Long Blue Line: Based on a True Story (14 page)

Before directing me over to the patrol car, the officers lead me to my vehicle, which was parked under my mother’s carport. “We just need you to sign this to verify that we have made a report on the damages to your vehicle.”  “Um…okay. What does signing this do exactly? In case you’re wondering, I am not okay with what he did, and I am not going to let him get away with these damages. He is just as guilty as I am!” I practically yelled. I was trying hard to fight back the tears so the officers would at least take me seriously; the only other way I could express my emotions was to raise my voice. “What are my options? I want to press charges against him.” I thought back to when Josh was drunk on Thanksgiving, not too long ago, wreaking havoc in my mother’s home. “I want to put a citizen’s arrest on Josh. Can’t I do that?” I pleaded. The police officers shrugged their shoulders with the realization that I was legally allowed to do this.

As they radioed in my request to the other officer who was across town investigating Josh’s side of the story, I was happy that at least he would go to jail too, and the girls wouldn’t be stuck with him or his alcoholic mother. That was my main motive for the request. I knew that Chloe and Zoe would be much less traumatized over the ordeal while I was gone if they could be with their Grandmother whom they loved and trusted... for who knows how long. My naïve brain was thinking that I would be out in no time. A quick process, finger printing, and maybe a mug shot would send me on my way.

The drive to the police station was a quiet one. The officers didn’t try to make small talk, and I was wondering how many intoxicated idiots had puked in the same seat that I was uncomfortably sitting in. The seat was completely plastic, no cushion or anything! What if I had a broken tailbone? These cop cars should really be better equipped for their detainees, I thought.

Pulling into the police station wasn’t a big deal. I began to get nervous, though, when a big, metal garage door opened, and the car slowly rolled in. The officers stepped out of the front of the car and opened my door. They reminded me to go slow so I didn’t hit my head on the edge of the door above me. I had to balance my way out. I was immediately grossed out that I had no shoes on and was walking on concrete floors that had probably endured the worst of the worst. About twenty steps later I was escorted into the booking room.

To my left there were two desks with officers sitting at them, and straight ahead was a wall with blue padding on it. The officers played a generic recording for me to listen to about fessing up if I was hiding any kind of weapon or contraband like needles or anything that could potentially hurt the officers while they were searching me. There was nothing in my pockets so I didn’t attentively listen to the static-sounding recording. Feeling somewhat humiliated, a female officer asked me to face the wall and stand with my arms wide out and my legs apart. She thoroughly searched my pockets and all other nooks and crannies that could have been hiding anything illegal. She even searched my hair. Obviously, she didn’t realize that I had no idea what was going on. When the search was done, I was asked to remove my earrings, my belly button ring, and the hair tie wrapped around my wrist that I kept for bedtime. They put my belongings in a little plastic bag and had me sign a form with the inventory.

I was led to one of the desks where an officer asked me several questions about my identity, sexual preference, race, gender (well, duh), and religious affiliation. I was also asked if I were a part of any gangs. I almost laughed, knowing that any gang in Tahoe was a ridiculous attempt to be hard, and it must suck walking around with guns and spray paint in fifteen degree weather. After about fifteen minutes, my interview was over and the officer explained to me what I was being charged with and what my bail was going to be. “Okay, Miss Elizabeth. You are being charged with child endangerment, a misdemeanor, and vandalism, a felony. Your bail is set to fifteen thousand dollars. You think you’ll bail out tonight?” the officer asked. When he spoke the words child endangerment” my heart sank and I felt the most disappointing feeling I had ever experienced. “I really don’t think that anyone I know can pay that kind of money to get me out of here.” I thought out loud. This is when it hit me that I was definitely going to be stuck spending the night in jail. The place smelled like urine, and I desperately wanted this to be a nightmare. I somehow managed to compose myself and go through the booking process with as much dignity as I could muster while being respectful to the officers with secret hopes that they had the authority to set me free.

After the police had finished their welcome ceremony with me, I was put in a holding cell to make an attempt to find a way to bail out. I did not know that the holding cell was for this reason only. I figured it was where I would stay the entire time. Walking into the cold room, and hearing the heavy metal door slam, I quickly came to realize that jail was exactly what I imagined it to be - minus the bars you see on television. I was surrounded by a beige-colored 8x10’ cell with walls that appeared to be painted bricks. The wall to my left had a built-in concrete bench that extended into an L shape, reaching the wall in front of me. I guessed that this was made to accommodate more than one offender. In the right corner was a toilet area with a small wall of bricks to just barely block the officers from having to see someone use the toilet. On the wall on my right was a pay phone with a cord that was about five inches long. I was annoyed that I had to keep my face so close to the keypad, which was surely previously poked at by some messed up people who had their grimy hands on who-knows-what beforehand.

“To make a collect call located in the United States, dial one,” said a generic recording of an operator. Even the operator sounded depressed. I dialed the number to my mother’s house. I had only three minutes to find any sort of comfort possible. “Are you doing okay, Lizzy-Beth?” she worriedly asked. “I’m okay. I only have three minutes, and my bail is fifteen thousand dollars. They are charging me with child endangerment and vandalism. I don’t think they are going to let me out tonight,” I cried. “Just hang in there. The girls are doing fine and they are asleep. We’ll figure it out. It is just temporary, okay? The Judge will probably let you out in a few days.” She was trying to assure me. I started crying harder - to the point of doing that irritating sniffling and gasping thing that interrupts your speech and makes you sound like a desperate child. “I don’t have a few days! Chloe and Zoe need me! This is such bullshit and they need to let me...” “Your call has ended, goodbye,” announced the operator. I silently finished my sentence.

There was nothing left to do but wait. I stared at the sign above the phone. It was a list of hundreds of bail bondsmen and their phone numbers. I was too embarrassed to give them a call. Not that I could afford it anyway. It was 2:00 in the morning, and I was physically and emotionally drained. My hands felt sticky from holding onto the pay phone as if it were a lifeline. I wondered where the sink was - if there was one at all. Cautiously inching toward the metal toilet, I was stunned to see that the sink was a part of it. The toilet and sink were the same entity, with the sink in the place where the top of a toilet would normally be. I was utterly disgusted. The faucet wasn’t a faucet, either. It was a drinking fountain. This was the most foreign and intimidating fixture that I had ever encountered.

I once learned that feces particles have the ability to fly up to twenty feet if the toilet is flushed with the lid open. This toilet had no lid so I had no doubt there was feces on the drinking fountain. There were no paper towels either, so I had no way of pushing the button to wash my hands, one at a time, without re-infecting them. I carefully held the button down with my pinkie finger and tried my best to clean up.

I walked over to the bench, as I would have on a formal occasion, to sit. My posture was straight; I was at the edge of the seat, hands in my lap. I really didn’t want to have to touch anything more. It was just so dirty. It made me feel contaminated. The cell was already bright, and the hallway was even brighter. I closed my eyes. I heard the echoing voices of the officers making small talk. When I opened my eyes I noticed the unwanted leering of two ugly male inmates peeking in my cell window to get a glimpse of a young girl. I was already frightened enough. The two men had mops and buckets and were cleaning the other holding cells. I was surprised that they were ever cleaned.

“Jeter!” a correctional officer demanded, as he poked his head in my cell. “Yes?” I stood up anxiously like a sad puppy wanting to be adopted from a shelter. “Do you want a hygiene kit?” he asked. “Yes, please. Also, is there a way to get my sweater or something? I am really cold in here.” I begged. “Yeah, I’ll toss you a blanket.” he mumbled.

My hygiene kit was confusing. It was a big plastic cup with a lid. I peeled off the plastic lid and pulled out a toothbrush and the smallest tube of toothpaste I had ever seen. There was also a bar of soap, a razor with one blade, a two-inch pencil, a piece of paper, and a quarter-sized stick of deodorant. I had no use for any of that. The only thing I wanted was my freedom and a way to go back in time. Just a few hours back was all I needed. I prayed as I dozed off under the itchy wool blanket.

What must have been about an hour later but felt more like five minutes, a female officer unlocked the cell door and double-checked to make sure I wasn’t going to bail out. Half asleep, she instructed me to step out of the cell and follow the blue line down the hallway. I stayed as much on the line as I could. I didn’t want to get in trouble if I accidentally inched off of it. The officer was extra nice, and asked me if it was my first time there.

She brought me into a room with piles of clothing and two big bins. She had a clipboard with my information on it and copies of my charges. “What size are you?” she asked. I was confused again because I did not think I would have to wear some other clothes on top of everything else. “Probably a medium” I half whispered. She walked behind a glass window and pulled down piles of clothes. She brought back a big green bin with a folded blanket, a sheet, and a towel. She handed me a small stack of clothing that included bright orange pants, a bright orange shirt, a white t-shirt, a pair of socks, a sports-bra with the size drawn on it, a baggy-looking pair of granny-panties, and a pair of bright blue slipper-shoes that looked similar to the clown shoes used for bowling. I prayed that the underwear was not used.

She instructed me to remove all of my clothing and put it into a green net-fabric bag that was hanging on the wall. She offered me the respect of looking at her clipboard as I undressed and awkwardly navigated my tiny body into the baggy shirts, and evidently recycled underwear. The clothes were stiff and definitely didn’t smell like my beloved laundry soap. All that was left to put on was my issued socks and shoes. I slipped on the socks, which were a straight tube shape. They did not have a designated space for my heel. THOSE SEAMS! Again, my childhood pet peeve was back to torture me! I laughed at the idea of sitting on the floor and spinning them around my toes for an hour but thought that I might end up in a padded room if I repeated that behavior here.

All dressed in my lovely new attire, the female officer had me walk into the hallway and follow the blue line all the way to the end of the building. We arrived in an oval shaped, dome-style area with eight blue metal doors, each with a letter painted on them. The door that was painted with an H was the door I would be walking through. It automatically unlocked when we walked closer, and I wondered where her remote control was or where the spy was that knew to let us in.

Walking into H pod was a blur. It was the middle of the night so the lights were dimmed. On the first floor were several metal tables with built-in metal stools. To my left I noticed blue rubber-looking chairs lined up in front of a small, thirty-inch T.V. mounted on the brick wall. I was surprised to see a television set at all. There was a row of more blue doors on the first floor marked with numbers seventeen through thirty-two. The officer informed me that I would be getting my own cell, which was up the stairway. At that point, I didn’t know what a luxury it was to have my own cell.

I hiked up the metal stairway, holding my bin of nothing, and was led to room number two. Again, the door automatically opened. I walked in and set my bin on the metal desk to the left of the concrete bench with green padding on it, which would be where I would sleep. I was wondering where my pillow was, but I was too scared to ask. She kindly, and somewhat compassionately, explained to me that breakfast would be at 6:30 a.m. and the on-duty officer would announce it over the loudspeaker. She told me that the first announcement, 5:45 a.m. was only for inmates who took medication, so I didn’t have to wake up for that. The last thing she did before leaving me on my own was hand me an orange inmate manual which carried the rules and regulations of the jail. My cell door closed and locked, and I was left in silence.

I searched through my bin to see if there was a pillow under the other linens. No pillow. I discovered an extra set of clothes and a teal colored nightgown. It was huge, and I really didn’t want to change again. I took my orange shirt off and decided that I would just sleep in my new outfit because I would be getting out soon anyway. I made my so-called bed and stared at more bricks. The light in my cell was on, and I really wanted it off. I looked everywhere for the light switch, but it must have been hidden somewhere because it was nowhere to be found. I lay down again and kicked my shoes off. As I pulled the blanket over my legs, I stared at the ceiling, dumbfounded. I first thought about Chloe and Zoe and cried because I was supposed to be with them to make sure they were cozy and asleep. I was supposed to be there when they woke up in the morning. I was supposed to get them ready for daycare and put their hair in pigtails. I was their mother, and I was in jail! Tears rolled down my cheeks and I silently cried, my heart aching with guilt. I thought about Josh. It was sinking in that our four-year relationship, including two years of marriage and a beautiful family, was over. I cried harder. I cried because I had tried so hard. I cried because I still loved him. I cried because he broke my heart. I cried because I broke his.