I closed my eyes and tried to get comfortable, which I found impossible to do while

sitting on my hands.

* * *

The processing was a blur; surreal movements from one point to the next with Gasko

leading me like a lost puppy. Eyes on the floor, I kept telling myself. Don't look at these

people. Inventory first, everything from the pockets, sign a form. Down the dirty hall to

Photos, shoes off, up against the measuring tape, don't have to smile if you don't want to,

but please look at the camera. Then a profile. Then to Fingerprinting, which happened to

be busy, so Gasko handcuffed me like a mental patient to a chair in the hall while he went

to find coffee. Arrestees shuffled past, all in various stages of processing. Cops

everywhere. A white face, not a cop but a defendant much like myself--young, male,

handsome navy suit, obviously drunk with a bruise on his left cheek. How does one get

plastered before 5 P.M. on a Friday? He was loud and threatening, his words garbled and

harsh, and ignored by everyone I could see. Then he was gone. Time passed and I began

to panic. It was dark outside, the weekend had started, crime would begin and the jail

would get busier. Gasko came back, took me into Fingerprinting, and watched as

Poindexter efficiently applied the ink and stuck my fingers to the sheets.

No phone calls were needed. My lawyer was somewhere close by, though Gasko hadn't

seen him. The doors got heavier as we descended into the jail. We were going in the

wrong direction; the street was back behind us.

"Can't I make bail?" I finally asked. I saw bars ahead; bars over windows and busy

guards with guns. "I think your lawyer's working on it," Gasko said. He gave me to

Sergeant Coffey, who pushed me against a wall, kicked my legs apart, and frisked me as

If searching for a dime. Finding none, he pointed and grunted at a metal detector, which I

walked through, without offense. A buzzer, a door slid open, a hallway appeared, one

with rows of bars on both sides. A door clanged behind me, and my prayer for an easy

release vanished.

Hands and arms protruded through the bars, into the narrow hall. The men watched us as

we moved past. My gaze returned to my feet. Coffey looked into each cell; I thought he

was counting bodies. We stopped at the third one on the right.

My cellmates were black, all much younger than I was. I counted four at first, then saw a

fifth lying on the top bunk. There were two beds, for six people. The cell was a small

square with three walls of nothing but bars, so I could see the prisoners next door and

across the hall. The rear wall was cinder block with a small toilet in one corner.

Coffey slammed the door behind me. The guy on the top bunk sat up and swung his legs

over the side, so that they dangled near the face of a guy sitting on the bottom bunk. All

five glared at me as I stood by the door, trying to appear calm and unafraid, trying

desperately to find a place to sit on the floor so that I wouldn't be in danger of touching

any of my cellmates.

Thank God they had no weapons. Thank God someone installed the metal detector. They

had no guns and knives; I had no assets, other than clothing. My watch, wallet, cell phone,

cash--and everything else I had with me--had been taken and inventoried.

The front of the cell would be safer than the rear. I ignored their eyes and took my spot

on the floor, my back resting on the door. Down the hall, someone was yelling for a

guard.

A fight broke out two cells away, and through the bars and bunks I could see the drunk

guy with the white face and navy suit pinned in a corner by two large black men who

were pounding his head. Other voices encouraged them on and the entire wing grew

rowdy. It was not a good moment to be white.

A shrill whistle, a door opened, and Coffey was back, nightstick in hand. The fight ended

abruptly with the drunk on his stomach and still. Coffey went to the cell, and inquired as

to what happened. No one knew; no one had seen a thing.

"Keep it quiet!" he demanded, then left.

Minutes passed. The drunk began to groan; someone was vomiting in the distance. One

of my cellmates got to his feet, and walked to where I was sitting. His bare feet barely

touched my leg. I glanced up, then away. He glared down, and I knew this was the end.

"Nice jacket," he said.

"Thanks," I mumbled, trying not to sound sarcastic, or in any way provocative. The

jacket was a navy blazer, an old one that I wore every day with jeans and khakis--my

radical attire. It certainly wasn't worth being slaughtered over.

"Nice jacket," he said again, and he added a slight nudge with his foot. The guy on the

top bunk jumped down, and stepped closer for a better look.

"Thanks," I said again.

He was eighteen or nineteen, lean and tall, not an ounce of fat, probably a gang member

who'd spent his life on the streets. He was cocky and anxious to impress the others with

his bravado.

Mine would be the easiest ass he'd ever kicked.

"I don't have a jacket that nice," he said. A firmer nudge with his foot, one intended to

provoke.

Shouldn't be a low-life street punk, I thought. He couldn't steal it because there was no

place to run. "Would you like to borrow it?" I asked, without looking up.

"No."

I pulled my feet in so that my knees were close to my chin. It was a defensive position.

When he kicked or swung, I was not going to fight back. Any resistance would

immediately bring in the other four, and they would have a delightful time thrashing the

white boy.

"Dude says you got a nice jacket," said the one from the top bunk.

"And I said thanks."

"Dude says he ain't got no jacket that nice."

"So what am I supposed to do?" I asked.

"A gift would be appropriate."

A third one stepped forward and closed the semicircle around me. The first one kicked

my foot, and all inched closer. They were ready to pounce, each waiting for the other, so

I quickly removed my blazer and thrust it forward.

"Is this a gift?" the first one asked, taking it.

"It's whatever you want it to be," I said. I was looking down, sull avoiding eye contact;

thus, I didn't see his foot. It was a vicious kick that slapped my left temple and jerked my

head backward where it cracked against the bars. "Shit!" I yelled as I felt the back of my

head.

"You can have the damned thing," I said, bracing for the onslaught.

"Is it a gift?"

"Yes."

"Thanks, man."

"Don't mention it," I said, rubbing my face. My entire head was numb. They backed away,

leaving me curled in a tight ball. Minutes passed, though I had no concept of time. The

drunk white guy two doors down was making an effort to revive himself, and another