Voice was calling for a guard. The punk with my jacket did not put it on. The cell

swallowed it.

My face throbbed, but there was no blood. If I received no further injuries as an inmate, I

would consider myself lucky. A comrade down the hall yelled something about trying to

sleep, and I began to ponder what the night might bring. Six inmates, two very narrow

beds. Were we expected to sleep on the floor, with no blanket and pillow?

The floor was getting cold, and as I sat on it I glanced at my cellmates and speculated as

to what crimes they had committed. I, of course, had borrowed a file with every intention

of returning it. Yet there I was, low man on the pole among drug dealers, car thieves,

rapists, probably even murderers.

I wasn't hungry, but I thought about food. I had no toothbrush. I didn't need the toilet, but

what would happen when I did? Where was the drinking water? The basics became

crucial.

"Nice shoes," a voice said, startling me. I looked up to see another one of them standing

above me. He wore dirty white socks, no shoes, and his feet were several inches longer

than mine.

"Thanks," I said. The shoes in question were old Nike cross-trainers. They were not

basketball shoes, and should not have appealed to my cellmate. For once, I wished I'd

been wearing the tasseled loafers from my previous career.

"What size?" he asked.

"Tens."

The punk who took my jacket walked closer; the message was given and received.

"Same size I wear," the first one said.

"Would you like to have these?" I said. I immediately began unlacing them. "Here, I

would like to present you with a gift of my shoes." I quickly kicked them off, and he took

them.

What about my jeans and underwear? I wanted to ask.

My bail was ten thousand dollars. Mordecai was waiting with the bondsman. I paid him a

thousand in cash, and signed the paperwork. Coffey brought my shoes and blazer, and my

Incarceration was over. Sofia waited outside with her car, and they whisked me away.

* * *

Mordecai finally broke through around 7 P.M. Coffey fetched me from the cell, and as

we made our way toward the front, he asked, "Where are your shoes?"

"In the cell," I said. "They were taken."

"I'll get them."

"Thanks. I had a navy blazer too."

He looked at the left side of my face where the corner of my eye was beginning to swell.

"Are you okay?"

"Wonderful. I'm free."

________________________________________________________________

Twenty-seven

Strictly in physical terms, I was paying a price for my journey from the tower to the street.

The bruises from the car wreck were almost gone, but the soreness in the muscles and

joints would take weeks. I was losing weight, for two reasons--I couldn't afford the

restaurants I'd once taken for granted; and I'd lost interest in food. My back ached from

sleeping on the floor in a sleeping bag, a practice I was determined to pursue in an effort

to see if it would ever become tolerable. I had my doubts.

And then a street punk almost cracked my skull with his bare foot. I iced it until late, and

every time I awoke during the night it seemed to be expanding.

But I felt lucky to be alive, lucky to be in one piece after descending into hell for a few

hours before being rescued. The fear of the unknown had been removed, at least for the

present. There were no cops lurking in the shadows.

Grand larceny was nothing to laugh at, especially since I was guilty. The maximum was

ten years in prison. I would worry about it later.