"Will there be coffee for me when I get there?" I inquire politely from the back of a late model Chevrolet Impala with my hands cuffed behind my back.
"It's not the Holiday Inn," the officer responded wryly.
It was just a few moments prior that I was informed that we would be transported to central booking. The real deal. Where all the criminals in Kings County have to go. Even, me a smart casual dressed man who did nothing more than walk in a park past 10 p.m. (and maybe told the arresting officer to "go write some parking tickets or something").
After a few long hours in a holding cell in the 76th precinct, I figured that I would be sent home with a notice of a court appearance and a small fine. When they came to unlock the cell door, I figured that I did my time and I'll pay a small fine. No big deal. I did not know what I had in store.
Sitting in the back of a police car going from Union Street in Carroll Gardens to central booking in Downtown Brooklyn, I informed the officers of some of the newer condo buildings being built along the way and what amenities they had and the price per square foot and maintenance fees. Then I had told them that I was planning on playing some golf that day, to which the response was, "There's not gonna be any golf for you today. And shut up back there."
So we arrive at central booking on Schermerhorn Street and are escorted into a dank basement that smelled like a mix of body odor, excrement and that crap that brothas put in their hair. I sit in another holding cell and wait. I figure at this point that I would get myself booked and be on my way home so I can shower, have a leisurely brunch and get to the golf course early to hit some irons and putt around a bit. This was not to be apparently.
We are finally brought to a different area of about six cells where we would be the remainder of the day. Each cell consists of a cement floor, a bench and a toilet and sink (no partition between bath area and sitting area). Basically, it's like sitting on the floor of a men's room with a bunch of derelicts. Just what a person with OCD needs. I reach in my pocket and discover a Xanax. This one will need to last me for as long as I'm in this shit hole. I swallow it with no water and taste the bitter deliciousness of my favorite pill and hope the tension will melt away, but it doesn't.
A few hours go by, we are moved into different cells and offered peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and generic corn flakes. I refuse to eat as I am nauseous and want to die. I yearn for some Poland Spring or Vintage Seltzer. I look around the cell and it is crowded with no where to sit but this tiny corner near the toilet where I have been carefully putting the laces back into my New Balances for the past 25 minutes. I am the only white person there, perhaps the only one who has never before been in this horrid place before.
Men keep crying out, "Yo OFFICA, OFFICA, OFFICA." The offica doesn't respond. I see a sign that states "SOAP AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST" so I inquire about its availability. "Excuse me officer, may I please have some soap," I say articulately, enunciating as to separate myself from the rest of these vagabonds.
"Soap, you want soap? Haha. Hey Joe, this guy wants soap. What are you gonna do, take a shower? Yeah we'll get you some soap - as soon as we bring out the strawberries and champagne for the other guys. Six years doing this and you're the first one to ask for soap."*
"But the sign indicated that soap would be available if requested."
No response. The officer disappears. No soap for me. I have never felt so dirty in my life. It's still only 11 a.m. Surely I would be seeing the judge soon. We move again into different cells. I try to sleep but the brothas are loud. They're laughing, talking, telling tales of what happened when they were here last month. Crack addicts spread out on the floor taking up an unreasonable amount of space.
I remember at this point that I may have left my sunroof tilted and that it might rain, so I get another officer's attention and tell him my dilemma to see if there's anything he can do. He laughs. Then I tell him that I have OCD and am going through Xanax and Zoloft withdrawal (both of which are true). He tells me I can go to the hospital and then come right back here or stay and shut up. I do the latter. (Maybe he could at least check if it's raining so I know if my upholstery is getting wet.)
So here I am on Memorial Day, surrounded by criminals, feeling dirtier than I ever have, sick to my stomach, worried about my leather seats, inhaling the most deadly odors imaginable, not knowing when I can get out of here. This is the worst moment of my life. It was at this point when someone (who apparently sneaked a cigarette in) in my cell said something that actually made me crack a smile. "Shit son, a room full a criminals and ain't nobody got a match?"
I realize that some of these guys are having fun, chatting and shooting the shit with the guys that I have absolutely nothing in common with any of them. I'm charming and entertaining, why can't I have fun too? "Does anyone want to hear my Neil Young impression," I think of asking but decide not to. They're talking about living in the projects and falling asleep outside and their welfare checks. I'm sitting there thinking about my swing plane and that new Thai place on Smith Street.
The clock is moving slower than it did in Theology 120 on a Thursday afternoon. Finally they call names to go see the judge! It's my chance. I've been here all day...but I do not get called. I just get moved to another cell. The officer tells us to make ourselves comfortable. So I fall in and out of sleep for the next few hours wanting nothing more than a nice bottle of Poland Spring and a shower. (Not even a cigarette. I am a voracious smoker, but I didn't even think of cigarettes all day, just water.)
Finally around 6:30, a good 12 hours since I've been in these cells, I am called to see the judge. Unfortunately, 50 others convicts are too. So I am cuffed again and taken upstairs to, you guessed it, another holding cell. (It wouldn't kill them to put out some magazines or something for us to read.) And so I wait to see my court appointed public defender and rumors are starting that the judge is probably not going to see everyone tonight being that it is a holiday and we may be stuck downstairs for another day. This thought makes me feel even worse than I did a few hours ago. I start thinking irrationally as some of the guys try to scare me into thinking that there is a chance that the judge will be in a bad mood and send me to Rikers. (Anything is possible.)
After the longest hour of my life, my name is called by a young public defender. She is very kind to me and feels terrible about what happened. She assures me that I will be sent home tonight and that the judge will be ready to see me in 15 minutes. This was the best news I have heard in a while. (I wrote this kind young woman a very nice thank you letter the next day because she probably never gets thanked for what she does.)
I feel like jumping for joy as I go back into the waiting area and start joking around. I tell one of the guys that is heading for Rikers that it seems like a nice place. It is an island after all, there are probably some nice views and such. Maybe a fishing pier. I feel like my old wiseass prick self again. It felt particularly good knowing that I was most likely the only individual in that place that would be going home to a comfortable centrally air conditioned apartment with hardwood floors and 400 thread count sheets that night.
The judge sentences me to two days of community service with the MTA. "That sounds like fun," I whisper to my attorney who chuckles in response. And with that, I am a free man. I exit the building and walk down to the nearest bodega, get some cash out and buy a big beautiful bottle of Poland Spring (the sparkling kind - Mandarin Orange flavor) and a pack of Camel Lights. I hail a cab to the precinct to retrieve my phone and keys and go home to take the longest, most delightful shower of my life.
The very next evening, I treated myself to a nice alfresco dinner at one of my favorite eateries on Smith Street. As I sipped my Chianti and took a bite out of the rustic bread dipped in extra virgin olive oil, I thought to myself, "life is good."
More details on my community service duties at a later date.
*These guys apparently watch a little too much Law & Order and think they are Lieutenant Briscoe.
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