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
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
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
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 4th or 5th 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 Colorado
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 Washington Park
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
It was Friday night and nearing 8:00 at
night in Minnesota
“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.
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