RERUN: Unsmooth Criminal

(Originally published on Thursday, June 6, 2002.)

Today I turned myself in at the Metro Police Department, South Precinct for booking and to receive a court date for last weekend’s DWI. I arrived at the facility and found the arrows pointing toward the citation processing center and made my way inside. Once there, I was placed in a holding cell for over two hours, and documented what I could on a scrap piece of paper in my purse. Here is what I wrote down:

* * *

I’m sitting in the female holding cell on a cold slab that serves as a bench, or perhaps a bed. There is a singular, silver toilet in the room. I got here by walking down a sidewalk encased in large rings of barbed wire. I can see five or so inamte workers all dressed in orange, which is definitely not this summer’s new pink, using what looks to be hoes on the hilltop. My mind drifts to Shawshank Redemption.

The cheerful man in a pastel blue polo shirt and snug khakis, young, maybe 22, says it will take about an hour and a half if all goes well.

Actually, I’m a little nervous about writing in here with all the guards and non-guards moving freely about. What if my pen constitutes a weapon? I’ll say I didn’t know. I’ll plead ignorance.
Okay, we’re overreacting.

Someone, a man, just peeped his head into my cell and “Psssst!”ed at me. Moments ago a middle aged black woman was issued into my cell. She didn’t speak, but sat beside me rocking slowly back and forth–the movement adopted by orphaned children in developing nations who are starved for attention and human contact. It brings one comfort. Her name is Ms. Buford and she wears a circular patch on her upper left arm. A curious, round Band-aid type thing.

A new girl arrives with long, long hair that might have never been cut. It is wavy and brown and it swipes my arm as she swings it around, exasperrated. Her wait will be more than two hours and her infant sun is in the car with her mother in the dishwasher heat. She’s allowed to walk outside because there is no phone.

* * *

They call out names one at a time, summoning each individual for a photo shoot and fingerprinting. As each name is called, a face appears–craning to see into the female cell. Some of them smile flirtatously our way.

Apparently, someone’s fingerprints showed up in the “database”, which means, for whatever reason, we are now four behind. Another woman has joined our group.

* * *

There is a tv on the wall, just above the door, that’s picture is channel-less snow. Below a sign reads “This T.V. doesn’t pick up any channels. Don’t touch T.V. Ever!” I wonder if the sign is why it the broken television blares static at us. I catch the three of us staring up at the screen in silence, save for the long-haired girl’s quips about how the toilet here is a lot like the one in juvenile.

* * *

I’ve got this piece of printer paper folded into 1/8ths so it is barely bigger than the palm of my hand. The guard just saw me writing and doesn’t seem to mind. Somewhat a relief.

* * *

I can hear a man telling tales of 10-year sentences and how he just got out. He jokes about making a shirt that says “Arrest me. I’m stupid.” He begins bragging about how he earns hundreds a day. I suppose he is stupid.

* * *

My name was called and I was moved to, along with my lady friends, yet another cold slab bench for more waiting. Ronald, who’s being fingerprinted before me, skinny with greasy hair and velcro sneakers, is ranting because his fingerprints don’t match up with previous files. “I’ve been printed a thousand times!,” he yells. My own turn came and a large, teddy bear man with a badge and a crewcut took my hand in his gloved hand and smooshed my thumb across a screen that looked like a grocery scanner. Then he did the rest of my digits. He commented on my small fingers, which did look miniscule in his big paw.

* * *

Two Latino men are standing abreast in holding cell #9, across from #12 where I’ve been placed. My cellmate expresses her envy at my corner seat, as the guys from cell #9 and #10 can see right in at her. All the males are staring into our holding cell– for minutes. Their stares are empty but uncomfortable.

* * *

That is all I wrote while within the jail, but things sped along quickly after I scribbled my final words. My trip today didn’t require bonding myself out, but it did chip away at my dignity. However, I feel a little bit Hunter S. Thompson today, and that can’t be all bad.