The Curious Case of Christopher Comtois (Part XIV)

County

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ever see The Fugitive?” I asked him. 

He laughed. 

“Of course. Several times.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I understand.” 

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

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

“Do you currently taking any prescription medications?”

“No.”

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

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

“Do you currently use any illicit drugs?”

“No.” 

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

“No.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do people get really get killed out here?”

“It does happen, but not often.”

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

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

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

The Curious Case of Christopher Comtois (Part XIII)

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 your 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.  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.”

Everybody Knows One

Everybody wants to be a part of something. Even if you are one of those "I'm an individual. I don't need to be a part of anything" groups, you're still in a group. Get it? You are, so get over it. The funny thing about non-conformists is that by non-conforming, they are, in essence, creating a group of people who are conforming to be non-conformists. Whatever it is that you're into, someone else is into it, too. If you can imagine it, there is a magazine dedicated to it and somewhere in America people are having meetings about it. People love the common thread. If you're ever in the Ukraine and you're wearing your "I Love Little Rock" t-shirt, don't be surprised if an older couple from Minneapolis accosts you. Americans just love seeing other Americans in places other than America. The conversation goes something like this:



"Hey, are you American?"
"Yes I am"
"Well, I'll be. We are too! We're Jim and Delores from Minnesota. Where you from?"
"Little Rock"
"Little Rock?  Do you know Roger and Margie Swenson?"
"No."
"Well, they're from Little Rock, too. What are you doing over here in the Ukraine?"
"Just visiting"
"Well, I'll be. Have a great time. Maybe we'll see you out again somewhere."

Inadvertently, you will see Jim and Delores again on that same vacation, and it'll ruin your night.


True story: A friend (who will remain nameless, but we'll call him "Rob Justis") from Iowa spent a semester in Australia. Who did he end up dating? A girl from Iowa. Somehow, that same girl who he would never talk to at home became more attractive simply by being in the southern hemisphere. It was because of the common thread factor that they got together.  Americans love Americans when not in America.

"You're from Iowa? Wow! Me too! What a small world we live in! Let's date."

We are all part of one of two groups at all times. We are in a group called "The Public" or we are in a group called "The Staff." 97% of Americans, when joining or re-joining "The Public", forget all common sense. You can be the part of The Public when you leave the house, join The Staff for the morning, re-join The Public for lunch, go back to The Staff for the rest of the afternoon and finish out the day as The Public (until you return home). The IQ level of The Public is much, much lower than that of The Staff. If you remember that one fact, it'll help your blood pressure during your shift as The Staff. THE PUBLIC, ON WHOLE, ARE MORONS. You can have an IQ of 150 (is that good?) while you're an employee. That same IQ can drop to single digits (is that bad?) as a member of The Public.

(Note: Not all Public members are morons and not all Staff are intelligent. The +/- factor is somewhere around 37%)

Groups are everywhere. At work, at school, in prison, on the sidewalk. You can be part of several groups at one time. Right now you are a part of a group that reads blogs. You might also be a part of a young attorney's group, while at the same time being a member of Alcoholics Anonymous as well as a person who is a life-long Seattle Mariners fan. People often use these types of markers to describe you to someone else. "You know Regina? She's the young alcoholic lawyer who loves the Mariners."


But, for the love of God, don't be the person who goes overboard. Don't be defined. Don't be the guy who runs AND has short-shorts and gel bottles in a plastic belt and wears his race shirts at all times when he is not at work. The person who somehow works running into every fucking conversation with anyone who will listen.

Dale (at work): Hey, Roger, how's it going?
Roger: Great, I'm running the Super 5K for Gout Awareness this weekend!

Parsa (at a dinner party): Roger? I haven't seen you since last Christmas!
Roger: Well, I've been busy RUNNING, that's why.

Father Bilgaw (at Church): Good morning, Roger.
Roger: When are we gonna see you at the track, father?
Father Bilgaw: (excitedly) Son of a bitch, Roger, I hit the tri-fecta on the third race on Tuesday!! It paid 120-1!!
Roger: Father Bilgaw?



As in stocks, you want to diversify. Spread yourself out. Be a part of a bunch of groups. You can LOVE golf. You can. But you can't wear golf shirts, talk about golf, check your shoulder turn in the mirror, watch golf, travel to the Greater Hartford Open, include Tiger in your daily prayers, etc., Don't be known as "Bill The Golfer." You know what?  Bill sucks. He is the worst golfer that you've ever seen. He's the guy who's the most into it that you know, but you could beat him left handed. And you hate golf. And you're not even left handed.

The key? Be low-key. Go to Europe and be Lee Greenwood but don't wear your "God Bless The USA" t-shirt. Order some shit that you're never heard of. Don't eat at Burger King in Belgium. Watch NASCAR but don't wear your #3 jacket EVERYWHERE. Love stamp collecting but don't talk about it (the first rule of stamp collecting is: Don't talk about stamp collecting). Be a fan of The Beatles, but don't put BTLSFAN on your license plates. Don't be known as "Sally- The Quilt Lady."

Don't listen to me, though. I'm the blog writer/trail-runner/skier guy who loves the Chicago Cubs, Missouri Tigers, Jimmy Buffett, The Who and the guy who plays Born in the USA 31 times at an pub in London.

There's no reason for the following photo, minus the fact that this a group that you may not want to be a part of:

The Curious Case of Christopher Comtois (Part XII)

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.