Day 23

Tuesday – September 12, 2006: When Tom woke up Tuesday morning he was not as funny or entertaining as he was when he went to bed Monday night. Tom suffered from snoring which might qualify as sleep apnea. Up on top the bunk it was vibrating with each sudden and violent reverberation. He was really making a racket, but I was willing to overlook it, being as I had some stress induced gas worse than anything I ever dealt with. Gangster did not have to request twice for me to climb down and get on the Boeing next time. He told me if I do it again without climbing down he would have to assume I don’t respect him. I answered him, “Oh, let’s not even say that, ok?”

“It’s as simple as that, just so you know.”

I laughed nervously, instinctively stalling for time and trying to think of ‘Valium Words’ since he was indicating a punch in the face might be on the agenda. “I’m an up-and-down-getting motherfucker. I would have done it the first time but I didn’t want to shake the bunk and disturb anyone’s slumber. I’m stinky considerate. My lawyer’s not going to negotiate any time off for me, but he got me nominated for most considerate ‘Cellie’ and most considerate newcomer for August. Two new deals he has working for me.” There was silence.

“Just get the fuck up and on the toilet. That was the worst thing I ever smelled. If you do it again, I’m gonna punch you in the face before I throw up.” Great. The toilet did work. If I sat on it and flushed, it vacuumed the air in its wind stream and removed the stench. Everything in the place reeked of 19^th century thinking, except the toilet which was from the future. I am not sure if there was a message in that or not. I was looking for messages and reading between the lines everywhere. My mind was having cramps.

An hour or so later I’m climbing down to sit on the toilet. Perched on the Boeing, the relatively pristine silence was shaken by a jolt of sound and energy erupting from the bottom bunk. I braced, anticipating a second, third, and on into infinity. But it could have just been the one, an aberration; maybe he swallowed his tongue. No, a second roaring nasal belch two feet from Gangster’s head sounded. I was already wondering what snoring’s effect would register on the respect meter. The third hacking sinus struggle stirred Gangster, and before one or two more fleshy skids erupt, I hear “Are you fucking kidding me!” This was no joke. He smacks the bottom of my bunk above him and shouts; “Gilly, you hear this?”

I answered from where I sat on the Boeing being vacuumed. “I’m trying to time the flush of the toilet for between outbursts. If they both go off at the same time, I'm afraid I’ll be torn in half.” He rolled onto his right side and reached down, grabbing Tom and shaking him back to consciousness. Before Tom knew he was awake, Gangster had the floor. “Fuckhead! Did you know how loud you snore?”

Semi-consciously, Tom responded. “Yeah, I snore.”

“You should have said something. Listen, your not allowed to go back to sleep until you make sure me and Gilly are both sound asleep.” If I hear you snoring before I get back to sleep, then I’m gonna wake you up and knock you out, got it?”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” Tom was catching a stutter I thought.

It was quiet for awhile and twice I saw Tom get up to see if I was sleeping. He went over and stood at the door, looking out the window. He would have to move out, by faking an injury or illness; or fight Gangster. To remain in a cell like this or a dorm which might have 90 societal failures in one big room, you would have to be very popular and well liked not to get moved.

Day 22

Monday – September 11, 2006: When football was on, it was the first time I really sat still in the dayroom for more than a few minutes. Usually if the cell doors were open, I was in the dayroom walking laps around the perimeter. I must have had too much time to think, or I was trying to avoid thinking too much about the worst case scenarios, but whatever it was, I found myself obsessing over the sort of things I never did before. As I walked the perimeter I started counting my strides, to see how many strides a lap required. Then five laps, to get an average number, figuring that would be more accurate for reasons I can’t explain. I tried to maintain a steady stride, right around three feet. Eventually this would lead to me figuring out it was about 42.5 laps around to reach a mile. Then I began seeing how many laps I could walk each dayroom, and trying to top it next time. So when the football games came on yesterday, it might have been just in the nick of time, because I’m not sure where that was going if I did not get interrupted.

It was a weekend when both tiers were let out together and I met some of the guys who were down stairs. I only knew them from seeing their figures moping in the dayroom when I looked out the little cell door window. I did not do much of that since window monitor was Gangsters position, and I did not want to be blocking his pacing path. There was only one cell with white guys downstairs, and two upstairs; nine of us out of 90. Two of the guys sat and watched for six hours straight, as I did. Lenny was a large guy, two years younger than myself and looking at his fourth term. My first cellie, Tim, referred to Lenny as the “Silverback”, not to his face of course. The other white guy joining the football watchers was named Darren. A 23 year old, fair skinned freckled faced kid charged with 14 armed robberies. Lenny called him “Honey Bun” because he bought more and more honey bun pastries on Tuesday’s and could not make them last a week, so he upped his order each week until he was at about 35 now and still done with them before Sunday’s games. Darren was also known as “The Big [drink] Bandit” due to his inclusion of a big soft drink cup in his hand at every heist. He would drive his pick-up with his bike in the rear bed to a preselected location about two blocks from his intended target. He liked video stores and subway sub shops and pizza huts. He would ride his bike from where he parked to the store, empty cup in hand. Walk in, and if at a food place, order something to eat. When the food would arrive and it was time to square up he would calmly put the cup on the counter, open his jacket or lift his shirt to show the cashier his gun and say; “put all the bills in the register into the cup”. They would accommodate him, and out the door with his meatball sub in one hand and a 42 ounce soda cup stuffed with bills in the other he would go. A quick bike ride to the getaway truck and 14 times it worked without a hitch. Eventually he made the evening newscasts and someone he went to high school with recognized him and notified the authorities. As he finished the story, Lenny added; “That’s why you gotta drop out of school by 9^th grade, so not that many people know what you look like,” which I thought showed incredible foresight on his part.

Monday morning brought with it another cellie for us in cell 24. A 39 year old fella who said he drove a tow truck, and apparently, housed and sold stolen property much of which was acquired on the first job. We were all dumber than we thought we were, or at least not as smart as we were certain we were. Either way, this new guy, Tom, was going for the number one ranking. Gangster took about a minute to feel the guy out before he started throwing mental haymakers at him, asking question after question. He was using his false sincerity voice, feigning interest in anything Tom wished to expound on. Tom sat on his lowest bunk and Gangster paced as he shot the questions. Tom was unable to say “I don’t know” and Gangster liked that he had a fountain of information, a veritable authority on any chosen subject from which to gain wisdom. Every so often, either Gangster’s question (done deliberately) or Tom’s answer (done in Zen-idiot fashion) was so preposterous, Gangster would glance up at me with a big grin to make sure I was following the proceedings, as if ignoring this was a possibility. This ended only when the cell doors clicked open and as I walked out with Gangster he said; “I’m gonna let this guy stay Gilly. This kind of stupid doesn’t come along every day.”

Day 21

Sunday – September 10, 2006: Sunday mornings continued with its recognizable routine, underway with the unlocking of cell doors, the self-righteous and the serendipitous vied for slots to scream at the captive congregation. Among the fella’s with a desire for creating “look at me” moments – never in short supply – jailhouse preacher and religious fanatic provided superb opportunities. As best as I could tell, perhaps the only time some of the guys ever dabbled in the arena of patience was waiting their turn to place the assemblage under their thrall. Incarceration guarantees a dearth of significance or purpose, so the illusion of meaningful behavior while espousing one’s newfound belief system at the top of the lungs was attractive by contrast. At least, that’s how it looked. There was not a guy at the “service” I could envision in church on the streets. It had been a few years since I last attended Sunday service regularly, so maybe the churches were full of people with head and face tattoos now, I can’t say either way with certainty.

While the preachers preached, football fans went about organizing a gambling pool for the NFL season openers. It was a two Top Ramen soup buy-in. Top Ramen are the gambling chips of prison and jailhouse casinos, their value adjusted to match the gouging rate of the facility. Gangster insisted on paying my way into the pool with such adamancy it might have sparked something detrimental to my already diminished well-being to disagree. I won fortunately, and was able to repay the loan by the kick-off of the Sunday night game. I did not know if he was setting traps for me or attempting in his own way to be, well, less than anti-social. He seemed sincere and genuine, but he probably seemed sincere to the missing paperwork guy when he pinned him against the wall too. I had yet to see him hit anyone, but I was 100% certain if it came time, he would not hold back.

By approximately 8 P.M. all shaving razors acquired at the window during the day must be returned. They make an announcement or two demanding the razors return. If this goes unheeded, the tone of voice on the second announcement indicates ignoring this responsibility will have negative consequences. In another races cell (It is worth noting it was not a caucasion error, because Gangster considered this an egregious act, to be misinterpreted by other races as disrespectful, and could result in real problems. To insure white awareness on the issue, in Gangster’s introduction anti-pep talk each new arrival received, a crystal clear threat was made as prevention.), someone mistakenly placed the razor at the sinks edge hovering above the Boeing toilet. Someone else flushed the toilet and in a flash the razor vanished at 200 MPH down into the vortex of the turbo toilet. Tonight was the night I learned what happens when a disposable Bic razor disappears.

By 8:30 everyone was marched cell by cell to a big room with wooden floors which some called “the gym”. I had not seen the room in three weeks, and never saw it used in a “gym” capacity during my stay. Around the room perimeter, 90 of us were told to face the wall, remove all our clothing, and kneel. I almost whispered 'I hope this isn't some weird dating ritual County employees have' to Gangster, but if I made him laugh and got him in trouble, I'm sure it would have been time to punch someone in the face.While the vast majority of County employees, many from other “tanks”, gathered in our evacuated area with the intention of ripping each cell to bits, a smaller group – which overcompensated for their lack of numbers with raging hostility the likes of which I had not yet experienced in my life. -  methodically went around searching the clothing and naked bodies for a razor blade. I knelt facing the wall when I could have sworn I heard a County employee say; “Lift your ball sack.” I did not turn as my reflexes beckoned to satisfy my curiosity and check my hearing. Whatever I thought I heard, it would be repeated 89 more times. Before it was repeated however, I heard “bend over, spread your cheeks and cough three times.” A request synonymous with having a gander up someone’s ass, and something they liked to do an awful lot in there. My mind scurried for understanding as I clearly heard the “ball sack” line again. Gradually, I came to realize they were checking under testicles and up rectums for razors. If they were doing this because there was precedent, then I had underestimated the level of mental illness kneeling facing the wall. If it was done just to deter future razor disappearances, further degrade and accelerate dehumanization, then there was a level of mental illness among the County employees I had underestimated. Judging strictly by the behavior each group was exhibiting at the time, I lean toward the latter.

Day 20

Saturday – September 9, 2006: The weekends were only different if the County employee’s followed the rules and gave us the “extra” dayroom time the schedule called for us to have. No guarantee. We would spend the weekend without a third member in cell 24 I was informed, because Gangster ran yesterday’s addition off  without much effort. The guy arrived with no paperwork; a serious faux pas by the current standard. Gangster explained he pressed the guy up against the wall and told him he had 30 seconds once the doors opened for dayroom to get busy producing paperwork or he’d “beat the ever-loving shit outta him”. To look at him one needn’t be prodigiously intuitive to think he meant it. It would appear he yearned for such opportunity. He had shown me his right hands knuckles with great pride, and they were indeed well chewed and used for pounding objects which only reluctantly gave way to make room for those invading knuckles. The hand itself looked disfigured; warped by time and effort spent in the endless pursuit of those who preyed upon children – to hear him tell it. But anyone, I suspect, who did not respect the savage pecking order of their new environs was likely to feel those knuckles. It kept crossing my mind how stupid someone had to be to attempt establishing their own beliefs in such a soulless, lawless place as the one assembled  and designed by the Law itself. Time and again a new arrival with an ego for the ages would be dumped into our desperate midst, telling us he was the new sheriff in town, only to have the gumption abruptly stomped out of him in vivid living color. It was never anything but ugly, and though it got gradually easier to look at with each passing behavioral correction, it remained unsettling to the point I had to look away before the rearranging of priorities concluded. Before they were through with me though, I would be waiting for the corrective action and welcoming the change it would produce in the asshole in question. Some people cannot learn any other way.

Gangster jumped ugly on me over the weekend too, but as I came to expect from him, without the malicious intent. Intent however did not predicate malice from entering into his tone or words anyhow, it just was not deliberate, and with Gangster, this was a formidable difference for which I was grateful. He asked about my meeting with the lawyer, interrupting me at his choosing when he needed more information than was forthcoming. “What’s your lawyer’s name?”

“David G.[Hispanic surname], you ever hear of him?” Whether I deliberately left this detail out to spare myself a racial lecture – as everything in this world was broken down along racial lines – I am not sure. Maybe so.

“Gilly, for someone who seems smart you make incredibly stupid decisions! How the fuck can you hire a Mexican lawyer?” I did not try to answer. There was no answer, I was smart enough still to know that. “This guy isn’t going to help you. He’s going to trade you off, use you as collateral with the DA to get one of his own off, or less time. You’re fucked if you stay with him.” I did not follow. I had no idea what he was even talking about. This guy went to law school in America, not Mexico, I could not understand his statement. Not yet anyway. I actually thought Gangster was reacting typically for someone as institutionalized as himself. It was a mistake I made repeatedly during the first months; dismissing good advice from people who knew the system and all of its absolute corruption, so much better than I did. I still mistakenly thought the truth, and justice mattered then. I could not have been more wrong.

I actually argued with Gangster over this, which was odd, since if he put forth the idea the earth was flat I would have agreed on point. He explained how the DA has quotas, time which must be meted out each day, week, to make the monthly numbers. Lots of jobs - high paying unskilled jobs, as well as over educated figures reigning terror over the scum – count on the system being overstocked. It’s as simple a method of job security ever devised, and even the U.S. Supreme Court cannot bring change to the corrupt ways. It is well documented now the C.C.P.O.A. has given the finger to the High Court, and instructed them too, to go fuck themselves, just as they have every other entity which tried to pull back on their terroristic approach to juris prudence. Nothing can stop power which feeds off public ignorance and fear except a well-educated populace. That will never happen in America, California, or anywhere else under plutocratic control.

The point Gangster was making, was my attorney would allow for me to be given excessive time, in a trade or deal which allowed another of his clients – an Hispanic one perhaps, who paid a higher fee (drug dealers, I quickly learned, have money to spend on proper representation, and are categorized as non-violent offenders, therefore subject to only 50% of sentence.) and would certainly result in countless referrals after word of his great service spread among his clients contemporaries. So for someone to walk away with probation and a program, the five years they should have received must be accounted for some place else. It sounded crazy to me, and given the source, I found it easy to dismissed.

 I am a fool, what else can I say.

Day 19

Friday – September 8, 2006: I got the call over the intercom around 9AM to get dressed. I’d be going down to meet with my new lawyer. Being absent at that point meant I’d miss the arrival of our cellie de jour and the reception he would receive by cell 24’s very own, one-man unwelcome wagon, which suited me just fine. It was not yet comfortable for me to watch another human, being emotionally flogged and mentally disemboweled in the name of creating space for junk food. Over time, I fully would come to understand, even welcome such logic, but at this early stage of the journey through the societal cesspool, I still had more than mere remnants of my former self floating through my worldview.

The guy I went down to meet handed me a business card with one hand while shaking my hand with the other, as a method of expediency I suppose, because he was in a hurry and had two other clients to meet with after me. No point wasting too much of his time; it was my life after all that was at stake, not his. The card said he was the same guy I had spoken to on the phone. Everything else associated with the phone conversation had changed. He spoke to the DA, and afterwards, came away working for them. “They have a really tough case against you here.” I said nothing in response. Not a single word, and if my facial expression changed, well, then I guess corpses can change facial expressions. He was waiting for something from me, to rebuke and shove back down my throat. He had already been paid. He did have a few questions for me, which, as I reviewed them later in my head, did not really pertain to the case. He wanted to find out if I could raise any more money; borrow from a relative, sell a car or some other possession. Then, in retrospect, he asked me the strangest question of all; “What’s [the “victim’s”] cell phone number?” I didn’t hesitate, I just gave it to him. Later it dawned on me; ‘why didn’t he ask the DA for that number?’ Probably because the DA knows my attorney is not supposed to be entering into a personal relationship with someone in that position too. Not being familiar with the inner workings of the system, I could not quite explain my uneasiness after meeting face to face with this man other than to say intrinsically I knew he was not on my side. I just did not understand the corrupt, but completely legal, back room dealings which go on between defense attorneys and the DA’s office. All I knew for certain at this juncture was the man I spoke to on the phone was completely different in every way from the guy who sat before me then. He reiterated the deal for five years at 85%, offered to me on my visit to court by the public defender, except he stated the five years at 80%.  Later, much later, I realized he was so uninterested in my case except for bartering purposes regarding reduced time for other clients, that he simply did not care enough to get that detail correct. Having refused such a deal then, it was even more deplorable coming from a guy who just accepted $5,000 to negotiate on my behalf.

“As your attorney,” and he delivered this line in believable fashion, with a straight face, “I highly recommend you take this deal.” I could not believe the gall, but I had read a little Shakespeare. In Henry VI the line, “the first thing we must do is kill all the lawyers”, relates to the common man’s frustration, I believe, with the power the law has, through its ‘officers of the court’, to wreck someone’s life. I understood the play just a bit better than when I woke that morning. My mind was both blank and racing at the same time. Nothing came out of my mouth, I could not formulate words yet. The only word coming to mind – and it came over and over – I kept to myself; scumbag.

I returned to the cell a little after 3PM. Though it was probably less than 200 feet each way, moving the miscreants about is low on the priority list. And while not leaving the building, strip searches complete with a quick peek up my ass were still conducted. After seeing the cell full of food Gangster pulled from his ass, the County employee’s penchant for looking up there made a little more sense to me. Gangster was alone in the cell when I got back. “Why the long face, Gilly?” One thing I quickly realized about Gangster, he had this surprisingly astute ability to read people. Climbing back up onto my bunk, I began to explain how things went with the lawyer. Before I really got started, he interrupted me. “Hey Gilly, I really do wanna hear how it went down there, but before you tell me, I have another thing I wanna ask you about.” I could hear my brain say, “uh oh”, and my stomach knot up. He paced back and forth with his hands behind his back, looking down at the floor. “You’re up there writing all the time, what the fuck are you writing?”

I felt myself pause, hesitant to answer even though the truth should not result in a pseudo-heart attack, nervous breakdown or even a permanent stutter. “I’m writing letters.”

“Duh Gilly, what the fuck else would you be writing? I didn’t think you were up there rewriting the Constitution, I mean who are you writing the letters to?” ‘Where the hell is our new cellie?’ This was occurring to me then, ‘why isn’t he here yet?’

“Friends, and some of the people I worked with.” I heard my voice apologizing in tone, at least, if I could not figure out why I would apologize yet.  

“What are you writing about? I mean, you’re up there all fuckin day writing these letters, what the fuck is so interesting that you have to tell them? Why are you doing that?” He was not looking at me as he paced and interrogated, different than his tactics with BD and the guy I think was Glenn.

“No one I know was ever in jail, and I just write about stuff, you know, that's here, that I think they might find interesting, or funny.” I was acutely aware I was discussing Gangster’s home, even if he was not, and I was treading very carefully not to insult the guy who was essentially my host by suggesting the place was absurd or ludicrous to the uninitiated.

“So you write funny stuff, huh? Why don’t you read me something that’s funny? Ya know, I could use a good laugh too. C’mon Gilly, read something funny to me.” He looked up finally at the conclusion of his request. He did not have his regular war-face on, but I had no indication what this new face meant. So I scrambled through the six page letter I was working on and tried to find something funny, and I read it to him when I did. It was immediately rejected.

He made a brief snarky sound followed by, “Yeah, that’s real funny Gilly, read something else.” The way he said it, so quickly and so curtly, was different. So I read something else I thought might be funny.

Then he answered, “Yeah, that’s real good too, but that’s not it either. Read something else.” I heard the word either, and I saw the devious smirk on his face he attempted to hide by keeping his head down while he paced, and I knew what he wanted. I cleared my throat and began.

“The new guy I have for a ‘Cellie’, who goes by the monicker ‘[name of town] Gangster’, might just be the scariest person I’ve ever met. Whoever has week four in the ‘When will Frankie die in jail’ pool, your money is looking good.” At which point he spun around and exploded towards me. I did not know what was about to happen, and my first reflex was to raise my arms to shag incoming blows. But his right hand which began whirling in my direction as he spun stopped a foot in front of my face and had a finger extended, pointing to my nose. “Whoever’s got week four should double down,” he yelled in as gregarious a tone of voice as I had heard from him yet. It spooked me. Then I watched him laughing hard at my reaction and shaking his head. “Gilly, don’t leave your personal letters and shit laying around on your bunk when you go out like that. Fold ‘em up and tuck ‘em under your bedroll or something. People don’t care around here, they’ll pick your shit up and read it.”

Day 18

Thursday – September 7, 2006: Our new ‘Cellie’ - I believe his name was Glenn - did not make it till lights out. He hit the button screaming “nervous breakdown!” semi-hysterically even by the tough asylum grading. Gangster did not try to yell over him. I could feel the bunk shaking from his laughter below me. I am certain I was not as happy on the streets as Gangster now appeared, his heroin hangover over. His mood was also buoyed by the wad of illicit contraband he pulled from his rectum, which he used to perform his of version of the loaves and fishes, resulting in a stockpile of edible garbage. He probably did not operate as efficiently on the streets as here. It’s hard to pull something out of your ass and produce enough food for a month on the outside.

The same crew as the night before arrived to pick a nervous and stuttering Glenn up from where he sat on the toilet. He walked into the cell Wednesday morning with his chest cartoonishly puffed out. The pose was so strenuous to hold, he could not breathe and got dizzy. He did not have both feet inside number 24 yet when Gangster greeted him.

“What the fuck are you supposed to be, huh?” I assumed it was a rhetorical question or I would have buzzed in, that’s how ridiculously obvious he looked. “A fuckin orange peacock?” Our new cellie was off to a bad start, and the look on his face had no comeback in it. In one minute, Gangster literally and figuratively deflated him. Then he went about picking him apart the way I have seen lawyers pick apart witnesses in the movies, except with a much cruder and vulgar vocabulary and maybe an indication or two of psychopathic behavior. The bottom line was, with all the groceries Gangster accumulated, there wasn’t enough room in there for another guy; 300 Top Ramen soups, while nutritionally empty, still covers a lot of cubic square feet.

Glenn’s stutter amused Gangster in an interesting way to me: he wanted to take credit for it. After Glenn left, or rather, was escorted out sobbing with a blanket over his head, Gangster got up and stood facing me. “Did you hear the blubbering and stuttering coming out of the Peacock’s mouth? He had snot all over his shirt and pants. That’s not so easy to produce Gilly! He turned into a crying, stuttering, little bitch after I let the air out of him, huh!” Glenn – if that was in fact his name – was not a small guy, nor was he old. On the streets, without knowing either of them, one would have thought it a fair fight. I did not get an opportunity, nor did I seek one, to speak to Glenn directly. He seemed confused, of course Gangster’s rapid fire style of questioning in order to defeather the Peacock might have had something to do with it. But anyone stupid enough to walk into a County jail, with, pound for pound, some of the sickest people in the world, believing yourself capable of being a one man ‘Shock and Awe’ repellant force simply underscores his fuzzy relationship with reality. Still, Gangster was taking mental illness where I never saw it go before.

“That stutter wasn’t there when he came strutting in. You see how he was walking Gilly? Wonder what song he had playing in his head for the soundtrack to go with that puffy-walk. I hope that stutter he had by the end of the day, stays as bad as it was when he left. Fuck him,” he said as he gave the back of the cell door the finger.

Day 17

Wednesday – September 6, 2006: The life I led prior to being arrested was vague and ambiguous, at best; a desultory existence devoid of any real goal other than changing how I felt each day. No planned steps were ever followed up upon, because nothing was ever planned. Nothing about my life defined who I was because I never figured out who I was. Now, this methodical behemoth which was operating broken and crippled from overwork and unable to perform the task of its original intent, was set to define who I am for me. I stood on the highway and waited for a truck to run me over because something scared me on the side of the road, now, it was too late to get to the curb. Much time was spent pondering how I nurtured this dilemma. I went through life in a self-manufactured haze; judgment impaired and my cognizance addled intentionally. I placed the ‘kick me’ sign on my back. All this made it hard to blame someone else for kicking me. My demeanor could not be described as benign, not by a longshot. Being a New Jersey native living in California, much of my behavior – behavior I was oblivious to, having soaked in it for 24 years growing up – was misinterpreted at first by the natives; an asshole New Yorker. Maybe, but not with malicious intent. As I reflected back, I saw who I once was as unwittingly obnoxious, and more than a little misguided and sick. Not a violent thug, though the tag was about to be attached to the rest of my life. The truth would never matter again if it did not matter now. Looking like someone who could bust someone’s head if prone to punching heads, does not mean people are being hit. But wounded people will reach for any weapon of convenience I have learned, regardless of who is responsible for the seminal injury against them. I lived so recklessly, so careless with how I behaved and the things I said, if the tumblers lined up wrong, the target I placed on myself would be too big to miss, making me the perfect place to dump such emotional pain. An underachieving, semi-conscious, aimless oaf.

So I took the money intended for bail and gave it all to a lawyer. During my first visit to court with the court appointed attorney, I felt uneasy watching her shuffle piles of papers and repeatedly asking me my name. She dealt with those she represented the way someone doling out free samples at a fair deals with the endless stream of moochers; she never looked anyone in the face, and said the same things over and over. I was offered a deal that day for five years at 85% time, meaning I would do roughly four years, three months. An outrageous miscarriage of justice. From what I know about laws and courts now, if the truth mattered and facts were taken into account, this belonged in civil court. Since I had no money to sue for, and the State of California now pays people for being “victims”, this was the most lucrative avenue to pursue. The money was sent to a man who claimed to be an amateur boxer before he went to college and law school. This appealed to me because a boxer would know a right handed person would mark the left side of someone’s head. He also should have an understand that such a blow cannot be delivered without marking the hand, and the difference between a blow from a fist and a blunt object, like say a door. I thought he would be on my side. That is how I thought it worked. I would discover as the weeks went by, I was wrong on every preconceived idea I had regarding this attorney, and how it worked.