200 Letters

by Amy Watkins

  Me: That sounds farfetched. Do you have any proof?

  Naomi: I don’t, but Caroline does. Check your email.

  Caroline sent me her “proof” in an email she got from Tracy and forwarded it

  to me:

  Caroline, that judge wouldn’t look at Ethan and Ethan’s dumb ass don’t even know. These my stomping grounds. I know Judge Wilcox and I got his ass pussy whipped. He’ll do anything I tell him to do. I know Angela, too. She is not who Ethan think she is. Me, Angela, and Jonathan, we all go way back. I knew them both when they first met in college.

  I never told Caroline or Naomi that Judge Wilcox wouldn’t look at me during that hearing, so these messages had to have come from Tracy. And how did Tracy know that Angela and Jonathan met in college? Was Angela really in on this?

  Nevertheless, I didn’t want to stay away from Angela. I wanted to be with Angela forever. I loved her and I desperately wanted all the women in my life to get along. I felt it was my duty to fix the situation instead of abandoning it. If Angela was involved with some weird underground sex cult and she wanted out, I would help her. I planned on talking to Angela about it at dinner.

  The restaurant and food seemed okay, but she seemed…off. She was quiet and looked distracted. I wondered if her lunch time visitor had anything to do with it. I wanted to bring up the things Naomi and Caroline said, as well as that email from Tracy, but when I did everything came out all wrong.

  “You know, sometimes people have sex at work,” I started the conversation.

  “Okay,” she looked confused.

  “Have you ever done anything like that?”

  “No,” she sounded defensive.

  “Well, I know we’ve been celibate since…”

  “Since you accidentally Skyped us having sex to your family?” she interrupted, rolling her eyes.

  “Well, yeah.” I sighed and shook my head. “It’s been a couple of months now, and I know women have needs. You sure you aren’t meeting up with someone at work?”

  She placed her fork down with a thud and folded her arms angrily. Through clenched teeth, she snarled, “I haven’t had sex with anyone. I want to have sex with you, but you decided that we would be celibate; so, I am being celibate.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was guilty or just annoyed, so I decided to drop it. The truth would come out eventually. It always did. I decided to hold off giving her the ring. Things weren’t right, yet.

  Several days later, and with the ring burning a hole in my pocket, I figured it was as good a time as any. Sitting beside her, I took her hands in mine and, clearing my throat, began, “I want you to know that I love and appreciate you. I want to show you that, while I know things are a mess right now, one day things will be perfect.” I opened the box and showed her the ring.

  “Oh, Ethan, it’s beautiful,” she whispered and slipped it onto her finger. The next day, I noticed it was no longer on her finger. And the day after that, and the day after that—no ring.

  Why wouldn’t she wear the symbol of our love? Maybe the messages were true, and she really did belong to someone else. I knew the best thing to do was just ask, and I did. “Angela, why aren’t you wearing my ring?”

  “I love my ring but it doesn’t go with a lot of my outfits and it catches on my gloves at work.”

  I didn’t buy it, but I didn’t argue either. I wore everything she gave me. The watch she gave me for my birthday only came off when I showered. It could just be a woman thing, but it could also be that what Naomi and Caroline said was true. I prayed one day I wouldn’t be so confused, and soon.

  **

  It finally arrived—my day in court. I got up early to pray. I wanted God to help me out of this situation. I needed to be free from Tracy. I needed all the nasty messages to stop. I was tired of everyone’s bull and sick and tired of all the lies, but I didn’t know whether to believe Angela or Naomi and Caroline. I wanted it all to stop. I knew I was partially to blame. Whenever I got angry, I let it consume me so much that I sinned. I slept with Tracy ’cause I was pissed at Deidra. I slept with Caroline and had Trinity ‘cause I was pissed at Tracy. I slept with Angela, told her I loved her and wanted to build a future with her, but I lied to her about Caroline. I knew my actions were wrong and I was paying for my mistakes, but I wanted my punishment to be over. I just wanted to get out of this mess, live my life, and do right by everyone.

  The courthouse was a few hours away. I had my church music playing as I drove, hoping it would give me strength and lift my spirits. I smoked a cigarette or two to keep my nerves down.

  I hoped my lawyer was prepared. I sent him all the evidence I had, my bank statements, proof of employment, child support payment receipts, pay stubs showing the garnishments, and my taxes. I also sent all of the harassing messages Tracy had been sending to me, as well as all those social media posts. I sent official copies of the false police reports and the lie detector test report. All my lawyer had to do was present it to the judge.

  Conqueror by Kirk Franklin was the last song that played on the radio before I entered the courthouse. I took it as a good sign. I sent a message to Naomi:

  Wish me luck!

  Then I headed in.

  Mr. Gainer, my attorney, did not bring any of the paperwork I sent him. He was not prepared at all. Luckily, I had copies of everything and handed it to him just before the bailiff yelled, “All rise…”

  Before he even sat down, Judge Wilcox roared,“Mr. Conner, you have neglected to pay the amounts of child and spousal support ordered in the last hearing.,” He sat down and slammed my file in front of him. “Since you feel you can do whatever you want, I will hold you in the county lock-up until you comply with the court’s order.”

  “Do something.” I begged to Mr. Gainer. “The judge has the amount set so high that I can’t afford to pay all of it.”

  “Your honor, it’s clear that my client doesn’t have the means to pay the amount ordered. If we can revisit the support worksheet, you will clearly see he doesn’t make enough,” he said in my defense.

  “He quit his job on purpose. Had he not done so, he would be more than able to pay,” Judge Wilcox retorted. But that wasn’t true, either. Tracy had lied about my salary. She claimed that I was making a hundred thousand a year when I was only making sixty. She lied about her expenses, too, claiming the rent and utilities were higher than they had been when I lived with her.

  “My client has proof he didn’t quit on purpose. He was forced to resign because of Mrs. Connor’s harassment. If you would look at the documentation, you would see. He didn’t leave, she forced him out of the residence and filed these false police reports.”

  Mr. Gainer attempted to hand Judge Wilcox my paperwork; but Judge Wilcox just waved them away.

  “Mr. Robinson, what do you think Mr. Connor’s punishment should be for not complying with the court’s order?” the judge asked Tracy’s attorney.

  “Your honor, we should suspend his license until he can make more of an effort to comply. His checks are being garnished to the maximum the law will allow and I think a license suspension would be in everyone’s best interest.”

  “Mr. Robinson, I see your point, however I still think maybe Mr. Conner should cool his heels in a cell for a time,” the judge barked.

  Everyone in the courtroom was shocked, except for Tracy. The clerk, the bailiff, the guards, Mr. Robinson, and my attorney, all stood there with their mouths wide-open in disbelief about how unfair the judge was being. I was paying all I could, and I had the documentation to prove it. Tracy just sat there with a smug smile on her face.

  “Mr. Conner, please rise. The court finds that you have willfully disregarded a court order and you will be held in jail until the demands are fully met. Bail will be set at ten thousand dollars, and you will be held until it is paid in full.”

  Judge Wilcox cocked an eyebrow and singsonged, “Christmas is coming soon. I’m sure a loved one will come up with
the money so you aren’t stuck in jail over the holidays.” Stacking his files, he finished with, “Make sure they pay the court clerk’s office and not child services. Bailiff, remove Mr. Conner and place him in a holding cell until he is transported to the regional jail.” And with a bang of his gavel, the hearing was called to a close.

  I looked at my attorney, and if looks could kill the man would have been dead. I was furious. Why wasn’t my lawyer prepared? My lawyer looked unmoved as he handed me a notice that read:

  Dear Mr. Conner,

  It was a pleasure working with you. However, you have exhausted our services and I will no longer be representing you. I wish you luck in all your endeavors.

  Sincerely,

  Gainer and Associates

  I crumpled it up and placed it on the table. I gave the firm five thousand dollars of Angela’s hard-earned money and they did nothing.

  I looked at the judge but he only had eyes for Tracy. And she stared back. Why didn’t he look at the facts? Why was he doing this? I can’t work in jail, so I’d fall farther behind. I looked at Tracy but she just sucked her teeth and smiled. Her attorney, on the other hand, looked worried and confused. I could tell he didn’t want this for me.

  The bailiff came behind me and asked me to place my hands behind my back. He snapped handcuffs on me and guided me out of the court room to a holding cell. I tried to walk with my head high, but I felt defeated and lost.

  He placed me in a cell that was cold and bare. It had a silver toilet that was connected to a sink, but it wasn’t clean. I couldn’t believe this was happening. The bailiff uncuffed me and apologized for the injustice being done to me.

  “I’m sorry this happened to you,” he said, “I have never seen the judge sentence someone so harshly. I’ve seen guys come through here who haven’t paid child support in years, and they are off free doing whatever.”

  According to my records, I was six thousand dollars in arrears, but the judge tacked on court fees and other expenses making my bail ten grand. To make things worse, it was a purge bond, meaning that I could not get bonded out. I had to pay the entire amount to get out of jail. How could this happen? Was it even legal? What if the rumors were true? Were Tracy and Angela really in a cult with this judge? I had no money and no assets.

  An hour passed and I was told that I had a visitor. I was escorted to another room where I waited. I was surprised when Tracy’s attorney, Mr. Robinson, walked in.

  “I just want you to know this isn’t personal. I have a job to do. If you want to fix your situation and get the judge to look at the facts, you need better representation,” he suggested. “I did not want the judge to place you in jail, but I can’t control his actions.”

  I didn’t speak. I just listened.

  “Do you have anything to say?”

  I shook my head no; but I had plenty to say. I wanted to scream! How could he live with himself knowing that he represented a manipulative terrorist? He had seen the paperwork and knew she filed false police reports. He knew that she lied about my income. He knew I was forced to resign because of her actions. And he helped her anyway. I knew if I said what was really on my mind that I would only get in more trouble. I thanked him for his advice and he wished me luck. Then he left the room.

  I returned to my cell, then lay on the cold concrete bench and tried to make sense of things. I needed to call my family to let them know what happened, but the bailiff took my phone and I did not know their numbers by heart. I asked the deputy if I could get my phone so that I could write down everyone’s number. He assured me that I would be able do that right before transfer. I hoped my family would hear the news and bail me out. I just had to sit and wait.

  There were other guys in the holding cell with me, all were complaining and cussing about their cases. They asked me what I was in for.

  I stuck out since I had on a suit and tie while they were all in orange jumpsuits. I told them it was because of child support and they laughed. Not at me but at the situation and how unbelievably fucked up it was.

  One of ‘em laughed. “Man, I haven’t paid child support in five or six years and I never been arrested…well, not for that,”

  “Yeah, it’s been ten for me,” said another, “That’s fucked up. You only been on child support for eight months and they fucked you like that? And you was payin’! Damn!”

  “I’m in jail for armed robbery and Imma be out before you. They sentenced me for six months. They got you indefinitely. Now, that’s fucked up.”

  “The whole system is fucked up. They always tryna keep a brotha down. Specially the good ones. Your baby mama is a fucking bitch. The law only here for women. They don’t give a fuck about us.”

  “Yeah, the law only there for women. That way our Black women stay desperate for a man. And with Black men locked up or shot up, that means more women for them to use and abuse. It’s a fucked-up situation.”

  They continued to talk about the system and its design to keep Black men down and rich men wealthy. Everything they said made sense. Before I was in that situation, I had never thought about the criminal justice system like that. These guys were on my side, but it didn’t make me feel any better.

  Hours passed and I continued to lay on the bench, trying to mentally prepare myself for jail. My mind thought of the worst things that could happen to me, I continually asked God why this was happening.

  I knew I wasn’t perfect. I knew I made a lot of mistakes. But did I really deserve this?

  I had never been in trouble with the law before. I had never broken a law in my entire life. So why was I stuck there, surrounded by drug dealers, addicts, thieves, rapists, and murderers?

  Transport showed up and started collecting us. They shackled our hands to our hips and our ankles to each other. We walked to the bus chained like slaves being transported for auction. I asked the deputy about getting the numbers from my phone. He laughed, “Aw, man. I forgot about you. Well, too late now.”

  I shook my head as I was in no position to argue. Still in shock, I sat quietly on the bus and kept to myself. I listened to all the other inmates talk about their situations and their street cred. The transport guard had us separated by the severity of our crimes. The ones in the back were charged with more violent crimes. I was in the front, but I could hear the men in the back plan to hurt the transport guard. They wanted to overpower him and escape. At least, that was their hope. My hope was that Judge Wilcox would realize the error of his ways and change his mind. That he would see that I had no means to pay the ridiculous amount he ordered and then release me. I prayed for him.

  It was late when we got to the jail and processing was a nightmare. I was surrounded by drunks, drug addicts, homeless and mentally ill people. We were given shitty peanut butter sandwiches with a few stale ass cookies. I wasn’t going to eat it, but an older man leaned over and gave me some advice, “Young blood, this gonna be the last thing you get to eat all night. I suggest you not let it go to waste.”

  I hadn’t eaten all day and my stomach was grumbling. I ate the food like it was manna from heaven.

  I was called up for processing. When the clerk looked at my file, he scratched his head in confusion. He called for his supervisor to come over.

  “Preston am I reading this right?” he asked.

  Preston looked at my file and was just as puzzled.

  “What happened?” Preston asked me.

  I explained my situation to them.

  “Why would Judge Wilcox do something like that? He knows this is an already overcrowded jail.”

  They shrugged and ushered me over to get my mug shot. Then I was sent to the changing area. I had to remove all my clothes and was told to wash with anti-lice shampoo.

  “That shampoo is better at givin’ you a rash then it is at treatin’ lice,” one inmate complained. I was given a pair of tighty whities, a jumpsuit, and some generic plastic slides. I showered and changed into my orange jumpsuit. I was hande
d a tote which held a thin, scratchy blanket, two sheets, shorts, soap, five stamped envelopes, two quarter sized pencils with no erasers, and twenty sheets of paper.

  I was placed in another holding cell to wait for classification. The cell was set up for three individuals. It had a metal bunk bed and a cot each with a plastic one-inch mattress on it. The cell was extremely small with barely any room to walk around. There were two inmates already sleeping in the cell. I couldn’t sleep. I walked around asking God why he allowed this to happen. I paced back and forth for about thirty minutes.

  One of my bunkmates looked familiar. I continued to pace wondering where I had seen him before. Then it dawned on me, I had seen him a few months earlier at my job. I had been walking out and he was trying to load some heavy purchases into his truck and I helped him. It’s funny how small the world is. Those you help and those you step on tend to pop up when you need them the most.

  He remembered me. He told me that he was being held on a DUI and his sentence was almost finished. He expected to be out in a few days, but he offered to show me the ropes and introduce me to a few safe people before he left. I told him why I was in jail. As I talked, I got more and more angry.

  “Calm down, Bruh. It’ll be alright. I know this shit sucks, but you a good dude. You’ll come out all right in the end. Let me show you what’s up. You will be here in isolation for the next two to three days. You will not be allowed to leave the cell except to grab your meals or if there is an emergency...” he continued to give me advice. What to eat. What not to eat. How to get stuff from the commissary. He told me about trading stuff with the other inmates. It was a helpful blessing in this mess.

  Those few days that I had to stay in the cell were torture. I continued to pace and wonder how I got into such a mess. The cell was starting to get funky as all hell because we weren’t allowed to shower. I was becoming more restless. I tried to sleep but my mind kept wandering. Why did God put me here? Why did he allow the judge to do this to me and why did my lawyer suck? I just knew Tracy was laughing at me. She had been trying to break my spirit for years. First, during our marriage, and again during our separation. After being constantly criticized and chastised; cheated on and having my life threatened; been lied about and gotten kicked out; having my good name tarnished and all of my money taken away; and now, after having my freedom taken away, my spirit was finally broken.