Jail Sucks. Don't Go.

There is nothing romantic about being in jail.

Contrary to the twanging and snarled defiance of country songs about prison or the claims of life enrichment learned in 8 by 10 cells purported by some authors…jail sucks. The air is suffocating, the food nauseating. And the people in there are, if not the dregs of society, certainly not the pillars, either. They are petty and not-so petty criminals, felons perhaps, thieves, or just plain thugs. They are there because they broke the law – they bought, sold, or somehow ingested some sort of illegal drug; they beat someone up, possibly a loved one or family member; they were speeding, swerving, or not stopping; they were looking for or offering something forbidden (sex for money); or, often, they got drunk and did something stupid, like drive or become “disorderly” in public. They may be there for the first or fourth or fourteenth time.

But you don’t want to be there with them.

My own experience began on a Friday night. I went to a bar to see a friend’s band. Had a great time – they’re a really good band. Normally if I go out for a couple drinks, I go to a local place within walking distance and throw a game of darts or watch a game, but my friend’s band doesn’t play nearby, so I drove a short distance to see them. This, of course, necessitates driving back which, after a few drinks, is not a good idea. On the way home I took a turn a little too wide to avoid an oncoming car and could not recover. Up on the sidewalk and into a phone pole, dead on – thank God for air bags. Totaled the car but walked away with nary a scratch. The police who were summoned, however, smelled the alcohol and booked me, Danno.

The case is still pending, and the main facts and details are all here, but some are not. I have been down this road before, but this is the first to involve an accident. So the penalties could be severe, both in and out of court.

After being booked, fingerprinted, and photographed, I was now one of the aforementioned “them” that you don’t want to be one of. Being a Friday night in Cleveland, there were lots of fellow miscreants in the holding cells with me. I had a cell to myself for a while, and a plasticized mattress (no blanket) on a narrow, wall-mounted bunk, but was soon joined by a quiet young black man who had been arrested for being in an after-hours place. According to him, he was one of several people arrested “just for being there, man…,” although the police had found a couple bags of weed and one gun among the crowd. He was soon moved out and replaced by a middle-aged white guy who had been picked up for soliciting prostitution. He was adamant he had never said a word to the girl - an undercover cop - but that his friend, who was driving the car they were in, had done all the talking. They were both “sting” victims, since the “hooker” had been posing as a woman with car troubles who became interested in more than car repair once young men offered assistance.

Nonetheless, there they were.

A friend who once spent significant time in federal prison – and turned his life around there – once said that in all his time in jail or prison, he never once met a guilty man. All claim innocence.

I made no such claim, nor did I admit guilt.

Men were moved in and out over the course of the weekend. Some were transferred to other facilities or districts, as far as we could tell; none were released outright. On Sunday a few drunken and disorderly Browns fans from that afternoon’s game were brought in. They were drunk, loud, boisterous, and somewhat amusing. They, too, largely claimed innocence. “We were just standing there talking, man, and the cop told us to move along, and we said okay, and we started walking, but they arrested us anyway, man!”

And contrary to popular belief, we were not given that one phone call. Despite the calendar turning rapidly to 2011, no one was allowed use of that modern day invention known as a cell phone, not even once in some sort of supervised fashion. All our belongings except the clothes we were wearing were taken, including belts and shoelaces so we would not strangle or hang ourselves or others. For the entire weekend we were all effectively cut off from the rest of the world. The guards, or CO’s (Corrections Officer), just told everyone who asked, “No phone calls, man!” It was late Sunday afternoon before we were finally allowed, in groups of four, to go to a holding cell equipped with two wall-mounted, 1980’s-era phones to let family, friends, or employers know what had become of us. Even then, we were not allowed to use our confiscated cell phones to look up phone numbers in the memory, and were told there were no directories available. So one had to dial a number from memory. Hopefully a 216 or 440 area code, since the phone seemed incapable of dialing 330 numbers. We were told to instruct the people we contacted to call a specified number to learn our court date or other fate – there was no way to make a follow-up call.  

We were, however, given the chance to shower. A few took the offer, most declined, including myself. I hoped to be out soon, somehow, and decided to wait to use my own shower, unsupervised by Cleveland’s finest.

Early Monday, a bunch of us were moved into a holding area in the Justice Center near the actual courtrooms. We were led in handcuffed pairs through an eerily quiet Justice Center lobby before dawn to a large room with only one locked door, with (not enough) bunks on the walls, one (open) toilet, and thick windows overlooking the slowly lightening November cityscape outside. Eventually our cases were called and we were led into court, where there was usually some sort of preliminary disposition of each case. In my case, I was advised to plead no contest (I did), given a court date and told to seek counsel.

Along with a few others, I was then moved to a “workhouse” facility in Warrensville Heights, since Cleveland’s downtown jail was overflowing. We were handcuffed together in pairs again and put in a windowless, lightless van partitioned off inside to prevent more than three people from sharing space or talking together. When we got there, our possessions that had been brought with us were filed away and we were given orange prison jumpsuits. Incarceration was in one large room, again with bunks on the walls and in rows in the middle of the room with a few scattered chairs and tables, not unlike, I suppose, a military barracks, but with guards instead of drill sergeants. With one TV (no cable) and several card games, it was not exactly Alcatraz, but this was a place for lesser offenders. Semi-private but monitored showers and toilets. Phones were available, but practically useless – still no cell-phone use of any kind, and the only directory available was for eastern suburbs and outdated. In addition, the one person I spoke with could barely understand me through the static of the connection.

Despite all this, I was released Monday night. Friends on the Police Force had got word to my girlfriend, who got the wheels turning and eventually, with my mother’s help, got me out. They were told I had been released when I had actually been in court Monday morning, in the very same building; told a few hours later I had been released when I had, in fact, been transferred to the workhouse; and misled and misinformed continually in ways only government bureaucracies can execute so flawlessly and shamelessly. The legal difficulties are bad enough, but you never, ever want to be released from jail to a girlfriend or spouse and your mother who have had to deal with such agencies. A very low form of embarrassment, trust me.

Now there is still hell to pay. My girlfriend said she is just “going through the motions” for now, and our future depends on what happens and my response, both legally and personally. That is a yet-unwritten story.

There is no moral offered here by me, as I am unfit for such weighty matters. Only a suggestion – don’t drink and drive. Find a cab, a designated driver, walk, whatever. It is a message heard over and over to the point of being ignored. But don’t. The consequences of mixing alcohol and driving are real and very unpleasant. And though you may get away with it dozens of times, it only takes being caught once - or worse, injuring someone in an accident - to really screw up your’s and other’s lives.