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  The middle table had girls yelling and laughing while playing cards, while two others were making up a dance routine at the top of the stairs. I glanced around in amazement at how these women were acting. It was as if either they had forgotten where they were—or they were very good at adapting. I really think a lot of these women loved the idea of not having any responsibility other than making their bed and exchanging their clothes on laundry day.

  It was fascinating and terrifying all at once. I tried to imagine myself being that carefree and having fun here, and it seemed impossible to me. I didn’t belong here. This wasn’t my idea of “fun.” I missed hot coffee, and sunshine and Taco Bell and watching Dr. Phil, and sleeping in a comfy bed. I missed freedom, and it hadn’t even been a week.

  Nine a.m. The fun is interrupted by guards barging in and ordering everyone back to their cells. It’s time for another lockdown so they can make sure no one escaped through a toilet bowl or the shower drain. Because literally those are the only two exits and they aren’t even physically possible. By day two, the fact that they had a hundred lockdowns a day started to really piss me off. We’re locked in the cells for another hour.

  Ten a.m. Lunchtime! Once again, the women spring out of their cells like wild animals the moment the doors click open. Last name, cell number, bologna sandwiches, assigned seats, fifteen minutes to eat—and then back in the cell for an hour for the “after lunch” count. Fuck, this was getting annoying.

  Eleven a.m. to three-thirty p.m. Free time. The moment the doors click open it’s like a stampede. The women literally trample each other to get to a phone. There are six phones and about a hundred women who want to call their loved ones, so you can imagine the drama that ensues the minute they are freed from their cages. This is the longest time between lockdowns, and the first time we’re permitted to use the phones. This was when I considered our “day” to really begin. There wasn’t much to do while stuck in one giant room with nothing but time, so people had to get creative. I spent the first two days napping and lying in bed. I was still detoxing, but it had gotten better.

  Three p.m. Lockdown, and another motherfucking count.

  Four p.m. Dinner. This is the last meal of the day, and by eight p.m., I’m always starving again. The best nights were corn dog nights. I noticed we got bread pudding and oranges every dinner, and often some kind of sloppy pasta. The only way to eat outside chow time is to purchase commissary. Our loved ones could put money on our accounts, enabling us to buy shampoo, conditioner, and snacks. My family hated me…so I was shit out of luck there.

  Four-thirty p.m. You guessed it, lockdown and count.

  Five-thirty p.m. to eight-thirty p.m. Free time. This was when things usually got wild. Women used jelly packets and instant coffee to make “whips.” You whip the jelly and coffee together until it forms this…goo. Then you dab a bit on the top of your hand and lick it off, over and over, until it’s gone. I shit you not, this is a real thing, and everyone was doing it. I suppose this was the jailhouse equivalent of partying and getting wild. Girls would be snorting headache medicine in their cells and flashing their tits to each other across the dayroom. (By the way, I found out that the crazy girl who made me show her my boobs that first night was literally crazy and was always asking girls to show her their tits and had to be given a horse tranquilizer to make her calm down.) It was a madhouse. There was an observation room with eight giant windows on top of the dayroom, and guards were stationed there to watch our every move. Occasionally they would yell over the loudspeaker for us to “calm the hell down,” but for the most part it was a free-for-all.

  Eight-thirty p.m. Final lockdown. We are confined to our cells until the next morning. They do a final count and shut the lights off. From that point on, we are required to be silent. If we are caught talking, the entire cell has to go to “lock,” which is slang for solitary confinement.

  We are supposed to sleep at this point, but sleeping is impossible in this place. Toilets are flushing loudly all night, my cellmates snore like bears, and the lights never really go off. They stay on all night long, which was really going to take some getting used to.

  On that second night in the general population, before lights-out, Brandy and I were talking about our high school experience. I brought up the fact that I used to be a cheerleader and she began laughing hysterically, saying she could never imagine me doing that. I was about to stand up and show her some of my moves when suddenly her expression turned serious. “Tiff, if you don’t mind me asking…what did you do to get in here?”

  There it was. I knew it was coming eventually and I swore to myself that I wasn’t going to tell anyone what my charges were, because my case was still pending. I had heard rumors that you’ve got to be careful what you say in here, because people will do just about anything to get their sentences reduced—including running to the cops with inside information about your case.

  But I trusted Brandy. I was very good at reading people and could tell she had a good soul. She had befriended me when I needed it most and I felt as if I owed her. I looked into her eyes and hesitated for just a moment, trying to read her to see if she really wanted to know, or if she was just using me to find out the gossip. I took a long, hesitant breath—and began to tell her everything.

  8

  Brandy was sitting on the edge of her bunk, and I noticed that her foot was tapping the floor rapidly as she waited for me to begin my story.

  “When I was arrested, I was arrested at my home,” I began. “I shared that home with my boyfriend, and he is a deputy for this county.” Her jaw dropped open as she inched closer to the edge of her bed. “I had been doing pills every day behind his back—for two and a half years.”

  “When it got really bad—” My story was abruptly interrupted by a sudden flurry of movement in the corner of my eye. I looked to my left and noticed that all the girls were running back to their cells.

  Our cellmates ran in where Brandy and I had been seated and swiftly began making their beds, a look of horror on their faces. “What the hell is going on?” I asked, standing up and glancing down at my bed, wondering if I should fix mine up too for some reason. Brandy looked out into the dayroom and I watched as the realization of what was happening washed over her face.

  “Um, hello? Can someone please tell me what is happening? Why is everyone freaking out?” I asked, straightening the edges of my sheets. Brandy dropped to the floor and began straightening up the contents of her bin. She didn’t even look up at me to answer:

  “Knox.”

  “Huh? Knox? What the hell is a Knox?” I asked.

  “No one told you?!”

  “No one told me what? Is my life in danger? Like, what the fuck is going on?” I asked, a mixture of terror and confusion in my voice.

  Before she could answer I heard the door of the dayroom slam shut, and our entire pod fell silent. I could hear a set of keys jingling and a pair of sneakers tapping the floor as the person wearing them jogged up the stairs. I sat on the edge of my bed observing my cellmates. They were frozen in place, a look of fear on their faces—it was as if the president of the United States had just walked in and was hand-selecting people to go to war.

  “You nasty hos wash your pussies today?!” someone yelled from the top tier. “I know some ah y’all stank bitches is on day two of no shower, wit’cho nasty asses.”

  Wait…what?

  “Ay! Da fuck I tell you about making sure deez beds was made when I came in? Ohhhh, y’all thought Deputy Davis was on tonight, huh? That’s why you just said ‘fuck it’ and let ya shit stay messy. Well, surprise, motherfuckers, Knox is in the house tonight!”

  The guard was making her rounds across the top tier when she suddenly came into view across from our cell. I expected a hulking beast of a woman to come bounding around the corner. This lady was five feet, two inches tall, but something told me her size was irreleva
nt.

  I watched her move quickly past the cells, analyzing the appearance of each one. She began jogging down the stairs and heading straight for our cell, a look of determination in her eyes. I suddenly felt like I was about to shit my pants.

  She glanced into our cell and continued walking, but then I heard her sneakers squeak as she stopped short and backed up. She looked in our cell again and began laughing as she unhooked her keys from her belt and opened our door.

  She was laughing and shaking her head as she entered, and then she stopped. She stared into my eyes with a look I can only describe as the look your mother gives you when she’s about to beat your ass.

  “Well, well, well—what we got here? You must be new. Man, that’s messed up, y’all didn’t give her the heads-up? Y’all didn’t educate her ’bout Knox, didja?” she said, looking at my cellmates. “Well, I’ll just have to introduce myself, then. What’s up, crackhead, I’m Knox, and I’m gonna make you wish you never stepped foot in my jail.”

  She walked toward me and bumped me as she headed toward my bed. She proceeded to rip the entire mat off my bunk and throw it into the middle of the dayroom. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, and my face began burning with embarrassment. “I’mma teach you how to make your bed right. Come on.” She bounded out to the dayroom and stood with her arms crossed, waiting for me to exit my cell.

  I walked toward her and stood above my mat, unsure of what exactly was going on. “So, should I make my—” Before I could finish she leapt over to where I was standing, got about an inch from my face, and began screaming at the top of her lungs while looking me dead in the eyes.

  “Did I motherfucking ask you to talk, motherfucker? No, I don’t think so. Don’t say another motherfucking word unless you want me to throw your nasty ass in lock. Now close your mouth, and make your damn bed, ho,” she said, stepping back to give me room.

  I could feel the tears forming in my eyes and tried with everything in me to not let them fall. I couldn’t help it, I had never been so humiliated.

  I began sobbing as I dropped to my hands and knees in front of every woman in my pod—and began making my bed. It was incredibly demeaning to have to get down on the floor like a child and make my bed in front of my peers. I secretly hoped she would realize that I was new here, and give me a break. She did the opposite.

  “Oh my God. Look at this. Hey y’all, hey! Look down here right quick. This girl over here cryin’ ’bout makin’ her damn bed.” I heard a few snickers from the women and I cringed, thinking about how I was trapped with these people for God knows how long, and now they were completely aware of what a pussy I was. “This bitch here probably ain’t used to havin’ to do chores. She been too busy getting high and suckin’ dick on the streets to worry ’bout making her damn bed at home.” She leaned down and placed her hands on her knees, getting eye level with me, and stared menacingly into my soul. “You’re in my house now, bitch,” she whispered.

  “I would like this whiny little junkie to be an example to all y’all. You bitches wanna act hard out on them streets, but when you’re in here, you ain’t shit. Right now, I want all y’all to take your sheets off your bed and make them damn beds perfectly—you know how I like it. When you’re done, take the sheets off again and remake them. You can stop when Inmate Johnson here makes her bed correctly. I’ll be back to check on y’all in a few, don’t be comin’ out them cells till you’re done.” The women began groaning and pulling their sheets off, cursing and talking about how they were going to beat my ass when the doors unlocked. Deputy Knox had almost made it out of the pod before she stopped abruptly. She turned back around and began walking toward me as silence once again fell upon the pod. I felt myself tense up as she leaned close to me, putting her mouth right next to my ear.

  “I know what you did, Johnson, Eliot is a good friend of mine. You shouldn’t have done him like that when he loved you. Best believe I’m going to make sure that while you are here, you pay for what you did.” She roughly patted me on the back and once again headed toward the door. “One more thing!” she yelled over her shoulder as she exited the pod. “Make sure the minute those cells unlock for you to come out, y’all let this girl know how much you appreciate her for making y’all do your beds over and over.” She laughed as the door slammed shut behind her.

  9

  I spent the next forty-five minutes making and remaking my bed. From the corner of my eye, I could see Knox standing on the observatory platform watching. Each time I finished making what I thought was the perfect bed, I would look up at her pleadingly in hopes she was satisfied. My fate rested on what she would say, because each time I had to remake mine, the rest of the pod had to remake theirs too.

  A terse “Nope” over the intercom would echo through the dayroom and all the women would collectively groan. I began to perspire from the pressure that I was feeling while performing this task.

  When I finally somehow managed to do it correctly (I’m pretty sure it looked the exact same every time), the entire pod sarcastically applauded. I breathed a sigh of relief and began walking back to my cell, accompanied by random outbursts: “Finally!” “I was about to snap.” “One dumbass bitch can’t make a bed and the rest of us have to suffer.” “Four-eyes is lucky I ain’t tryin’ to go to lock or I’d smack dem glasses off her ugly face.”

  I stood outside the cell for what seemed like an eternity waiting for them to pop it open. I wanted to crawl into my perfectly made bed and sleep the rest of my time here away. I didn’t know what was going to happen once the doors opened, but I imagined it would mostly involve nasty looks and hateful comments.

  “Those girls aren’t gonna do shit,” Brandy said, noticing my expression of concern. “They talk a lot of shit, but they’re pussies when it comes to going to lock. The worst they’ll do is talk shit. I promise, and if they do try anything else, I’ll shank ’em in their fucking throats.”

  “With what?” I laughed.

  “With this,” she replied, whipping out a sanitary pad from her bin. We both began laughing hysterically. I needed something to take my mind off the mix of emotions I was experiencing, and it was a nice reprieve from the past drama-filled hour.

  Usually whenever any type of negative emotion began creeping in, I ran as fast as I could to my drugs. I numbed my feelings the moment they tried to make themselves known. Now I had no choice but to feel them, and I found I was incapable of handling them very well.

  I pulled the sheet up over my head and snuggled into my bed. Just as I was dozing off I heard the doors pop open. I ignored it. If someone wanted to beat my ass, so be it. Hopefully they would knock me unconscious and I wouldn’t have to deal with this shit. Brandy, along with Sharon, my butch lesbian “bunkie” (apparently this is what you call a roommate in jail, it’s edgier), promised to keep an eye on the cell while I napped.

  I was awakened a short time later by my name being called. My eyes sprang open and I jumped out of bed instinctively. I looked out into the dayroom where everyone was and realized they all were staring at me. I made eye contact with one chick who had to be in a gang of some kind, because she had tattoos on her face and looked like she wanted to murder me.

  “You got mail, estupido,” she said. Now I don’t speak Spanish, but I have a pretty good idea of what she called me just then. Most people would probably challenge her. I, however, am a big wuss.

  “Oh, thank you so much.” I smiled, while walking with my head down at a fast pace toward the guard to get my mail.

  I studied the envelope on my way back to my cell, and it appeared to be from a lawyer. I was assuming it was from my lawyer. I had spent all my money on drugs and cigarettes, so affording a fancy attorney was not in my budget. If you can’t afford an attorney, the state appoints you a public defender. We had something in the jail that was referred to as the “public defender phone.” It was the only phone in the pod that made in
coming calls and when it rang, the women knocked one another down to answer.

  The reason for this was that if you answered and it happened to be your attorney on the line—even if he was calling for someone else—you were allowed to ask him questions about your case. I hadn’t received my first call from mine yet, so I was eager to see what the letter was about.

  “Brandy!” I said, running up to her with the letter. “I just got this, what the hell does it mean?” I asked, shoving it into her hands.

  It only took her a glance to realize what it was (apparently she had received plenty of these). “Oh, it’s just saying who your attorney is and—ewwww—oh, man, James. He’s the worst. That sucks, dude,” she said, handing it back to me. “Wait!” she said, pulling it back out of my hands and examining it. “Holy shit, you have court tomorrow.”

  The next morning, seven other women and I were crammed into a holding cell, waiting to be called before the judge. I was lying on a cold concrete floor for what had to be three hours. My hands and feet had been shackled to my waist and I was using a toilet paper roll as a pillow.

  All but two of us had gone before the judge and pleaded; only another woman and I remained. The anticipation of the unknown had wreaked havoc on my body and mind. I was utterly exhausted from all the worrying I had done since I found out I was coming here today. The girls gave me an idea of what to expect, but it didn’t help. Every case and every judge was different. I had finally met my attorney briefly in the hallway on the way in. He apologized for not calling and told me that he thought he had. Essentially, I was going into this blind, with no instruction from him or anyone else.