by Jay Bell
“He wanted to, but I had already filed a complaint when the cops arrested Connor.”
“Okay, but we’re pretending you never met Connor. So when your father came home, he would have seen you and called the police. Then what?”
“I guess they would have arrested Chuck, and he would get diversion.” Except David wouldn’t have dropped the charges. Chuck wouldn’t get diversion and would probably be sitting in juvenile hall right now.
Dr. Wolf must have seen the realization on his face because he nodded encouragingly. “So, in this particular example, you aren’t better off for having met Connor.”
“That’s not true! For all we know, if I hadn’t met Connor, Chuck would have attacked me sooner. Connor stopped him from doing so before. If I hadn’t met Connor, maybe it would have been worse. Chuck only stopped kicking me because some guy came along. Under different circumstances, Chuck could have beaten me to death.”
Dr. Wolf studied him for a moment, then smiled as if the conversation had been for their mutual entertainment and nothing more. “Your father says you don’t have many friends except for Connor and a neighbor boy who is younger than you.”
Connor wasn’t his friend. David wished people would stop saying that. Connor was so much more than that, but instead of arguing the point he nodded.
“Do you ever feel like it would help to talk to other people your age in the same situation?”
“Why, is there a support group for guys who get revenge on bullies?”
“Possibly,” Dr. Wolf said with good humor, “but I was thinking more of other people your age who don’t see eye to eye with their parents, who also feel like they are under too much pressure.”
David shrugged. “I never really considered the idea.”
“Well, there’s a facility I work with that has group sessions. I think such sessions could benefit you. What would you think about attending one—say, tomorrow?”
“Honestly, it doesn’t sound like my kind of thing.” In fact, David hated the idea.
Dr. Wolf wasn’t discouraged. “Tell you what, just meet me there with your father. We can have a look around, maybe eavesdrop on the group instead of joining it. That way you can form a more educated opinion.”
“Okay.”
Dr. Wolf was wasting his time, but showing up and checking out the group wouldn’t do any harm. The session ended shortly after that. Dr. Wolf had a few more words alone with his father before they left. On the ride home, the car was surprisingly quiet without lectures about education or goals. Was it possible that Dr. Wolf had managed to muzzle his father? David leaned back in the seat and smiled. Who knew therapy could be so much fun?
Chapter Seventeen
New Century Adult Detention Center.
The name was ridiculous, trying much too hard to be anything but what it was—county jail. Maybe high school was too recent a memory, but Connor thought the word “detention” made the name sound childish. Regardless, this was to be his home for the next month. He felt a spurt of optimism as he was escorted to the building. The architecture was tastefully modern, appearing more like a cutting-edge university than a jail. But his hopes were dashed once he was inside. Everything—walls, ceiling, and floor—was painted concrete, which reminded him again of high school. Maybe the name was appropriate after all.
The receiving room had a counter to one side similar to a hospital nursing station. On the opposite wall were three barred cells. The officer patted down Connor once more—just in case any weapons had magically appeared on his person during the ride over—before taking him to one of the cells.
“They’ll come get you when they’re ready to process you,” the officer said as the bars slid shut.
Connor turned around. The cell had benches on either wall, both occupied. Two men sat on one side, so Connor took a seat on the other. Eye contact between him and the other men was wary and fleeting. No one seemed interested in speaking, which was fine with him.
Connor waited. And waited. He didn’t have a watch, but he was sure that three, maybe four hours passed before they came for the first man. Another hour sludged by until they came for the second. Shortly afterwards, a scrawny, unkempt man was brought in and left with them. Fumes poured from his nearly toothless mouth as he ranted and raved about god and, occasionally, his ex-wife. Thankfully the man and his stench chose the bench opposite Connor.
Half an hour later, Connor positively jumped off the bench when the officer said his name. The deputies, as they were called, wore uniforms similar to those of regular police officers, but the gun holsters on their utility belts were empty. Those working behind the counter were dressed more casually in black polo shirts with a badge and the county name stitched over their hearts.
One of the men behind the counter emptied a plastic bag that held Connor’s wallet, phone, belt, keys, and a few intertwined paperclips he happened to have in his pocket. He was asked to sign an inventory of these items, including the clothes he was wearing, before they stood him against the wall for new mug shots. Before they took photos, they draped a robe over his front, much like the kind used by hair stylists.
“Any tattoos?” the guard asked in disinterested tones. The man was middle-aged, chubby, and had a mustache. Connor doubted he would be able to pick him out of a lineup of other randomly selected cops.
“No tattoos,” he answered.
Next came fingerprints, followed by a visit to a small office where a woman waited behind a computer. Connor sat awkwardly in front of her desk, glancing over at the guard by the door. The woman didn’t bother with introductions.
“I’m going to ask you a series of questions, and I need you to answer them honestly so we can get you placed in the correct housing area.”
“Okay.”
“Are you currently under the influence of any illegal substances?”
“No.”
“Have you any time in the past six months used illegal substances?”
“No.” Connor wasn’t sure if drug tests happened here so he amended, “Well, I smoke a little pot now and then.”
The woman clicked the mouse twice before moving on to the next question. “Do you have any medical conditions we need to be aware of?”
“Nope.”
The questions rattled on and on. They wanted to know about his mental and physical health, if he was involved with gangs, and a bunch of other things that had him shaking his head in the negative. Until one came that he wasn’t expecting. “Do you indentify as bisexual or homosexual?”
“No.” Connor said after a pause. He had never before denied who he was, but he didn’t want to attract the attention of other inmates or the deputies.
“You’re here under a class B person misdemeanor, but I understand your original charge was aggravated battery, which is a felony.”
“Okay,” Connor said, not sure if this was a question or not.
The woman looked away from the screen, her eyes lingering on Connor’s scar. “I should probably put you in maximum security, but we don’t have any beds left.”
“Popular hotel,” Connor joked, but the woman turned back to the screen without reacting. She clicked and typed some more before Connor’s answers were printed out, so he could sign that they were accurate.
“All done here, Dave. You can get him showered.”
The guard looked up from his cell phone and grunted. Connor had been wearing the same clothes for two days, some of it blood-stained. A shower sounded good, as long as Deputy Generic wouldn’t be washing his back. The shower Connor was brought to was—surprise—a concrete stall with an industrial-sized bottle of shampoo and liquid soap.
“Get undressed,” the deputy said, handing him a large plastic bag. “Fold your clothes and put them in this.”
He seemed to have no intention of leaving or looking away. Connor started with his shirt, then his shoes and socks, but he still had an audience.
“All of it. You’ll get your clothes back at the end of your sentence.”
Connor knew he shouldn’t press his luck, but it was worth a shot. “You aren’t going to turn around?”
“Believe me, I wish I could. We need to make sure you aren’t smuggling contraband into the facility.”
Rubber gloves and KY Jelly sprang to mind as Connor kicked off his jeans and underwear, but thankfully the final search wasn’t that intrusive. He had to lift a number of things—his arms, cock, balls, even his feet. Then he had to turn around and spread his cheeks, which easily qualified as the least sexy moment of his life.
“Okay. Get showered. The shampoo kills lice so you have to leave it in for three minutes before you rinse.”
Connor tried to focus only on the shower, but Deputy Generic watched him the whole time. True to his word, he didn’t seem to enjoy the experience. Once the ritual with the shampoo was complete, the guard’s attention returned to his cell phone until Connor was done. Then he was led to the other side of the room and presented with his new clothes.
Connor laughed. He couldn’t help it. The shapeless jumpsuit was striped, just like in all those cheesy comedy sketches and cartoons. These stripes were grey rather than black, but the suit still seemed too funny to be true. The shoes were less amusing—slippers molded from one solid piece of rubber.
In the shower room were several large plastic containers, like the kind Margie used in Florida to store some of her useless newspapers. Connor was given one of these to open, and even when the guard rattled off its contents, Connor needed a moment to realize these were all his possessions for the next month. Inside were some blankets, a towel, a bar of soap, a cheap toothbrush and toothpaste, a safety razor, and deodorant.
“—and here you have your rights and regulations, if you need something to read,” Deputy Generic finished before putting the lid back on. “Pick that up and follow me.”
This was the moment of truth. Connor was led down several hallways, each segmented by doors that had to be buzzed open. Their journey ended in a room with a triangular floor plan, the space filled with metal chairs connected in groups to the tables they surrounded. Apparently, everything in jail needed to be bolted to something bigger or the inmates would have things to throw or steal. The walls of this room were lined with doors, one of which Connor was led to.
Connor expected the room beyond to be a small cell with a toilet and bunk beds to one side. He was half-right. The room was slightly bigger than he expected, but it had three sets of bunk beds, all of them occupied by men who wasted no time in sizing him up. What little floor space existed was filled by two temporary beds—plastic frames with thin mattresses on top.
“Choose which bed you want before the next guy comes in,” the deputy said. “Your new roommates can tell you anything else you need to know.”
And that was it. The deputy shut the door, leaving Connor with six strangers. Already his tough-guy body language was in full effect. It came by instinct, as did his crazy eyes. Usually Connor let an outer layer of himself go a little insane while he watched, calm and detached, from inside. Now he hardly needed to pretend. This whole situation made him want to scream.
One of the two temporary beds on the floor was nearly up against a wall. Connor went to it, kicking it until it was flush against the painted concrete bricks.
“Hey, you can’t sleep there!”
He didn’t see who said it, but Connor ignored them and the chorus of laughter that followed. Setting his storage container at the end of the bed, he slipped out of the strange rubber shoes and sat on the mattress, facing the room with his back to the wall.
Connor eyed his cellmates one by one. Three were Hispanic, two hanging out on their bunks while a third swung down from another bed to stand next to them. The fourth bed was occupied by a thin black man with glasses. After a brief glance in Connor’s direction, he went back to reading his book. The fifth and sixth beds were home to two white guys, one old and dumpy who looked more suited to a stained wife-beater. The other was a man with skin so leathery that Connor imagined he had spent decades lost in a desert. His frame was lanky, his chest sunken, and his dark hair limp and much too long. His bangs reached down to his pointy rat nose. The desert rat leered at Connor, who saw in those eyes the same craziness that he sometimes summoned. But this man wasn’t acting.
“What are you in for?” Desert Rat asked before rattling off a series of abbreviations. “PV? DUI? FTA? DV?”
“NOYFB.”
Desert Rat blinked. “What the hell does that stand for?”
“None of your fucking business,” Connor said with a straight face, making clear that he wasn’t joking or looking to make friends.
A couple of the inmates laughed, but Desert Rat scowled. “Where did you get that scar?”
“Keep asking questions and you’ll find out.”
Connor stretched out on his mattress and stared at the ceiling, dismissing them as unimportant. After a few moments, conversation continued without him. The Hispanics chattered in Spanish and Desert Rat spewed a stream of ignorant thoughts and opinions at his bunkmate.
Time crawled by. Soon Connor was uncomfortable and bored. He considered unpacking his things, but where would he put them? Besides even making his bed sounded too feminine and vulnerable right now. Flipping through the rulebook would provide distraction, but that would also reveal his lack of experience. He wondered when the next meal was. The last thing he’d eaten was a sandwich just before being transported here. His internal clock said dinner time had come and gone.
The room smelled. Maybe a few of the guys here could use a shower, but mostly it was the lack of air flow. The far wall wasn’t bars like Connor had imagined, but Plexiglas windows large enough for the guards to easily observe them. Being able to see the spacious main room beyond made the cell feel less claustrophobic, but no less stuffy.
A deputy in the main room shouted something Connor didn’t understand, the inmates in his cell settling down in their beds. Then the lights clicked off, and Connor breathed out in relief. The darkness made him feel safer. He could move without feeling like everyone was watching and sizing him up.
In the dim light that remained, Connor considered the room. In addition to the three bunk beds was a stainless steel sink and toilet that were a little too close together for his comfort. The toilet, like everything else in jail, was one piece without even a seat that could be raised. There was no privacy. The toilet sat against the wall for all to see. Connor had heard someone using it before the lights were shut off. He wasn’t pee-shy, so that wasn’t a big deal, but what if he had to take a dump?
As his eyes darted around the room, Connor tried to come to terms with living here for the next thirty days. Eventually, he became tired enough for his body to sleep.
* * * * *
The sun came up the next morning, or at least the deputies switched on the lights. Without a clock, Connor had no idea of the time, but it sure as hell felt early. The door to their cell was opened by a deputy who briefly poked her head in to check the room. The faint smell of food reached Connor as she did, his stomach grumbling. The other men were soon on their feet and heading out the door. Connor waited until they were gone before he made quick use of the toilet and followed after them.
Most of the inmates were already sitting at the benches and eating. The large public room was crowded, but still felt spacious compared to their cramped quarters. Prisoners lined up for food at a rolling serving cart that had been brought into the room. Connor joined the line, cautiously eyeing everyone around him.
Maybe he was being paranoid. This wasn’t maximum security, after all. Most inmates were probably here for unpaid child support or for cheating on their taxes. Hardened criminals, the rapists and murders, were going to be in prison. But this reassuring thought hadn’t kept Connor from jolting awake many times last night, certain that Desert Rat was creeping up on him. Connor wouldn’t mind knowing what his cellmates were in for. Maybe he should ask them.
Connor reached the counter, took a plastic tray, and
was given a disposable bowl of watery oatmeal and a paper plate with two slices of toast. Oh boy.
“How about a spoon?” Connor asked when the deputy motioned he should move out of the way.
“See your CO if your lost your utensil,” the deputy snapped.
“I was never given one.”
The deputy spared him a second glance. “You new? You should have been issued one during processing.”
Connor took his tray back to his cell. He opened the storage container and dug through it, pulling out the blanket and pillow he had sorely missed last night. Toward the bottom was a spork slightly more durable than the disposable kind. Apparently he was supposed to take care of it. Maybe this rule stopped prisoners from shaping them into weapons if they didn’t want to eat with their hands. Having breakfast in the cell was tempting, especially since it was now empty, but Connor knew that would make him appear weak.
Instead he took his tray back to the tables and sat down next to inmates he didn’t recognize. They barely looked at him, so he focused on shoving food into his mouth. Once Connor was finished eating, he reevaluated the space he was in. The triangular room was two stories tall with another set of cells on the second floor.
All the cells were against one wall. The second wall was dedicated to a bank of payphones. The third wall was mostly blank, except for the exit, a shelf full of heavily battered paperbacks, and a billboard plastered with notices and information. At one of the triangular room’s three points was a raised station where the deputies sat and observed everything.
Connor turned back to the other prisoners, watching them as covertly as possible. Most had finished eating and were socializing. Some of the prisoners returned to their rooms, but others headed toward stalls that interrupted the rows of cells. Connor heard showers running and toilets flushing, which meant private facilities were available. Well, sort of private. He could see the feet and heads of the men in each stall since the doors were very short. This allowed the guards to keep an eye on them, but it was still better than having to use the toilet in the cell.