WEEKEND IN JAIL

 

Barnett spent Saturday afternoon in the bull pen, sitting on the floor, mentally reviewing his life. He looked at the clock, it was three-thirty. Moments later a guard called out, "Barnett, David Barnett, front and center. He was escorted to a sixth floor cell block, where a second guard unlocked the bolted door to his new quarters. Inside, David found a sizeable common area, with two, long formica tables and plastic chairs. Six steel doors lined the far side of the room, and an ancient  portable television with rabbit ear antennae sat on an old desk near the front windows, which were crisscrossed with steel bars. 

The common room had a blue ceramic floor, with concrete walls and ceiling--painted in glossy battleship grey. David's cell mates were sitting at a table, playing cards. The acoustics were horrible. The television was blaring an MTV rap song. The loud music and boisterous jive from the card game bounced around the room. “You’re goin’ in number six, over here.”

Barnett didn't hear the guard.

He spoke again, louder. “Barnett, over here!” 

David, having been told he would be in low security, was surprised to find he was in a private cell with a heavy steel door and sliding bar lock.

His cell was small, about eight by five feet. Everything was concrete and stainless steel: a steel bed with a thin, green plastic mat, a steel commode, a steel sink and a framed sheet of shiny stainless to function as a mirror. Barnett noticed a half-used roll of toilet paper lying on the floor next to the toilet. A tiny, heavily-barred, grimy window caught his eye. He turned to the guard and pointed to the window. "Guess I won't be bustin' outta this joint, will I?"

The guard chuckled. "Go ahead and try. You wouldn't be the first." He tossed a jumpsuit and pair of plastic slippers on the bed. “Take everything off but your skivvies and put these on. I‘ll be back.”

A short time later he returned. David was wearing his new outfit: a brilliant orange jumpsuit, zipped from crotch to neckline, and purple slippers which were too large, making his feet look ridiculously big.

The guard grabbed David’s clothes from the bed. “I’ll lock this stuff up with your personals. The cell door stays open all day. We lock it at eleven--evening curfew.”

As the guard turned to leave, Barnett spoke. “Is this considered low security?”

“No. Low security is packed full. This is level one security. Believe me, it could be a lot worse. You’ll live through it.” He left.

Dinner was served at five sharp. Each man received a heavy, plastic tray with molded compartments for each entre, the same trays used in the Bull Pen. David's dinner consisted of a hot dog with no bun, watery scalloped potatoes, a small serving of peas, stale chocolate cake and a carton of warm milk, all placed directly on the tray, which had an odd, chemical odor. There was a plastic fork and spoon, no knife, no dishes. 

Jacobs was right, thought David.The food may be the worst part. It’s barely edible. Everything has a strange taste. Probably from being heated in the these old trays soaked with disinfectant. It reminded him of his Veteran's Hospital rotation during medical school. Food at the VA was critically bad. This is worse.

To his amazement, his cell mates seemed to love the cuisine. They scarfed it down. A young black guy across the table, watched Barnett pick at his dinner, take a few small bites and stop.

“Hey man, ain’t you gonna eat that?”

“No, not hungry.”

“I’ll take it if you don’t want it.”

The guy next to him grabbed the edge of Barnett's tray. “You gotta split it with me. I’m starvin.”

David slid his tray across the table and the pair dug in. 

After dinner, a card game resumed. The earsplitting noise from the television, along with banter and laughter from the card game reverberated around the room. Barnett was beside himself, disgusted with all the racket. He walked to the television and turned it down. 

Frankie, a young, scrawny guy, the only other white in the room, yelled out. "Hey man, what you doin’?”  

David didn’t respond. Louis, a huge black guy, six feet plus, gleaming coal-black face, brilliant white teeth, biceps buldging through his suit, came to Barnett's defense. “Leave the old man alone. We’re playin’ cards here. Don’t need no fuckin’ television.”

Barnett smiled to acknowledge the man’s support, and returned to his cell.

At eleven p.m., David's cell door slammed shut with a bang. The guard, who had pushed it shut, peaked through a small opening in the door to insure David was inside. A loud “clank” rang out as he slid a heavy steel bar across the door. Moments later, the lights went out. David, exhausted from having had little sleep for nights, tossed around on his steel bunk with its cardboard like mat, trying desperately to find a comfortable position, using one arm as a pillow.

A screeching buzzer sounded. Barnett, shot upright in bed. The noise came from a box on the ceiling. A moment later someone yelled, “Breakfast.”

The cell door swung open wide. No one was there. David slowly rose from his bed. Wow, I can't believe it, I slept like a log. The clock in the common area read six-ten a.m. David’s cell mates were already lined up to receive their trays. Breakfast was no better than dinner, possibly worse. It’s gonna be a long day. He ate a little and returned to his cell.

Lying on his mat, he considered the potential consequences of his arrest. It's Sunday, I’ll have Peggy pick me up tomorrow when I leave court. I’m scheduled for hospital rounds in the morning. If I’m back early enough, my partners won’t notice a thing. With a little luck, I can pull this off, keeping it from my partners and everyone else. 

Lunch arrived at noon. Barnett gave his entire tray to the card players. By mid-afternoon, incredibly bored and lonely, he decided to join the others at a table. They looked surprised when he sat down. In all, there were six men: David, Louis, Frankie, James, Markus and Chico.

The Hispanic, Chico, was sitting at the far end of the table. He had a shaved head, deep black goatee and an earring. His jumpsuit was wide open, showing tufts of curly black hair and a blood red tatoo of MEXICO across his chest. Chico was short, stocky and muscular. 

David sensed the Mexican's domination over the two younger men sitting by him: James, a teenage black, and the white boy, Frankie. Markus, a middle age black, seemed to ignore everyone. Louis, the huge black man, was not the least intimated by Chico; he was not to be intimidated by anyone.  

Chico spoke at Barnett with an antagonistic growl. “What you doin’ in here man? I seen you come in here wearin’ a suit, lookin' important. You look like a business guy, an attorney or doctor. You think you special?”  

David, totallly caught off guard, became nervous--even a bit frightened. "No, I'm not special, but I am a doctor.”

The young black, James, started laughing. “Shit, you a doctor?  What the fuck a doctor doin’ in here. What you do?”

Before David could respond, Frankie, interjected, “Fuckin’ doctor, no shit?  I can’t believe I’m in the place with an M fuckin' D. What the fuck?”

David finally spoke. “It’s a long story. My wife. . . .” 

Chico, interrupted. “I knew it. It’s always the bitch!  Fuckin’ bitches. They can really fuck you up. You know that?”

Barnett, only mildly surprised by the language, responded. “I never knew that before, but I think I’m learning.”

“Damn right you learnin’. You learnin’ the hard way, mister doctor."

Louis, the big man who defended David with the television incident, joined in. “That be right, Doc. I got slammed by my old lady. She called the man, and the man sent me here.”

James added, “See what we be sayin’, Doc. Always the bitch. Fuck ‘em all.” Then he asked, “Hey, Doc. How old you?”

Barnett smiled. “I’m thirty-eight.”

“Thirty-eight! You an old man to be in the dog pound. First time?”

"First time--hopefully the last.”

“Don’t count on it, Doc. This my third visit to the Toledo Hilton. We all be in here before.”

Louis added, “He’s right. You best be careful. Those bitches like to send you back.”

Markus, appearing to be the oldest, perhaps early thirties, was tall and thin with light skin tone, a clean shaven face and short cropped hair. "You home boys don’t know shit. Don’t you be tryin’ to tell the doc his business. Ya’ know what I’m sayin’? Leave the man alone!”

David nodded with graditude. Chico gave Markus an angry stare. Barnett noticed a copy of a Grisham novel on the Markus' lap. He must have gotten it from the jail library, thought David. Seems to be the most intelligent of the group. Markus stood and moved to the other table to read. 

David continued. “I understand how you all feel, but my wife’s not that bad. She’s been good to me most of the time. We’ve been married close to twenty years.”

The entire group groaned in unison. James shouted. “Twenty years! You a crazy man. You a sucker. Dem women is all alike. You betta’ believe it.” 

David paused and changed the subject. “Listen, I hope you all get out of here soon. Hope you all make this your last stay at the Hilton.”

Louis yawned. "Don't count it. Most of us be back. Just the way it is, ya know?" He pushed his chair back. "I gotta catch some sleep." Louis retired to his cell, leaving Chico, James, Frankie and Barnett at the table.

Barnett felt a hard stare from the Mexican. This guy's got a gigantic chip on his shoulder.

After sitting through five minutes of inane conversation, David had an urge to leave. "I think I'll try to get some sleep, too." He stood and walked toward his cell.

James shouted, “Shit, Doc. What you sayin'? You can't get no sleep on that torture rack?”

Barnett answered without turning. “Torture rack. That’s a good description. I’ll see ya  later.”

Frankie yelled out, “You be cool, Doc. Be cool.”

As David reached his cell door he heard a terse call from the table. Chico yelled, "Hey, white boy. You too good for the rest of us. That why you leavin? Cause you a doctor?"

Barnett froze, slowly turned, walked back to the table and sat down. "Excuse me!"

"You heard me, man. You think you better than us, don't you?" Chico shot Barnett with a piercing, dark eyed stare.

David looked away as a surge of adrenalin seized his body. Having been in more than a few fist fights on the streets of Detroit, he had long ago found that backing down always left him feeling worthless. Over the years of his youth he learned that he must either show strength in these situations or suffer through painful embarrassment. Threats from big mouth hoods in high school had taught him to defend himself. Backing down was not an option. If you walked away you were left with sickening humilation and shame. Standing you're ground was the only way out.

"You gonna answer me, gringo?"

With muscles tensed, mind racing, adrenalin doing its thing, Barnett returned Chico's stare, remained silent and clenched his jaw, making his facial muscles bulge.

"What you starin' at, boy? You pussy doctor."

Barnett had a dangerously low tolerance for bullies--bullies being one who embarrassed or humiliated him or anyone, even a complete stranger, in public. He knew, when his emotions peaked past threshold, there was no turning back. At that point it became impossible for him to stop. He went on auto pilot.

David's rage was rising. That asshole better not say another word. His thoughts went back to nineteen-seventy-two, when he was in the sixth grade----------Hey Barnett, you egg head. You gonna blush for us now. Hey everybody, David's turnin red---look at him--he's a little sissy. Turn on the juice, turn on the juice--let's all sing before teacher get's back---turn on the juice, make like a hot cake, turn on the juice--look at his face--he looks like a tomato--turn on the juice, turn on the juice, turn on the ju. . . .

Chico laughed. "You gonna say something? You a coward, gringo?"

The dam broke. James and Frankie lurched back as David flew from his seat to the table top. Before Chico could react, Barnett's heel slammed into his tatooed chest, delivering a crushing blow. The Mexican flipped backward, chair and all. David leaped from the table--his knees pinning the bully's arms. Chico was gasping for air as David's right hand went for his windpipe. He knew exactly where to squeeze, the cricothyroid cartilage---his Adam's Apple.

The pressure on Chico's windpipe produced paralyzing pain. He was immobile, totally incapacitated.

Barnett felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, a second later he was yanked to his feet. Louis' shiney black face was staring down at him. Chico remained on the floor, sucking air and gurgling as he rubbed his throat.

"What the hell you doin', Doc. You gonna get yerself in a lotta trouble."

Chico struggled to his feet. "I'm gettin' the fuckin' guard right now. You're white ass is history, doctor."

Louis stepped forward and grabbed Chico's shoulder with a massive hand. "You ain't tellin no one 'bout this. You deserved what you got. I heard what you was sayin'. Heard from my cell. You tell anyone 'bout this and I'll kick your spic ass into next week! You got that?"

Chico grabbed his chair and drug it over to the television. He watched TV, not saying another word.

Louis and David walked away from the table. Frankie and James were whispering to eachother.

"You see that, Frankie? The doc is a bad ass."

"You got that right. That man freaked me out! I never seen nothin like it. One bad ass fucker, he is."

Louis was consoling Barnett. "Don't worry 'bout this. That Mexican is all talk. I be watchin' him. He aint tellin' no one nothin."

"Thanks. I'm glad you came to my rescue."

"You're rescue? I'd be thinkin' I came to that asshole Chico's rescue. Where'd ya learn to fight like that?"

"I've been around, Louis. Had some rough times when I was a kid."

"You must have. I shore wouldn't wanna tangle with ya."

Barnett smiled. "Yeah, right. I'd never be so dumb as to mess with a guy like you. I know my limits." 

Louis chuckled. "You be cool now, Doc. Best you stay away from the Chico. Might wanna stay in your cell for rest of the day."

"Sounds like a good idea. Thanks, Louis."

Barnett awoke to the same screeching buzzer at six a.m., Monday morning. After breakfast, he, James, and Chico were taken to a holding area on the first floor. They were to be transferred to the Municipal Court of Sylvania. The remaining men would be arraigned in Toledo or Lucas County courts.
 
A guard placed David and his cell mates in a small, steel-barred holding room crammed with more men in orange jump suits. All had to stand straight, packed into the elevator sized chamber. Chico found a place in the corner of the cell. He was staring at Barnett. David ignored him. James peered around at faces and noticed an old friend. 

“Lavon, you back again?”

“Hey, what ya’ doin’, James. What you in for this time?”

James grinned. "Shit, I didn't do nothin but tap my old lady with a baseball bat."

Lavon laughed. "Yeah, it bet ya just tapped her! You a crazy dude--you know that?"

"Oh Yeah--what you do this time, Lavon? Y'all crazier than I am."

"I got what they be callin' assault with a deadly weapon. My attorney says...." 

James, not the least surprised by his friends serious charge, interrupted, "Lavon, where you be stayin?”

“I got a crib on the south side, off Broadway. I be stayin’ with Yolanda. You ‘member Yolanda?”

“Hell yes.You still wit her? What’s wrong with you, nigger? She be a crazy bitch.”

“You got that right. No more her for me, man. The girl is history. Know what I’m sayin’? She  the reason I be here right now.” 

“How that be?"

"Me and Yolanda be driven down I-75 toward Dayton.

"Dayton? What you be doin' down there?"

"Goin' to see some my homey's, my boys with the connections. So, I see this nice ride by side of the road. It down there by that moon man city. Ya know the man--the city be wopawopa somethin'.?" 

James laughed. "Lavon you are one dumb nigger, you know that. The man's name be Neil Armstrong and that city be Wapakoneta."

The insult slid right over Lavon's head. Yolanda tell me she likes that ride and she tell me to stop. So, I stop to help this white boy change his tire. Know what I'm sayin'?"

"Yea, I know what you be sayin' you fool. So what happen?"

"The police tell me the man with the car in some hospital in Dayton. He be in bad shape.
"If he be in Dayton, why you up here?" asked James

"They transfer me. Say Toledo got some standin' warrant for my black ass."

“What you do down there, Lavon? You crazy man."