by Brian A. Wilkins
This day corresponds with Tuesday, August 12.
I was only awake for three hours today, and not much went on. A guy, who will have to remain anonymous, came into the cell and woke me up around 2pm. “Hey, you know how you like to sleep?” he asked me. I looked at him like he was crazy since I had no idea where he was going with that. “I got some ‘somas’. 3 items for each pill,” he said. I’m not sure exactly what brand, but they were definitely sleeping pills, given to him by Maricopa County medical staff. It seemed Prozac and sleeping pills were in every cell. I knew at least five guys who were not only taking Prozac prescribed by Maricopa medical, but also selling them. Crushing them up and snorting it was apparently the method du jour. Though I never actually saw it done.
The only realistic shot I have at getting out of here is posting the $54,000 bond. And the only realistic shot I have at that was trying to get ahold of the one or two people I thought would have money like that lying around. I just didn’t know anybody’s phone number by heart and it was so difficult to make collect calls out on a jail phone. I could probably pool a few people together to cover the remainder of the 10-percent, $5,400 I’d have to give a bondsman. Let’s face reality…that’s just not going to happen. I would somehow have to coordinate 5 or 6 people in at least three different states; in 10 minute increments, as that’s as long as one call can be; that is, of course, after I explain to them how to take jail-collect-calls from their cell phones. And lastly, all their phone numbers are on my cell phone, which the Maricopa County Jail has, and which they refuse to release to a friend I tried to get it too.
I tried calling the public defender’s office again, and was told even more bad news. “There is no lawyer assigned to your case,” the receptionist said. I repeated his name to her and reminded her this guy spoke to me on July 29, at that status conference. “You are being assigned a trial attorney. It can take up to three weeks,” she said. I hung up the phone, accepting the fact my name would be “P442993” for the foreseeable future.
When I hung up the phone and started walking towards the cell, a commotion from the cellblock entrance quieted the place down like I’d never heard before. “Get the fuck away from me, fatboy!” Hardy yelled at one of the D.O.’s. “They ain’t got nothin’ on me! They ain’t got nothing on me!” he said, in the general direction of where several “kinfolks” were standing. “Down on your knees or you’re getting Tazed!” a male guard said. I would never see Hardy again. He was in court yesterday as well, and must have gotten some bad news himself. His spirits were high at court, as it was like a childhood reunion for him at the 4th Avenue Jail/Courthouse. He seemed to know everybody in there. He’s also the guy who was charged with three counts of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, with a $10,000 bond. He had boasted about his “people” bailing him out for a few days after his arrival, but they never showed up…or never existed.
I just never pictured my life ending this way. I wonder what’s going to happen with the Presidential Election? It’s too bad I probably won’t live to see it. I made a couple phone calls today, but they were “relay” calls…you know, tell him to tell her to tell him to call him, etc. I’ve been in this place for three weeks. I should be in bed right now, possibly with company, getting ready to go to work in the morning. I should be planning a trip to Denver for the Democratic National Convention. And if gas prices drop a little, to Minneapolis for the GOP Convention. And a possible trip back to Iowa for the Cyclones/Hawkeyes game. But with no lawyer (as if I had one before), no money, and ridiculous malice going on from Tempe to LBJ, I have to face the fact I will not get out of here alive.