I spent the next forty-five minutes making and remaking my bed. From the corner of my eye, I could see Knox standing on the observatory platform watching. Each time I finished making what I thought was the perfect bed, I would look up at her pleadingly in hopes she was satisfied. My fate rested on what she would say, because each time I had to remake mine, the rest of the pod had to remake theirs too.
A terse “Nope” over the intercom would echo through the dayroom and all the women would collectively groan. I began to perspire from the pressure that I was feeling while performing this task.
When I finally somehow managed to do it correctly (I’m pretty sure it looked the exact same every time), the entire pod sarcastically applauded. I breathed a sigh of relief and began walking back to my cell, accompanied by random outbursts: “Finally!” “I was about to snap.” “One dumbass bitch can’t make a bed and the rest of us have to suffer.” “Four-eyes is lucky I ain’t tryin’ to go to lock or I’d smack dem glasses off her ugly face.”
I stood outside the cell for what seemed like an eternity waiting for them to pop it open. I wanted to crawl into my perfectly made bed and sleep the rest of my time here away. I didn’t know what was going to happen once the doors opened, but I imagined it would mostly involve nasty looks and hateful comments.
“Those girls aren’t gonna do shit,” Brandy said, noticing my expression of concern. “They talk a lot of shit, but they’re pussies when it comes to going to lock. The worst they’ll do is talk shit. I promise, and if they do try anything else, I’ll shank ’em in their fucking throats.”
“With what?” I laughed.
“With this,” she replied, whipping out a sanitary pad from her bin. We both began laughing hysterically. I needed something to take my mind off the mix of emotions I was experiencing, and it was a nice reprieve from the past drama-filled hour.
Usually whenever any type of negative emotion began creeping in, I ran as fast as I could to my drugs. I numbed my feelings the moment they tried to make themselves known. Now I had no choice but to feel them, and I found I was incapable of handling them very well.
I pulled the sheet up over my head and snuggled into my bed. Just as I was dozing off I heard the doors pop open. I ignored it. If someone wanted to beat my ass, so be it. Hopefully they would knock me unconscious and I wouldn’t have to deal with this shit. Brandy, along with Sharon, my butch lesbian “bunkie” (apparently this is what you call a roommate in jail, it’s edgier), promised to keep an eye on the cell while I napped.
I was awakened a short time later by my name being called. My eyes sprang open and I jumped out of bed instinctively. I looked out into the dayroom where everyone was and realized they all were staring at me. I made eye contact with one chick who had to be in a gang of some kind, because she had tattoos on her face and looked like she wanted to murder me.
“You got mail, estupido,” she said. Now I don’t speak Spanish, but I have a pretty good idea of what she called me just then. Most people would probably challenge her. I, however, am a big wuss.
“Oh, thank you so much.” I smiled, while walking with my head down at a fast pace toward the guard to get my mail.
I studied the envelope on my way back to my cell, and it appeared to be from a lawyer. I was assuming it was from my lawyer. I had spent all my money on drugs and cigarettes, so affording a fancy attorney was not in my budget. If you can’t afford an attorney, the state appoints you a public defender. We had something in the jail that was referred to as the “public defender phone.” It was the only phone in the pod that made incoming calls and when it rang, the women knocked one another down to answer.
The reason for this was that if you answered and it happened to be your attorney on the line—even if he was calling for someone else—you were allowed to ask him questions about your case. I hadn’t received my first call from mine yet, so I was eager to see what the letter was about.
“Brandy!” I said, running up to her with the letter. “I just got this, what the hell does it mean?” I asked, shoving it into her hands.
It only took her a glance to realize what it was (apparently she had received plenty of these). “Oh, it’s just saying who your attorney is and—ewwww—oh, man, James. He’s the worst. That sucks, dude,” she said, handing it back to me. “Wait!” she said, pulling it back out of my hands and examining it. “Holy shit, you have court tomorrow.”
The next morning, seven other women and I were crammed into a holding cell, waiting to be called before the judge. I was lying on a cold concrete floor for what had to be three hours. My hands and feet had been shackled to my waist and I was using a toilet paper roll as a pillow.
All but two of us had gone before the judge and pleaded; only another woman and I remained. The anticipation of the unknown had wreaked havoc on my body and mind. I was utterly exhausted from all the worrying I had done since I found out I was coming here today. The girls gave me an idea of what to expect, but it didn’t help. Every case and every judge was different. I had finally met my attorney briefly in the hallway on the way in. He apologized for not calling and told me that he thought he had. Essentially, I was going into this blind, with no instruction from him or anyone else.
“Johnson, you’re up,” the deputy said, peeking her head in the door. I recognized her. Her name was Tara and I had been to her wedding. As I sat up, I’d wondered for a moment if she remembered me puking all over the dance floor during the Cha Cha Slide. Hopefully not.
I rolled around on the floor with my hands and feet shackled, trying to get my footing. I looked like a walrus and the girl in the cell with me was pretending not to watch. I finally stood up and headed toward the door where Tara was waiting, and I gave her a sheepish smile. I wasn’t sure exactly how to act in this situation. She didn’t even look at me. She just said, “Let’s go,” grabbed the chain between my wrists, and walked me toward the courtroom. Super awkward.
As we stood outside the door, waiting for them to give her the go-ahead to bring me in, my heart felt like it was punching dents into my rib cage. My hands were sweating and my teeth were chattering, and I couldn’t stop myself from shaking. “You gonna be a’right?” she asked, while looking me up and down with disdain.
“I’m fine,” I lied, trying to play it cool.
Someone said something inaudible into her radio and she opened the door. The cold air of the courtroom hit me in the face as she pulled the door open, and I realized the seats were packed full of onlookers.
I wanted to turn and run; I wished I could disappear. A million things were racing through my mind at that moment, but I knew I had no choice. It was time to answer for the things that I’d done. I could hear a pin drop in that room. All I heard were the chains of my shackles jangling with each step as I approached the lectern in front of the judge. As I stepped up to the lectern, Tara placed her hand over the microphone and whispered in my ear, “Don’t speak until spoken to,” and walked away. It was so strange having a friend talk to me that way. It was as if she had just flipped a switch that erased any memory she’d had of the times we’d shared. I was now just another no-name criminal she was in charge of transporting.
I watched as a young woman with blond hair and really high heels crossed in front of me and handed the judge a folder. She then turned to face me and the rest of the courtroom, and swore me in. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do,” I said into the microphone, and for a split second wondered if I was supposed to say that or if you only said that at your wedding.
“Then let’s begin. The charges against Tiffany Johnson are as follows:
EIGHT COUNTS OF DEALING IN STOLEN PROPERTY;
EIGHT COUNTS OF DEFRAUDING A PAWNBROKER;
ONE COUNT OF GRAND THEFT;
THREE COUNTS OF GRAND THEFT—STOLEN FIREARMS.
“The victims of the above stated crimes were her boyfriend, Eliot Right, at the time, a deputy for the county sheriff’s office, as well as his mother and father, Linda and Darryl Right. Over the course of a year, the defendant stole, then pawned numerous items belonging to the victims at various pawnshops around the city. She then allegedly staged a burglary at the home she shared with Eliot Right and stole his wallet, containing two hundred dollars and his badge. We deployed numerous officers to investigate the crime. Miss Johnson was present at the home during the investigation and was interviewed about the robbery that occurred after she had left for work.
“During her interrogation, she also admitted to stealing three of his firearms, one being his off-duty weapon, and exchanging them with a local drug dealer for narcotics.”
The judge, attempting to remain straight-faced, slammed the file down in front of him and took off his glasses.
“Miss Johnson, how do you plead to these charges?”
“Guilty, Your Honor.”
“Were you forced into this plea by your public defender, or anyone else?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“And why are you pleading guilty today?”
“Because I did it.”