Hard Time (18 page)

My parents have always liked hiking. Prior to my arrest, they’d booked a walking holiday in Switzerland together with some friends. Due to my incarceration, they cancelled the holiday, losing their deposit. They didn’t want to waste money that might be needed by my attorney. They said they’d rather jump on a plane to Phoenix, but I told them not to come. I didn’t want them forking out thousands in airfares, and I didn’t want them to see me in the jail. I was ashamed. But Mum was determined to make the trip, so to save the cost of two fares, she booked to come on her own. Putting aside my dread of her seeing me in there, I looked forward to her visit and wrote to her about my excitement. I appreciated her determination to travel 5,000 miles.

When her first visit was called, I was excited but also had great fear. I worried that when she saw me – malnourished and in bee stripes – she might have a second nervous breakdown. My situation was a far cry from her last visit when I was living in a mountainside home, jumping in my swimming pool first thing in the morning and eating at fancy restaurants every night.

I first glimpsed my mother from the visitation holding tank. She looked smaller and more fragile than when I’d last seen her. Struck by guilt, I was determined to reassure her, so I put on my widest grin. She was sat at a table in the visitation room, pale and tired, looking around expectantly until she spotted me waving. Momentarily, her eyes lit up and the sadness left her face.

Officer Green gave his speech to the visitors, and I was allowed into the visitation room. I hastened to Mum’s table. ‘Thanks so much for coming,’ I said.

Tears started to fall, but she quickly fought them back. I could tell she was shocked by my appearance. Unlike me, she couldn’t hide the sadness on her face. ‘You look as though you’ve lost weight,’ she said, appraising my sunken cheeks and skinny frame. ‘Are you getting enough to eat?’

‘Thanks to Claudia, I’m getting Snickers, peanuts and peanut butter from the commissary,’ I said, maintaining my smile even though I was devastated by what I’d done to her health. ‘How was your journey?’

‘Long and tiring, but it was worth it to see you.’

‘I really appreciate it.’

‘I had to come. I had to see you in the flesh. I needed to know you’re all right.’

‘I’m all right. I was in shock at first, but I’ve adjusted. The longer I’ve been here, the more allies I’ve made, and that’s what keeps you out of trouble. The
New Times
article – as exaggerated as it was – gave me a lot of credibility with my neighbours.’

‘So in jail, everything’s turned on its head. What’s bad is good and vice versa?’

‘Kind of. Well, actually, only in some cases. Sex offences and crimes against kids can get you killed in here. But if you’re a murderer – and you’ve not murdered a woman or a kid – then you’re at the top of the pecking order.’

‘And Alan Simpson, what’s he saying?’

I didn’t want to burden her with the stress of my legal situation. ‘He said my case is going to take longer to resolve than we originally thought, and that’s because it’s a complex case.’

Mum started to look worried.

‘Alan’s one of the top attorneys in Phoenix. I’m sure he’ll get me the best possible plea bargain at some point. It’s just a matter of waiting it out. I really appreciate you and Dad paying his fee. If you can’t afford a private lawyer here, you’re pretty much dead and buried.’ She looked even more concerned, so I changed the subject. ‘So how’s your stay gone so far?’

‘Everyone’s been so helpful. It’s fortunate that I can stay at Ann and Donny’s house. They’ve been so kind, and Claudia’s been an angel.’

‘I know. I don’t know how I’d cope without her visits. She comes here all the time and writes every day.’

‘She picked me up and drove me here and is waiting to take me back. She said she’d do that every visit and drive me anywhere I want to go afterwards. We’ll go to eat after I get out.’

‘Good. She’ll enjoy spending time with you. She told me she’d look after you.’

‘How she copes with getting in here I don’t know. It’s horrendous. It’s so distressing seeing the people in the waiting room, mothers with toddlers and small babies, crying and restless, all crowded together in a hot stuffy waiting room. It’s dirty and littered, and the toilets are a disgrace. We were sat there for hours waiting for my number to be called.’

‘Claudia’s told me about some of that stuff. She’s going through it every few days. I’m so lucky to have found someone so caring.’

‘And when I was finally called after going through security, feeling the heavy door close behind me, shutting out the world, I felt an inkling of what it must be like to be a prisoner.’

‘At least you can go back out through that door,’ I said, glad to see her smile. ‘There’s people been in here for over a year.’

‘Held on remand for over a year?’

‘Yes, over a year. Can you believe it?’

‘The system here stinks! The guards treat the visitors like dirt. They’re abrupt. They look down on everyone. It’s so unfair. A lot of the women waiting are Mexican and obviously poor. They’ve committed no crime, but they’re treated like criminals. Outside, we drove past a woman pushing a pram down the dusty road. Too poor to afford a taxi, I suppose. The officers in charge of Visitation are rude and ignorant. Which, having a boss like Arpaio, doesn’t surprise me. The nastiness comes down from the top. I don’t want any special treatment, but they just don’t seem to care.’

‘There are plenty of snidey ones.’ I glanced over my shoulder. ‘Like Officer Green over there. When the visit’s over, he locks us in the strip-search room for hours. It’s a bloody nightmare. But some of the guards are OK. Some hate working for Arpaio and aren’t afraid to tell us.’

‘I suppose it takes all sorts, and they’re probably not paid very much. The dress code gets me. They complained this shirt reveals my collarbone and were about to refuse me entry. I had to plead ignorance about the dress code. They allowed me in – only because it was my first visit – but warned me to cover my collarbone next time. I can understand them banning miniskirts and cleavage but not collarbones. Who’s going to get excited by my collarbone? I hate to think of it!’ she said, her face brightening up. ‘We drove past Tent City, too. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.’

‘Arpaio’s real proud of Tent City. If you think we’ve got it bad, imagine those poor buggers out in the desert in old army tents left over from the Korean War. The news reported temperatures in the tents of over 130º. And because it’s outdoors, the gangs get weapons and drugs thrown over the fence.’

‘If this were a developing country, I’d understand it. But not in America. No one would believe it.’

‘Arpaio does what he wants. The old fogeys in Sun City keep voting him back in ’cause he’s out doing tough-on-crime PR stunts every week. But in reality, he’s all spin. He’s created an environment that just breeds more crime. There’s no hope for youngsters coming here. They get recruited by the gangs, and are soon shooting up drugs like everyone else and contracting diseases like hepatitis C.’

‘You’ve been writing a lot about the food. Are you sure you’re getting enough to eat?’

‘Yes, I told you, Claudia’s putting money on my books. The guys with no money on their books are constantly begging everyone else for food.’

‘Starving people in the land of plenty. It’s shameful.’ My mum talked about how my dad and Karen were coping. ‘They’re both still shell-shocked and just taking it a day at a time. Karen’s working hard. She’ll be a top journalist some day. But she gets upset and anxious for your safety. You hear so many tales about violence in prison. I try not to think about it.’

‘Being in here is like being in a video game: you just have to work your way through it and you’ve constantly got all this danger around you. But so far – it’s like I have a guardian angel or something – I’ve managed to get through unscathed.’

‘It’s a relief to know you’re safe. That someone’s looking out for you.’

‘I’ll be OK. Try not to worry. The longer I’ve been here, the more friends in low places I’ve made.’

We both laughed.

‘Your dad is just getting on with it. What else can he do? He’s strong, and although he’s worried sick about you, he keeps positive, which helps me survive each day. We are a strong family, and we won’t let this pull us apart. You know we love you very much, and we’ll do anything to get you out of this mess.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, overwhelmed by her kindness.

Officer Green announced visits were over.

‘I’ll phone you at Ann’s tonight,’ I said.

‘I’ll look forward to it. I love you. Take care.’

‘Love you too.’

During her two-week stay, my mother visited at every opportunity, sometimes with Claudia, sometimes with my aunt Ann. She got used to the ordeal of getting in and out of the jail. She even befriended some of the people she met in the waiting room. Although I was traumatised by my legal situation, her visits began to restore my hope. I found her constant expressions of support reassuring. I was sad when she returned to England.

August 2002