The Curious Case of Christopher Comtois ALL (so far)

While I write the next chapter, I've gone back and looked (briefly) at the manuscript (which I write on Word and cut/paste to here).  Please always keep in mind this is a first draft manuscript that has not been edited at all. Some key names have been changed since this out for public consumption. Everything in this story is absolutely true to my recollection. It was never necessary to embellish any portion of this story. The reality seemed like pure fiction, even as if was happening. As always, comments; criticisms and questions are always welcomed. 

Justice? That’s Funny

By Chris Justice

Prologue

Illinois

     “What the fuck are we supposed to do now?”

     I was saying this to my friend Rob, who was standing next to me on the shoulder of Interstate 80, somewhere in Southern Illinois.  It was between two and three o’clock in the morning and as dark as a night could be.  There were no headlights coming from either direction and clouds obscured any moonlight that was trying to get through.  Scattered around us along the side of the road were multiple suitcases, duffel bags, clothes, a few boxes and a super heavy 36 inch analog television.  Just ninety minutes ago all of these items had been tightly packed into my 1996 Jetta.  Some had been in the back seat and some in the trunk.  I couldn’t have fit anything else into the car even if was paid to do so.  Rob had to put his own gym bag full of clothes on the floor in front of his seat.   It had taken me over two hours to squeeze everything in that I’d need for an entire summer working at a kid’s camp in Maine.  Just moments ago the area was buzzing with the congestion and noise of at least a dozen police cars, a squad of overeager officers, unintelligible radio chatter and a helicopter that hovered above with a spotlight that turned the middle of the night into noon.  But now it was just Rob and me, standing on the side of the highway.  In the dark. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I said.  “How do they expect us to re-pack the car

with no light out here?

              

     “Um, what?” Rob said.  It was a typical response. 

     “Unbelievable.  Simply unbelievable.”  I was officially and totally dumbfounded.

     It was unbelievable.  I had left Denver around eleven a.m. and drove all day to get to Rob’s house in Cedar Rapids, Iowa.  Although he wasn’t working at the camp with me, it seemed like a good idea for him road trip to New York and Boston and then fly back home while I made the final stretch to Maine alone.  He didn’t have anything better to do, anyway.  He was a teacher and his summer vacation had just started. 

     Rob and I met when we both worked at a summer camp in Minnesota.  We had been friends for almost exactly ten years.  We lived together for a few years in Kansas City and he actually stayed with me at my parent’s house for a stretch of time.  We were notoriously poor in our 20s and in our camp counseling heyday.  We had taken many, many road trips together and it made sense that he’d go with me on this one since I’d be driving right by his house.  I had just picked him and we couldn’t have been on the road for even an hour when I noticed the police lights that had turned on behind me. 

     The natural thought when you think you’re being pulled over is to try to figure out why.  I wasn’t speeding because I knew that I had to be extra cautious when I left the state of Colorado.  With a felony arrest on my record, I was told, the police could be more likely to give me a hard time if I ever got pulled over.  I needed to lock my cruise control just below the highway limit and just let it be. 

     “You have to be fucking kidding me?” I said, again.  I just stood with my hands on my hips and looked around into the darkness.  It was a little colder than I thought it should be in early June.  Neither of us had moved in at least five minutes as we tried to process what had just taken place.  When we were pulled over, the first thing the officer asked me was whether or not he could search the car. 

“Was I speeding?” I asked. 

“Sir, do you mind if I search inside your vehicle?” he said. 

     Since I had nothing to hide, I said OK.  That was my first mistake.  This triggered a slew of activity as several more police cars arrived on the scene while Rob and I were asked to stand near the rear of my car while we were both searched.  It wasn’t the fourth time that year that I had to spread my legs and be patted down.  I asked why they wanted to search the car and was told that the area in which we were travelling was a known drug trafficking corridor on I-80.  The officer had noticed that we had turned on our dome light as we drove past him, which, apparently, is a highly suspicious move in Southern Illinois after midnight. 

     “Officer, we don’t have any drugs and we don’t have anything to hide,” I said to

      the man who had pulled us over.

     “Then everything will be just fine,” he said as another police vehicle slowed to a

      stop in front of my Jetta.  It was marked “K9 Unit.” 

      Rob and I could hear a group of officers talking near us and one went to the K9 car that had just arrived.  He and another cop opened the back door of the car and a German Sheppard trotted out from the backseat.  I leaned over to Rob and whispered something about Rin Tin Tin, which made us both laugh.  One of the officers put a leash on the dog and a couple of other guys opened all four of the doors of my car and the trunk.  I already thought that there were way too many people on the scene and that it was bordering on the absurd.  The officer holding the dog pulled him near the passenger door and pointed into the front seat area.  While he pointed, he kept excitedly saying things like, “Go get it!” and “Good dog!  Good dog!”  This was surely the highlight of his week.  The dog was anxious and sniffing everywhere as he hopped into the passenger seat and moved his face and nose back and forth like he was hungry and someone had hidden Kibbles and Bits in the car.  The eager officer kept pointing and directing the dog as it sniffed the dash board and seats.  I could hear the paws of the dog scratching the dashboard over and over.  I just stood and watched in amazement.  I had experienced some real shit fairly recently, but somehow this was taking the cake.  My car was being searched by a dog in the middle of the night with a battalion of police while I stood on the side of the road and watched.  After a few minutes, the dog holder pulled on the leash and backed away from the car.  He knelt down and petted the dog vigorously while he took a dog biscuit from his front pocket and dropped it on the ground.  It was immediately gobbled up. After a few biscuits were eaten, he squatted down and put one slightly in his mouth and let the dog take it from there.  It was like watching Shamu take the fish from the mouth of the woman on the pool deck.  The officer was really, really into it, and for a moment I wondered what the rest of his sad life was like.

     “Good dog.  Good dog,” he said over and over. I assumed he was divorced.

     While he was still kneeling down and enjoying the dog licking his face too much, he motioned towards the group of officers standing near us and both Rob and I could distinctly hear him say, “We have a positive hit.”  I didn’t take that as a positive for us.

     From that point forward, the real fiasco ensued.  If we were at a seven on the fiasco scale before the “positive hit,” we rocketed to an eleven after.  Rob and I were immediately separated and put into the back seat of separate police cars.  We were not handcuffed, but were told that we were being detained while the entirety of the contents of the car was searched.  The officer who pulled us over put me into the back seat of his car, which was parked directly behind mine. 

“We got you now, buddy,” he said while he assisted me into the back seat and shut the door. 

     I pretty much had an unobscured view of everything that was going on around my car.  I figured that no less than fifteen or so cops were standing around in different groups.  It was fairly amazing, really.  Looting and riots could be occurring in whatever the nearest town was since every available officer was now on the scene of the two guys in the Jetta who had driven with their dome light on.  As I watched, I realized that nothing was happening.  I couldn’t see the dog and there wasn’t much movement, just groups of cops talking.   Just when I thought that it couldn’t get any worse, it got worse.  The sound was unmistakable and kept getting louder and louder.  A helicopter was very, very close to us and suddenly the entire area was turned into daytime.  I immediately knew that they were all just waiting until the chopper arrived with the spotlight so they could see better.  A fucking chopper with a spotlight.  I had now seen it all.  I sat back into my seat and noticed that my mouth was actually wide open agape in amazement.  It would have been a perfect close-up if this were a movie.

     The helicopter was super loud and I couldn’t figure out how low to the ground it was.  It had to be sitting directly above us, but since I didn’t notice a massive wind swirling, I assumed that it was probably higher up than I imagined.  I was impressed, however, at how bright the area had become.  The spotlight was no joke. 

     Within a minute, the dog and his divorced handler reappeared and a few other officers began taking bags out of my car and bringing them over to the dog.  They would bring over a bag, set it down, open it up and then start filtering through the clothes and contents while the dog sniffed through it all.  I didn’t have any drugs and I know that Rob didn’t have any drugs and neither of us did drugs, so I didn’t have anything to worry about.  But given what I had gone through in March, I was extremely nervous.  Franklin’s warning about getting pulled over was coming to life and who knew how far these idiots would go to make sure that they were right to call in this massive enterprise in the middle of the night.  I began to feel very nervous and tensed up a little every time they brought a new bag or box to the dog and was relieved each time it passed the test and was discarded elsewhere on the shoulder.  It was not lost on me that it had taken me a painstaking two hours to pack the car and it didn’t appear that anyone was in a hurry to put the stuff back where they found it. 

     Bag after bag was brought over, sniffed through, and tossed off to the side.  They even got out my TV and had the dog sniff around it.  Shit, there could have been a million dollars’ worth of smack hidden in that thing for all I knew.  It would have explained why it was so fucking heavy.  It took two guys to carry the thing over and one stumbled a little.  I would have traded the loss of the TV to watch them drop the thing and break it.  But it, too, passed the dog test. 

     Just as one of the officers opened my trunk, my stomach dropped and I nearly got sick right in the back of the car.  I had totally forgotten that I had agreed to carry two of my buddy Bobby’s duffel bags of clothes for him.  Fuck.  FUCK!  Bobby was a friend of ours who would also be working in Maine with me, but he wouldn’t be coming out for another week.  I had just been in California with him the past weekend when I ran my first marathon.  I hadn’t checked any bags on my flight out and Bobby asked if I could take his two back to Colorado with me and bring them to Maine.  My exact words to him, not even 48 hours prior, were, “I will, but DO NOT put any drugs in my bag.  I don’t want to fly with any of your drugs.”  He promised that the bags were clean.  Now, I wasn’t so sure. 

     Bobby and I met and became friends at the same camp where Rob and I met.  There was a large group of us camp friends spread out around the world.  Within our group, there were the beer drinkers and the pot smokers.  Rob and I were in the beer drinking group and Bobby was in the other.  Everyone drank, but the pot smoker group smoked a lot of pot.  A lot.  I had done it on occasion, but generally stuck to alcohol.  I knew that Bobby would be bringing a substantial amount of marijuana to camp, and I didn’t want to carry it on the plane.  Even if I hadn’t gone through my jail saga in March, I still wouldn’t have wanted to travel with it.  I trusted Billy, but I was now sweating and more or less terrified of the two red Nike bags sitting in my trunk. 

     Bag after bag came out of the trunk and finally the first of Bobby’s.  I was trying to figure out what I was going to do when they found the drugs.  Of course I would deny that it was mine, but I would certainly go to jail that night.  My summer would be over before it started and I would be very, very screwed.  I kept telling myself that I trusted Bobby and that the bags were clean, but why had the dog smelled drugs in the first place?  Either it was a mistake, the cops were lying or Bobby put pot in his bag.  I would know the answer very soon since bag number one was being opened in front of the dog.  He sniffed and sniffed and the officer rummaged through the clothes and then tossed it aside.  One down.  My body was still tense.

     The next bag wasn’t Billy’s and I didn’t even pay attention since I knew that my bags were okay.  In fact, irony would have it that Bobby’s second bag was the final bag pulled from the trunk and the last bag to be searched.  The entirety of my summer belongings were scattered along I-80, mostly open and all illuminated by a hovering helicopter.  Every officer in Southern Illinois had gathered to watch the entertainment, and for me, it was all coming down to a red Nike bag.  A bag in which I didn’t know the contents and one that I had explicitly asked the owner not to put drugs into.  The windows inside the police car where I was sitting began to fog up a little with my rising body temperature.  I was gripping the seat and my jaw was beginning to get sore from me clinching it so hard.  It was slow motion watching that dog sniff through the bag.  I was certain that the officer squatting down helping the dog sift through the contents would gleefully hold up a huge bag of drugs to a massive roar of excitement that would drown out the chopper.  Cops would be high fiving and hugging.  I would be on the front page of the Shitville, Illinois Daily the next day.  It wouldn’t be the first or tenth time I made a paper that year.

     When you’re watching your favorite team play a nail-biter game and it’s intense and back and forth and the ending very much is in doubt, your body gets tense, your heart races and it is stressful.   But when your team holds on to win, you immediately feel a sense of relief and your body relaxes.  This is exactly how I felt when Bobby’s bag was tossed aside and the search complete.  It was a nail-biter with an ending very much in doubt, but, in the end, my team pulled it out and held on for the win. 

     Just like after a high school fight in the cafeteria is broken up, most of the police officers who had shown up to watch the show started to slowly disappear.  Groups of guys finished their conversations and headed to their cars.  One by one, the cars switched off their swirling red and blue lights and headed down either side of the highway.  The dog and his “owner” were one of the first to go.  There were maybe five cops still on sight when my guy came back and opened the door to the back seat. 

“You can get out.  I know you guys are hiding something, but we couldn’t find it,” he said.

“Honestly, we don’t.  But if someone had smoked a bunch of pot in the car in the past, would the dog have smelled it?”  I had totally forgotten that I just bought the car in January from our friend Bert, who was one of the leaders of the pot smoking camp group.  He had smoked a lot of pot in that car.  I was shocked that this fact had escaped me.

“I don’t know, maybe.  Why, did you smoke a bunch of pot in there?”

“Nope, but the guy I bought it from did.”

          He gave me my license back and Rob was now standing next to me. Suddenly, the spotlight went out and we could tell that the helicopter was flying away.  All of the other police had already left and it was shocking at how dark it really was.  The chopper spotlight was on us for at least thirty minutes, so now the dark was even darker.  The guy who first pulled us over and started this entire shit show was getting back into his car.  After all of that he wasn’t even going to have the decency to say “goodbye” or “have a nice night” or “drive safe” or, God forbid, “sorry.”  He opened his door and was just about to get inside when I yelled over to him,

“So, we’re on our own to pick all this up?”  I knew we were, but I was just curious as to what he’d say.

“We take it out, you put it back.  Have a safe drive.”

Chapter One

Vail

     "Are you guys really going to drive up tonight?" asked one of the school board members.  It was Friday night and nearly eight o'clock.  My friend Kermit and I were at a dinner party hosted by a parent of one of the kids in my 5th/6th grade combined class.  It was the last weekend of Christmas break in early January of 2002 and it had just started snowing in Denver.  We had plans to ski in Vail the next day and it seemed like a better idea to drive up at night instead of waiting until the morning and fighting the traffic and road conditions after an overnight storm. Plus, we wanted to get up there to enjoy the Vail Village night life. My friend Andrew was living there and working for the resort.  We had a free place to stay, free lift tickets waiting for us and apparently a powder day ahead.  We like free and we like powder. 

     "Yep, we'll be ok.  We'd rather drive up tonight at the beginning of the storm than get up at 5 AM and fight traffic tomorrow," we told the group.  It was apparent that they thought that we were crazy.  But we were young(er), single and anxious to leave a boring parent party and get up the hill where fun and beer were awaiting us.  With open arms.

     Kermit and I had been friends for nearly a decade.  We met while working as camp counselors for multiple summers in Minnesota.  Truth be told, Kermit worked there for multiple summers and I worked there for multiple, multiple, multiple summers.  My biggest core group of friends, all degenerates, met up there.  All of our growth and maturity was stunted by years of basing our lives on mid-May through late August. The months of September through April were known as the "off-season" (or "college," until our respective schools finally forced us to graduate and leave.  Do you know how difficult it is to stretch a physical education degree out to six and a half years?).  I was finally on the "right track" and found a teaching career when I was offered a job in Florida after my final summer in Minnesota, which was 1998. I spent three years living and working as a teacher in Florida, first in Bradenton, then Port St. Lucie and finally in Orlando.  OK, so the second year was spent teaching golf at Club Med, which was technically a camp for adults, but I was 31 years old and thought that perhaps I should actually get back to a career that didn't involve a job description that emphasized being in the bar by 8 PM each night. Not that teaching doesn't require frequent trips to the bar, though.  (Yes, the Club Med job description does include being in the bar by 8 PM.  People have actually been written up for not being there).

     So, in August of 2000, I took a teaching job in Orlando.  I was a social studies and physical education teacher at a grades 7-12 school called Orlando Lutheran Academy.  I would teach middle school American history, 9th grade geography and senior government and economics as well as a couple of PE classes.  I would also be the varsity golf coach, co-head coach for the varsity girl’s basketball team and the JV baseball coach.  It was a fun year living in the shadow of Disney.  I made lots of new friends, enjoyed the school and the students and really liked Orlando.  Unfortunately, being a private school, it needed private funding and more students.  I think the graduating class was something like twenty students. It had been in existence since the 70's but had fallen on hard times.  As the school year wound down, and after multiple recruiting open houses and advertising, it was apparent that cuts were going to be made.  Since I was the low teacher on the pole and the last one hired, I was on the chopping block. Unless there was a sudden windfall of money or new students I would be looking for work once again.  

     Sometime late in the school year, a Club Med buddy (more degenerates) called me to tell me that he had taken a job at a summer camp in Maine.  He knew my camp background and mentioned me to the management of the camp.  At the time I wasn't interested. I had already officially announced my retirement from "camp."  I spent seven summers in Minnesota that pretty much changed my life. I had my group of camp friends and didn't think that I wanted to start over somewhere else.  And besides, with my impending unemployment, I didn't think that it would be a good idea to head up to Maine without a plan of what I would be doing come September.  Camp work doesn't exactly pay the bills.  In fact, camp work doesn't pay any bills, other than bar tabs and road trips on days off. Anything left over at the end pays for getting home, and sometimes that was dicey at best.  I'd be nearly 32 at the end of the summer and the responsible thing to do would be to stay in Orlando and focus on finding my next teaching job.  But in keeping with the multitude of irresponsible decisions that I made throughout my 20's, the obvious choice would be to go to Maine and figure it out later.  Which is what I did.  The school year ended and there were no miracles for the Lutherans.  I was in a group of five or six other teachers who were let go.  I took the job in Maine for the summer, suckered another Club Med friend to go up with me and in late May of 2001, we started our road trip onward towards my next chapter of life.  

     Prior to leaving Orlando, I sent out about 100 resumes to various schools.  It was much more difficult during those days prior to most everything being online. I spent countless hours jamming up the fax machine in the administrative office at school.  But instead of focusing on staying in Orlando, I decided that it was time to make a serious push to move to Colorado.  I had visited Kermit multiple times since he moved there in 1995 after his own camp career had ended.  I did like Orlando and canvassed the area with my resume, but moving to Colorado had always been in the back of my mind.  In fact, I had actually been hired to work at a ski resort in Winter Park after the summer of 1998.  I made it as far as Denver and as close as two days prior to my start date when I got the call from Bradenton Academy that their physical education teacher had quit suddenly.  Two of my camp friends were teachers there and I had applied to the school during the summer to no avail.  It was late September of 1998 and instead of completing the trip to Winter Park and staying in Colorado, I accepted the job while at a pay phone at a 7-Eleven on Colfax Avenue in Denver.  I turned around a few days later, unpacked my winter clothes, repacked my summer stuff and headed to Florida.  So now, with an open slate and nothing tying me to Orlando other than my apartment, I sent about half of those 100 resumes to schools in the Denver area.  

     On day two or three of our road trip to Maine, in New York City visiting a friend, I checked my messages back at my apartment.  On the machine was a voicemail from a school in Denver who was interested in speaking with me about a job.  I called them back and explained my situation.  They wanted me to come out for an interview but understood that I was to start my summer gig in just a few days.  Upon arrival at the camp in Maine, a phone interview was set up and just a few days into my "new" camp career, I was offered the job in Denver.  I would be moving to Colorado at the end of the summer!  I immediately called Kermit, who would find us housing together, and then spent a wonderful summer making new camp memories and friends.  I had to leave a week or so early to fly back to Orlando, pack up my apartment and drive my limited belongings across the country to once again arrive in Colorado with a job in hand.  This time I would stay.  

     My U-Haul and I pulled into Denver on a Friday night and I immediately knew that I had made the right decision.  Our new home was in the shadows of downtown and the front range mountains.  I was in Colorado with one of my best friends and felt like I had finally found the place where I was supposed to be. The three years in Florida always felt like an accident.  The death of my father ended my first teaching job early as I was needed back at home in Missouri to help my mother with the transition of being alone after 35 years of marriage.  The detour to Club Med was just that, a detour.  And although I would have loved to have continued teaching at Orlando Lutheran Academy, it wasn't in the cards.  I was finally Colorado resident, albeit three years late.  

     The beginning at my new school, which was a three minute commute from my house, was lackluster.  It was another private Lutheran school, but a big departure from my experience in Orlando.  It was a pre-kindergarten through 7th grade school and I'd be the 5th/6th grade classroom teacher as well as the Athletic Director.  The teaching staff was opposite from what I was accustomed. My other two years of classroom teaching featured larger groups of young staff. We bonded quickly and went out together often. As I met my new colleagues, it was apparent that this year would be different.  The school was filled with older teachers, most of whom where devout Christians.  And there wasn't a principal. In fact, there had been something like four different principals in the previous four years and they had not sought out a new one for this school year.  The school board decided to administrate the operations themselves and appoint the kindergarten teacher to act as principal for the day to day necessities.  But as I began teaching, I loved the kids and had always wanted to teach younger students in a classroom instead of just on the gym floor.  

     The school board president was a challenge from the onset.  He was a businessman who had zero teaching or school experience outside of his daughter being in a school.  In my class, in fact. Actually, I had something like six children of school board members in my class.  Whereas I was really enjoying my teaching experience, the administration of the school was a continual grind.  I was constantly monitored from the kindergarten teacher whose only administrative experience was teaching kindergarten.  She had no idea what happened upstairs with kids who could tie their own shoes and color inside the lines.  And Jerry, the school board president, was a grade A douche bag.  A born again Christian who was arrogant and always seemed to be speaking from a pulpit, even when he was sitting.  We did not get off to a good start.  He had his own version of how teachers should teach, which was like me telling him that I had my own version of how accountants should do math.  

     A little over a month into the school year, I was in the administrative office making some copies of a test that I was going to give that day.  It was just after 7am and the secretary got a call that I overheard.  Something had happened in New York and her husband was calling to tell her about it.  I called home and my buddy Will, another degenerate who was living on our couch temporarily, answered the phone.  I told him to turn on the TV and see what was going on. He put down the phone, turned on the TV and then said something like, "one of the World Trade Center buildings in New York is falling down."  It was September 11, 2001, and the school day in Denver was just beginning.  The middle school teacher, who shared the upstairs with me, and I went up and turned on the TV in her room as the kids started arriving.  We all sat and watched as the morning unfolded.  The 5th, 6th, 7th and 8th grade students and teachers who came and went watched and wondered what was happening and what it meant.  We tried to interject and inform the students about the gravity of what was occurring.  It was around 9:30am when Jerry called upstairs to tell me to turn off the televisions. He demanded that the school day continue as normal.  I refused.  I told him that this was important for the kids to see and that it was history unfolding in front of our eyes.  He threatened to come down to the school and take the TV away.  He was adamant that the day go on as scheduled.  After several minutes of terse discussion, I told him that we would return to our classroom and keep tabs on what was going on outside of our school windows.  Parents came throughout the morning to pick up their kids.  I cancelled all after school sports games and practices.  For those remaining, nothing other than the events of the day were discussed.  When Jerry finally did make it to school, he was very angry and we exchanged less than friendly words again.  This was our relationship.  He demanded control and I pushed back.  Every time.  Unfortunately for Jerry, most of the rest of the parents of the kids in my class, including the other school board members, really liked me, as did my students.  Jerry wanted teachers to simply teach the subjects and not to make learning fun in any way.  And that pretty much is the opposite of how I teach.  It was going to be a long school year.  

     As the semester wore on, it was more of the same.  Day to day teaching was great.  We had some fun, the kids were learning and enjoying their experience. In conjunction with a bunch of parents, we held a flag football game with the older kids.  I was invited out on several occasions by parents to go to Rockies baseball games, watch football games out at local bars as well as several other social engagements.  On many levels it was shaping up to be my most fulfilling year of teaching.  But the specter of Jerry as well as his kindergarten teacher principal minion was always by my side, looking over my shoulder and interjecting their 1800's one room schoolhouse view of education in America.  Finally the semester ended and a much-needed two week break was upon us.  Just after the holidays were over and the second semester was just a few days away, I was invited to a dinner party at the home of one of my kid's parents.  Other parents and school board members would be there to host Kermit and me for a fun, social evening.  We had a nice dinner, a couple of drinks and then announced that with the impending snow storm, it made more sense for us to drive up to Vail that night instead of waiting until the morning.  In retrospect, that may have been the plan all along, but for whatever reason, we waited until later into the party to announce this.  Sometime after eight o'clock we headed out into the flurries and began our two hour drive to Vail to my friend Andrew's place.  

     Andrew was a friend that I had met the previous summer up at camp in Maine. He moved to Colorado to work for the resort, ski and drink beer.  He had been bugging me for awhile to come up but the snow hadn't really kicked in until mid-December that year.  We had made the plans to go up weeks previous and had originally thought we'd be up there much earlier, but the dinner party came up and I felt like it was something that I should do.  That night, the roads heading up I-70 weren't that bad.  We made it to his apartment sometime around 10:30pm and immediately went out to the "Village," where most of Vail's nightlife happens.  The next day of skiing was epic and at the conclusion, Kermit and I decided to wait a few hours at Andrew's to let the traffic clear out a little. Ski traffic on weekend afternoons coming down from the mountains is insane.  20 miles can take two hours.  100 miles can take six hours.  So instead of sitting in our car moving at five feet start and stops, we waited it out with a pizza and then finally left to go back home.  It was Saturday night and the next day would be our last day before going back to work.  Kermit was also a teacher and we decided on the way back down not to go out that night so we could be fresh on Sunday as we prepared for the second semester.  We stopped somewhere to get some food, rented a movie and spent a rare Saturday night at home.  There is a very good chance that we didn't go outside at all the next day as the NFL playoffs were on.  We had two couches and both stayed occupied for the duration of the day before we went off to bed with our alarms set for the first time in over two weeks.  Break was over and regular life was about to resume.

 Chapter Two

Orlando

     It was a typical Disney day in Orlando.  Warm in January, tourists in shorts and kids anxious to meet Mickey.  It was the first Saturday of 2002 and Christopher Comtois had a plan.  Or maybe he didn't.  But he certainly had time on his hands.  Comtois was a fairly talented and accomplished musician.  He had made his name in the Christian rock world.  He was talented, charismatic and had a big personality.  He was at ease on stage and played a multitude of instruments.  He sang, wrote music and had toured the country with his band opening up for a number of big names in the Christian rock world.  He was a man of faith who spoke the good word through his music.  Unfortunately, he was also a registered sex offender.  

     Born into a family of musical and theater talents in New York, Comtois tried hard to make it as a gospel-rock musician. In the late 1990s, he toured and opened as soloist for popular Christian singer Rebecca St. James.  At age 30, on that Saturday in Orlando, he was nearly three years removed from his first arrest.   in 1998, Brevard County (Florida) sheriff's investigators arrested and charged him with exposing and fondling himself in front of four schoolgirls outside an elementary school.  He served no time in prison but was sentenced to a five-year probation. It called for him to have no unsupervised contact with minors under 18 and no stays overnight where children under 16 may be present.  

     Later that same year, Illinois authorities served an arrest warrant for him for molesting a minor in Bolingbrook, a village 26 miles south of Chicago.  He was sentenced to three years in July 1999 but served only 15 months in a state prison because of good conduct and new sentencing guidelines.  Christopher Comtois was a registered sex offender in Illinois and Florida.  But as he walked around Orlando, those days were behind him.  He was free and still playing his music at Universal Studio's City Walk.  

     At the same time that Comtois was casually strolling through his day, thousands of young cheerleaders from all over the country were practicing and performing at a national Christian cheerleader’s competition.  This is the sort of thing that kids put big red circles around on their calendars.  A trip away from the cold of winter during a school holiday break with a bunch of their friends.  Staying in hotels, swimming outside when the pools are shut and frozen at home and showing off their talents against other kids from everywhere else.  Not to mention the days and hours of fun at the multitude of theme parks and attractions that made Orlando Orlando.  It can be the highlight of the year or a lifetime for the kids who are lucky enough to make the trip.  

     After a long day of competition, a group of young cheerleaders and their chaperones and coaches were relaxing back at their hotel.  Some at the pool and some just running around enjoying their freedom away from home.  This hotel in particular was a hub for most of the schools who were involved in the competition.   The mysterious path of Christopher Comtois somehow brought him to that same hotel.  And it didn't take him long to unleash his charm and charisma on one unsuspecting group.  He seemed harmless.  He was well spoken and began to spin his tales of life on the road as a touring leader of a band.  The girls were star struck and the coaches enjoyed his presence.  He answered questions of what it was like to be in a band, sang some songs and even told stories to the teens about hanging out with local pop sensation Britney Spears.  This went on for quite some time.  Finally, the adults in the group called it a night and summoned the girls to say their goodbyes.  Comtois invited them all to come see his band the next night and even posed for a photo with the entire group.  He told them to check out his website, which was filled with his music and photos from all of the stories he had told.  Everyone headed back to their rooms and Comtois went his own way.  The girls were happy and excited to have met someone "so famous."  

     Later on that night a few of the girls were still up and hanging out in one of their rooms.  Naturally on trips like this the nights often turn into late night slumber parties.  The door was open and suddenly Comtois was standing in the hallway looking in.  The girls were naturally excited and invited him in to continue hearing the exciting life that he had led.  But from the onset, something wasn't right.  His jeans were wet and he explained that he had been in the hot tub and had to put his pants back on as he didn't have any change of clothing with him.  He asked if it would be ok if he used their restroom to dry himself off.  The next thing the girls knew, their famous and popular musician was standing in their room with a towel around his waste with his shirt, socks and stocking cap still in tact.  He really wanted to stay and talk.  It was getting very late and although they found it odd that he was only wearing a towel around his waste, they let him sit on the bed as he kept the charm going.  He began to ask odd questions about whether they had boyfriends back home and if they were still virgins.  Each time he moved or got up, the towel around his waste would fall to the ground.  He sheepishly put it back around himself as he apologized over and over for the accident.  By this point in time, the girls were getting nervous.  A man in his early 30's was in their room exposing himself well after midnight.  They began to act as if they were tired and wanted to go to sleep, but Comtois ignored them and continued to try to regale them with his musical exploits. He complained of being cold and tried to warm his feet by putting them underneath one of the girls sitting near him.  The girls were tense and unsure about what to do next.  Two of the girls were staying in other rooms but were afraid to leave the group.  They never panicked but pressed harder for him to leave so they could get some rest before the big day of competition ahead.  Finally, the gospel singer relented and said that he, too, should go get some sleep.  He put his pants back on, said his goodbyes and left the room.  The girls were relieved.  They were innocent and unaware of the seriousness of what had just happened.  But they were also very tired and did want to get to bed.  It was now past 2am.  

     The two girls who were staying in other rooms left together but they had to go in opposite directions.  One went left and then an immediate right down another hall towards the elevator.  In an instant she was gone.  The other had a long stretch of hallway to walk to get to the stairwell as she was just one floor below.  As she walked along the carpet, the door to the stairs at the end opened and it was Chris Comtois.  It had been nearly an hour since he left the room but was obviously still hanging around the hotel.  The girl stopped in her tracks.  Comtois began to motion her to come to him. He wanted to escort her back to her room to make sure that she was safe.  She didn't move.  He pressed and assured her that he meant no harm.  He simply wanted to make sure that she was going to be ok and that she got back to her room.  One can only imagine what goes through the mind of a 14 year old girl in the middle of the night in a situation that most people never have to face.  Was he harmless?  He looked harmless.  Maybe he was just weird.  He was a "rock star" after all.  But she really had no options.  It wasn't like he was threatening her.  Her instinct told her to run but for reasons unknown, she walked slowly towards him as he continued to assure her that everything was going to be ok.  He held the door open for her as she slowly walked past him into the stairwell.  She began to walk down the stairs as he followed behind.  And then it happened.  Without warning or words, he grabbed her arm.  She resisted and he held on tight.  He put his other hand around her neck and over her mouth to keep her quiet as he began to whisper to her how attractive she was.  She was powerless to move as her body froze from fright.  He kept his arm tightly around her neck and over her mouth as she felt him caressing her under her cheerleading dress with his other hand.  All the while telling her how hot she was and how he couldn't believe that she was only 14.  At some point, minutes later, or hours, who knows, she heard him jostling with his belt and unbuttoning his pants.  And then she heard strange noises as he began to moan repeatedly.  This went on for a long time, she felt.  And the moans got louder and louder until he released her without any words.  She didn't look back as she ran down the rest of the stairs and finally to her room.  She unlocked the room, ran inside as the door slammed behind her and she fell to the floor in tears.  

     The security cameras caught Comtois calmly walking out of the lower stairwell door and out the front door of the hotel just minutes later.  Meanwhile, the girl's roommates woke up, turned on the light and began to hear the horrible tale through tears and uncontrollable hyperventilating.  They called the coaches and parents, who immediately mobilized to find out what had happened.  Anger, confusion and questions filled the early morning as the hotel security and local police were called.  And sometime after 5am, the Orlando PD arrived, led by Detective Geoff Laney, who was now officially investigating his first case as a detective.  He had just been promoted from a uniformed officer and had been eagerly awaiting his first chance to solve a crime.

Chapter Three

Denver

     The plans were all set.  My buddies would pick me up at 6:30 in the morning.  We would stop and get some coffee on the way up to ski.  I had only skied with these guys once, just a few weeks back.  Two guys that I met on the local rugby team that I played with.  It was the last Friday in February and the snow had finally started to get decent up in the mountains.  It was my first full ski season as a Colorado resident. I had only really picked up the sport five or so years previous on one of my trips to visit Kermit when he was working up at Winter Park.  Skiing and the mountains were two of the main reasons to move to Colorado. Florida was fun and a great novelty act but the lifestyle and weather in Colorado was more suited to my personality.  Whereas it was fun calling my friends in January as I was wearing shorts and getting ready to tee off somewhere, I missed the change of seasons.  And contrary to popular belief, the winters on the front range were pretty mild.  Everyone thinks of Denver as having a snowy and arctic winter, but in reality most winters at a mile high are filled with sunshine and mostly mild days. Yes, there are epic storms that come around but more often than not there are at least a few days a month in the winter that are golf-able. 

     It was quiet at home.  Kermit was away for the weekend at "Space Camp," a field trip that he was chaperoning with his middle school class.  It was getting late so I got my ski stuff together for the early morning and got ready for bed.  I learned early on that year that trying to go out on a weekend night and then getting up early to ski did not work. Maybe if I was 22, but at 32, it was one or the other.  Go out and sleep in or go to bed early and get up before the sun to beat the traffic.  If you leave even 30 minutes later than you had planned the trip may take twice as long.  So on this night I took the "responsible" route and was getting to bed before ten o'clock.  As I was preparing for sleep, I decided to check my e-mail.  During those few minutes, an instant message popped up on my screen.  It was Amanda, one of my former students in Orlando.  She was a senior the year before when I taught her class.  She also played on the varsity basketball team that I coached.  It was not unusual to get messages from those students from that class.  Her message said, "What did you do?"  I was puzzled as I had no idea what she was talking about.  I asked what she was talking about.  She asked the same thing again and I said that I didn't understand the question.  We went back and forth for a few minutes as I remained puzzled.  She then said, "I'm not supposed to say anything to you because I could get into trouble."  I sat and wondered exactly what she was getting at.  It was typical for that group of girls that I coached to play random jokes on me.  Many of them were still friends with my co-head coach Pam.  Her and her husband David had become good friends of mine and every once in awhile I'd get a message on my answering machine from a group of them who had gotten together.  Something funny.  This conversation seemed like it was going in the same direction.  So I pressed her for information and told her that I wouldn't say anything about it.  The next message that came on my screen said, "The police came to talk to me.  They asked me if I knew where your girlfriend last year worked and if I knew what type of cologne you wore."  Now I was really confused.  I asked her if she was serious.  She said yes and again reiterated that I couldn't say anything about her telling me about her conversation with the police.  I still thought it was some sort of a joke.  She promised that it wasn't.  She went on to tell me that the police had recently been to Orlando Lutheran and had asked a bunch of my former teacher friends questions about me.  I had no idea what she was talking about.  I figured that if it were true that I would have heard from someone.  I still was in contact with a few of them regularly and hadn't heard a thing.  Although we were only typing back and forth I got the sense that she was serious but it still didn't add up. I asked who they had talked to and she told me that she wasn't sure but gave me a few names.  Guys I knew very well.  She made me promise again to not repeat what she had just told me, which I did.  The conversation ended and I sat wondering what was going on.  Part of me still believed that this was an elaborate set up for a great joke.  These kids knew that I was a sarcastic wise-ass.  I played a multitude of jokes on them throughout the school year and ended up having a great relationship with them.  But another part of me wondered if what she was telling me was true.  Were police really going to my former employer and asking my friends and co-workers questions?  The only thing I could think of doing was calling one of them and just gauging how they sounded.  If they had been questioned and told not to tell me, perhaps I'd be able to tell in their voice.  Although it was late in Florida, I first called David and Pam but there was no answer.  I then called Todd, the Athletic Director at the school.  Todd and I played some golf together the year previous and had gone out on occasion to watch Cubs baseball games at a few local establishments.  I had talked to him a few times since moving so I gave him a call.  He answered the phone almost immediately.  Todd was a jovial and fun guy.  Always laughing and joking.  When I'd call him he'd always give a big "HEY!" when he realized it me on the phone.  When he answered that night and I said hello, he just gave me a very monotone "hello."  Maybe I was reading into it.  Maybe he was just tired.  So I engaged in what would have been a normal conversation.  Asked how he was doing, what was going on at work, etc.  I probably talked about whatever awful off-season moves the Cubs had made and how he thought we'd do that season.  I was looking for any hint that something was wrong and whether or not he would bring up any police asking him questions about me.  Seemed like something that would come up fairly early if it were true.  But nothing.  So I just asked him.  I asked if any police had been around to see him.  He said no.  I kept my promise to not expose Amanda and didn't ask him anything further.   "No" was enough.  But I got off the phone thinking that he really didn't sound like his normal self.  Nothing about the previous hour of my life seemed to make sense, but I blew it off and went to bed.  If the police needed to talk to me it wasn't like I was on the lam and hiding.  And I hadn't done anything wrong so there was no need to worry.  It had to be a joke.  

     It was around 4am when I heard a knock at the door.  It was odd for anyone to come to our house and knock on the door minus the random solicitor, Girl Scout or Mormon.  But they usually don't come around in the middle of the night.  Perhaps they had a new late night program that they I wasn't aware of.  My bedroom was at the front of the house and the window next to my bed looked right out onto the porch.  After another knock, I sat up and slowly peered through the drapes.  What I saw was a team of policemen standing on my porch.  In the street were no less than eight Denver Police cars.  It was difficult to process what was going on.  I was half asleep but the only thing that came to my mind was the information that I got from hours of watching the television show "Cops."  If I don't answer the door, they can't come in.  At least that was my first thought. Obviously something very serious was going on.  A police force does not come to your house at 4am to see how you are doing.  It wasn't a social call.  So I sat in bed and didn't move.  I hoped that they didn't see me look out the window. I was more confused than scared.  But the conversations with Amanda and Todd suddenly became very real. Something was happening and people I knew had known about it and didn't tell me.  I didn't move and eventually I heard the police radios grow fainter as doors closed and cars drove away.  They were gone.  But when police come to your house and no one answers, odds are pretty high that they are coming back.  But I was tired so I went back to sleep. Whatever it was that was going on would have to wait until I was better rested.

     I woke up again around 6am.  I thought that the knocks at the door were my rugby friends who were earlier than expected.   No luck.  It was the police again.  I did the same quiet peer through the shades saw the same regiment of uniformed men on my porch with what seemed like more cars in the street.  I again stayed still and waited until they left. Until they hopefully left.  Maybe they came back with a search warrant. Did they bring the battering ram?  Was I going to jail in my underwear?  I hoped not. But after a few more knocks, they were gone. This time I did not go back to sleep.  My first order of business was to decide if I was going skiing.  This was an actual conversation in my head.  I absolutely knew that whatever it was that brought law enforcement to my house twice before the sun came up wasn't going away.  They were coming back.  Maybe a good day of skiing was in order before facing whatever music was playing.  But good sense took over and I called my friends and left a message telling them not to pick me up.  I wasn't going to be able to join them.  I decided to get up, take a shower and put a plan together in preparation for the next visit from the Denver PD.  At least I was rested and not arrested. Yet.  

     I had been arrested before and I knew the drill.  I got into some mild trouble in high school for typical juvenile stuff and again after college with a DUI.  I was no saint.  But I had not done anything recently and certainly not anything that would bring a SWAT team to my house.  I was a school teacher with a good record.  But I knew two things:  I was going to jail today and I had no idea why.  After a shower I got dressed and put on clothes in preparation for whatever lie ahead.  No belt, jeans and a t-shirt.  They would take the belt anyway.  I then began writing down important phone numbers and information that would help my friends contact my family and friends if was not available.  It was now around 7:30 in the morning and I called my good friend Aimee.  She was one of my best friends.  Like me, she was from Kansas City and we worked together at the camp in Minnesota. She moved to Denver about two weeks after I did and lived just down the street.  She answered and I gave her a short rundown of the previous few hours.  She said that she would be right over.  

     When Aimee got there she began asking me questions that I didn't have answers to.  The only things that I knew for sure were the conversation with Amanda, the questions the police in Florida had asked her and that police had visited my house twice.  I assured her that I had no idea what they wanted.  There were no hidden secrets in any of my closets.  And she knew it.  So we brainstormed what to do next.  We decided that I should call the Denver police.  Whatever was going on had to be a mistake and getting out in front of it may be the best idea.  So I called the non-emergency police number and explained that I thought that some police had been to my house in the middle of the night.  After I was put on hold for a bit, the officer on the phone told me that a warrant had been issued for my arrest by the Orlando police department and that she didn't know the charge.  An arrest warrant for me?  I fumbled a little but then asked her if she had any other information.  She told me that all she had was the name of the officer making the warrant and his phone number.  I wrote down the name "Geoff Laney" and his direct line.  I hung up and relayed the conversation with Aimee.  "Call him!" she said.  So I did.  All I got was his voicemail so I said something like, "Officer Laney, this is Chris Justice in Denver, Colorado.  I was just told that you put out an arrest warrant for me. Obviously this is some sort of mix up and I'd like to talk to you to clear this up."  I gave my phone number and hung up.  I even said something about him having a good day. And that was it.  I had done all I could do.  I didn't want to call my mother since I had no idea what was happening.  She would ask unanswerable questions and begin to worry. There was no need for worry.  I told Aimee that all we could do was wait.  They were coming back and probably soon since I'd just told them that I was home.  I gave her the phone list I had put together and told her to call my mother first.  It helped that she knew her very well.  I also explained the other numbers, which included my teaching partner at school as well as Jerry, the school board president.  I had no idea how long this all would take but someone at school should probably know if I was going to miss work on Monday.  With the plans in place, we put on a tape of "Remember the Titans."  What a great movie.  One of Denzel's best.  

My overriding thought was that maybe I had bounced a check in Orlando and that they were super serious about collecting on it.  Teaching isn't exactly the best paying profession and maybe I left the state with an outstanding debt.  It's all I could come up with.  I wouldn't say that I was overly anxious or nervous while we watched the movie because that isn't my nature.  I take everything as it comes.  Something was going on that was out of my control that I couldn't stop until I knew what it was.  I wasn't excited about the specter of going to jail but the train had already left the station.  I would simply have to wait and see and deal with it when I could.  Things usually work out for me and this was going to be one of them.  Getting all worked up wasn't going to solve anything. And maybe Officer Laney would call me back and realize that it was all a big misunderstanding and that would be that.  But right around the time that Coach Boone's team broke training camp, there was a knock at my door.  Then I got nervous.  I slowly walked to the door and opened it.  All of the guys were back.  There were probably six or seven officers on my porch and another ten standing in the street.  Cars were everywhere.  The officer standing in front of me asked me if I was Chris Justice.  I answered "yes."  He then told me that I was under arrest and asked me to turn around.  I did what he asked and he put the handcuffs on me, turned me back around and began walking me towards the cavalcade of cars.  "What is he being arrest for?" Aimee shouted.  Things suddenly got a little more complicated when one of the officers next to me turned as we walked and said, "Kidnapping."   The check bouncing theory went out the window.

Chapter Four

Laney

     The investigation began immediately.  Geoff Laney had been waiting for this opportunity for his whole police career.  He wore a uniform and gave out tickets and put himself in harms way on a daily basis for many years.  And now he was a detective. Instead of showing up to crimes in progress, he was now the guy who came later and was going to try to solve them.   What had happened to the cheerleader was awful. No child should ever have to endure what this girl went through.  Things like this can affect a young person for the rest of their lives.  She was violated.  Held against her will. Forced by a sick adult to bare witness to a lewd act.  She was scared and scarred.  Her parents, friends and family were horrified and saddened beyond what the normal mind can comprehend.  And now Detective Laney was in charge in trying to piece together all of the facts and find the person responsible for this crime and arrest him.

     The first thing that would have to happen would be to interview everyone involved in the course of the evening.  Witnesses.  The coaches, the chaperone's, the cheerleaders, the hotel staff and, of course, the victim.  Geoff Laney had been trained to do this.  He was eager to use his years of police work to bring the perpetrator to justice.  It would be slow and methodical.  He had to gather the facts, use his judgment and instinct and make the right decisions.  This had to be solved.  Everyone involved in this and everyone who would soon read about this would be counting on him to do his job and close the case with a conviction.  Crimes like this cannot go cold.  The person responsible must pay.  And he started by asking questions.  

     One by one he conducted his interviews that morning.  It was early Sunday and people were tired, frayed and still in shock.  But facts and memories get fuzzy and skewed every hour or day that goes by after a crime is committed.  So the investigation has to start immediately.  The team would not be competing in the competition.  Their fun was over.  And they would be staying in Orlando longer than expected.  The girl's parents were already on their way down to Florida.  But as he began to add up what had happened late at night and early that same morning, he felt that the advantage was on his side.  Each person he talked to relayed several important facts that he felt put him way ahead of the curve.  Without even leaving the hotel, on day one of the case, he knew who did it.  He had a photo of the guy posing with the entire group.  He had key personal information about him.  He had his website address.  He had video of him in the hotel and leaving the hotel.  He had identifying body information about him.  And he had his name.  Each person that Laney spoke with gave the exact same story.  And every one of them gave him the same name that this person had given them:  Chris Justice.  

     After leaving the hotel and heading back to his office, it seemed pretty obvious to Geoff Laney what he had to do:  find Chris Justice.  There were no facts to be argued.  He knew exactly what had happened.  He had over 25 statements saying the exact same thing.  The person in question showed up, talked to them all, freely gave away information about himself, his life making music and playing in bands and had posed for a photo.  He stayed at the hotel after he left the group and showed up again at the room of four girls who were still awake.  He exposed himself repeatedly.  He asked questions that adults don't ask young girls and he said things to them that people don't usually say out loud in public.  After he left, he waited in the stairwell and watched the room until one of the girls left to go downstairs.  He talked her into coming to him.  He detained her by force and against her will, touched her and then masturbated until he climaxed.  Then he let her go and left the hotel.  And because he concluded his crime by ejaculating, he had left his DNA for the forensic team to bring back to their lab.  Laney had it all and now all he had to do was find him.  A slam dunk, if you will.  Any time there is a crime of this nature in any town in America, it becomes public.  It would be in the newspapers.  It would be on television. He would be in the newspapers and on television.  His first case would end quickly with an arrest and eventual conviction.  Justice served.  His bosses would be happy.  The victim and her parents would be relieved.  Everyone who knew about the case would feel good about the Orlando Police Department.  Great first case.  

     When he got to his office, the excitement he felt was overwhelming.  He wouldn't sleep until this was over.  He immediately got to work.  The first thing he did was simply type in the name "Chris" and "Christopher" "Justice" into the Florida Department of Motor Vehicle data base.  If the guy lived in Florida and had a drivers license, he would be in the system.  What came up was over 20 persons named Chris or Christopher Justice.  He looked at each Chris Justice intently.  He looked at their photos.  He looked at their physical descriptions.  He looked at where they lived.  Since he already had a photo of Chris Justice and more information than most investigations ever get, he had a pretty good idea of what he was looking for.  Some of the guys that came up in the search were easy to discard.  They were black.  They were young.  They weren't even male.  Each one was eliminated.  In fact, most were eliminated almost immediately.  But one Chris Justice wasn't.  Although it was only his drivers’ license photo and basic information, there were too many red flags to miss.  Even the worst detective in America could figure this out.  Barney Fife wouldn't miss this.  Around the same time that Laney was narrowing his search, the crime lab delivered the photo that had been taken the night before.  The photo of the entire group including Chris Justice as well as his face blown up in a separate picture.  As he looked at the images that he was just given, he looked at the drivers’ license photo of the Chris Justice that he had on his computer screen.  He looked at one and then the other.  Again and again.  And he knew he had his guy.  Although the man who posed with the group at the hotel was wearing a black stocking cap, his face was clear.  And that man was the same as the man posing for his drivers’ license.  He knew it.  He called over a few other detectives and they agreed.  They were looking at the same guy.  There were too many similarities.  Same facial features and same name.  Plus, the guy Laney had found on his computer lived in Orlando.  Case closed.  Go get the guy, arrest him and receive your accolades and congratulations.  

     Knowing who committed a crime and finding them are two completely different components of police work.  He still had some work to do.  A lot of it.  You can't issue an arrest warrant based on a name and a photo matched with a drivers’ license.  Some crimes begin with knowing who did it but never finding them.  Criminals don't want to be found. They run.  They hide.  They know they broke the law and the last thing they want is to go to jail.  They become elusive.  It's not often that a crime is committed, the police know who did it and they find the person asleep on the couch at the address listed on their driver’s license.  That would be way too easy.  Laney would have to start digging.   He would have to formulate a plan.  It would be two-fold.  He would create a photo "line-up" with his guy's license picture along with six or seven other faces on the same page. Guys with the same name.  He would then go and show this to each of the people he had interviewed that morning. He'd ask each of them if the person they met was pictured on the page.  At the same time, he'd begin to dig into Chris Justice's past.  He'd go and find out where he worked.  Where he lived.  Since he had his name and social security number, it wouldn't be too hard to get a background check.  This would take some time and legwork but he was anxious to get the wheels in motion.  He gave the research department the basic information on Chris Justice and asked for all of the information that they could get on him.  Then he called the hotel to let the school group know that he was coming over to talk to them again.  He had his photo line up put together and headed back across town to where he was just hours previous.  

     When he arrived back at the hotel, he gathered the group together again.  The victim's parents had arrived and they were back up in their room.  He would talk to them last.  He explained to everyone that he would be speaking with each of them separately again, just as he had in the morning.  The hotel staff let him use the conference room and another police officer brought each person over one by one to talk to Laney.  When they entered the room and sat down, the detective explained that he would be showing them a document that had multiple people pictured.  He gave them no other information other than to let him know if the person who they met was pictured on that page.  As much as he wanted to tip them off that they were all named Chris Justice and that one of them had to be their guy, he couldn't.  Leading witnesses is the kind of thing that gets cases thrown out of court.  He knew the rules and he didn't want to mess this up on a technicality.  Defense attorneys would sort through every move that he made during the investigation and look for anything that was out of bounds.  He knew other detectives who had gotten burned by this and he certainly didn't want his first case to go down that way.  As each cheerleader, coach, supervising adult or hotel staff came and went, three out of every four chose the person that Laney knew to be the right one.   And when he showed the victim, she chose him too.  He had over a 75% positive identification.  

     Before Laney left the hotel to get on with the second part of his plan, the adults from the group stopped him to ask questions about what was happening.  They were concerned.  They wanted to know how long this all would take.  They wanted to know what he knew.  All Laney could tell them was that he had some strong leads that he was getting ready to follow up on.  He let them know that he had a suspect and that he anticipated some news in the near future.  Investigations take time and he would be working tirelessly to bring this to a positive conclusion.  He informed them that he had just about everything that he needed from them and that they were free to leave at any time.  He would be in contact and would keep them all in the loop.  Everyone was very confident that Laney had a handle on everything and that they were in good hands.  He reminded them that the hardest and slowest part was gathering information and that they may not hear any updates for awhile.  But he reassured them all that he was confident that there would be a resolution.  He left the hotel and headed back to the station.  His work was just getting started.  

     Over the days and weeks to follow, Laney began to work the leads given to him by the research department.  He had an entire file on Chris Justice.  He knew that he had lived in three different Florida cities in three years.  He knew that he was from Missouri and that his mother still lived there.  He knew that he was a school teacher and had moved to Colorado in August.  He knew his current employer, his past employers, his previous addresses and his current address in Denver.  He knew his criminal record.  He knew that he had spent most of his adult life working with children.  He didn't see anything about him being a musician but he was sure that it would come to light at some point.  Not everything that he had been told by the witnesses about this person was in the file but that's why people aren't arrested for facts on paper.  He would have to go out and talk to people.  Friends, co-workers, apartment managers, etc.  Everyone connected to this Chris Justice would become a source of information.  He had given the information that he already had to his superiors and they gave him the go-ahead to conduct his investigation as he chose.  He had the green light to go anywhere and ask anyone what he wanted.  

     Detective work can be slow and tedious.  The police have to make absolute sure that the path they are on is leading or at least can lead to the right outcome.  When mistakes are made, reputations can be damaged.  Lawsuits can be brought.  Jobs can be lost.  So Detective Laney took his time.  He didn't want his first case to end in failure.  He checked and double checked.  He thought and rethought his next move.  But he knew he was on the right track.  So, for the remainder of January and most of February he went out and he gathered the information he needed to get an arrest warrant and put Chris Justice behind bars.  Any misstep and the suspect may run and then the whole ball game would change.  He had to be careful.  

     He had Justice's past in his folder.  Instead of just going to Colorado and trying to interrogate him immediately he chose to build his case by starting in Orlando.  He visited his former apartment complex.  Nothing interesting there.  Next, he decided to go ahead and open the can of worms and head out to the school where he had worked the year previous.  This can be tricky since he'd be talking to people who knew him.  People he was friends with.  And that can lead to one of those people making a phone call to Justice and making him flee.  He knew that child predators often led double lives.  He had spoken to police specialists on the subject.  Predators are often normal citizens. They may have families.  Good jobs.  They also may move around often.  But they are often in denial about their criminal activity.  Child predators try to justify their actions. They may believe that what they are doing is good for children.  More than likely, Laney thought, Justice had returned to his "other" life and hadn't given his actions in Orlando a second thought.  Many predators don't have any related criminal behavior in their past.  They had never been caught.  There are many victims who don't come forward out of shame.  Or the assailant has convinced them that either no one would believe them or that they would be forever labeled.  Sometimes they threaten violence in order to keep their victims silent.  Laney believed that Justice was living his life in Denver without fear but if one of his friends let him know that the police were asking questions, he may leave.  So he had to tread lightly.  But he knew that he had the right suspect.  He just had to everything by the book.

     Sometime in mid-February, Laney walked into Orlando Lutheran Academy.  He had called ahead to try to set up a meeting with the principal.  He already had collected information about Justice and his time at the school.  He knew what subjects he taught, sports he coached and had the names of the faculty and students.  When he finally got the principal, Mr. Wudke, on the phone, he introduced himself and asked him if he could come down to talk to him as well as some other teachers about Chris Justice.  Wudke asked what this was in reference to, but Laney could not tell him anything except that it was an ongoing investigation.  Wudke said that it would be OK for him to come but that he would be out of the office until the afternoon.  He gave him permission to talk to anyone that he needed.  When Laney got to the school, the secretary gave him the teachers’ schedules, directions to individual rooms and a visitor's pass.  Laney was free to roam as he chose.  Over the next few hours he sat down with several teachers that worked with Chris Justice the year previous.  He asked them questions about his personality.  How well they knew him.  Was he a good teacher or not.  He asked if they ever witnessed Justice doing anything strange or odd.  Did he ever know of him having any contact with students one on one in a private environment?  Had they heard students ever talking about him or rumors of unusual activity?  Everyone knew him.  It was a small school and everyone knew everyone else.  Regardless of how well the person Laney talked to knew Chris Justice, there was nothing alarming or out of order in their recollection of him.  But he was gathering more leads that he would be able to follow later.  He now knew that he had a girlfriend last year that worked at one of the Disney parks.  He knew that he played baseball in a men's league.  He played rugby. The detective learned more names of friends that he may be able to talk to.  At some point in each conversation, usually in the beginning, the teacher or staff member would ask what this was regarding.  Was Chris in trouble?  Laney could only say that he was part of an ongoing investigation.  And that was it.    

     There were a few older students that Laney wanted to talk to that day.  Kids that were in his class or played a sport that he coached.  He didn't go into the detail that he did with the adults, but he did want to get some information from students.  He wondered if they had ever heard any strange rumors about Mr. Justice.  Whether or not they had ever observed him doing anything out of the ordinary around other students.  Although he got some colorful answers, nothing that any of them said was unusual.  

     As he got new information, he would add it to the questions he would ask the next person.  What was his girlfriend's name?  Where at Disney did she work?  And he always asked what brand of cologne he wore.  At the conclusion of each discussion, Laney would pull out an 8 by 10 photograph with the face of a man pictured.  He would slide the photo towards the person and ask them if they recognized him.  None did.  He would ask again.  Ask them to look closer.  No one knew the man in the picture.  Every person he spoke with gave him no bombshells of information.  They worked with him for an entire school year and nothing that they could recall set off any alarms.  And no one identified the person in the picture.  To everyone shown the picture, the man in it was a stranger.  Laney had spoken at length with Mr. and Mrs. Bailey, both teachers that were good friends with Justice, and neither had anything of use about him.  Mrs. Bailey spoke about Justice coaching the girls varsity basketball team with her.  She relayed that there was never a time that anything odd occurred with Justice and the team.  She gave him some names of former students that she knew was still in contact with him.  Although he knew that his Chris Justice was the same Chris Justice that held a girl against her will and masturbated on her in a stairwell, none of his co-workers gave him anything that would be usable.  No one indicated that their Chris Justice had any musical ability at all. And they had no recollection of him being in a band.  He would follow up with the names and information he had gathered but he still had one more person to talk to.

     Principal Wudke still wasn't back at school yet, so Laney went back to the desk of the Athletic Director, Mr. Bortz.  He already knew that he was pretty good friends with Justice and had been out socially with him.  It was more of the same.  No startling revelations or additional leads.  When Laney was wrapping up the interview as he had with everyone else, he pulled out the photo and asked Bortz if he recognized the man in it.  As he was looking at the photo, Mr. Wudke, who had just returned, was walking by. He was completely unaware of what was happening, but he stopped as Bortz held the photograph and said, "That's Chris Justice."  Mr. Bortz disagreed, but even after Wudke took a closer look at the man in the photo, he again said that he thought that it was the Chris Justice who had worked for him the previous year. Laney was in business. Although his conversation with Wudke in his office offered nothing in regards to new information, the principal stood by his photo identification.  As he left the school, Laney became convinced that Justice had many friends at the school who, although they didn't know why he was there asking questions, were protecting him by not identifying him in the photo.  He concluded that since Wudke was Justice's supervisor, he probably didn't have any sort of social friendship with him and he was unbiased to tell him that the photo was in fact him.  They all had lied to protect Chris Justice.  

     Every teacher at school that day was shaken up by the experience.  Not only was an Orlando police detective interviewing each of them about a former co-worker for reasons unknown, but they were left with a threat.  Laney instructed them all that if they contacted Chris Justice or he contacted them that they were to make no mention that he had been there asking questions about him.  If they made any attempt to inform him about what had occurred in any way, they would be arrested for obstruction of Justice.  He made this very clear and warned them more than once before ending their talk. 

     Over the next few days Laney spent most of this time on the phone.  There was no need to go in person to talk to all of these other associates.  The one person that he was most interested in talking to was a former student and athlete who had graduated the year previous.  Her name was Amanda and she was in his senior government and then economics class.  She also played basketball for him and now was an assistant for Coach Bailey at the school as she went to college.  He knew from the information that he had gotten at school that she still communicated with him on occasion.  He hoped that perhaps her or one of her friends had some sort of knowledge of criminal contact with him.  He coordinated a time to meet with Amanda and he asked many of the same questions that he had asked the staff.  He asked about his girlfriend and about his cologne preference.  She had no idea.  He told her that he had already spoken with the other teachers at the school.  He finished with the threat of arrest if she made any mention of the conversation with Chris just as he had with every other friend and co-worker of his that he talked to.

     This was the last week of February and nearly seven weeks had gone by since the night of the crime.  Geoff Laney was growing frustrated because although he knew he had the right suspect, he still didn't have enough to arrest him.  He had positive identifications via photo lineup from 75% of the witnesses who met the man that said his name was Chris Justice.  He had a school principal and former supervisor who identified the real suspect as the Chris Justice he was investigating.  He had the profile from the child crime experts that matched up with some of his guy's past.  And he knew he was right.  But to get an arrest warrant, he would need more.  He needed to connect just a few more dots and was sure that those dots were right around the corner.  As the victim's parents called for updates, they were growing anxious.  Laney continued to tell them that he was close, just as he had the day that it happened.  He tried to assure them that an arrest would be made soon.  They tried to remain patient but the calls became more frequent.  Any parent of a young woman who had this happen to them is hurt, angry and wants answers.  Answers that they were currently not getting.  Supervisors began to ask questions about the investigation. Geoff Laney was suddenly coming under the gun.  He thought that he was on the fast track from day one, and now, nearly two months later, he was bogged down.  He needed something to happen soon.

Chapter Five

Jail

     As I was walked from my doorstep to the police car the only thing that I kept thinking about was that I was mad that a day of skiing was taken away from me.  I love to ski and it was a perfect day.  It had snowed a little the night before up in Breckenridge and I was sure that my rugby buddies were making some good turns.  I did find it funny that I was handcuffed and about to be placed into a police car by a team of officers and my only thought was about missing a ski day.  Kidnapping?  I knew what kidnapping was and I was pretty sure that I didn't kidnap anyone.  Kidnapping?  Really?  That was a stumper.  I was placed in the back of one of the cars and off we went.  There were two officers in the front seat beyond the cage that separated us.  I asked them what was happening.  They were nice guys.  They told me that all they knew was that a warrant had been issued by the state of Florida very early in the morning and that they were told to come and get me.  They also said that two other times the night crew had come to pick me up but no one answered the door.  I knew that.  I asked them a few different times what crime I had committed.  The warrant only said "kidnapping," they said. There was no other information included.  Apparently when another state issues a warrant for them to serve they often don't have any idea of what the person they were arresting had been accused of.  They were simply picking up someone for another state.   Sounded super helpful.  But kidnapping?  I told them I hadn't kidnapped anyone.  No response.  What would happen to me next? The barrage of questions continued. First, I would be transported to their station, which was close by but not my final destination.  I would wait there until the downtown Denver station sent one of their guys to get me.  Then I would be taken downtown to be processed into the Denver City Jail.  This would take awhile.  And since it was Saturday, I probably wouldn't see anyone about extradition until early next week.  Great, I could have skied and turned myself in on Monday. Extradition?  The state that issued the warrant would have to come and get me.  And how long would that take?  More questions.  More answers.  One of them said that they didn't know exactly, but sometimes it takes from ten to ninety days for this to happen.  Ten to ninety days?  Uh oh.  When I was talking to Aimee about whatever it was that was happening, I honestly thought that I would be home that night.  Now these guys are talking about weeks or months.  I shrugged it off since I realized that these two were only there to pick me up.  Kind of like a cab called by Florida.  The cab drivers didn't know anything other than where to pick me up and where to take me. But when they told me where their station was located I thought it was stupid since the downtown location was much closer.  Why not just help those guys out and take me their first to get this thing moving?  Government protocol.  Whatever.  So while we drove through the streets of south Denver the inquisition continued with two police officers who basically knew nothing. 

     We finally got to their place.  I was taken to a holding cell.  They took off the handcuffs from one of my wrists and then sat me down on a bench and handcuffed me to a bar that had been placed in the stone wall for that purpose.  The cell was a traditional one with bars where I could see everything that was happening on the other side.  It reminded me of Gene Wilder living in his cell as the Frisco Kid in Blazing Saddles. It was near an administrative area with police officers coming and going. Talking about their day.  Their kids.  Every once in awhile when one would walk by I would get their attention to ask a question.  Not one of them stopped to answer me.  Or even look at me.  I was bothered by that.  I was a person who was obviously there by mistake but to them I was just another criminal.  I was supposed to be half way through a day on the slopes and probably sitting in the sun with a beer but instead I was sitting in a ten by ten jail cell handcuffed to a bar.  I knew next to nothing about why I was there and no one could enlighten me.  I asked several officers when I'd get a chance to contact anyone and finally one said, "Stop asking questions or we'll be forced to move you to a more secure cell."  More secure?  Would both of my hands be handcuffed to a bar?  Time had slowed.  I'm not one that deals with waiting for anything very well.  I hate traffic.  I'd rather drive fifteen miles out of my way than sit in stop and go rush hour traffic.  It may take me longer to get home but at least I was moving.  I would come back later if there was a line somewhere that I need to go.  The waiting is really the hardest part.  And now all I could do was wait.  I was sure that at some point that day I'd get to talk to someone in an official capacity that would understand that this was a huge mistake.  Someone reasonable.  But I understood that the person I was looking for wasn't there.  So I waited. 

     I had a truckload of questions in my head.  Waiting offers you time to ponder and I began going through my time in Orlando and if I had done anything that could be construed as kidnapping.  Did some former student that I gave a detention to make something up about me?  Was this really happening?  Should I be worried?  When do I get lunch?  I realized that I should have eaten a bigger breakfast in anticipation of not knowing when I'd eat again.  I was confused, hungry and being treated like a criminal.  It seemed like I had been there forever but it hadn't even been an hour.  I was glad that I didn't answer the door the first time they came to my house.  At least I was showered and rested and not sitting in my underwear.  I was very concerned about my job.  The one thing that I knew was that I would probably be missing work on Monday.  Ten to ninety days.  I may miss the rest of the school year.  As my mind raced and tried to grasp what was going on I concluded a timeline that I could live with.  As long as this was resolved by mid-May, I'd be OK with it.  I had already signed on to work at the camp in Maine again.  In fact, I had been promoted to Program Director, which was a position that was pretty much above the entirety of the staff.  I was very excited to take on this new role and as I sat in jail on March 1st, as long as this fiasco was done by the time I was supposed to head to camp, I'd be all right.  Plus, I had tickets to see The Who in Boston in July.  The Who is my favorite band and I had purchased the tickets months earlier.  If this thing made me miss the concert I'd be really upset.  It's comical that camp and The Who were my gauges on how much of this I could tolerate but that's the way I think.  This was hour one of my ordeal and without anything to go on minus "kidnapping," I tried to not get worked up about anything.   Eventually I would get to talk to someone who would listen to me and realize that I wasn't really supposed to be there.  But that person was probably skiing today.  

     Finally an officer came to my cell, opened the door and told me that he would be uncuffing me from the bar.  He explained that once the cuff was removed that I would need to stand up and turn around with my hands behind my back.  Anything other than what he told me to do would be considered resisting and force would have to be used.  I assured him that there would be no resisting or need for force.  I even think I made some joke about it.  So he unclicked the handcuff on the bar and I stood up and turned around and placed my hands behind my back as he grabbed me and placed my free hand back into the restraint.  He held my arm as he walked me out of the cell and through the building and back out into the parking lot.  I was placed into his car and we took off.  I resumed my question and answer session just as I had done with the first two guys in the car. This guy wasn't as friendly.  He told me to stop talking.  Several times.  I was grasping for any answers I could get.  I was totally in the dark and desperate to know anything, but it was obvious that I wasn't going to get it from him.  It was extremely frustrating to not know why or what was happening.  Or how long it would take.  I was just starting to learn that to them I was just another criminal.  They were just doing their job to arrest me.  The rest of it would be left to people not wearing uniforms.  They didn't care who I was or what I did.  I was a blip on their daily radar of dealing with the bottom dwellers.  I stopped asking questions. Then, after some silence, I engaged him in small talk just as I would a cab driver.  I asked how his day was going.  No answer.  I knew he heard me so I sat silent.  To me it's not natural and incredibly rude to ignore someone.  Although I was a criminal to him I was still a person and it really infuriated me that he was so callous.  I hadn't been rude or aggressive or anything other than cordial and was being flat out ignored.  It felt extremely demeaning and I think that I was more upset about how I was being treated than the situation that I was in.  I was blindly ignorant about what was happening and was desperate for any information that I could get and so far, aside from the officers that took me away from my home, I was being ignored and threatened.  But soon I'd be downtown and I figured that someone there would have some answers. 

     Eventually I found myself in a large holding cell somewhere inside the Denver City Jail.  This cell was just a room with benches and an electric door with just one small window.  There were probably eight or so other guys in there with me.  Some were trying to sleep on the floor.  Some were sitting alone and some were engaged in conversation. All were guys that didn't come from my neighborhood.  It was now mid-afternoon.  I was told that I would be processed into the jail and that it would take several hours.  But that one of the holding cells that I would be waiting in would have a phone that I could use.  It seemed like I had been gone from home for months and I could hardly wait to have the opportunity to hear a friendly voice.  I knew that things were happening on the "outside" and I was glad that I had been able to prep Aimee with phone numbers and information.  Being arrested and taken away from your home is not something that happens every day.  I took solace in the fact  that I had a large support group behind me. They would be as confused and worried as I was, maybe more so, but they would be looking for answers immediately.  I was sure that my mother already knew and that she was working the phones.  Even though I was the one that was in the middle of this storm, I was learning that I was powerless and completely at the mercy of those in charge.  I did not have any freedom and was left to wait for opportunities to ask questions or make calls.  My friends and family would be able to dig for information and I knew that they were mobilizing as I was sitting and waiting.  But now I was standing in a cell with other people who had been arrested.  I was the only white person in the room.  I didn't know anything about the system or protocol and just wanted to be left alone.  I thought about lying down to try to sleep until I was taken to my next destination but I knew that sleep was fruitless.  My mind was running in overdrive and I was anxious to get some answers. Any answers. One answer. Why the room included a clock was beyond me.  Time means nothing in there.  My life was in a holding pattern and the clock only reminded me how long a minute really was.  I purposely positioned myself away from it and sat down.  Every so often the door would open and an officer with a clipboard would come in and call out a name.  Someone would leave.  It was much like sitting in the waiting room at the doctor’s office and hoping that your name is the next one called.  Finally after two hours (I knew this because I saw the clock when I stood up) my name was called and I got excited to be moving on. 

     Each scene of my journey was a new beginning.  An opportunity to find out what was going on.  I'm not sure if I was taking this seriously or serious enough.  The night before I was a law abiding citizen getting ready to go to bed and get up early to go skiing and now I am in the Denver City Jail being processed in for kidnapping.  That was an awful lot to process and my mind had not made the switch over from normal life to whatever this was.  But the way I was dealing with it was the same as how I'd deal with any other challenging event, which was just to be myself and see where it took me.  I generally don't overreact to stressful situations and take things how they come.  In fact, in a strange sort of way, I was trying to enjoy it.  Make the best of a bad situation.  Not everyone gets to go through this and it was semi-exciting in a very odd sort of way.  It was kind of like reality TV but instead of watching, I was in it.  The gravity of the proceedings had not yet hit me. 

     I was taken to the area for fingerprinting and mugshots.  There would be no new information here.  I'd had my fingerprints done just months previous when I first got to Colorado.  It was required for my job.  And I had had my fingerprints taken when I was arrested for my DUI.  And probably a few other times for background checks for other jobs.  I was a fingerprint veteran.  For my mug shot I wondered if it was appropriate to smile.  If this story was going to be on the news I didn't want my mug shot to look like a guy who was guilty.  I know I've watched the news before when they talk about some person who was arrested for whatever and their mugshot was up on the screen.  And I would think, "Yep, that guy's guilty."  I didn't want that to be me.  I understood the fact that I was a teacher and had been arrested for kidnapping.  That much had not been lost on me.  Those two things together don't look so good.  But I resisted smiling as they took the front and side profile photos.  Afterwards I went to my third holding cell of the day. 

     There were a few of the guys from the other room in this cell and many more who had already passed through the fingerprint/mugshot phase ahead of me.  People all over the place.  I was tired of not talking and randomly engaged a group of guys in conversation.  Small talk, really.  But I realized as we spoke that these guys knew the drill.  This was not their first time in this room.  Somehow we got around to why each one of us was there.  Most gave colorful answers about being set up for this or that.  Theft seemed to be crime of the day.  I told them my story.  There was sympathy from this group.  They all hated the police and seemed legitimately upset.  It felt good to interact with people other than the police.  I have always believed that if you treat people right it doesn't matter their background or upbringing.  People are people.  I was talking to some guys.  Guys that I'd normally not be in a situation to talk to and I found their stories and lives interesting in a voyeuristic sort of way.  But I was one of them now living in the same boat.  They shed some light on the process and what would be happening next.  And all agreed that there was no way that I was seeing anyone in authority till sometime next week.  This deflated me.  Although I was trying to make the best of a really, really bad situation, I knew that there would be a tipping point.  I didn't want to be there and couldn't really imagine this thing going on for more hours, let alone days.  But we continued to talk and wait.  One by one a guy would get called onward to the next stop until eventually I was on my way out the door for whatever was next. 

     I was taken into an administrative office and sat down at a desk across from a woman in plain clothes.  She seemed pleasant.  She was the intake officer.  Her job was to determine if I was a threat to myself.  She asked me questions about my life.  Things like whether or not I had friends on the outside, a girlfriend, a job, etc.  I explained that I was a teacher and was supposed to be skiing that day.  I told her that I was confused and had no idea why I was there.  I gave her much more than she was asking for because I felt that I had to tell anyone who would listen to my story.  I thought that eventually someone would listen and believe me and get the ball rolling on getting me out.  No luck here.  In fact, I suddenly realized that in her mind, she was talking to a teacher who was being processed into jail for kidnapping.  What I said did not matter to her in the least.  I was a criminal.  She saw criminals all day.  Every day.  Off I went to the next cell.

     My new friends were all waiting for me.  Well, they were at least waiting.  But the gang was back together again.  And this was the room with the phones.  Finally.  All of a sudden I was free to make contact with the outside world.  It was probably 4pm or so and my first call was to my mother.  But it had to be collect.  I knew that she would be very anxious to hear from me.  My mother was a very reasonable woman.  She was much tougher than she appeared.  I knew she would be very worried about me but she was not the type to lose control.  There were three phones and each of them was occupied.  I don't know the last time I had felt this but I really wanted to talk to my mom. I needed that comfort.  So until a phone came clear I'd continue to chat with my crew. We talked sports.  We talked about jail.  I asked questions about what I could expect there.  I felt like I was getting some good information.  The consensus was that the City jail was less than desirable.  There was very limited time out of individual cells.  We would be locked up for 23 hours per day.  They were all in agreement that the County jail was the place to be.  They spoke about it as if it were a resort.  Most of them knew that they would be "in" for awhile and that they couldn't wait to get out to "County."  Out at County the food was better, the recreation was better, there was plenty of free time to play cards, talk to other inmates and they even showed movies!  Although I desperately wanted to be at home, the alternative, I guess, was to be at County.  I had an image in my head of a sort of criminal Club Med. 

     Finally a phone opened up and I walked over to use it.  There were instructions posted on the wall about the rules and how to make collect calls.  These phones were limited to 30 minute conversations. All conversations were recorded.  I would have to go through an operator to get through to my mother and then ask her if she would accept the charges.  I gave the operator the number and heard it start to ring.  My mother answered immediately.  The operator said something about accepting a collect call from the Denver City Jail.  She accepted.  And then I kind of turned into a 10 year old boy.  The weight of the reality of what was happening slammed into me all at once.  I had been very nonchalant from the beginning and now, with my mom on the other end, I began to have a very hard time keeping control of my emotions.  I was choked up as she asked me if I was OK.  That was the first thing she cared about.  Not what I had done or not done but if her first born was OK.  And that's why you call your mom first.  I told her that everything was all right and just gave her a brief overview of what had happened up until then.  It was difficult to really talk since 15 other guys were within ear shot of me but I didn't care.  But I tried to hide the fact that I was nearly in a full crying meltdown.  I certainly didn't want to enter jail as "they crier."  Who knows what that means in the hoosegow.  My mom asked me if I had any idea of why I was there and I said no.  I had not done anything that I knew of to warrant me being there.  She explained that she had called my aunt who lived just south of Orlando and that her and my uncle were already in the car and driving up to try to get some answers.  She had spoken with Aimee at length and had also tried to get some information from both the Denver and Orlando police, but they could offer nothing of substance.  She knew about as much as I did.  But it was extremely comforting to know that things were happening.  This would become the top of the priority list for my friends and family.  Our conversation was fairly short.  She reminded me that she loved me and I did the same.  We were not an openly affectionate family but at a time like this the gates were down.  I hung up feeling better and more confident that things would work out.  No one else looked like they needed to use the phone so I thought about who else I could call.  I couldn't call Aimee since she only had a cell phone and could not accept collect calls.  Kermit wouldn't learn about my situation until he got back from his school field trip the next day.  I didn't know most of the numbers of my friends.  I really wanted to talk to someone else since I didn't know when I'd be able to call again.  I chose to call Kira. 

     Kira and I worked together the summer previous at camp.  We were friends but didn't hang out much.  She was dating someone and I had a summer girlfriend.  It wasn't until after the summer that we began to talk on the phone.  Our conversations became more frequent as the school year went on.  She was in grad school in Minneapolis.  The more we talked the more it became apparent that we had a connection that was more than just friends.  The more we talked, the more I tried to picture her in my head and whether or not I was attracted to her when we were in Maine.  I wasn't sure.  I obviously knew what she looked like and that she was attractive.  But I just couldn't decide if she was attractive to me.  We began to talk every day.  Finally, sometime in January, we decided that we would have to see each other.  So she booked a ticket for mid-February to come out to Colorado.  We had the whole weekend planned.  Three nights of outings, one day of skiing and talk of romantic things.  We had built up a full-on relationship on the phone.  After six weeks of build up after she booked her trip, the day finally arrived.  I drove out to the airport to pick her up.  I waited for her to come up the stairs from the train.  The anticipation was massive.  As if in slow motion she appeared and was walking towards me.  I immediately knew.  It wasn't there for me.  Not an ounce of attraction.  I really, really wanted it to be there but I know myself and I know that it cannot be manufactured.  I had always preached that if the spark wasn't there between a boy and a girl it didn't matter how well you got along or what you had in common.  You can't fake attraction.  It is what separates men and women from being "just friends" and more than friends.  And I knew that I just wanted to be friends with Kira.  It was unfortunate since we did get along so well but it took me all of five seconds to know that the weekend was not going to end well.  We did all of the things that we had planned on doing.  And we did have fun.  But I pulled away and stayed distant.  When we were out with a group of my friends I spent more time with them than I did with her.  It wasn't like I could just put her back on the plane.  I had to play it out to conclusion.  And she was being very affectionate.  As affectionate as I would have been had I had those same feelings.  Unfortunately, though, I introduced the monkey wrench into the plans.  Each of the first two nights ended with us in bed together.  Every drink lowered my defenses until resistance was futile. I was not the type of person who would take advantage of a situation simply for sex and I really didn't want to complicate things.  I knew that it would make the end that much more difficult.  So I'd wake up, curse myself for apparently being the type of person who would take advantage of a situation simply for sex and start to pull away again.  After two nights and two days of this yo-yo act I could sense her growing frustration.  Finally, on Sunday, I had to say something.  I felt awful about it and I hate delivering bad news but I told her that it just wasn't there for me.  This did not go over well.  She wanted answers and I didn't have any.  We finally determined, well, I finally determined, that we would take a week off from talking.  Perhaps I was wrong.  I knew I wasn't but I didn't like that she was hurt and I gave in a little bit.  Instead of just standing firm and ending it for good I said we'd take a break.  And that break started exactly six days prior to calling her from jail.  It was the previous Sunday that she was leaving to go back to Minnesota.  But now, in the situation I found myself in, I reached out to her for the emotional support that I needed. 

     Kira answered the phone and I stood at the phone and listened as the operator explained where I was calling from and about the reverse charges.  Although obviously confused, she accepted the call and I gave her the rundown.  I didn't even know what to say and neither did she.  She was obviously very concerned.  She had wanted me to call all week and had forced herself not to call me.  And now I was calling her from jail.  A call every girl craves.  It was as if the previous weekend had not happened.  The enormous levity of what I was going through erased the fact that I didn't have the same feelings for her that she did for me.  She was someone that I did have an intense personal connection with and that was exactly what I needed at that moment in my life.  The 30 minutes flew by and a recorded voice came on the line to say the call would be terminated in exactly one minute.  I didn't want to hang up but I told her that I'd call her as soon as I could.  I didn't realize it then but I was in a very fragile state of mind.  I was vulnerable and needy.  I was powerless in my fate, scared and worried.  And Kira represented an outlet.  I was sad to have to hang up because I knew that I'd be called to move on soon and each door that opened was a walk into another unknown.  I was growing incredibly hungry as it had now been over nine hours since I ate.  After I hung up the guys around me who I had spent half the day with started giving me a good natured hard time about my "girl."  It was kind of like being in a locker room.  We were all in this thing together.  Being held down by the man.  It was weird.  Really weird.  But just a few minutes later my name was called and I was escorted to another area. 

     My memory fades when I think back to the next few hours.  I know that I had to go through another intake procedure of non-consequence and I'm sure that I asked pretty much anyone in a uniform for any answers that they could give me.  This was a constant.  At some point I was told that I would be transferred upstairs to the felony floor where I would stay until someone from extradition would come and talk to me.  No one had any idea when that would be.  Monday or Tuesday probably.  I remember being in at least one more holding cell with phones and I again called Kira for another 30 minute conversation.  I called my mother one more time since I could and she didn't have any new information.  Eventually I was in a group with a few of the other guys I knew and we got onto an elevator and went upstairs.  It was now around 7pm.  Once we arrived upstairs we were sat down at some tables out in the open and trays of food were brought to us.  A bologna sandwich, carton of milk and a cookie.  All of the guys complained and commented that County food was so much better.  Man, I love County already.  As the food was placed in front of me I asked the officer who brought the trays out whether or not there was a vegetarian option, which got big laughs from the guys.  I was being serious.  Back in my real life I had been training for my first marathon.  Somewhere I had read an article about eating a strict vegetarian diet and performance enhancement.  Although I didn't really get into the science of it I figured I'd give it a try.  I was now a vegetarian, a fact that my friends on the "outside" all found to be very funny.  But sitting there that first night in jail my mind still hadn't completely flipped over to the fact that I was in a situation unlike anything I'd been in before.  There was no vegetarian option.  I would get what I got and that was that.  I played my question off as a joke but now I was probably being labeled by the jail guards as the "funny guy."  They probably didn't like the "funny guy."  Great.  Five minutes into moving into my new neighborhood and I was already in trouble.  There wasn't much conversation as we ate.  Everyone was tired and hungry.  As I ate I took a look around to gauge my surroundings.  It was just one long hallway on either side of the elevator we had gotten off of.  Along the opposite wall was a continuous row of cell doors.  Big, thick electric doors.  The "lunchroom" was just a few tables sitting in the hallway near the wall.  There were some other cells on the opposite side of the hall but also an administrative office part way down.  It was dull and drab.  I could hear guys in their cells trying to communicate with each other.  The lighting was dim.  We were all still wearing the same clothes that we had been arrested in.  Some guys had torn and ragged shirts and pants on.  None had a Colorado Avalanche fleece and half marathon t-shirt on as I did.  I looked horribly out of place.  And was.   Our meal ended and each one of us was escorted individually to our cells.  An officer called my name and walked me to the right and down towards the end of the hallway.  A door was open on the left and he brought me in and gave me the rundown.  He pointed at my sink, my toilet and my bed.  One pillow and one blanket.  I was fresh out of jokes by that point but really wanted to say "I'll take it!" as Steve Martin had done in the Jerk when he was shown the cleaning closet that his boss was offering him for rent.  There was a little green bible on the bed.  The officer yelled down to someone to "Close 13."  I was now number 13.  I honestly had Bob Seger in my head singing "I Feel Like A Number."  The door closed and locked and I just stood there.  I had tried to ask the officer more of the same questions that I had asked everyone else and got nothing in return.  As I stood there I had no idea what to do. It seemed like my journey was over.  At least during the day I was on the move.  I was taken from place to place.  There was always another destination ahead.  More people to see.  The phones.  At every new turn I may be able to find something out.  And now I was at the end of the line, at least for that day.  I was left alone with no where else to go.  It took me a long time to even move.  We are not built to be locked up in a small cell.  At least those of us who choose to obey the law.  We live our lives in freedom to do as we choose.  And all of a sudden I had no choice.  Nowhere to go and nothing to do except think.  I wondered if I should start to do push ups or something.  Being at my home getting ready to go to bed the night before seemed like years ago.  Literally.  It was all so surreal.  I sat down on the bed.  Someone earlier had told me that each day would start at 5am with breakfast.  That's all I knew.  It was 7:45pm and I simply couldn't fathom the fact that I had over nine hours to wait until the next time that I'd have any contact with anyone.  I didn't know when I'd be able to call anyone again.  I wasn't tired and I really wanted to brush my teeth.  There was no toothbrush.  At least there was a window that I could look out of.  It was a pretty good view of downtown Denver.  I could see a clock tower across the way.  I watched as people walked on the sidewalks. Sidewalks that just a day previous I had been running on.  I often ran downtown.  My house was just over two miles away but I was looking in the opposite direction.  Time had stopped. 

     Just a few minutes after I had finally lain down I heard my door opening again.  I immediately got very excited.  I thought that something had happened and that this was over.  I sat up as an officer walked in.  He told me that it was getting close to visitation time.  Really?  I can have visitors?  This is great news.  But he told me that there were two people downstairs who wanted to see me and that I could only have one.  I would have to choose.  One was named Aimee and the other was Jerry.  There was no choice.  It was night one and I was slowing going into a bad place mentally.  The very last thing I needed at that moment was to have to talk to one of my least favorite people on earth, Jerry the school board president.  I knew he wanted answers that I didn't have.  I knew he wouldn't be sympathetic.  He would be smug and although he'd probably try to tell me that Jesus was on my side, I knew that he would be thinking that I was certainly guilty of whatever they were charging me with.  He would not be there to support me. He would be there to try to figure out how to manage the situation at school.  Which I understood and at some point I'd have to face him but I told the officer that I'd like to see Aimee.  He left and told me to stay put with the door open and that he'd be right back.  A few moments later he was back and walking me through the admin office and into another room.  This room was one straight out of the movies.  It had a few rows of desks with Plexiglas cutting through the middle.  Each table was sectioned off by partitions for privacy.  On each side of the Plexiglas was a telephone receiver.  I was walked past three or four other inmates talking to someone they knew on the other side of the glass.  Finally I came to an open chair and Aimee was sitting in the opposite chair holding her phone.  I sat down and we just looked at each other.  I grabbed the phone and we both started laughing.  We had had so many fun experiences together over the past five years.  We worked at summer camp together.  We were roommates at Club Med.  I had visited her in San Diego when she was still in college.  We lived blocks away from each other in Denver.  So many stories and so much history.  She was my sister.  My partner in crime (not this crime).  And now we just looked at each other and laughed.  I think we were laughing because it was all so ridiculous.  There is nothing that can prepare you for sitting in the chair I was in.  I had never known anyone who had gone to jail for anything other than stupid stuff.  Eventually she asked me how I was doing.  I replied that I was great.  I was having a super fun time.  I told her that I was making new friends.  Then she told me how angry Jerry was that I chose her.  They had been sitting together downstairs when they realized that they were both there to see me.  When they were told that I'd had to choose between them, he was absolutely sure that it would be him.  When they were informed that I chose Aimee, he banged his fist on the table and said that I had made a big mistake.  Typical.  We only had 20 minutes, we were told, so I said that I didn't want to waste our time talking about him.  Aimee told me about talking to my mom and that she had called her dad, who was a lawyer in Kansas City.  I was good friends with her parents.  They were also trying to do whatever they could to help.  She assured me that people were working on getting some answers and not to worry about anything.  And instead of focusing on the obvious, we spent the rest of the time talking like we would have been had I not been in jail as an accused kidnapper. She told me that after I had been taken away the officers who remained at my house asked if I had anyone tied up in the basement.  This got a big laugh.   We talked about the rest of her day. What she was doing the next day.  Plans we had for a few weeks down the road.  And as we were given the word that time was nearly up, we laughed out loud as we both put our hands up on the window to simulate touching, just as we'd seen in countless movies.  It seemed like the right thing to do for two wise-asses.  We understood the comedy in this whole crazy thing.  I don't think that either one of us really had a grasp on the seriousness of what I was facing.  I know I didn't.  I didn't know enough to get too worried yet.  I had just spent a day unlike any other in the 33 years that I'd been alive.  I had next to no information about why I was there and what was going to happen.  As the officer came to get me to return to my new home, we both said "I love you" and I was taken back through the offices and down the hallway.  I walked in my cell and again heard "Close 13!"  The door shut.  I looked out the window and saw the clock tower.  It was 8:30 on Saturday night.  People were going about their lives on the street.  I went out about mine and laid down on the bed and hoped that 5am would come quickly.  There would be no sleep.

Chapter Six

Decisions

     It was just after midnight when the phone rang.  For most people, a phone call in the middle of the night is a rare occurrence. One that generally does not bring good news. But for a detective, phone calls after hours are commonplace.  Crime happens at night.  Sometimes late at night.  But Geoff Laney hadn't been a detective for all that long and still hadn't gotten used to be awakened mid-dream.  He fumbled for the receiver and answered in quiet voice as to not wake his wife. "Hello?" He was still half asleep.  "Detective Laney?  Sorry to call you so late."  He didn't recognize the voice.  "This is Todd Bortz. I'm a teacher at Orlando Lutheran Academy."  Laney sat up in bed as his wife opened her eyes.  He held up his finger towards her to indicate not to talk.  "Yes, Mr. Bortz, how can I help you?"  he said as he wiped his eyes to shake the sleep away.  "When you came to school last month to talk to us about Chris Justice, you told me that I would need to tell you if he contacted me," Bortz told him.  "Yes, that's true.  Go ahead."  Bortz continued.  “Well, I got off the phone with him just a few minutes ago.  And he knows.  He knows that you came to talk to us."  Laney asked him to hold on.  He wanted to get out of bed and go to another room.  He wanted to give Bortz his full attention and write down some notes.  He got out of bed and gave the phone to his wife so she could hang it up as soon as he got on in the other room.  Bortz waited.  "Thanks for holding," Laney said as he sat down at his desk and fumbled for a clean sheet of paper to write on. "So, did he call you or did you call him?  Take me through the conversation."

     Bortz began to relay the facts of what had happened just twenty minutes previous.  After he hung up with his friend of the previous year, he felt conflicted.  He genuinely liked Chris but he was also was a husband and father of two.  He didn't like the fact that Laney had, in a way, threatened him and his co-workers with arrest if they didn't tell him immediately if Justice contacted them.  He knew that the photo that Laney showed him wasn't Chris.  He was very upset that his boss, Mr. Wudke, believed otherwise.  He didn't know exactly why Laney had come to the school to ask the questions that he did but after much conversation with other teachers, the conclusion was that something had happened that involved Chris and another student.  They had all been talking about Laney's visit since he left the building.  Bortz and a few others who were better friends with Chris really wanted to call him to see what was going on.  To tell them about Laney's visit.  But the warning from the detective was enough of a deterrent. They debated Wudke about his conviction that the photo was of Justice.  And they all feared that Chris would call them and that they would have to decide whether or not to tell Laney.  It took everything in him not to just blurt out all of the questions that he had when he called earlier in the night.  It was hard to act as if it was a normal conversation and it was especially tough to outright lie to him when he asked if any police had visited the school asking them questions.  He hated the position he was in.  But he and his wife had already discussed it and determined that whatever was going on with Chris wasn't worth risking being arrested.  They had no idea what an arrest would mean for him, the family or his career.  Friendship aside, whatever was going on with Chris wasn't going to change.  He knew that if he called that he'd have to tell Laney.  And he hated it. 

     "Chris called me about twenty minutes ago.  We talked for a bit about normal stuff just like we would any time he called.  But then he asked me if any police had been to the school asking questions.  I lied and acted like I had no idea what he was talking about just as you instructed," he told Laney.  Laney replied, "That's it?  Did he say anything else about my visit?  Do you know who told him? Is there anything that you're leaving out, Mr. Bortz?"  "No sir, that's it.  After he asked and I told him no he changed the subject and then the conversation was over.  I have no idea who told him or how he found out."  Laney didn't have any other questions for Bortz and thanked him for his cooperation.  He hung up and sat at his desk trying to decide what to do next. 

     Laney called his boss.  He was awake and answered immediately.  The conversation revolved around whether or not they had enough on Justice to issue a warrant for his arrest.  They had 3/4 of the witnesses at the hotel positively ID'ing his photo in the lineup as the guy they had met earlier the night of the crime.  This included the victim.  They had one key staff member at his former place of employment that ID'd him as the man in the photo taken of the suspect the night of the crime.  They had his history of frequent residence changes that was consistent with that of a predator.  And they had a driver’s license photo that looked very similar to the suspect.  But that was it.  They didn't have any connections to the man they were pursuing being a member of any band or any personal information on him that they had gathered from the witnesses.  All along they thought that perhaps the Chris Justice who committed the crime had fabricated all of his stories about his music career.  Maybe he had made it all up to impress the girls.  The man the witnesses that night described was outgoing and personable and everyone Laney talked to echoed the same about his Chris Justice.  It was very possible that he wasn't a musician at all.  They had to keep that possibility in play.  They were at a crossroads and decisions had to be made quickly.  Now that the cat was out of the bag, so to speak, there was a real chance that the Chris Justice in Denver was already on the run.  The investigation had taken much longer than they expected.  There were still key elements that they were searching for but time had run out.  Sometime after 1:30am eastern time, on March 1st, 2002, they decided to issue a warrant for the arrest of Christopher Carl Justice of 275 Grant St., Denver, Colorado.   

     Laney had to get ready and go down to the station.  There was paperwork to do.  Phone calls to make.  He wasn't ready to issue a warrant and had to make sure that everything was in order.  He and his boss had discussed the details of what they wanted to do and figured that by getting Justice in custody and waiting for extradition, it would buy them time to finish their investigation and have everything they needed for a conviction.  Having him in jail eliminated the threat of him running as well as potentially committing his crime again.  Plus, they would eventually be able to interrogate him.  If Justice had still lived in Florida it would have been different.  They didn't have enough for a slam dunk prosecution yet and if he were living just down the street, and unless he confessed during questioning, the case wasn't yet strong enough to bring him in.  They needed more time.  Having him in Colorado was a blessing.  They could have him arrested and sitting in jail while they continued to work.  They knew that if he waived extradition, they would have just ten days to go and get him and more days after that to bring him back to Orlando.  And the clock wouldn't even start until sometime next week since he'd be arrested on a weekend.  Maybe they could even ask Denver to slow play it and wait a few extra days to officially talk to him regarding extradition.  But if Justice decided to fight extradition, he would appear in front of a judge and might be able to post bond and would then be on the clock to make his way to Florida on his own to turn himself in.  This was risky since it again opened the door for him to run.  Both Laney and his supervisor figured that bond would be in the high six figures.  Justice was single and a teacher and most likely wouldn't even be able to come up with the ten percent necessary for a bail bondsman.  Plus, if he fought extradition and couldn't bond out, they would have up to ninety days to go to Colorado to get him.  The risk was worth it.  They were convinced that they had their guy.  They just needed a few more key pieces of evidence to prove it. 

     Laney finished the warrant and the list of charges against Justice.  They included five felonies with the highlights being kidnapping and committing a lewd or lascivious act against a minor.  Those two charges alone had major jail time attached to them.  Laney was satisfied with his warrant and charges, which his supervisor signed off on.  He faxed the warrant to the Denver Police Department and then called it in.  He spoke with the night commander and asked to be contacted once Justice was in custody.  Laney didn't like it that he was leaving his work to someone else, let alone another jurisdiction in a different state, but he had no choice.  He hung up the phone and began to wait for the call that the man he had spent nearly two months learning about was in custody.

Chapter Seven

Sunday

     After my visit with Aimee and after I was brought back to my new home, Cell 13, I was left standing inside the doorway about as confused as I’d ever been in life.  Which is saying something.  I had just spent the entire day being shuttled from place to place and room to room.  I had tried to gather as much information as I could at every turn.  After having contact with upwards of 20 law enforcement officers and speaking with my mother and Aimee, I had the bare minimum of information about why I was there.  I just stood there in my cell without moving for what seemed like an hour.  I ran through my head the events of the day and tried to take it all in.  The conversations with Amanda and Todd.  The first ride to the other police station.  The time in the holding cell handcuffed to a bar.  The ride to the City Jail.  The intake process and my visit with Aimee.  All I knew for certain was that I was arrested for kidnapping by the Denver PD on orders from the Orlando PD and some guy named Geoff Laney.  There would be some type of extradition involved that could take anywhere from ten to 90 days.  And at some point, probably early next week, I’d be speaking with an officer who would give me more details about this “extradition.”  By this time it was nearly 9:30 on Saturday night.  I knew this since I had a great view of the clock tower across the way in the Denver skyline.  I decided to lie down on my bed and try to close my eyes to sleep.  I was fully dressed.  The lights in the main hallway outside my cell were on but dimmed.  I could hear other inmates trying to talk to each other, which was difficult since each cell was totally enclosed and you had to really raise your voice for the other person to hear.  Or you had to lie on the floor and talk through the space between the door and the floor.  The bed was a single and very much like the beds that we slept on when I worked at summer camp.  One thin mattress over a board.  I didn’t mind it.  But trying to sleep was silly.  I normally don’t have any trouble falling asleep when I’m tired.  I can sleep almost anywhere.  And have.  But now my mind was my enemy.  Throughout the day I was engaged with people and always had somewhere new to go.  Although I had blocks of time to myself, I was always looking ahead to whatever was coming next.  Now I was left alone to my thoughts and imagination.  This was all so new.  I was still very calm and convinced that this was some sort of horrible mix up that would be resolved very soon.  But my brain works at race car speed pretty much all of the time.  As I lay with my eyes closed, one minute I’d be OK and the next I’d have created an entire scenario that had me spending my life in prison.  But since I had very little to go on I was mostly in a state of confusion.

     The night went slowly.  I did manage to sleep a little but only the kind of sleep you have when you wake up and you’re not even sure if you slept.  Every time I’d wake up I’d hope that many hours had gone by but when I’d look out the window at the clock tower it was usually just 20 or 30 minutes that had passed.  The main focus of my thoughts hovered around the word kidnapping.  How on earth could I be in jail for kidnapping?  Over and over I’d go through my year in Orlando.  I had been very careful, as we are taught as teachers, to not allow myself to be in a room alone with a female student.  It happens at times but we know that in this day and age we have to be careful.  When I coached I never allowed just one student to ride to or from a game with me.  Sometimes parents would ask if I could drive their son or daughter home and most times I would not, especially if the student was female.  There were exceptions.  If I knew the student and parents very well or if there were several students going to the same location. And then only with the parent’s permission.  I had worked with kids for most of my adult life and had been trained very well to protect myself from potential problems.  I couldn’t come up with anything at all that would raise any red flags from the previous school year. 

     As the night wore on and became Sunday, I was growing anxious for the next day and the potential for resolution.  I knew that my friends and family would resume their search for answers and perhaps I’d have the opportunity to speak with someone who would listen to me.  Every once in awhile throughout the night I would hear someone in a cell near mine yell out, “Hey, 13, what time is it?”  Apparently I was the only person who had a direct view of the clock tower.  I’d sit up and yell back the time.  Great.  I was the timekeeper.  I very much wanted to avoid seeing the clock as it would remind me just how little time had gone by since the last time I saw it.  I wanted to be helpful, though.  The last thing I needed was some guy getting angry with me because I didn’t tell him the time.  It may be construed as a sign of disrespect and I’d find myself in a jail fight.  Which I wanted to avoid. 

     Finally, around 5am, the dim lights came on to full strength.  I could hear a section of cell doors down on the other side of the hall open and could see a few officers walking in the hallway escorting a group of inmates to the tables where I had eaten my lunch the day before.  It was breakfast time.  Evidently a group of guys would eat and finish and then another group would be able to do the same.  I guessed that since they started at the other end of the hallway that my group would be last.  Since the lights were on and I had nothing else to do I picked up the New Testament and started to read from the beginning.  It reminded me of sitting in a waiting room at a doctor or dentist appointment.  In fact, it reminded me of sitting in my own doctor’s office.  I hated going there because their reading selection was horrible.  It was as if my mother had been in charge of ordering the magazines.  There was nothing that I’d ever read in a normal situation.  I’d find myself reading Better Homes and Gardens.  In a waiting room there is nothing else to do.  You can sit and do nothing, read a magazine or go to the restroom.   Those are your options.  All just to kill time until your name is called.  Conversely, I looked forward to getting my hair cut at the barber down the street from where I lived.  Their reading selection was excellent.  They always had the current Rolling Stone or Men’s Health or something else I liked to read.  There had been times that I let the next person in line go ahead of me when I was engrossed in some article that I wanted to finish.  Sitting there reading the Bible was like me reading Better Homes and Gardens.  It was there, I had nothing else to do and I was trying to kill time.

     Finally a few groups ate and went back to their cells and then the doors on my end clicked open. The officers motioned for us to come down to eat.  I was hungry.  For breakfast they brought out a tray for each of us with one piece of bread, some instant scrambled eggs and a small dollop of oatmeal along with a carton of milk.  No Tabasco and no ketchup.  I didn’t bother to ask for anything additional this time.  Most of the guys in my breakfast group were guys that I had spent the previous day going from cell to cell with.  No one really said much.  Most guys looked like they had just woken up.  Some of us exchanged a faint “good morning.”  I asked one of the officers when we’d get a chance to use the phone and if we’d be able to brush our teeth.  He said that he didn’t know when phone usage would be that day and that he’d get me a toothbrush at some point in time.  This made me happy.  At least this guy listened to me and actually gave me an answer.  Although we had only moved less than 25 feet to get to the tables it felt good to be out of my cell.  I was beginning to realize that my life would be marked by doing something, like eat breakfast, then return to my cell and wait for the next thing on the schedule.  It was an extremely tedious way to live since the time waiting was spent in a cell with absolutely nothing to do.  I took advantage of being out and asked the officers who were near us more questions.  Would we be able to take a shower at any point?  I wanted to feel as normal as possible.  I was told that some time later that day we would probably be allowed to shower.  I had noticed when we first got upstairs the night before that there were two single showers near the middle of the hallway.  The showers did not have shower curtains.  I realized that nothing that we did would be done in private. 

     Breakfast lasted no more than fifteen minutes.  No one left any food uneaten on their trays.  The portions were very small and I finished still very hungry.  I began to imagine what I’d be doing if I were at home.  I’d be sleeping.  But I’d get up and probably go down to a local diner where Kermit and I went every Sunday.  I’d have an omelet and coffee and toast.  Since Kermit was not home I’d probably end up going alone or I’d call Aimee to come down and join me.  I’d go for a run at some point before noon and then most likely watch football for the rest of the day.  Instead, I finished my powdered eggs, toast, oatmeal and milk and then walked the 10 steps back to my cell to begin my wait again.  I hoped that the lights would once again dim but no luck.  The day had started even though the sun would not be up for a few hours.  Someone yelled down for another time check.  “5:45”!  I hollered back.  I again picked up the New Testament and went back to page one to start again. 

     There was no relaxation.  My body was in a constant state of tension.  I had a noticeable knot in my stomach.  Reality was just starting to settle in that this was my life for the time being.  Until I got any new information all I could do was try as hard as I could to remain positive.  I knew that eventually things would begin to unfold and I’d have a clearer view of what I was facing.  But it was very, very difficult for me to accept that this was actually happening.  I was worried that my mother didn’t get any sleep, either.  I hated that she had to go through this, too.  I knew that she would be at home wishing that she was in Colorado and at least be able to visit me.  I also knew that she would be doing whatever she could do to help. My Aunt Jo was in Florida working hard to get information.  She was my favorite Aunt and her and my Uncle Don were probably in Orlando talking to the police department already since it was two hours later on the east coast. 

     Not much time had gone by when an officer came to my cell to ask if I wanted to make any phone calls.  Of course I did, I told him.  There was just one phone on the wall and he told me that I only had a few minutes unless no one else needed to use it.  He said he’d be back.  It was just after 6am so I called my mom.  She was very happy to hear from me.  I told her what had gone on since my last call, which was late afternoon the day before.  She told me that my aunt had been to the Orlando police department and had not been given any information other than what we already knew.  I reassured her that I was doing alright and that I was staying positive.  I didn’t want to worry her any more than she was.  She asked me if I had thought of any reason why this was happening.  I said that I had gone through everything in my head and could honestly come up with nothing.  She sounded OK.  It eased my mind to talk to her.  There is a tremendous comfort in making a connection to the outside world when in the situation I was in.  It was a departure of my new reality and I knew that I’d rely heavily on being able to make these calls.  We didn’t have much else to say so I said goodbye and hung up the phone.  The officer who had taken me to the phone wasn’t in sight so I decided to call Kira again.  I really wanted her to answer.  She did and again we went through the process of the operator going through the motions of the collect call and the announcement of where it was coming from. It was obvious that I woke her up and I apologized for it.  She didn’t care.  She was happy to hear from me.  I described where I was and what I had been doing.  I was a little surprised that I was still on the phone as it sounded like I’d only get five minutes or so.  Kira and I ended up talking for another 20 minutes until the officer came around the corner and motioned for me to wrap it up.  It was amazing to me how much better I felt after my conversations.  Talking to my mom and even more so Kira elevated my spirits.  It reminded me that I was not alone.  It also reminded me when I had to hang up the phone that I was very much alone.  Jail was a cold and uncaring place.  These officers relegated to jail duty were callous for the most part.  I wasn't being treated poorly but I was being treated indifferently.  My fellow accused criminals were dealing with their own issues.  I was not a needy person on the outside but the confinement, uncertainty and lack of information made me feel vulnerable and extremely emotional.  The officer took me back to my cell and I asked him when the next opportunity to use the phone would be.  Maybe in the afternoon.  Maybe?  I don’t like maybes.  I wanted absolutes.  I asked him, a different officer than before, if I could get a toothbrush.   He seemed confused that I didn’t already have one and said he’d get me one soon.  I went back inside and sat down on my bed again to resume my biblical study.  It was the only outlet to try to keep my mind away from focusing on my reality and the endless possibilities of what could happen next. 

     Hours went by and I found myself still trying to read.  I realized that I was having a very difficult time focusing on the words on the page.  I would read a few sentences and then have to go back and read them again since my mind would wander off somewhere else.  Since this was still early in my journey I could only think about what I had maybe done to cause this and what may happen to me next.  It took me probably 10 or more minutes to read something that I should be able to do in a minute or less.  It was a constant cycle of reading, thinking, creating scenarios and then snapping back into the present and re-reading what I had just read.  It was horribly frustrating.  But then at some point I could hear doors opening down the hall again.  It was time to eat again.  Lunch?  I looked at the clock and it was just 9:30.  Lunch at 9:30?  Maybe this was like pre-school and we were getting a morning snack.  No luck.  A guy in the cell next to me was trying to talk to me and he told me that lunch was at 9:30 and dinner was at 12:30.  Really?  Dinner at 12:30?  Who came up with this schedule?  If I was done eating by 1pm I would have to wait over 16 hours to eat again.  This did not make me happy.  My neighbor and I continued our conversation about nothing.  We had met the day before.  He was from an area of Denver that I avoided.  It was a rough area.  He was in for something involving a robbery.  And he looked exactly like Ice Cube during his N.W.A. days.  Black baseball cap, curls coming out the back, baggy clothes, trimmed beard.  It was good to be able to talk to other guys.  It helped pass the time and brought a little normalcy to the situation.  Although it was hard to hear and the best method was to lie flat on the floor and talk under the door it was worth it.  We ended up talking about our lives, what we did for fun and our current situation.  I hadn’t spoken with him much the day prior and I explained what had happened to me.  He seemed sympathetic.  A few other guys joined in the conversation and we focused on my story.  They asked me question after question about the endless possibilities of why I was there.  It was evident that they believed that I wasn’t supposed to be there.  Maybe it was a set up.  Maybe someone made something up about me.  Eventually everyone on my end of the hall was involved in this.  Probably eight or nine guys.  None of us could see each other as we were all lying behind our doors with our mouths close up to the gap under the door.   The humor of this was not lost on me.  By the time the conversation wound down the electronic doors on our end unlocked and we were summoned to the tables for lunch.  We all sat down and continued to talk like normal people sitting together at a meal.  The focus was on me.  Everyone at every table was involved and seemed honestly invested in what was going on in my life.  By the time lunch ended it felt like I had bonded with everyone on “my side” of the jail.  We went back to our cells and I again asked a different officer about a toothbrush.  He said he’s look into it. 

     Dinner time arrived at 12:30 and this time we were the first group to get out to eat.  I had now been under arrest for over 24 hours.  It felt like 24 years.  The table conversation focused on sports and at some point in time we got into a strong debate about the NCAA basketball tournament.  I found it funny that we were all in incredibly tense situations personally.  All of us incarcerated and facing serious charges.  Many of these guys had lengthy records.  But we were just a group of guys sitting together at a meal and talking about college basketball.  We argued and laughed and even gave each other harmless harassment.  The only thing missing was hot wings and beer.  None of these guys were guys that I’d ever find myself out with again.  In fact, many lived in parts of town that I’d legitimately be in danger if I found myself lost and wandering around.  But here, we were equal.  It wasn’t prison.  We would all be leaving to go home or off to County sometime soon.  We would only be out of our cells together for just over an hour each day but there was a bond.  There were the police and there was us.  Since I wasn’t the police I was one of them, regardless of my situation.  No one really knew anyone’s name.  I was just “The Teacher.”  This type of interaction made my new life tolerable.  It kept my mind from wandering and was ironically enjoyable.  I found out more about jail.  I was learning the routines and my new “normal.”  I actually felt like these guys were my friends.  Maybe we could all have a reunion when it was all over.  Probably not. 

     When I got back to my cell I asked about the already-promised toothbrush.  Different guy.  Same answer.  “You don’t have one?”  I told him that I had asked after every meal since breakfast.  He’d get me one.  I didn’t hold my breath.  I then resumed my rotation of sitting on my bed, lying down, sitting up again, standing up, looking out the window, sitting down, standing up, on and on and on.  Sometimes I pick up the Bible again and resume my reading, thinking, reading, thinking regime.  Over and over and over.  I began to get super annoyed that I was not able to run.  Running had always been a big part of my life and just a few months previous I had decided that I wanted to run my first marathon.  It was in San Diego and in early June that year.  I was smack in the middle of my training schedule.  I even got the kids in class involved in it.  We made a poster board with each day of each week of my training.  My mileage for each day was listed all the way to race day.  Every morning the kids would ask if I completed my training the day before and one of the them would get to go up to the board on the wall and put an ‘X” through the previous day.  They were excited about it.  When I thought about this I was reminded that those kids would be coming to class the next day and I wouldn’t be there.  I really enjoyed that group of kids.  However much I didn’t like the administration of the school I loved teaching that class.  I was angry that this situation would adversely affect them.  I wondered how the school would handle this.  It was certainly touchy since no one really knew what was happening.  Maybe I’d be out quickly and maybe I’d miss the rest of the year.  There was so much up in the air that it would make it extremely difficult to gauge how to deal with it.  I wondered who would teach my class and how the students would react.  I was sure that the parents of those kids had probably already been contacted or at least had heard something about what was going on.  It reaffirmed how powerless I was.  Those parents, many of whom I was friends or at least friendly with, would begin to wonder about me and would draw unfair conclusions.  I would if I were them.  Most of the time when someone is arrested there has to be a reason.  My job situation was a major concern but my own circumstance and self preservation took the forefront.  Everything else was just collateral.  I wanted to know why I was there.  I wanted to be out running.  I wanted to be able to do things when I wanted to do them.  I was only a day into this and my frustration level was rising by the hour.  I didn’t have my damn toothbrush and had asked multiple times.  I wanted to take a shower.  I wanted to change my clothes.  I began to get worked up for the first time.  I felt like punching a wall or yelling but I knew that I had to remain calm.  I sat down and tried to focus on staying positive.  And then my door unlocked and an officer came down and walked in.  It was mid-afternoon and no one else was out of their cell.  Something was happening and my energy level immediately shot up.  “Your lawyer is here.”  I have a lawyer?  Apparently lawyers have special access to inmates.  They do not have to wait until visiting hours to see people.  Lawyers can come and go as they choose to see their clients.  I didn’t say anything as I was led through the administrative offices and into a hall with several small meeting room doors.  The officer opened one of the doors and I walked in and saw one of my student’s parents sitting at the small table. 

     The officer shut the door and I said “Hi, Jim” and he stood up to shake my hand.  It all happened so fast that I didn’t have time to think about anything.  He asked me to sit down and asked how I was doing.  I explained to him that I was terribly confused and frustrated.  He then asked me if I had any idea why I was there, to which I told him a definitive “no.”  He explained that the school had been contacted and told that I had been arrested.  At the time no one from the Denver Police could tell them anything.  Since he was a lawyer he could come in and see me.  Jim was a member of the school board and whereas he wasn’t my favorite, I had had a decent relationship with him and I liked his son.  He said that only the school board was aware of my situation and that he wanted to talk to me before they made any decisions about what to do next.   I asked if he had any information on why I was there.  He paused and then told me that he hadn’t found out much but what he did know didn’t sound good.  My stomach dropped as I realized that something was about to be said to enlighten me on why I was sitting in jail on a Sunday afternoon.  I wasn’t prepared for what came next.   Jim said matter of fact, "I got through to someone in Florida who told me that what you were being charged with was sexual in nature but did not involve actual sex.  And there was a minor involved.  That was it.  That was the only information that he had."  I had been desperate for information and there it was.  Information.    Something of a sexual nature that didn’t involve sex with a minor.  Wow.  I’d have preferred he had said, “Looks like you bounced a check to Wal-Mart.”  I asked him to repeat it and then he asked me if any of this rang a bell for me. Did something of a sexual nature with a minor ring a bell?  With me?  I was so stunned that I wasn’t exactly sure how to react.  “Chris, does a bank robbery ring a bell?  How about some human trafficking?  Forgery?”  My immediate reaction to most things is sarcastic.  I kind of went off the ledge and babbled to Jim about how ridiculous this all sounded. But I was adamant that whatever information he got was incorrect.  I emphasized it several times.  I was angry.  I was shaking.  I promised him that I had never done anything ever remotely close to what he had found out.  I told him that he had to believe me.  This was a huge mistake.  I didn’t feel like he believed me but he said he did.  He told me that Jerry was very upset that I didn’t see him the night before and that he’d be back that night.  I was in shock.  I wanted information and now I had it.  At least some of it.  I was sitting across from a parent of one of my students in jail defending myself from allegations that I had done something of a sexual nature with a minor.  I was a teacher.  I was his son’s teacher.  And I’m accused of something of a sexual nature with a minor?  I’m pretty sure I sobbed as I promised him that these charges were false.  He tried to comfort me but it felt forced.  He told me to try to stay positive and that they were all working on getting more information.  What I read into it was that Jerry sent him in there to find out what I had to say.  I understood their situation.  It wasn’t a good one.  They had a teacher incarcerated for a sex crime with a young girl.  Parents would be shocked and outraged.  I immediately thought about my mugshot being on TV and was mad that I didn’t smile.  Jim said that he had to leave but that he’d be back.  He told me that they were constructing a letter to give to the parents explaining that I’d been arrested and that they were searching for more information.  He added that he would recommend that I was maintaining my innocence.  I told him that I was innocent and not just maintaining it.  He shook my hand and we opened the door.  He walked the opposite way that I was led.  Soon after I was back in my cell.  The officer who took me back walked out and then walked back in, reached in his pocket and handed me a toothbrush.  At least I had that going for me. 

     The toothbrush was horrific.  It was pre-loaded with toothpaste but not enough to even be of use.  But at least I could scrub my teeth.  It didn’t help.  I had just been given a bombshell of information that I was trying to absorb.  I sat down on my bed and tried to take it in.  Sexual contact with a minor?  The one thing that I absolutely knew was that I didn’t do whatever it was that I was charged with.  I could stop going through my year in Orlando and trying to pinpoint anything that I may have missed.  This was wrong.  The police were wrong.  I realized that my situation was much more serious that I had previously thought.  What Jim told me was devastating.  It was real.  Although I didn’t have any details, my guessing was over.  I was being charged with a sexual act with a student, I assumed.  One of my former students probably.  Maybe someone did make something up.  Regardless of why, I was really sitting in a jail devoid of freedom and facing some really serious stuff.  I hadn’t been truly worried until that moment.  I was all over the board with my thoughts.  I was nearly sick.  I was locked up and powerless to help myself.  I tried to pull myself together and regain some composure.  I couldn’t sit still.  Normally I can’t sit still anyway, even in the calmest of situations but now I was relegated to an expanse of nervous energy and no outlet to expend it.  I wanted to run as far and as fast as I could.  I wanted to sleep and relieve myself of a few hours of constant thoughts.  But before I could even grasp what was happening my door unlocked again and the same officer who had brought me my toothbrush opened it and told me that I had another lawyer waiting to see me.  I imagined a line of them out the door downstairs.  One by one they would come see the guy accused of a sexual act with a minor.  Like a circus.  At least things were happening.

     I was again led to the same area of conference rooms and pointed towards an open door next to the room where I was just an hour or so previous.  I walked in and a man who I recognized was standing on the other side of the table.  He was pleasant looking.  I knew that I knew him but I wasn’t sure how.  He stuck out his hand and introduced himself as Dave Worstell, the parent of one of the students in the middle school.  In the afternoons at my school my students would go across the hall to another teacher who taught them English.  Her 7^th and 8^th graders would come to my room and I’d teach them social studies.  His son was in the 7^th grade.  A good kid who was pretty quiet.  Mr. Worstell explained that he was an attorney and had gotten word about my situation.  He came down to try to get some more information about what was going on.  Another parent had called him.  The word was spreading quickly outside of the school board.  I told him about Jim just coming to see me earlier.  He was unaware of that and told me that he had just come down on his own.  His demeanor was very calm.  He asked how much I knew about why I was there and I relayed what I had just found out.  He knew the same.  He asked if I had any idea what all of this was about and I went through the same thing I went through with Jim.  Since I had been able to process this a little bit since my last trip to these conference rooms I was a little more collected.  I assured him that I had not done anything wrong like that ever.  I told him my background and my work with kids and that this was some horrible mistake.  I couldn’t tell if he believed me.  But he was reassuring.  He explained my situation and what was going to happen.  Some of it I kind of already knew.  Sometime next week an officer would come to talk to me to advise me of my rights.  He or she would then explain my options, which would be to waive or fight extradition.  If I fought it, I would appear in front of a judge who would set a bail.  If I could pay the bail or a percentage to a bondsman, I would be set free and would then have to make my own way to Florida to turn myself in. I would then appear in front of a judge for an arraignment and another bond would be set.  Again, if I could pay it I would be free until my court hearings.  If I waived extradition then the state of Florida would have ten days to come to Colorado to pick me up and take me back to Orlando.  The same arraignment/bond/court situation would then happen.  He offered more information.  He was very adamant not to tell the police anything.  He seemed extremely confident about this point.  The police, he explained, were always coming from an angle.  Even if they seemed supportive everything I told them once my rights were read to me could be used in court.  Everything.  Do not talk to the police without a lawyer present, he warned.  He asked if I had a lawyer.  I told him that until Jim came to see me I didn’t even know why I was there.  I didn’t know any lawyers and I certainly didn’t have any money to afford a good one.  I continued to “maintain my innocence.”  Strongly.  He understood that I was scared and confused.  I could tell he genuinely cared.  He seemed like a kind man.  He told me he would have to excuse himself for a moment.  He stood up and left the room and went down the hallway and out of sight.  I was stunned.  I had craved information and now I had much more than I wanted.  The reality of where I was and what I was facing was smacking me in the face with gale force.  I sat and waited for him to return.

     When Mr. Worstell came back, he calmly sat down and told me that he was going to ask me a very important question.  He said that I absolutely had to answer him honestly.  There couldn’t be an ounce of falsehood.  I sat up.  He asked me if there was anything at all that I had done wrong in Florida to cause this.  I looked him in the eye and told him with as much conviction that I had in me, “No.”  I said it again.  He paused for a moment and then told me that he believed me and that he wanted to help me and be my lawyer.  I immediately felt a sense of relief.  Here was a man who absolutely believed me who wanted to help.  I got emotional.  I actually got very emotional.  Uncontrollable for a short time.  The weight of the past two days crashed down on me and even my wiseass veneer and nonchalant normal melancholy was powerless to stop it.  I paused for several minutes and finally composed myself.  Through snot and tears I said something to the effect that I didn’t know how I could pay him and he said not to worry about it and that we’d figure it out later.  His son really liked me as his teacher and he hated seeing innocent people wrongly accused.  He stopped and again made me assure him that I was innocent.  He said that if things came out later that indicated otherwise that he would immediately resign as my counsel.  I told him that he had nothing to worry about as I thanked him over and over again.  He told me to hang tight and remain positive.  He would start investigating and would be back as soon as he could.  He stood up, shook my hand and was gone.  It was now late afternoon on Sunday and my life had taken another sharp turn.  I knew a little more about why I was locked up but I also had someone on my side other than my friends and family.  An officer came back and escorted me back to my cell.  I had a lot to think about.  And time to do it.

     The next three or four hours were spent either sitting in bed letting my mind wander or standing looking out the window doing the same.  Every so often I’d get asked the time.  My convict buddies were anxious to hear where I had been and what had happened.  I told them the entire story.  I told them about the new information about my charges.  About Jim and Mr. Worstell.  We were again lying on the floor talking under the doors.  They all seemed invested in my life.  Without conversation my thoughts often turned dark.  I envisioned my fate as a convicted pedophile.  I was scared to go to prison.  I was living a worst case scenario, especially for a teacher.  Every time my brain took me to a bad place I’d try to snap out of it and remember that good people were working hard for me.  Many people cared about me and wanted me to get through this thing.  I jumped back and forth from positive to negative.  Sometimes I’d look in the fuzzy mirror and stare at myself and wonder how the hell I got into this situation.  I’d laugh out loud.  I had been involved in some crazy stuff in my life.  I had lived enough for five people.  I enjoyed life and tried to make the most of it at every turn.  I loved adventure and tried to turn this into just another one of them.  Not many people I knew, if any, had been where I was.  I looked at my face and couldn’t believe that this was really happening.  I wondered what my friends that knew where I was were talking about.  Kermit was most likely home by now and knew where I was.  I figured that Aimee was over at my house filling him in on the events of the previous day, our visit last night and whatever she knew.  I tried to put myself in their place.  What would I think if I came home and Kermit was in jail for “something of a sexual nature with a minor?”  Would I immediately believe that he was innocent?  I was sure that I’d at least have a little doubt and I didn’t begrudge them if they did as well.  We don’t always know everything about our friends.  In the middle of one of my thoughts my door unlocked and I realized that it was now 8pm.  Visitor time. 

     I had a strong feeling walking towards the door of the visitor room that my 20 minutes would be spent with Jerry.  Which I thought would be a great title for my book.  20 Minutes With Jerry, by Chris Justice.  I was not looking forward to his visit.  As I walked by other inmates who were seated and on their phone talking to someone they knew I could see his neatly combed hair above the partition a few sections down.  I moved into my area, turned and looked through the Plexiglas and there he was.  He already had the phone in his hand.  I sat down, lifted my receiver and said hello.  I would swear that he had a smirk on his face.  “Hi, Chris, how are you?” he asked.  I told him that I had been better.  He tried his hardest to appear sincere as he told me that I had a lot of support outside.  He had spoken with many parents and that they all were concerned.  He had spoken with Jim who had relayed our conversation from earlier in the day.  He asked me to give him any information that I had.  He said that he had to have something to tell the parents.  The school had to have something to go on.  “Jerry, I can only tell you that I didn’t do whatever they said I did and that eventually I would be set free.  This is one big mistake and it’ll all come out eventually.”  He asked me to bow my head to pray with him, just as he had done every time I had ever had a meeting with him.  Thankfully I wouldn’t have to hold his hands like I had done previously.  Normally his prayer ritual really kind of freaked me out.  It was abnormal behavior between two men, I thought.  Not that I am against prayer, in fact, I had already prayed since being arrested.  But Jerry was kind of creepy.  He had this mustache that reminded me of Robert Redford in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.  His hair was similar.  But he was no Sundance.  Maybe a pudgy, scary version.  He was a “born again” Christian and found a way to work that fact into every conversation.  I liked his daughter a lot.  She was a good student.  She was funny and smart.  It often shocked me that he was her father.  And it saddened me that she had to grow up in his house where I was sure that he was overpowering in his convictions.  He was aloof and tried to act powerful.  One time he asked me to stay after school so he could come down and meet with me.  After he sat down and we held hands to pray, he went off on a tangent asking me why I thought it was important to include the Philadelphia Eagles, Phillies and Flyers in my lecture about the city of Philadelphia.  He explained that when he asked his daughter what she learned in school that day, the only thing she could give him were the three major sports teams in Philly.  He assumed that my discussion about historic Philadelphia only included baseball, football and hockey.  It didn’t.  I mentioned that sometimes his daughter had a hard time listening and would often talk to her neighbors.  Not possible, he said.  Did I even talk about the Liberty Bell?  I sometimes laughed out loud when he’d ask me questions like that.   He was sort of the bad version of Ned Flanders, Homer Simpson’s neighbor.  And now I was sitting across from him with my head lowered as I listened on the phone as he spoke with Jesus on my behalf. 

     “Chris, I don’t know how we can keep you,” he said.  The school would have to find a substitute to take over my class.  He wanted to know how long this would take.  Like I knew.  I was genuinely worried about my job.  Even if I wasn’t going to renew my contract and return the next school year, I still needed a job and I had to set my pride aside and ask him to just give this some time and it would work out.  I wanted to finish out the school year.  “I’m just not sure how long we can stick this out.  These are some serious crimes we’re talking about.”  He didn’t have to tell me.  I was well aware.  Part of me wanted to tell him to fuck off.  Is this how a Christian behaves, I wondered?  He was such a pompous ass.  I restrained myself and told him again that I was innocent and that eventually this would all work out.  He told me that he couldn’t make me any promises but that a letter would go out in the morning explaining that I had been arrested, I was maintaining my innocence and that the school was standing behind me.  I really wished that one of my friends were here instead of him.  As important as my job was it was low on the pole at the current time.  I was slowly losing my patience and my emotional state was rocky at best.  I had my nemesis sitting across from me who was most likely regaling on the inside. If things had ever been worse in my life nothing was coming to mind.  Just as he asked me to bow my head again for a final prayer the officer came over to let us know that time was up.  Thank God.  Literally.  In what had to be his best Ah-nold impression, Jerry said “I’ll be back” as he got up to leave.  As humorous of a memory as it would have been I decided to not hold my hand up to the window and ask Jerry to reach out to me like Aimee and I had done.  I hung up my phone.  It was 8:20pm and I figured that a shower and a phone call were out of the question.  I returned to my cell and went over to the bed and sat down.  I could have vomited at any point.  I thought of Mr. Worstell and thanked Jesus on my own for bringing him to me.   I wished I had a hamburger. 

Chapter Eight

Monday

     I had it figured out.  I now knew why I was in jail.  And I was convinced.  From the time I got back to my cell after my visit from Jerry I had done nothing but think. It’s all you really have to do while locked up.  I had not slept as it was impossible.  From Sunday night at 8:30pm until the lights came on at 5:30am on Monday morning all I did was rotate between laying in bed with my eyes wide open and standing up looking out of the window.  All the while my mind racing with the overload of information that I had received.  Sexual contact with a minor.  The more I focused on it the more I was in disbelief.  Pure disbelief.  I was working on less than just a few restless hours of sleep since Friday night and was pretty sure that I couldn’t keep it up but I had no choice.  Every time I closed my eyes my mind would take me on a journey to any number of worst case scenarios.  All ended with my life being pretty much over.  I tried to comprehend not getting out of jail for many, many years.  Not ever doing the things that I loved doing. Not traveling or running or playing sports or just being on the couch flipping channels around.  Or getting married and having a family.  Hanging out with friends.  Laughing.  Loving.  It was hard to conceptualize.  I was staring at a future that quite possibly could find me in a real prison with real criminals and real problems.  Not my new buddies on the end of the hall next to me.  Even those guys probably couldn’t handle prison.  I had always enjoyed watching television shows or movies about prison life.  I was very interested in the human condition and the realism of lives that I would never be part of. But now I was living on the outskirts of one of those lives that I had previously just watched from afar.  I wouldn’t make it in prison.  No way.  I had always been very social and had the ability to fit into most any group that I found myself in.  Case in point the locals in jail with me.  In the middle of a hurricane of terrible luck I was still enjoying my interactions with the guys I had met just a day previous.  But prison, I assumed, would be a different story.  It’s just not for guys like me.  And the elephant in the room was the fact that I’d be going in a child predator.  I had watched and read enough to know that guys in prison who had harmed children were not going to run for Prison President.  Although I continued to try to make light of what was happening, the fear of prison and the awful things you think about in relation to it was well within the grasp of my mind.  A mind can be a terrible thing.  As the hours clicked off across the landscape of downtown on the clock tower, I finally figured out why I was there. 

     There had to be an answer.  Had to be.  I just couldn’t imagine one of my former students making up something about me.  It was just too far fetched.  Although I had next to nothing to go on, it was just a gut feeling.  I thought of every girl in the school from my year in Orlando.  Girls I coached and those that I taught.  Even those who were not in any of my classes.  And it didn’t add up.  Nothing happened in that small environment that someone didn’t know about the next day.  It was like living in a small town.  You could do something by yourself one night and someone would be talking about it the next day.  If a girl had waited many months to make up some story about me groping her or whatever it was, I believed that the story just wouldn’t hold up.  Someone would be a voice of reason, especially after whatever investigation had been conducted.  I had too many friends there and too many positive interactions with students.  My record was clean.  I couldn’t think of one red flag.  No way someone makes something up and it gets this far.  At least that’s what I convinced myself to believe.  You can talk yourself into just about anything with nothing but hours to sit and think.  But sometime in the wee hours of Monday morning it hit me. Hard.  I sat up in bed and laughed that I had missed it.  It seemed so obvious.  It wasn’t me at all.  I had it figured out and I couldn’t wait until the sun came up to start telling everyone about it.

     Late in the school year one of my seniors was telling me about his parents moving over to Tampa in May.  It was over an hour away from Orlando.  He was graduating and going to college in the fall.  He didn’t want to spend the summer after his senior year away from his friends before they all headed off to school.  I had grown very close to that senior class.  It was a small class and I taught them all in American Government the first semester and Economics the second semester.  Many of them played sports for me.  Golf, girls basketball or baseball.  They were a wonderful group of characters.  We shared some good times at school together.  Nate was one of my favorites.  He reminded me very much of myself at age 18.  He was very upset about the premise of spending the summer in Tampa.  Even though he’d be able to come over to Orlando frequently it just wasn’t the same.  Around that same time I had decided to take the job at a camp in Maine.  I wouldn’t be in Orlando that summer.  During one of our conversations I off-handedly mentioned that he should sublet my apartment while I was gone.  He would be able to stay in the area and I wouldn’t have to pay for an apartment that I wasn’t living in, which was always a hassle when I’d gone to camp.  He took me seriously.  The next day he said that he had spoken with his parents and they were not opposed to the idea.  I began to give it serious thought.  I knew that I’d have to speak with his parents and keep everything out in the open.  Although I wasn’t involved in their lives outside of school and kept my professional distance in regards to what seniors in high school do when they aren’t in school, I didn’t want anything to be misconstrued.  I discussed it with our principal, Mr. Wudke.  Technically it was my decision alone since Nate would be graduated by the time he would move in I wanted to avoid any perception problems with me allowing him and his friends to live at my place.  No one seemed to have any issues with it.  And after talking with his parents we decided that it was a “go.”  A day or two before I left with my buddy Will to begin our road trip to rural Maine, I met with Nate and took him through the details of the summer.  When and where to pay rent, utilities, etc.  I kept everything in my name and trusted that he would take care of the responsibilities.  There were certainly other seniors that I liked but would never have considered doing this for.  But Nate was a good guy and as responsible as an 18 year old guy could be.  Or so I hoped.  I ended up taking Nate’s truck down to Club Med to pick up Will since my car was in the shop being serviced before the 2500 mile trip.  The next day Nate came over as we were loading my car.  I would be leaving everything that I didn’t need for the summer at my apartment and went through it all with Nate.  I gave him the keys and any final instructions for mail forwarding, etc. and suddenly Will and I were off on our own adventure.  As we drove north, Will and I talked about what it had would have been like for us if we had our own apartment away from our parents the summer before going to college.  Nate was in for a fun summer.  A big part of my final instructions to him revolved around partying.  There was no doubt that my apartment would become the hub of operations for him and his friends that summer.  Young adults that less than a week previous were students in my class.  Now they would be drinking beer and having a blast on my couch in front of my television.  My rules were simple:  Clean the place up frequently.  Don’t trash it.  Don’t break my stuff.  Respect my personal belongings.  Don’t be loud.  Don’t have any free-for-all blowouts.  Limit the fun to small gatherings of friends.  Nate agreed.  He promised me that everything would be alright.  His parents were right down the road and they knew, as I did, what would be happening there.  I wasn’t concerned.

     Throughout the summer I would call back down to the apartment or I’d get a message that he had called me at camp.  We spoke at least once a week.  Sometimes when I’d call there were several of my former students there.  All drinking beer and having fun.  Harmless stuff.  As I sat and looked out at the skyline of Denver I couldn’t believe that I had forgotten about all of this.  It hadn’t even crossed my mind.  It was just last summer but I had been focused on the school year when trying to figure out what put me in jail.  I concluded a scenario in my head that made total sense.  And I agreed with myself that it was why I was in jail.

     At some point during the summer someone at my apartment  brought a girl back there that he had just met.  Since 18 year old guys don’t usually have an apartment to themselves and since this person had just met some girl that he wanted to hook up with, at some point he told her that his name was Chris Justice and that the apartment was his.  It could have been Nate but maybe not.  There were several guys that he was friends with that could have done it.  I concluded that the night moved along and eventually my former student and current imposter made his move with this girl.  Something went wrong and she got upset and left.  The girl was under the age of 18.  Eventually this girl told someone about what had happened to her and her parents found out and were very upset.  They pressed her for details and eventually she relented and told them everything about the evening, including the name of the guy who had taken her back to “his” apartment.  The parents called the police to report what they had been told and an investigation ensued.  The police did a background check and matched me with my address.  They found out where I worked and went to the school and started asking questions.  The road led to Denver and that’s what brought me into this nightmare.  I knew this was what had happened and I was very excited.  I couldn’t wait for a new day and a chance to tell Mr. Worstell and my mother and Kira.  I hoped that one of my friends would visit that night so that I could tell them.  All I had to do was talk to Nate and get the ball rolling to find out who really was responsible.  I felt bad that one of my former students, maybe even Nate, would be getting into trouble because of this, but it would certainly look better that it was an 18 year old that had done this to the girl and not a 33 year old school teacher.  It may not even get to that. 

     My mind had been eased.  Although I still faced many uncertainties I knew that if I actually did have to go to Florida and face this, the victim would eventually have to see me and know that it wasn’t me.  I doubted that it would get that far but at least I had an answer.  I went back to my original livable timeline that I came up with during that first police car ride on Saturday.  As long as I was out by the time I was to go back to Maine, all would be OK.  Without the specter of going to prison until I was 60 I could make it.  The stress and worry of the unknown was the worst part of being there.  If I took that out it wasn’t awful.  It wasn’t ideal and the endless hours of boredom would destroy me but with a light at the end of the tunnel, I could do just about anything.  I’m fairly sure that I ended up finally getting maybe two hours of sleep before the dim lights buzzed on at 5:30am.  Another new day in jail.

     The weekend was over.  I watched out the window as there was noticeably more activity on the streets at the crack of dawn than there had been on Saturday night.  Early risers were heading to work.  I was not.  I was heading to breakfast across the hallway from my cell.  My revelation had energized me.  I felt much calmer and more prepared for the new unknown.  I had only been in my “downtown third floor room with a view” for 36 hours but it seemed like I had always been there.  I had never known time to move so slowly.  It was like perpetually watching a pot waiting for it to boil.  Eventually my door was opened and I shuffled to my place at the breakfast table and sat down.  Breakfast talk was limited but I was anxious to get my buddies up to speed on my new information.  There were some new faces and a few of the guys I came in with were gone.  This area in the jailhouse was not built for long term housing.  It was more of a layover.  Guys either post bond and leave or they are transferred to County.  Most people are only on this floor for a few days or less.  At some point during breakfast I asked an officer if we could have anything different to read or something to write with.  Nope.  The Bible was it.  After I cleaned my tray of the same powdered eggs, toast, oatmeal and milk I had the previous morning I asked one of the guys that was already there when I arrived on Saturday if he’d been able to shower and use the phone more than once a day.  No and no.  I really wanted to shower.  And I wanted another toothbrush.  I wanted a lot of things but I didn’t think that those two things were a lot to ask.  We were given the word to return to our cells and I stood up and went over to ask the guard about a possible shower and when I could use the phone again.  I decided not to push it with a toothbrush inquiry again.  I was told that I would get to shower sometime after lunch and that he didn’t know about the phone.  I couldn’t figure out why there seemed to be so much that was up in the air on a daily basis.  Why couldn’t there just be a daily schedule for showers and phone calls?  Why didn’t I get handed a toothbrush when I arrived and maybe a new one every few days?  It made too much sense.  But I was learning that nothing made sense in there.  These guards were new faces to me.  I guessed that there was a weekend crew and a weekday crew.  Two shifts per day, one day and one night.  I saw the same guys on the weekend and now a new crew.  I really didn’t want to go back to my cell and sit and wait for lunch.  I was slowly dying in there.  And why the hell was lunch at 9:30am?  I just shook my head every time I thought about it.  Who in America has lunch at 9:30 and dinner at 12:30?  No one.  Besides us.  So I walked back to my bed and sat down to do nothing.  Again.  I re-opened the provided reading material and actually tried to take it in.  I had never read the Bible much and decided that I probably wouldn’t get a chance like this again.  Take advantage of my sudden allotment of free time and get some of the Good Word.  I was actually finding it interesting.  And it killed time.  I stayed away from the spiraling negative thoughts and hung to my theory of why I was there.  I was asked no less than five times over the next four hours what time it was. 

     Everyone was a little livelier for lunch.  People had started their cell to cell communication shortly before we got out to eat and I joined in to relay my visit with Jerry.  Someone asked me if I wanted him to kick Jerry’s ass when he got out.  Not a bad idea, I thought.  As we ate I detailed my late night epiphany.  Some of the new guys needed the background information so I went through the whole thing for the group.  Most thought that what I conceived was plausible.  This added to my confidence.  I was concerned that I had not been able to use the phone after breakfast as I had done the day before.  It was over 24 hours since I last made contact with the outside world and I really needed that boost of morale.  Since the officers were guys that did not work over the weekend, I didn’t see anything wrong with keeping up with the constant questions.  I wanted to know if they had any idea when someone would talk to me about my case.  No idea.  I asked about the phone and shower again perhaps just to remind them in case they had forgotten since breakfast.  Later, I was told.  I was in a holding pattern in pretty much every aspect of my life.  I didn’t know when I’d be able to talk to my mom or Kira. I didn’t know when I’d get to shower.  I didn’t know when Mr. Worstell would return or if anyone else would surprise me with a visit.  I didn’t know when someone would be seeing me to read me my rights and lay down the extradition options.  I didn’t know if I’d ever brush my teeth again.  All I did know was when we ate, when visiting hours were and the amount of time in between these that I would be in my cell.  I really tried to talk myself into the fact that most adults don’t get this much time to relax on a bed very often.  I should be taking advantage of it. 

     Back in my room I was wondering how the kids were reacting to me not being in class.  How had the school handled it?  Did the kids all know that their teacher was sitting jail?  Who was teaching?  And did my friends in Orlando know that I had been arrested?  They all knew that I had been investigated but I wasn’t sure if someone would tell them that I had been arrested.  Probably.  I felt really bad that there was a girl out in the world who had something happen to her and that her and her parents thought that her assailant had been taken off of the streets.  At some point they would have to learn that the guy they had wasn’t the right one.  It was all so depressing.  This wasn’t just about me.  It was about my students and their parents, my family and my friends, the two schools and the victim and her family.  And her friends.  And her school.  And the person who actually did whatever they did to create this mess, who was most likely someone I knew.  It had so many branches that I was kind of boggled by it all.  Instead of focusing on all of the negativity I tried to take my mind to other places.  I watched people on the streets and made up their stories about what they were doing.  Who they were and where they were going.  They had no idea that anyone was watching them.  I had always been interested in sociology and I spent at least a few hours simply watching people walk or run or work or talk.  It’s amazing the things you can come up with to keep your mind occupied. “The woman in purple is late to work.  She is walking very fast and hoping that her boss is also running late, which was usual.  She had to eat on the way out of the door and forgot her coffee.  Her boyfriend didn’t call last night and she’s worried that he has met someone else.  Her bank account will be overdrawn if she doesn’t make it to the bank before five o’clock.”  I did this with no less than 50 people I saw that morning.  I wondered what it felt like to be in jail for years.  Your life is on hold and living each day just to get back to your life outside.  It was purgatory.  My time in jail wasn’t even a drop in the bucket.  It didn’t even have a drop or a bucket yet.  I wished that I had something to write with because I would have loved to have documented each thought and each tangent that I had.  I have always had quite an incredible long term vivid memory, but having a pen and paper to capture my thoughts would have made the time alone almost seem valuable.  Iit was senseless to be frustrated for what I didn’t have.  I was lost in random thoughts as I watched the world in motion and almost didn’t notice that the door to my cell had unlocked and an officer was coming over towards me.  It wasn’t yet dinner time so something must be happening.  I snapped out of my inner world and rejoined the present time and got excited to find out what was coming next.

     This new officer informed me that my lawyer was there to see me.  Since he wasn’t in over the weekend he wouldn’t know who had visited me the day before.  Was it Jim returning or Mr. Worstell, or had another lawyer joined the team?  I walked back to the conference rooms and saw Mr. Worstell sitting in the chair nearest the door.  I walked in and greeted him and thanked him for coming.  He asked how I was doing and I said that I was ok.  I relayed that I had eaten breakfast and lunch already and that dinner time was right around the corner.  He found that highly amusing.  He was dressed casually but I guessed that this was his daily wardrobe.  He was probably nearing 50 years old and seemed like he had probably gotten into law to legitimately help people.  We chatted for little bit about nothing.  I got the sense that he kind of knew that I needed some interaction with someone other than the police or other inmates.  He didn’t seem rushed.  I really appreciated that he seemed to naturally understand that I was in incredibly difficult situation and probably was a bit unstable emotionally. Being out of my cell and having a conversation with someone who was on my side gave me sense of normalcy. I asked him if he knew whether or not the Missouri Tigers had won their basketball game the day before.  He wasn’t sure.  I realized how deep I was in this crazy ordeal when I had the thought that I didn’t care if they won or not.  Suddenly it didn’t matter to me at all.  It felt very insignificant.  Had this whole thing never had happened, the result of the game would have been very significant.  I grew up on the Missouri side of Kansas City and had loved the Tigers since I was very little.  I graduated from Mizzou.  I bled black and gold.  But I realized sitting there that I honestly didn’t care.  Nothing mattered except for the realism of what I had been going through since very early Saturday morning.  I had never felt like this before in my life.  Then again, I had never been accused of something sexual nature with a minor. 

     Finally we got down to business.  He had out a blank legal pad on the table.  I was happy to know that I had not yet lost my wit when I made an observation about the legal pad and him being a lawyer.  I applauded myself.  He just looked at me, which was a typical response, so it felt normal.  He began by telling me about the letter that the school gave to the parents.  It said basically what Jim and Jerry had told me that it would say.  They were protecting themselves in the letter, he said.  I don’t think that he was a big fan of the administration of the school.  He didn’t come out and say it but semi-implied his annoyance with how he talked about them.  His son had asked him several questions about me the night before and he assured him that I was being wrongly accused of something.  I knew that he would be telling other students this.  Of course I cared what the parents thought of what was happening but much more than that I didn’t want my kids to automatically think that I had done something wrong.  The adults would instantly draw their own conclusions, but at least the students would be able to hear that Drew Worstell’s dad told him that I was innocent.  Dave (he finally made me stop calling him Mr. Worstell) said that he had several calls into both the Denver and Orlando police.  He didn’t have any more information than he had the day prior but he wanted to start getting names and phone numbers and important information from me.  I stopped him before we got started with the details.  I had to tell him my theory of why I was there.  He listened intently.  When I was done he didn’t outright dismiss it but he explained that until we knew the rest of the charges and had a chance to read the police report we couldn’t entertain any guesses.  Soon we’d know exactly what we were facing.  I was a little unhappy that he wasn’t already on the phone calling up Nate but I understood what he was saying.  I didn’t feel like I was in a position to disagree.  This man was basically giving me his time and energy for free.  He didn’t have to do what he was doing and I was grateful.  I did tell him that I would be clinging to my expert analysis for awhile until we did get the facts.  So for the better part of an hour and a half he had me run down exactly what had happened starting on Friday night with my conversations with Amanda and Todd.  He wrote their names and the name of my school in Florida.  He asked me to take him through my year in Orlando. He got the names and phone numbers for my mom, Aimee and Kermit as well as my friends in Florida.  He was going to begin calling everyone as soon as he left.  There wasn’t too much else that he could do until he was able to get the arrest warrant and the police report from Florida.  I knew that he was beginning to wrap things up but I really, really wanted our time in the conference room to continue.  It was an escape.  I didn’t want to go back to my cell.  I told him that so he asked me a few more questions just to fill the time.  When he said that he had enough to get started, he explained again what I needed to do when the police came to see me and inform me about extradition.  He was coaching.  He nearly gave me a script.  Answer yes or no.  Don’t offer any additional information.  Remember that they are not your friend.  I assured him that I wouldn’t. He told me to call him collect as soon as the police had made contact with me about the official business.  I thanked him again for what he was doing and we parted ways for the day.  I was again injected with an energetic enthusiasm as I headed by to my cell to wait for dinner, which was before most people’s lunch.

     As the officer escorted me back to my cell, he actually engaged me in conversation.  This was a first.  He asked how I was doing and if I needed anything.  A rookie, I thought.  He probably hadn’t yet been hardened to the criminal element that he faced every day.  Perhaps he was just a nice guy.  Regardless, I was encouraged.  I asked if I could get a new toothbrush and when I’d be able to shower.  “You haven’t showered yet?  When did you get here?” he asked as if I had slipped through the cracks and not asked anyone about this yet.  “I got here on Saturday afternoon and I’ve been asking about a shower ever since I walked in the door,” I answered.  He promised to make sure that I would be able to get one soon and he stopped at what appeared to be a storage room and grabbed a toothbrush out of a bin.  I contemplated asking him for six or seven more but was simply thankful for one, plus the promise of the shower.  I didn’t want to push my luck with any more questions, but it had been since just after breakfast the day before since I had been able to use the phone.  I took my chances and he said that after my shower I could stay out and make some calls.  Wow.  I had a new toothbrush, a scheduled shower and then some phone calls.  All of this around dinner time.  My appointment book was filling rapidly.  I’d have to turn down any further requests for my time. 

     Upon my return to cell number 13 some of the guys in my area said “hey” and asked how I was doing.  They wanted to know the latest with my saga.  I was happy to oblige and suddenly it was dinner time so we could continue to talk at the table.  I had gotten so wrapped up in talking to these guys that I even forgot to use the toothbrush that I so desperately had wanted.  I decided I’d hold off until after dinner.  We were first up to eat again and on the menu was some sort of stew option, a piece of bread and an apple.  If I were writing the review of the food on the felony floor of the Denver City Jail, I’d have to rate it somewhere below a half a star.  They would not be receiving my recommendation.  I mentioned this as we ate and got big laughs.  Even a guard standing nearby found it funny.  I went back into my story with the guys and felt more positive than I had been since my arrival.  There had been a semi-flurry of activity that morning and I was able to push aside the stress and wandering mind of the night before.  Any activity other than sitting or standing in my cell was good.  Also, in the back of my mind was the possibility that at any time someone from the Extradition Division would be talking to me.  I had been well instructed by Dave on what to do when that happens and to call him immediately. 

     By the time I finished my dinner I had caught everyone up with my story.  Most of the original guys from Saturday were still there.  I asked about what was happening with them and most were simply waiting to be transferred out to County.  I wasn’t sure if I would ever be joining them.  So much was up in the air.  I craved more information as if it was water and I was lost in the desert.  Living minute to minute not knowing what was ahead was very, very draining.  But I was surviving.  I had my theory, a good lawyer who seemed to care, friends and family worrying and working for me and I didn’t feel like I was in any sort of immediate danger.  Life wasn’t good but I tried to keep the glass half full and focus on what I could control. 

     Going back into my cell after any time away from it was depressing.  I dreaded it.  I wished that I had a ball and glove so I could at least do my best Steve McQueen impression from The Great Escape.  I could probably waste away many hours just tossing the ball against the wall.  Unfortunately I’d have to imagine it.  The time spent alone in my cell offered nothing except for inner discussions with myself and a wandering mind that often betrayed me.  Luckily, though, the guard who promised me a shower came through.  I could hear things happening down the hall at the other end and it looked like a few guys at a time were being allowed to use one of the two curtain-less showers.  I also saw the two phones being used so I knew that I’d get to make some calls soon.  This raised my spirits considerably.  My mom would be at work so I wouldn’t be able to talk to her.  I’d call Kira.  I knew that she was probably very concerned since she hadn’t spoken to me since early Sunday morning.  She wasn’t connected to any of my other friends so she wouldn’t have any other information unless she had tried to find out something on her own. 

     The shower was fantastic.  I’d always wondered what it was about the simple task of showering that invigorated you but the shower in jail helped give me a sense of normalcy.  Unfortunately I’d be putting on the same clothes as before but at least I was clean.  The bottoms of my jeans had sort of started fraying recently.  In a little fewer than two full days I had totally pulled out the stitching all the way around the bottoms of both legs.  I guess when I sat on my bed thinking I would pick at them.  I didn’t even realize I was doing it the first night until many, many hours had gone by.  So now I was clean but putting on dirty and frayed clothes.  I was looking more and more like a criminal, I thought.  I was the last inmate who was offered a shower.  Not everyone took one.  In fact, not very many took a shower at all.  Maybe hygiene wasn’t on the criminal’s list of importance.  When I was finished and clothed, the officer told me that I could use the phone for awhile.  I immediately got excited to be able to connect to the outside world.  I knew that Kira would be eager to hear from me. 

     My conversations with Kira since my first call from the holding cell downstairs had been about what was happening with me.  We had not discussed anything about her visit or our “break.”  Our time had been limited during our calls and the extreme nature of what I was going through was an obvious overshadow to everything else.  My mind was so clouded with fear and stress and uncertainty that I hadn’t really given any thought to what feelings I knew were missing for me in regards to her.  I pushed that fact aside as I dialed her number.  Kira represented emotional support for me, which I desperately needed at that moment in my life.  The overwhelming nature of the possibilities that I faced made me feel very exposed and vulnerable, something that I had never experienced before.  I was aware of it and didn’t like the feeling but couldn’t do much to control it.  As the phone rang at Kira’s apartment I briefly gave thought that me calling her was probably very selfish on my part.  I knew what I knew, which was that I didn’t have the romantic feelings for her that I knew were necessary for me to put the effort into any sort of quality relationship.  I was angry at myself for crossing the line when she was in town and ending up in bed with her.  If I hadn’t gone to jail and been in this mess I would have probably just not called her for several months.  Let it blow over.  The “kicker,” though, was the underlying fact that we were both planning on working at camp again in just a few short months.  Not to mention that I’d be her direct supervisor.  By the time we got to Maine I was sure that she would be over me not calling her.  Or so I hoped.  But her being available to talk while I was locked up represented a huge outlet for me.  We did have a natural emotional connection and our conversations up until her visit were the basis for at least a solid friendship.  I put aside any guilt that I had for calling her and we ended up getting to talk for the entire 30 minutes before time expired, which was almost exactly when an officer came out of the office and gave me the sign to wrap it up.  I caught her up on what information I had, my conclusion of why I was there and what would be happening soon.  A lot had happened in a short amount of time that day and I wasn’t too unhappy about returning to my cell.  I’d get to brush my teeth with the worst toothbrush/toothpaste combo in America, relax on my bed and begin the waiting process again for the next round of events.  The only thing on my horizon that I knew for sure was visiting time, which was about six hours away.  I was encouraged that it was daytime on a weekday and I knew that my people as well as the police were working on whatever they had to do in relation to my case. 

     Six hours in jail does not exactly fly by.  Especially after 5pm.  Once the “work day” was over I felt a little more uneasy since it seemed obvious to me that I would have to wait until the next day for anything to happen that would move me forward.  The more time I had alone, the more the negative thoughts would slowly return and the more I would create any number of possible scenarios on the future of my life.  There was only so much people watching out the window and reading the Bible that I could take.  I was horribly sleep deprived.  I wished that after visiting time that I could simply return to my cell and sleep through the entire night until breakfast on Tuesday.  Maybe.  Probably not.  I had no idea if anyone would be coming to see me that night but as eight o’clock approached on the tower I became anxious and hopeful that I’d get a short break out of my cell.  I watched out of the window on my door for an officer coming my way, which finally happened a little late.  During the walk to the visitation room I hoped that Jerry wasn’t fulfilling his promise of being back.  I was happily surprised to see Kermit sitting in the chair opposite me as I sat down.  We both picked up our phone receivers and he started with a “What the fuck?”  We  laughed and he told me that Aimee had filled him in on everything that had happened while he was gone.  I could tell that he really didn’t know what to say.  He had no idea of whether or not we could joke about what was happening or if I was hanging on by a thread or whatever.  It was kind of like a conversation that you’d have with someone who has a terminal illness.  Do you talk about it or avoid it altogether?  I tried to keep the conversation light and didn’t focus too much on where I was.  I asked him about Space Camp and what he did the rest of the weekend.  I told him about Jerry’s visit and my new jail buddies and how much I hated the toothbrush situation.  I also let him know that Dave would probably be calling him and how lucky I was that he was on my side.  Several times he asked me what he could do to help and my response was that he was doing it.  However long this took, I said, any time he could visit would be the biggest help for me.  The more contact I had with friends and family the more I felt I could stay afloat. 

     Unlike the six hours that took forever, the 20 minutes of visitation time flew by.  I felt like I had just sat down when we got the word that it was time to wrap it up.  Kermit finished by informing me that he was close to scoring 50 goals on the NHL Playstation video game that we were wrapped up in.  We had been playing this game for months and had a competition going of who could score 50 goals in a game first.  We had both been close.  I told him that it was unfair that he was using my jail time to gain an advantage and that it wouldn’t count if he did it while I was gone.  He disagreed.  The funny thing was that I really didn’t want him to score 50 goals when I was away, and I was serious when I told him that.  For that brief moment in time my worries and fears about my situation left me and the only real emotion that I had was hoping that he didn’t attain the 50 goal goal while I was gone. I wanted to get home so I could at least have a shot at being first.  As we said our goodbyes and he said that he’d come back when he could that week, my last words were “It doesn’t count if you do it when I’m in jail.  That’s the new rule that I’m putting in” and I hung up.  I could see him laughing as he walked away.  I’m sure he was going home to do nothing except playing NHL Live 95 so he could come back and tell me that he did it.  I was fairly sure that our conversation was the only one in the visitation room revolving around video games and amended rules of what happens when one of the roommates is in jail. 

     I returned to my cell with the night upon me.  I was back in my holding pattern and was not looking forward to night number three.  The nights were awful.  Nothing to look forward to for nine hours until breakfast.  Time to kill and nothing to do but think and maybe read up on John, Mark and Luke.  I began to go through everything I knew up until that point.  Over and over.  I wondered what my other friends would think as they found out.  Kermit had asked me if he should tell anyone that called for me, which I told him would be OK.  I would want to know if one of them were in jail.  I wanted to be able to call a few other people but wanted them to know where I was before I spoke with them.  The collect calls and announcement of where I was calling from was a bit much if you didn’t already know.  I knew that I was still very much in the dark and was extremely hopeful that Tuesday would be the day that everything came to light.  As I stood and stared out of the window I tried to think of what beer tasted like and whether or not I’d ever be able to actually drink some again.  I wished that I had a case under my bed and that I really, really didn’t want Kermit to score 50 goals. 

Chapter Ten

Franklin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Twelve

Hope

      How do you prepare to sit in a jail cell for nearly 23 hours per day with nothing to do other than read the Bible and look out a window?  You don’t.  There is nothing else in the life of an average citizen that can get him or her mentally or physically ready.  For most that go to jail, I suppose, it is thrust upon them suddenly.  Like me.  I guess that in some circumstances a person may have a gap of time between their guilty verdict and when they are sentenced if they are out on some sort of bond.  They would be able to get their affairs in order and imagine what life on the inside would be like.  Even for those that are truly guilty and find themselves in jail there was something that they had done that had predicated their circumstance.  When a person engages in illegal activity, the possibility of ending up in jail has to be factored into the equation.  Bank robbers have to be prepared to go to jail.  It’s a risk that they are willing to take.  Most of the guys that I had become “friends” with since my arrival had all been in before.  For me, discounting my brushes with the law that amounted to mere hours in a holding cell waiting to get out, I wasn’t ready for this.  I was out living my life and getting ready for another weekend of activity and because of something that was totally out of my control, the life I knew ceased to exist in an instant.  Had I not gotten on the computer on Friday night and the conversation with Amanda had never happened, I would have been blindsided by the arrival of the police at 4am.  At least I had been given a little bit of a heads up on what had been going on in Orlando without my knowledge.  When I looked out of the window to see who was at the door and saw the cavalcade of police, I instantly knew that they were there for me.  Had Amanda not told me anything I would have most likely answered the door thinking that there was some sort of emergency.  I would have gone to jail in my underwear and without being able to call Aimee and set up some external support.  My confusion would have been exponentially magnified had I gone to jail straight from bed.  Perhaps an earlier arrival in jail would have spared me the view of the clock tower.  Sometime early Wednesday morning I began to despise that the tower was ever built.

     As I sat in bed frustrated, scared and near exhaustion close to breakfast time, I became impressed at the amount of fray I had created on the bottom of both of my pant legs.  I hadn’t noticed that I had spent the entire night pulling at them.  When I got to jail on Saturday, the wear was not noticeable.  Now they looked like they were made in 1972.   As low as I was feeling I tried to keep my good nature in tact.  Melting down was not going to get me anywhere.  The closer it got to sunrise and activity the more I began to pull out of my extreme funk.  It was a rough night.  Long and lonely.  I put myself through the ringer with endless possible outcomes to my nightmare and was ready for new interactions and new information.  I focused on my past and the incredible ride that I had up until Saturday morning. 

     I spent an unbelievable seven summers at the camp in Minnesota.  I packed more fun into those 22 or 23 months than most people have in a lifetime.  I managed to live in London for free with a friend’s mother after I graduated from college in December of 1993.    I saw an ad for American football being played in England and I wanted to play, not watch.  I was 25 years old and found a contact number for the team and ended up being their quarterback for the season.  I was on the BBC throwing the football for some science show.  I went to Club Med as a golf instructor in 2000 and lived another lifetime’s worth of fun in nine months.  It was so much fun that I actually had to leave.  I didn’t know that “too much fun” existed, but, at age 31, I felt that I should probably re-enter society and get a career.  I returned to “camp” life in Maine and added an entire crew to my growing group of friends.  I had travelled to more than 45 states over the past decade and was always looking towards my next adventure.  I even won an MTV contest when I was in college and got flown to Denver in 1990 to party with rock stars.  I had lived in Florida for three years and was now in Colorado.  I did all this on my own and with very little money.  My parents were never in a position to help me with my vagabond lifestyle, so I had to make my own way.  I was proud of what I had accomplished, what I had done and seen and the connections that I had made.  I destroyed several relationships with multiple fantastic girls.  I should have settled down years prior and gotten married but my inner drive for fun made that impossible.  My proudest achievement was my group of close friends that I had made along the way.  They had become my family.  The level of ridiculous stories that we had to tell was astounding.  I was a middle class kid from Lee’s Summit, Missouri who had done quite a lot with very little.  The path that chose me was not typical or normal but my friends were all a reflection of me.  The “Land of Misfit Toys.”  We were quite the bunch.  These were my thoughts and reflections as my door unlocked for breakfast on Wednesday morning.  I wanted to continue my life and desperately didn’t want it to end in the hell of jail.  Suddenly I craved the powdered eggs and toast.  I was becoming “institutionalized,” I thought, which was stupid since my time inside could still be marked by hours.  Who would crave the worst eggs in America?  Something was very wrong with me. 

     I’m sure that I looked awful getting out of my cell and heading to breakfast.  For the first time in my life I actually felt my age.  33 going on 70.  The sleep depravation was really starting to cloud my mind.  I felt drunk.  Not just drunk, but hammered.  I had stopped looking in the mirror.  I nearly stumbled to my table and quietly finished off the normal awful child-size servings in a matter of minutes.  Not much conversation was going on that morning.  Ice Cube made a few comments about hoping that my message had gotten out to his people.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I had completely botched it.  Look, I tried, but there was no way that I was going to remember all of the information that had been given to me.  Between the stress, lack of sleep, uncertainty and confusion, not to mention being everyone’s fucking time keeper, there was no way that any information was getting out via me.  I felt bad since I truly wanted to help them but even under ideal circumstances the chances would have been low at best.  So I nodded to Cube and told him that Aimee would do her best. 

     Before breakfast was over an officer came to tell us that we’d be able to use the phone if we wanted, which I did.  I hated the fact that what could be my only opportunity to call anyone was before anyone I wanted to talk to would be up, or they would be heading to work.  So I called my mother again as she was nearly walking out the door and gave her a very quick rundown of the flurry of events from the day before.  She seemed a little less on edge than the last time I had spoken to her.  Dave had called her and filled her in on everything he knew, which was before we had found out the date of what brought me into this.  I could tell that she was rushed but wanted to stay on the phone with me.  Hearing my mother’s voice telling me not to worry and that everything was going to be OK gave me the strength that I needed to face another day.  I knew that things were happening and that I had a very solid alibi but having your mom tell you everything will work out was about as good as it gets.  She finally had to say goodbye and as we hung up I took a look down the hall to see if anyone was coming.  The coast was clear and I quickly dialed Kira’s number.  She wasn’t home and I really wanted to leave her a message updating her on where things stood, but unfortunately answering machines weren’t able to approve the collect call from jail.  I instantly had an idea that I’d tell her about the next time we talked.  She should change her message to just say, “Hello,” and then pause about ten seconds and then say, “Yes, I’ll accept the charges.”  It didn’t occur to me that anyone else calling her may be extremely confused.  As I walked back towards my cell a new guy who had arrived sometime in the middle of the night asked me to tell him what time it was when I got back.  It was 6:15. 

     Nothing terribly exciting happened between breakfast and lunch.  Nothing terribly exciting happened at any time while I sat in my cell.  Jail life was a series of stop and starts.  Go eat, go sit and wait for the next meal.  Go eat, go sit and wait for the next meal.  Repeat, then sit and wait for visitation time. For most guys I had gotten to know, that was it.  Eventually they’d be transferred, but waiting was all they had.  At least I knew that my situation was different and that at any time something new may reveal itself.  I was constantly wondering what would happen next.  I wanted Dave to come back and I really wanted Franklin to return.  Of course, I always had the hope of a shower or a phone call, but it was Wednesday and the possibility of new information was always right around the corner.  I tried to stay positive and actually allowed myself to think that maybe I’d get out soon.  The daytime always seemed to renew my general “glass half full” mentality.  I unequivocally knew I was innocent and at some point someone other than my friends, family and Dave Worstell would surely believe it. 

     After watching my usual groups of pedestrians on the sidewalk below, lunchtime arrived and we were all a bit more talkative than we had been at breakfast.  I brought everyone up to speed on my arrest report and what had occurred in Orlando as well as where I actually was when it occurred.  Somewhere midway through lunch I saw an officer walking down the hallway towards us and next to him was Detective Harrison Franklin.  Again he was wearing a t-shirt with a torn flannel over the top and a pair of worn out jeans.  Not as worn as mine but close.  I immediately sat up and watched them both walk towards us.  I assumed that he was there for me.

     “Chris, sorry to interrupt your lunch, but do you mind coming with me?  I don’t mind waiting for you to finish if you like,” Franklin said as he stood above the table next to mine.  I was already finished with my plain bologna sandwich and stood up.  I began to pick up my tray but the officer kind of motioned that I could leave it on the table.  There was half a cookie left on my plate and Ice Cube asked if he could have it as I walked towards Franklin.   I turned and said, “No problem.”  Although he truly looked like a gangster and had been arrested more times than he could count, he was genuinely a nice guy and I liked him.  I walked towards Franklin and he stuck out his hand to shake mine as he again said, “Sorry to take you away from lunch but I wanted to talk to you again.”  I responded.  “No need to be sorry.  It’s just nice to be out of my cell and walking more than 15 feet.”  He smiled and nodded and began to walk.  The other officer did not follow.  He led me through the main office and once again I was back in the conference rooms.  We sat down in one of the rooms that I hadn’t been in before, which was exactly like all of the others.  He had the same folder from the day before.

“Chris, yesterday you told me a story of where you were when the crimes you’ve been charged with were taking place.  You said at one point that I probably hear many prisoners plead innocence to me, which actually does happens with at least half of the men that I come in contact here.  Most all of them are guilty.  But your story seemed different.  If I remember right, you said that you were at a dinner party with friends and then went skiing at Copper Mountain, right?” 

“No sir, we went to Vail,” I immediately said.

“I’m sorry, Vail.  Right,” he said while still looking down at what appeared to be some notes that he had taken.

“OK, so you skied at Vail and then stayed the night with your friend up there?”

“No, Kermit and I drove back that night.  We waited out the traffic and didn’t get home until eight o’clock or so. We stopped and got some food and rented a movie,” I told him.

“I see.  I’m sorry.  Anyway, that was the day that this all happened in Orlando.  So you’re absolutely sure that the weekend that you say you were in Denver and Vail is the same weekend that these events happened in Florida?”

“Officer Franklin, I have never been more sure of anything in my life.  I would never do what that report says that I did.  I have spent most of my adult life working with kids and never, ever have I even thought of doing something like that.  I haven’t even been in Florida since I moved here in August.  I have no idea why I am even here.” 

     I was nearly frantic.  The more I told him and the more questions he asked me the more animated I got.  I was totally unfiltered and probably seeming desperate but I felt like I was fighting for my life, which I was.  Finally, Franklin paused and sat in silence for a few moments. 

“Chris, after I left from talking to you yesterday, I went back to my office and told my partner Jim about our conversation.  I told him that I thought there was a chance that you were telling the truth.  In my business you want to be absolutely sure that the people you are arresting are the ones that did the crimes.  You never want to bring an innocent person in.  My only job here is to give you your extradition options, but part of me believed you when you when you told me that you were innocent and I wouldn’t be doing the rest of my job if I didn’t at least look into it.  Yesterday you told me that you’d do anything to resolve this.  Do you still feel the same way today?” 

     I looked him in the eye and said without hesitating, “Of course I do.  Anything.”

     Franklin put his notes down.  He sat up and said, “Chris, I contacted the detective in Orlando yesterday and told him about our conversation.  I asked him a few questions about what happened down there.  Evidently the guy that did this left some semen in the stairwell and the Orlando PD has it in their lab as evidence.  Would you be willing to take a DNA test to prove that it’s not yours?”

     I didn’t give it a thought.  I knew instantly what he was asking and I would have easily turned down any amount of money not to take the test.  It never even dawned on me during any of the over one hundred readings of the arrest report the night before.  DNA?  This was probably the best news that I had ever received. 

“Absolutely.  When can we do it?” I said to him.  He looked at me and said, “How about right now?  Our lab is close to here and our guy is waiting for you.” 

     Just 15 minutes ago I was sitting at lunch talking to Ice Cube and now I was sitting across from a Denver police officer who not only told me that he believed that I was innocent but that he had spoken with this Detective Laney in Orlando, that the crime lab in Florida had DNA on the actual suspect and that I could take a test right then and there to prove that I didn’t belong in jail. This was the absolute turning point.  It couldn’t have been past ten o’clock in the morning (I would have known if I’d been in my cell) and I had actual hope.  Between the moment of him telling me that we could take the DNA test right away and me standing up to initiate getting wherever we were going, I had more thoughts flood my head than I think I’d ever had in my life.  I was purely elated and I’m sure that it showed.  I wanted to sprint to the DNA lab. Although I knew that I hadn’t done anything to justify the events of the past five days, there was always the realization that things in the American Justice System do not always work out favorably for everyone.  That was the thought that drove the wild imaginations that made the nights so terrible.  The darkness had lifted and now it looked like I really might get out of this fiasco. 

     I hadn’t been anywhere besides the immediate area around my cell since Saturday afternoon.  The lunch room was mere steps away, as was the phone and shower.  The conference and visitation rooms couldn’t have been more than 25 yards from my cell.  Not only was I getting to take a field trip to the lab but Detective Franklin told the nearest jail guard officer that it wouldn’t be necessary to handcuff me while I was away.  He signed me out and told the guard that he had custody of me and that we’d be back in a few hours.  A few hours!!  I was walking in shock at what just had occurred.  And I was walking.  Without handcuffs.  I was nearly speechless.  Franklin explained that the lab was beneath the jail and that it would take about ten minutes to get there.  As we stood and waited for the same elevator that I came up on five days previous I asked him why he believed me. 

          “I know it’s cliché, but I just had a hunch.  The way you immediately described where you were and the desperation you had in your eyes.  You didn’t act like every other criminal that I sit in those rooms with.  I didn’t know for sure but your story at least put enough doubt in my mind to check it out,” he said. 

     I was excited on so many levels and I thanked him an uncomfortable amount of times as we made our way to the lab.  I told him that I appreciated the attempt at his “Police Jedi Mind Trick” when he purposely changed where I had told him I skied and what I did on that Saturday night when he was questioning me.  “That’s the way we do it,” he said.  He and his partner Jim had discussed my case at length the night before, he told me, and decided to use caution before moving forward with any further action.  “Most everyone in here is liar on some level and I had to make sure that you were telling the truth.  To be honest, I didn’t 100% know for sure until you agreed to take the DNA test.  Guilty people don’t take DNA tests if they don’t have to.” 

     We talked just like two guys would talk when walking for a few minutes together.  I no longer felt like a criminal or a prisoner, and although I was walking to crime lab to take a DNA test to hopefully exonerate myself and be released from jail, I felt normal for the first time since before the first round of police visited my house on Saturday morning.   After walking through a few underground tunnels below the street, we made it to a room that looked just you’d think a lab would look:  microscopes on lab tables, beakers of liquid sitting around, etc.  There was just one guy in the room when we arrived and I forgot his name the second he said it, which was normal for me under normal circumstances.  He was younger, probably in his 20’s, and seemed to know Detective Franklin.  We were introduced and Franklin explained to him that he needed a full DNA test done on me.  I had no idea what that meant.  I thought for a second that it would be sort of like getting a prostate exam but I honestly didn’t care how my DNA would be extracted. 

     The lab guy started to get some things out of various cabinets and drawers while he and Franklin got caught up on what they each had been up to recently.  It sounded like they hadn’t seen each other in a few weeks.  They brought me into the conversation.  Franklin gave him a short rundown of what had happened to me and they both started asking me questions about what I had been through.  They were highly amused that I went back to sleep after the first police visit on Saturday morning.  I asked questions about the test and how long it would take to get the results back.  Franklin seemed hopeful that they, being the Denver PD, would be able to get the results back in a few days.  He wanted to push it through as fast as possible, which was not the norm.  Sometimes, the lab guy said, it takes weeks or over a month to get results back since they are always backlogged.  Franklin wanted to push this through immediately and get me out of jail.  He was truly on my side.  He did say that ultimately the Florida PD would have the final say on who would run the test, but since Denver had their own DNA testing lab it wouldn’t make sense to ship it to them.  The lab guy brought over a couple of small plastic packages that he was opening.  He pulled out what looked to be Q-Tips on long wooden sticks.  “All I need you to do is open your mouth up wide like you’re at the dentist.  I will swab inside your mouth with four of these and that’ll be it,” he said.  I sat down in a chair and did as he instructed and opened wide.  He rubbed the Q-Tip around the inside of my mouth with four different sticks, placed each into an individual bag and we were done.  My saliva had enough DNA in it for them to run the test.  He asked me a few questions about what I did for a living and where I went to school, etc.  He was a big college basketball fan and he asked me how I thought Mizzou would do in the NCAA tournament.  It was great having normal conversations again with people that weren’t currently incarcerated.  I had nearly forgotten that the Big XII tournament was starting that day and that Mizzou had a game that night.  I asked them both if perhaps they could get me out for a few more hours that night so I could watch.  Franklin laughed and told me he’d give me the results the next day.  To the game, not the DNA test.  After about an hour or so we were done.  We both said our goodbyes as the lab guy told Franklin that he could have the test done by Friday, which raised my spirits even further.  I hadn’t even given any thought to the fact that my test may take awhile to come back, but it sounded like I had become a priority, which was nice.  Franklin and I began the walk back through the tunnels and continued our small talk from earlier.  He recently had a child and spent most of his police work on the bomb squad.  About the time we reached a set of stairs that led us to the elevator back up to my floor, another man appeared and Franklin diverted our direction and went over to talk to him.  He introduced him to me.  It was his partner, Jim.  He was older, maybe 50, and had white hair and beard to match.  He looked like Kenny Rogers, I thought.  Franklin told him that I had just taken a DNA test and that their department would have the results in a few days.  Jim said, “When Harry told me about you yesterday I thought he was crazy, but sometimes things like this happen.  I’m glad that he was the one who talked to you because some other guys wouldn’t have cared.  We hear so much shit during those meetings that it’s easy to disregard it all.”  I just laughed and told him how much I appreciated what they were doing.  He added that he hoped that it would all work out for me and just end up being the best bar story ever.  “Well,” I said, “I’ll owe you guys a lot of beer when this is over then.”  They both said that they would take me up on it.  I immediately wished I had a beer. 

     Franklin and I rode up the elevator and he took me back into the hallway next to my cell after signing a paper in the administrative office.  I thanked him for the three thousandth time and he shook my hand and told me that he’d be back the next day to check on me and give me any updates.  Just as he turned to walk away I asked if there was any way that he could let me use the phone to call my lawyer and my mother.  An officer from our floor was nearby and turned and asked him if it would be ok if I used the phone for as long as needed.  The officer just nodded.  Franklin had a little pull up here, it seemed.  I thought about it, but decided not to push my luck on the toothbrush and shower issues.  He turned to say goodbye and said, “Hang in there,” as he walked out through the doors back towards the elevator.  Now it was just the guard, who looked annoyed, and me.  He pointed towards the telephone and told me that I could use it until dinner, which was just under an hour away. 

     Everything had happened so fast that I didn’t have any time to even begin to process it.  As I stood in the hall in full view of my jail buddies I felt as happy as I probably had ever been.  As happy as a man could be who had brushed his teeth and showed just once in five days, had on the same clothes as the weekend before and was working on about five hours of sleep over the previous 80. I was mentally and physically exhausted and really, really hungry.  I had some serious shit hanging over my head and I was still probably going to lose my job, but I had hope.  Not just imagined hope but real, tangible hope.  I wanted this to be over and now I could finally see it happening.  I walked to the phone and called Dave.  His secretary answered and accepted the charges.  She told me that Dave was out but that she’d tell him that I called.  I told her that it was urgent that he get back to me.   The only other person who I knew who might be home in the middle of the day on a Wednesday was Kira, and I was really looking forward to talking to her.  This time she answered and we ran out the first 30 minutes of time and I called back and didn’t stop talking until the same officer as before came out to let me know that it was dinner time and that I could go straight to the meal area.  I told Kira about everything that had happened and that maybe the DNA test would be done by Friday and that maybe I’d be home before the weekend started.  We talked about seeing each other again.  We talked about touchy feely things that I normally hated talking about.  My defenses had been worn away by the second night in jail and it was as if her visit just ten days ago had never happened.  Time and circumstance had erased it and we were back to where we were before she came to Denver.  I wasn’t even sad or upset that I had to get off of the phone.  I was in a good place mentally and was kind of looking forward to eating and sharing my stories with Cube and the gang. 

     I sat next to the light-skinned guy with the afro during dinner and he thought he’d be heading out to County at any moment.  He was legitimately excited.  He was a mellow dude who had gotten caught up in some sort of drug bust.  He had been to county several times and had friends out there that he looked forward to seeing.  Everyone was convinced that I’d be getting out sometime soon as they were apparently forensic experts and knew that DNA tests were irrefutable.  We had all watched too much TV.  As the end of dinner got closer I had a strange feeling that I hadn’t had before since my arrival.  I was actually happy that I’d be going back to my room and would be able to lay down for awhile.  I hadn’t been in there for over three and half hours and the whirlwind of activity had worn me down.  I tried to convince myself that the rest of my time in jail should be used to enjoy the relaxation time without papers to grade or classes to teach or things to do.  Make it sort of a vacation.  When I finally got back to my bed I stretched out and closed my eyes and slept for at least three hours before I was woken up by the sound of my cell door opening.  I sat up and thought that maybe the test had already been finished and I was getting out.  I got excited.  An officer came in with an older Hispanic man behind him.  He was holding as set of sheets and a pillow.  Another officer behind him had some sort of long, plastic thing that he was dragging behind.  I wasn’t getting out, I was getting a roommate. 

    

Chapter Fourteen

 Flurries

     On one hand, I had gotten three glorious hours of sleep.  It was like gold.  My body and my mind had run out reserves days ago.  I couldn’t shut down my brain and physically I had tapped into my adrenaline so many times just to stay upright that I was like a junkie on the come-down.  My normal stress levels in everyday life are unusually low.  Even in what most would consider a “stressful situation,” my needle didn’t move all that much.  During the first few days of uncertainty and confusion, I think I was simply in shock.  It takes awhile for you to mentally switch over from your normal life to what I was going through.  It’s not like I wasn’t taking it seriously, but none of it seemed real.  There were just so many unanswered questions that I was left scratching my head hour after hour.  It was overwhelming. But the events of Tuesday and half of Wednesday had left me behind again and I was trying to catch up.  Something had to give and I’m sure that I appeared to be dead as I slept on Wednesday afternoon.  No dreaming, no movement.  Comatose.  I was so completely in a fog when I woke up to my door opening sometime late Wednesday afternoon that it took me a few seconds to remember where I was.  Just a few seconds, though.

     When the officer walked into my cell, I honestly thought for a brief second that he was there to take me downstairs and let me leave.  My internal engine didn’t even have time to get cranked up to celebrate when I noticed the Hispanic man and the other officer holding what looked like a toboggan.  I sat up in bed rubbing the sleep from my eyes and watched the second officer laying the toboggan on the floor against the wall across from my bed.  There wasn’t much room for anything additional in my room and the toboggan left just a few feet of floor space between it and my bed.  The Hispanic man shuffled inside and the first officer spoke in Spanish as he pointed at the toboggan.  The two officers turned and appeared to be leaving when I asked what was happening.  One said without turning towards me, “You have a new roommate.”  A roommate?   Seriously?  That’s all the information I get?  I knew that some of the guys on the other end of the hallway were doubled up in their cells, but no one near me did.  I just sat there.  The Hispanic man just stood inside the doorway holding his pillow and blanket.  My first thought was that I was glad that I had the bed.  The toboggan looked uncomfortable.  After a minute or so, I broke the ice and said “Hello.”  The man just looked at me.  He was horribly ragged.  I guessed that he was probably 45 but he looked 60.  He was slight in build with unwashed black hair with some grey coming in.  It was uncombed.  He had on a wrinkled button down shirt and jeans.  Finally he said, “Hola,” and set his pillow and blanket down on his new plastic bed and took two steps over to the window and stared out blankly.  His back was to me.  I had no idea what to say or do.  I wasn’t scared, but again just trying to take in what was happening.  I was still extremely tired and felt like lying back down but felt like it would be rude since the guy just got here.  I asked how he was doing and got no response.  He was motionless.  I asked him his name.  Nothing.  “Nombre?”  He turned and said, “Pepe.”  I cycled through my very limited Spanish and wished that I had been a better student in high school and again my freshman year in college when I had taken Spanish.  “Me llamo Christobol,” I said to him, “Hablo Ingles?”  I was semi-impressed with myself for being able to call up the most basic of my bi-lingual skills.  He just said, “No,” and them some Spanish that I didn’t understand.  I spoke slowly in English hoping that he would pick up a word or two.  I said the same sentences over and over thinking that he would eventually have an idea of what I was trying to convey to him.  He again said something that I didn’t understand and I recognized that he was also saying the same things twice.  He motioned to his mouth and rubbed his stomach which I figured meant that he was hungry.  I just said “no” a few times and slowly tried to get him to understand that dinner was hours ago.  I instinctively added “el’s” and unnecessary “o’s” to the end of English words.  “No el food-o” I told him.  “Dinner-o quarto horas ago.”  I held up four fingers and said, “Quatro horas.”  He smiled and nodded his head as if he understood. 

     I didn’t have time for this.  I didn’t want to spend the rest of my day trying to converse in slow, simple sentences over and over.  He kept asking me a question in Spanish and I kept telling him, “No comprende.”  He posed no threat to me, but for some reason I was overly annoyed.  Even though he represented a complete break from the normal monotony, I had weirdly grown comfortable with my routine.  I didn’t want to babysit.  I could tell that he was confused and the more I looked at his face it appeared that he had a growing red bruise on his forehead.  Maybe he had been in fight when he was arrested.  Perhaps he resisted arrest and the police had done it to him.  I tried to ask him why he was in jail.  After about six attempts, slowing down more each time, I started adding sign language along with my words.  I mimicked a signal for “why” by putting my arms up to my side with my palms up with my shoulders shrugged then pointed at him and then held my hands behind my back like I was in handcuffs.  After three tries he finally nodded and said, “Yes.  Yes.” and said what I understood to be that he had no idea.  I knew how he felt.  I doubted that he was wrongfully accused.  We went back and forth for nearly an hour getting nowhere.  He was Pepe’ and he didn’t know why he was there.  I got it.  My journey had just gotten stranger than I could have ever imagined.  Not only did I have my own thing going on, but now I had a beat up Mexican guy living in my ten foot by eight foot cell.  I knew the dimensions since I had painstakingly measured it with my feet over the course of two hours the day before.  My Midwestern upbringing wouldn’t allow me to be rude and just sat back down on the bed leaning against the wall to mind my own business.  I could tell that he was confused and maybe a little scared.  Obviously he had done something to justify him standing at my window, and I laughed to myself since I didn’t exactly look like an upstanding citizen myself.  I wondered what he was thinking about me.  I got the sense that he wasn’t too bright, but, then again, I have friends who speak broken English that I didn’t think were too bright, either.  The thought suddenly popped into my head that I had just spent four hours without having a conscience thought about my own situation.  It was a good feeling to let my mind take a break from constantly running on overdrive.  It was after five o’clock and I got a little depressed when I figured that nothing new would be happening on Wednesday.  The workday was over and all I had left to look forward to was hopefully having a visitor.  I had three hours to kill and Pepe’ to talk to.  Sort of.  He hadn’t moved from where he stood since he went to the window but there really wasn’t anywhere to move, anyway.  I had stood in that same spot for hours upon hours watching the free world in motion.  Although we were from the opposite spectrums of life, I assumed, we were both now in the same boat.  Literally.  Right around the time that I tried to engage in more awful Spanglish with the accompanying game of charades, the door in the cell unlocked and I stood to see one of the same officers coming down the hallway.  Since it was still light outside and the clock tower said it was nearing five thirty, I knew that something new was coming my way.  I was glad for the break from my new roommate.  The door opened and I said,” Buenos Tardes” to Pepe’ as I walked out into the hallway.  I figured I’d be back.

     The officer took me on my now-familiar walk to the conference rooms and I saw Dave seated inside.  I think that I had totally forgotten that he had been to see the judge earlier in the day to have my bond amount set.  I walked into the room and greeted Dave and told him that I had a lot of news to share with him.  As I sat down, he started by telling me my bond amount, which was set at $150,000.  I was a ldisappointed that it was so high since I didn’t think that Aimee’s dad, Tom, would want to put up that much.  Even 10% was $15,000 in cash that was not refundable.  If it were under $100,000, I think that there was a chance that he would do it, but one fifty was a little steep.  I asked Dave if he minded if I called Mr. Wagstaff to tell him the amount and I picked up the phone to call back to Kansas City.  When I got Tom on the phone he was happy to hear from me.  It was the first time that I had spoken with him directly since all of this began.  The entire Wagstaff family is huge supporters of the University of Kansas, which is the chief rival of Mizzou.  The rivalry, especially for those of us who grew up near the border of Missouri and Kansas, is very intense.  We don’t like them and they don’t like us.  It’s usually good natured, but not always.  My relationship with Aimee and her family had always been a fun one when it came to our school affiliations.  As Tom and I began to talk he threw in a jab about things like this happening only to Mizzou folks, which I found to be very funny.  I was happy that even during an intense life experience like the one I was going through that we could still joke around about “normal” things and not focus so much on the bigger picture.  He asked me how much the bond was, and, when I told him, he said that it was just too much for what he could do.  I could tell that he felt bad that he couldn’t immediately help me.  I reassured him that there were some things that had just come up that may get me out sooner than we had originally thought.  I didn’t want to stay on the phone for long since Dave was sitting in front of me and I didn’t want to take advantage of his time.  I thanked Tom for his support and that I’d call him as soon as I could.  After I hung up, I gave Dave the entire rundown on the DNA test and everything that had taken place in the morning.  I even told him that I had managed to sleep for a few hours and that I had a new roommate who didn’t speak any English.  My spirits were about as high as they had been at any point in the week.  Dave explained to me what he had gotten done in regards to accessing my records and talking to a few of my friends.  The DNA test, he thought, would change everything.  He would continue to gather up all of the necessary information, but he knew, as I did, that a negative DNA test would be the conclusion that we were looking for.  We talked about how long the test might take and whether or not the state of Florida would have to handle it.  He was going to talk to Franklin as soon as he could and he had spoken with my mother several times to keep her up on how I was doing.  I could not overstate how reassuring it was to have Dave working for me.  As I sat there and listened to him, his demeanor and calmness, I was convinced that I had the right person on my side.  Although the fact that Detective Franklin had believed me, initiated contact with Laney and had set up the DNA test was the break that I was praying for, just the presence of Dave and his trust in me from the onset was what kept me from going crazy while wallowing away the hours of nothingness.  While sitting there listening to Dave talk about the timeline and his plan if we ever did have to go to trial, I was about as thankful as I had ever been that he and Franklin found their way into my life.  I still had an unshakable knot in my stomach that would not go away and the stress that had piled on me since the beginning was taking a toll, but Dave was on the case he reminded me to remember when I was back at my cell that he was out there doing his best for me.  At some point he filled me in on how my school and kids were doing.  The word had gotten out from him and his son that it appeared that I was really innocent and that everything was a huge mistake, which was a relief to hear since I didn’t want my class and the parents to have to continue to wonder what it was that I had done to cause all of this.  They still had not found a permanent substitute for my class but the board was actively searching for someone.  The length of my stay in jail was still very much unknown, so they’d have to find someone who was available for an undetermined amount of time. 

     Eventually we had to wrap it up.  Dave packed up his stuff, shook my hand and again told me that he’d be back when he could.  He told me that the DNA test had turned this into a waiting game, one that I had gotten pretty good at recently.  Well, maybe not “good” at.  It was a work in progress.  Dave and I said our goodbyes and I was escorted back towards my cell.  I felt like the events of day were absolutely a turning point and although I was still very much in the middle of a tremendously serious situation, the reality was that I was simply waiting for the results of a test that would 100% eliminate me from the discussion.  I really didn’t know when everything would conclude, but I kind of started looking at everything as an adventure.  I wished I had a camera and could document everything that I was seeing and going through so I could show people once I got out.   I constantly look at life like it’s a movie.  Every interaction that you have with others is like a scene.  There is a story line and drama and happiness and action.  Every person that you come in contact with is like a co-star of your movie and they shape your life experience.  I remember living in London after college and before leaving making sure to take photos of some of the more mundane things from my daily life.  Each photo was of something that shaped my own experience:  The guy who saved me a USA Today at the train station each day so I could keep up on the news back at home, the restaurant where I worked, the guys I played football and rugby with, the policeman who I talked to most every day when I walked down the street towards the bus.  I wanted to be able to look at those pictures and remember what it was like when I was there and now I was starting to look at jail in much the same way.  I wanted to pose for a photo with Ice Cube and maybe a couple of the guards who I had some conversation with.  A picture of the shower and my cell.  I wondered if I would be able to take a toothbrush with me as a souvenir.  I was pretty sure that no one else in jail was having these thoughts.  Even I realized how ridiculous it was that I had switched gears so quickly from the ultimate fear to wishing I could take vacation photos from my stay in the Denver City Jail.  I think I was growing delirious from the intense pressure of everything that had happened and the overload of information that had come my way in such a short amount of time.  Eventually I found myself back at my cell door and could see Pepe’ still standing at the window looking out.  He hadn’t moved at all since I left. 

     Before the guard left me as I walked into the cell, I asked him if a shower would be possible the next day.  I had gotten to have a least a moderate relationship with a few of the officers on the floor and knew which ones seemed more reasonable than the others.  They pretty much knew nothing about my situation, but I tried to remain calm and respectful at all times with them.  This guard in particular was more talkative and didn’t seem like he had been worn down by his job like some of the others did.  In response to my question, he said that he’d be back on shift in the afternoon on Thursday and that he’d make sure that I’d be able to take a shower.  Asking for simple things like a shower really began to bother me.  Not that it hadn’t already, but I was growing less and less tolerant of the way prisoners were treated.  I just didn’t understand why getting a shower and a new toothbrush each day was such a chore.  I just felt gross.  Although I hated shaving on a daily basis for work, I had at least a six day growth on my face and wanted to get cleaned up.  I felt extremely sluggish after not being able to run for such a long time.  I wanted to feel some sense of normalcy and feeling so dirty without being on a camping trip was just adding to my displeasure. 

     Jail simply wears you down.  In a way, it reminded me of the years I spent in the Army Reserves.  When I was 17, I joined the reserves as a way to help pay for college.  My father was in the Army back in the 1950’s and he always spoke fondlyof his years in the military.  I was probably the most unlikely candidate for army service since my ability to conform was, well, not an ability that I possessed.  Actually, I enjoyed it. At least some of it.  I went to Fort Knox in Kentucky for basic training the summer after my junior year of high school and had a great time.  At that point in my life I was just learning how my personality navigated itself through the world and basic training was my first real experience away from home.  I think that joining the army was the initial spark that started the fire inside me for adventure and my craving for new experiences and continual forward motion.  Basic training was fun.  Not many people leave basic saying anything in the neighborhood of “fun” when describing it, but, for me, it was something new and different.  I got to shoot M-16s at targets, throw hand grenades, run the same obstacle course that the platoon in “Stripes” ran (yes, “Stripes” was filmed at Fort Knox), camp out in the woods, crawl in the mud while machine gun fire is zipping by above you, among many other things that you don’t get to do every day. I even found the drill sergeants and the yelling and mind games to be fun.  I took it all in stride, much the same way as I was taking being in jail in stride.  I didn’t even mind the structure, which is what the military is based on.  There was a certain amount of comfort in knowing exactly what was happening each day and when it would happen.  My life in jail had become very much the same.  In a very strange sort of way, I had grown comfortable with the daily routine, although I hated the extreme amount of down time added with the heavy weight of why I was there.  In the military, everything was “hurry up and wait.”  We’d have to march across the base to some location and then stand around and wait for hours for the next thing to happen.  This was exactly what I was doing on a daily basis in jail.  We had to hurry up to eat our food so we could go back to our cells to wait for for the next meal, visitation, phone use, etc.  As I walked back into my room it was probably 7:00pm and I hoped that I’d get a visitor that night.  I really wanted to just sit down and take everything in that had happened that day, but I knew that I’d have to try to talk to Pepe’ again. 

     I went in and sat down on my bed. I said “Hola” to Pepe’ and asked how we was doing.  And asked again slower.  He looked very tired.  His bruise was becoming more noticeable.  I pointed and said, “Que paso?”  Which I thought meant “what happened?” If not, it was close and I figured he’d understand.  He gave me a lengthy response that got him animated.  He feigned punches and the only word I could pick out was “policia,” which I took to mean that he had been hit by the police.  I assumed that he did something to instigate them.  “Por que’?” I came back with.  I wanted to know why they hit him.  I honestly didn’t know if I was using the right Spanish words, but he immediately said “no se” a few times.  He didn’t know why they hit him.  I didn’t buy it.  The police don’t generally just hit someone.  Then again, the police don’t generally arrest innocent teachers for crimes that took place when they were 3000 miles away from the scene, either.  I was in no position to judge.  Pepe’ just stood there and looked very sullen.  I wondered if he was married or had kids, so I just started rambling out various Spanish words in the form of questions.  Ninos?  Ninas?  El wife-o?  La familia?  He nodded yes and said “si” after each word.  He understood.  He pointed back at me and said, “Familia?”  I tried to tell him that my mother was back in Missouri.  “Mi Madre esta es en Missouri,” I said.  I was becoming very impressed with myself again.  I was sort of having a conversation with a man who spoke very little English.  A man who had been beaten up by the policia.  No matter.  We went back and forth with this for the better part of the next hour.  I was actually enjoying myself.  Maybe having Pepe’ as a roommate wasn’t going to be so awful.  It was a total departure from the other five days in my cell alone.  Maybe Pepe’ would be the perfect distraction from the brutal alone time that I had become accustomed to.  It was slow going in the conversation and it took several attempts at understanding even the simplest of answers, but it was a break from the norm.  From what I could make of what he was trying to say, he had gotten into an argument with his wife or grandmother or perhaps his neighbor and someone had called the police and he was arrested.  All I knew for sure was that he argued with someone, the police came, he got hit by one of them and now he was in jail on the felony floor with me.  Since my floor didn’t have just the run-of-the-mill petty criminals, Pepe’ either wasn’t telling me everything that happened or he had a checkered past that included more run-ins with the law or perhaps he had other warrants out for his arrest.  Regardless, we were together in a very small cell and that he’d be sleeping on a toboggan while I got the “nice” bed.  I realized that it was nearly visitation time when someone down the hall asked for a time check.  It was 7:55 and I half wanted to give it in Spanish, but didn’t think that “a la siete y cinco y cinco” was the correct answer. 

     As had been the case each night of my stay, a guard came to my cell at eight o’clock and told me that I had a visitor.  I was anxious to find out who had come to see me and to be able to unload all of the happenings of the day.  I really wished that I could use the phone after the visit but knew that I’d probably have to wait until the early morning again.  When I made my way to the visitor area and walked to an open cubicle, I was surprised to see Lou Greer sitting across from me.  Lou was the father of Kyle, one of my fifth grade students, and also a member of the school board.  Out of all of the parents from my class, I was probably the friendliest with him.  From the very beginning of the year, Lou and I had become friends and I had been out with him on more than a few occasions to watch a football game or something similar. I had been over to his house a couple of times for dinner and I really liked his family.  He had been one of the first to “welcome” me to Colorado.  He had gone to undergrad at the University of Missouri at Rolla, one of the schools in the University of Missouri system.  Mizzou was the flagship, but there were satellites in Rolla, St. Louis and Kansas City.  Rolla was an engineering school in the rural town of Rolla in southern Missouri.  Lou had played football there years earlier.  Many years earlier, I usually joked with him.  His son, Kyle, was probably my favorite student in my class.  He had a black and gold Rolla football sweatshirt that he wore for something like 50 straight days.  He was very quiet but a good kid and fun to have in the classroom.  Seeing Lou sitting there immediately brightened my spirits and we both picked up our phones at the same time to begin our conversation.

     “How you holding up?” he asked first.  I described the rigors of jail life and that I looked forward to getting out and running again.  Lou and I had put on a flag football game earlier in the school year with the kids in the fifth through eighth grade.  I quarterbacked one team and he did the same for the other team.  My team was Mizzou and his was Rolla.  We all wore black and gold, which made my job to find an open receiver very difficult.  A bunch of parents came out to watch the game and it turned out to be really fun and great team building event. Of course, Jerry didn’t like it.  Neither did the Kindergarten principal, all of which I found amusing since Lou had been on the school board for awhile.  Even after seven months, I still didn’t understand the dynamics of the board.  I really liked most of them, but Jerry was so polarizing that it seemed like everyone just kind of let him do his thing, which was to be unpleasant.  I wondered if he made everyone hold hands before meetings. 

     Since Lou was the first person that I really got to talk to after the flurry of information and activity from the day, I took him through everything.  Lou said more than once not to worry about my job, which was pretty much, or completely, opposite of what Jerry had said on Sunday night.  Talking to him was very comforting.  I enjoyed his company and I found it extremely nice of him to take the time to come down and check on me.  We had a good talk and he told me that all of the kids from my class were hoping that I’d be out soon.  Kyle was taking it pretty hard, he explained.  I told him to say hi to everyone at school and to tell them that I was doing OK.  He seemed encouraged with all of the information that I gave him and, as usual, the time had sped up on me and our visit was over.  I didn’t have the kind of friendship with Lou where we’d end by touching hands on the Plexiglas, but I imagined in my mind how funny that would be.  He said goodbye and to “hang in there,” which was a popular phrase for my well-wishers to end our conversation with.  I hoped that they hadn’t meant it literally, as in “HANG in there.”  I didn’t have my belt, anyway.  The cops knew what they were doing.  I waved as he walked out and was soon being escorted back to my cell.  After all that had happened with Franklin, the DNA test, Dave’s visit, my phone calls to Kira and Tom Wagstaff, I didn’t have the usual dread that I normally had following a visitor. Plus, I knew that Pepe’ was waiting back at home for me to come back and resume our riveting discussion.  I looked forward to some “under the door” conversations with Cube and the light skinned, afro guy that I had gotten to know.  I knew that they would be interested to hear the latest from me. 

     The return to my cell was normal: very little conversation with the guard and the lights in the hall were dimmed for the night.  I realized that I hadn’t read the Bible lately but could probably recite most of the stories by heart.  Once I got back into my confines, I noticed that Pepe’ had moved to a reclined position on the toboggan.  He was awake and we exchanged Spanish and English “hellos” when I sat down on my bed.  My arrest report was still sitting where I left it in the morning and the Bible was on the floor near the bed.  I wondered if Pepe’ had tried to read the narrative of the night in Orlando but assumed that he probably knows about five English words in total.  I tried to engage my neighbors in conversation but it seemed that everyone was already asleep, which was extremely odd considering the fact that there was always noise and muffled talk going on at all hours.  I just sat on my bed and took myself through every stop in my Wednesday adventures.  Pepe’ had closed his eyes so I figured that I’d be on my own for awhile.  I wasn’t tired at all, but certainly not rested.  A little adrenaline was still present in my blood and I was wide awake as it got nearer to nine o’clock at night.  Pepe’ had the path blocked to the window as he had shifted the toboggan to fit the room a little better while I was gone.  Some spring cleaning.  It really opened up the space, I laughed to myself.  As I reclined into bed, I started flipping through the arrest report again.  Eventually all of the good feelings from the day were gone from my body and the dark fear and dread began to return.  I tried to fight it off, but my imagination began to run amok.  What if Laney and the Florida PD were convinced that I was their guy and they wanted to test the DNA themselves and rig it so it came out positive?  What if they were so sure that they had their man that they’d lie to put me in prison?  Laney had done so much work on this case that I was sure that the worst circumstance for him would be exactly what was happening:  he had the wrong guy.   As I read through the story of what happened on January 5^th, 2002 at the Radisson Hotel in Orlando, I wondered what the actual suspect was doing that night.  Did I know him?  Did he know me?  It was all too overwhelming to think about, really.  The “why” and the “how” of exactly what led me to this position in life was too much to really comprehend.  My head literally started to hurt with all of the unanswered questions and possibilities that were flooding me.  Luckily, someone down the hall needed a time check and I was snapped out of my blank stare towards the ceiling.  It was nearly ten o’clock.  As I began to lie back down, the lock on my door made the familiar mechanical clicking noise to alert me that someone was coming to my, um, our, cell.   It might be for Pepe’, but I hoped that something new was coming my way.  After all that had taken place during the day, I couldn’t even begin to guess what could happen so late at night.  Maybe I was going home?  I allowed myself to briefly get excited that maybe the ordeal was coming to a close.  In the span of just ten seconds, I had at least seventeen guesses of what was going on.  I even thought that someone finally figured out after me asking anyone who would listen that I really, really wanted another toothbrush.  Anything was possible in jail.  Nothing made a whole lot of sense.  The door opened and a familiar officer stepped inside and told me that someone was here to see me.  I asked if he knew if it was my lawyer, which he didn’t.  As he led me out into the hallway he told me that Detective Franklin was waiting for me in a conference room with another officer that he didn’t know.  I was anxious and excited that I’d be seeing Franklin again.  Every interaction with him thusfar had brought nothing but positive and I hoped that this would be more of the same.

     There wasn’t much going on in the administrative office as I shuffled through behind the guard.  It was now a familiar area for me, one that most of the other guys around me didn’t get to see since they didn’t have lawyers or visitors.  There was usually someone sitting at what could be a “control desk.” I’d always greet whoever was seated at the console when I passed by.   I was pretty sure that there were only three or so guys that worked that station and I’d said hello to each of them multiple times.  Regardless of the situation I found myself in during my life, I never forgot the simple life lessons that my parents instilled in me:  Treat others with respect and say “please” and “thank you.”  If I did those two things, they told me, I’d get what I gave.  Although the world, adulthood and life in general put those lessons to the test on more than several occasions, I still believed that being respectful went a long way with the people who would notice such things.  Not everyone did, especially when you’re masquerading as a criminal in jail.  My patience had been tried more times during my incarceration than I could count, but getting visibly or angry at my treatment wasn’t going to make anything better.  I unequivocally knew that the longer this mess went on, the more I wasn’t sure how long my good nature could last.  I could feel myself being less and less tolerant with the police officers and guards who blatantly viewed prisoners as lesser individuals and treated them, us, as such.  My luck was on the upswing all day, though, and a new turn in the road was ahead.  I hoped that Franklin had good news for me. 

     Franklin was standing outside one of the conference rooms when I turned the corner to the hallway separating the rest of the darkened rooms.  All of the doors were closed and he was kind of half in and half out of the room next to him.  I could see that someone with black hair was seated inside but he was obscured by the reflection from the other windows of other rooms.  Franklin took a few steps towards me and then looked at my escort and sort of waved him off.  He extended his hand and I did the same to greet him as he said, “Chris, I have someone that I want you to meet,” We shook hands and kept moving a couple of steps until we were both standing just inside the open room.  The man who I’d seen through the windows stood up and Franklin motioned towards him and said, “Chris, this is Detective Geoff Laney from the Orlando Police Department.”  He continued by pointing back at me and continued, “Detective Laney, this is Chris Justice, the gentleman I spoke to you about on the phone this morning.”  I stood in silence for a moment.  I wasn’t sure what to say. Laney was maybe five feet, seven inches and looked like one of the pilots from the movie “Airplane.”  He had a Tom Selleck mustache and looked like a detective should look.  In 1978.  I was standing mere feet away from the man that I called from my house on Saturday morning.  I wondered if he had gotten my message, and instead of just letting that thought run through my mind, it made its way out through my mouth.  That’s the first thing I said to him.  “Did you get my message on Saturday?” I blurted it out like he was a friend who hadn’t called me back.  He sort of chuckled and nodded a “yes.” I was sure that he was a bit taken back by my “greeting.”  I immediately apologized and extended my hand and told him that it was nice to meet him.  I was horribly conflicted since it really wasn’t nice to meet him.  Whatever blunder that caused a squadron of police to visit my house three times on Saturday morning and land me in the worst circumstances imaginable was directly attributed to him.  I didn’t know Laney and had never met him.  Before Saturday morning I had never heard the name “Geoff Laney,” but sleepless night followed by sleepless night followed by sleepless night gave me plenty of opportunity to imagine what kind of dipshit detective he had to be.  I had a slew of things that I wanted to say to him before he could even get a word in, but I withheld my candor until I could get a grasp of why he was in Denver.  Wait, was he taking me back to Florida now?  I panicked inside.  I wasn’t ready to go back to Florida.  Did I screw up and sign the wrong extradition form?  Had Franklin been working with Laney the whole time and suckered me into taking some bogus DNA test to trap me?  My mind was going so fast that I honestly forgot exactly what was happening for a moment.  It was one of those moments in life when hundreds of thoughts race through your mind in a split second and each thought is presented, debated and discarded before moving onto the next.  Time stopped and it seemed like Franklin and Laney were frozen while I thumbed through the files in my brain to find the right one for this particular situation.  The “What To Do When In Jail For Molesting A Teenage” file wasn’t easily accessible.  I just stood there. 

     Laney started.  “Chris, Detective Franklin called me this morning and explained his conversation with you yesterday.  Obviously whatever you said to get him to believe you moved him enough to reach out to us down in Orlando.  I know that you’ve read my arrest report and I gotta say that I was very surprised to hear from him.”  I didn’t move.  I carefully took in every word that he said. Although my lifelong case of A.D.D. normally caused me to unconsciously wander off in the middle of sentences and conversations, I was supremely focused on what he was saying.  What a total fuckface, I thought.  I was so angry on the inside that I nearly started to shake but forced it all back down.  I had a a bad habit of not listening to entire discussions and instead drawing conclusions before the person talking to me had reached the end of whatever they were trying to say.  This man had only said one thing to me and immediately I translated it in my mind as, “Chris, you’re guilty as hell and I’m super annoyed that this idiot next to you bought whatever sob story you sold him.”  I remained motionless and let him continue. I concluded that he hadn’t hopped on a plane to come all the way out west just to tell me that I was a liar and that Franklin was stupid.  “But the more I listened to what he told me about your story and your account of where you were when the crime was committed and the number of people that you came in contact with and the electronic trail you immediately recalled made me re-think everything that I’d been doing on this case since the onset,” he told me.  “When another officer from another state takes the time to call me to tell me that I may have the wrong man in custody, well, I simply wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t follow up on it.”  He sat down and shuffled through some papers and asked me to sit down, which I did.  Detective Franklin stood behind me.  I still wasn’t sure where all of this was going and wondered if I should put a halt on it until I could get Dave down to the station.  His original warnings of the police not being my friend and not to talk to them were beating me over the head.  Franklin had tried his Jedi thing on me and he didn’t even have much investment in the case yet.  Laney had gotten to know me for over two months and had talked to my friends and co-workers.  He believed that I was the guy who beat-off with a 14 year old in a stairwell so much that he had me arrested.  He wrote that report with my name in bold print over fifty times.  I was still resisting the incredible urge to ask him the thousands of questions that I had, but figured that I’d get my chance to talk.  I was proud of myself for showing unprecedented restraint.   In the movie version of this scene in my head, I had him by the collar against the wall shaking him while screaming about how badly he screwed this case and my life up.  Franklin was backing me up.  We kicked the shit out of him.  Those were my thoughts as I stared back at him waiting to see where he was headed.

      He pulled out an eight by ten color photo and slid it across the table.  He turned it so it faced me right side up. I looked down as he said, “Chris, do you know this man?”  I assumed that this was the guy he was looking for, which clearly wasn’t me.  The guy in the photo had on a black ski cap, was clean shaven and probably in his late 20’s or early 30’s.  I couldn’t tell what he was wearing as the picture was just his face from the shoulders up.  It looked like he had on a t-shirt with a v-neck collar.  He was sort of smiling but it came across as more of a smirk.  The one thing that immediately caught my attention was the awful silver necklace that he was wearing.  It was oversized and looked like a small link chain, one you’d lock a gate with.  It was “stylish,” if you liked that sort of thing.  Which I didn’t.  I looked at the photo for well over a solid minute or two.  I wanted to know him.  I really wanted to know him.  It would have been so much easier if knew who he was.  But I didn’t.

     “No, I don’t know who that is, and I’d never wear that necklace.” Franklin laughed.  Laney did not.  He asked if I was sure.  I pushed the photo back over towards him as I again said that I had no idea who he was.  Laney asked me when I moved to Colorado, and without hesitation, I said, “You know when I moved to Colorado.  You know everything about me.”  Laney loosened up a little and sat back in his chair.  “Chris, I came to Denver to talk to you myself.  If there are things that I missed in my investigation and you’re not the right guy then you shouldn’t be here.  I understand your frustration but I’m here to help you.  I’m man enough to admit if I made a mistake.  I’m trying to put all of this together.”  Fair enough.  I told him that I had moved out in August after flying from Portland, Maine to Orlando and driving a moving van across the country.  I added that I hadn’t been back in Florida since I crossed the Georgia state line on my way to Denver.  I wanted to continue with the story of my entire eight months in Colorado per each day, but he had more questions.  “I know you’ve taken a DNA test, and that’s a huge sign that you’re confident that the results will show that you’re not the man who committed the crimes that you read about.  Detective Franklin gave me the rundown of where you were that weekend, but can you go through it again for me?”  Finally, the right question.  I took up the next ten minutes explaining in vivid detail the events of the weekend in question.  I had had enough alone time recently to go through it all in my head so many times that I could recount nearly every conversation that I had and who I had them with, what I wore each day, what I ate, who I called, what ski runs we took in Vail, everything.  He just sat and took notes and nodded and mumbled “uh huh” every once in awhile.  As I spoke, I was still processing the weekend and even the events leading up to the weekend.  I had forgotten that I was in Vegas for New Years Eve, which was the Tuesday of the week before. I had driven there with a buddy from Denver and met up with a couple of other friends there.  It was a spur of the moment trip and one that I took partly to get away from the phone at home so that I wouldn’t have to talk to Kira if she called.  I wanted to avoid her completely since she had just left the Sunday prior and I thought that she might still be stinging a little.  I told Laney that I had a couple of photos of me taken in Vegas and that I had a full goatee at the time.  I didn’t shave it off until weeks later and the guy in the picture he showed me was clean shaven.  At the end of each new description I’d add in who he could call to validate that part of the story.  He kept taking notes and he let me keep talking.  When I was done he didn’t look up for a minute or two as he continued to write.  “Chris, have you ever been in a band?”  What?  Like a rock band?  I asked him to repeat his question, which he did verbatim.  “No, I’ve never been in a band,” I told him. I forgot the part about the guy who did it talking about Britney Spears or whatever.  He started to ask me something else but I had a sudden tangent and interrupted him.  “By the way, my ex-girlfriend Kristi works at Disney’s Animal Kingdom and I don’t wear any cologne,”   He looked puzzled.  I began to say something about him apparently really wanting to know where my girlfriend in Orlando worked and what type of cologne I wore, but backed off when I remembered what Amanda had told me if Laney knew that she had been the one who tipped me off about him asking questions.  He didn’t appear to get what I was saying and just continued with his questions.  “So, you’ve never been in a band, you were in Vail and at home on the day in question and you have no idea who the man in the photo is, right?”  “Yes, that’s 100% true.  And my lift ticket from that day is sitting in the truck of my car, which is parked outside of my house.  You can go get it if you like,” I told him.  He sat back and started to straighten up his papers and putting them back into a folder that was sitting on a stack of similar folders.  “Well, that was my last question, Chris.”  He paused for a moment and then hesitated to regain his thoughts.  “Do you mind if a couple of other Orlando officers that and I go to your house and take a look around?”  I became visibly annoyed.  Hadn’t I given him more than enough detailed information for him to let me go?  How many more verifiable facts did he need from me?  I gave him my DNA and a by-the-hour report of my exact whereabouts during the weekend in question.  I told him who to call and where to find each person who could corroborate every single piece of my story.  I told him where to find my Vail lift ticket with the exact date of the crime stamped on the front.  Unless he believed that everyone who said they saw me in Colorado that weekend was lying, it was a scientific impossibility for me to have physically been in Orlando when the crimes were committed.  I would have had to leave my house on Saturday night without Kermit knowing.  Since he went to bed around ten o’clock Mountain Time, the absolute earliest I could have left would have been 10:15pm or so.  I’d then have to drive myself to the nearest airport, which was Centennial, a small, commuter airport about fifteen minutes away from my house without traffic.   When I got to the airport I’d have to immediately get on a jet that I had waiting for me and fly the three hours to Orlando.  That would put me on the ground in Florida no earlier than 3:00am Eastern Time on the morning of the 6^th, approximately one hour after the crime in the stairwell had been committed.  Even under perfect conditions, if I didn’t leave my house until 10:15pm, the probability that I could even be over Florida airspace when the crime was in progress was zero.  This isn’t even taking into account the fact that the suspect began his interactions with the coaches and cheerleaders much earlier in the evening, which was around 8pm Eastern.  I would have just been leaving Vail at that point.  In world of reality, there was no conceivable way that I could have made it to Florida until mid-Sunday morning via an early commercial flight out of DIA unless there was a red eye available, which would have still gotten me there well after the fact.     Let’s suspend time and distance factors for a moment and say that I did somehow make it to Orlando sometime Saturday night.   There was no possible way that I could have made it back for breakfast with Kermit at the Southside Café early on Sunday morning unless Scotty beamed me back with a transporter.  With the information that Detective Laney had at his disposal, assuming that he didn’t discredit every witness I gave him, I would had a window of maybe ten hours, give or take an hour, to get to Florida, get to the hotel, meet the cheerleaders, wait around the hotel for awhile, hide in the stairwell, molest the girl, get out of the hotel, make it back to the airport, fly to Denver and drive back home in time for breakfast.  Regardless of what Detective Laney chose to believe, the fact remained that I had multiple, multiple sources of evidence that proved, at the very least, that I was sitting in my car probably 10 miles east of Vail when those cheerleaders and coaches first met the guy in the photo.  What the fuck else did I have to tell this man before he realized that I was the wrong guy?  Quite frankly, the more I thought about it, the more upset I got that I wasn’t going home right then and there.  Laney had painstakingly dug through my past for several months and talked to everyone I knew in Florida and somehow concluded that he had enough information to arrest me.  With what I had just given him, I estimated that it would take maybe half a day for even the dumbest cop in America to realize that the guy sitting in jail wasn’t the guy that he was looking for.  The level of conspiracy that I would have had to concoct for me to be the right suspect would have put me well ahead of the Kennedy assassination, and all of it done just to go back to Orlando with the hope of touching a 14 year old.  I wanted Franklin to step in and tell this moron how absolutely ridiculous this had all gotten, but I knew that he had to respect his fellow officer.  Franklin had gotten him to come across the country because it took him about fifteen minutes to figure out that something was adding up, which made him a hero in my world.  Earlier in the day, on the way back from the lab, I told him that if this all worked out for me that I’d name my first born “Harrison.”  If I had a boy, of course.  This was all on Laney.  He could put his pride down and admit defeat and move on, but now he wanted to go to my house to look around and investigate me more.  I didn’t think he wanted to go there to find evidence that made me more innocent.  He was looking for more reasons why I was guilty.  He simply had put too much time and effort into the case and there was no way he was flying the white flag, regardless of what he was telling me. 

    I gave Laney my permission to search anything he wanted.  I had nothing to hide.  I reminded him about the lift ticket in the trunk probably five or six times.  I told him to ask Kermit to show him where the keys were so he could open it up.  I even gave him permission to break it open if Kermit wasn’t home.  As he began thanking me for my cooperation and promising that he’d check into everything that I had told him, he stopped for a moment and asked if I owned a computer, which I said that I did.  “Would you also give us permission to search through your hard drive?”  I was tired and at the end of my rope, so I just said, “Sure.  I told you I have nothing to hide.”  I didn’t even give it a thought of why he would want to look at my computer.  “I’ll need your passwords if you don’t mind.  Any email accounts, logins, etc.”  I gave him access to every account and password I could think of and then made one last tired plea, “Detective Laney, I didn’t do what you wrote that I did in that report.  I appreciate you coming here to fix this.  You can look where ever you want and talk to everyone I told you I was with and you’ll realize that this is one big mistake.   I wasn’t in Florida and I didn’t molest any cheerleader.  That guy in the photo is the guy who this and he’s out there somewhere living his life while I’m standing here talking to you.”  He just looked at me for a second and said that he promised to check into everything and get a resolution as soon as he could.  Franklin didn’t say much as they both walked with me back towards my cell area.  Laney was trying to make small talk and posture like he was there to help me.  I really wanted to believe that he was but I was so mentally exhausted, worn out and confused that I didn’t know what to make of anything that had happened over the past 14 hours.  From Detective Franklin taking me away from lunch, the DNA test, my phone conversation with Kira, Dave and Lou’s visits, my new roommate Pepe’ and now having Geoff Laney fly in from Florida and now walking me back to my cell, it had been quite a day.  I glanced at the clock tower as we stood out in front of my door and it was nearly midnight.  The door was open and Pepe’ was snoring.  Laney said that he’d be staying in Denver for a few days and that he’d check back with me as he began to walk away.  Franklin waited for an extra second to say goodbye.  I knew without a doubt that he was on my side and even maybe even a little frustrated with the way Laney was handling the case.  I couldn’t tell.  He told me to stay positive and that he’d come around when he could, which I hoped would be sooner than later.  I was in the most intense circumstances that I could conjure up and he had stuck his neck out for me when he had every right to do nothing.  I appreciated him more than I could ever communicate.  I had nothing left in me as I slumped down into my bed.  I was more tired than at any time since I’d arrived but for the fifth night in a row I knew that there was way too much to think about to have any hope of sleeping.  The Mexican snores coming from Pepe’ filled my ears as I closed my eyes and gave away control of where my thoughts were going to take me.  I hoped that Laney was a good guy and would realize the impossibility of me being in Florida that weekend.   He had spent over two months finding reasons why he thought I was a child molester.  I hoped he spent at least a day trying to find out reasons why I wasn’t.

Chapter Fifteen

Searching

     Geoff Laney was not pleased.  “This is bullshit,” he said to no one in particular as he walked out of the Denver City Jail.  He was flanked by a couple of other Orlando Police officers who had made the trip to Colorado with him.  He knew that he’d eventually have to come out to Denver at some point, but he wasn’t expecting to be there just five days after his only suspect had been arrested.  Since Friday night when he had put out the arrest warrant on Justice, Laney had been planning his next moves.  He’d need to collect more evidence, talk to more of Justice’s friends and acquaintances and finally go to Colorado to pick him up and bring him back to Florida.  He had assumed that Justice would fight his extradition and then not be able to afford the high bond amount, which was exactly the way that it had played out thus far. That would give him somewhere in the ballpark of two weeks to get things straight before traveling west.  He wasn’t prepared for the phone call that he had received the day before from Detective Harrison Franklin of the Denver PD.  

     “I’m not sure what the hell kind of police work they do out here in Colorado, but Justice is lying and I can’t believe that Franklin is buying it,” Laney told his crew.  “I spent two and half months putting this case together and he meets Justice for ten minutes and all of sudden I’ve got the wrong guy.  This is bullshit.”  

     It was late when the officers from Orlando pulled up outside Justice’s residence on Grant Street.  Justice had told Laney that his roommate, Kermit, would be home and most likely in bed asleep.  They were all tired since they were on east coast time, but Laney was anxious to get in and take a look at where Justice lived.  They parked on the street and made their way to the doorstep outside of the duplex on the corner.  After several knocks, a light turned on inside the house and soon after the door was opening.  It was obvious that the person who answered the door had been sleeping.  “Are you Kermit?” Laney asked.  The man at the door nodded “yes” as he rubbed his eyes.  He was wearing boxer shorts and a t-shirt.  “I’m Detective Geoff Laney from the Orlando Police Department.  These other men are officers in my division.  We met with your roommate, Chris Justice, this evening, and he gave us permission to search the premises.  Do you mind if we come in?”  Technically they could come in regardless of what Kermit said, but Laney wanted to be cordial.  Kermit said that he didn’t mind as he opened and held the door for the men as they entered.  Laney explained that they would be focusing on Justice’s room but that they may need to look in other parts of the home.  They asked which room was Justice’s and Kermit pointed at the closed door next to the living room and said, “This one.”  Laney thanked him and apologized for being there so late.  He told Kermit that they may have questions for him at some point. Kermit nodded and sat down on the couch.  He asked if they minded if he turned on the television.  One of Laney’s men waved back to indicate that it was OK.  Kermit turned on the TV with a remote and got up to move a video game system onto the floor.  He turned it on and pulled the controller towards the couch and sat down.  "NHL Live 95" appeared on the screen.  "Let me know if this cord is your way," Kermit said to the group of officers.

     Laney and his men went into Justice’s room and took a quick look around before Laney gave out his search instructions.  The room was small.  There was a bed next to the window, a computer on a small desk next to the bathroom door and a dresser against the opposite wall.  There were a few posters and photos on the wall and a small closet in the corner.  Laney knew what he was generally looking for and he reminded his officers of what they had discussed on the plane.  “Anything related to music or Justice being in a band, a black stocking cap, any cologne, some sort of red sports jersey and anything else that would seem to relate to young girls,” Laney said.  The suspect had been wearing a red sports jersey and a black stocking cap in the photo taken on the night of the crime.  He had also spoken extensively about his music career and mentioned the brand of cologne that he was wearing.  Laney instructed one of the officers to log on to Justice’s computer and go through his search history and his email accounts.  Justice had given him all of the passwords to his computer and accounts when they met at the jail earlier in the evening.  Laney asked the other officer to check the rest of the upstairs for anything out of order.  The man left the room and closed the door.  

     The search began much like one would see in the movies, with no regard for keeping things neat and orderly.  Laney walked over to a small, two-drawer end table next to Justice's bed and took out the top drawer.  He dumped the contents on the bed and began to go through the pile, which included a stack of various papers and random odds and ends.  He looked at each piece of paper for a few seconds and discarded each one on the other side of the bed after determining that it wasn't important.  Old bills, junk mail, photos, blank checkbooks, letters, etc., none of which indicated anything abnormal.  Laney knew that the search would be slow and painstaking but that important evidence was there to be found.  The pile of unwanted junk piled up on the bed.  

     The other two men were doing the same as Laney.  One officer was sitting on a small chair scrolling through e-mails and looking for anything on Justice's computer that would incriminate him.  E-mail after e-mail was read, as well as saved documents and the internet search history.  Nothing raised an eyebrow.  After an hour or so Detective Laney asked the officer on the computer to move aside so he could empty the two drawers under the computer onto the bed, just as he had done with the drawers next to the bed.  The pile had grown and spilled onto the floor.  So far nothing the officers had looked at gave any indication that Justice had anything to hide.  Laney walked out to see if the officer in the living room was having any luck.  He just shook his head "no" without saying anything and Laney went back into the bedroom to start on the new pile he had dumped onto the bed.  As he began to go through the fresh stack, he started discarding papers and keychains and other trinkets on to the floor.  Finally he saw something that caught his eye.  "Hey, come over here and take a look at this," he said to the officer on the computer.  He handed him a piece of paper that appeared to be a letter written to Justice from someone.  There was no date on it and there was no envelope.  It read:

Fletch,

Knaggs and I just crossed the California border.  Wish you were here.  Best vacation ever.  Call us when you have no class.

Jimbo

P.S. We're getting the band back together

     "This is it," Laney said.  The other officer nodded.  "I knew he was in a band.  Everyone has been lying for him.  It's right here.  "Getting the band back together."  Laney took out a zip lock bag and put the letter into it unfolded.   He was confident that this was the break that he needed to help put his missing pieces together.  So far, his investigation hadn't been able to connect the suspect and the extensive talk of his musical career to Justice.  This letter, he felt, proved what all of the witnesses had talked about.  Justice having some sort of musical career was a centerpiece in what every witness, including the victim, had mentioned.  Most of the evening with Justice prior to the crimes being committed was spent listening to him talk about his exploits of being a professional musician and in a touring Christian rock band.  "Keep looking for anything connecting him to music, " he said loud enough for both officers to hear.  He put the letter in the zip lock bag and set it aside. He resumed going through the stack.  

     There were probably over one hundred photos included in the various stacks of papers.  Most were just Justice and friends taken in various locations.  None seemed out of place.  As he flipped through another ten or so pictures, one got his attention.  It was a photo that looked like Justice standing on a small stage with a microphone in his hand.  He was by himself with a monitor in front of him. There was a banner sign behind him that said, "Music Plus Karaoke."  It appeared that it was taken in a bar.  The Justice who committed the crimes spoke about being the lead singer in his band.  This photo looked very much like Justice singing somewhere.  Laney again showed the other officer.  Without speaking, he took out another plastic bag and carefully put the photo in it and placed it on top of the bag with the letter.  The pieces of the puzzle were coming together, he thought.  He knew he would find what he needed.

     The officer on the computer worked for nearly two hours and broke the silence in the room.  "There isn't anything on here, Geoff.  No links to the website that the suspect talked about and no e-mails or otherwise that look suspicious.  I went through his search history and hard drive and there was no downloaded child porn or anything out of order,' he said.  Laney looked up and asked him to start checking inside the closet on the other side of the room.  He continued and moved another stack of papers that he'd already gone through to the floor, which was totally covered with the contents of the drawers that he had already gone through. He started the search by trying to keep things in neat stacks on the bed, but gave up when papers started falling on the floor.  It was hard to tell what had been checked and what hadn't.  It looked like a hurricane had come through the room.  Papers were everywhere.  Drawers and desks were turned upside down.  Hanging clothes from the closet were stacked in corners.  Shirts that had been folded and inside a dresser were strewn everywhere.  

     After three hours of searching, all three officers stood in the mess in Justice's room and mapped out what they wanted to do next.  The officer who had been looking through the closet pulled out a milk crate that contained gloves and winter hats.  He dumped it on the bed.  Laney sorted through the mix of clothing.  There were running shorts and gloves and six or eight stocking caps.  He took one and held it up.  It was a nondescript black stocking cap.  "Is this black?" he asked the two other men.  They both looked at it in the light and agreed that it was black. "This is what he was wearing in the photo," Laney said. Again, he took out a plastic bag and placed the cap inside and tossed it onto the other two bags of evidence.  The search of the room was nearly done and Laney walked back out into the living room.  Kermit was still on the couch still playing his hockey video game

     "Kermit, do you know if Chris ever wears any cologne?" he asked as Kermit pushed the pause button on his game.  Laney had briefly looked around in the small bathroom that connected the two rooms but couldn't find any cologne.  Kermit laughed.  "Nope.  I don't think that we have any cologne in the house," he said, still chuckling.  .  

     "What's downstairs?" he asked as he looked at Kermit.  "Just storage and random stuff," Kermit said, looking up at Laney.  "Can you take us down there?" he asked.  Kermit stood up and walked towards the kitchen and down the stairs.  The three men followed.  When they got downstairs, Kermit pulled the string hanging from the ceiling and turned on the light.  The basement wasn't finished and there was a weight bench on one side with some clothing on the floor.  The washer and dryer was behind them in the corner.  There were two rows of clothes handing on hangers from the rafters.  "Whose clothes are these?" Laney asked Kermit.  "They are all Chris's" Kermit said. Laney started flipping through one of the rows.  They were a mix of button down shirts and jackets and a couple of suits.  After going through one row, he turned and went over to the second row on the other side.  He stopped midway through and took a hanger off of the rail that it was hanging from.  It was a red football jersey with a black number 6 on the front.  "Is this yours?" he asked Kermit.  "No, it's Chris's.  It's the football jersey he wore when he played football in England," he told Laney.  Laney took out a photo from his folder.  It was the photo of the suspect that was taken the night of the crime.  He held up the picture and put it next to the jersey on the hanger.  Although the rest of the red jersey that the suspect was wearing was obscured, it was obvious that it was a red sports jersey with a black ringed collar.  He motioned for the other two officers to take a look.  "This is what he was wearing that night," he said to no one.  He wished that the suspect photo showed the entire front of what he was wearing, but it was obviously red with black.  This was it.  He had all that he needed.  It was late and he was tired.  "Kermit, I think we're done here," he said as he started to walk back upstairs.  Kermit pulled the light off and followed them.  Laney had the red jersey in his hand.

     Laney took a few steps back into Justice's room and picked up the bags containing the letter, photo and black hat.  "We appreciate your cooperation tonight, Kermit.  And we're sorry that it was so late." he said.  He shook his hand and gave him his card.  "I may need to talk to you at some point if you don't mind," he told him as all three officers put their jackets back on.  Kermit stood behind them holding the door as the officers shuffled outside back onto the porch.  The door closed as they walked towards their rented car.  Laney opened the trunk and found a larger plastic bag to put the jersey into.  He closed the trunk and got into the driver's seat.  The other two officers were already in the car.  It was nearly 2am.  They were parked directly behind Justice's green Jetta. 

     "Guys, I think we're done here.  I'll call the Denver P.D. in a few hours and let them know that we are heading back to Florida," Laney said.  All three were very tired.  It had been a long day.  "I'll tell them that they will need to send Justice's DNA back to us immediately so we can run the test."  Laney was satisfied.  He had his connection to Justice and his music.  He had the hat and shirt that he wore that night. Soon he'd have a positive DNA test.  He knew that he was nearing the end of the road and that Justice would soon be in Florida waiting for his trial.  "Great job, tonight, guys," he told the other two as they pulled into the hotel parking lot.  After a few hours of sleep they would get back on a plane and go back to Orlando to get ready for Justice to join them soon.  

     

Chapter Sixteen

Waiting

     I was exhausted. More exhausted than at any point in my life. I actually tried to think of another time in my life when I felt more mentally and physically tired, but couldn't. I stretched out in bed and hadn't moved for nearly four hours. I knew the view of the ceiling in my cell better than the back of my hand and the snores from Pepe' became part of the regular background noise. I wondered how the search of my house had gone. I pictured Kermit answering the door in his boxer shorts and wondered what conversations the police would have with him. Even though I had nothing to hide in regards to molesting any teenagers, I tried to remember everything that was in my room and hidden away in drawers and closets. I thought about e-mails that I had sent and what I had been looking at on my computer. It isn't every day, or any day, that strangers have total access to everything in your life. It made me very nervous to have the police looking through all of my belongings without me being present. I hoped that Kermit would be with them as they searched to try to give some context to whatever it was that they found. Without me there, I worried that letters or e-mails could be twisted and used in whatever fashion Laney wished. I knew without a doubt that Laney wasn't in Denver to help me. Not a chance. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I decided that he had to be pretty pissed off that he even had to come to Colorado. I was sure that it wasn't in his immediate plans. He came because Franklin called him and it wouldn't have looked good if he did nothing when another officer told him that he might have the wrong guy. The more I went through it in my head, the more I came to detest him. I didn't even consider trying to sleep as there was simply too much information to process.

     I wanted to talk to my mom. I wanted to talk to Kira. I wanted to go home. I had had enough. The closer it got to the beginning of Thursday, the more scattered my thoughts were. Why was I still in jail when anyone with a brain would know that I was innocent? How far would Laney go to keep me locked up? I began to focus on the DNA test. I had read about people spending years of their life in prison and being set free due to a DNA test. I didn't want to spend years, or any more hours, in jail. I knew that I was innocent, but Laney knew I was guilty. Why would the Florida authorities insist that they be the ones to run the test? Was Laney buddies with the DNA guys who would conduct the test? Was he so sure and arrogant that he would forge a DNA test to keep his suspect behind bars? I started to panic about agreeing to the test. I felt totally powerless and became very scared. I was nearly shaking as the thought of Laney and Florida making me a match to the suspect's DNA went through my head over and over and over. I was picturing the moment when Franklin or Dave told me that my DNA was a match. Every time I'd finish the thought I'd go back to the beginning and go through it again. A side thought would have me heading to prison for the rest of my life, just as I had imagined the first few nights I sat in jail. I was freaking myself out again and nearly frozen with fear. I had absolutely no control of the situation and it was a very hollow feeling. I had hit bottom many times in the darkness of night during the previous four evenings, and early Thursday was another nosedive into the black cavern. Thankfully, the lights flickered on and it was breakfast time at the usual crack of 5:30am.  Pepe' stopped snoring and rolled over and fell off of his toboggan. It was a good segue into the day.

     There were unfamiliar faces at the breakfast table. Most of the guys that I had come to know since Saturday were gone. Only Cube and the light skinned-Afro guy were left. I wasn't around for a large chunk of Wednesday and apparently a bunch of guys had left and had been replaced by new criminals. Pepe' sat next to me at the table but I didn't know any of the others. Cube and the other guy were both at separate tables. There was no conversation. I realized that other than Cube, I had been on the floor the longest. I figured that over 50 guys had come and gone since my arrival on Saturday afternoon. I was beginning my sixth day in jail but it felt like my sixth year.  I couldn't tell if I had lost weight or if my jeans weren't fitting me since I'd had them on since Saturday morning. I could smell myself. I really didn't have an appetite but forced myself to eat the toast and whatever they were calling oatmeal.

     I was getting to know all of the officers on the floor on a superficial level. Some were more talkative than others, but it was impossible to be there for as long as I had been and not talk to them due to our multiple interactions each day. A few who seemed like hard-asses in the beginning had softened a little with me. I figured that most everyone they deal with is only on their floor for a day or less. So many come and go that it didn't make sense to try to talk to them, especially since most were legitimate criminals who probably didn't like the police very much anyway. I had been cordial, polite and talkative since my arrival and although they didn't know any specifics of my case, I was at least respectful and most likely different than most of the guys that they deal with regularly. Plus, I was on their floor for an unusual amount of time and they were becoming familiar with me just as I was with them. As I walked back to my cell after breakfast, one of the officers who I liked stopped me to ask if I wanted to use the phone and take a shower. I didn't hesitate. It didn't look like anyone else was getting to shower or call anyone, so perhaps my good behavior was earning me some points. I wondered if Franklin was friends with any of these guys and relayed what was going on with me. Regardless, I got excited to have a little time to myself to clean up and call my mom and Kira. The officer told me that I could have an hour to use the phone if I wished. He'd come back in when I was done with a towel and soap for the shower. I was actually kind of shocked that I was being given such freedom. It came at a perfect time since I had been in such a bad place emotionally through the night.

     The phone rang several times at my mom's house before she picked it up. After the usual rigmarole of waiting for her to listen to the recorded lady tell her where I was calling from and accepting the charges, I finally got say hello. I spent the first ten minutes explaining everything that had gone on the day before. I went through it so fast that she had to ask me several times to slow down. I was naturally excited to be able to relay all of this to my mother and to hear her reaction. She was audibly excited and told me that she had spoken with Dave a few times over the past 24 hours. Dave had known that Detective Laney was coming to Denver and was coming to see me at some point on Thursday morning, which I looked forward to. Franklin had obviously been in touch with him. She also knew about the DNA test. Just hearing her reassuring voice helped calm me down after I had done such a good job of winding myself up with all of the possibilities that my imagination could conjure. I told her about Lou's visit and went into detail about my interaction with Laney. I asked her if she thought if there was any way that Laney would rig the DNA test so it came out positive. I knew what her answer would be but it helped to have her say what my intelligence already knew. She told me not to think like that and that everything was going to work out. For the first time, I told her how difficult the nights were and how my imagination went into overdrive. I had avoided letting her in on any of my inner turmoil up to that point so that she wouldn't worry, but it helped me to hear a logical person who wasn't sitting in jail tell me that I was being ridiculous. Although my mother and I didn't have a touchy-feely type of relationship where we shared feelings and such, the wear and tear of the events of my life had left me feeling very emotional. I opened up to her more than I probably ever had. It was this vulnerability that had led me back to talking to Kira again, and calling her was next on the list after my mother had to head to work. We said our goodbyes and I hung up and started the process of calling Minnesota.

     Since time had morphed into segments of fast and slow, I really couldn't remember when I had spoken to Kira last. Each day and night seemed like weeks and months. When I worked at camp, we used to talk about "camp time." When you live in an environment such as a summer camp, where you eat, sleep, play and interact with everyone for an extended amount of time, and cram a maximal amount of activity into the day and night, "normal" time changes. We would say that each day at camp equaled about two weeks in the "real" world. We put more activity and emotion into one day than most people do in two weeks.  You forge bonds with people that would normally take years to develop. That is why my camp group of friends is so tight nit. I imagine that it's the same with any group of people who share their living space and social and work lives on a daily basis for many months. I wondered whether or not it was the same in jail in regards to "friendships," since inmates are all forced to do everything together in close quarters for tremendous amounts of time. I didn't want to find out. As I dialed Kira's number, I tried to recall the last time we spoke and how much she was caught up on my goings-on.

     Kira answered almost immediately. She accepted the charges and said that she woke up early hoping that I'd be calling. She seemed to be overflowing with emotion and talked for two or three minutes before I could even say "hello." I remembered while she spoke that the last time I called she wasn't there. It must have been two days or more since we actually spoke. So much had gone on since then that I had to cut her off and remind her that I had limited time. "I'm in jail, you know," I told her. Always the wise-ass. Her initial ramble was semi-frantic, going on and on about worrying and wondering what was going on with me. She said that she had been trying to call Kermit to get any information that she could. I reminded her that Kermit was probably voted "Least Likely To Call You Back" in high school. His phone habits are atrocious. There was a time seven or eight years previous when I drove out to visit him when he was still in college in the middle of Kansas. We had the plans on the books for months, but in the days leading up to the trip, I couldn't get him on the phone. He didn't own an answering machine and never picked up the phone. I knew he knew when I was coming, so I didn't worry about it. I went and he was expecting me. When I was in his apartment before and after we went out, his phone rang at least once an hour. He didn't pick it up. After ten or so times of this happening, I asked him why the hell he wasn't answering the phone. He said that it was his girlfriend calling and that they had broken up, which I wasn't aware of. I asked him when that had happened, and his answer was that she didn't know yet. "So, you're broken up but she doesn't know?" I asked him. "Yep.” They had been dating since the prior summer at camp. The phone rang again and finally stopped. I was confused. They were broken up, she didn't know and she was calling. "I don't understand," I told him. "She'll figure it out," he said. His method for breaking up with her was by simply not answering the phone. "What if it's someone else, like me, calling you," I smartly asked. "She'll stop eventually," he said. The plan wasn't well thought out, but it was pure Kermit. I told Kira that she should probably avoid him and try to call Aimee, who she had also met during her Colorado visit. I gave her Aimee's number.

     I had no idea how long I really had to talk and kept looking to see if the officer was coming out of the office. I knew that he could see me on one of the many closed circuit cameras that were mounted in various areas of the floor. I had seen the screens during my many treks through the office en route to the meeting rooms. I told Kira everything that had gone on since the last time we spoke. As I ran through Franklin and Laney, the DNA test, Dave, my bond amount, Lou and Kermit's visits as well as my new roommate. I grew more confident that things really had been turning in a positive direction. When I listened to myself describe to her all of it in detail, I stepped back outside myself and gained some rational insight that I may actually get out of this mess. A logical person hearing the course of events would conclude that I would probably get out of jail sometime soon. Kira basically said that over and over. "There's no way they can keep holding you with all of that information," she said. When I thought of it in those terms, it made sense, but it was much different being on my side of the coin. I tried to explain that to her. She knew that I was an ultra-positive person in regards to things that happen in life. "Things usually work out," I often said. I could tell that it was hard for her to hear me so despondent and negative. I was clearly focusing on the worst case scenario and she did her best to talk me down from the ledge. It was these types of conversations that kept me going on a semi-sane path and also why I felt myself giving credence to the fact that I may have made a mistake when I told Kira that I only wanted to be friends with her.

     We were able to talk for nearly 40 minutes. I had to call her back once after the 30 minute time limit cut us off. When I finally saw the officer come around the corner towards me, I told Kira that I had to go. She told me that she loved me and I said it back without thinking. I knew as the words came out of my mouth that I was coming from a very vulnerable place and that it was probably unfair of me to even be talking to her, but I knew that I needed the emotional support that she was giving me. I was able to talk to her in a different fashion than I did with my mother, or even my friends who came to visit. Regardless of my lack of attraction to her, we did have an emotional connection and I let myself go with it, almost unconsciously. The officer gave me the signal to wrap it up. He had a towel and box of soap in his hands. I had nearly forgotten about the second half of my "free time." I finished my conversation with Kira by telling her how excited I was to be able to take my second shower of the week. It’s funny how legitimately happy I was at being able to do something like take a shower, which most people do every day without thinking. Those people in the group that do not shower every day are called “my friends.” I hung up and thanked the officer for letting me use the phone. He told me that he'd give me 20 minutes or so to shower and that he'd come back when I was done to let me back in my cell. By the time I was finished, it was nearly seven o'clock in the morning, and with the sun rising, I knew that more possibilities were on the horizon for the day.

     Whereas I had left my cell for breakfast at a low point, I returned feeling clean and revived. I was actually kind of happy to see Pepe' sitting at the window looking down towards the street. I walked over and said "hola," to which he replied back the same. I sat down on the opposite edge and just started pointing at various objects that we could see. I pointed at a car and said, "car." I did this two or three times until he caught on. He finally said, in a very broken English accent, "car." I pointed at the clock tower and said, "clock." He repeated it. After three or four more, he pointed at his shoe and said, "zapato." I knew that shoe was "zapato," but I said it anyway. He laughed and nodded his head, "Si. Si," he said. He pointed at a car and said, "carro." I repeated. He laughed. I pointed at my pants and said, "pants." He repeated. We both laughed. This exchange lasted the entire two and half hours before lunch. It never got old. We just went on and on. We even refined it as we went. I'd point at something and say it, he'd say it back, and then he'd point at the same thing and say it in Spanish, which I'd repeat. And every time we laughed and nodded our heads. Sometimes one of us would mispronounce the word and the other would say, "no, no" and say it again. We'd keep at it until we got it right. I was using my time in jail to learn basic Spanish. It was obvious that I had a much better grasp of the Spanish language than he did with English, which I found nearly inconceivable since he lived in America. During our conversations, which took exponentially longer than simple conversations should take, I figured out that he had been in Denver for quite some time. How he never learned even basic English words and phrases was beyond me. I liked Pepe'. I really had no idea why he in jail for sure, but he seemed like a kind man. I could tell that he was still very confused about what was happening but he was a break in my monotony. I tried to tell him how badly he snored. I had to lie down and pretend to be asleep and then make horrible snoring noises. I sat up and pointed at him and said "dormir." I did this three times before he understood what I was telling him. He laughed and shook his head no. I just kept saying "yes" while I made more snoring noises. It was a great escape from the solitary time in the cell during my first five days. I hadn't been very excited about the prospect of having a roommate when he first arrived the day before, but the more we "talked," the more thankful I was that he was there. The randomness of the experience wasn't lost on me and I check-marked Pepe' in my head as someone to remember when I told this crazy story after I got out.

     As it got closer to 9:30, a few guys yelled over to ask what time it was. I was always alerted when it got close to lunch or dinner since guys kind of sensed that enough time had gone by since the last meal and got antsy. It was amazing how close it was to being meal time when I'd get new requests for an update.  Pepe’ and I shuffled out of our cell still laughing about our Spanish/English lessons and Cube came over next to me as we sat down at our table. "Where'd you go last night?" he asked. The mood in the room was much lighter than it had been at breakfast. A few of the guys that had just arrived looked like they wanted to talk and I ran down everything for the table. Guys who hadn't been around for long asked questions about what I was going through. The light skinned guy I knew was at another table, and I could see that he was talking about my ordeal with those around him. It was kind of like "Groundhog Day" as it felt like I was doing the exact same thing as I had done before with a new group of guys. They all had the same questions and reactions. Now, though, I had more information than before and they were all very interested in Laney and his visit. One guy chimed in that he had a buddy that took a DNA test and it came out positive, although his friend maintained that he was innocent. I didn't say it, but I assumed that his friend was guilty. The guy didn't exactly look like a Rhodes Scholar and I figured his buddy didn't either. Who was I to judge, though, since I looked like a hoodlum. At least I didn't smell like one after my shower.

     The interesting thing about all of these interactions, the time with Pepe’, the meal discussions, etc., is that the weight of what I was facing was always on my mind. I couldn't escape it. Sometimes I'd find myself drift off, even when I was talking, and think about going to prison. The realism of where I was and what I was going through was always just a blink away. It was the elephant in the room, for me at least. I wondered if the other guys on the floor had this huge emotional weight on them like I did, or were they all so used to it that it wasn't even a second thought. Although I didn't show them my intense worry, they all seemed so cavalier about their situations. I guess I appeared the same way to them since I was able to laugh and joke about it in conversation. My playing it off wasn't an act to appear tough, but my way of dealing with it the only way I knew how. I was extremely concerned about what was to happen to me, but it wasn't like I was going to break down and cry to these guys. Sometimes I felt like it, but I have always been pretty good about keeping my emotions in check, at least externally.  It seemed like these guys all slept like babies while I struggled to get even an hour each night. Maybe knowing you're guilty and making your own bed, so to speak, allows you to get a better nights rest.

     After lunch, Pepe' and I returned to our cell and picked up right where we left off. I would turn around to look out of the door window every so often expecting to see an officer coming towards us. I hoped that Dave or Harrison or even Laney was coming to see me. The closer it got to noon, the more I was aware that nothing new was happening for me. It was hard to remember that although I was sitting stagnant in jail, things were in motion on the outside. I'd start to go down the path of worry and then snap out of it when Pepe' would point at something new and give me the Spanish word for it.  Who knew that a man that I would never, ever meet out in the "real" world would provide me with the break that my mind desperately needed.  I was very aware of how important it was for my attention to be constantly diverted from the incessant thinking of where I was and what I was facing.  Learning Spanish with Pepe' was the closest thing to recreation that I could get and I was thankful. And I was growing my bi-lingual vocabulary.  Senora Shirck, my high school Spanish

teacher, would be proud.  As proud as a teacher could be for a former student learning Spanish while sitting in a jail cell accused of molesting a teenager. 

     Pepe' and I eventually stopped after a few guys needed time checks, which Pepe' translated to Spanish for me.  It was getting close to dinner time and I wondered if anyone was coming to see me at all.  My mom told me that Dave was coming in the morning, and when you haven't slept and your "day" starts so early, 12:30pm seems late.  Just before it was time to go out and eat, I saw a pair of officers’ head down the hall and past my cell.  Usually when multiple officers would go to a cell, it meant that someone was leaving. Sometimes the inmate would be leaving after bonding out or they were being transferred to another facility, most likely the County Jail.  All I knew was that when two guards went and got someone, we never saw them again.  There had been a few times when it looked like two guards were coming to my cell, which briefly got me excited that I was leaving, but this time, they stopped in front of Ice Cube's cell.  I stood up and watched out of the window on my door as Cube stepped out into the hall with his hands cuffed behind his back. This was normal procedure when guys were leaving and not going home.  A few guys shouted their goodbyes as Cube walked past their cells.  This was also normal procedure, it seemed.  When he walked past my cell, Cube looked up at me and just nodded his head.  It was a fitting ending.  It seemed like a long, long time ago that I met him.  Although I never really found out much about him, he was a good guy. Very mellow and very funny.  He always seemed legitimately interested in my story and what was happening with me. As he walked out with the officers, I thought back to how I was feeling when I first met him.  How nothing that I was going through seemed real.  I met him, among others, just over an hour into my ordeal.  Now it was my sixth day and I was the last man standing from the original group of guys that spent most of Saturday together. I was actually sad to see him go.  If this were a movie, I thought, this would be the scene where I watched him walk out while flashbacks of us laughing during a meal or talking through the bottom of our doors were shown in slow motion.  I doubted that I'd ever see him again, but he did promise that Grant Street would be off limits to him and his friends from any car break-ins or burglaries.  At least my jail time had gained my neighbors and me some safety from the criminals on the other side of Denver.  Just after he was out on the elevator and out of sight, the doors to our cells began to click open and it was time for dinner.  

     It was odd not having Cube at the meal with me.  I wouldn't categorize him as my best buddy, but there was something about having familiar faces in the group of guys around me.  The light skinned guy was still around and we had been talking for a few days.  There was a big, tall guy that had arrived a day or two ago whose cell was across from mine who I began to have some interaction with and, of course, there was Pepe'.  Other than that, everyone seemed new to me and they were just starting to get parts of my story during the short meal times.  I had grown weary of explaining and re-explaining whatever news and information the new people wanted to know.  I think that it was just me simply being weary of the whole of everything.  I could definitely tell that I was less talkative and engaging than I had been when I arrived.  During dinner on Thursday I didn’t have much to say.  I had been going non-stop with Pepe’ for awhile and the fact that no one had come to see me was hovering over my head. 

     Dinner concluded and Pepe’ and I went home to our cell.  Just before we had left for dinner, he began trying to ask me questions about his situation and when he would get out.  He picked this back up when we got back.  It took quite awhile for me to understand what he was trying to ask.  By the time I thought I had it, I realized that I had no answers for him.  He really seemed confused and I felt bad that no one from the Police Department was helping him.  The City of Denver is 33% Hispanic and obviously they deal with people who don’t speak English on a daily basis.  I imagine that it had to be horribly frustrating to not be able to communicate basic questions and needs.  As difficult as it was for me to get answers to even the simplest of questions, such as when I’d get a phone call, tooth brush or shower, I couldn’t imagine trying to convey these things to those who didn’t speak my language.  Pepe’ had now been my roommate for more than a full day and not once, to my knowledge, had anyone come to see him in any sort of official capacity.  I put this thought in the back of my head to remind myself to ask someone about him. 

I didn’t have much down time immediately after dinner.  For nearly two hours, Pepe’ and I tried to have a “normal” conversation.  We were getting a little better at making the other understand whatever it was that we were trying to say.  Simple ideas or sentences sometimes took forever to convey, but eventually the basic premise would click.  It reminded me of when I was teaching golf at Club Med.  We had five or six of us on the golf staff at the resort.  Each week we’d get our schedule of what we were doing, which could include sitting at the “pitch and putt” handing out clubs and teaching a group beginner lesson or teaching intermediate group lessons on the driving range in the mornings.  Both of these were free to guests and some days you’d have one person who would show up to a lesson and some days you’d get fifteen.  We also offered a specialized week-long group lesson package. Guests had to sign up for these lessons and they were at an additional cost.  The same group would meet every day for three hours with the same instructor.  Group sizes were anywhere from two to eight.  I normally didn’t teach these intensive lessons as the rest of the golf staff were more advanced in teaching than me.

     One of the few times I did teach one of the week-long group lessons, I was given a French couple who didn’t speak any English at all and a German family who spoke just a little English.  From the onset, it was obvious that it was going to be difficult to communicate with them as I didn’t know any German and could only ask for cheese in French (fromage).  The week itself was a blast, but I’m not sure how much golf instruction they got.  To explain something that would take 15 seconds to an American took nearly five minutes to get across to the group.  I would say whatever it was that I was explaining, and then look at the Germans to see if they got it.  If not, I’d say it slower and use more hand motions and sign language, then look at them again.  Sometimes it would take two or three tries before they’d understand.  They would nod their heads and say “yes, yes” and then translate what I said to the other couple in French.  When the French understood, they’d then nod their heads and say, “Oui.  Oui.”  It was mind-bogglingly slow, but we had fun and they bought me beer every day after the lesson.  While conversing with Pepe’, it took me right back to talking to the Germans and French.  With Pepe’, though, there would be no beer at the conclusion. 

     Finally, around four in the afternoon, my cell door opened and I was taken back to the conference rooms where Dave was already sitting down.  I was extremely happy to see him.  Although my day had been filled with conversations with Pepe’, meals, phone calls and a shower, I was very anxious to get updated on where everything stood.  There was so much happening in regards to the DNA test, Laney’s visit and search of my house as well as Dave’s ongoing work to put my case together that I needed to know where we stood in regards to it all.  Dave apologized for not coming sooner and made him promise not to apologize to me anymore.  He always started by asking how I was doing.  I told him about my new bi-lingual skills and the fact that I got to shower.  I let him know that I was doing alright but was growing more and more frustrated when I had time to really think and process it all.  He promised that he was doing all that he could as fast as he could, but “these things take time,” he said more than once.  He had done some work on my alibi, specifically pulling phone and bank records and talking to some of the people who I was with during the weekend in question.  “I’m going to keep working on this, Chris, but honestly, we’re just waiting on the DNA test to come back,” he told me.  “Denver sent your samples to Florida this morning and Franklin told me that the results may be back as early as tomorrow.”  Hearing this got me very excited.  For the first time, I was hearing an actual possible end to all of this madness.  Dave told me that Franklin had called him earlier in the day and filled him in on Laney’s visit our conversation.  “Laney isn’t here to help me,” I said.  I asked him if he knew anything about the search of my stuff, which he didn’t.  Laney only told Franklin that he was going to back to Florida and that he’d be in touch.  Dave agreed that Laney probably was looking for more evidence to keep me in jail.  “The DNA is the key,” he said. 

     There really wasn’t anything new from Dave, but I appreciated him coming down to see me anyway.  Our visit was relatively short as he said that he had to get to a meeting on the other side of town.  As he left, he told me just to stay positive.  “We’re just waiting now,” he said as he walked out the door.  I had been waiting since Saturday morning.  Back then I was just waiting on any information as to why I was in jail.  Now I was waiting for the results of a DNA test that would set me free.  I immediately felt the same panic as the night before when I went over and over the possibility of Laney and Florida rigging the test.  I shook it off as I walked back to my cell.  I really wanted to stay positive, as difficult as it was. 

     Three hours passed pretty quickly.  Some of it was spent just lying on my bed.  I picked up the bible for the first time in a few days and read a little bit.  My focus was on not thinking about anything and not winding myself up.  Pepe’ was napping on the toboggan.  I had a few conversations through the bottom of the door with some neighbors and spent a little time just looking out into Denver.  Before long, it was visiting time.  As I walked back to the visitation room, I tried to guess who would be waiting for me behind the Plexiglas.  My only thought was that I hoped that it wasn’t Jerry.  Thankfully, when I turned the corner to my cubical, Kermit was sitting across from me and had already taken the phone receiver off of the holder. 

“You score 50 goals yet?” I asked him first. 

“Nope,” he said. 

“No playing while I’m in jail,” I said.

“Or course not.”  I knew he was lying.

“Were you in your boxers when they came over?”

“Yep.”

     I told him about my visit with Laney.  “I saw a photo of the guy that did it.  How I got involved in this is beyond me,” I said.  I asked him about the search of the house.  “They took a black stocking cap of yours and the football jersey you wore in England.”   I was instantly mad.  “Seriously?  How many fucking black stocking caps are there in the world?  And you can’t even see much of the guy’s shirt in the picture.”  I’m sure I was being too loud.  “I’m not sure what else they got,” Kermit said, “but I think they took a couple of papers or photos or something from your room.  He asked me where he could find your cologne.  I laughed and told him that we didn’t own any cologne.”  I wanted to know more details about the search, but it was obvious that Kermit didn’t know anything else.  “What were you doing while they were there?”  Kermit just looked at me.  “Fucker.  You were playing hockey,” I said.   “I was on the couch and those guys came in and asked me what was downstairs.  I told them clothes and boxes and stuff.  I took them down there and they started flipping through that row of hanging clothes in the back room.  When they got to the football jersey, Laney took it down and the other two guys came over to look at it.  I couldn’t hear everything they were saying, but I did hear something like, “We got him.”   Laney was pretty much a dick.  Your room is trashed” 

     Before he could continue, the officer in the room announced that time was up.  I hadn’t even been able to give him an update of where things stood.  “Florida has my DNA and any day now the results will be in.  It may even be tomorrow.  I’ll call you when I can if something happens,” I said as we started to hang up. 

     I was not happy walking back to my cell.  I don’t think I wanted to know what Laney had found and taken.  When I was just guessing what was going on, at least I could resolve myself to the fact that I was just guessing.  But now I knew for sure that Laney still believed I was guilty, which fueled my worry about the DNA test and why Florida wanted to do the testing themselves.  I didn’t want it to be night time.  I didn’t want to be going back to my cell.  I didn’t want to be in jail.  I wanted to talk to Laney and I wanted to talk to Franklin.  Hearing Kermit tell me what Laney had taken from my house made me very angry.  The powerless feeling was overwhelming.  I asked the guard who was escorting me back to my cell, one who I had spoken to a few times, if he thought that DNA tests could be rigged if an agency thought you were guilty.  “Anything’s possible,” he responded.  Not the reassuring answer I was looking for.

     Pepe’ and his snores filled the cell again when I got back.  Must be nice to be able to rest so peacefully, I thought.  I’d pay good money to be able to sleep for more than 30 minutes at a time.  I spent the the remainder of Thursday avoiding any thoughts of where I was or any specifics of my situation.  I did everything in my power to stay away from it.  I tried for at least an hour to count up the total amount of hours that I had slept since Saturday morning.  My best educated guess was around eight.  I thought about playing baseball, which was my go-to thought when I wanted to avoid thinking about something.  I don’t know why, but picturing myself on the field and really focusing on being there helped take my mind away from whatever it was that I was trying to avoid.  It was like my version of counting sheep.  I really had to concentrate and focus on it while I was in jail since the “bad thoughts” were always trying to pry themselves into whatever distractions that I was attempting to use.  I wanted to read my arrest report again, but decided not to.  It was intense working against myself to avoid going into a dark place again, like I was an addict who was doing my best not to shoot up again, even though the needle was sitting right next to me.  I was so tired and exhausted that my thoughts just jumped all over the place.  I may have even fallen asleep for a few minutes at a time, but I couldn’t tell.  Every so often I’d become aware that no one had asked for a time check all night.  There had been so much turnover on the floor that maybe the new guys didn’t realize that I could see the tower.  I kind of missed the responsibility of being the time keeper.  Every so often I’d look out to check the time myself and want to shout it out so that everyone else would know. 

     Somehow I made it past midnight and it was finally Friday.  Thankfully, I was able to pass the time without too much difficulty.  It was just about four in the morning when I heard some movement on the floor.  The lights flickered on and I could see other inmates standing and looking out of their door windows trying to see what was going on.  Whatever was going on was new.  It was an hour and a half before the regular breakfast time and I had no idea what was going on.  An officer that I didn’t recognize walked into the middle of the floor.  He had a clipboard in his hand.  Three other officers were behind him.  I heard several cell doors click open, including mine.  The officer with the clipboard yelled, “If I call your name, please step outside of your cell and close the door behind you.  Make sure you put on all of your clothes that you have with you.”  I listened as he started calling names.  “Chris Justice,” he said, somewhere in the middle of the list.  I stepped out in front of my door, closed it, and looked around to see who else had been called.  The light skinned guy was in front of his door.  No one was talking.  When the officer finished his list, I heard the cell doors all lock again.  There were probably a dozen or more guys on both sides of the floor standing in front of their cells.  The officer yelled again, “Please turn around and face your doors,” he said.  I did as he asked.  I turned my head and watched as the other three officers began putting handcuffs on the guys on the other side of the room.  After they had cuffs on, they were led to the corridor outside of the elevator.  Eventually one of the officers got over to me.  He told me to place my hands behind my back, which I did, and he put the cuffs on me.  I hadn’t had cuffs on since Saturday, and I didn’t like it.  “What’s going on?” I asked.  “You’re being transferred to the Denver County Jail.”

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 City 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.  It was as if he was the Recreation Director and I was asking if my bus buddy could be my bunk mate.  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 to D.”  Thank God.  At least I would have a meal in me before the possibility of being killed began. 

D Block

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     It had been at least fifteen minutes and I had passed up more than a few open shots.  I began to feel a little more comfortable since we were playing and there 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.  Math is hard.

    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, very active on offense to try to tire him out.  So much so that I spend the first ten minutes of most games doing nothing but running around non-stop, setting picks, cutting through the lane, etc.  Usually whoever is guarding me gets tired and I get open a little more towards the end.   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 from some long runs that I had done the week before.  I was pleased that I felt good and hadn’t lost much of the base I had built up as I got ready for the bulk of marathon training.

            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 and very thirsty.  I was immediately annoyed that I was in jail since I wouldn’t be 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 bead that streamed down my face.  I was uncomfortable, hot and fatigued.  I went to the sink and slurped water straight from the faucet for a few minutes.  Chris had to be annoyed that his brand new roommate was leaking pools of sweat all over the room, but he 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, but it’s not like we knew each other and decided to become roommates.  I didn’t begrudge him for his lack of manners.  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 paper I had to sign to get to D Block.  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.  This, plus other random pieces of conversation took up an hour or so.  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 an hour worth of basketball.  Showering would be near the top of the list of evening activities after dinner. 

    

     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.  I’m talkative when I want to be and can sometimes even appear to be a fairly quiet person.  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.  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 depravation 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 would begin 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 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.  I spent four hours per day on the baseball field in the hot sun during most of my summers at camp.  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 would be certain times during the summer when we wouldn’t be able to leave camp for a few days and there wasn’t much showering going on during those times.  There were certain days every summer when the girls would come over to our side of the lake and 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 would bring cologne to camp with them solely for the purpose of smelling good when the girls 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.  The longer I wore them without socks, the more chance for un-Godly odor.  Keeping my feet dry was important, but 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.   I opened it 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 where I was and 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 short 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 horror story.

     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 gotten 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 picked up my badge and clipped it on my shirt and headed out.  The 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.  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.  I 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 role.  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 four-top game tables would also be 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’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, but I didn’t want to appear needy or desperate.  I think Chris could tell that I was flailing a little and he 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 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 activities.  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.  A few were occupied with guys facing away from me as they talked.  Chess, checker 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.  The local Denver news was on the television while a handful of guys sat and stared up at it. Some cell doors were open and others were closed.  It was a relaxed atmosphere and many guys were sitting alone reading or writing.  Many were probably still in their cells sleeping.  I picked the phone at the end of the row and sat down on the stool and began to go through the motions of making the collect call to Kira.  I was excited to talk to her.

     It was Friday night and nearing 8:00 at night in Minnesota and I hoped that she hadn’t already gone out.  The phone rang several times before her familiar voice answered.  The automated information lady informed her that I was calling from the Denver County Jail and told her to press 1 if she accepted the charges, which she did.  I figured that she didn’t immediately realize the change of location. 

     “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii,” she said in a long, pleasant tone, “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”  I was immediately relieved that we were talking.  The knot in my stomach had grown and I was very, very anxious.  I started telling her about my day and 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 I could ever explain.  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 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 four more times. 

     It was nearly 9:30 when Kira finally said that her friends were waiting on her and that she had to go.  She had said the same thing twice before much earlier.  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 let myself believe that I had been wrong to reject her when she left.  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 thought 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 my time was also up and 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 into 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. 

    

   

Steve Nash

     One week ago I was waking up with a team of police at my door for the second time.  I was supposed to be dressed and ready for two of my rugby buddies to pick me up for a day of skiing.  We would have gone to Breckenridge, skied until the afternoon and then sat in the sun with beers in hand enjoying a perfect spring day.  Maybe we’d drive back and head out to one of our favorite local bars and revel late into the night.  I probably would have slept in on Sunday and gone down to the Southside Café for breakfast.  Maybe I’d call Aimee and see if she wanted to join since Kermit was out of town. I’d go for a run at some point then do a little prep for work on Monday.  Normal life just rolls along.  There is a movie called “Sliding Doors” that I often think about, and it came to mind on Saturday morning as I looked up at the ceiling from my toboggan.  In the movie, which wasn’t hugely popular, the focus is on Gwyneth Paltrow’s character.  It follows her in her rather mundane day to day life.  About a quarter of the way through the film, she is at a subway station in London, I think.  She barely makes her train as the doors close.  She had left work early and comes home to find her live-in boyfriend sleeping with another woman.  The story continues with the fallout and subsequent activity in her life.  Later, the story goes back in time to her at the train station.  In this version, the doors close and she misses her train, thus, not getting home in time to catch her cheating boyfriend.  The rest of the movie shifts back and forth between her life when she made the train and the one when she did not.  The premise is brilliant and one that I am constantly aware of in my own life.  Obviously we don’t know when these “sliding door” moments happen to us, but they do happen.  The choices we make every day have ripple effects on the course of our lives down the road.  What was my “sliding door” moment that led me down the path to jail and a horrible case of mistaken identity?  My “other” life would be me sleeping in my own bed after a regular week of work and, most likely, a night out on Friday.  I would be getting up soon.  Kermit and I would figure out what we wanted to do with our day or perhaps we’d already be driving up to ski.  I’d probably get my shot at 50 goals at some point.  I’d still be avoiding any calls from Kira and most likely would never speak to her again, at least until after the dust had settled.  A few camp friends had talked about coming out to Denver for Spring Break and we would certainly be putting our plans together.  Instead, I missed my train at some point in the past and I’m getting ready for my eighth day as a convict in the Colorado jail system.  I don’t think I have a job anymore and I’m facing an extensive list of horrible criminal charges that could keep me in a Florida prison for a very long time.  I’ve been handcuffed more times than I can count, shackled to another man, strip searched and relegated to hours upon hours of nothingness.  I have extreme insomnia, constant worry and a total loss of everyday freedoms.  How in the fuck did this happen?  What did I do to deserve this?  I was just a guy living my life and suddenly the rug was pulled out from under me.  I believe in karma, and it really can be a bitch.  I was now paying the price for some past indiscretions.  It always comes back around.  My life has always been about extremes and this was about as extreme as it gets.  Even though I was getting ready for day eight, I still had a hard time believing that it was really happening.   When I slept, which wasn’t often, I’d always wake up in a state of confusion like I was stuck in a dream.  I think I may have fallen asleep a few times throughout the night, but only for a few minutes here and there.  I had no idea how I was still functioning. 

     The lights came on just after seven a.m. Chris didn’t move and I grabbed the book of short stories and re-started from the beginning.  Eventually it was time for breakfast and we both got up and waited for our door to open.  I had already decided that I’d just hang back after getting my food to wait for everyone to sit down before taking a seat.  I didn’t want to go through the same musical chairs as the night before. 

     Breakfast was good, or at least better than I’d become accustomed: eggs, biscuits and gravy and even some Tabasco sauce.  I missed my catsup, which is a staple of my life since before I can remember, but Tabasco helped.  I ate by myself and didn’t try for seconds again, although I could have probably gone back for thirds or fourths if given the chance.  I was beyond hungry.  We all shuffled back to our cells to wait for the clean up to finish so we could head back out for our morning recreation.  Chris and I talked a little, but not much.  He asked if I knew when I’d be getting out and I maintained that it could be at any time.  Maybe he was curious about my story and situation and maybe he just wanted his room back to himself, I didn’t care which.  After 45 minutes, the doors opened again and the main room came back to life as everyone convened for their Saturday morning entertainment.  I had a few questions about D block life, so I made my way over to the officer at the desk.  He was reading the paper and I didn’t recognize him from the day before. 

“When is visitation?” I asked.  He was visibly annoyed and looked over the top of his paper to answer. 

“When did you get here?” he said. 

“Yesterday.”

 “No visitors until you’ve been here for two weeks,” he said as he went back to reading.  Everything took two weeks, apparently. 

“What if I’m not going to be here for two weeks?” I said as I realized that the words should have stayed in my head. 

“Then you’re not going to get any visitors,” he shot back without looking at me.

I had more questions that he clearly didn’t want to answer, but I asked anyway.  “How will I know when I am released?” 

The officer made a big, exaggerated effort to fold up his paper conveying his annoyance. 

“Why, you getting out of here?  You just got here,” he said.

“I’m waiting on the results of a DNA test that could come at any moment.  I probably won’t be here very long.”

“What’s your name?” he said as he looked at my name badge.  I didn’t answer since he was already looking down a roster on his clipboard.

“I’ve got nothing here about you getting out.”  Clearly I was asking the wrong guy. 

“I know, but how will I know when I’m getting out?” 

“Look, when you get out, we’ll let you know, don’t worry.”  He picked up his paper again and leaned back in his chair.  I walked away and headed towards the phones.  I wanted to call my mother.

     No one was making any calls so I had my pick of seats.  My mom was extremely happy to hear from me.  She had spoken to Dave the day before and knew that I had been moved to County Jail.  I was happy to know that Dave knew where I was.  I told her about the bus ride and John and my new surroundings.  I even told her about the basketball game.  “You’re going to get out soon, I know it,” she said.  I really didn’t want to dwell on where I was, so I asked about what was going on with her.  Nothing ever really changed back at home but it was nice to talk about nothing in particular.  She was thinking about new wallpaper in the kitchen and her car needed an oil change.  She wanted to see a few movies that had been out for a few weeks and was annoyed with some girl at work.  I reassured her that I was doing alright and not to worry.  I think that she had passed the point of panic and seemed much calmer about me sitting in jail some 600 miles away.  She apologized at least three times for not being in Colorado to visit me.  I had told her during previous conversations not to come out since there wasn’t anything that she could do in Colorado that she couldn’t do at home.  It wasn’t like she was going to play private investigator and uncover hidden clues that would help get me released.  Plus, she couldn’t afford a hotel for an unknown amount of time and I didn’t think Kermit would want her living at our place.  I’m sure that he would have happily had her stay with him, but it wouldn’t be ideal.  “Mom, stay at home.  This will be over soon and I’ll see you as soon as I get out,” I told her.  We exchanged “I love you’s” and hung up.  I still had a few hours out of my cell so I instinctively called Kira.  

     The phone rang a few times before she answered and I could tell that she had been asleep.  She fumbled through the acceptance of charges ordeal that we had become accustomed to.  “Good morning, Sleepy Head,” I said laughing, “Late night last night?”  I was jealous.  “Yes, we were out till two or three,” she said through a yawn.  I offered to call back later, knowing that she would say no, which she did.  I listened as she told me about playing darts at the bar and some boyfriend issues that one of her friends was going through.  Since I had exponentially more time to talk and we had just spent hours on the phone the night before, we had gotten past immediately talking about my situation and just talked as if I was at home.   As she took me through some shenanigans from the bar, I suddenly felt someone tapping on my shoulder.  I was facing the wall and turned to see who was poking me as Kira continued to talk.  Standing directly behind me was a very large black man who didn’t look happy.  He couldn’t have been more than a foot or so away.  I looked up at him and told Kira to hold on.  I didn’t really have any time to consider what was happening as I said, “Can I help you?” 

“Get off the phone,” he said in a low, monotone voice. 

The four other phones were unoccupied but maybe I was using “his” phone.  I cut Kira off mid-sentence and quickly told her that I had to go as I hung up without saying goodbye. I swiveled my stool around so that I was facing him and took a deep breath in anticipation of the next course of events. 

     During the seconds after hanging up the phone and waiting for him to talk again, thousands of thoughts flooded my brain.  I knew that whatever was going to happen next wasn’t going to be good.  Maybe my initiation time had come.  I thought for a second that he was one of the guys from the basketball game, but I wasn’t sure.  He just stared at me for what seemed like hours.  Someone knew why I was in jail and my time had come.  This was exactly the situation that I prayed I’d avoid from the moment I was arrested.  If I could only make it through without any traumatic events happening to me, I’d be OK.  This was going to be a traumatic event and I wanted to run away.  I didn’t want to be raped or beaten or killed.  My fear prior to the basketball game was concocted in my head, but this fear was different.  It was really happening.  A very large black man had taken the time to come find me and order me off of the phone.  Something was going to happen to me and every result I thought of was ugly.  I just looked up at him and waited.

“Are you playing basketball today?” he asked.

The question came so far out of left field that I wasn’t sure that I heard him correctly, so I said, “Excuse me?”

“We want to know if you’re going to play basketball this morning.”

I had never been so dumbfounded in my life.  Was he really asking me if playing basketball was on my recreation schedule for the day?  I thought it was time to get raped in the shower and he’s asking me if I’m playing basketball. 

“We want you to play with us.  You’re Steve Nash, the hustling white guy.” 

  There have been moments in my life when I was so stunned by a situation that words and actions totally escaped me.  I walked in on my parents having sex when I was ten or eleven.  My body froze as my mind tried to comprehend what it was that my eyes were seeing.  My initial thought was that my father was attacking my mother.  It happened so fast that my brain kind of shut down and I couldn’t get anything to come out of my mouth.  My parents didn’t have time to react either, and I was out of the room and sitting on the couch before they realized what had happened.  I sat there for a long, long time scratching my head.

     I sat motionless for at least ten full minutes, unable to move, when Leon Durham of the Chicago Cubs let a ground ball go through his legs during game five of the National League Championship Series in 1984.  In the span of five seconds, I went from thinking that the ground ball would result in an inning ending double play and bring the Cubs just one inning closer to their first World Series since 1945 to watching the Padres score the tying and go-ahead runs and knowing that the Cubs would lose.  Again.  This was two years before the more famous through-the-legs error by Bill Buckner of the Red Sox in the World Series that left the entire Red Sox nation in a state of shock.  Buckner played a bulk of his career with the Cubs, by the way.

     In 1990, when I was in college, I received a phone call from a woman who said that she was with MTV and that I had won a contest that would send and friend and me to Denver to party with rock stars and celebrities, all expenses paid, and that I’d be leaving in just three days.  We would also appear on the network during the weekend festivities.  I had been expecting a phone call from my mother and, after listening to what this woman had to say, I had to ask her to repeat it three times.  It was so far out of the norm of regular life that it took me awhile to fully accept that it was really happening. 

     On three separate occasions, the Missouri Tigers football and basketball teams gave me situations that nearly shut my body down, rendering me unable to completely process what I had just witnessed.  In 1988, when Kirk Gibson hit his historic home run off of Dennis Eckersley to win game one of the World Series, the first words out of announcer Jack Buck’s mouth was, “I don’t believe…what I just saw!”  He was so taken aback by what had just occurred that the only thing he could follow it up with was another, “I don’t believe….what I just saw!”  The moment really happened, but no one, Buck included, could immediately accept what their eyes were telling them was true.  It was so unlikely that it was hard to believe.

     Just eight days prior, I was lying in my bed when a SWAT team full of police officers showed up on my front porch knocking on my door.  The scene was so surreal and unexpected that I simply didn’t know what to do or how to react.  The feeling, in a way, mirrored all of those other moments when my brain was overcome with too much information to process.  In the span of just a few seconds, I was playfully opening my parents closed door, thinking my favorite team was going to win a big game, answering a phone call from my mother or sleeping in my bed to not fully accepting what happened next.  My immediate reaction to all of these situations was disbelief.  This is exactly the way I felt after hearing that this man’s purpose of getting me off of the phone was to inquire whether or not I was planning on playing basketball.  I was so sure that I was in serious trouble and in for some terrible things that I had to ask him to again repeat what he had just said again.

“Excuse me?” 

“We want to know if you’re playing basketball today.  We talked about it last night and we want you to play with us again.” 

I fumbled for a bit and instinctively looked at my wrist as if there was watch on it. 

“Um, I hadn’t thought about it, but sure.  I can play ball today.  Just let me know when you’re going out.” 

“Great.  We’ll come find you.” 

     And that was it.  Just as I did after seeing my parents having sex or watching Durham let that ball go through his legs, I just sat there and went over what had just occurred in my head.  Did that really just happen?  These guys, these criminals, had an actual conversation about me and concluded that they wanted me to play basketball with them again.  Even more than when the police showed up at my front door, I was stunned.  This took the cake.  In the middle of an ongoing unthinkable situation that couldn’t get any stranger, it got stranger.  But I was relieved.  Relieved that I wasn’t being escorted to an out-of-the-way location with a crew of unhappy criminals.  After a few minutes of sitting and thinking and eventually laughing, I turned back around and called Kira, who was certainly sitting at home extremely concerned at how I had to end our conversation.  When she answered I could tell that she was near frantic.  “What happened?” she cried. “You won’t believe it,” I said, and she didn’t at first.  I had to tell the story three times before she calmed down and we both laughed about it for the remainder of the next twenty minutes.  “Well, I should go,” I said, “I guess I have to get ready to play some basketball.”  I hung up the phone and walked around for a few minutes before one of the guys came over to tell me that they were heading out to play.  As we walked out, another guy who I recognized from playing the day before walked out of his room carrying a pair of shoes and t-shirt.  “What size you wear?” he asked.  “Eleven or twelve,” I said.  “Here, try these,” he said as he handed me a pair of basketball shoes.  There was a pair of white socks tucked inside and he also gave me a t-shirt.  “Thanks,” I said as I quietly shook my head in disbelief.  If Jack Buck were announcing this scene, he surely wouldn’t have believed what he just saw.  I know that I didn’t. 

     Although I didn’t play as well as I had the day before, I felt pretty good about my effort.  We had a few more guys who wanted to play, so during each game some would have to sit out and watch.  My team won all three games, so we never had to sit.  It was fun to get out and run again.  I didn’t have any of the worries or stress that had weighed me down before we played on Friday.  I did call a few fouls this time around, although I was still very aware of where I was and who I was playing with.  These guys were still criminals who were serving time in the County Jail, so the possibility of tempers flaring and the game getting out of hand was greater than a normal pick up game at the local rec center.  At least that’s what I thought.    Although I didn’t have any real interaction with any of the guys on the court, they all continued to call me “Steve Nash.”  If I had the ball and someone was open, they’d yell out, “Steve Nash!” to get my attention.  After two of us simultaneously knocked a missed shot out of bounds, one guy kept yelling, “It went off Nash!  It went off Nash!”  I understood the reference and it made me laugh.  Steve Nash is an NBA player who is scrappy, hustles, shoots the ball well and also has long, scraggly looking hair.  He is also one of the whitest men in the league.  My whiteness and nasty hair led them to me suddenly being Steve Nash.  It felt good to not be in a constant state of worry and sitting in my cell trying to kill time until my next visitor.  It seemed like a really long time ago that I was in the City Jail.  After the game ended, we all walked back to our cells.  I was very sweaty again and asked the guy who had given me his shoes and clothes if he wanted them back right then.  “Maaaannn, shit.  You keep the shirt and socks.  I ain’t never seen a dude sweat like you.  Get me the shoes back later.”  I thanked him and headed back to try to cool down, which would certainly take an hour again.

     County Jail was as good as advertised and I was becoming a believer.  The food was significantly better, I had exponentially more freedom and the schedule was much more reasonable.  No more 5:30 a.m. breakfasts and 9:30 a.m. lunches.  During my recreation times I was nearly able to escape the dread of what was still happening with my life.  I felt like I was in a holding pattern while I waited for the DNA test to come back.  It was great to have multiple options each day to use the phone and I was surprised that I wasn’t taking more advantage.  All I wanted to do for a week was have opportunities to call people and now that it was available, I was choosing to play basketball.  It’s amazing at how your mood and priorities can dramatically change when you’re not left to your own thoughts for hour upon hour each day.  Although I never forgot where I was and what I was facing, my quality of life had shot up tenfold in less than 24 hours. 

     Chris and I still didn’t talk much, but it didn’t bother me.  He let me keep one of his towels so that I could dry off and cool down while we waited for lunch to be set up.  We had to spend a few hours in the morning and few hours in the afternoon locked in our cells.  To ease the elephant in the room, I broke a long silence by telling Chris that I was planning on finally showering when we were out again.  I wasn’t sure how long I’d gone without showering and now I had nearly four hours of basketball stink on me.  Our cell smelled worse than a locker room and I knew that it was obvious to Chris.  It was the feeling I when that doctor in college was checking my feet.  I knew it was bad and Chris knew it was bad.  Luckily I got to wear socks for the game on Saturday, but I stunk.  It was just that simple.  “Thank you,” were the only words that Chris spoke during the hour we spent in the cell before lunch.

     As I waited on the outskirts of the lunch tables for everyone to sit down, one of the guys from the basketball game asked me if I wanted to sit with him.  I felt like the new kid in school who had sat alone in the lunchroom for months and was finally being invited to a table.  I sat down with him and two other black guys.  As per my usual style, I just started a conversation.  I felt comfortable enough to try to talk with these guys.  Two of them were serving nine month sentences for robbery and the other was in for a “long time” for “something you don’t want to know about.”  I left it at that. When one of them asked me what I had done to make it D Block, I took up the rest of lunchtime laying out the events of the past week, minus the actual crimes, of course.  It was just like I was back in the City Jail.  The most common comment from anyone listening to my story was, “That’s bullshit.”  Whether it was the police taking me from my house, Jerry and potentially losing my job to anything about Laney, someone would just say, “Man, that’s bullshit.”  Also, every recount of my week induced at least one emphatic “Fuck the police.”  Early on during my stay at City, it was Ice Cube who said it, which gave me great pleasure since it was the actual Ice Cube who recorded the song of the same name with his rap group, NWA.  If nothing else, the week had been flooded with entertaining and ironic side stories that were probably only funny to me. 

     After lunch and another short stay in the cell with Chris, we were let out for our afternoon recreation.  My first order of business was to take a shower.  I hadn’t been into the shower area since my arrival, but it was mostly out of view of the guards.  I was very nervous about putting myself in a situation that was out of sight, but I was a little more comfortable after becoming Steve Nash and meeting some new “friends”.  I checked out a bar of soap and towel and spent nearly half an hour under the stream of water from the shower.  It felt great to finally get cleaned up.  There were multiple shower stalls and all were partially visible to the rest of the main room through frosted glass.  Although I was clean, I really wanted underwear and socks.  The t-shirt and socks I had worn during basketball were unusable and still damp from sweat.  I wore the dock shoes again since I didn’t want to push the use of my loaner basketball shoes.  When I brought my towel back to the control table, I found out that we could exchange our dirty clothes every three days, so I’d have to wait until Tuesday to get clean versions of the green County Jail scrubs.  I had just missed the last exchange while I was being in-processed on Friday morning. 

     I noticed that a few guys were getting haircuts inside their cells during recreation time.  We could check out electric clippers and I briefly thought about giving myself a buzz cut, which was in the plans for the spring anyway.  My hair was really becoming unmanageable, but since I was now Steve Nash, I felt that I should keep it until I got out.  The real Steve Nash didn’t get a hair cut so I wouldn’t either.  I did want to shave, though, and made a mental note to block out some time on Sunday to see how awful it would be to shave a full goatee and week’s worth of beard growth with a safety razor.  It might actually be worse than being in jail. 

     All of the phones were occupied for the better part of my afternoon outing, so I just walked slowly around the main room taking in the sites and sounds.  Any idle time took my mind back to the stress and worry about the reasons why I was in jail.  The entire week had been a battle within me to hold back the typhoon of emotion and fear.  I wanted to keep it as far in the back of my mind as possible, and “down time” always began the slow process it all leaking back to my forefront.  As I walked around and around, I felt like I was in an insane asylum and the guy who just walked and walked and walked.  It seems like every movie that takes place in a mental home has one patient who does nothing but mindlessly walk around the room.  That was me.  Maybe I was Mac McMurphy in “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest” and had just been through my third round of electroshock therapy.  I had my hands behind my back and must have lapped the main room twenty times, never talking to anyone and never stopping. 

     Just before we were to go back to our cells, I stopped at the control desk when I heard someone talking to the officer about the movie that was going to be shown later that night.  I was kind of excited that I’d be able to watch a movie while in jail.  I suddenly felt like I was a white collar criminal.

“Did you say that there is going to be movie tonight?” I asked the officer.  There were a few other inmates standing around the table.

“Yes.  The movie “The Last Castle” will start at eight o’ clock,” the officer said.

“The Last Castle?  With Robert Redford?”

“I didn’t stutter, did I?  Yes, the Last Fucking Castle,” he said.

“Wow,” I said shaking my head.  “Wow.”

     I had just seen that movie a few months earlier when it was in the theaters.  I love seeing movies and I love Robert Redford, so it was a no-brainer.  The premise of the movie is that Redford is a top ranking Army General who is convicted of something bad and sent to prison.  The warden has it out for him and Redford organizes the inmates in military style and starts a huge riot.  A prison riot.  Maybe I really was in an insane asylum.  They were going to show a movie about a prison riot to a cell block in the County Jail.  Maybe this fact got glossed over at the morning staff meeting, but it wasn’t lost on me.

“You realize that the whole movie is about a prison riot, right?”  I asked. 

     Showing a movie about a prison riot to inmates is kind of like the feature film on a cruise ship being “Titanic” or showing “Cast Away” during a long flight.  Someone had clearly lost their mind.  

     My day started by being aggressively forced to hang up the phone in the middle of a conversation and being asked if I was planning on playing basketball.  Now I’m being told that the movie of the night is a glorification of prison violence.  I had gone from a week of the unimaginable to the completely ridiculous.  I was living in Bizarro World.  I’m a school teacher accused of molesting a teenager and I’m presumably without a job.  I was living with a constant knot in my stomach and had seen the darkest hours of my life crawl by me at the slowest pace imaginable.  After all of that, plus still being smack in the middle of it all, I was so happy that I was there to hear that “The Last Castle” was the movie being shown.  It was a day of pure Jack Buck moments that I simply couldn’t make up.  Even if I sat and tried to conjure the strangest and most ridiculous story of a man wrongly accused of a crime and forced to spend eight days in jail, I could never, ever come up with the series of events that I had been witness to and a part of.  This was my life and it was happening right in front of me.  It was at this moment, standing at the control desk, that I knew that someday I would have to tell my story.  I just hoped that it had a happy ending. 

    

    

    

Pearl Harbor

     When Jake and Elwood Blues exit the “Bluesmobile” for the final time after they reach their destination towards the end of The Blues Brothers, the car literally falls apart.  Every piece of metal tumbles to the ground.  It had sped all over northeastern Illinois at top gear for multiple days eluding the cavalcade of police cars and officers that followed.  The vehicle that Elwood had recently picked up at a police auction had made impossible jumps, thrown a rod, lost all of its oil and somehow delivered the residents of 1060 West Addison (“…that’s Wrigley Field”) to “get the band back together”, promote and play their two gigs and finally bring them to the Honorable Richard J. Daley Plaza so they could pay the $5000 tax assessment to save the orphanage.  After all of those nonstop miles at or near full throttle, the car finally broke down.  After seven days of incarceration, on Saturday afternoon inside of my cell, all of my mettle fell off and I broke down. 

     It was unexpected and confusing.  While lying on my toboggan during our mandatory afternoon cell time, I think I hit my body finally hit its limit of stress, worry, anxiety and sleeplessness.  I was trying to re-start the book of short stories again and without warning, I literally felt like my internal motor was shutting down.  The room began to close in on me and a feeling of intense impending doom engulfed my whole being.  I was filled with unspeakable dread and negativity.  I wasn’t even consciously thinking about anything related to my circumstances, but I began to sob uncontrollably.  Chris was sound asleep and semi-snoring, but I tried as hard as I could to keep my breakdown as quiet as possible.  I curled up into a ball under my blanket and experienced feelings that I didn’t know I had within me.  I had worked so hard all week to keep my positive outlook in the forefront, and although I was very aware of the heavy load of stress that I was carrying, I thought that I had done a damn good job of maintaining my sanity and controlling my emotions.  Just like the Bluesmobile, you can only run at top gear for so long before everything cracks.  I was definitely falling apart and there was nothing I could do about it. 

     I have never been a crier, so to speak.  We never really showed our emotions in my house growing up.  Occasionally I’ll get misty during a sad movie or shed tears of joy when one of my sports teams wins a big game, but I can’t remember a specific time in my life when I cried like a junior high school girl.  I think I’m an emotional person on the inside, but rarely, if ever, had I openly wept without the ability to stop.  I’ll tear up watching “One Shining Moment” at the end of the NCAA basketball tournament or when Kevin Costner asks his dad if he wants to “have a catch” at the end of Field of Dreams, but nothing substantial.  The most I think I had ever cried was during my 24 hour drive back to Missouri from Florida after finding out that my father had passed away in 1999, but I still felt funny about it.  Plus, I thought that I was supposed to cry and may have tried to force it.  This isn’t to say that I don’t get sad or feel those emotions, but I’m very much like my dad, who internalized most of his feelings.  I wouldn’t consider myself an open book by any stretch of the imagination.  I’ve always been very good about keeping my emotions in check and my stress levels low, so I was in shock as I laid there huddled up under my blanket trying to catch my breath between sobs. 

     It made sense.  Given everything that I had gone through and what I was facing, coupled with the lack of sleep and my brain running on overdrive, it made sense that I would reach a breaking point. Honestly, I was surprised that I lasted as long as I did.  I felt the inkling of a breakdown several times throughout the week and certainly spent hours upon hours in a very dark emotional place, but even then I worked hard to alter my focus to a more positive thought process.  I cried for what seemed like hours.  Luckily Chris slept through the whole event.  Maybe he had gone through a similar during his first week in jail.  I doubted it.  My situation was fluid.  The ending was unknown and the outcome still very much in doubt.  I wasn’t even sure if I was still closer to the beginning of my ordeal or even the middle.  During any sudden event in life, you won’t know where the middle is until it’s over.  It was Saturday afternoon and I knew that I was at least a day and a half away from anything new happening, and although I was semi-enjoying my stay at the County Jail, I was still in fucking jail.  My body chose that moment to remind me that everyone has a breaking point.  I couldn’t breathe and stopped producing tears, although I couldn’t stop crying.  I had a horrible pain in my stomach from the sobbing.  I wondered if this was what people suffering from severe depression felt like. 

     At some point, I fell asleep.  It may have been for five minutes or an hour, I couldn’t tell.  I woke up with a terrible headache, which felt exactly like a hangover, but without the fun that had preceded it.  When our door opened up again for dinner, I didn’t feel like eating or trying to remain composed among the D Block population.  I wasn’t sure if staying in bed, or toboggan, was allowed during meals, but I didn’t get up to eat dinner.  Even if I was hungry, my energy level was in the negative and I don’t think that I could have gotten up anyway.  I heard Chris walk out and I must have fallen back asleep since it seemed like just a minute later he was walking back in after eating. 

“Hey, man, you missed dinner,” Chris said as he sat down on his bed.

“Yeah, I’m not feeling very well,” I replied.  My voice didn’t work at first and only came out in a whisper, so I had to say it again. 

“Shit, dude, I hope you’re not getting sick.  Colds travel fast around here and I don’t want to get what you got,” he mumbled.  His compassion was overwhelming.

     I didn’t move for nearly three hours.  I was still in a ball under the blanket and had fallen in and out of sleep multiple times.  Never in my life had I experienced such an incredible lack of motivation or energy.  I felt trapped and unable to function.  I thought that I had hit the bottom of the barrel earlier in the week, but that barrel was miles above my current location.  I was off the map.  I don’t even think that my brain was functioning since all I could think about was not wanting to move.  I knew that I wasn’t giving up but I also knew that everything within me had to take a break.  Even if I wanted to fight it, I was powerless to do so. 

     During another semi-conscious moment between sleep and reality, I became very, very thirsty.  It was like a “check engine light” lit up inside me that indicated that my fluid level was dangerously close to empty.  It was like I was in a desert and hadn’t had water in days.  For the first time since the mid-afternoon, I stretched out my legs and slowly tried to stand up.  My right arm had completely fallen asleep and was completely numb.  My legs ached from being bent in the same position for so long.  Just standing up took all the strength that I could summon and my head still pounded.  The door was open and I assumed that evening recreation had been going on for awhile.  I shuffled out the door like a zombie.  Every step was a chore and all I wanted to do was get a drink and go back to toboggan. 

     As I emerged into the common area, the lights were low on my side of the room.  Half of the D Block population were sitting in chairs or laying on the floor staring up at the television.   My vision was blurry and I could hardly lift my head to look, but the familiar voice of Robert Redford was easily recognizable.  I could only manage a very slight internal chuckle that “The Last Castle” was really being shown to a group of inmates who were sprawled out all over the place like they were at a sleep-over.  The only thing missing was popcorn, pillows and pajamas.  I was pretty sure that I would be unable to participate if they really did start a prison riot. I made it over to a drinking fountain on the other side of the room and spent an unusually long amount of time hunched over slurping up water.  When my back started to ache, I stood up for a moment to stretch then went back down for round two of fluid replacement.  I didn’t know that you could cry yourself to dehydration.

     All I wanted to do was to get back under my covers and I somehow finally made my way around the slumber party and back to my cell.   I collapsed back down and curled up in the opposite direction as before.  The feeling in my arm had just about come back and I wanted to counteract the soreness on my right by laying on my left this time.  I never heard the door close or Chris coming back into the room.  I sort of remember the lights being turned down, but other than that, I remained in a bizarre state of semi-consciousness.  I wondered if this was what it was like to be in a coma. Sometimes I had the feeling that I was paralyzed.  I probably got more sleep than I actually thought that I did but it was very hard to tell.  My brain was tricking me into thinking that I was awake when I was actually asleep and dreaming.  I panicked several times when I tried to move but nothing would happen. I strained to roll my body over but I was limp.  It really felt like I was awake and had lost the ability to move any part of my body.  The fear was overwhelming.  More than once I tried to call out for help but nothing came out of my mouth.  When I really would wake up, I’d wiggle my toes or fingers just to make sure that I really had been dreaming, but then, without any transition, I'd fall asleep again and once again be paralyzed.  This went on for hours and it was maddening and incredibly frightening.   I remained motionless until the sound of the doors opening the next morning woke me up. I think that the last few hours of the night were spent in an actual deep sleep since I was very groggy as I tried to focus my eyes towards the wall.  My left arm was now completely numb.

     The feeling of hopelessness wasn’t gone and I briefly thought about skipping breakfast, but I knew that I needed to eat.  Chris was up and putting on a clean set of scrubs.

“You feeling any better?” he asked.  I didn’t feel like answering, but managed a slight, “No, not really.” 

“You need to eat. Come on, let’s go.”  Maybe he did care. 

     I really didn’t want to get up but somehow summoned enough strength to stand and focus on the fact that I did need to eat.  Chris left once he saw me making an effort.

     My basketball buddies were already seated when I joined the end of the meal line.  I noticed that there was an empty seat at their table but didn’t want to assume that it was for me.  After I filled my plate with some eggs and fruit, I walked over by their table and slowed to see if I was still in the crew.  When one of the guys saw me looking around, he motioned for me to come and sit back with them.

“What happened to you last night?” he said.

“I feel like shit.  I slept through dinner and didn’t move for most of the night.”

“Man, you missed a good movie.  We was gonna play ball again but ended up watching the whole thing.  Some Robert Redford prison movie.”

“I saw it a few months ago,” I told them, “Kind of funny that they’d show it in here.”

All of them immediately lit up.

“That’s what I said!” the thief to my right shouted.  He was very animated.

     I didn’t want to talk and I didn’t feel like eating, but managed to force down what was on my plate.  The guys were talking about playing ball after our morning cell time.

“You playin’ today?” one of the guys asked.

“I don’t think so.  I have to rest.  It’s been a long week.”  I realized when I said it that I was beginning my ninth day. 

“Steve Nash don’t need no rest.”  All of the guys laughed.  If they only knew how Steve Nash really felt. 

     It felt good that they wanted me to play and invited me to sit with them again.  I lied, though, and said that I’d try to come out, knowing full-well that I wasn’t going to play basketball.  In fact, I knew that I wasn’t going to do anything.  I didn’t want to use the phone or shower or do anything that was of the highest priorities for me for so long.  I drifted off to my own thoughts about just wanting Sunday to be over.  Monday would give me new life since the clock would start working again.  I knew nothing was happening for me on the weekend so time kind of stopped. 

     After breakfast I returned to my now-familiar position on the floor in a God damn plastic toboggan.  I grew very angry while I looked up at the white, stone ceiling.  My focus turned to the two villains in my story:  Detective Laney and Jerry.  One guy put me in jail and the other was such a fuck that he basically fired me before he even had a clue of why I was there.  My anger, which I’d been void of for most of my stay, bubbled even higher and I was in a funnel of focusing on how these two men were systematically ruining my life.  Laney was an arrogant jackass whose pride wouldn’t allow him to admit a mistake and Jerry was just a jackass.  I was still very lethargic and didn’t move from my spot for the rest of the morning, although I did briefly consider trying to get up to call Kira.  I was so annoyed and fed up with everything that I simply didn’t want to have to sit through the collect call process of using the phone.  I wanted to talk to her but just couldn’t bring myself to moving. 

     I slept through lunch.  It was a legitimate sleep void of dreams.  I fell asleep while trying to decide who I was angrier with, Jerry or Laney.  Chris was asleep on his bed when I woke up.  I wished that I could just sleep this whole thing away.

     As I stared back up at the now-familiar ceiling, a scene from the movie Animal House popped into my head.  It was Bluto, John Belushi, standing up to address all of Delta House after Dean Wormer had kicked them all out of school. 

“What’s this lying around shit?”  he asked emphatically.

“It’s over man, Wormer dropped the big one.”

“Over?  Did you say over?  Nothing is over until we decide it is!  Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?  Hell no!  And it’s not over now!  Cause when the going gets tough……the tough get going!  So, who’s with me?” 

     It’s funny that at perhaps the lowest point in my life it was a movie scene that began my road back from the brink.  Maybe not funny, but fitting, given the fact that I try to equate most life situations to movies, music or sports.  I thought about Belushi over and over again and his rally cries to the Delta House.  I laughed when I thought that I'd used his line about the Germans bombing Pearl Harbor so many times in my life that I'd nearly forgotten that it was actually the Japanese.  What was this “lying around shit?”  I wasn’t embarrassed by the fact that I had completely broken down, in fact, I was kind of shocked that it had taken so long for it to happen, but I had to make the conscience decision get up and get going again.  It wasn’t over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor and it wasn’t over for me.  I decided to not let Laney and Jerry and the idiot was who actually committed the crimes dictate how I felt.  It wasn’t easy.  I was extremely depressed, beat up, tired and just devoid of any real motivation to move, but I had to snap out of it.  Belushi demanded it.

     When I first got arrested, it didn’t seem real.  In fact, it was kind of like a little adventure.  The adventure had long since faded and my good nature had run out.  I just wanted to go home.  It was Sunday afternoon and I’d had enough.  I was tired of the strict schedule and the total loss of personal freedoms.  I was tired of my disconnection from my life outside in the “real world.”  Although the move to County had given me a little more flexibility and room to breathe, nothing could alleviate the tremendous emotional burden that never moved and never waivered.  I wasn’t living with an elephant on my back, I had the entire zoo.  When I really focused on the realities of what my life had turned into and the possibilities of whatever outcome was around the bend, the best case would have me jobless and in serious trouble financially.  If and when the DNA completely exonerated me from the hideous crimes of which I was accused, I figured that there would still be some sort of stigma attached to me.  Whenever I read or saw a story on TV about some guy or girl who was wrongly accused of whatever crime, I naturally assumed that there had to be a good reason why they were a suspect in the first place.  In my case, I had done absolutely nothing to provoke this.  I had no idea of how my name got attached to this debacle.  The more I thought about it, the more I came to the conclusion that my situation was unlike the majority of the wrongfully accused.  Not that I had any data or facts to back this up, my assumption when innocent people are thrown in jail was that there had to be something that initially connected them to the crime.  They knew the victim or they hung out in the wrong crowd or their past criminal history led the police to their arrest and conviction.  In my case, I had no idea who this guy was who said his name was Chris Justice, I didn’t know the victim or anyone connected to her and I wasn’t even living in the damn state when it occurred.  My mother always said that I was an extremist.  When I do things, I do them big, for better or worse.  This certainly was big. And worse.  She always calls me the “ringleader.”  When I was growing up, I would get mad when I got into trouble in school when I truly wasn’t doing anything wrong.  My parents attributed it to the fact that most of the time I was in the center of the mess and even when I wasn’t, my teachers assumed that I had something to do with it.  If everyone was talking, including me, my name would be the first one that my teachers would call.  It wasn’t always fair, but it was true.  Since I had become a teacher and had been working with kids for the better part of my adult life, I totally understood what my teachers went through when dealing with me.  I was their favorite and least favorite at the same time, and I’ve had many students who I felt exactly the same about. I was the class clown and would like to think that I was fairly witty at even a young age, but I was hyperactive and needed things to do when I got bored, which was often.  I spent my fair share of recesses standing on the side serving out a punishment.  In jail, which is the worst environment imaginable for someone like me who needs constant stimulus, it was like detention in the highest degree.  Just like some of those times in school when I got into trouble when I truly wasn’t doing anything wrong, I was serving this detention wrongfully, with the stakes much higher and the consequences greater.  The worst case scenario had me going to prison as a sex offender.  Whatever the end result, there would be ramifications that possibly would never end.

     While I remained under my blanket trying to will myself back into shape, the lock on our door buzzed open.  I had no idea what time it was, but I didn’t hear the rest of our Block open, which was usual when it was time for recreation.  I turned my head slightly to see what was going on.  Chris was still sound asleep and didn’t move as our door opened and an officer walked inside.  I instantly sat up and felt a huge rush of adrenaline run through my body as I thought that maybe my time had to go home. 

“Justice, your lawyer is here to see you.  Come with me.”

     If there is a God, and I do believe in a higher power, he knew that I needed some support at that exact moment.  Sending Dave Worstell to see me was exactly what I needed and the timing was perfect.  I had forgotten exactly when, but maybe Thursday since I had seen him.  I hoped that he was going to tell me that I was getting out very soon.  I needed some good news and relief from a very emotional 24 hours in my life. 

     The officer escorted me out of D Block and through the corridors of the County Jail.  Whereas I got to know the City Jail surroundings very well, I had no idea of where I was at County.  Besides the rooms that I had been in during my arrival and the other lunchroom, my life was all about D Block.  It felt like we walked a long way before finally arriving at a row of conference rooms.  I saw Dave sitting in one of the rooms towards the middle as they all had windows on three sides.  The officer opened the door and Dave stood up to say hello and shake my hand.  I sat down as the officer closed the door and went out of sight.  It was Sunday afternoon and Dave sat back down and didn’t open any of the folders sitting on the table in front of him.

“So, how you doing out here?” he asked.

“Great, Dave, it’s like Club Med.  I’ve played a few games of basketball, met some new friends and eaten like a king.” He laughed and told me that it was good that I still had my sense of humor.  It’s about all I had left.

“Well, I don’t have anything new to report.  I’m still putting together a bunch of the info about your whereabouts that weekend, but honestly we’re just waiting for that DNA to come back.  I talked to Franklin yesterday and he’s angry that Florida hasn’t finished it yet.  We both thought it would be back by Friday.”

     I sat and looked at Dave as he spoke and I think that he could tell that I really wasn’t doing all that great.  He continued.

“I came out today just to give you a break from your cell.  I figured you’d need a little time away from jail for a bit.  I’m sorry that I don’t have any more news for you, but it could be any time now that the test comes back.  You’re going to get out soon.”

     My natural reaction to even the worst of circumstances or events is to try to see the positive.  Sometimes it’s very difficult, but I’ve always felt that every situation has a positive to be found.  Through all of what I had been through and still faced, it was easy for me to spot the smatterings of positives that I was encountering.  Meeting Dave Worstell was at the top of the list.  Here is a man who didn’t have to believe me, help me or do anything at all.  He had no obligation when he first came to see me other than to try to find out why the hell his kid’s teacher was sitting in jail.  Now, seven days later, he was taking time out of his weekend to stop by to see me and give me a break.  He drove out to wherever the hell I was in Denver just to say hi, really.  I’m sure that I looked horrible, certainly smelled horrible, and was worn down about as far as I could go, but the mere fact that this man was on my side and telling me that I was going to get out soon gave me the final push to stop my “lying around shit.” 

“Dave, thanks so much for coming out.  I can’t tell you how much it means to me.  I was having a rough time and this was the perfect time for you to visit.”

     Any time I told Dave stuff like that he looked uncomfortable and kind of fidgeted around.  I knew how he felt since I’m the same way when accepting praise or thanks.  It couldn’t go unsaid, though, since he had become a saint in my little jail world.  He ended up staying for another half an hour or so and we just caught up on random stuff of no real importance.  He reminded me that I could call his office collect if I needed to talk and that he would update my mother if he had anything new to report.  I’ve never been a “hugger,” but I felt like embracing him as we stood up to go our separate ways.  I resisted the urge as I didn’t get the sense that Dave was a hugger, either.  We shook hands and exited the room.  “Hang in there,” he said as he walked away.  The officer who had escorted me was waiting towards the end of the row of offices and I walked towards him to begin our trek back to D Block.

     On the way back, we passed groups of inmates walking the halls en route to wherever they were allowed to roam.  We turned a corner and a large group of guys were walking in line with a bunch of officers on either side.  They were all carrying a stack of folded up jail-issued green uniforms.  Although I didn’t recognize the area, it was obvious that this group had just arrived and was going through the intake process.  My escort and I had to stop and wait while the line passed.  It seemed like a never-ending procession of prisoners.  While we stood and watched the new arrivals as we were in a car waiting on a train to pass, I heard a familiar voice yelling “Chris!  Chris!”  The accent was on the “i” in my name and it sounded more like “crease.”  I turned to see who was yelling at saw Pepe’ waving like he was in a parade.  His six-toothed smile was broad and he looked as happy as he’d ever been in his life.  It had only been two days since I last saw him asleep on his own toboggan when I left the city jail, but it was like seeing a long, lost friend for the first time in years. 

          “Pepe’! Como estas?”

          “Muy bueno!  How are you?”  His English was very broken but I understood.

          “Bueno, bueno.  Good to see you, mi amigo!”

     We only saw each other for just a few seconds but it was great to see that he seemed to be in better spirits than he was those few days that we spent together.  I laughed out loud after he walked around the corner and out of sight.  My time in the City Jail was a lifetime ago and Pepe’ had played a large part in helping me make it through.  The line of guys finally passed and my walk back to D Block continued, but my mind was back to those countless hours of Spanish and English lessons that Pepe’ and I had shared.  If I were casting the movie version of my ongoing saga, it hit me on the walk that Pepe’ would be played by golfing legend Chi Chi Rogriguez.  They looked so similar that it was possible that they had been separated at birth.  It had been only an hour or less since Belushi and his Delta House speech sparked me to try and regain some composure, but between that and my visit with Dave and seeing Pepe’, I felt a renewed energy and confidence that I could make it through another day.  I wasn’t fully “back” to my previous state of mind, which was still on a bruised and beaten level, but manageable, and couldn’t shake the weight from my shoulders, but maybe it was now just the elephant and not the entire zoo that I was carrying.  I resolved to take a shower and finally get cleaned up once I got back “home.” 

     The common room was alive with activity again as the afternoon recreation time had already started.  Chris was sitting at one of the tables near the entrance door with another guy playing cards.  He looked up at me as I passed by.

          “You getting out?”

          “Nah, my lawyer came to see me.  No news yet.”

          “You feeling any better?” 

          “Much better, thanks.  I needed that sleep.”

          “Good to hear.”

     Once I was back in the main area, my escort officer went in another direction and I was on my own again with all of the recreation possibilities in front of me.  Although I did want to shower, I decided to put it off until the evening.  I needed to talk with some friends and hear some voices other than those of criminals and the police.  My 24 hours of living in the nether regions of my mind had widened the gap of the connection to my real life.  Seeing Dave reminded me just how important those five minute phone calls at the City Jail had been.   I was being given what I would have I done almost anything to get just a few days previous and I was wasting it away with self pity and cowardice.   I needed to go back to when even a few minutes of phone time was like gold.  It was selfish of me to not reach out to those who cared and worried about me.  The breakdown was necessary and unavoidable but to continue my rebound from a new bottom I had reset my priorities. 

     There were a few guys talking on the phones, but one was available, so I made my way across the room and thought about who I wanted to talk to.  It was Sunday afternoon, so I called Kermit to see what was happening at home.  It was the first time that I tried to call someone other than Kira or my mother.  The last time I talked to Kermit was on Thursday night when he came to visit, which felt like last year.  I’m sure that he already knew that I had moved addresses.  I dialed my number and shockingly, he answered.  He seemed confused by the collect call process and electronic voice introduction of where I was calling from.  It took him longer than it should have, but he figured it out, pressed the right buttons and we were connected.

          “Where you calling from?” he asked.

          “I’m at the County Jail now.  Got here on Friday.  This place is crazy,” I said, 

          “I played the greatest game of basketball ever yesterday.  Real, live prison

          ball.” 

     Kermit and I had played a lot of pick up basketball at night at my school since I had moved to Denver.  I got to know a few of his local friends when I first arrived and I took him through the whole story of shooting baskets by myself, the group of guys that showed up and my flawless performance. 

          “Bullshit,” he said laughing.

          “Yep, I swear.  I can’t make this up.” 

     We talked until the one minute warning voice interrupted him.

          “What the fuck was that?” he said.

          “Every half hour we are either done or I have to call you back.  It’s a pain in

          the ass,” I explained.  “I’m gonna call a few other people, but I’ll let you know

          if something happens.”

     We got cut off before either of us could say goodbye, but it was good to talk to him.  Kermit and I had known each other for a long time and had spent more hours than I could count on various road trips together.  There is no better way to get to know someone than to spend double digit hours in a car with them.  From Kansas City to camp in Minnesota, up to Chicago, Denver to Vegas or our many drives up the mountains to ski, Kermit was probably number one of my list, besides my parents, on having spent the most hours together in a car.  We played more trivia and came up with more games than Monte Hall and Alex Trebek combined.  He had become one of my best friends and could always be counted on to keep an even keel and not get overly emotional about stressful situations.  He is an only child and lived with his father growing up after his parents divorced.  Like me, he grew up in a household that didn’t talk about feelings and avoided “real” conversations, but when we talked while I was in jail, either in person or during that phone conversation, he was openly concerned and wanted to make sure that I was doing alright.  It was semi-uncomfortable for either of us to talk about “touchy-feely” things, but it’s during times like these when your true friends show you exactly what being friends is all about.  It’s comforting to know that you can count on people when you need them the most.  Although I much preferred the sports, entertainment and bullshit conversation topics that we usually engaged in, it felt good to know that we could actually reach out on a different level. 

     Next on my list of people to call was Ephram, my boss and Assistant Director of the camp where I worked the previous summer in Maine.  Talking to him had been on my mind since mid-week.  I had been promoted from Sports Director to Program Director after the summer and I was very much looking forward to returning in June.  Even though I had most likely lost my “real” job, going back to Maine was still a possibility and I wanted to get out in front of my situation and fill Ephram in on what was happening.  Additionally, I was supposed to be going to New York City in just a few weeks for an American Camping Association conference.  Eric, the owner and Director, and another staff member from the previous summer were going to be there along with Ephram and me.  I was extremely concerned and worried about calling him, since he had no idea of where I was or what I was going through.  This would be the first time that I was going to talk to someone I knew, a friend (and boss) who had no idea of what turn my life had taken over the past week. 

     The electronic voice lady would tell him where I was calling from before I could even say a word.  I wished that there was another way, but it was important that he heard from me first-hand before getting the news from elsewhere.  His number was one that I had written down on my contact list before I left my house.  I called his land line at home in New Jersey.  I had grown pretty close to him and his wife, Lori, in the short three months I spent there in 2001.  He answered and I held my breath as he listened to the instructions.  I tried to picture his face as he heard, “You are receiving a collect phone call from an inmate at the Denver Country Jail.  “Chris” (my recorded voice) is calling from the Denver County Jail.  To accept the charges from “Chris,” please press one.  All calls are recorded.”  I heard him press a button and I immediately got very nervous.  It was time to talk and I went blank.  Where do I start?  Fuck!  I should have rehearsed my opening monologue.  I immediately realized that everything that I was going to tell him was going to sound really, really bad. 

          “Ephram, it’s Fletch.  How are you?”  I had no idea of what to say.

          “Where are you?”  He was obviously very confused.

          “Well, it’s kind of a funny story, but I’m in the Denver County Jail.  It’s a very

          complicated story, but I’ve been wrongfully accused of some bad stuff

          that happened in Florida after I moved here.  A guy using my name did

          some things to a girl and the police there think it was me.  I promise you that

          I had nothing to do with it and I’ve already taken a DNA test to prove it.

          I’ve been in jail since last Saturday and my lawyer thinks that I’ll be getting

          out very soon.”

     I spoke way too fast and rambled.  I nearly got choked up while I talked.  I didn’t want to give him a chance to say anything and held my breath while there was a short pause before he said anything.

          “Obviously you’re innocent,” he said. 

     I hadn’t even given him any details and I had only known him since the previous June, but his very first thought and words were that he had no doubt about my character and that I was innocent.  I was walking on such thin emotional ice that my voice cracked when I said a simple “Thank you.”  I’m sure that he heard my worry and stress through the phone. 

          “Eph, I don’t have much time to talk, but I wanted you to hear it from me

          before any word got out through the camp grapevine.  This thing is going to

work itself out and I should be getting out soon.  I’ll be able to explain everything when I’m home, but there are a lot of people who know that I’m innocent and are working hard to resolve this, including some police here in Denver.  I just want to make sure that I still have a job this summer,” I said to him.

          “Of course you have a job.  You have nothing to worry about.  I wish

          there was something that I could do from here.  Are you OK?” 

“I’m OK,” I said, “It has been straight out of a movie and sometime this summer I’ll tell you about it over beers.”  I wished I had a beer in my hand.

     I didn’t feel like taking him through the whole week and all of the incredibly complicated details so I left it open and again told him that I’d give him the full story once I was out.  Going back to camp had been in the back of my mind since all of this first began, but I hadn’t given much thought to the ramifications of them being able to bring me back.  The camp grapevine, whether in Maine or Minnesota, is far reaching and fast moving.  Even though staff and campers are spread out all over the globe, the camp world is very connected and word travels at lightning speed.  I worried about an awful game of “Telephone.”  In the game, you sit in a circle and whisper something to the person next to you and they relay that same thing to the person next to them and so on, until it comes all the way back around.  The last person hearing the news announces what they heard, and it’s always very, very different than whatever was first said.  There was a real possibility that once the news got out about my arrest, important details would be left out when the re-telling made its way from ear to ear.  It could start out as, “Did you hear that Fletch was arrested and is the victim of a horrible case of mistaken identity?  He had to take a DNA test to prove his innocence,” and end up a week later as, “Hey, did you hear that Fletch is in jail in Colorado for raping a girl in Florida?”  Even if Ephram and Eric believed that I was truly innocent, they would still have to worry about families of campers hearing the story third or fourth hand.  There would be some serious damage control to be done and I wasn’t oblivious to the fact that camp is also a business and that Eric may not want to deal with it, innocent or not.  I was very good friends with Ephram, but Eric was a wildcard and a bit eccentric. 

          “Tell Eric that this is all one huge mistake and that I’ll have a book full of

          evidence, including DNA, which will show that I’m 100% innocent.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll talk to Eric,” he replied, “Just call me as soon as you get out and be safe.  I can’t believe that this is happening to you.”

          “Thanks, Eph.  Say hi to Lori and the kids.”

          “I will.  And good luck to your Tigers tonight.” 

     I had nearly forgotten about Mizzou and the Big 12 basketball tournament that was going on.  I remembered that I saw a game on the TV the night I arrived in D Block, but really didn’t care.  Ephram and I both shared the same love of sports.  He was a huge fan of all things New York and New Jersey.  He’s a huge Mets, Jets and Rangers fan.  Our conversations always turned to sports.  I’d call him to talk about something regarding camp, which would take maybe three minutes, and then the next 45 minutes would be spent talking about our teams.  He always gave me a hard time about the Cubs.

          “Who are we playing?” I asked, hoping he hadn’t already hung up. 

          “Texas,” he said.

     I figured that it would be on our TV that night, and I acted like I cared, but really didn’t.  We said goodbye and I felt a huge sense of relief that I could count on Ephram to back me after this ordeal was over.  I worried about the fall-out from the conversation, though, since it’s not everyday that a friend, an employee, calls from jail with a story as far out from left field as mine.  Once he had time to truly process what he had just heard and talk to his wife, and especially Eric, the thoughts and decisions may be different.  It was out of my hands, though, and all I’d have to prop myself up on, with him or anyone, really, would be my absolute innocence and proof to verify it. 

     Before I could make any more calls, the warning was given that recreation time was nearly over.  I didn’t want to get into another conversation and have to cut it short, so I just started my Mac McMurphy mindless walking around the perimeter again until we were told to return to our cells. 

     For the tenth time, it seemed, I tried to start reading Chris’ book of short stories.  I think I had read the first page over twenty times and hadn’t progressed much past it.  Chris was back in his usual position on his bed and I was sitting up on my toboggan.  I wanted the day to be over so that Monday’s work day could get under way.  I was incredibly hungry since I missed two of the last three meals. 

      I re-joined my basketball buddies for dinner and told them that I was feeling much better.  None of them were going to play ball later that night since everyone was planning on watching the Mizzou-Texas game.  I desperately wanted to get excited about it, but couldn’t find the connection to that part of my brain.  All of my life passions were blocked and the only feelings that I could locate were worry and the extreme longing to talk to and see my friends and family.  I did go into some more details about my week and story with the guys.  They told me that they had been telling everyone about it and a bunch of the other guys in the “Block” were interested to hear more about it.  Guys in jail, I was learning, really hate the police and hearing stories about them screwing things up so badly fuels that fire.  I felt like, as I had with Ice Cube and some others back at City, that they knew that I really didn’t belong in their element.  They wanted to see me “stick it to the man.”  A few others during the week brought it up, but these guys talked about me suing everyone involved every time the subject came up.  “Dude, you’re gonna get PAID!” was a very common phrase that I heard.  Although the thought of a lawsuit had entered my mind once or twice throughout the week, I just wanted to go home.  Those things could wait for later, if ever.  I would give everything I had, which wasn’t all that much, to just be able to go home.  Soon.   

     After dinner and a few minutes of actually getting past page one of the book, the night time recreation began and it was finally time for me to shower.  I had avoided it, but my stench and dingy feeling had become more than I could take.  I also wanted to shave, so I walked to the control desk to get a razor.  I couldn’t remember the last time that I showered.  Maybe Thursday?  It was hard to even remember what day it was.  The officer at the desk gave me a generic disposable plastic safety razor that was enclosed in a plastic wrap.  I also got a clean towel and made my way into the shower area.  No one else was in the room and I quickly got into one of the shower stalls and took off my dirty scrubs and stinky shoes and set them on the floor outside the curtain.  I turned on the water and leaned close to the wall to avoid the stream, waiting for it to get warm.  I had a bar of soap and tried for ten minutes to open the fucking plastic wrap around the razor.  My hands were wet and slick from the soap, so it was nearly impossible to get a grip on it.  I tried to use my teeth several times, but it was quickly becoming an impossible task and a fiasco in progress.  I had to grab my towel, which was hanging on a hook outside the shower, and dry my hands and the plastic off so I could get a grip and open it, which I finally did.  It literally took a quarter of an hour just to open up a razor.  The water had heated up and I stood under the stream for nearly thirty minutes, washing myself with the soap, looking out of the frosted glass at the shadows moving around in the common area.  I could see the flicker of the television set up above the crowd. 

     Even under optimal conditions, shaving was a chore for me.  Shaving is easily in my top five things that I hate to do.  I need a sharp razor, shaving cream and plenty of time for my face to loosen up from the steam of the shower to be properly prepared.  It has always been a process.  The skin on my neck is very sensitive and my beard hair grows in such a manner that if I try to begin before it was ready, I bleed everywhere.  It’s kind of like when you nick yourself a little and bleed, but this is different.  It’s almost like I scrape off a little patch of skin rather than cut it.  The results are the same, though.  There was a time when I was in basic training at Fort Knox when I tried to get away with not shaving for a few days.  My beard hair had always grown slow, but I pushed my luck by not shaving for a second day.  One of my drill sergeants noticed it, got angry like drill sergeants tend to do, and sent me back to the barracks during a class to shave.  He told me that I only had a few minutes to do it or I’d be doing push ups until I couldn’t feel my arms anymore.  I was so worried about not getting back in time that I nearly shaved without using water.  When I did get back, which was within the time he had designated, my neck was bleeding from more spots than could be counted.  I had blood everywhere.  “What the fuck did you do to yourself?” the drill sergeant yelled at me.  It looked like I had shaved with a weed whacker.  I tried to explain my sensitive skin issue, but before I could even get a few words out, he became so agitated that he made good on his word and I ended up doing pushups until I couldn’t feel my arms.  The more pushups I did, the more I’d drip red-tinged sweat on the floor.  This made him even angrier since I was getting the floor dirty.

 “What the fuck are you doing to my floor?”

     The decision to not to shave for a second day cost me push ups until exhaustion and two hours of mopping and cleaning the floor of the entire classroom building. 

     I was about to attempt to shave a ten day growth, since I hadn’t shaved since a few days before I was arrested, with a safety razor without shaving cream.  I braced for the pain, which came immediately with the first stroke.  I stepped out of the shower and put the towel around my waist since I decided that I’d need to see myself in the mirror as I tore up my face.  I ran the water in the sink until it was hot and began again.  It felt like I was pulling each individual hair out slowly and it hurt like hell.  I immediately regretted my decision to shave, but was now committed.  I had to pull the razor over the same spot ten or fifteen times just to make any progress.  I also made another regrettable decision to shave my goatee as well.  It had grown in months ago and I hadn’t been fully clean shaven since before Christmas. I stopped several times to re-apply a coat of soap lather on my face.  The answer to “How long does it take to shave a full goatee and ten day growth with a safety razor and soap (while in jail)?” is one hour.  I looked like I had been hit in the face by buckshot.  Since I didn’t have any aftershave, which was always a necessity after I shaved to soothe and cool my skin, my face was on fire.  The shower was great, but the shaving was a big mistake.  I knew that I would slowly bleed for quite awhile and didn’t even bother blotting small strips of toilet paper on the red spots to help slow the process.  The pain and blood would go away, but not quickly.  I put my dirty scrubs back on along with my smelly boat shoes, threw away the razor and walked back to my cell to recover.  I had no interest in being among the population and explaining over and over the details of my sensitive face. 

     While I sat in my cell, I thought about checking out some electric clippers and shaving off my Tom Petty hair.  I often buzzed it short in the warm months and my styling options were slowly decreasing as my hair receded.  I knew that this growing out process would probably be my last hurrah.  I also knew that I was getting dangerously close to looking like the guy who grew his thinning hair out to try to mask the fact that he was losing the aging battle.  I wasn’t quite there yet, but my “mountain” hair had become nearly unmanageable.  Growing it out had actually become a fun little side topic with my students, who encouraged me to continue.  Some of the sixth grade kids were trying to talk me into coloring it blonde, which seemed like a horrible, yet fantastic idea.  If this whole jail thing had never happened, I may have actually done it at the end of the school year and then shaved it off before I got to camp in June.  During my freshman year of college, a girlfriend talked me into letting her try to highlight my hair.  I think she left the chemicals in too long and I ended up looking like Keifer Sutherland in The Lost Boys.  It was hideous.  She said she knew what she was doing and I made the mistake of believing her.  It wouldn’t be the first or last time that I made that same mistake with her and other girlfriends.  We tried to fix it by attempting to color it back to a darker shade, but instead of returning to a light brown, it came out orange.  I spent a week of my life as The Joker from Batman.  I finally ended up going to a professional salon and paying a ridiculous amount of money to have it fixed, but it still took over six months for it to return to normal. 

     I thought it might be a good time to shave my hair off, but more importantly I was killing time.  My renewed emotional state and determination to make it through this ordeal without further breakdowns depended on constant diversions from reality.  It was easier at County than it had been in the City Jail, but I knew that I was worn down so much on all levels that it wouldn’t take much for me to rocket towards the bottom again.  Showering and butchering my face took up a block of time.  Cutting my hair would keep me occupied and then I’d move on to the next thing, and so on.  I finally decided that I didn’t want to give up my hair just yet, so I waited for my wounds to dissipate enough that I could wash my face and not look like a horror show.  I read a little more of my book and then made my way out to look for distractions until it was time to go to bed. 

     When I walked back into the main room, half of the Block was gathered at the television, much like the night before with The Last Castle slumber party, but this time they were watching the Missouri Tigers take on the Texas Longhorns.  I stopped to watch and I tried, I really tried, to care.  What would normally have me glued to the action and wringing my palms with nervous anxiety didn’t even more the needle inside me.  I simply didn’t care.  Guys yelled at the TV for one team or the other and every part of me wanted to roll up the leg of my pants to expose my Mizzou tattoo on my left ankle. I wanted to move to the front of the crowd and insert myself into the action, but I couldn’t.  It just didn’t seem important. Just as it had been on Friday night, one part of my brain couldn’t process the fact that something that had meant so much to me for most of my cognitive life seemed so trivial.  Being in the circumstances in which I found myself had completely flipped my version of reality and what mattered in life.  I was in survival mode and couldn’t fire the engine that controlled my life passions.  I wanted freedom and family and friends.  A Mizzou win or loss wasn’t on that list.  I did hope that they would win, of course, but a loss wouldn’t render me angry and ruin my night or week.  I glanced at the score and watched for maybe a minute or two, but using the phone and calling Kira seemed much more important. 

     There was an hour and a half left in our night time recreation and my goal was to use it all up with Kira.  During my time of lying under the covers unable to move, the only thoughts that I had beyond extreme depression were about what was happening with her and me.  The feeling that someone besides my friends and family was out in the world thinking of me, missing me and standing beside me was nearly enough by itself to give me the hope and strength to continue.  Belushi’s speech started the fire and the visit from Dave and seeing Pepe’ obviously helped, but I couldn’t get Kira out of my head.  The same part of my brain that couldn’t understand why the hell I wasn’t locked on the TV watching the Tigers was also telling me that I was dead wrong about what was going on with Kira. 

“You know, it’s all a product of the environment you’re in,” it told me.  “You were right to end it when she left Colorado.  You’re making a huge mistake.” 

     The rest of me disagreed.  I had made the mistake when she visited and Kira might be the person that I was going to marry.  We had danced around it during some of our more recent talks since my arrival at County, but I could actually conceptualize marrying her in my head.  It didn’t scare me and it didn’t seem so far-fetched.  The farther into my jail journey I went, the more real I thought my feelings had progressed.  She loved me and never waivered in her belief in me and my innocence.  I went to the open bank of phones and waited while she answered the phone and got us connected. 

     The next hour and a half went by as fast as I could ever remember any ninety minute stretch of time in my life.  One minute I was dialing her number and suddenly, the next we were being given the five minute warning.  Yes, the phone would be my salvation.  If I was going to make it, talking to my friends, my mother and Kira was going to be my fuel.  There had been long, painful and lonely lengths of isolation during which time slowed to the point that it seemed like it was going backwards.  Of course, it didn’t help that I was staring at a clock tower and being asked the time every fifteen fucking minutes, but being able to use the phone for extended periods would get me to from checkpoint to checkpoint in my endless wait for resolution and freedom.  Kira and I had done this for months, normally lying in our beds on the phone before we went to sleep.  In fact, one of us had fallen asleep more than a few times while still on the phone.  Minus the week after she visited when I was sure that she wasn’t right for me, we had talked on the phone nearly every day and night since sometime in October.  I wasn’t in danger of falling asleep on the small stool at the phone bank, but she may have drifted off once or twice while we talked on Sunday night. 

     The subject of marriage came up a few times and I went right along with it.  To use a poker term, I was “all in.”  My emotional buffer and governor was completely worn away from everything that I’d been through and I was about as raw as a person could be, or so I thought.  The gloves were officially off.  Kira and I made plans for me to come see her next week after I got out.  It was her spring break from school and she had the entire week off.  It felt good to make plans for my post-jail life, even if I couldn’t conjure the feeling that a time would really come when I’d get out.  It was kind of like the feeling I sometimes got when I was out on a training run.  My mind would often wander and try to envision finishing my first marathon, but I just couldn’t imagine actually running 26.2 miles and crossing the finish line.  I had been in jail for nearly eight full days and I had no idea if I was still on mile one of this race.  I didn’t even know how far the finish line was or if it even existed, but Kira was steadfast in her belief that I was almost there.  As difficult as it was, I tried to believe her.  She simply wouldn’t stand for me believing anything other than the fact I would be seeing her in Minneapolis in a little over a week.

     Right around the time we got the word that rec time was nearly over, I noticed that the Mizzou game was ending and that they were going to lose.  I mentioned this to Kira and she feigned anger that I had called her instead of watching the game.  I didn’t bother trying to explain how little I cared about it since I didn’t feel like another Tony Robbins pep talk about staying positive.  All of my other friends, Kermit, Aimee, Lou Greer, my mother, Ephram and even Dave, tried to give me a helpful boost of confidence that everything was going to work out.  Every conversation ended with some version of “don’t worry” and “it’ll be over soon,” but I had nothing but worry and no one knew if or when I was going to get out.   It was easy for them to say “don’t worry” from where they sat.  When they hung the phone up or left the visitation room, they were able to make choices of whatever it was that they wanted to do and where they wanted to go.  I had to return to my cell to sit and wait for the next opportunity to talk to someone.  It was impossible for me to describe the weight of my load and how a very small part of me didn’t want to hear “don’t worry,” which was wrong of me to think.  They cared about me and wanted to help, but telling me that everything was going to work out was what they were supposed to say.  I knew that I was being horribly ridiculous and it was one of the reasons that I decided not to tell anyone about the dark times that I was experiencing.  I never told Kira or anyone else how much I didn’t want to hear blanket words of hope, so I always just said, “Thank you.”  It was just another confusing emotional thought that you’d never know existed until you’re in a similar situation.  Maybe people fighting cancer get annoyed when their loved ones tell them that they will be OK, I don’t know.  I wasn’t sure of anything, really, at least I was learning quite a bit about myself that I didn’t previously know.

     I didn’t want to go back to my cell, which was normal, but I especially didn’t want to stop talking to Kira. I had let go of all of my previous doubts from her visit to Colorado and had given in to everything that we were talking about and feeling.  I could have easily stayed up all night talking to her.  I could tell that she was sad to have to end our conversation and I promised to call her on Monday.  She had class in the morning, so we’d have to wait until the afternoon to talk again.  Our conversation ended with multiple “I love you’s” and I slowly hung up the phone.  The lights dimmed just a minute after I returned to the discomfort of my toboggan.  I didn’t feel even a shimmer of being tired since my mind was racing with everything that Kira and I talked about and the overall extreme feelings that I had for her.  I was in a far better place than I was before being reminded that the war wasn’t over when Pearl Harbor was bombed, regardless of whether or not it mattered that Bluto got it wrong with who actually did the bombing.  Thinking about the next day being Monday and everyone going back to work made me a feeling very much like going to bed on Christmas Eve.  If I could just get to the morning, a new work week would begin and the renewed possibility of going home would begin again. 

    

The Real Me

     Monday, it turns out, wasn’t Christmas.  There was no call of salvation and I wasn’t going home.  I had an extra little spring in my step when I left my cell for breakfast and every ticking moment that went by without word of my release brought me down a notch and lowered that spring.  As five o’clock came and went, I had to accept that it may never happen.  It had been over five full days since I had taken my DNA test.  The state of Florida had certainly received my saliva swabs and should have concluded long ago that they had arrested the wrong guy.  Laney screwed up and would have to start his investigation over from scratch.  Something else was happening and I had to accept that living in jail was my “new” normal life.    

     How on earth these guys survive in jail is beyond me.  I think that acceptance plays a major role in it.  They have all accepted the fact that where they are is where they are going to be for a pre-determined amount of time.  Living in jail is very much like being in the military in the sense that everyone is locked into a very rigid and unchanging schedule.  You are told when to eat, when you can sleep, when you can relax and when you will go home.  For me, I get it all minus the “when you go home” part, which is the missing piece of my puzzle that has made my time in jail exponentially more difficult, coupled with the fact that I don’t belong in jail to begin with.  Every prisoner I’ve met and come in contact with at least has an idea of when their “time” will end.  Well, maybe not Pepe’, but he certainly should have gotten some more information by Monday, I assume.  He did look very happy when we passed each other in the hallway on Saturday or Sunday, so who knows.  I have to assume that at least knowing when you’ll be going home has to make it easier to accept your circumstances.  I think that had I chosen a life of crime and found myself in my same location as an actual criminal, I could handle it.  When I sit back and think about my day to day situation in D Block, it’s not all that horrible.  Once the initial fear of the unknown subsided, life at County has been manageable.  It’s miles and miles ahead of living in the City Jail, which was horrific.  Being locked up for 23 hours per day with only a Bible to read and nothing at all to do but sit and think is the worst thing I could ever imagine, but I did it.  I now know that the City Jail where I stayed for nearly a week isn’t really built for any sort of long term living.  I saw guys come and go so often because they were only waiting to either be transferred to County or waiting to be bailed out.  I ended up there for such a long time due to my situation.  It is not the norm.  Once things started to play out, I stayed there for such an extended amount of time because Franklin and others probably truly believed that I would be released on Thursday or Friday.  I’ve accepted it.  But why Monday passed with no information is beyond me. 

     On a very superficial level, when I exclude the mental aspects of what I’ve gone through, I feel somewhat fortunate to have landed in D Block.  Physically, I could stay for as long as I had to.   I mean, come on, you can watch movies and games, play cards or whatever, read books, play basketball, use the phone, get visitors and other clothes after two weeks, eat decent food, etc.  It ain’t too bad.  There doesn’t seem to be much in the line of violence, although I have heard guys talk about the occasional fight.  D Block is everything that everyone had told me before my arrival.  I do know that living in the general County Jail population is a different story.  My story would probably be much worse had I been sent there.  Guys are housed in a large gym-like room with hundreds of bunk beds.  There are many more inmates and much more potential for trouble, plus very little personal space.  In a way, I feel very fortunate that I ended up in D Block and not where my shackle buddy John went. 

     The reason why my situation is so horrible is really based on one thing:  the unknown.  Mentally, I was exhausted and wasn’t sure how much longer I could realistically hold up.  Everything that I experienced from the onset has been completely new to me.  I’m not a criminal and I’ve never had to experience being treated like one, outside of my mild brushes with the law as a younger man.  I’ve never had to interact with real criminals and I only really know what I’ve read or seen on television or in the movies.  My fear of the unknown has been based on my living situation, the people I’m with and not knowing from hour to hour what was going to happen next.  Much more than the tangible aspects of my ten days in jail has been the fears of what could possibly come next.  My life since the first police visit to my house has been filled with a never ending barrage of stress that perpetuates itself when coupled with the extreme isolation.  On Monday night lying in my toboggan, I was visited by a moment of clarity that allowed me to dissect everything that I’d been through thus far.  I was proud of what I’d been able to manage and scared shitless about the possibilities for the future.  My day to day living situation in D Block, though, was no longer a fear.  On one hand, I resigned myself to the fact that I could last for a long time at Country if I absolutely had to.  On the other hand, though, I was reaching the end of the line in how much more worry and stress I could handle.  When I put those two hands together, I knew that the other hand would win out.  Since I’m not a criminal and I don’t know when and if I can go home and if I’ll end up in a real prison for a very long time and if I have a job and if I’ll ever be able to work with kids again or if my life will be forever altered, I wasn’t sure if I could make it even another day. 

     When I was first arrested and before everything became real, my initial thoughts were that I just wanted to be able to get out in time to return to camp in Maine and be able to see The Who in Boston in July.  That was just me thinking as any innocent person would think if they were suddenly thrust into a situation that they had no hand in creating.  Those thoughts seem so far away and long ago on Monday night.  I still very much want to go to camp and see The Who, but the only thing I now care about is resolution.  I feel like I’m perpetually on the edge of a cliff and precariously close to falling into the abyss every minute.  The more real everything has become, the more I feel like I’m going to fall.  Getting out and actually resuming my life as it was scheduled doesn’t seem like a real possibility any longer.

     I realized that I had changed and this new version of myself could be the real me for a very long time.  If I had to see this through until the very end, which could be possibly be many more months until I was found innocent after a trial in Florida, or worse, after many more years after a conviction, the further I would drift away from my old life.  Every day that passed took me away from who I was before this all began.  I had never been a needy person, but being needy was driving me on a daily basis.  I needed to have contact with my mother and friends.  I needed to talk to Kira more than ever before.  It was hard to imagine being in my situation without my external support system.  I had always been a strong person, but I felt that melting away as I continued to walk a tightrope of breakdown and tears.  I was a free spirit, but the rigors of the daily intense confines of incarceration were virtually squashing this part of my personality.  I was becoming less melancholy, less social, more internal and it was only day ten.  I simply couldn’t fathom what I’d be like in another week, month or year.  

     Since midday Monday, I’ve had a Who song running through my head that seems to fit.  It’s called “I’ve Had Enough” off of the Quadrophenia album, which I believe to be the greatest piece of music ever written.  The opening lyrics have been cycling nonstop all day.

                   You, were under the impression

                   That when you were walking forwards

                   You’d end up further onward,

                   But things ain’t quite that simple

                   You, got altered information,

                   You were told to not take chances,

                   You missed out on new dances

                   Now you’re losing all your dimples

     I’ve always listened to lyrics as poetry and have found songs that can be applied to many of life’s situations.  You can use songs to say what you can’t.  I grew up in the generation of making “mix tapes” for girlfriends and found it to be an art form.  Great songs are a combination of the words and music.  You can have great music, but the meaning of the song and how it speaks to you is what truly sets a song apart.  Just as some people feel that Keats, Kipling or Frost are geniuses, my list includes names like Townshend, Page and Richards.  My mind is constantly applying songs and movies to whatever it is that I’m involved in.  Although Pete Townshend wasn’t writing this song about wrongful incarceration, it seems to fit and I’ve been singing it in my head all day. 

     I arrived in D Block on Friday afternoon and have experienced fears that were all mostly a product of the unknown.  I didn’t know if that group of guys who came out to play basketball with me were there to kill me or not, but I thought it was a possibility.   I had no idea whether or not Chris was dangerous, since aren’t most criminals dangerous?  I had to sign that piece of paper when I arrived that waived my rights if I were killed or injured.  I didn’t make that up.  It actually happened.  I didn’t want to take a shower since don’t most jail assaults happen in the shower?  That’s what movies and television has taught me.  My fears were all real in the moment but, in hindsight, unnecessary.  I had settled into and accepted my highly structured life while my fears of what was happening beyond the walls of the County Jail were very much dictating my inner self. 

     I really thought that Monday was going to be the day. I talked about it during breakfast and on the phone with my mother later in the morning.  I played basketball and was worried that I may not be able to hear the announcement if it came during the game.  Multiple guys asked me about my story during the afternoon recreation time.  During my hour and half on the phone with Kira, every time an announcement was made over the loud speaker, my heart jumped and we both got excited that the end had finally come.  Chris actually asked me multiple times if I had gotten any word about getting out.  Monday was going to be the day and I spent it waiting and waiting and finally, after five o’clock, it was over.  Some guys actually offered condolences during dinner since I think they had gotten wrapped up in my story.  I had become the subject of conversation for a bunch of different groups of inmates, including guys who I had never spoken with.   I think in a strange way I was giving them a break from their mundane jail lives.  Every day is the same and my story was unusual.  I wouldn’t exactly call it an outpouring of emotion, but it boosted my spirits and helped get me from minute to minute.  After the day came and went without anything new, it helped to know that I at least had most of the Block on my side and pulling for me. 

     When the lights finally went out and I was left to my own thoughts, I began to focus in on my DNA test and the real possibility that Laney and his Florida buddies were going to alter the test and I really wasn’t going to get out.  I had thought about this before, but Monday night took me further down that road and I couldn’t shake it.  I’d bounce back and forth between rational thinking that things simply don’t happen like that in real life and truly believing that it was possible.  I’d seen too many movies where crooked cops made things happen in their favor.  I didn’t know Laney or his motives or character.  I’d only met the man for less than an hour and knew that what he said wasn’t exactly what he meant.  He tried to give me the impression that he was on my side and believed what I had told him then went straight to my house to collect more evidence that he thought would convict me.  Why would I believe that when my DNA did not match that of the real suspect that he would simply release me and start over?  I convinced myself that the reason why the test results were taking so long was due to Laney and his inner circle altering the results to bury me.  I envisioned a future of being taken to Florida and actually facing these charges for real.  I thought about photos on magazines of innocent people who had been released after many years of incarceration.  I didn’t want to be one of those people.  I wasn’t in the state of mind I was in when I experienced my break down, but in some ways I was even more depressed.  I think that I was accepting my fate and just too worn out to do anything about it.  I knew that I couldn’t go through this fog of the unknown for much longer.

     While I bounced around from thought to thought, in the wee hours of the morning while everyone else in the world was sleeping, I could clearly hear a song in my head that may have been written just for me for this exact moment:

          Lonely is the night, when you find yourself alone

          When your demons come to light and your mind is not your own

          Lonely is the night, when there’s no one left to call

          When you feel the time is right and the writin’s on the wall

     I literally sat up in my toboggan.  This Billy Squier song from the 80’s, which I had always loved, was perfect.  It was as if Billy knew me and what I was going through.  It’s crazy how you can apply art to life, and maybe I do it more than most people, but damn if Billy didn’t hit it on the head.

          It’s a high time to fight when the walls are closin’ in

          Call it what you like- it’s time you got to win

          Lonely, lonely, lonely- your spirit’s sinkin’ down

          You know you’re not the only stranger in this town

     While I whittled away the remaining darkness and inched closer to another morning, I vowed to write to Billy Squier to thank him for helping me get though my tenth night in jail.  Then I decided that it wasn’t a good idea and then I really started to wonder if Billy Squier was even still alive?  By the time the night ended, I think I was fifty four percent sure that Billy Squier was still alive and that most likely, no one in jail would be able to confirm or deny it.  Maybe I’d ask someone on the phone on Tuesday to look it up.  These were the random things that held lengthy conversations in my head to get me from minute to minute.   

     Tuesday morning finally came after a completely sleepless night.  Everything re-started again, just as it had on Monday.  The feeling that Tuesday was “the day.” The difference was that I wasn’t nearly as excited as I had been on Monday.  The lack of sleep was certainly one reason why, but the more you want something to happen that hasn’t yet, the more it seems like it’ll never happen.  The feeling is similar to when you apply for a job and get an interview.  From the moment you leave the interview, you begin an internal clock of when you might get the call that you got the job.  After a few days, you check your messages more frequently and hesitate to be away from your phone in fear that you’ll miss the call.  With each passing day, the fire of excitement is extinguished a little bit more until it finally goes out.  Eventually you receive the letter that thanks you for your interest in the job, but that it was given to someone else.  My fire was smoldering and just about ready to go out for good. 

     I called my friend Luke in the morning.  His was one of the few phone numbers that I knew from memory and I felt like talking to someone outside of the small group of people that knew what was going on with me.  Luke and I had known each other for a long time.  He was a camper at the camp in Minnesota and had come back as a staff member during my final summer there.  We had become close friends and had seen each other quite a bit since our last hurrah as camp staff.  He was in law school in Chicago and may or may not have called and talked to Kermit over the past eleven days.  The last time I spoke with Kermit, he asked me what he should tell people that called for me. I told him that he could tell those people that he knew were friends of mine and ours.  I wanted my friends to know what was going on with me but had no way to get the word out.  I thought that perhaps Luke had called and may have already known where I was and what I was going through. 

     When Luke answered the phone and had to go through the same ridiculous instructions and information as all of those others before, he immediately became animated, which let me know that he had no idea of why I was calling from the Denver County Jail.  His nickname is “The Excitable Boy,” and he was living up to it.

          “What the fuck did she just say?” he asked in a high pitched voice.

“She told you that an inmate from the Denver County Jail was calling you collect,” I said mockingly.

          “Why are you in the Denver County Jail?”

“I failed my urine test.”  It was a take on another movie line that he immediately understood.

          “No, seriously, why are you in jail?”

          “It’s a long, long story,” I said and then went into the Cliff Notes version.

          “How can I help?” 

     Luke and I had compiled quite a few ridiculous outings filled with drunken shenanigans, but when real life emergencies came around, he could be counted on to be somewhere the next day to offer any help that he could give.  Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do, but I appreciated him asking.  We ended up talking for the full thirty minutes and I could tell that once we hung up, he’d probably spend the next day and a half calling everyone he knew that could possibly do anything for me.  I also figured that he was probably booking an airfare to Colorado, which I told him at least three times not to do.  He had traditionally been a horrible listener. 

     The next person on my list to call was my friend Jim, who was living in Dallas at the time.  He had moved back to Texas to be closer to his girlfriend, who was once my girlfriend of three and a half years.  I was actually the one who got them together, sort of.  It’s a long story.  Jim was my only friend who worked in a place that used a toll free 1-800 number, and I called him often. We loved calling Jim at work and his free phone had provided a few of us with multiple entertaining stories.  I had wanted to call him several times during the week but either time restraints or an emotional lack of motivation kept me from it.  When I tried to call the number, I received a message that I was unable to call such numbers from jail.  This was frustrating since I very much wanted to connect with some of my closest friends, and Jimmy certainly was in that group.  During my life I have been blessed with an usually large group of people who I consider to be close friends.  All of these guys and girls could be counted on to hop on a plane at a moments notice if need be (Luke was probably already on a plane).  It wasn’t often that we had to face actual serious events, in fact, most of our time together was spent re-hashing old arguments about movies, sports and music, but at the end of the day, I’d put my group of degenerate friends up against any group of friends anywhere.  Although I worried about what friends on the fringe, co-workers and strangers would think about me once this whole mess hopefully got resolved, I never once feared what my core group would think.  I knew unequivocally that I would have their support and that they were in my corner.  My friends are like my family and those bonds are impossible to break, no matter how much we disagreed about which of our sports teams was the best or what the top five comedies of all times were.  We were a relentless bunch of idiots and smart asses, but harmless.  We may abuse each other and go way past any lines of demarcation, but Lord help an outsider that tries to do the same.  Anyone listening in on one of our ridiculous continuous arguments would assume that we all hated each other, but it was quite the opposite. 

     It was good to talk to Luke and it lifted my spirits to share my saga with another friendly voice.  The morning passed quickly and after trying to continue my book of short stories in my cell, it was lunch time.  My flame of hope was barely flickering and no matter what I did, I couldn’t shake my worry that I would be spending many more days waiting for something to happen.  I couldn’t fathom spending even one more day “behind bars” and my patience was nearing the end.  My frustration showed during lunch as guys continued to ask if I had heard anything, which I obviously hadn’t.  I didn’t have much of an appetite and just made small talk with my table of basketball playing convicts.  At some point, I would get some news.  It was inevitable.  I was assuming more and more that the news would not be good.

     While I waited for the main room to get cleaned and picked up after lunch, my focus was squarely on being able to talk to Kira in the afternoon.  I was anxious and my nervous energy would not allow me to relax for even a moment while I sat in my cell while Chris calmly read a book.  We barely spoke and I paced back and forth waiting until our door to unlock for afternoon recreation.  I could tell that Chris was slowly getting annoyed by this as he looked up at me every few minutes while I walked from the sink to the door and back, over and over.  I was becoming stir crazy and actually laughed out loud when I thought about how ridiculous the realities of my life had become.  I was truly nearing the end of my rope and seemingly out of options to take my mind away to a more positive place.  I knew that I was spinning out of control and I almost ran out of the room once the door finally unlocked.  I probably looked like Peter McNeely running towards Mike Tyson at the opening of Tyson’s first fight after his release from prison. 

     I was the first person to reach the bank of phones and quickly dialed Kira’s number.  I wasn’t hinging on another hopeless breakdown like Saturday, but a building anger was raging inside of me.  During my first few days of living in jail, talking on the phone or receiving new information would put me in a better frame of mind for quite awhile.  Now, on day eleven, those times didn’t linger as long and the wait was nearly killing me.  This was the first thing that I tried to explain to Kira when she answered the phone.  I went on a long rant before she could get a word in.  I was mad and she let me vent before finally cutting me off.

          “You’re going to have to calm down,” she said.

          “I can’t calm down.  I’m never fucking getting out of here.  Somehow Florida

          is going to fuck me,” I told her.

          “You can’t give up.”

     She knew that she had to talk me off of the ledge.  The more I talked about it, the more wound up I got.  She wouldn’t let up, though, continuing to say what she was supposed to say.  Eventually I just wanted reassurance from her that she would stay with me, regardless of the outcome.  She was the crutch that kept me upright.  She represented hope for me and I counted on her to be there when I had to go to Florida to stand trial for my charges.  I envisioned her visiting me in prison and being there when I got out as an older man and convicted child molester.  She offered me a future when my previous life no longer existed, and she never waivered.  It would be hard for my friends to still be the same after I spent fifteen to twenty years in a Florida prison.  I knew that I would be different, scarred and unrecognizable.  But Kira would be there, faithfully waiting for me, or so she said, and she sounded like she meant it.  We joked about her phone bill and how much all of these long distance collect calls would end up costing.

          “You know I can’t possibly pay you back once the phone bill comes,” I joked.

          “We’ll figure it out once you get out.  I don’t care how much it costs,” she

          said.  “You’ll just owe me for the rest of our lives.”

     After six or seven call-backs while half hour after half hour flew by, it was getting close to five o’clock.  The time was always in the back of my mind while we talked at the end of another work day was once again at hand.  Dread filled my mind while the realities of facing another night in jail loomed in front of me. 

          “I hate to go, but I gotta try to call my Dave,” I told Kira.

          “Stay strong.  Remember that I love you and I’ll be here for you,” she said.

          “I love you, too.  I’ll call tonight.”

     Once we hung up, I immediately dialed Dave’s office.  While the phone rang, I became extremely nervous and was nearly shaking.  I was desperate and feared that at some point he would have to deliver the bad news that I wasn’t getting out.  Eventually something would happen, and the longer I was in jail, the more real an unfavorable outcome became.  I think I just wanted any information, regardless of what it was.  The phone rang and rang and eventually I heard his answering machine pick up.  It was now after five o’clock and immense depression ascended upon my body.  I wasn’t getting out and I wasn’t getting any information.  I was out of hope and nothing but another evening in D Block awaited me.  I stood motionless without a thought of what to do or say.  The blackness of everything totally descended upon me and I felt like I was truly reaching my final straw.

     I thought that it was time to go back to our cells before dinner, but there hadn’t been an announcement and no one looked like they were ending their card games or whatever discussions they were engaged in at their tables.  Without anything else to do, I decided to try to call my mother since she was most likely home from work.  I just needed to talk to anyone and she seemed like the logical choice.  I dialed her number and she picked up on the first ring.

          “Hi, Mom, how are you?”

          “Chris, did you talk to your lawyer?”  There was urgency to her words.

          “No, I just tried to call and no one answered.”

          “So you don’t know?”

          “Know what?”

          “You’re getting out!   I just got off the phone with Dave and you’re getting out

          tonight!   It’s over!  You’re getting out!”

     I heard the words that she said but they didn’t compute.  I asked her to repeat them.

          “Honey, you’re getting out!  Dave just got word and he called me

          immediately.  He must have been on the phone with me when you tried to

          call him.  You’re getting out tonight!”

     It still didn’t register.  It wasn’t real.  It’s over?  I’m getting out?  After the suddenness of the message and initial shock, I wept.  I hunched over the phone to avoid anyone near seeing my tears, but it was uncontrollable.  I tried to ask my mother a question, but nothing came out of my mouth. 

          “I’m getting out tonight?” I said as my voice cracked and tears of extreme joy

          poured down my face. 

          “Yes!  Tonight.  He didn’t have time to give me any details, but he was

          sure that you’d be home tonight.”

     In the span of two minutes, I went from unimaginable fear to an elation that I’d never be able to properly describe.  I didn’t know what to do and I didn’t know what to say.  My mother repeated it several more times while I just listened and let her words wash over me.  With the passing of every second, the weight, worry and stress melted from my body.  A joyous feeling that I had never known replaced the cavernous void left from the ugliness that had built up within me.  I felt reincarnated. 

I’m going home. 

“Are you sure?” I asked, just wanting to hear her tell me again.

“Yes.  You’re going home.”

     I told her I’d call her once I got some more information.  She was also crying as I heard the announcement that we needed to start returning to our cells.  I said goodbye, hung up the phone, and didn’t move.  I just stood and let the last remaining bits of negative relinquish their hold on me.  I was going home.  I made it.  It was over.  It wasn’t real, but it just happened.  I felt normal for the first time in over eleven days.  Suddenly, I was myself again.  I was back.  It happened that quickly.

     I was going home.  I didn’t know exactly how or why, but as I walked back to my cell, my world of endless possibilities was once again in front of me.  I wouldn’t have to try to manage another night in my toboggan.  I could almost taste the beer that I hoped I’d soon be drinking.  This homecoming deserved a party.

     Before I turned to begin the short walk back to my cell, armed with my elation, my first conscious thought past the fact that I was going home came into my head and it literally stopped me in my tracks.  I spoke to myself.

“Fuck.” 

Candlelight

     In the passing of ninety seconds, I had gone from the very real thoughts of spending the better part of my life behind bars to planning my homecoming at a bar within walking distance.  In those same ninety seconds I also went from very real thoughts that Kira would be waiting for me as my wife when I got out of prison to realizing that it was all a mirage and that my true self knew that I had to end it with her.  Again.  Although I was still a prisoner and had just a minute or two to get back to my cell before dinner, with the flick of a switch, I could once again see my path ahead and Kira was not going to be on it with me.  It wasn’t planned and it wasn’t conscience, but Kira represented the support that I needed to endure the trauma that I faced for  eleven days.  She hadn’t wanted it to end the first time and she was more than willing to allow me back in as my new world unfolded.  As I walked back to my cell, armed with freedom in my pocket, I felt extremely conflicted about what had occurred during my time under the watch of the Colorado authorities.  Was I simply an asshole who used Kira as a crutch during my extreme time of need or did I truly mean everything that I said during our hours spent on the phone together?  I decided that I honestly didn’t care.  Dealing with Kira would have to wait.  I was going home and would deal with it later.  Chris was sitting on his bed and I shifted gears as I entered my cell for what I hoped would be the last time. 

“I’m getting out tonight,” I said to him.  Surgery couldn’t remove the smile from my face.

     “What?  How do you know?” he said.

     “My lawyer called my Mom a few minutes ago and told her that I was getting out

      tonight.  I have no idea why or when, but I’m getting out.”         

     “That’s awesome. Have a beer for me.”  I would.  But probably not for him. 

     I wanted to call everyone (minus Kira).  I wanted to know when I’d be home.  I couldn’t sit down and just paced the room waiting to go to dinner.  Chris was reading a book and didn’t say much, as usual.  We didn’t have much of a relationship and I figured that he was probably happier that he would get his cell back to himself again, but he was a decent kid and I could tell that he was legitimately happy for me.  For some strange reason I couldn’t wait to tell my basketball buddies.  They would be happy, too. 

     Time slowed, just as it had every day of my life in jail, but this time it wasn’t crawling by antagonizing me with each second while I waited for news or a visitor or daylight.  It slowed down just like it does when you’re counting the minutes until the end of class on the last day of school combined with the anticipation of Christmas morning when you’re ten years old and you’re lying in bed in the middle of the night.  I didn’t know when it would happen, but going home couldn’t come fast enough.  I thought of how I had done what I thought that I couldn’t do, which was nothing.  I made it eleven days basically doing nothing, which, for me, is the worst punishment imaginable.  My parents knew this early on in my life.  Spanking or taking tangible things away was not a deterrent for me and bad behavior.  It was taking time and activity from me.  When I was grounded and forced to stay home, I was limited in what I could do.  No television, no phone and no fun.  Minutes and hours that crept by until the eventual end of my “sentence.”   The threat of idle time always got my attention when presented as a consequence.  I need constant stimulus and jail took that away.  The added extreme emotional toll was far worse, but the simple removal of things to do was something that I never thought I could manage.  But I did. 

     The door to our cell finally opened and it was time for dinner.  I ended up standing behind a guy who I had spoken with a few times and he asked me how things were going.  “I’m going home tonight,” I gleefully told him.  I wasn’t sure if I had ever given him the full rundown of why I was in jail, but it didn’t matter.  “Go get laid,” he said.  For most prisoners, I learned during my stay, sex was the first thing that most wanted to do upon release.  I just laughed and told him that I’d give it my best shot, knowing that there would be no line of women eagerly awaiting my homecoming.  At least I’d have the option, though. I really just wanted to get a beer and sleep in my own bed.  I had had enough of my toboggan.

     I loaded my plate with more food than I had since my arrival and took my saved seat with my crew. 

 

     “Boys, I’m getting out tonight!”

     “No shit!?  That’s great!  Congratulations!” they all kind of said at the same time.   

    “Steve Nash is getting out tonight!” one of them yelled at anyone who could hear.

     Random guys at other tables looked over and smiled and nodded their head.  It wasn’t lost on me how oddly fascinating it was that I, the whitest dude in jail who actually wasn’t supposed to be in jail, was somehow “popular” and that convicted murderers, robbers and rapists were applauding my release.  Some actually looked “happy” for me.  I wanted Jack Buck to narrate my story when it became a made-for-TV movie.  “I don’t believe what I just saw!  I don’t believe, what I just saw!”

     As I sat back and reveled in the glory of going home, I couldn’t help but think about the journey that led me to the end.  I had met so many people that I would have never, ever met in my “real” life.  Franklin, Cube, Pepe’, John, Dave, the basketball boys and all of the other random inmates, officers and officials that I interacted with during my stay.  Now that the cloud of fear was lifted, I once again very much wanted to document what I was seeing and going through.  I wished that I had a camera and could take some photos with my “new friends.”  I wanted to show my actual friends where I had been and who I had met.  I wished that I could go back to the City Jail and get a shot of my cell and the clock tower.  The experience had been so surreal, so out of the norm, that I knew that it would be very difficult to fully explain what it had been like.  I didn’t know anyone who had been in “real” jail and now I would be the flag bearer for everyone I knew to give them a little glimpse of what life “inside” was like. 

     During the meal, I told all the guys at the table that I’d mention them in the paper if my story made it to the media. I wasn’t oblivious to the fact that my story may be something that would be in the media.  I was a teacher in jail for crimes against a minor and now I would be a teacher who spent time in jail for crimes against a child that he didn’t commit.  Very early on during my stay, in the midst of another very long night alone, I worried that my story had already been on the news.  “Local Teacher Jailed” would be the tagline above the news anchor along with my mug shot, which most likely looked an awful lot like a guilty man with scraggly hair.  I know that if I was watching the news and saw my story, with my picture, I would immediately think, “That guy’s fucking guilty.”  None of my friends or Dave had mentioned that it had been in the paper or on TV, so I felt lucky in that respect.  But now, since I was going to be exonerated, I figured that perhaps it would be newsworthy. 

     “Make sure they spell my name right,” one of the guys at my table said.  They

     all seemed excited that I might actually get them in the paper for something

     other than the local crime feed.

     Word seemed to travel fast around the room that I was getting out.  Multiple guys stopped by my table to give me their good words as they took their trays up after the meal.  It was all very, very surreal.  I was just a guy from the other side of the tracks and had somehow fit in.  While we talked during dinner, my mind was racing elsewhere.  I went through the entire journey in my head and just shook my head that it had really happened.  It was the exact opposite of when I’d be talking to someone and my mind was elsewhere with worry and fear.  I was full of joy and hope.  My laughter was real and I was finally able to take everything in that was around me without an ounce of trepidation. 

     Dinner finally ended and I went back to my cell for what I hoped was the final time.  By the time evening recreation began I figured that I’d be already be out, or at least on my way.  I didn’t sit down once and actually sort of packed up like I would on the last day of a vacation, which was dumb since I didn’t have anything to pack.  My arrest report, which had become ragged and crinkled from multiple, multiple readings, my bible, which I wasn’t sure if I could take home or not and some scribbled ramblings that I had tried unsuccessfully to write.  My mind wouldn’t let me concentrate enough to actually write anything intelligible, which I felt was unfortunate.  I wanted to document my thoughts and feelings as I was going through it, but the extremity prevented any focus or direction. 

     Chris sat silent on his bed and wasn’t paying attention to my nervous pacing and clock watching.  I had never felt the energy and adrenaline that had been rushing though my body since the first words from my mom about my release.  I still couldn’t conceptualize the ending, but I knew it was near.  Or at least I hoped.  I was stopped in my tracks as the thought of not getting out that night hit my brain.  What if they are going to wait till the morning?  What if there was a setback?  The powerless void reemerged and I felt sick.  I couldn’t take the rug being pulled out.  Not tonight.  Once I let myself believe that it was over, there was no going back.  One more night after thinking I was done could possibly be the final push over the ledge.  Luckily I didn’t have much time to dwell on the alternate possibilities when the loud and familiar electronic opening of the doors signaled the beginning of evening recreation.  I didn’t have a destination, but I shot out of the room as soon as our door opened.  I just needed to move around.  I needed to go on to the next stage of my life.  I needed freedom. 

     I didn’t talk to anyone, really.  I normally didn’t really talk to many people when I was out of my cell.  Yes, I had made some connections with some guys and had avoided whatever evils that can come with incarceration, but at the end of the day, I just wanted to be left alone.  I had spent hours and hours pacing laps on the outskirts of the recreation room.  It was my “track” and I went right back to my counter clockwise loop when I left my cell.  I watched the card players deal their games, the chess and checkers guys deep in thought at their tables, the “new Christians” gather for their nightly bible study session and the others, alone in their thoughts and motionless in their chairs.  A few guys were on the phone and I was taking the final photos in my mind.  Each day and night was exactly the same as the one previous.  Same guys, same spots, same games, same conversations and I almost felt privileged that I got to see it all and live it for a while.  It was my own movie.  It was the strangest feeling that I had ever had.  Why on earth wouldn’t I feel anything but contempt and anger for being put in this hellish situation?   Now that it appeared that I was at the end of the line, I took it all in and kept checking the clock.  It seemed like a long, long time ago that I was the clock tower manager and appointed time keeper.  Time had almost ceased to move and every time I looked up at one of the clocks I would swear that the second hand was moving backwards. 

     I knew that I should be calling Kira.  She was most likely sitting in her living room and anxiously awaiting my call, but I couldn’t do it.  I was really, really conflicted about this.  I was so sure that Kira wasn’t the right person for me three weeks ago that I cut off all communication.  The only reason that we were where we were was because of where I was.  If I hadn’t gone to jail and none of this had occurred, would I have decided that I had made a mistake and tried again with her?  My history said no.  Once I decided that something with a girl wasn’t right, I immediately bailed.  I did want to tell her that I was getting out, but I didn’t want to talk about marriage, our plans for me to come to the Cities to see her next week and I certainly didn’t want to say any more “I love you’s.”  I had always enjoyed our conversations and perhaps there was a way for us to remain friends after this, but I knew where this was headed.  I decided to avoid it all until I was home and figure it out later. 

     On one of my laps I stopped at the control desk.  The officer who was seated behind the desk always seemed annoyed when anyone would ask him a question.  It didn’t matter who was asking or what they were asking about, he always acted as if it the biggest pain in the ass in the history of pains in the asses to give the answer.  Most of the time he was reading the paper or doing a crossword puzzle and most guys knew that it generally not worth the hassle of asking him for anything, however large or small the request was.  He was an overweight, balding white guy with a horrific mustache.  I had created life stories to go with most of the guards and police and his wasn’t pretty.  He had been relegated to County Jail late night guard duty and was counting the days until his retirement, which took a lot of math since he was years away from the end.  He disliked his wife and would often go to a bar on the way home and stay just long enough to avoid seeing her when he got home.  He had always wanted to be a cop simply to get the power over others.  Tonight, though, I didn’t care.  I wanted some more info and he was the only person who might have answers.  I made a pit stop during one of my laps around the room.

          “Sir, do you have any information about any prisoners being released

tonight?”

     I asked him as nicely as I could.  No movement. He was reading a People Magazine.

          “Sir, I got word that I am supposed to be released tonight.  Do you have

any information about when I might get out?” 

‘    

     As if I was asking borrow his Camaro, he very slowly and methodically closed up his magazine, set it on the desk and looked up at me.  He made it abundantly clear that reading about the Sexiest Man Alive in 2002 was far more important than whatever I was asking him, but while he looked up at me, his eyes glanced at my photo ID badge and he began to flip through a stack a papers near the phone on the desk. 

      “Justice?  Justice…that’s funny,” he said chuckling to himself while he continued to scan the papers.  I was in no mood to discuss the ironies of my last name as an incarcerated inmate, but I tried to smile like what he said was humorous and original, neither of which were remotely true. 

     “Who told you you were getting out tonight?” he asked.   I nearly blurted out the real answer, which was my mother, but instead told him that it was my lawyer.  No need to hear whatever ridiculous comment “my mother” would have brought forth. 

     “Well, looks like your lawyer was wrong.  I don’t see you on any release list.”

     Surprisingly, I wasn’t as immediately deflated as I probably should have been.  I could have very easily just walked away from the desk, ran to my bed and curled up into a ball.  I almost did, but I felt like Dave wouldn’t have told my mother that I was getting out unless there were things happening that would prompt my release.  The officer had already moved back into his seat and was re-opening his People when I said, “If someone isn’t on your list now, does that mean for sure that they aren’t getting out tonight?”  I knew that I was kicking the hornet’s nest and that my additional questions could really set him off. 

“Look, Justice, I don’t fucking know.  You’re not on the list now, but that doesn’t mean that you won’t be on the list later.  Maybe you haven’t noticed, but shit doesn’t happen very fast around here.  Now leave me the fuck alone.” 

      I had hope.  It was still fairly early in the evening and I thought that whatever paperwork that needed to be done hadn’t made it to D Block yet.  All I could do was keep doing my laps with some occasional pit stops to talk to a guy or two that I knew.  The TV had just been turned on and a small group had sat down to watch whatever was on.  After an hour or so of pacing, I decided to sit down at a table by myself.  I wasn’t having much conscience thought and was just kind of dazed.  My body and my mind were just about out of any energy resources.  Too much emotion and thought had been expended and I was out of gas.  So I just sat.  I didn’t even hear it the first time it came over the loud speaker.

     “Justice, 240.  Justice, 240.”

     I heard it the second time, but it didn’t register.  It was as if it was only in my head.  It was so simple, but so hard to understand.  I knew from others who had gotten released that 240 was code for getting out and to gather you stuff and report to the D Block exit door.  I had heard it probably once or twice day since I arrived, but hearing my name attached to it didn’t compute.  A sat motionless staring at the wall for a solid 15 seconds before I was snapped back to the world by a slap on my shoulder from one of my basketball buddies.

          “Yo, Dawg, ain’t that you?  You’re out!” he said with a big smile on face.  I slowly turned my head and saw a bunch of the other guys looking at me, clapping, smiling.  My knees buckled when I got up and I was so dazed and worn out that I didn’t know what to do.  What was I supposed to do?  For whatever reason, instead of an intense release of emotion, maybe dropping to my knees in a pool of tears or jumping up and down like I just won the World Series, I just stood there.  The world around me was swirling and guys were coming over to shake hands and give a quick goodbye.  A few different groups of guys had stood up and were clapping and whistling.  It was Brubaker, for real.   I was slowly making my way to my cell to grab nothing, really, but thought that I should at least say goodbye and good luck to Chris, but I was literally in a fog.  I understood what was happening, but I literally felt like I was watching it all from afar.  I had tried to imagine this moment in my head for countless unmanageable seconds, minutes, hours and days, and now that it was really happening, I was detached from it all.  I was watching a movie with someone else in it.  It was almost like my mind frozen and I was paralyzed or in a coma.  I was in a state of shock.  But from the back of the brain, from inside the fog, I did know one thing:  I was going home.  It ran like a recorded message.  I was going home. 

I was going home.

     From this moment forward, time took a u-turn.  However slow the previous eleven days had been, the next few hours were the reverse.   I was on fast forward and I was in a room putting on my original clothes.  I nearly felt drunk and unable to focus.  I was shuttled into a holding cell or two while I was processed out and I honestly have no idea how long any of this took.  I had entered a state of consciousness that I had never experienced before.  From the moment that my name was called until I was standing with an officer explaining that I would need to exit through a gate outside the door in front of me, I was literally a spectator of my own life.  Suddenly, it seemed, I was standing outside alone, in the cold, in the dark, watching an electronic gate slowly slide open in front of me.  Watching the gate open was exactly how the Blues Brothers started.  Jake Blues, standing at the prison gate while it slowly opened, and Elwood, on the other side, waiting for him.  Even now, at a point in my life when my body was nearly ready to completely shut down from exhaustion, this movie reference wasn’t lost on me.  It was perfect, really.  I wanted someone else to see this happen with me, but it would have to wait and there would be plenty of time for stories.  While that gate made its way open, I was surprised that instead of being overjoyed and jubilant that instead I was in a state of total disbelief that the last eleven days had actually happened.  It wasn’t real.  I had just happened, I lived it, but it wasn’t real.  The gate stopped and I was out of my coma.  My mind and body connected again and time was back to normal.  I began to walk, and as suddenly as it started, it was over.  I was alone, in the dark and free.    

     My breath was visible and it was chilly.  I stared out to nowhere as the gate behind me slowly grinded closed.  My hands were jammed in my pockets for warmth and I was happy, again, for my choice to bring along my USA hockey fleece.  I realized that I stunk.  I was very aware of my old, unwashed clothes that I had lived in for nearly eight full days and I couldn’t piece together when I had last showered.  I really did smell bad.  I was super impressed at how frayed I had made the ends of my pant legs on my jeans.  I must have stood there for five minutes with my mind jumping from thought to random thought.  I snapped out of it for a moment and looked around to realize that I was on the far side of the building and in a parking lot.  A few cars were scattered around and in the distance I could see a highway which I assumed was either I-70 or I-25.  I couldn’t remember what had happened on the bus ride to County, but I knew that we hit a stretch of road that had to be one of those two highways.  Since it was dark, I couldn’t orientate myself with the mountains and I couldn’t see downtown.  I began to walk around from the side of the building and tried to figure out where I had entered back on Friday.  I was horribly confused as to what I was supposed to do next.  I’m out!  But what now?  

     I had to call Kermit to let him know that I was out and ask him to come pick me up.  I had tried to picture this moment for an endless eternity and now that it was happening in real time, I couldn’t believe how blasé I felt about it.  It was like I needed to call him to get a ride home from the airport.  I had been incarcerated for twelve days after being charged with five felonies associated with the molestation of a teenage cheerleader.  I didn’t know why I had gotten out, but I assumed that the DNA test had come back negative.  I felt like Dave and Franklin and Kermit and Aimee and everyone else who knew where I was would be waiting on the other side of the gate with a cake, a cold beer, balloons, streamers and a marching band.  Maybe with TV reporters and blinding camera lights asking me how it felt to be free again, how angry I was at the police department, whether or not I was planning on suing anyone or when I planned on telling Jerry to fuck off.   But I stood alone, watching my breath dissipate into the darkness, trying to figure out where I’d find a phone.  I walked around the building a little more and saw a short sidewalk leading to a glass-door entrance to the building.  I could see through the windows that it was a public waiting room for families and friends.  There were maybe three people inside and I could see a row of phones, very similar to one on D Block.  I looked up at the sky and let out an audible laugh.  I’d have to fucking go back in to call Kermit. 

     Back inside.  That’s funny.

     I walked up and pulled the door on the right open.  As I entered the room, I could see the people I saw through the window.  It appeared they were all together, probably a friend, a wife and a teenage daughter waiting for a prisoner to be released.  They were all sitting down in the individual padded seats next to the pop machine.  The room had the feel of a bus station:  vending machines, wooden benches, plastic padded chairs, a bank of phones, maroon tile on the floor and a control booth that was shielded by bullet proof glass.  Very Greyhound-esque.  I went over to the phones and realized that I’d have to once again call collect since I didn’t have any change.  I thought for a split second that I’d ask one of those other folks for a quarter, but decided that one more collect call wouldn’t hurt. 

     I dialed the phone number the same way I’d been dialing phone numbers for two weeks, adding a zero in front rather than a one.  I waited for the time to record my name but was surprised that an actual operator answered and asked my name.  I could hear the phone begin to ring and almost immediately Kermit said, “Hello?”  I had become conditioned to waiting for the recorded announcement about my whereabouts and the conversation being recorded, etc., and naturally tuned out  during that process since it really did take about 90 seconds to get connected after the person on the other end had answered.  I drifted off for just a second when I heard Kermit saying, “Hello?  HELLO?”  There wasn’t any recording!  I was on my own.  This was the first real indication that I wasn’t in jail anymore, even if I technically FROM jail.

     “Wood, I’m out,” I said calmly.

     “Out, out?  As in out?” he asked.

     “Out.”

     “Where are you now?”

     “Jail.”

     “I thought you said you were out?”  He was easy to confuse. 

     “No, I’m still at the County Jail, but I’m out.  I’m in a public waiting room or    

      something.  Can you come pick me up?  Wait, what time is it?” 

      I realized that I had almost no concept of the time.  It could have just as easily

      been three in the morning or ten at night. I had no idea.

     “It’s 9:30.  Where are you?” 

     “I have no idea.  I was blindfolded when they brought me here.”  It was closer to

      the truth than he thought. 

     I really didn’t know where I was.  I told Kermit to hold on and went over to the officer behind the glass to find out the location of the County Jail.  Apparently People magazine was extremely popular at the County Jail since the officer sitting at the desk was reading the same one as the dickhead back in D block.  When I asked him where we were, he went through the same bullshit as the other guy with the pained facial expressions, the exaggerated closing of the magazine and the asking me to repeat my question.  There was obviously no premium put on customer service at the Country Jail.  He did finally give me the address and I didn’t recognize it, but there was zero chance that I was going to ask for further information from him.  I said the address four times in my head while I walked back over to the phone, where the receiver was dangling from the metal cord. 

“10500 Smith Road in Denver,” I told Kermit.  I figured he would know where it was since he’d been out in Denver since 1996.

“Where the fuck is that?” he asked. 

“No idea.  I think it’s off of 25 or 70.”

“OK, I’ll look it up on a map and be there as soon as I can.” 

My immediate thought was that I doubted he owned a map. 

     I told him about the location of the waiting area at the building and hung up the phone.  As I turned around to go find a seat, the inmate who the others were waiting for had just arrived in the room.  There was hugging and kissing and visible happiness happening.  It went on for several minutes.  I found a bench to sit down on and realized that I was very, very tired.  But I was also wired.  A final remaining dose of adrenaline had injected itself into my veins while I was on the phone with Kermit and I was excited to begin the beginning.  I sat fidgety with my knee bouncing up and down and did what I had just nearly perfected, which was waiting.  I waited for over an hour.   Was he lost?  Was the County Jail really over an hour from downtown?  I didn’t think I was on the bus for that long.  I knew he didn’t have a map. 

     Ninety minutes after I hung up the phone, two hours since I had rejoined society and five hours since I had left D Block, I saw Kermit’s green Ford Explorer pull into the parking lot.  I slowly stood up, walked out the door to the passenger side and opened the door.  I leaned over, shook Kermit’s hand and sat down in the sea.  It was a seat that I had been in countless hours on many long road trips over the years.  We had been to Vegas in that truck, to Chicago, to camp and all over Colorado.  This road trip would be my favorite. 

     “Welcome back,” he said.  “How was it?”

     “Good.  Good,” 

     It was so simple, but it meant so much.  It was normal.  We had been good friends before this began, but through this had bonded even more.  He had visited me in jail twice and, along with Aimee, he’d always have memories that none of my other friends would have.  There was never a question or hesitation from him about whether or not I was guilty.   Neither of us were ever the kind of guys to openly talk about our feelings or offer a hug.  Our affection was shown through handshakes and harassment.   We had shared a lot in nearly a decade and now we would always be able to talk about the time I went to jail. 

     “I thought you might need these.” 

     He leaned his right arm back behind the front seats and came back up holding a bottle of Coors Light and can of Copenhagen. 

     “I’m sorry that I didn’t get you anything,” I said.  He laughed. 

     “Wait, what’s the date?” I really had no idea.  I couldn’t think. 

     “It’s March 12.”  It was nearly midnight.

     “Well, let’s go celebrate your birthday!” I said as I cracked up the beer and began

     to open the can of Copenhagen.  I hadn’t dipped since the day before I was

     arrested and hadn’t really thought about until the moment he showed me the

     can. 

     I realized that Kermit’s birthday was in ten minutes, when it would officially be March 13.  There was a lot ahead of me.  I had to deal with my former employer.  I needed to call my mom and eventually I’d have to drive back to Missouri to see her.  I wanted to reach out to my friends who had supported me while I was inside and I wanted to tell the others who had no idea it was happening.  I needed to figure out how I was going to pay rent and my bills.  I wanted to know why I got out and what was next.  I wanted to tell the story of the first basketball game and Pepe’ and John and the bus ride and Cube and all of the other crazy shit that suddenly seemed like it happened in a dream.  I wanted to talk to Franklin and thank him and let me buy me the beer he promised me.   At some point I would have to start to think about a job.  Fuck, I’m going to have to call Kira.  I had nearly forgotten.  There would be plenty of time for that stuff, though.  Tomorrow.  Later.  I had no plan in front of me and, besides, Kermit was turning 30 in a few minutes.  It was a Tuesday night and he had to teach in the morning, but I figured he’d be up for going out before we went home. 

     “Let’s go to the Candlelight,” I said as we exited the parking lot onto a frontage

     road. 

We rode silent for a few minutes.  I had made it out unscathed, so to speak, but I was weak and felt beat up.  I had hardly slept in a week and a half and I figured that I probably lost nearly ten pounds.  My brain was scattered, but as we turned onto the onramp for I-70, I suddenly remembered why I was supposed to be mad at Kermit.  I looked at him with an angry look on my face and started shaking my head in disgust.

     "What?"  he said while speeding up to get on the highway.  
     "50 goals while I'm locked up?  Really?  Bullshit."
     Kermit just laughed, but he knew it was bullshit.  We would be able to    debate it at the Candlelight.