I want to forward this by saying thank you to everyone for making this community into a place where I feel at ease enough to share.

part 2 can be found here. Thanks.

I'm going to attempt to tell my experience in the American criminal justice system. I'm going to try to have fun writing this, and attempt to make it as interesting as I can while portraying it as close to how I remember as possible. 

Warning: this may contain offensive or touchy social subject matter and while these views and opinions may not be my mine, they are the experience of the people I met, and I think it's important not to sugar coat these things, for posterity sake. This story will need a bit of background, so bear with me. 

Up to the start of this journey, I was addicted to heroin and subsequently fentanyl, as well as benzodiazepines for 12 years. 

Prior to this, I have been charged and plead guilty to multiple misdemeanor possesion charges, all of which carried no jail time due to being charged in a large city, where petty drug use is not a priority, and my privilege as a white cis male. 

I moved out of that city into a more rural setting, where I was, imo, immediately targeted, due to my history, by law enforcement. I have never committed a violent crime. I have never even been in a fight. 

I know my experience is not unique. In fact it is all too common these days, but I do believe it can still be valuable in someway. I hope you can find something to take with you. I am not college educated, but I think for all intents and purposes, I could be considered an "intellectual". I have deeply spiritual and philosophical tendencies. I enjoy history, science, art, and especially music and literature. If you were to meet me, you'd never expect me to end up in jail. The same can be said for far too many of our fellow humans. I am not a writer, if i was, id be a shitty poet. Narrative usually escapes me, as I'm not as detailed oriented of a person as I'd like to be.  Thanks for reading. 

Arrest, Probation, Processing

I was pulled over about 20 min after swerving on a country road. Apparently someone called the police. I’m not sure I believe this one bit, but it’s possible. They got me right by an on ramp to the highway. I was intoxicated by legal definition. I have accepted my actions and I would have been responsible for any and all suffering if anything were to have happened. I was guilty.

Every police interaction I’ve had here, I was a red flag on their computer screen. A city boy, king pin, drug smuggling, scum bag, criminal. When in reality, I was sick. Desperate.

During this stop the cop asked me

“so how did you cheat the last blood test?” referring to the last time I got pulled over and taken for drug test. I passed that one.

I don’t know how, but it was obvious they wanted me this time, and they would have me.

I, naively, complied with their request for roadside sobriety test. The test was highly subject to police discretion, as most of the things looked for, only a doctor could point out as some sign. Can you count to thirty, in seconds, eyes closed, and land right on the hand of a watch? Well, if not, thats probable cause. Don’t take roadside tests.

The cop gave me an extremely rushed run through of the tests, and refused to go over the directions more than once, and me asking for further explanation was considered probable cause on its own. My biggest takeaway from this is that the point of police contact is ambiguous and ripe for corruption, largely on the onus of the officers bias and mood. This is made worse by the fact that the average person doesn’t know any of their rights or how to deal with police.

They decided to take me in, as expected. I was released, put on probation, and fined. 1st offense DUI. I failed my blood test for fentanyl analogs. The court proceedings were a sham, imo. My first court date I didn’t have a lawyer. The judge told me to turn myself in because I showed up with no counsel. I was taken aback, as i always thought i had the right to defend myself, not that i wanted to, but I don’t think one should be sent to jail for something that could be as small as not receiving the right paperwork, or even ones ability to understand said paperwork.

[Side note: I once watched a slew of non English speakers get brought into the city jail cause they were “trying to pay for sex”. From what I could gather, an undercover officer essentially said “say how much”. When the man replied “how much?” In broken English, they were swarmed by uniformed officers] …anyway:

Like a good boy, I went to the jail. I spent about 16 hrs in holding till posting bail, it was 25000 dollars! I had to pay 7%… For not having a lawyer! My poor old man wanted to kill me. He didn’t have the money, but he did for me. I love you dad.

The second court date, my court appointed lawyer didn’t know my name, or my case. I signed a plea deal. 6 months probation. $5000+ fine. It was my only option. The only way my lawyer would have actually worked my case would be if I did all the leg work and brought everything to them. But I’m not a lawyer. I was actually relieved to get probation.

The month leading up to my first probation meeting was surreal and dream like. I knew I’d be going to jail, too wrapped up in my addiction and despair to make the decision to go to rehab. The benzos, by this point had taken their toll. Seizures etc. I could not stop without medical assistance, and I had no insurance. I had no bank acct. I was in over my head.

I made the decision that if I was going to jail, I would at least get the detox rolling. For 6 days, I abstained from using fentanyl, instead taking a large quantity of Xanax to sleep, and get thru the extreme pain and misery. By the time I showed up to probation, I was a wreck. Cuts and bruises from falling all over. Haggard. I didn’t care. I was miserable, contemplating just ending it. I kissed my lover and gave her all my passwords, directions, anything I thought she needed, and walked in to meet my fate.

My probation officer was a dick. It was clear his only job was to put people in jail to help pay for the new parking complex in town. It was time for me to pee. I couldn’t. I tried. I was about to explode, but stage fright got the best of me. I was allowed to run water, drink. Nothing. In my mania and fear I began to literally sprinkle water on my genitals in hopes of sparking some primal urge to piss. My probation officer walked in, flipped shit, and i went straight in cuffs.

“You know I could charge you with evidence tampering”

The urine test kit wasn’t even in the bathroom.

They walked me out of the court house, put me in the back of the car, and drove me 20 minutes to the county jail. I knew I was smoked. I was faced with what I could only describe as freedom thru disassociation. It was bleak and outside of my control. So I dug deep, knowing i was in for quite an experience, if nothing else. My only pain came from my lost lover, and the knowledge I was about to detox for the first time in 12 years, in a cell. Beyond that I knew nothing. I could see nothing but the squad car dash, automatic rifle, and the rolling gate at the entry point of county jail.

On intake, where I was processed, I was sat down. Finger printed, searched, scanned, photographed. I was given another chance to pee. I could actually go this time. I watched the dipstick light up bright orange. I failed miserably…for weed. I hadn’t smoked weed in years at this point, go figure. It didnt matter because I had already told my PO that I’d probably fail, in hopes of leniency, instead I was given a statement to sign stating that I used drugs. Evidence to convict. I signed, like the gentle idiot I tend to be.

My probation was violated. I was no longer a person, I was property of the state, filtered out and down to the place where society thought I fit best. Fair enough.

I was made to turn over my clothes, my smashed up obama phone, everything, nothing… I was given 1 pair of whitey titeys, 1 white t shirt, 1 old and holy pair of socks, and a crusty mismatched orange canvas uniform. All brought to you by Bob Barker, the manufacturer of every product within the jail, from soap to shoes. It was a running joke among the inmates, “yo I got these fresh Bob barkers!” While strutting about in the ever present self depreciating manner with which we all handled ourselves.

I was brought to male intake later that night. It was Thursday, Commissary day, in the middle of a pandemic. The cell block was Male Intake, the place you go before you get classified according to race, religion, criminal history, gang affiliation, education and occupation. It is by far, the worst place in the jail, outside of isolation areas for predators, and disciplinary action. It smelled like sewage and testosterone. It was bright and loud. I was sick.

I'm gonna work on part 2, and ill post it later. Ive never tried to write like this before, I'm not much of an editor, and I'm trying to streamline as much as I can while touching on some personal detail.  Sorry for my mistakes. It's been a while since 12th grade English. I know my bias is showing thru, in my contempt, and I'm sorry. Please feel free to comment, or anything at all.