They say everything happens for a reason.
I’ve always believed that to be true, even though it sounds a tad ecumenical for an agnostic sort like me.
I guess the “why” of what happened to me from the very moment I set my foot upon U.S. soil on February 2nd, 2015, until February 23rd, could be explained from several different vantage points…
I deserved it (and believe me there are many out there who would choose that one)…
It was meant to be (a more positive way to spin it)…
or, I’ve been bitten by that proverbial snake of outrageously misfortunate venom…
But, here’s the thing…
The “why” is inconsequential compared to the “what” I learned from the experience, so I refuse to address matters of why in this blog…it’s simply not the place for that…
I woke up early this morning and posted the following to my Facebook wall. It perhaps sheds a little light on my motivations for writing about all this (forgive me for the rambling length of the following sentence, but, like I said, it was a Facebook comment)…
for “the record”, which FB wall posts and comments have now become an integral part of, I need to say, clearly, since what I say is judged by some in the most negative light possible, that when I commented above that the why is “inconsequential”, I didn’t mean to imply that I haven’t made decisions in my life that led to this event, but only that what I will emphasize in my writing about it is not “why” it happened, since doing that, although it could be cathartic, would not be impactful, but about my opinion, which has been solidified in many ways by this event, that there are two vastly different American experiences and that there’s a growing minority that lacks the economic means to pursue happiness on terms acceptable to the majority of those who do…and it seems incarceration is all too often our capitalistic society’s answer to that dilemma…
This morning I thought I’d start this hopefully captivating series of observations from my three weeks in captivity in LA County Jail with a blow by blow chronological account of the event…
as I know there are many out there desiring to hear the sordid details…
February 2 – 4: I had an early morning flight out of San Jose, Costa Rica. My wife and I had decided to move to the States to improve our position in life economically and this was the day for that plan to be set in motion. I boarded the flight with three bags containing all the belongings I desired to take with me from my decade long Costa Rica experience.
I was bound for Portland, Oregon, the place we’d decided to call home for awhile, but had a layover in LAX. The flight was delightful with clear weather the entire route and I snapped many photos from my window seat of the vast expanse of Mexico as it passed 39,000 feet below the fuselage.
I was surprised to learn when I entered customs and immigration that you were required to scan your passport through a computer prior to engaging with a live agent. When I did so I didn’t notice that the printout contained a large X.
After a few moments staring into the screen, the agent informed me of shocking news. I had an outstanding warrant for my arrest…and arrested I was…on the spot…like some highly sought after international terrorist.
They handcuffed me to a metal bench while the agents sorted things out. The warrant was issued from South Carolina, on a “family matter.” Upon learning that it immediately dawned upon me what was afoot. I was told that probably it was inconsequential and that I’d soon be released and allowed to proceed to my connecting flight.
But it wasn’t inconsequential. South Carolina “wanted me.” It’s flattering to be so desired, but this is one time when I would’ve gladly embraced rejection. I was deeply concerned about many things at this point…the plan…my wife…my business…my stuff. The stuff was placed in storage and I was assured it would be there when and if this nightmare ended.
I was taken into custody by the infamous LAPD and led downtown, hands cuffed behind my back, for booking. Afterwards I was taken to the 77th Avenue “holding tank” where they hold arrestees for 72 hours until arraignment. I was given the ability to make the proverbial one phone call, but only local calls were allowed. Having never set foot in Los Angeles in my 54 years on this planet and having just left my beloved in Costa Rica, the privilege of a “local” call really didn’t help me much.
I was more than cooperative at every turn as the last thing I wanted to do was worsen my situation by copping an attitude. I gently expressed to an officer my concern about informing my poor wife of the rapidly unfolding situation. He told me not to worry as I would surely be released the next day if no one from South Carolina showed up to retrieve me.
They gave me a couple blankets and put me in a cell with several other arrestees. Everyone was sleeping and I climbed into the concrete slab of a bed, covered myself with the blankets and tried to do the same…at that point I wasn’t completely sure if what was unfolding was reality, or just a nightmare.
The next day did not bring release as informed. I remained in custody at 77th until the following day when I was chained to three of my fellow prisoners and transported by bus to court…for exactly what, I wasn’t sure, since I had done absolutely nothing in LA county that I could possibly be prosecuted for…at least not in this life.
Going to court was an experience in and of itself. I was put in a holding cell for hours with about 20 or so others. I’d befriended a couple of other “old dudes” who repeatedly assured me from their vast criminal justice experience that I’d be getting out of there shortly, since what they were holding me for was relatively minor in the overall scheme of things.
They were wrong. A court appointed attorney finally showed up and informed me that I needed to sign a “waiver” (of my rights to fight extradition) that would give South Carolina thirty days to come and get me. If they failed to do so, only then would I be released.
That didn’t appeal to me, so I asked for an alternative option. She informed me that I could “time waive” the matter for two days. I decided to do that as I optimistically believed I could resolve the matter with a phone call.
With that decision I would become inmate 4226104 in LA County Jail.
I’d sparked a conversation with a Nicaraguan dude named Mario who was also headed over to “county” with me. He’d been in and out of there a number of times and reassured me that I’d be OK. He gave me some pointers, like to make sure I asked for shoes one size larger than what I normally wore.
The process of getting booked into LA County Jail lasted throughout the night. I was issued my “county blues” and finally, after about 10 hours of waiting in one holding pen after another, given a bed in the medical tower. I had to be medically cleared before being moved to “permanent” housing due to the minor heart condition that I informed them that I took medication for.
I passed the first night in county in a cell with one other inmate. They kept the bright fluorescent lights on throughout the night and every hour upon the hour, an officer would pass by and tap on the window to make sure that neither I, nor my cellmate, had passed in our slumber.
February 5 – 6: The following day I awoke to “count.” This was a process that I would become all too familiar with over the coming days and weeks.
The medical tower “pod” housed me along with another 60 or so inmates. I quickly noticed that only about 10% of those were Caucasian, with the rest divided evenly between African-American and Latino. That was a ratio that held constant throughout my stay in County.
Later that day I did get to see the doctor and was informed that I’d be given my medications shortly. They never showed. While I sat waiting to see the doctor they brought in an inmate who’d been placed on suicide watch. I learned that the last thing you wanted to do was admit to such inclinations, as they would strip you naked, clothe you in nothing but a “horse-blanket”, and place you in solitary confinement. The poor guy seemed panicky and scared. He was Latino and I tried to spark a conversation with him in Spanish to help take his mind off his troubles. I wanted to tell the nurses that they really should attend to him in some way, but decided in my own self-interest that it probably wouldn’t be the best idea. In fact, I learned that talking with guards, nurses, or anyone else who wasn’t a fellow inmate, for any reason, wasn’t a very good idea.
The medical pod did have a few phones that allowed collect calls and I was finally able to reach someone on the outside. I got word to my wife about what had transpired and talked with others in hopes of finding some resolution to my dilemma.
Early in the morning on February 6th, perhaps around 1:00 or 2:00 PM (I can’t be sure because they purposefully refuse to allow inmates to ever be cognizant of the time) I was awoken and told to “roll it up.”
I was marched to a holding tank that already contained a multitude of groggy inmates. I was soon to learn that this was a regular procedure at LA County Jail. After several hours the tank was emptied and we were all marched, shoulders against the right-side wall, to Tower 2. What happened next was one of the most degrading episodes of my life to that point…I was strip searched. There were a number of officers who managed this search and I wasn’t sure whether it actually served some useful purpose, or whether they were simply trying to make our lives a bit more miserable.
After the search we were given bunks in A-Pod 272, another holding tank that housed around 90 inmates, packed in like sardines.
Early in the morning on February 6th I was called to court, once again chained to three other inmates and transported on the bus.
I passed the day in court in optimistic hope that my phone call had worked and that I’d be released that day. The same attorney returned and gave me similarly sad news. I resolved to fight and told her that I would not sign that damn paper and to put it off again through the weekend, when I’d return Monday and achieve my victory. She shook her head and reluctantly agreed, as she just wanted a signature on the waiver so she could be done with me. I noticed that most of the court appointed attorneys for other inmates had similar non-zealous attitudes about their clients’ cases. I saw one of them nonchalantly inform his young Latino client that he was facing his “third strike”, which meant life in prison. The young gang member looked at me with panicked eyes and asked what I thought he should do. “Man, get another lawyer”, was the only reply I could muster.
February 7 – 9: After court I went back to A-pod 272 and found to my delight that it was completely empty. I asked for a “fish-kit”, containing shampoo, soap and deodorant, as I really needed a shower. Later that evening the cell was filled to the brim with other inmates returning late from court.
A-pod 272 is a transfer tank and generally inmates are held there a couple days at most. Since I had court again on Monday, I was there for the weekend. I befriended a couple other inmates, one a young fellow named Justin from Baton Rouge, and the other a slightly older than me white-haired character from Virginia named Casey. They both were sympathetic to my plight. Casey took it upon himself to don me “Carolina”, as he constantly liked to tease me about the long bus ride across the country I’d soon endure. He was just kidding around as he confided to me on more than one occasion that according to his extensive incarceration experience, hell would certainly freeze over before South Carolina would transport me across the country for the trouble that I was in.
I made a call on Sunday that I thought for sure would gain my release the next day. So early Monday morning on February 9th off to court I went for the third time. Once more, I was overly optimistic. I succumbed to my fate and signed the damn waiver Ms. Griffith kept waiving in my face. That started the clock for South Carolina to carry out the decision to extradite me, or not. They had until February 23rd, with a ten day extension.
I came back to an empty A pod 272 once again, but the pleasure was short-lived as a few hours later I was on a bus for the hour-long trip to Wayside, also known as SuperMax.
February 10 – 15: After being transported from one holding tank to another for a week, I was finally taken to “permanent” housing in Dorm 611, SuperMax. I finally got to see exactly what all the talk about prison “politics” was about.
When I entered the dorm the rep for the “woods” addressed me and the one other newly arrived white guy about dorm rules and politics. You see every dorm is divided racially. There are 3 groups…the brothers and others, consisting of African-Americans, Southeast Asians, and Indians, the southsiders and paisas, who were the Latinos and then woods (as in “peckerwood”), or white guys. Rules consisted of things like where you could relieve yourself and where you were forbidden to do so, where you could eat, or sit, or shower, or what phone you could use, clean up duties, exercise requirements and the like. I was told that when I heard the word “radio”, I was to shut up and pay attention. The penalty for non-compliance? Well, I did see one young “brother” get disciplined for rules breaking of some sort. I quickly decided that while such racial division is diametrically opposed in every conceivable way to my world view, I’d better comply to the letter.
The days in Dorm 611 were divided by the 4 counts we had to endure each day. For each count you had to be fully dressed in county blues, on your bunk, either sitting up or lying down with head at the foot. We were constantly reminded by our reps not to be the reason for causing the entire dorm privilege denials due to someone not being fully prepared for count.
They do feed you regularly and fairly well in prison. They continually checked my blood pressure and even took a blood sample. I was finally given my meds. I’ll have to say, if one can keep his mind right, staying healthy in prison perhaps in some ways is easier than it is on the outside, with the myriad of temptations out there that are nonexistent in jail.
I met quite a few characters while in Dorm 611. There was a young heroin addict named Kirby who had a dark sense of humour and thought my situation for being there to be particularly amusing. There was “bad Grandpa”, who in his mid-sixties was the oldest guy in the dorm (I was actually the second). Bad Grandpa looked considerably older than he was. He was a very experienced inmate who regaled us with his outlaw tales. There was our tall “wood” rep who we called “Bluedog.” He was fond of writing love songs to female companions on the outside and then serenading us with them in his Jason Miraz-like voice. About half-way into my stay my old A-pod buddy Casey even showed up. All in all, my time at Wayside was perhaps the best of my days in jail. I spent them voraciously reading and actually finished books in record times that I’d before never been able to accomplish.
I went to bed on Sunday, February 15th around 9:30, but was awoken from a dead sleep by Kirby. “Carolina, Carolina, get up man, you’re going home”, said Kirby. I replied groggily. “Yea man, they just called you, you’re going home.”
I rolled up my stuff and asked the guards what I was being called out for. No one knew for sure, although they did comment that release was one possibility.
As I was led down the hallway to the jail exit I saw an officer, dressed in full SWAT gear, running in the opposite direction and carrying what looked like a bazooka. The officer that had come to retrieve me informed me that a fight had broken out in one of the dorms on the 600 block. When I’d left it had been completely peaceful in Dorm 611, but I was thankful that I potentially got out of there just before a riot, complete with teargas and who knows what else.
I was transported back downtown, hands handcuffed behind my back for the entire hour long ride. Another fellow was being transported at the same time, but in an ambulance, as he’d been involved in the melee and had received a razor cut across the face.
Once we arrived back at Old County I was placed in a holding tank and kept there about 10 hours. It was crowded, there was no room to lay down, so I just sat and waited. Finally I was retrieved and led to Dorm 507, the so-called “Old Man’s Dorm” that I’d been told about. Once again, I was greeted by the wood rep and informed of the rules. However, I found out that the politics were much more relaxed in this dorm than it had been in 611 at Wayside.
Since I’d been led to believe that I was enduring another mid-night transfer in order to be released, it was a great let down to find out I was simply being re-housed. You might be asking yourself why do they keep transferring inmates from here to there and back again. That’d be an awfully good question. I don’t know the answer for sure, but I was told by many that there was an economic incentive involved.
February 16 – 18: My days in the Old Man’s Dorm were uneventful. I kept to myself and read. At this point I began to get the feeling that perhaps I was trapped in a never-ending nightmare. Would I ever see the light of day again? I wasn’t sure.
It did make some sense to transfer me all the way back to the downtown jail, since if South Carolina was coming to get me, I’d have to released and retrieved from there.
February 19: Sure enough that occurred early Thursday morning on the 19th. The wood rep woke me up around 4:30 am and told me to roll it up as I was being released. What? Released? As good as that sounded it was to be a release “in custody”, meaning the answer had finally arrived…I was actually being extradited to South Carolina.
Guess where they took me? Of course, to another holding tank…the “extradition” tank. I was the first one in there. Later some others came in. I asked where they were headed…some said Texas, others Florida. One Indian guy had succumbed to an eerily identical fate as I’d experienced back on the 2nd. He’d been living in Latin American as well and had first learned of a warrant upon reentering the U.S.
I looked across the hall to the tank directly in front and there were a bunch of inmates in there…including my buddy Casey! He made hand gestures to ask if I was off to Carolina. I nodded in the affirmative. He shook his head in disbelief.
At that point I had no idea what to expect. Would they take me by bus, which would encompass a painful weeklong trip, or by plane? And what would become of all my possessions, which I trusted were still in storage at LAX? At that point I’d begun to expect the worst.
I got my answer around 9:30 am. The extradition agent showed up and informed me I’d be flying back. I asked him if we could make sure that my stuff would be on the same flight. He told me he could make no promises, but would do what he could.
I was handcuffed and led to the airport. I wore a jacket with my hands in the pockets and extended out through holes cut in them…the handcuffs were thereby concealed so as not to “scare the old ladies.”
I was fortunate to have Charles as my extradition agent. He did indeed make sure that my luggage made it onto the flight. He also let me have one hand-free the entire time, which helped with matters such as eating and drinking my first cup of hot coffee in 2.5 weeks.
We finally arrived at Myrtle Beach airport around 10:30 Thursday evening. I’d carried on my backpack with my computer, so I entered J. Rueben Long Detention Center with only that in tow. The rest of my stuff we just left on the turnstile. Charles reassured me not to worry and that the airport would store it until someone could be sent to pick it up.
I spent that night in another holding tank, but this time in a different jail…in Horry County, South Carolina.
February 20 – 23: The four nights I spent in the Horry County jail had a different tone. I was now in the place that actually had jurisdiction to dispose of my case…which could mean disposing of me…for anywhere from 30 days to a year.
I went to court early in the morning on February 20th. I was already given my orange county jumpsuit. While I always went to court in LA in my county blues, but un-cuffed, in Horry County, they lead you into court in hand and ankle cuffs…ala the chain gang on Old Brother Where Art Thou…it’s a humbling experience.
I told the judge my view of the situation. He wasn’t that sympathetic. Luckily I’d made a phone call early that morning that helped me. The judge put the whole case off until Monday when others would be in court who were pertinent to resolving my issues.
So, I spent that weekend in J. Rueben Long. I don’t have a lot to say about it. It wasn’t pleasant, but after a few calls I could finally catch a glimpse of light at the end of the tunnel. That helped get me through it.
Early Monday I went to court for the last time. I was able to resolve the issue, with the help of my father, and was finally released.
As I exited the jail in the freezing cold with my father waiting in the car outside, I can tell you for sure that freedom had never felt so cherished.
I will be writing in the coming days about specific observations and impacts stemming from those fateful three weeks that spanned February 2 to 23.
My purpose in doing so will not be about me, or the situation that led me to custody, but to hopefully shed some light on this perplexing situation of mass incarceration of poor people in our supposedly free country.
