by Amy Stephens
One by one each guy was escorted out of the cell over the next several hours. As soon as one would leave, two or three more took their place. I was amazed at how many were being brought in during the time I was there. I knew crime and drugs were bad in Miami, but I had no idea it was that bad.
They’d taken my watch, among other things, when they’d brought me in so I had no idea what time it was or how long I’d actually been there. Heck, I didn’t even know if it was day or night anymore. I just knew if felt as if I’d been there forever. My stomach rumbled, and I didn’t want to even think about being hungry.
Over time, my legs weakened, and the hunger pains intensified. It also wasn’t long before my head pounded. I needed sleep, and I needed food.
Finally, my name was called again, and I walked to the front of the cell. I hoped to God I was finally getting out of there.
The cuffs were put back on my wrists again, only this time they weren’t tight enough to cause pain as I’d experienced before. Still, I wondered why they’d cuffed me, unless I wasn’t getting out.
I walked in between two officers as we headed down a long corridor. It wasn’t toward the front, and that concerned me. They unlocked a door at the end of the hallway, and I walked into yet another room. This time there were two officers seated at a table.
“Please have a seat, Mr. Garcia.”
I followed their instructions, not wanting to give them any trouble. They asked me a series of questions, most of them I had no way of knowing the answers to. I even caught on to them changing up their words to some of the same questions just to see if I’d answer differently the next time.
It was no use. The more in-depth the questions were, the more I realized I wasn’t getting out of there. I wasn’t going anywhere.
The clock on the wall behind them said it was four o’clock. I assumed it meant four in the evening, but I wasn’t exactly sure. I just knew it felt as if I’d been there a lifetime, but this was just the beginning, the beginning of a nightmare I couldn’t seem to wake up from.
After the next round of questions were over, they escorted me to a regular cell that had three other guys already there. Once inside and the doors locked in place, they removed the handcuffs. They told me supper would be served shortly. It’d been close to twenty-four hours since I’d last had anything to eat, and I just hoped it was something decent, that it was something I could hold down. My nervous stomach left me thinking otherwise.
The three guys stared at me. I was the new guy in their territory now. I didn’t bother with exchanging names or anything; it just wasn’t the right thing nor the right time. This was all bullshit. Total fucking bullshit!
Everything I’d see on television about being in jail was true. The metal sink. The metal toilet. No privacy. The flattened, stained mattress. The stench. The peeling paint on the walls. Lights out at ten o’clock. The sounds. Oh god, the sounds.
I heard grown men crying. I heard them talking in their sleep. I even watched one of them across the hall claw at the skin on his arm until the blood gushed everywhere. I could literally smell it, and yet no one seemed to pay attention.
Apparently, this wasn’t unusual for him. He wrapped the one single bedsheet we were given to sleep with around his arm, and I wondered if he pulled it any tighter if it wouldn’t eventually cut off the circulation. Maybe that was what he tried to do.
The faint glow from the light in the hallway allowed me to see more than I ever wanted to. I tried to close my eyes, but the slightest noise caused them to flutter open and I was wide awake once again. At some point, though, I did end up falling asleep. I was beyond exhausted.
I awoke several hours later to the sound of a metal object being dragged against the bars of the cell. Was that the wake-up call? I wasn’t certain, but it wasn’t the way I liked getting up in the morning. I sincerely hoped it wasn’t a morning ritual.
My head pounded from lack of sleep, and I rubbed my eyes with my palms until I saw stars. I was afraid that if I opened them, then the nightmare that’d consumed me with most of the night would be true. I glanced around the dim room, allowing my eyes to focus, and sure enough, the nightmare was a reality. I was still there. As soon as I sat up, the queasiness returned in the pit of my stomach, and I barely made it down from my top bunk before I threw up in the metal sink that was halfway between the two bunk beds. I mostly dry heaved until there was nothing left to come up.
I wasn’t going to make it there. This place wasn’t for me.
The other guys in the cell moved around, obviously not too thrilled with it being so early in the morning either. As I leaned over the metal sink, I heard them mumbling and complaining under their breaths. Not so much about me disturbing them, but the metal against metal commotion that had filled the hallways. I could still hear the clanging in my ears.
Breakfast was served shortly, and I could only look at the tray of food that sat next to me on my bed. When the others realized I wasn’t going to eat any of it, they didn’t mind taking what I’d left and never even bothered to thank me for it. I was so weak and sickened, I just hoped I could recover—mentally, physically, and emotionally.
I wondered why the trays were delivered to our cell instead of us being allowed to eat together in a cafeteria-type room. Could it be because we were considered hard-core criminals and posed that much of a threat to each other?
Looking around at everything, I was only reminded that wasn’t for me. I wasn’t a bad guy and I didn’t do bad things. I wasn’t a bad person. Over and over, I wanted to shout this for every single one of them to hear. I wanted whoever was around to know they’d made a terrible mistake. That they had the wrong person. That I was set up, and it wasn’t my fault.
I must have slurred this in my sleep at some point, because one morning a few day later, the guy bunking across from me informed me, “You’re just like the rest of us sorry fuckers. You might as well get over it.” I just looked at him, confused at what he was talking about.
I refused to believe that I was just like them.
Five days passed, and I got my first visitor. The guard came to collect me and, at first, I thought by some miracle I was being released. I wanted to question him, to ask him who’d come to save me, but when I didn’t recognize who the guy was, I realized I wasn’t going home.
I’d never been apart from Eliana, Ricky, Isabel, and Diego for this length of time. Slowly, their images faded from my mind. I wondered if I’d I ever see them again. I wanted answers, and hopefully this gentleman had some.
He was dressed in khaki slacks with a white button-up shirt. I could tell he’d pulled it straight from the clothes dryer, because there were no crease marks from where it’d been starched and ironed. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, no doubt a court-appointed attorney fresh out of school. His lack of professionalism didn’t get my hopes up, that was for sure. I should’ve just been thankful someone was willing to stand up for me, even if it wasn’t by choice.
In the room, I sat across the table from him, waiting for the questions to start. The other two chairs remained empty. I noticed a dark tinted window in the back of the room, and I was pretty sure we were being monitored from the other side. When the guard finally left the two of us alone, I heard the sound of the metal door being locked. Did they seriously think I’d try to escape?
He introduced himself as “Scott McReynolds, public defender” and stuck his hand out to shake mine. I was cordial, but this was only the beginning. We had a long road ahead of us before I’d place much trust and confidence in him.
I still wasn’t feeling well, but I did the best I could and listened intently to everything he had to say. He began by asking me questions about my stay there—if I had an adequate place to sleep, if I was served hot food, if the other guys posed any threat toward me. While I appreciated his concern, I wanted to get down to business. I wanted to know what the hell was actually going to happen to me. Then we could talk about other things.
On
ce those questions were behind us, Scott McReynolds explained what I’d been charged for. I sat there, speechless, hardly able to take in the words he’d told me. The more we talked, the angrier I got.
Apparently, McReynolds had already done a fair amount of work on my case prior to that day and had also come to the conclusion that Javier had indeed set me up. Without a doubt, he’d known the bust was going to happen that night, and he’d been long gone well before the cops had showed up looking for him. Once I’d dropped him off at Pete’s, he’d disappeared right into thin air. Gone. So far, there hadn’t been a trace of him anywhere, but sooner or later the authorities would find him. It might take days, weeks, or even months, but they’d eventually bring him in. He’d be placed behind bars for a mighty long time.
He went on to say that when they did locate him, it didn’t necessarily mean I’d be released, though, as I’d hoped. In the eyes of the law, I was still guilty because all the evidence had been found in the car that I was driving. Unless Javier confessed, which was highly unlikely, I was looking at doing time. For how long, he wasn’t sure, but uncovering more evidence against Javier would hopefully lessen the sentence.
I had no previous record, but I… I… I had absolutely nothing to stand on.
He assured me that my case would be turned over to the federal authorities since the drugs they’d confiscated had come from Columbia. Anything crossing U.S. borders became federal and superseded state law. And, well, if he were picking, federal prison was where I wanted to be. Hell, I didn’t want to go to any prison but, unfortunately, it wasn’t my call to make. He just kept reiterating that he’d do his best to keep me out of state prison, if he were able to keep my case. I was confused by that statement, but what did I know. To me, prison was prison, no matter where it was.
On Sunday of the following week, the same guard showed up at my cell again and called my name. I leaned against the wall, reading a paperback. I didn’t know what was going on, and I admit I felt a little bit of panic take over.
He informed me I had a visitor, and I was allowed thirty minutes to spend with them. I wondered why my attorney had called for a meeting now, especially since it was Sunday. When we’d last met, he’d informed me he’d get right to work on my case, but that he wouldn’t see me again for a couple weeks, right before it was scheduled to come in front of the judge. So what was going on now? Had my case been moved up? Had they caught Javier and he’d confessed? Were there any new developments? It was hard not to get a little excited.
The sound of the metal door being shut behind me broke the silence, and I walked into the room prepared to see Scott McReynolds dressed in his usual attire. I swear, the guy must not own anything other than khakis and white button-ups, because that’d been the only thing he’d worn each time I’d seen him. I hoped that when my court date came that he’d at least wear a suit and tie, because his outfit wasn’t going to score any points with the judge. And I’d need all the help I could get pleading my case to him and the jury!
What I saw in the room wasn’t Scott McReynolds.
Staring out the window was my mother.
When she heard the door being shut, she turned to look at me, and in a matter of seconds, she brought her hands up to her face, her emotions quickly taking over her.
“Oh, Jaime,” she managed to say in between her sobs as she walked toward me.
“No touching,” came the command from a loudspeaker somewhere in the room.
My mother and I were inches apart from embracing each other. Just like my visits with McReynolds, we, too, were being monitored from behind the glass.
“Momma…” I uttered, caught up in my own emotions. This moment was the most painful I’d ever had to experience. Her entire body trembled.
Before she sat in a chair, I closely examined her. It’d been weeks since I’d last seen her, and she looked tired. God, she looked tired. Her cheeks were pale, and there were bags underneath her eyes as if she hadn’t slept for days. She was already a thin woman, but now her clothes just hung from her body. Knowing I was the cause for all that…
Her frail, sickly appearance was all due to me.
Me.
Me and my stupidity.
I wanted to reach across the table and hold on to her hand, never letting it go. I missed her. I missed my brothers and sisters and even Mama Camila. I missed all the things I’d grown accustomed to in my former life. I missed doing laundry on Sunday. I missed helping the kids with their homework. I missed the long walk to work in the mornings. I missed leaning against the kitchen counter, watching my family while they ate their measly dinner. I missed all of those things that I’d once hated. I wanted my “poor” life back. Yes, I missed living penny to penny.
I saw from the look in her eyes that she believed me when I told her I’d been set up, that all the things that’d been found in Javier’s car weren’t mine. Momma knew I wouldn’t lie about it. She knew I’d only been trying to make it better for us when I’d gotten mixed up with him in the first placed. Instead, I’d made it worse than it’d ever been. Javier knew exactly what he’d been doing the entire time.
Our thirty minutes together passed much too quickly. Couldn’t I have just a few more minutes with her? Please? I wanted to beg them, but there was no use.
The guard removed me from the room first, and I heard Momma’s sobs once again as she watched me being escorted out. I wanted to jerk away and run back to her. Momma was supposed to make it all better, wasn’t she? Couldn’t she make this nightmare go away?
Chapter Seven
NIGHTMARES.
That’s what they were. Nightmares turned into cold, bitter reality.
Every dream I’d had while being there had turned into nothing but a pure, living hell.
My unkempt, court-appointed attorney had truly done his very best defense against the State of Florida’s Federal District Attorney. Honestly, with all the evidence the cops had confiscated from Javier’s car that night, I’m surprised the verdict had only been a ten-year sentence. Just listening to it all, I was fortunate they hadn’t wanted me locked up for the rest of my life. It hadn’t mattered that my record had been clean up until that incident. It hadn’t mattered that I’d begged and pleaded with the judge. It hadn’t mattered that I had a family who needed me at home.
I became one of the many who was shuffled through the court system. The judge had heard all the same stories and excuses, over and over again, and mine was no different than the others.
For my sake, McReynolds felt as if he’d let me down.
I was doing time. A very long time.
Ten years.
Ten. Fucking. Years.
Would my family even recognize me when I got out of there? Would they disown me? Would I even get to tell them goodbye?
I stayed there for a couple weeks until a spot was available for me in the federal facility. I hated knowing I’d have to adjust to someplace else all over again, but who was I to argue. It was hard to believe my life was wasting away, and no matter how well-behaved I was or how straight I walked the line, I was nothing more than a criminal in the eyes of the law.
Or so I thought.
I fell into a deep, dark depression and to my surprise, was ordered to see a counselor twice a week. Maybe they did care about me, after all. I questioned my own life, whether if it was even worth living anymore. I’d been dealt a lot of bad cards over the years but, by far, this had been the ultimate lowest point for me. I didn’t know how much more I could handle.
My counseling sessions lasted for six months. It hadn’t helped that my counselor was a pretty redhead who was fresh out of college and new in her line of work. I enjoyed her friendship more than anything, and I felt she sensed that, too. We got along well and talked about more than just my time there and my personal struggles. She was the human interaction to the outside world I desperately desired to have. It was safe to say, she was my friend. Had my counselor, Summer, been a man, I don’t think I would’ve opened up so much,
but she’d been able to penetrate through my frustrations and turmoil. She’d offered me hope and had probably saved my life.
She was also the one I dreamed about at night. The nightmares were finally gone, but were replaced with sexual fantasies. She’d often told me, as part of her counseling, to focus on one positive thing in my life. As if there was anything positive about being in prison. Well, I was a man, and I still had needs and desires, so I’d focused on her. After all, she was the one positive thing I’d had going for me. I guess I focused on her too much, because for a couple weeks, I’d woken up at night hard as a rock.
Picturing her in my mind, I tried to be quiet as I massaged my dick. It was embarrassing at first, especially when I’d have a session with her the following day, but the guy who bunked under me did it quite often. As the weeks passed, I even jacked off in the shower once while the other guys were showering next to me. Summer was, no doubt, a hot little thing.
I wondered if I was the type of person they’d probably warned her about when she’d been in school. You know, the one who’d probably get inside your mind and play with your emotions. Why had such a sweet, young lady wanted to have a profession such as that? Why would anyone, for that matter, want that kind of a job? Did she think she could actually make a difference in someone’s life by what she said to them?
She had mine.
When my sessions with Summer came to an end, I wondered if I’d ever see her again. I hated knowing I’d no longer spend time with her, but she’d felt I was strong enough to move forward on my own.
Momma came to visit me as often as she could, but I was lucky if I got to see her once a month. Sometimes it’d be six weeks or longer before she was able to come, and it made the days pass even slower. Just the effort she put forth in coming to see me, though, meant so much. It was a struggle for her to do everything on her own now, and I hoped one of the kids had at least stepped up to help her with the laundry. If she’d seen any signs of my depression when she visited, she never questioned it nor did I volunteer that I’d been placed in counseling. It was bad enough with everything being ultimately her responsibility now, but she still had a lot of pent-up frustration and anger of her own against the system that she’d had to deal with. Seeing her get so emotional over me didn’t help me deal with my issues any better, either. She probably could have benefitted from some counseling herself. After all, my entire family’s lives had been turned upside down with me no longer being at home.