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.