by Brian A. WIlkins
This day corresponds with Thursday, August 7
“Wilkins…go to medical!” they yelled through the intercom. It was no later than 7 a.m. since the doors had just opened and I had just taken a shower. What the hell do these people want with me? I did not request any medical ANYTHING, and I had no desire to deal with the charade altogether.
“Get in!” this G.I. Joe-wannabe, buzz-cut, steroid-shooting guard said. Of course I was put in one of those 15X15 tanks, and of course there were at least 12-15 coughing, sneezing, bleeding, “wigging-out because he didn’t have his meds” other people in there. This guy who looked like he’d never used a toothbrush in his life, was also of course, taking his morning dump, making the room smell of intense B.O. and shit. There was no toilet paper and the guard kept ignoring the guy when he asked for it. “Well, gotta do what you gotta do,” he said, before removing his boxers completely and using them as toilet paper…then put them back on!
After nearly three hours of standing completely still, listening to B.S. stories about “the yard” (prison outdoors) and county jail rules, the guard finally opened the door and said I could “proceed to medical.” When I walked in there and sat down, I told them I did not request anything and I did not want or need anything from them. “We have to give you a few immunization shots,” the creepy-looking nurse said. I explained to her, as I did all the others who persisted in trying to convince me to let them stick needles in me that it’s not going to happen, but this time I told them they would have to kill me before I’d allow them to stick anything in me. After two guards stood close to me with their hands on their tasers, they seemed convinced that I would simply sit in “the hole,” as they continually threatened, and not be bothered. Eventually the nurse took my blood pressure and told me to return to my cell. Three hours of being exposed to god-knows-what in that holding tank for that? I at least hope that incident made their days.
I called a friend of mine who said he would write or call prosecutor Barbara Miller’s office and tell her what really happened on July 22. He said he informed her of the alleged “victim’s” criminal record, drug dealing, and the evidence on my phone and possibly on my laptop, and the police negligence. He told me the secretary who answered the phone sounded almost completely disinterested and that he basically wasted his time calling in the first place. This feeling of being in the desert with no water completely engulfed me as nobody (police, judges, lawyers, prosecutors) gave me a chance to say anything, and probably wouldn’t listen anyway.
Though I have no idea why, I called the public defender’s office again just to see if the guy would answer his phone. I just wanted to hear ANYTHING from ANYBODY about all I was going through. Even if the guy had answered (which of course he didn’t), I didn’t really have anything planned to say. To add insult to injury, the guy who answered the phone at the public defender’s office had to say, “I’d give you his secretary’s cell number, but you’re in jail”; as if I didn’t know this already.
I lied on the bunk most of the day, trying to fall asleep and hopefully have a good dream or two. Rodney came up after prayer circle asking why I wasn’t there. This led to a conversation on religion that would last until lockdown. I’ve always clowned people for, coincidentally or otherwise, “finding god” in jail or prison. Since it seemed all I really had left was my soul, I wasn’t going to all of a sudden change who I was and what I was because of this. I had to keep in mind; THEY WIN IF YOU CHANGE. Jesus, Mohammed, Jehovah, and others have been fixtures in literary works I’ve enjoyed reading, but never vital, spiritual guides. Even if I had a “god switch” I could toggle off and on, I wouldn’t use it as to avoid being the butt of my own convictions. And as another day passed without a visit or letter from “Anne,” all the praying I HAD been doing wasn’t working anyway.