Student's experience in the Orange County Justice system

Special Report

Published: Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Updated: Tuesday, April 7, 2009

 

Wednesday night, before the highly anticipated Spring Break, I had gone out to get a celebratory brew with some friends from school. We started at a bar in Fullerton and after an hour decided to go to a karaoke place close by.

There’s a cop behind me. Shit, he’s flashing his lights. OK, maintain speed, act cool. All I had was two beers and I’m only going 75 mph on the freeway. The worst that can happen is him giving me a speeding ticket.

“You guys been drinking tonight,” the officer asks as he shines a flashlight in my face.

“Yes sir.”

I’m being honest and cooperating so he doesn't think I’m hiding anything.

“I had two beers about an hour ago and we were just on our way to go to a karaoke place not far away.”

“License and registration,” he said. He asks if I have a criminal record and I tell him no – I’ve never even gotten a speeding ticket.

He asks me to step out of the car and begins a field sobriety test. I must not have been very convincing because he made me sit on the curb as he prepared the breathalyzer.

I was confident I would pass and began to get ticked off this was taking so long because I had done nothing wrong.

I blew .04, well below the .08 legal limit, but the officer still doesn’t seem satisfied and is certainly not done with me yet.

“Can I search your car?” he asked.

"No. I want to speak to a lawyer,” I say with an insulting tone that implied this is just a waste of time.

“You’re not under arrest yet so you don’t get the power of attorney,” he said. And at this time, two more squad cars roll up and deputies step out. The two officers tear my car apart while I’m sitting on the curb in agony because now I really have to go to the bathroom. I tell the officer and he shakes his head and tells me there is still a long way to go before I will be able to go.

After a thorough sweep of my car, the officers find three grams of marijuana, and more importantly, an old firecracker about four inches long.

“What is this,” the officer asks me with disdain. “This looks like a bomb. It could probably blow up your whole car.”

“It’s a firecracker officer. Honestly, I had forgotten it was in there. It’s probably been there about three years now. I wasn’t planning on doing anything with it. Someone gave it to me and I just left it in my car.”

I sat on the curb for more than an hour with a bladder about to burst. The officer assured me that I would be able to use the gas station as soon as they heard back from their superior officer about the firecracker. When he got the call back from his superior, it didn't seem like I would be lucky enough to go to the gas station.

Enjoy your freedom and just remember that life can change in a heartbeat.

“Put your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest for possession of a deadly explosive,” the officer said.

Next thing I know I’m at the Fullerton Police Station. After fingerprints and a mugshot (can you say myspace?), I’m locked up in a cell complete with all the comforting amenities: A stiff cot, toilet and sink along with the pungent odor of urine and vomit.

I made my one phone call to my dad. It’s the one thing no son ever wants to do.

“Hey dad, I’ve been arrested.”

He was relieved to find out it wasn’t a DUI and then flabbergasted it was all for a firecracker.

Did I mention my bail was set at $500,000?

He told me that he would be there as soon as possible and do everything he could to get me out of that hell hole. I went to sleep hoping I would wake up to find that this was just a terrible nightmare.

I spent the next two nights in that smelly cell before my arraignment, when I would make my plea to the judge and hope he would sympathize. I figured he would let me off easy with a fine and a slap on the wrist.

I arrived at the courthouse and met my public defender who told me that I should plead not guilty. He told me my charges would be dropped due to the fact that it was my first offense, I was a student with a good GPA and I worked a steady job.

Good, let’s get this over with so I can go home and get on with my Spring Break, and have a crazy story to tell my friends.

Unfortunately, this story was just beginning.

Due to the size of the firecracker, the judge ruled that it required further investigation by the bomb squad.

Until then, I would have to wait in County Jail for 12 days with a bail of $300,000 charged with a felony for possessing a deadly explosive, and misdemeanor for the pot. The judge dropped the gavel and my heart sank to the ground.

I looked at my parents, my mother’s eyes were welling up with tears and my father was mad-dogging the judge like he was about to jump up and strangle him.

This was my moment of gut-wrenching realization. The whole time I felt like it only would be a matter of time before this whole charade would be over, and I would get to go home.

I thought to myself, “I’m going to prison and I’m just a white-boy from the suburbs. God help me.”

“Anything you would like to tell your parents?” the public defender asked through the metal cage between me and the court room.

“Tell them I love them and don’t post bail.”

I was sent to a holding cell at the courthouse. My first interaction with fellow law-breakers – some friendly, some not.

After a few hours, the deputies chained us together and led us out to the buses. We got on the bus and things became wild after they locked the door separating us from the women seated in front. 

The men, some of whom have been without sex for decades, began relentlessly releasing pent-up sexual desires to the female passengers. The girls did their best to ignore them, but some were more generous than others and flashed their breasts to the slobbering dogs in the back causing an uproar of hoots and hollers.

We finally arrived at Main Central Jail in Santa Ana to endure an exhausting and mentally breaking ordeal. I was in the "loop," as it has come to be known, from approximately 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. although it’s hard to say for sure. There are no clocks anywhere in the facility, disconnecting your sense of time and making it impossible to judge how long you have been there, even though it seems like an eternity.

The "loop" takes you from holding cell to holding cell while deputies complete each step of the booking process such as fingerprints, medical exams and personality profiles.

Each cell has a toilet, sink and concrete benches. It’s a monotonous process that seems like it should take only an hour, but in my case, is stretched to 12.

You are offered only a sack lunch consisting of a plain bologna sandwich with mustard and mayonnaise.

A homeless man passed out on the stained floor, and as he violently snored, someone respectfully threw their shoe at him to make him stop.

No one tells you the rules. In prison, you either learn by example or experience. I learned what "pretzeling" was by experience.

After one interrogation, I was walking back to the holding cell and apparently walked too close behind one of the deputies. He turned around and made a swing at my face stopping just short of my nose. He grabbed me by the shoulder and swung me around wrapping my arms behind my back (thus the namesake of "pretzeling"), and threw me up against a cell window. He cussed me out for a good while before pushing me back towards my cell and kicking me in the middle-back so I fell face first on the dirty ground.

Once back in the cell, I noticed one poor soul had his eyes rolled back in his head and mouth gaping open. He looked like he was heavily under the influence of LSD. The way the deputies played reminded me of how my dog plays with a crippled mouse flinging it around as it helplessly holds on to the last moments of consciousness. They moved him from cell to cell prodding and insulting him along the way. As soon as he got near the end of the "loop," the officers would move him back to the front. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the guy, but at the same time I was just glad it wasn’t me.

After all was said and done, I was relieved to get the opportunity to take a shower and wash off the layer of grime I had accumulated over the past three days. We got to the shower rooms and were told to disrobe and wait for our turn in the shower. I felt like I was being detained at Auschwitz as I stood naked and shivering, waiting my turn for the showers.

It was my turn, and although I was relieved to feel the cleansing water, I was very uncomfortable to notice several “shower sharks” eyeing me in nothing but my birthday suit. I jumped out and threw on my orange jail attire. The pants were too loose, and I asked for a replacement pair that was slimmer to the reply, “Deal with it.”

I was so ready to lie down and sleep forever when they gave us our bed mat and blankets. Finally I was going to the barracks, where, as far as I knew, I would be spending the rest of my time before my next court hearing.

I got to the barracks, where hardcore segregated inmates are placed in large-scale cells. The inmates are separated by race and ethnicity to avoid serious problems.

As a white guy, I automatically aligned with the “Woods,” the Aryan group of inmates. We were grouped only with Hispanics, or “Homies,” and a few of the ones known as “Others,” aka homosexuals and transvestites.

I noticed one of the "Others" using a red Skittle as lipstick. He saw me watching and gave me the kissy face before I quickly looked away and walked somewhere else.

I was approached by the "Woods" Rep for our barracks and he gave me a run down and a tour of the barracks such as where to shower, where to sleep, where to piss, where to crap, where to brush your teeth, where to get food, where to get drugs and where to get alcohol-all very important information if you’re going to get along.

The "Woods" in our barracks had just finished brewing up a batch of the famous “prune-o” the day before I arrived and there was still a good amount left. It was early in the morning, but I couldn’t refuse a stiff drink after the ordeal I was going through.

I tasted the concoction and had to hold back the urge to immediately regurgitate it.

It burned all the way down and had the sour aftertaste of fruit gone bad. Not surprising, considering it's homemade from leftover orange peels and apple cores left to sit out and ferment before they add different fruit juices to try and mask the pungent odor and taste.

I hadn’t even gotten a chance to sleep yet before we were called for chow time. Considering it was jail food, it wasn’t too bad.

We got two pieces of bread, some kind of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. We ate in silence with the occasional whisper under the surveillance of the deputies.

When we returned to the barracks after breakfast we were astonished to find that the deputies had raided our cell. They found the prune-o, they found the drugs and tore up all the bunks.

The entire barracks looked like tornado blew through it and the prune-o was poured over everyone’s mattresses making the whole place sticky and reeking of alcohol.

It was a depressing site and people were pissed to say the least.

My mat and blankets were soaked and I still had not slept. This was the last thing I needed.

They shouted my name through the intercom and told me to pack up my stuff. I was moving to another facility and it couldn’t have happened at a better time.

Once again, I was on a bus and getting transferred to another jail. This time it was Theo Lacy Facility in Orange, and it would be the last transfer I would make.

We went through another, smaller loop and were searched for paraphernalia or weapons.

I was waiting in a cell with five other people when a deputy came and called my name and said I would be staying in the Mods, the maximum security division of Theo Lacy, as opposed to the barracks where the majority of inmates landed.

“What the hell did you do,” the deputy asked me as I was being escorted. “You don’t look like the type that belongs in the Mods.”

“I got pulled over and had a firecracker in my car,” I responded with apprehension. “Why, what kind of people are in the Mods?”

“Heroin dealers, meth dealers, gang members – some charged with murder or people just in for causing trouble in the barracks.”

“Fuck,” I said to the officer.

I thought to myself, "This is going to be the best Spring Break ever."

 

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