Chapter 1 - Booking
Day 1
LIKE A FLAMING BRICK IN A BUCKET OF GASOLINE
The DA’s voice continued to echo in my head until a question came from a different voice. A softer voice.
“How much time did you get?”
I turned my head without unhunching my shoulders to face the young lady on the bench next to me.
“I don’t know. Two years and eleven months. Or maybe three years and eleven months. The judge’s numbers didn’t add up.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
She wanted to tell me that she only got eight months, but the thought didn’t reach her lips.
“He said ‘two years and eleven months for involuntary manslaughter plus twelve months for reckless driving’, and then he said, ‘for a total of two years and eleven months.’ What does that mean?”
She was leaning forward - hands on her knees - to get a better look at me.
LIKE A FLAMING BRICK IN A BUCKET OF GASOLINE, the DA’s words continued to echo. Our community is a small one. And some events are like pebbles dropped into a pond. They cause ripples that extend to all the edges. But this event was more LIKE A FLAMING BRICK IN A BUCKET OF GASOLINE!
“I don’t know,” she answered.
“How much time did you get?” I asked.
“Time served.”
An inquiring voice called out into the room, “Barnes?”
Barnes? I thought. Lauren Barnes? The daughter of my kindergarten teacher? The girl who wrecked her car at 25 over the limit? The girl whose boyfriend died? Wasn’t she high on drugs or something?
“WESTWOOD!” boomed a different voice. “Get away from her! In here,” he pointed to an open door.
LIKE A FLAMING BRICK IN A BUCKET OF GASOLINE
I nearly jumped to my feet. I was already breaking the rules but I didn’t even know what they were. I followed the officer’s command and heard “I’ll write you,” from a soft voice in the distance behind me.
My feet carried me through the door and into an eight by ten cinderblock room with a large square cutout on one side. The door slammed closed behind me — no handle on this side of it.
“Shirt,” the officer’s hand appeared a moment later, palm upwards, through the cutout.
I unbuttoned the $80 shirt while the officer waited impatiently. It was probably the most expensive shirt I owned, but it was a bit too small now and the armpits were starting to yellow. I bought it — along with the rest of my suit — before I graduated college so that I’d look nice for job interviews.
“Where’s my jacket?” I asked the officer. He held up a clear plastic trash bag that contained my jacket, tie, belt, and shoelaces. I was forced to hand those over earlier when I walked out of the courtroom and into the holding cell at the courthouse.
“Shirt,” the officer commanded again, hand beckoning. I couldn’t see his eyes behind his blue tinted sunglasses, but I could tell from his expressionless face that he didn’t like answering questions.
I handed over the shirt.
He opened the collar and ran it between his thumb and forefinger. He pulled out the two plastic stays and looked at them one by one before he beamed his flashlight into the slots that once held them. Satisfied with the collar, he pulled each sleeve through his fist and then began carefully inspecting the cuffs.
“Pants,” he said while he continued to inspect the shirt.
At least it’s not too cold in here, I thought.
The procedure continued until I was standing naked with my bare feet on the concrete floor, acutely aware that despite the lack of cold I felt much smaller than normal. I was nervous and tense. And embarrassed.
“Arms up,” came the next command.
I complied.
“Open your mouth... Under your tongue,”
I complied.
“Lift your sack.”
I complied.
“Turn around... Bottoms of your feet.”
I complied.
“Squat... I SAID SQUAT, NOT BEND OVER...”
I eventually complied.
“NOW COUGH!”
It was hard to believe the officer seemed so thoroughly pissed off at having so thoroughly violated me.
After I coughed, he threw a laundry bag onto the floor beside me. Inside was a plain white t-shirt and dark green scrubs with big letters on the back that said “PROPERTY OF THE STATE”.
“Put that on.”
LIKE A FLAMING BRICK IN A BUCKET OF GASOLINE
Will I ever forget these words?
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