Preparing For The Worst

Over the course of the next 9 months, I was visited by my lawyer on numerous occasions, underwent a pretrial evaluation to determine if I was “suitable” for prison or community corrections, and attended several meaningless court sessions. I mastered the games of pinochle and Scrabble and devoured book after book in an effort to avoid conversation with whatever weirdo they had me sharing a cell with–two men in an 8′x10′ is no easy living arrangement. You’d be a fool to not prefer the company of a book to that of exchanging war stories with mentally deficient meth-heads.

I was eventually housed in a single-cell, the privilege determined by cell-block seniority. Although I’ve always been a social butterfly, nothing was better than finding myself alone in a cell. Roommates are difficult enough in the free world. In jail, where every inmate seems afflicted with the I-don’t-give-a-fuck syndrome, isolation can become a haven. Would you enjoy having to chew and swallow meals to the scent of your celly’s bowel movements? What about being confined to an 80 square foot room for 10 hours with a halitosis patient, a chronic snorer, or an obsessive compulsive wife-beater who once used three bars of soap during a single shower? My elation at the move was indescribable.

One set-back to having so much more free time on my hands was that I thought much more often about the circumstances of my case. I knew I was going to prison, but didn’t know whether I’d be sentenced to 8 years or a quarter century. No amount of books could have distracted me from that mental burden. Finding God or religion of some other kind while in jail was what most prisoners preferred to the dwelling that filled many of my days. Pawning off my fears and dread onto a higher power would have worked just as well for me as the others, but through three front-to-back readings of the Bible, I found myself no closer to heaven and my doubts deepened. I was without God, a victim of my own rationale.

The time I spent alone in my cell was welcome, but I beat myself up continually for the stupidity that had landed me in such a situation. All I could do was wait on my sentencing date. My lawyer and I had determined that going to trial would do me no good. I had been caught red-handed and admitting my guilt would be the best option. We would delay the procedure for as long as possible in hopes of being offered a better deal by the district attorney than the 8 to 24 they originally offered.

There was one catch though. At the time of my arrest, I was already on felony probation for burglary. Getting arrested again, for the same type of offence, makes a defendant’s case what the legal world refers to as “aggravated.” When there are aggravating circumstances, the judicial system is forced to double the projective sentence. Burglary, in Colorado, carried a minimum sentence of 4 to 12 years. Do the math! When my sentencing date in December came around, I’d find myself making a plea and begging the judge for his mercy. 8 years behind bars is almost unfathomable to a 19-year-old, and it looked as if I would be afforded plenty of time to reflect on my decisions. I’m not sure that Jesus would have saved my life, but going to prison almost certainly did. It changed more about me than you’ll ever know, unless you keep reading.

Tagged as: Autobiography, blog, Prison, writing