by Brian A. Wilkins
This day corresponds with Wednesday, August 6. Most of the entries will become first-person, present-tense accounts from here on out. Also keep in mind, these blog entries are not the complete story. The time spent in Maricopa County Jail was actually 58 days. There are also details reserved for the book that I’m currently working on.
I’m happy to report my guy Walter Brown, was released from jail a while back (I think on December 17) after more than six months of incarceration. He received probation and promised me and more importantly, HIMSELF, he’d never touch crack-cocaine again; and I’m holding him to that. Remember, if this incident had happened to you only a year or so earlier, you would have gotten a federal mandatory minimum sentence for crack-cocaine possession/use. Wonder if we’ll ever know how many hundreds of thousands of “black” men who served 5-year prison sentences for non-violent possession charges? Gotta love our good ‘ol justice system. So Walt, if you read this, get ahold of me. I also left a message at the number you gave me the other day.
For the first time in over 40 hours, the doors finally opened around 2 pm and lockdown was over. I felt so disgusting, as I hadn’t showered in almost 3 days and had been wearing those same filthy clothes for more than 10 days now. I waited about 45 minutes to leave the cell to take a shower, since the lines were, predictably, really long.
I think visiting hours were over at 3pm, but I also think Wednesday were no-visit days. Nonetheless, “Anne” did not show up. I started to wonder whether or not she got my letter? Or maybe she did get it, read it, and figured “fuck this fool.” And if that’s the case, I would understand. We had been drifting apart anyway, and why would she want to settle for me; a statistic who is sitting in jail indefinitely? And it just feels like I’m never going to get out of here. It’s actually become pretty hard for me to imagine being free. This is the 16th day in here but seems like the 16th month. I try to sleep all day through all the noise and commotion, and sit up all night writing and staring at nothing. I just have a feeling I’m not going to get out of here on Monday. I just have a feeling the court date will be moved again or that worthless public defender will try his best to keep me in here. I tried calling the public defender’s office again; and AGAIN, left another message. The only chance I have is to get out of here and represent myself. It is becoming more and more clear that Maricopa County only has a public defender’s office because its required by federal law. I’ve been in jail for 16 days and spoke maybe 10 words to the “lawyer” assigned to me.
I’m thinking I should begin the process of somehow getting all my belongings moved out of my apartment and into storage. I can’t keep paying rent and not living in the place; especially with no income. I have maybe three months of emergency fund and its dwindling fast. Then if I do ever get out of here, I’d just disappear into the mountains, farm animals, grow my own crops, never to be seen or heard from again. Maybe meet some ex-meth-head chick who also wants to disappear and just make babies (that is if I wasn’t sterilized in here).
Rodney and I sat in the cell most of the night wondering how our lives could have been had we met before July. I’ve always been a loner because I was always working two jobs, studying, and writing/blogging. Rodney is like the little brother I never had and the presence in my life I’ve needed for a long time. We’re different in so many ways, but this messed up situation brought us closer than any friend I’ve met since high school. The situation he was in would not have happened had we known one another because I wouldn’t have allowed the circumstances to continue on the same path. My situation would have never happened because we would have been chillin’ and he wouldn’t have allowed me to be around scum like that criminal alleged “victim.”
When the night ended, I realized I hadn’t eaten anything or drank one drop of water all day. I ate my last bag of pork rinds and last danish, thinking I would never eat either of these things in normal life. I can’t even bring myself to write about what I’ll do when I get out of here because I can no longer picture walking out of here. It just seems so far-fetched. It feels like I’ve been sold into slavery and there’s nothing I can do about it. There was only one realistic way I could be set free from here and I started thinking seriously about it after this night. I just wish “Anne” would come see me.