The women introduce themselves. The leader is Malia, here for assault. The two other Polynesian women, Leilani and Tia, nod in solidarity. Moonracer mutters something incomprehensible, still lost in her drug-fueled haze. Their stories spill out in bits and pieces, mostly violence-related offenses. I’m grateful that none of their charges involve anything more sinister.
Every so often, someone farts or burps, but in the peculiar politeness of our cell, each is followed by a murmured apology. The juxtaposition is surreal.
Somewhere down the hall, a woman’s unhinged shrieking echoes, clearly in some kind of drug-induced psychosis. I’m relieved she’s not sharing this cell.
We’re given peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The bread is stale, the jelly sickly sweet, and I’m not hungry, anyway. I set mine aside.
Later, I watch as Malia grins, calls to an officer as they pass by, and actually gets him to bring us more sad sandwiches. It’s bizarre, almost funny, this tiny kindness in a bleak space.
Eventually, the lights dim. It takes forever for sleep to claim me, but exhaustion wins.
“My husband’s in one of the other cells,” says Malia, peeking out the window. “Oooh, some guys are coming past. Heyyy!” she hollers, and I can’t help but laugh. That’s what I call making the most of a bad situation.
I wake to a sharp nudge.“Move!”snaps Leilani as I realize I’ve rolled onto her mat in my sleep. “Oh shit! Sorry!” I say, scrambling back to my own space.
Somehow, I manage to sleep through the rest of the night.
In the morning, the officers come to shackle us together for transport. The cold bite of metal around my ankles feels surreal, like I’ve stepped into a nightmare.
We’re led out in a chain gang to the transport van, passing the still-shrieking woman. One of the guards mentions she’s a regular, high on whatever she can get her hands on every couple of weeks. Thankfully, she’s locked into her own separatecompartment in the transport van, a thin metal wall separating her from the rest of us. She pounds the walls, her screams grating. One of the other women yells back, “Shut the fuck up, you crazy bitch!” followed by a few death threats.
When we reach the courthouse, we’re herded into a larger cell. The dynamic changes as new women join us, including another tweaking girl and an older lady with a quiet intensity about her.
At one point, a cockroach the size of my palm skitters across the floor. I shriek and jump back, finding an unlikely ally in one of the tweaking girls as we huddle in mutual disgust.
More stale peanut butter and jelly sandwiches arrive, and I force myself to eat this time, knowing I need strength for whatever comes next.
Hours crawl by, before I’m taken to a smaller holding cell with Leilani. We exchange small talk to pass the time, but the anxiety hangs heavy.
Finally, I’m led to a consultation with a public defender. She’s efficient but detached, explaining the process and letting me know she’ll be entering a not guilty plea on my behalf.
Then it’s my turn before the judge.
The courtroom is sterile, all hard edges and glaring lights. The judge glances over my file, listens to the public defender, and grants my release on my own recognizance.
Relief floods me as I’m told I’m free to go. I visit the property desk where I’m handed my belongings, and then I step out into the fresh air of downtown Sunset Cay, still dressed in my jail-issued paper attire.
I call an Uber and strip off the paper outfit, pulling on my shorts before discarding my jail-wear in a nearby trash can.
When he arrives, the Uber driver glances at me curiously but says nothing.
As I sit in the back seat, I message Alice:
Me:
I just got out of JAIL! HE had ME locked up!
Alice:
WHAT?! Are you okay?
Me:
He said I assaulted him. I spent the night in jail.
Alice:
Press charges against him. You need to get out of this situation.