trips to jail: first time

The day had turned hot. Inside, a sign directed visitors up steep brick stairs. I took a breath and proceeded, my fingers skimming the handrail. People came into view on the floor above. They milled about or sat on a wide window ledge opposite the sheriff’s desk.

I looked for a gap in the Plexiglass, but of course there wasn’t one, so I said loudly to the nearest badged man, “Do you have a prisoner here named Daniel?” He checked for my cousin’s full name. “He’s here,” he said.

An excited flicker rose in my chest. I would be able to see Daniel, after all.

“You can’t bring your purse in with you.” Another sheriff standing nearby pointed at my shoulder bag. “You’ll have to leave it in your car or rent a locker downstairs.”

I doubted the process of locker-renting would give me time to return before the visitors went in. Daniel had told me to be here at 5:00, so I could visit him at 5:30. It would be the one visiting hour this week available for him, should it turn out he remained in this jail today and hadn’t yet been taken back to prison.

Quickly I went back downstairs, out into the heat. Great, I thought, remembering several riff-raffy-looking characters lounging in and around a beat up car parked behind mine. I had parallel parked so carefully, recognizing this would be a very bad time to give a nudge with my rear bumper. Then I’d fed the meter an hour’s worth of change, my last quarters. Originally, I had tried to pay a parking lot machine, but its screen, hard to read in the glare, finally registered the message that its bag was full and I must park elsewhere.

Now I was greatly reluctant to open my trunk and toss in my purse inches from the four or five men. Though they didn’t seem to pay me any heed, I imagined someone might notice. I chose to slip in behind the wheel and nonchalantly tuck purse and wallet in separate spaces beneath the front seat. Locking the door and scooting back to the jail, I hoped that this location, by definition, might be a deterrent to smash-and-grab crimes. But it wasn’t like the sheriffs had their gazes trained on the street far below them.

At least I’d had time to deposit the check I had picked up after work, before heading over here. What would be nice, right now, would be spending my few extra dollars on a milkshake somewhere.

I sighed. I was committed to this visit. From the moment last weekend I saw “Inmate” on our caller i.d., I had known I’d be obligated to something if I answered and accepted the charges. Over the years, Daniel has phoned whenever he’s been able, almost always while residing in a California cell. He has sent many letters, too. They have thanked me for being there for him.

Today was the first time in at least 12 years that I would see him in Eugene. He had come up here to visit his mother. Only, as I knew he’d done in years past, Daniel hadn’t finished his parole before leaving California. Authorities frown upon such moves. I didn’t know how he’d been arrested this time, but I could guess there were drugs involved. In the system most of his life, Daniel has made many promises to himself and others that he will do better, that he will give his life fully to God, that he will change, next time he gets out. And yet last summer, when he called from a halfway house, he sounded a rare genuine note to me. “It’s so hard to go it alone,” he’d admitted. “I want to do it so badly, Deanna. I just don’t know if I can.”

Back up on the visitor floor I got in line behind the other people at the security machine. We moved forward slowly, as the clock hand moved toward 5:30. One lady set off the sensor every pass through, no matter what jewelry or hairclips she set aside. Laughing, she said, “I won’t take off my underwire bra!”

I shifted uncomfortably, hoping lingerie wasn’t a real problem.

At last a sheriff suggested she step through sideways. That worked.

Following the lead of others, at my turn I proclaimed Daniel’s name again as my intended inmate.

“Who?” the sheriff who had helped me earlier asked. “Oh, wait, he told you the wrong time. Inmates with last names from A to M see visitors now, the N to Zs start at 6:20.”

I opened and shut my mouth.

“Be back no later than 6:10,” the sheriff said. “And by the way, Daniel has listed you and two other people. Do you know if they’re coming?”

“No,” I said. I guessed they would be here now, too, if Daniel had actually talked to them. My energy had already drained down the brick stairs. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to come back.”

It was 5:18. I climbed into my hot car. Could I possibly make it all the way home, grab dinner, explain things to my family, and be back by 6:10? I didn’t know. I wished more than ever for a milkshake.

to be continued…