly have me too excited about it. There was a chill in the air, especially since I wasn’t wearing underwear or socks, but I felt a freedom that I hadn’t had since being taken into custody.  Two hours of running around and shooting baskets in the spring air was truly like a vacation.  I could have been at Washington Park down the street from my house.   That’s where I took my mind as I put up shot after shot, chasing the ball around and not carrying the weight of the week on my shoulders.

     After fifteen or twenty glorious minutes in my own little world, I saw a group of guys walking towards my court.  This instantly depressed me.  Normally I’d be happy to see some others coming with the possibility of getting a game, but I wanted to be alone and enjoy my time.  I really wanted them to stop at the other court, but they continued walking towards me and it was obvious that they wanted to play where I was shooting.  I didn’t feel like having any interaction with other inmates yet.  I had just arrived and had no idea about D Block Protocol.  Maybe I was infringing on their usual Friday game.  I took another shot, ran after the ball and began walking towards the door.  I decided that I’d just go ahead and try to make some phone calls.  The entire group looked especially rough.  They were all black and some were fairly large.   A few had cornrows and they all had multiple tattoos.  If I saw this crew walking towards me on the street, I wouldn’t hesitate to quickly go in the opposite direction.  They got to my court and started taking some shots with the ball that one of them had been bouncing as they walked.  I was right under the basket when the first shot went in and I flipped the ball back towards the guy who had made it.  I wanted to get out of there as quickly as I could.   

     As I started to walk away, one of the guys yelled over at me.  “Where you going?  We need one more!”  Shit.  I hadn’t been in D Block for an hour and suddenly I was being asked by a very intimidating group of black guys to play basketball.  I was torn.  I really did want to play and get a run in, but I didn’t want to give anyone a reason to have a problem with me.  I had played many pick up games of basketball during my life that had turned nasty due to a hard foul or a disagreement over a call.  Guys get competitive and emotions can sometimes overflow.  I’d seen friendly games, even among friends, turn ugly on a dime.  I was being asked to play actual “prison basketball” with actual prisoners.  I felt confident in my ability to play the game, but this was exactly the type of situation that I wanted to avoid.  I stood just off the court holding my ball while my mind raced back and forth of what I should do.  I felt stuck.  If I declined and said no, it may piss someone off and show some sort of disrespect.  And they really did need one more guy to have ten to play.   If I played, I may put myself in a situation that could easily escalate very quickly.  Neither option was good.  Maybe these guys were setting me up and knew that I had just arrived.  Maybe they knew what I was charged with and I was about to get the shit kicked out of me.  There were cameras mounted around the area, but I could be near death before anyone got outside to stop it.  The good feelings of being alone and shooting baskets were long gone and the reality of where I was now living was incredibly unnerving.  I wished that I hadn’t signed the paper and chose to be alone for the duration of my stay.  My only option, I thought, was to suck it up and play.  I set my ball under the basket and walked back out on the court.  Before I could even take a step, one of the guys clapped his hands and held them out.  He wanted the ball that I had just set down.  I turned, picked it up and passed it to him.  He put up a shot that went in, and since I was under the basket, I grabbed it and passed it back to him again.  I quickly moved away since I didn’t want to be the rebounder for everyone while they warmed up.

     Since I was now committed to playing, my mind switched from concern about my safety to simply wanting to play well.  I decided that I’d just play defense, make passes and stay off the radar.  Nothing special.  I’m a decent hoops player and can make outside shots when I’m open, but can’t create my own shots at all.  I have no inside game at all, even though I’m six-three.   My game is defense, hustle, setting picks and helping out where I can.  I like to shoot the ball from long range and occasionally I may get hot and hit a few shots, but there was no way that I going to get cute and try to get hot with these guys.  I really just wanted to get it over with and walk away in one piece.  No one said a word to me as we continued to warm up.  “Let’s shoot ‘em up,” one of the guys said.  I knew this meant that we would all line up and shoot free throws to determine the teams.  The first five to make it would be on the same team.  I generally don’t get nervous, even in the most stressful of situations, and I certainly don’t get nervous when it comes to playing sports.  As I took my place in the free throw line, I was as nervous as I could ever remember.  It had been a week of extreme emotion.  The anxiety that I had felt since my arrival was based on the fear of what could happen to me in the future if I was actually convicted of the crimes that brought me to jail.  It was an overwhelming depression of what may happen to my life if this thing didn’t get resolved.  Standing in line waiting for my turn to shoot a free throw, my anxiety was based on the fear of what could happen to me over the next 30-45 minutes.  I didn’t want to get hurt or killed.  I didn’t want to make enemies or give anyone a reason to have issues with me.  Throughout the week, I was able to snap myself out of the wormhole time and time again whenever I wound myself up to point of pure panic due to negative thoughts and my imagination.  All I had to do was remind myself that I was innocent and that factual, overwhelming evidence would set me free.   This game was real, these guys were real and I just wanted it to be over.

      The first five guys made their shots, so I didn’t have to take mine.  I was happy to avoid it. I was so wound up that I thought I might miss everything and put myself in a hole before we even started.  I didn’t want to be marked as the “shitty white guy” before I even had a chance to play.  While everyone split up into the teams, I hoped that we’d go “shirts” and “skins”.  I have a hard time playing with guys I don’t know because I don’t pay enough attention at the beginning to remember who’s on my team.  Since pick-up games don’t include uniforms, the easiest way to remember your teammates is to have one team take off their shirts.  There was actually a quick discussion about whether or not my team should go “skins”.  The other team made their free throws, so it was their call whether or not they wanted to take their shirts off or make us do it.  This is customary in the unofficial rules of pick-up basketball.  A few guys complained about it being cold, so it was quickly decided that we’d all keep our shirts on.  I didn’t weigh in with my two cents.  “Who we got?” I asked a guy next to me who I knew was on my team.  He pointed at three others who were near us.  I took an extra few seconds to try to remember who they were so I didn’t make a pass to someone on the other team.  I had done it on multiple occasions in the past and it always makes you look stupid.  Everyone had on their green jail shirts and everyone had on actual basketball shoes except me. I was also the only one not wearing socks and I assumed that they all had underwear on.  Since the other team made their free throws, they got the ball first.  I picked a guy who was about my size to guard and started to run along with him as the game started.  He was probably around my age and had very short hair and a neatly groomed beard.  Something was tattooed on his neck, but I couldn’t tell what it was since his skin was so dark.  He jogged around a little aimlessly and was easy to guard as we got going. 

     Basketball is basketball, regardless of where you play.  The players may be different, but the game is the same.  For the first ten minutes or so, we ran back and forth with a few made shots here and there for each team.  Everyone seemed like they were good or decent players.  I didn’t feel overwhelmed or like I was in over my head, talent-wise.  I had the ball passed to me a few times but quickly gave it up.  Dribbling had never been my strong suit.  I played good defense and my guy hadn’t tried to take a shot yet.  I even got a few rebounds.  During one possession early in the game, I made a cut through the lane when my defender got caught up in traffic. I ended up wide open under the basket, which caught the eye of our de facto point guard.  He zipped a bullet pass through the lane that I caught it on the run and I went in for a lay up without dribbling.  Just as I was releasing the ball, someone from the opposite side of the lane absolutely drilled me.  It wasn’t cheap, but it certainly was a foul.  I wasn’t able to get the shot up after being nailed.  In most any other circumstance, I’d immediately call a foul.  During pick-up games, everyone is on their honor to call their own fouls.  It’s the responsibility of the offensive player who shot the ball.  I quickly decided to say nothing.  Everyone on the floor, including the guy who hacked me, knew it was a foul.  It was a no-brainer.  Other fouls had been called without incident, but I let this one go.  Calling fouls can sometimes be dicey.  It’s probably the number one reason for arguments during pick-up games.  I just started heading back to play defense since the ball had gone out of bounds.  Two guys on my team immediately yelled, “Call that shit!”  I just kept jogging backwards without looking at them.  I probably should have called it since it was so flagrant, but whatever.  I cursed myself for not just playing the game the way I’d normally play it, but the game continued. 

     It had been at least fifteen minutes and I had passed up more than a few open shots.  I began to feel a little more comfortable since we were playing and really hadn’t been any incidents.  We were just ten guys playing basketball.  In jail.  The game was close and I never bothered to ask anyone what we were playing to (in regards to score).  Most games I played in went to 15, with the winning team needing to be up by two points.  A game couldn’t end at 15-14.  I had no idea what the score was, which was normal for me during pick-up since I lose track very quickly and give up trying.  Every time I think I know the current score, I’m always wrong, so I leave it up to someone else. 

    One of my players called a foul at our end of the court.  Before our point guard “checked up” the ball (giving the ball to the defender and getting it back, instead of shooting free throws or in-bounding the ball after a foul like in a regular game) someone asked for the score.  “Eight up,” someone yelled.  No one disagreed.  We were tied.  I had no idea.  Once the ball was back in play, I backed up a few feet since my guy was playing off of me.  I was wide open about 15 feet from the basket and the first pass went to me.  I held the ball up looking for someone else who was open for me to pass to.  My defender stayed back, probably since I hadn’t made any attempts to shoot all game.  I consciously said, “Fuck it,” to myself and put up a shot.  It went in.  I then consciously thanked God.  During any pick-up game with strangers, the last thing you want to do is “brick” (an ugly shot) or “air ball” (ball comes up short of the basket) your first shot.  The chances that you’ll see another pass come your way go down exponentially.  While I transitioned back to defense, I was quietly very happy that I made my first shot.  We were up by one.

     The score stayed close after each team made a few shots in row.  I was pleased with my fitness level.  Whatever I lack in pure basketball skill, I can usually make up for by outrunning my defender.  I purposely stay very active on offense to try to tire him out.  Even though I hadn’t done a thing for a week, I was in good shape before my arrival and, if anything, the break probably helped me recover a little for some long runs that I had done the week before.  The guy covering me was visibly winded.  I was sweating profusely, though, which was normal.  I inherited the “super sweat” gene from my mother.  I probably sweat twice as much as the normal person.  If I’m not drenched after a run or game, I didn’t work hard enough.  Normally I wore a bandana around my head to keep the sweat out of my eyes, but the regulation jail gear didn’t include one, for obvious gang-related reasons.  My green shirt was soaking through and I knew that my feet would stink, which meant bad things for Chris back in our room.  My hair was dripping and I looked like I had just got out of the shower.  I kept up the fast pace, was playing good defense and setting up guys for shots with picks.  There was the normal bitching about ticky-tack fouls being called and a little trash talk, but nothing out of the ordinary.  We were just playing ball.

     After a guy on our team made a long jump shot, the game was over.  We won.  I never heard the score but figured that we must be playing to 15.   Immediately someone said, “Let’s run it back,” which meant that we were going to play another game with the same teams.  I was happy with how I had played and much more relaxed than before we started.  No one had really said a word to me, but it wasn’t exactly a socializing situation.  Our team had the first possession of the next game since we had won.  Immediately after we started, I backed up a few feet again, received a quick pass and put up my second shot.  Another swish through the hoop.  Even if these guys still planned to kick the crap out of me, at least I’d go down with some hoops cred. 

     The second game went along much like the first, with the score staying close.  I guarded the same guy as before and could pretty much go where I wanted on offense.  He was exhausted.  He was a good player and could shoot the ball, but was not in shape.  I wondered how often these guys played.  I was actually having a really good time.  It was typical street ball, though.  I was the only guy setting any picks or helping out when I didn’t have the ball.  A few guys drove the lane way too many times and never passed.  More than once, guys on the same team started arguing about taking stupid shot or not looking for the open man.  Every pick-up game on earth has a guy or two who thinks he’s better than he is and wants to put on a show.  It’s normal.  The only time I try things out of my range of ability is when I was play with friends.  There’s an extra level of comfort playing with guys you know. 

     We were up by two or three baskets (each basket is worth one point) and someone mentioned that our rec time was getting close to being over.  Guys started taking more shots in an attempt to end the game before we had to go back to our cells.  On one possession, I got a rebound down under the basket.  When I put the ball back up, I got hacked on my arm.  It was another obvious foul and again, I said nothing.  One of the more vocal guys on my team yelled something but we just kept playing.  The very next time down the court, my defender was still walking on the other end and I was wide open on the run.  A teammate lobbed a pass up and over his defender and I caught it, dribbled twice and went in for a lay-up.  Just as the ball left my hand, I nearly got tackled by someone from behind me.  I couldn’t tell if he had slipped and his momentum took him into me or if he was just trying to prevent an easy lay-up.  Regardless, I got hammered and hit the floor hard.  The ball went in, so I didn’t have to worry about calling a foul, but it was clearly a cheap shot.  No one said a word and the game didn’t stop.  It was painful, but nothing I couldn’t handle.  I had taken much bigger hits in rugby and even during other pick-up games.  I picked myself up and ran back to get on defense.  The guy who fouled me stayed on the ground a bit longer and was just starting to stand up when the ball changed possession and we headed back toward him.  I had a scrape on my elbow with a little bit of blood.  What’s a little prison basketball without blood, right? 

     An officer opened the door to the courts and whistled at us while he motioned to wrap it up.  My team had the ball and was only one basket away from finishing the game.  We still had a few minutes before we had to head back to our cells, so we continued for a few more possessions as the ball hog on our team missed consecutive long jump shots.  He was by far the loudest and most aggressive guy on the floor, which was funny, since he really wasn’t very good.  He had a shaved head and looked fit.  Tattoos filled each arm.  He brought the ball down the court and I was sure that he’d try again to close the game out himself.  I didn’t even really bother to move around much since I figured I’d just be a spectator anyway.  To my surprise, just when I thought he’d try to cross-over his defender and drive to the basket like he had done countless times before, he passed the ball over to me.  I wasn’t paying attention and nearly missed it, but got a hand on the ball and dribbled a few times without moving.  My defender was done.  He had his hands on his hips and looked like he just wanted it be over.  There was no line drawn on the court, but I was at least a foot behind where the three point arc would be.  Both teams were tired and no one was within five feet of me, so I took the shot.  By this time, I wasn’t worried about missing.  I had proven myself to a group of criminals and held my own during nearly an hour of basketball.  I had taken some hard fouls, gotten up, never complained, didn’t start trouble and made every shot that I had taken.  I was exhausted, but the kind of exhaustion that leaves you feeling good.  My shirt was soaked through and I had a blister on my right foot from the dock shoes without socks.  Most importantly, I had just spent a whole hour without one thought of being in jail.  After the game got going and my anxiety about the negative possibilities or motives of these criminals went away, we were just ten guys playing basketball.  It was the first time since I had left home on Saturday that I was devoid of worry or depression.  I was proud of myself for not cowering away from the challenge of playing a game of basketball with unknown hardened criminals whose sole intention could have been to injure me.  I was satisfied and tired.  Missing my last shot wouldn’t have changed anything or mattered.  I won the personal battle against myself and I was happy.

     The shot went in.  Game over. 

     No one cheered and no one high-fived.  Everyone just walked away.  The ball was still bouncing underneath the basket and was left for me to take in.  There were no “good games” exchanges between anyone.  Not one word was spoken to me as they all left the court and headed back to their cells.  I picked up the ball and walked well behind the others.  It was supremely odd.  I had just spent an hour of my life with these guys and not one of them said anything to me afterwards.  I guess I was just happy that I was alive and in one piece.  I laughed in my head about how nervous I was before we started.  I had felt a legitimate fear and it turned out that they only really needed another player.  I could have been anyone.  While I walked towards the door and back to my cell, I couldn’t help but wish that at least one of my friends had witnessed what had just happened.  Not a chance that they would believe it later. 

     When I got back to my cell, Chris was already reclining in his bed reading a book.  I was drenched in sweat, very thirsty and annoyed at not being able to shower or get a drink.  It always takes me a very long time to cool down after a run or workout and normally I’d take a shower as soon as I stopped sweating.  I hadn’t been issued a towel yet, so I took off my shirt and used it to wipe away the continual dripping beads that streamed down my face.  I was uncomfortable, hot and fatigued.  I walked to the sink and slurped water straight from the faucet for a few minutes.  The water was warmish and not very satisfying.  Chris had to be annoyed that his brand new roommate was leaking pools of sweat all over the room, but didn’t look up from his book or say anything.  I noticed that he had a few towels folded up on his shelf and a cup to use for water, but I didn’t want to start out our co-habitation by immediately mooching from him.  I had to be respectful of his space and figured that if he wanted to loan me something that he would offer.  I would have if I were him, but it’s not like we knew each other and decided to move in together.  I didn't see us shopping for throw rugs and dart boards like we were freshman roommates.  I was in jail, not a hotel room on vacation with a buddy.  I sat for nearly an hour before either of us said anything.

     “So, what’s the story with getting socks, shoes or underwear?” I said, breaking the silence.  Chris put his book down and told me that he thought that I would have to wait something like two weeks until someone from the outside could bring me additional clothing.  Everything had to be white and the shoes couldn’t have black soles on them.  It was the same information that the guy handing out the clothes had told me.  Chris picked up his book and set it back down almost immediately.  “What are you in here for?” he asked.  Maybe he resigned himself to the fact that we were forced together and should at least make an attempt at conversation.  I was on high alert about how much of my story I could tell after what Jerome had told me and the death paper I had to sign.  I took Chris through the events of the past week and glossed over what I was accused of.  I insinuated that the crimes were violent in nature and involved a fight of some sort, but that I wasn’t exactly sure of what happened.  He seemed interested, but didn’t say much or ask many questions the way that most everyone else listening to the story had done.  While we talked I changed into my only other clean set of jail clothes.  My hair had dried and I still had sweat residue all over my body.  Thankfully I didn’t smell all that bad, considering the fact that I hadn’t used deodorant in a week and just played basketball for an hour.  Showering would be near the top of the list of evening activities. 

    

     It was apparent that Chris and I wouldn’t be fast friends the way that I had been with Cube or Jerome or even John.  It didn’t bother me and was almost better that I wouldn’t have to talk non-stop.  John nearly wore me out during our time together.  I am a very social by nature, but also treasure my personal time.  It was normal for Kermit and me to lie on our respective couches and not say a word for hours as we watched a game or show on TV.  I was OK with silence and it wasn’t like Chris was a jerk or rude.  He liked to keep to himself and may have not had a roommate during his stay in D Block.  It was a transition for both of us.  At least he wasn’t a convicted murderer that would force me to sleep with one eye open, which wouldn’t be difficult since I wasn’t sleeping much anyway.

     I had looked and felt much better than I did on day seven of my jail stay.  I was uncomfortable feeling so dirty and haggard, but a large part of it had to do with sleep deprivation and stress.  It was normal during my summers at camp to not shower for days at a time.  One summer I went over 60 days without using any soap or shampoo to wash my hair.  Someone had once told me that your hair begins to clean itself after four or five days and I wanted to find out it was true.  It was, sort of.  After a week of not using any products on my hair during a shower, it stopped feeling greasy and dirty and took on a different consistency.  Camp was the kind of place where we’d try stupid stuff like this for no real reason.  It became a sort of badge of honor that I made it so long without washing my hair and I felt like a quitter when I finally gave in and finally used shampoo.  It was amazing at how clean it felt after that first time, though.  That alone, was worth it.  I spent four hours a day on the baseball field in the hot sun during most of my summers at camp and It didn’t make any sense to continually shower.  Besides, it was an all-boys camp and none of us cared about what we looked or smelled like during the day.  The nights were a different story, though, as we could go out and see the girls from the camp across the lake out at the local bars nearby.  There were certain days every summer when the girls would come over to our side of the lake for a dance or special event.  It was amazing to watch the level of primping and priming that the kids (and staff) would engage in.  Campers who never, ever showered spent hours getting ready for the girls to arrive.  Some packed cologne in their bags with the sole purpose of impressing when the girls the one time they came over.  Jail wasn’t camp and I didn’t care what other inmates thought, but I wanted to feel clean and “normal.”  It was a general annoyance all week to feel so dirty all the time.  My foot odor was a concern and I tried to keep my shoes off as much as I could while in the cell.  Keeping my feet dry was important, and playing basketball didn’t exactly help the cause.

     I asked Chris if he had a book that I could borrow since it looked like he had more than a few on his shelf. I really didn’t care what he gave me.  I just needed something to do during the stretches of time that we’d be in the cell together.  He handed me a thick hardback book of short stories and I immediately flipped through to the beginning and began to read.  I thought that I was relaxed enough to be able to focus on the words and the story, but quickly found my mind wandering around the complexities of my change of residence.  It seemed like a long, long time ago that I was with Pepe’ in my cell and even longer since I had been in my own bed.  As I constantly realized all week, I wasn’t living in “real” time, but a twisted and slower version of what we normally experience during our everyday lives.  Just as I had done when reading the Bible, I had to go back and re-read paragraphs of the first story over and over.  My eyes would scan the words but my mind was elsewhere.  I needed more distractions like the basketball game to continue to move me towards my goal of ending this nightmare.

     Chris sat up in bed and said that it was nearly time for dinner.  We hadn’t spoken a word in over an hour and I hadn’t made it through five pages of my book.  I was finally completely dry and very hungry.  Just as I stood up after putting my dock shoes back on, our door buzzed open and Chris began to walk out the door.  “What’s the protocol for meals?” I asked.  He turned and said, “We just get in line, check in, get our food and find a seat.”  Sounded simple enough.  “Get your ID badge,” he said as he left the room.  I love the word "badge."  It always immediately takes me to, "Badges? We don't need no stinking badges," which comes from Blazing Saddles, the greatest comedy movie ever.  I thought for a second about saying it to Chris but let him leave as I said it in my head.  The  chow line was already fairly long with probably forty guys curling around the perimeter of the room.  I could see some portable food carts stationed near the desk on the other side of the room.  We didn’t have to leave D Block to eat since they brought the food to us.  Eventually I made it up to the front of the line where another small desk had been set up with an officer sitting behind it.  I stepped towards the desk and the officer just looked at me.  I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to do.  “Your badge?” he said disgusted.  It took everything I had not to tell him that I didn't need no stinking badge, but it wasn't the time and certainly not the place, so I just handed it to him and he checked my name off of his list.  I followed the guys in front of me and picked up a plate, silverware and a cup.  Other inmates were behind the food cart dishing out the choices: Mashed potatoes, vegetables and a chicken fried steak were on the menu.  We even got a dinner roll.  Drink coolers were on the final table and I filled up my plastic cup with water while I turned to scan the area for an open seat. 

     The game tables were also our meal tables.  Several groups of guys were already sitting together and more than half of the tables were empty.  I found one in the back and sat down by myself.  I put my tray and glass down and took my seat.  I hadn’t even taken my first bite when a man was suddenly standing over me.  He was probably in his mid-forties but looked older.  He was white and had a thick, black goatee.  “What are you doing?” he said in an unpleasant tone.  I assumed that he wasn’t looking for a new friend and I was slightly confused.  There were at least seven other tables near me that were empty.  “Um, I’m sorry, this is my first day and I’m not sure what you mean.”  I felt very small.  “You’re in my seat,” he said.  “I’m sorry.  I’ll move.  No worries,” I said as I picked up my food and drink.  I walked to another group of empty tables and sat down again.  A minute later the exact same thing happened when another inmate bluntly said, “You’re gonna need to move.”  I moved.  I decided that my best course of action would be to stand off to the side while everyone took their seats, which obviously they were all quite attached to.  I probably waited at least ten minutes until the dust settled and only a few open tables remained.  By the time I sat down I had finished most of my meal and my water cup was empty.  I went up to refill it when one of the officers yelled, “Seconds!”  I was right next to the food table but thought better of doing something else out of step with the norm.  I was still hungry and wanted more food, but went back and sat down again.  Guys nearly ran up back up to get their seconds and the remaining food was gone in just a few minutes.  I wasn’t in the City Jail anymore.  I was uncomfortable and nervous.  I noticed some the guys from the basketball game sitting together.  In fact, a few were at the table next to mine, but no one acknowledged me at all.  Chris sat at a table across the room with three other older looking guys.  I wished that he had given me a heads up on the seating chart. 

     The meal ended and we all had to return to our cells for a short time while the room was cleared of the food, trash and portable carts.  Once it was clean and put back together, we’d have another block of recreation time until lights out.  Chris was back on his bed and I decided to push for a few “tips for the new guy.”  I asked him what I should know about D Block.  “Hey, what’s the story here?," I said,  "I’ll be honest, I have no idea what I’m doing and don’t want to piss anyone off.”  It was hard for me to break down and admit that I wanted some help and I didn’t want to appear needy or desperate.  I think Chris could tell that I was flailing a little and  softened for a bit.  “Look, just stay out of everyone’s way.  This is your first day and you’ll figure it out.  Everyone sits in the same seat for every meal.  You’ll probably sit alone for awhile or maybe some other new guys will sit with you.  It took me a long time to find a table.  Just keep to yourself, be respectful and you’ll be OK.  This ain’t a bad place to be and everyone just wants to do their time and get out.  There ain’t much trouble here unless you’re looking for it.”  I thanked him and appreciated the honesty.  I didn’t like being the new guy again and re-learning a new jail protocol system, but D Block did seem like a significant upgrade from where I had been.  It was 6:30 in the evening and I resigned myself to the fact that I’d probably be there at least through the weekend. 

     It wasn’t long before doors began opening again and it was time for our evening recreation.  I was happy about my decision to play basketball in the afternoon but my solitary focus for the night was to use the phone.  I also wanted to shower, but talking to Kira was number one on my list of priorities.  I walked back out into the main area and made my way to the bank of phones on the opposite side of the room.  I had to walk past the floor officer at the desk and I stopped to ask a few questions.  “Sir, this is my first day, so I don’t know much,” I said to him.  He was eating a sandwich and didn’t look up.  “Do I check out a towel and a razor from you if I want to shower?”  His mouth was full as he mumbled, “Uh-huh.”  “Thanks,” I said as I walked towards the phones.  He was the only visible police officer in sight and didn't seem too concerned about the goings-on around him.  A few of the phones were occupied and chess, checkers and card games were going on all around.  There was a longer table in the corner where a group of guys were sitting in a Bible study.  Jail had brought them the Good Word.  Most looked like they needed it.  The local Denver news was on the television while a handful of guys sat and stared up at it. Some cell doors were open and others were closed.  It was a relaxed atmosphere and many guys were sitting alone reading or writing.  Many were probably still in their cells sleeping.  I picked the phone at the end of the row and sat down on the stool and began to go through the motions of making the collect call to Kira.  I was excited to talk to her.

     It was Friday night and nearing 8:00 at night in Minnesota and I hoped that she hadn’t already gone out.  The phone rang several times before her familiar voice answered.  The automated information lady informed her that I was calling from the Denver County Jail and told her to press one if she accepted the charges, which she did.  I figured that she didn’t immediately realize the change of location. 

     “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii,” she said in a long, pleasant tone, “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”  I was immediately relieved that we were talking.  The knot in my stomach had grown and I was very, very anxious.  I started telling her about my day and the move and nearly got choked up a few times for no particular reason.  My extreme fatigue had made me vulnerable to the point that I consciously knew that my emotions were frayed beyond the beyond.  I actually broke down a little several times during the first few minutes of our conversation.  I moved closer to the wall so that no one could hear or see me.  My rational thought knew that I was being a tremendous pussy and made fun of me from afar, but it was out of my control.  The isolation and disconnection from friends and loved ones wears you down more than could be explained.  Kira was very sympathetic and I could hear her also crying a little.  Before I knew it, the one minute warning was given to us and the line disconnected.  We had been through this thirty minute drill before, so I hung up the phone, picked it up again, re-dialed and re-started the clock when she answered.   We did this five more times. 

     It was nearly 9:30 when Kira said that her friends were waiting on her and that she had to go.  She had said the same thing twice before much earlier and her friends had probably given up on her.  I'm sure that they were super excited to hear about her three hour phone conversation with her jail boyfriend in Colorado.  Our time together on the phone just flew by and it nearly felt like I was back in my bed during our long conversations prior to her visit.  It was different now, due to where I was sitting, and much more emotional.  We talked about love and our lives and what we would do when I got out.  My governor was completely worn away and I was as open with her as I had been with anyone in my life.  I let my guard down as far as it would go and it felt good to have such a connection with someone while I waited and worried about my unknown immediate future.  I wasn’t lying to her when I said that I loved her and knew that she felt the same.  I truly believed the words that came out of my mouth but could also hear a distant voice in my head reminding me of what I had felt when she came to visit.  It seemed like a lifetime ago and I let myself believe that I had been wrong to reject her when she left.  It was the same as I had felt during our last conversation from the City jail.  Every part of my emotional and physical state was worn down to the point of almost feeling perpetually drunk, but not in a good way.  I wasn’t entirely in control of what I was saying or doing and knew it.  I wondered if this was what people felt like who were going crazy.  I had conscience thoughts and knew what was going on, but my normal reactions weren’t happening automatically.  It was almost like I was outside myself and watching from afar.  I knew that I was happy, though, that we were able to talk.  It didn’t matter to me that I wouldn’t be able to call anyone else.  Talking to Kira was enough.  I hung up the phone and walked back to my cell when the “lights out” call came shortly after.   I noticeably stunk and would have to make a point to shower in the morning. 

     When I got back to my room, Chris was asleep.  Our light was off, so I quietly took my shoes off and put the damp shirt that I had played basketball in over the top of them to hopefully mask the growing stench.  I laid down on my toboggan and pulled the covers up to my head as I heard all of the cell doors lock.  The light from the main area dimmed a little and our door window let just enough in to be able to see.  It was significantly darker than my City cell at night and I was happy to be unburdened from my time keeping responsibilities.  It was much quieter than it had been back in my old cell.  I closed my eyes and went over my conversation with Kira.  It felt good to finally relax.  I was too tired to even wonder or worry about the DNA test, Dave, Franklin, Laney, Jerry, my job, etc.  My body finally gave in to the exhaustion and I fell asleep.  The next morning would be the one week anniversary of my first contact with the police.    My last thought as I drifted off to sleep was whether or not Kermit had scored fifty goals yet.  I was sure that he was still up and trying.  

The Curious Case of Christopher Comtois (Part XIV)

County

     On Saturday morning, I was taken from my home and normal life and thrown into the unknown of being in jail.  One moment I was a free citizen getting ready to go skiing, and the next I was a prisoner in handcuffs with a world of unknown answers to endless questions as to why it was happening.  Six long, grueling days later I had become a “veteran” of the felony floor at the Denver City Jail.  I had most of the answers that I grasped for during the first few days of my confinement.  Although my mental state was wearing thin due to boredom, fright and my overactive imagination, I had somehow settled into a routine.  I knew when to expect certain things to happen, like meals or visitation time.  I had gotten to know many of the officers on the floor and had seen numerous other fellow arrestees come and go without incident.  I even had a roommate who helped pass the countless hours of nothingness while I sat in cell number 13.  It wasn’t ideal, not by a long stretch, but I had resigned myself to my living circumstances and figured that I could hold out as long as it took until the DNA test results came back, which could be at any hour moving forward.  An end was at least within grasp, I hoped, and I was surviving an unimaginable series of events.  My cell, my home, and the floor where I resided had become a known entity. 

     In the pre-dawn hours of Friday morning, my entire world was shifted as I stood outside of my cell in handcuffs.  I was being transferred to the Denver County Jail and I was scared senseless.  Although I had heard many other prisoners speak fondly of “County” throughout the week, there was no part of me that wanted to go there.  I felt like a young child being forced to move to another state in the middle of the school year.  Upon my arrival in jail, my fear of the unknown was compounded by the surrounding extreme confusion.  On Friday morning outside my cell, it was pure fear of the unknown.  I absolutely did not want to go to the County Jail.  I asked the officer who was escorting me towards the elevator if I had to go, which got no response.  My light skinned friend was standing next to me, but no one was talking.  It was very early in the morning and most of the guys had been dead asleep. Some looked like they hadn’t quite woken up yet.  I really hadn’t slept, again, but my adrenaline was soaring as we all stood in the corridor next to the elevator.

     An officer started calling names out without explanation.  He called the first name three times, each time louder than the previous.  Finally he yelled, “If I call your name, step forward up towards me.”  One of the inmates walked forward.  He was told to go into the office next to us.  Other names were called and more guys left the room.  After a few minutes, the first guy came walking out of another door, which I knew was connected to the office where he went in.  He had shoes on.  I had nearly forgotten about mine, since I had been living in socks for nearly a week, and those were so dirty and smelly that I usually stashed them under my bed when I was in my cell.  My name was called and I walked into the office.  I tried to remember which shoes I had chosen for my adventure.  An officer was seated on a bench with a few boxes next him.  Inside the boxes were plastic bags that appeared to hold our belongings that were taken from us when we arrived:  belts, wallets, coins and anything else that we had on us when were arrested.  I sat down next to the officer and he pulled my bag out.  I could see my wallet, belt and the piece of paper with phone numbers and addresses that I had written down at home in preparation of the return of the S.W.A.T. team on Saturday.  He pulled my shoes out of the bag.  They were a fairly new pair of Brooks running shoes.  I think that I was hopeful that I’d get to do some running while in jail, which was funny since I hadn’t even walked a total of a mile since Saturday.  Since my hands were cuffed behind me, the officer slipped the Brooks on my feet and tied the laces.  They were way too loose and I asked if he could tighten them.  “What is this, Kindergarten?” he said.  I appreciated the sarcasm.  I got up and made my way back to the group.  It felt good to have shoes on again.  Another piece of normalcy. 

     Groups of fifteen or so guys were put on the elevator as it opened.  One officer rode with each group.  I was in the last group to go down and the remaining three officers rode with us.  The officers got off of the elevator first.  We were all escorted down a flight of stairs, which were the same stairs that Franklin and I had used on Wednesday when we made our way to the crime lab.    Instead of turning left, as Franklin and I had done, we went right, with one of the officers in the front of the group and the other two a few steps behind us.  I knew that we were underneath the jail.  The tunnel was dark minus a few dim emergency lights that were high up on the walls on either side of us.  We eventually came to another corridor that appeared to be in the basement of a separate building.  We were led down to a set of double doors and the officer in front opened one of the doors and took a few steps inside.  “Move through the door and find a seat,” came from behind us.  When I entered the room, I could see several rows of benches where all of the other guys were already seated.  Everyone sat with their hands behind their back, since we were all handcuffed.  Sitting on a bench in handcuffs is not comfortable, but nothing about being incarcerated was comfortable.  There were several other officers in the room and it was ridiculously quiet for how many people were sitting together.  I found a seat next to a reasonable looking guy: white, mid-forties, unshaven.  Not all of the guys in the room looked reasonable, probably me included. 

     No one said a word for at least a half hour.  Officers would leave the room and others would come in.  I was incredibly nervous and had a horrible knot in my stomach.  I was comfortable in my cell and didn’t want to endure learning a new system with new guys.  I wanted to call someone to help talk me down from the ledge.  It was horribly early and I figured that breakfast was just about to be served upstairs.  I wished I had the awful oatmeal in front of me.  Finally, I couldn’t take the silence any longer and started a conversation the guy next to me.  “What’s going on?” I asked him in a near-whisper voice.  “We’re going to County,” he said, “You ever been there?”  “Nope, first time.”  He smiled.  “It’s great.  I’m so sick of being here in City.  I’ve been here for three days and it’s killing me,” he said.  Three days?  Try six.  “I got here on Saturday,” I told him.  “Saturday?”  He nearly fell off of the bench.  “Man, that sucks.  You’re gonna love County,” he said.  Apparently everyone loves County.   An officer stood up in front of the room and began to speak in a loud, commanding voice:  “When your name is called, you need to stand up and come to the front of the room.  Follow our instructions and we’ll get you out of here as soon as we can.” 

     I watched and listened as names were called off in pairs.  Two guys would get up and walk to the front.  They were placed side by side while an iron leg shackle was secured to one leg on each man.  A short, heavy chain connected the two prisoners. Once the shackles were locked, the pair was escorted out of the door closest to the front of the room.  This two-by-two continued until only a handful of us remained, including my bench partner.  Another name was called and my neighbor stood up and began walking towards the front.  He was only a few steps away when I heard my name.  We both made our way up to the officers and went through the same procedure.  One officer stooped down towards my left leg and placed a shackle around my ankle.  A bolt locked it into place.  The same was done to my partner.  In the middle of the chain that connected us was another short chain with an “O” ring on the end.  We turned and immediately were out of sync as I tried to step with my non-shackled leg.  The chain pulled tight and we nearly tripped.  We had seen others make this mistake.  We had to stop and silently agree to both start with our shackled legs first, like we were in a three-legged race.  I wished that we were practicing for a company picnic instead of a chain gang.  As we exited the room in tandem, I saw a large bus that was parked next to the curb of the sidewalk.  The additional chain  hanging between us was dragging on the concrete as we walked and made the sound you’d think a chain being dragged across the pavement would make.  It appeared that we were inside an underground parking area.  Other police vehicles were also parked along the curb.  The bus was white with “Denver Country Jail” clearly marked on the side with large, green letters.  The windows were very small and up much higher than on a regular bus.  Each window was obscured by a criss-cross steel barrier on the inside.  We had our three-legged walk down pat and made our way to the base of the bus door, where an officer with a clipboard was standing.  He asked for our names, checked us off his list and told us to get onboard.  Another officer from inside the bus offered his assistance to me as I stepped up with my non-shackled leg.  It wasn’t the easiest process to maneuver, but we made it up and shuffled a few rows back to our seat, which was a green covered bench like on a regular school bus.  I slid inside closest to the window, which was too high for us to see out of.  I gingerly sat down with my hands behind my back.  It was horribly uncomfortable. 

     Once the bus was full, four or five officers got on board and walked towards the back.  They were dragging two very long and heavy chains with them.  I couldn’t see behind me and didn’t know what was going on.  I could hear the chain being dragged and the sound would stop and start again.  After a minute or two, the officers were hunched over next to us.  The long chain was being funneled under each seat and threaded through the “O” ring between each pair of inmates.  We’d all be connected.  I watched as the front end of each chain was locked to a bolt at the front of the bus.

“My name’s John, by the way,” my shackle partner said.

“I’m Chris, nice to meet you,” I said without looking back at him.

“Ever see The Fugitive?” I asked him. 

He laughed. 

“Of course. Several times.” 

     I felt like Harrison Ford riding on his bus out to prison.  Ford’s Dr. Richard Kimble was a wrongly accused murderer who escaped when the bus he was on crashed.  It was a set up by another inmate on the same bus.  I hoped that others on the bus hadn’t seen The Fugitive and had similar plans.  I didn’t think that I’d need a few weeks on the run trying to find clues to prove my innocence.  I did wish that I was in Chicago, though.  “What a great movie,” John said.  I liked him. 

     Once the chains were locked in place, a steel door that separated us from the first few rows of the bus was shut.  Several of the officers, including the three who originally had taken us from our cells, sat down in their seats.  I could hear one complaining about being on the transportation shift.  The driver, another officer, got on board and started the bus.  We slowly began moving.  I couldn’t see the windshield but could tell which way the bus was turning by which way our bodies leaned from side to side.  After a few minutes of heading up (a ramp, probably), we leveled out and stopped briefly.  I assumed that were in downtown Denver. The bus started and stopped several times.  We’d move forward and hear the gears of the bus rev up and then feel the brakes being applied.  Stoplights.  Finally, after a long, slow, left turn, which I assumed was an on-ramp, we sped up and stayed at a constant speed for awhile.  A highway.  We were making progress.

     John started talking.  “You’ve been in for six days?  What’d you do?”  I wasn’t sure the bus ride would be long enough to tell my story.  “I got picked up at my house on Saturday morning.  I was supposed to be skiing.  Someone using my name did some stuff down in Florida and it’s taking awhile to sort it all out.  I took a DNA test on Wednesday that will get me out.  I’m just waiting for the results to come back,” I told him.  “No shit,” he said.  “No shit.”  I asked him what he had done.  “My fourth DUI.  Denver doesn’t like those,” he said laughing.  We spent the rest of the ride getting to know each other.  John was a mechanic.  He was divorced and got busted late Tuesday night.  “I was pretty fucked up,” he said, “No way I should have been driving, but how was I supposed to get home?”  I didn’t offer the obvious suggestions.  “I’ve been out here to County a few times, and it ain’t bad,” he told me.  “You play chess?”  I told him that I did, but not very often.  “If we’re in the same cell block, maybe we can play sometime.”  After nothing but the Bible, Pepe’, my arrest report and the Denver skyline to occupy my time for six days, chess sounded like fun.  “You have any idea where you’re going out there?” he asked.  “No clue,” I said.  He described in detail a new area at County which had recently opened. Apparently it was much better than the rest:  Individual cells instead of an open floor with bunk beds, more recreation time and less chance of trouble.  “Hopefully we’ll get D Block,” John said.  I wanted to go to D block.  I felt like a kid on the way to his first sleep-away camp.  Minus the excitement and fun.  

     The bus stayed on course for probably twenty minutes while John and I continued our conversation.  He didn’t seem concerned about going to County.  I asked question after question about what I should expect.  I was right back where I had been on Saturday, asking about what was coming next from someone who seemed to know the ropes.  The entire morning had been surreal in the midst of a surreal week.  I had only been gone from my cell for two hours or so and I really, really missed it.  I looked around and took it all in.  I wanted to sing chain gang songs.  Maybe some “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”  I envisioned getting off of the bus and hearing, “What we’ve got here, is a failure…to communicate.”  All week long I wanted things to happen.  I wanted visits and answers and forward progress.  I was so thrown by this new situation that all I could do was shake my head and wait for whatever was coming next.  I was shackled to a man named John who had a problem with driving after drinking too much.  I was on a bus with windows that I couldn’t see out of, with a team of police officers and at least fifty lawbreakers on the way to a destination that I had been hearing wonderful things about since my arrival in jail.   We may as well been heading to the Bat Cave.  I had no idea where the Denver County Jail was located, but it certainly wasn’t downtown.  I couldn’t decide if I was scared or excited.  Eventually the bus slowed, made a few turns and came to a stop.  Whatever was going to happen next was out of my hands and I decided to push my fear aside and try to make an adventure of it. 

     We sat on the bus for a lot longer than I thought we should.  A few guys got anxious and started yelling about needing to use the restroom.  I was happy that I didn’t.  I’d hate to start my time at County as the guy who wet his pants.  I felt pretty sure that I wouldn’t be the first, though.  Finally, an officer came up onto the bus and unlocked the door that separated all of us from the front.  He had not been on the ride over with us.  Two more new faces came up behind him and moved forward to the first row of seated criminals and unlocked the chain that we were all connected to.  I could feel the chain below my feet loosen up a little bit.  Two by two the seats began to empty.  Eventually the officers came to our row, pulled the chain behind us and told John and I to stand up and make out way to the exit.  We had our three-legged race steps perfected and eventually we were outside.  It was chilly and still dark with just a crack of dawns early light.  I could tell from the location of the orange sky that we were east of downtown.  In Denver, one of the first things you learn is to look to the mountains if you need to know what direction you’re heading.  The mountains are west.  From where I was standing, they were behind us and the sun was rising ahead of us, so we were east.   I realized that I had not been outside since my arrival at the City Jail on Saturday and was happy that I had on my USA Hockey fleece.  Some guys had on shorts and a t-shirt.  One guy had on his boxers.  See, people really do go to jail in their underwear.  

     Our wait outside didn’t last long as we were rounded up and moved towards a large gate, which I could see next to a light on the outside of the building.  As we walked, I noticed the large brick walls that separated us from the free world.  There was barbed wire attached to the tops of the walls.  Across the yard I could see a tower that looked like one that you might see at a small airport.  John and I made it inside the gate and followed the crowd to a room which was small and barren with a low ceiling.  We all just stood around and moved a little closer to the opposite side of as the rest of the bus riders joined us.  I noticed that I was hungry and thirsty and figured that it was probably nearing seven in the morning.  I wondered what Pepe’ was up to.

      John was a talker, but not in a bad way.  I was happy that I was chained to him and not a myriad of the other characters that stood near me.  It could have been much, much worse.  I caught the eye of my light skinned buddy from my former home floor, who acknowledged me with a “What’s up?” head bob.  It was nice to see a friendly face.  His shackle partner was a very large Hispanic man with tattoos on every visible area of exposed skin.  I was happy that I wasn’t teamed up with him.   I asked John how long it would take us to get to our final destination.  “Too fucking long,” he said twice. 

     After standing around looking at each other for awhile, a new group of officers came into the room and began taking off our leg irons.  It was interesting to watch the process.  Each time a pair of guys was disconnected, each would immediately walk in opposite directions and create as much space as possible between them.  They would also shake out the leg that had been shackled.  It was comedic and I was pretty sure that no one else was getting the humor.  I was highly entertained.  An officer would take off a shackle and the newly-freed inmate would then shake his leg like he had just urinated.   Both men would immediately away from the other.  Over and over and exactly the same every time.  I hate conforming and often go to great lengths to avoid doing the same as everyone else, regardless of the situation.  Not that anyone cared, but when the officer freed John and me from our chains, I made a point of not shaking my leg.  John did.  When he began walking away, I walked behind him.  When he stopped, I stopped next to him.  This went unnoticed.  We all still had our handcuffs on.  Everyone was milling around and it was obvious that many of the guys knew each other.  I figured that they either recently met in the City Jail or knew one another from their criminal past.  The light skinned guy came over to me and asked how I was doing.  “I wish I was still back on our floor,” I said.  “Shit, bro, no way.  You’re gonna love it here,” he said laughing.  He started to say something else but was cut off when more officers came into the room.  “Gentlemen, we are going to start the intake process.  As we come around to take off your handcuffs, please exit the room to your right, take a seat and wait for your name to be called,” one officer shouted.  He referenced us as “gentlemen” and actually said please.  The politeness wasn’t lost on me. 

    Once I was uncuffed, I went next door into a large room with several folding chairs arranged in rows.  Most everyone was sitting down.  There was an open seat next to John, so I sat down next to him.  I actually thought for a second about whether I should or not.  There were plenty of open seats and I didn’t want him to think I was stalking him or something.  Or gay.  But he seemed alright and I decided that it probably wouldn’t be an issue.

     “Damn, I’m hungry,” I said without looking at him.  “It’ll be awhile before we get through here.  It takes awhile,” he said.  “It’ll probably be lunch time before we’re taken to our cells.”  I guessed that lunch time wasn’t at 9:30. I looked around the room.  It was barren.  Nothing on the walls and no clock.  After six days of playing time-keeper, I wished I knew what time it was.  I estimated it to be at least 8:00. “Hey, what the hell are you in for again?” John asked.  I gave him the whole story.  I took him through the entire fiasco, starting with my online chat with Amanda up until the DNA test and meeting with Laney.  He listened intently without saying a word.  It was the first time that I had given a full rundown of everything that had happened since it all began, and even I found it hard to believe that everything I was telling him was true.  “You can’t make that shit up,” he said.  I thought about it for a second and agreed.  I couldn’t make that shit up. 

     I was hungry and running on fumes.  I stunk and my jeans would have to be retired after this was over.  Actually, the whole room smelled pretty bad.  Lots of criminals who hadn’t showered or changed clothes in days.  Most probably didn’t shower much, anyway.  Telling my story to John took up a good 45 minutes.  He asked question after question at every turn.  He wanted to know more about Laney and how I even became a suspect, which I still didn’t know for sure.  He was perplexed that I was still in jail.  “With all of the evidence that you’ve given your lawyer and the police, it doesn’t seem right that you’re still here,” he said.  He was right.  Hearing him say it got me mad all over again that I was still incarcerated.  I had been mad so many times since it all began that I let it go as soon as I felt it coming up again.  It didn’t seem worth the effort.  I sat and thought about it in silence over and over as we waited for the next event to begin.

     Eventually there was some activity up in the front of the room.  Officers had been coming and going for awhile and now one turned and faced all of us.  He announced that the intake process would start in a few minutes, which was funny since I thought it had started hours ago.  It seemed like it had been a long time since we left the City Jail and I was surprised at how calm and reserved the crowd was, considering the criminal element that was present.  Guys were engaged in conversation or just staring blankly around.  Some were fading in and out of sleep.  Every once in awhile I’d notice someone’s head fall back and suddenly jolt forward when they woke up.  It’s not easy to sleep in a chair.  The front row of guys were told to stand up and exit the room to their right.  I was near the back of the room with John, so I figured that my wait would continue. 

     John loved playing chess.  He was in a chess club and played as much as he could.  I had never known anyone who was in a chess club.  It sounded horrifically boring.  I liked chess, but not enough to join a club dedicated to it.  I assumed that if we ever got the chance to play that I’d probably get shut out, but chess seemed like the perfect time-killer in jail.  We made plans to play after we finally made it into our new abode.  I was making plans to play board games in jail with my new friend, John.  It was funny and sad all at the same time.  About every fifteen minutes an officer would have another row stand up and exit the room.  John couldn’t remember the steps in the process and wasn’t sure where we were headed to next.  “I know that we have to be strip searched and then we’ll get our jail clothes,” he told me.  Wait. Strip searched?  “We have to be strip searched?” I asked.  “Yep, it’s not bad though.  I’ve had to do it a few times.  No big deal.”  I never want to feel like being strip searched wasn’t a big deal.  It was a big deal and I was not excited.  I was kind of excited, though, to hear that we’d get new clothes.  I assumed that it would be the traditional orange jump suit, but after wearing the same thing for a week, I didn’t care what they gave me.  The strip search, though, stayed in the front of my mind while we continued to chat. 

     After awhile, we hit a natural break in conversation and sat silent.  There were only a few more rows of guys ahead of us, so we’d be getting up soon.  My mind began to wander.  I was worried that no one had informed Dave that I had been moved.  Franklin had told me on Wednesday night that he would be back to see me, but he never came around on Thursday and now I was gone.  I hoped that he hadn’t abandoned me.  I felt like I had been kidnapped and the fear that I felt when we were initially taken from our cells came rushing back.  I needed to use the phone and let people know what was going on.  I was right back where I was when I first arrested.  I had a nervous anxiety about each new door opening to the unknown of what was ahead of me.  I couldn’t escape the feeling of wishing that I was still in my cell with Pepe’.  We would probably be just about done with lunch by now, and due to this new twist, I hadn’t had anything to eat at all.  I recalled hearing guys talk about the food at County being much better than at the City Jail.  I knew that it couldn’t be worse.  I just wanted to lie down.  I wanted to be at home.  I wanted it all to be over.  I imagined in my head an officer walking in and calling my name to tell me that I was being released.  My mind leapt from thought to thought while John started up talking about the inner workings of chess. 

     Our row was finally called up to the front.  Immediately I was nervous for the strip search.  If I were putting together a top five list of things I wanted to avoid in life, a strip search would most definitely be included.  Maybe even as high as two or three.  I always like to group things in “top five” lists.  It probably goes back to my love of the old David Letterman shows, way back in the early 80’s when he was on at midnight.  His sarcasm and left field humor helped shape me in a weird sort of way.  It honed my own obscure view of the world.  He had his “Top Ten” list, but, for some reason, I always narrowed mine to five.  While I stood in line waiting to head into the next room, I thought about what my “Top Five Things I Wished To Avoid In Life” list included.  My mind was so scrambled from the beating it had taken during the past week, but going to jail for a crime I didn’t commit and strip searches, I concluded, would definitely be in my top five.  I decided that at some point I’d have to figure out what the other three on the list were.

     When our group was finally lined up, we started moving into the next room, which was much smaller than the room where we had been sitting for who knows how long.  Since there were no windows or clocks visible, I really had no idea what time it was.  I wondered whether or not there was a new resident in cell 13 back in the City Jail that would become the new timekeeper for the floor.  I felt like I should have been able to give him a short briefing of the timekeeper responsibilities.  On one side of the room there was a long wooden bench against the wall.  Across from the bench was a row of long, portable tables that were set side by side.  They stretched from one side of the room to the other.  The tables split the room in half.  Behind the tables were three officers and multiple stacks of boxes.  Clear plastic bags were on each table and a few had fallen on the floor.  We were told to sit down on the benches behind us.  “Everything you have on right now needs to be neatly set on the table in front of you.  Everything.  Do it now,” an officer behind the tables shouted at us.  John was sitting next to me and leaned over to tell me that the strip search was next.  Great.  Guys stood up and started undressing.  I unzipped my fleece and folded it up.  Although I was happy to finally get a change of clothes, I didn’t like giving up more of my identity.  It was like a locker room within a minute or two.  Guys taking their clothes off and standing naked.   “Shoes included?” I asked out loud.  “Shoes included,” an officer from the side of the room said.  I did my best to fold up the rest of my clothes and stack them on the table in front of me.  “Stand in front of your clothes until you’re told to do otherwise.”  It was very odd standing naked while this all occurred, but everything about the week had been odd.  I honestly didn’t care.  I was more concerned about what was going to happen next. 

     One of the officers behind the table walked up to me with a box and started sorting through my clothes.  He picked up my t-shirt and said, “One white t-shirt,” and then wrote it on a sheet that was on his clipboard.  He put the shirt into a plastic bag.  He did the same with my fleece and jeans.  It was straight out of the Blues Brothers, in reverse, and it came to me immediately.  At the beginning of the movie, Jake Blues (John Belushi) is being released from prison.  His final stop is at the desk where he gets everything back that he came to prison with.  “One black suit jacket. One black suit pants.  One hat, black,” Frank Oz says.  Belushi had “one prophylactic, soiled,” with him when he came to jail.  I wished that I one had as well, just so I could hear the officer say it.  I wondered if anyone had ever made reference to The Blues Brothers when they came to this stop along the intake journey.  Seemed obvious to me.  My arrest report was also sitting on the table and placed into a bag.  I felt like I should ask if I could keep it with me, but decided against it.  I could recite it verbatim, anyway.  When the officer picked up my shoes, he told me that they weren’t within regulation and that he’d have to take them.  “One pair of sneakers,” he said as he placed them into the bag.  They were running shoes.  Minor detail.  “These socks and underwear are not in regulation, either,” he said and placed them in the bag.  I wanted to know what regulation was, so I just asked.  “Shoes cannot have black bottoms and undergarments must be all white,” he said.  My boxers were blue and my socks had started out white but were so dirty that it was hard to tell.  Some of the guys were holding their shoes, socks and underwear.  Either they knew the regulations or just got lucky.  Regardless, I didn’t care, although I hoped that I’d get new replacements.  The officer told me to check over the sheet that he had been filling out and had me sign at the bottom, which I did. I checked off “sign documents naked” from of the bucket list in my head. 

     It was cold standing in the nude, and like every procedure in jail, the officers didn’t seem to be in a big hurry to get us moving.  None of the inmates were talking and everyone looked up or straight forward.  I certainly didn’t want to see anyone else’s male parts or have some guy thinking that I was checking him out.  I kept my head up.  After a few minutes, an officer opened the door on the other side of the room and our line started moving to the next stop.   As we walked, I heard John say from behind me, “Here we go.”  I figured. 

     The next room was small and brighter than the other rooms.  We stayed in line and two officers directed us to stand against the wall.  “Stand up straight, an arms length away from the person next to you,” one said.  “Do as the officer tells you to do and you’ll be out of here quick.”  I was third in line from my right.  Two officers who were already in the room split up and started at each end of the line.   I didn’t look but could hear the officer closest to our end giving the first inmate instructions.  He was checking every possible hiding place.  How many guys actually try to sneak things into jail?  You have to be really desperate to hide something in your mouth or up your butt.  I was fairly confident that they wouldn’t find anything on me.  I simply could not believe that I was about to be strip searched.  It was obnoxious departure from normal life in a series of obnoxious departures from normal life.  I couldn’t help it, but Christopher Walken from Pulp Fiction popped into my head.  His short scene in the movie was one of my favorite parts.  He visits a young Butch (Bruce Willis) and recounts the story of being a P.O.W. in Vietnam with his father.  Butch’s father didn’t make it, but had given him a pocket watch that had belonged to his father and his father’s father.  Walken had come to see Butch to give him the watch.  “I hid this uncomfortable hunk of metal up my ass for two years,” he tells him.  The whole dialog is genius, and, when delivered by Walken, is pure comedy gold.  For me, these interlude thoughts helped me cope with situations like this.  After the first two guys on my side had been checked, the officer stood in front of me.

“Open your mouth.”  I opened my mouth as the officer shined a small flashlight and looked into my mouth. 

“Lift up your tongue.”  I lifted my tongue as he continued to look inside.

“You can close your mouth. Now extend your arms out to your side.”  Nothing under my arms.

“Now lift up your testicles.”  I did as he asked while he knelt over and checked to make sure that hadn’t hidden anything there.  Do people really do that? 

“Turn around, bend over, grab your ass cheeks and spread them out.”  I actually felt bad for him.  You have to be pretty low in the pecking order to be the “Ass Checker.”  There was no gold watch. 

     How much stuff do they find and what happens to guys who try to sneak stuff in?  I figured that drugs were probably at the top of the list of things that they collect.  It was painless and fairly comical, but I was done.  The officer moved on to John, who was on my left.  I wondered if he had an airplane bottle of vodka hidden on him.  He didn’t.  Finally, it was over.  I had survived my first, and hopefully last, strip search.  The line began to move and we walked into the next room, still naked.

     As we walked, I was reminded how similar this all was to when I first arrived at basic training at Fort Knox when I was 17 years old.  We had to go room to room to transform from civilian to soldier.  We first checked in our clothes and then went to a room where we were issued our military camouflage uniforms.  The room that all of us naked guys entered was where we’d get our jail uniforms.  Four men and three women in regular clothes were behind a tall, wooden desk with stacks of green shirts and pants behind them.  We were all standing along the opposite side of the desk.  I was beyond caring about being naked.  One of the men came up to me, looked me up and down, which was weird, and yelled back, “Large pants and large shirts.”  He was a pro.  A woman behind him handed the man a stack of green clothes: two pairs of large pants and two large shirts.  They were hunter green and very much like hospital scrubs.  “What size shoes do you wear?” the man asked.  “Eleven,” I said.  He yelled it back and the woman handed him a pair of what looked like blue dock shoes.  He gave me the clothes and shoes and told me to step back and try them on.  “Do we get underwear or socks?” I asked him.  “Two weeks.  You have to be here for two weeks before you can have someone on the outside bring you in some regulation skivvies or socks,” he said.  Two weeks?  I hoped that I wasn’t going to be there for two days.  I stepped back and put the pants on.  They had a string tie in the front and fit alright.  The pant legs didn’t go down far enough, but a size up would be too big around my waist.  I’d be prepared for any sort of jail flooding.  They were comfortable, though, and I was happy to be in clean smelling clothes.  The shirt was a little big and had a V-neck, which I hated, but I was in no position to complain.  The shirts and pants both had “Denver County Jail” stenciled on them in black lettering.  I sat down on the bench behind me and tried on the shoes.  They were canvas with flat bottoms and white laces.  I really wanted socks.  I knew from experience that wearing shoes without socks is a recipe for disaster for me.  I actually preferred going sockless, and wore flip flops whenever possible, but anytime I went sockless for any extended period of time, my feet would begin to stink.  Not just a normal stink, but the kind of stink that can clear a room.  It gets so bad that I can’t stand it myself.  Back when I was in college, I went to go see a doctor during the summer to have my lower back checked out.  It had been hurting and I thought that someone should look at it.  It was mid-summer and I had been wearing running shoes without socks for a week or so.  It was normal for me to run without socks, but for some reason I continued the practice daily.  It was getting to the point that I knew I had to stop since I could smell my feet pretty much all day.  When I went to the doctor’s appointment, I wasn’t wearing socks.  The female doctor who was examining me had me take my shoes off and sit up on the cushioned table.  My bare feet dangled over the side and the stink filled the room.  I was wearing a hospital gown that you tie in the back.  She performed a general check of my upper torso and then told me to stand up as I normally would.  I could smell the putrid odor and was actually kind of embarrassed.  She wanted to check my feet for alignment and I said, “I don’t think you want to do that.”  She said she didn’t mind as she bent down to look at my feet.  Her face was only a few inches from my toes.  I knew she was dying.  I was dying.  She didn’t flinch or say a word about the smell as the exam finally ended.  She gave me an instruction sheet with some basic stretches and that was it.  As I was leaving, though, the same doctor came into the waiting room and asked to talk to me in her office.  I was nervous that she had some bad news to tell me about my exam, or she was going to ask me out, I couldn’t figure out which.  When I sat down across from her at her desk, she asked me if I showered daily.  I said that I did.  She asked if I ate a balanced diet.  I nodded yes.  Then she told me that she had never smelled anything as bad as my feet and was worried about my hygiene.  She went off on this tangent about kids going to college and not taking care of themselves.  She was visibly embarrassed and it was awkward.  I assured her that I should know better than to not wear socks and apologized for exposing her to my stink.  I hoped that my feet wouldn’t get that bad in County Jail.  The last thing I wanted was to give anyone a reason to have a problem with me.  If my feet got anywhere close to how bad they were in that doctor’s office, I wouldn’t blame them.

      I said goodbye to the clothes I had been wearing for nearly a week and was decked out in green jail scrubs, sans underwear and socks.   My group of ten was taken down a general hallway and put into another waiting room.  Along the way we passed other inmates who were already residents of County.  Some were alone and some walked in pairs or larger groups.  Most of the other guys from the bus were already seated in the room when we entered.  John walked with me and took a seat in the chair next to mine.  We had become fast friends.  I had only known the guy for five or six hours and it was like we had been buddies on the “outside.”  There was little chance that we would have ever met in our regular lives, but jail and circumstance had brought us together.  He was another character in my own personal movie.  I really did hope that we would be sent to the same cell block.  It would be comforting to know someone when I entered my new domain.  I was nervous and worried about what my new living situation would be like.  From what everyone had been telling me all week, I’d have infinitely more freedom to move around than I did at the City Jail.  On one hand, I looked forward to the possibility of recreation and more activities to keep my mind active and not focused on my hard realities.  On the other hand, though, I worried about being exposed to other inmates and any potential for trouble.  I hadn’t felt any real danger during my incarceration, but was leery of a less controlled environment with a higher level of criminal element.  John had become a familiar entity and it was comforting knowing someone. We were both seated in a row near the back of our next stopover room and continued to talk about nothing. 

     The waiting had become very tedious and I could no longer ignore my hunger.  I was growing very anxious and my lack of sleep had caught up to me.  I didn’t feel like talking but John continued.  I felt the same feeling that I get when I’m on an airplane and I’ve reached the end of wanting to talk to the person next to me.  It’s nice and polite for awhile and I just want to sit and do nothing.  Unfortunately I didn’t have a magazine to read or headphones to put on to detour my attention.  I was incredibly surprised that no one had asked to use the restroom.  I wasn’t even sure if it was an option.  Given the length of time that it was taking to get us all processed in, I was also shocked that none of these criminals had lost their patience and started complaining.  I’m sure that there were less subdued groups that the officers had to deal with.  I was frazzled and ready for the next procedure to begin.

     Officers began calling names out again, just had they done earlier in the process.  Every so often a name would be called and a guy would exit the room.  Mine was called fairly early in the process.   There was no rhyme or reason to the order.  It wasn’t alphabetical and it wasn’t by any sort of number, since I was called in a different order every time.  After I heard my name, an officer pointed down towards the end of a hallway where I could see some of the others in line.  They were standing behind a small desk where a woman in a medical gown was sitting. There was a clock on the wall to the right of the desk.  It was almost noon and nearly eight hours had passed since I was first taken out of my cell at the City Jail.  I just shook my head at how long this process had lasted.  It was obvious that we were now out of the area specific to initial prisoner intake.  The walls were all made of stone and painted white with various signs posted in different areas.  “No Inmates Allowed Past This Point” was behind us next to a set of double doors and “Did You Remember Your Cell Block Card?” was on the wall below the clock.  Across the hallway from where we were standing was another area that looked exactly like where we were standing.  In that area, several female inmates were lined up near the desk, which got the attention of all of the men.  It was like we were on a construction job site.  Guys made comments and semi-catcalls.  The officers near us didn’t say a word.  I’m sure that this happened all day, every day.  Finally I was the next person in line and the woman asked for my name.  She had a pleasant tone to her voice.  I gave her my name and she handed a sheet of paper to another woman who had walked up behind her.  “Come with me,” she said.  I was taken to an area around the corner where there were multiple cubicles.  It looked like a small office space.  I could see the heads of inmates and jail officials popping up over the tops of the walls.  The woman led me around to a cubicle towards the back.  She asked me to sit down in the chair nearest the entrance and she took the seat at the desk directly across from me.  She was wearing a white lab coat

     “My job today is to make sure that you’re not bringing any diseases or illnesses into the jail and that you are not a threat to yourself or others.  I’m going to ask you a series of questions that you only need to respond “yes” or “no” to.  After any “yes” answers I will ask a series of follow up questions related to the question that you answered “yes” to.  Do you understand?”  She asked.  She was very official and proper.  Very serious.  She probably gave that speech hundreds of times each week.

“I understand.” 

“How long has it been since your incarceration began and what crimes are you being accused of?” 

“I arrived on Saturday morning and I’m being accused of molesting a 13 year old in Florida, which I didn’t do.”  I knew that she didn’t care what I did or did not do, but it made me feel good to add that in as extra information.  She jotted down notes as I spoke.

“Do you currently taking any prescription medications?”

“No.”

“Do you currently have any medical conditions that we should be made aware of?”

Other than sleep deprivation, stress, anxiety and extreme hunger?  I decided it better to just say, “No.”

“Do you currently use any illicit drugs?”

“No.” 

“Do you have any feeling of hurting yourself or others?”

“No.” 

“Do you feel like you could be the part of the general population of inmates?
I hesitated and thought about the question for a moment and figured the best answer was probably just, “Yes.”   She continued to make notes without looking back up at me. 

     After the questioning session, she took a blood sample from me, checked my heart rate and blood pressure, which I found to be funny.  Of course everyone who comes to jail will have high blood pressure and an elevated heart rate.  As I always did when I visited a doctor, I asked what my heart rate was.  With all of my running, I was very proud of the fact that my resting heart rate was unusually low, normally somewhere below 50.  “65” she said.  I wasn’t pleased.    

     When we were finished, I was told to wait near the corner of the room where others were standing.   When more guys got done with their medical check, we were taken to yet another room.   It was much smaller than the other rooms that we were in and only a few guys from the groups ahead of us where there.  John came in after me and sat down in the open seat to my right.  “So, how’d it go?” he asked.  “Easy,” I said, “I told her that I had cancer, was on Vicodin, regularly shot heroine, had constant thoughts of hurting others and that there was no way that I would be able to make it in the general population.”  This got a big laugh from John and a few others within earshot.  Even in my highly degenerative mental and physical state I was able to remain sharp with my sarcasm skills.  John said that he thought that this was the last stop.  We’d be assigned to our new home after talking to another intake officer.  Everyone was complaining of being hungry and finally someone asked a nearby officer when we’d get to eat.  “Relax, you’ll eat soon enough,” he responded.  I disagreed to myself.  Five minutes from now wouldn’t be soon enough.  “Soon enough” left too much open to interpretation.  I didn’t feel like it was an appropriate time to get into a discussion about it, though.   John leaned over and whispered to me, “What a dick.”  I nodded my agreement.  While we sat and waited, John told me again to request the same cell block as him.   It was truly like we had just got off of the camp bus and wanted to be put in the same cabin.  Oh, the fun we could have playing chess and staying up late talking about life.  I just wanted to eat and rest.  I felt as cut off from my life as I had the entire week.  I wondered if my mother and Kira were worried since I hadn’t spoken with them in over a day. 

    My patience, which is usually incredibly long, was just about gone.  It was like a never ending doctor’s office visit when you sit in the waiting room and watch everyone else have their name called, waiting to hear yours.  Name after name was barked out by the officer sitting in the front of the room and after another long dissertation about chess from John, my name was called.  I made my way towards the door in the front, where two officers were standing.  My ingrained decency made me say “hello” as I walked past, like some school kid walking into the classroom.  Half way through the week at the City Jail I stopped caring what the general staff thought of me.  It really bothered me early on during my stay that every officer I came in contact with most likely believed that I was a criminal and that there was good cause for me to be there.  After Franklin and I met and the ball was rolling in my favor, I stopped worrying about it.  I realized that it simply didn’t matter what officers that I’d probably never see again thought of me.  Although I was sometimes uncontrollably angry at the perception that I was rightfully incarcerated, I made the conscience decision to continue to treat everyone, the police included, as I normally would.  My Midwestern upbringing taught me to be polite to strangers and there was no reason to discontinue this while in jail. 

     After I was through the doorway, an officer was sitting behind the desk in a small office.  Two other officers were behind him.  We were the only people in the room.  I was told to stop in front of the desk.  The officer behind the desk asked if I was Chris Justice, which I said “yes” to.  He asked me for my social security number, which I also gave him.  I was curious whether or not anyone ever lied about their identity and how long it would take them to figure it out.  I didn’t have a name badge on and had been asked my name no less than eight or nine times since we arrived.  The officer behind the desk flipped through his stack of file folders and pulled one out.  He opened it, looked through some documents and began to speak. 

     “Mr. Justice, due to the crimes that you have been accused of, I have to give you the option of being sent to a maximum security wing where you’ll be in your cell for 23 hours per day with one hour allowed for recreation.  You’ll be given access to the library after seven days and meals will be eaten in your cell.”  I thought about this for a moment and I understood what he was telling me.  I had already thought about this after Franklin had warned me.  It was what scared me the most about moving to the County Jail.  I was an accused child molester and I had seen enough television and movies to know how popular those guys are in jail.  I immediately wished that Franklin was with me to explain to these guys what was really going on.  “Do I have another option?”  I asked him.  “Yes.  Since you are being charged with multiple felonies, you can be sent to D Block, which is for felony offenders and long-term housing.  It is a new wing that was just opened this year.  Inmates in D Block do not have contact with the general population and have their own cells instead of bunk beds in a common area.  Everything is done within the confines of D Block.  There is substantial recreation time and phone usage permitted.  But I am legally bound to tell you that if you choose to be sent to D Block that you must sign some papers releasing the City of Denver from any negligence or responsibility in the event that you are injured or killed.” 

     I had quite the choice to make.  The first option was an exact replica of where I just came from, but worse.  There was no part of me that wanted to spend the rest of my time, however long or short it may be, alone.  I simply wasn’t built for solitary confinement.  I had nearly made myself crazy over the past six days living with my own thoughts and fears.  I wanted anything to take my mind off of what I was experiencing and he said that I wouldn’t have any access to a library book for a week, which I hopefully assumed was longer than I’d be staying at County.  D Block, on the other hand, sounded exactly the way that everyone had described County since the first day I arrived.  Substantial recreation and phone usage permitted.  In my current world, I’d pay a small fortune of money for both of those. 

     “How will other inmates know what I am accused of?”  I asked the officer.

“Have you told anyone what you’re charged with of or were other inmates that have been transferred here present when you went in front of the judge?”  I became immediately depressed.  “Yes and no” I said, “I told my story to other inmates at the City Jail after I arrived and a few times throughout the week, but not many and only my lawyer went in front of the judge since my case is from Florida.”  I told him.  I went through the list in my head of what I had to told to whom.  Midway through the week, after Franklin gave me the warning about my crimes and other prisoners, I stopped talking about the exact nature of what I was charged with.  I would say, “Someone in Florida used my name and did some things” and continue from there.  If the person I was telling the story asked what had been done, I told them that it was a fight that nearly left a man dead and that the DNA they got from him was from his blood.  I was worried, though, about my first few days in jail after I got my arrest report.  I freely gave all of the information to a few guys and I had no idea how many or where they were now.  “The chance that any of those guys are in D Block is very low.  It is your choice,” the officer said. 

     I tried to process everything, but it was extremely difficult.  I wasn’t thinking clearly and I knew that I was in no position to make complete and rational decisions.  The thought of spending the rest of my time in the Club Med of County Jail was very attractive.  The thought of dying was not.  I was going to have to sign a piece of paper that absolved the City of Denver from any wrongdoing if I was hurt or killed.  They were serious enough about this to make it a legal protocol when inmates entered the jail.  

“Do people get really get killed out here?”

“It does happen, but not often.”

“I know this has nothing to do with you, but I am innocent and this is all a huge mistake.  I’ve already taken a DNA test and I’m just waiting on the result for me to be released.  I may even get out today.  Do you think I’m in danger if I go to D Block?” 

“I can’t say.  If someone finds out what you’re accused of, you may be in danger. I’m only here to give you your options.” 

     Like with most major decisions I have ever made in life, I chose quickly without giving the options much thought.  My motto in life had always pretty much been, “Things usually work out.”  And they had.  I go with what my gut tells me, and my gut has usually been right.  Except when it wasn’t.  I was trying my hardest to keep in mind that things usually do work out for me throughout the whole ridiculous episode, but I had never been faced with an option that included death.  I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I’ll go to D Block.”  The dangling apple of recreation and phone time won out over being alone again.  I am a gambler by nature and I felt that the gamble (of death) was worth the risk.   As the officer opened a small filing cabinet located next to him and looked for the paperwork that I’d have to sign, the thought of John entered my mind.  He was behind me in line.  “One more thing, there is a guy who will be coming in here shortly and we seem to really get along.  He’s been with me since we left this morning.  Is there any way that we can be put in the same area or even in the same cell?”  I realized as the words came out of my mouth how ridiculous this question was.  I was asking him as if he was the Camp Director.  He pulled out the paperwork he was looking for and set it on the desk and said, “Doubtful.”  He looked at me like I was crazy.  It was worth a try.  He began to write some things down on the papers and then turned them around towards me.  “By signing here where I have made an “X,” you are acknowledging that you understand that, due to the nature of your crimes, you are in immediate physical danger from other prisoners and are waiving your right to maximum security confinement for your safety.  You also understand that the City of Denver cannot be held legally responsible in the event that you are injured or killed.”   I understood and signed the paper.  He gave another piece of paper to an officer behind me and instructed him to take me to D Block.  He handed me a badge with my picture on it and some numbers and told me to keep it with me at all times.  I thanked him and began to walk out to the right of the desk as I clipped the badge to my shirt.  “Hold up,” the officer behind the desk said, “D Block just got through with lunch, take him down to the cafeteria and let him eat before taking him do D.”  Thank God.  At least I would have a meal in me before the possibility of being killed began.