Day 9: Writing in Arabic, Public Defender’s Office, and a New “Celly”

by Brian A. Wilkins

This day corresponds with Wednesday, July 30, 2008.

“Misquez?!” a voice on the intercom said.”Roll up!” That is the term used for when they either move you to a different cell block or when you are going home. Mario removed the sheet from his mattress and wrapped it around his towel. “Man when you get out of here on Friday, call me…we’re having that burrito,” he said. As we shook hands and embraced, the door opened to let him out. That would be the last time I ever saw or spoke to him.

I moved all my “belongings” to the bottom bunk and just laid there staring at all the “graffiti” on the top bunk frame. Mario wrote “Mario Love Marni” and several other people signed their names and the dates they were in there. I couldn’t help but notice it was at least 10 degrees warmer on the bottom bunk and I no longer had to endure the pain of climbing up to the top with my broken hand. But reading that police report, over and over again, was all I could do. I started marking it all up, highlighting the sheer ridiculousness and commenting in the “margins” as if I were correcting a term paper. The alleged “victim,” throughout the first few pages continually states things like “I don’t remember what happened because I’m too drunk” but somehow remembered all this other bullshit he and his alleged “witness” conjured up. I couldn’t decide which was more surreal; the content of