That Come to Papa moment. Yes, I know, it’s “Come to Jesus” but some of my readers flop into convulsions on the mention of Him. Papa is a nephew of Ojiisan. His English name is William (Bill). Bill is inside on card counting charges. Ojiisan is upset so Bill gets to cool his heels for a bit. Why upset? Bill cheated at blackjack in his family’s casino. Repeating from an earlier post, you don’t pee in your own pool. Bill, though.
Charlie defies explanation. MBA, good upbringing, good family, and started a career on Wall Street in arbitrage. He’s a potwasher for Ojiisan now. Or he was. Now he’s in county jail awaiting arraignment. About that. Most local jails don’t want you. Prisoners cost money to house and feed. For petty, non-violent offenses the sheriff and the magistrate will usually release you on your own recognizance with a court date.
Unless . . . you embarrass the wrong people. Like . . . Ojiisan. Which both Bill and Charlie did. Fun fact. The attorneys in the area suddenly extra busy with cases and can’t get to either Bill or Charlie for a week or so, maybe longer. Oh, and . . . their paperwork is missing. Coinkidink? 100%
Holding Cell
When you are inside you are on the Sheriff’s time. Things happen when the deputy wants them to. That’s not a bad thing. Mostly, the jail is overcrowded so the incentive is to move things along. Holding cells are useful for difficult inmates. In general population it’s harder to monitor individuals. Holding cells can be limited to one or two inmates and that makes the deputy’s job easier.
Bill and Charlie share a one man holding cell. Bill was there first. He’s small and seemingly not intimidating. Charlie has never been inside. The whole experience is intimidating. And Bill didn’t look like someone easily moved from the bed. The deputy gave Charlie a bedroll and a pillow. There was a bedroll sized stretch of concrete floor for Charlie. It’d have to do.
Why is Charlie such a presence in this space? Because drama is fun to write. I’m not a fan of naturalist fiction that depicts pedestrian life. I like Charlie and characters that are triggering. The Greeks wanted their audience to experience catharsis while seeing a play. I may not go that far, but my work should evoke feels. So Charlie will never just wash pots.
A Marathon Talk, Not
Charlie was booked on a Thursday night into a holding cell in Paradise Valley. The magistrate works from Winnemucca. Charlie would have to wait for transport from Paradise to Winnemucca. He ain’t going nowhere soon.
Bill, “You don’t belong here. You supposed to be working.”
Charlie suddenly discovers an overpowering desire to stare at his feet, “I know.”
“So why are you in my cell?”
“I dunno. Dumb luck?”
“You are that stupid. Listen. I know what you did. I can make this easier or I can make it much harder. Your choice.”
“How do I get out of here?”
“You don’t.”
“I don’t understand.”
That one, “if you understood you would agree with me.” Charlie is in lockup. Whether he understands has no weight. Ojiisan understood, the owner of the car he stole understands, and the police report documents what the cops understood. That’s all the understanding necessary.
Bologna, 1 Cigarette
“Saito is my boss. He’ll bail me out.”
“You stole from him. Why would he do that?”
“Because I belong back at the casino. The cops will get fired for arresting me.”
The meal slot for the cell slams open, “Bill, your meal.” Charlie salivates. It’s a beautiful bento with sashimi, rice, some sort of seaweed salad, and a mochi desert molded and decorated as Hello Kitty. The beverage is rice tea served in small clay teapots. If this is what they serve in this jail maybe it won’t be so bad,
Charlie stands and moves to accept his meal from the deputy, “BACK AWAY FROM THE DOOR!” What?! “I SAID BACK AWAY FROM THE DOOR!!” Deep in Charlie’s center of gravity was a small voice whispering that he should sit down on his mat away from the door. So he did.
The meal portal slapped open and a dry bologna sandwich flew toward him in pieces. It was followed by a juice box that hit him in the crotch, “this is it? This is my meal?! Why does Bill get Japanese food and I get sandwich parts?! My boss will hear about this and you will be sorry!” It’s good to be made, Charlie.
Small Town America
There isn’t money for a full-time jail with only 141 permanent residents in Paradise Valley, NV and an equal number of seasonal workers. Not much crime gets reported. Casino security keeps everything in-house. The town is usually sleepy. Days slide by without much notice. Peak season is when the cattle are rustled and sold.
The jail, such as it is, is a lockup inside the casino. Once a week a Deputy carries some arrestees to Winnemucca for arraignment. The casino kitchens cater to inmates. The quality of the meals varies greatly depending on your place on the org chart and Ojiisan’s opinion of the inmate. Bill is on timeout and his charges will disappear soon, some sort of clerical issue.
Charlie should be grateful for food safety laws and a casino catering staff that takes pride in their food. Moldy white bread and questionable smelling bologna dressed with mayo that smells like ass are facts for some inmates. Charlie isn’t grateful. So says he, he is entitled to Wagyu sashimi served by bottle service girls. He stole the boss’ car.
Rainbow Trouble
And so it went for a few days. Bill could order from the whale’s menu. Charlie got sandwiches and juice boxes. Breakfast was a Jimmie Dean Bacon, Egg & Cheese biscuit, lunch the flying bologna sandwich, and dinner a couple White Castle sliders served with a can of Pepsi. Charlie’s puppy dog eyes were ignored by Bill.
4am. A deputy hits the cell door with a baton, “CHARLIE! GET UP! STAND BY THE DOOR! PUT YOUR HANDS THROUGH THE SLOT! DO IT NOW!” No, it isn’t like this for most of us. The deputies are professional and pleasant. If you are similarly pleasant things will go well. Charlie is snoring on the floor. Bill kicks him, “What?! What do you want?!”
Charlie is too slow to respond and the deputy is impatient. The cell door opens and they drag Charlie into the commons, use his ankles to roll him onto his stomach, then shackle him, “Stand up, Charlie.” He does, with difficulty. The deputy finishes putting him into leg and arm shackles. He is on his way to Winnemucca.
County Lockup
It took twelve hours to process through to general population. Charlie was in the pod for inmates awaiting arraignment. His particular cell had six guys in it, all of them trustees and one of them a captain of the landscape crew that maintained the courthouse grounds. His cell mates demanded he shower before being allowed to walk to his bunk. It was a very long 15 minutes of anxiety because of all the Hollywood tropes about sexual assault in prison showers. Worse because nothing happened. But it could have.
Captain, “get into your bunk.” The fight in Charlie is gone. He complies. Time passes. Breakfast is better here. It’s fake scrambled eggs, a couple sausage links, a hash brown patty, orange juice, and coffee served on a tray. Shitty food but it’s at least handed to him by a trustee instead of flung at him by a deputy.
Lights out is at 8pm. Quiet time starts at 10pm. The Captain’s orders to get into his bunk came before 10pm. Charlie couldn’t sleep. Too much noise, too wound up from the intensity of the last week. There were no visible clocks so Charlie didn’t know what time it was. He couldn’t sleep and he was afraid to get out of his bunk. Captain could be a pissed-off Al Simmons.
Reveille
The lights came on. Martina McBride’s, “Independence Day” began playing over the loudspeakers, “GENTLEMAN, RISE AND SHINE!” All the cell doors opened, “RISE AND SHINE, RISE AND SHINE! STAND UP FOR COUNT!” Inmates began to dress for count and stand in front of their cells. Breakfast wouldn’t be for another hour.
Charlie didn’t wake up. Captain grabbed his bedding and yanked. A sleepy Charlie tumbled to the floor, “What the FUCK, dude!” “Get your shit and stand outside the cell for count.” It seemed like he only slept for minutes. But . . . after all this the move was to get his shit together and stand for count.
Chores. The first activity of the day was to clean the cell and make the beds. Charlie, being fresh meat, got to clean the toilets and showers, twice. The first time was a half-assed wave of the brush that took under a minute. Turns out a passing grade meant the bathroom had to smell like Pinesol. Another trustee supervised Charlie for the second attempt.
The closest Charlie had been to military service was on the protestor side of the barricade with National Guard on the other side. And . . . countless hours playing Call of Duty. This bit, the chores and inspections, were never part of his console gaming. It sucked.
Ten minutes scrubbing the bathroom and mopping its floors. Then asking for an inspection. This time he passed.
Eight More to Goal
And . . . that’s it for this post. This is #357. Eight more to achieve my goal of 365 posts. Charlie will have pride of place as his incarceration will fill the next eight posts.