I did a terrible thing, and am ashamed. I almost killed, and/or almost died, depending on who you ask, the prosecution or the defense. Naturally, I lawyered up, and eventually all charges were dropped. I don’t excuse what I did, but I’d like to spill my guts and tell the whole story. Confession is good for the soul. But this is not a confession; the DA might file new charges.
My first attorney for the defense, for me, suggested, at our first meeting, that I write down what happened while it was still fresh in my mind, and I did. See exhibit A. Unfortunately, he soon fell into the DA’s pocket and all he wanted me to do was plead guilty to resisting arrest. “But I didn’t resist” I told him. I was charged with Felony Assault with a Deadly Weapon, doorknob, and resisting arrest. If I plead guilty to resisting, they would drop the felony assault with a doorknob. I was charged with assaulting my 8 year old son with a doorknob. He got two stitches. I don’t know how many years in jail the assault with a deadly weapon would have gotten me. What a mess.
In the wee hours of the morning, several hours after this all happened, I used my jail phone call to call in arrested to work. “Hi Penny, this is Justin. I won’t be in today, because I was arrested. Can you ask Mr. Zieglerson to come bail me out? I’ll pay him back as soon as I can.”
After my phone call I was led to a row of seats and told to sit and wait until the nurse could look at me. I might have looked a little rough. A cop walked up to me and said “Hey, I’m just curious, what makes a guy resist arrest? Why would you do that?” I felt it was an odd question. Was it even legal? “I was inebriated” I replied. He walked away. Did he write down my reply? Was that a mini interrogation? Whatever. It weirded me out a bit, and I sat down, waiting for the nurse.
After a few minutes a black guy, I’m white, by the way, an American/European mixed breed: French, Irish, Lithuanian, walks over to the row of seats and sits down two seats to my left. There were plenty of seats, so nobody had to sit next to each other. He looked at me and said “what happened to you?” “I resisted arrest” I said. Did I really look that bad? I actually didn’t feel that bad. My eye felt scratched. I didn’t have my glasses. My chest felt sore. I remembered the cops kneeling on my back, while I thrashed my head left and right, face down on my own front lawn, trying to catch a breath. I remember looking over to my neighbors who were watching the whole thing and yelling “Get video of this! Put it on YourTube! Take pictures!” That might have been about the time they TEASERed me because next thing I knew I was being led back to the squad car, shackled hand and foot, not sure how I got that way. TEASERs, like electro-shock therapy, can make you black out, I later learned. “Well they sure did a number on you” he said. “Glad I didn’t get to that point.”
A guy in the row in front of us turned around and looked at me, too. Then he turned to my questioner and asked “what are you here for?” “Aggressive panhandling” he laughed. “I couldn’t believe it, I asked a guy for a cigarette, and he said ‘no’ and kept walking. The next thing I know a cop walks up to me and starts asking questions, says this guy reported me for harassing him for a smoke. It’s bullshit, but that’s it. That’s what happened. How about you?” “I turned myself in on a child support warrant. It’s a mistake. They’ll process and release me soon. This has been going on for a year. It’s a screw-up at child support.”
We sat there and waited. Child support guy was called to the desk. Cigarette guy got up and walked around. A drunk in a cell shouted out “suck my dick” at anyone who passed by his cell. I waited for the nurse. After a while a cop called my name and I stood up. He motioned me to a separate room with lockers. He gave me an orange jumper and told me to strip down to my underwear and put on the jumper. It was mid-summer but there I was, wearing my flannel Grinch boxers. I must have been low on laundry that day. He took me to the nurse.
She seemed in no hurry; asked me how I was feeling, took my vitals, asked me what hurt. Well, my eye hurt, so she looked, and said it was a little scratched up. I told her I’d already been checked by an EMT, but she needed her own readings, so there I sat. Bureaucracies don’t chat. At the time I didn’t realize how close to death I’d been, just a few hours earlier. After she had her fresh readings I was lead away again by the orange jumpsuit jailer.
Jailers have quite a different job than patrol cops. Jailing is about process, whereas the beat cop is at war with the unruly public. At the county jail the two groups interface and the warriors turn over their prisoners. When we first pulled up to the jail from the courthouse, the deputies led me to a bench long enough for us all to sit on. I was sitting up straight, hands and feet shackled, I looked at the two deputies on either side of me. They were both slumped forward, elbows on knees, staring at the ground between their feet. Were they tired? Embarrassed? Ashamed? They didn’t look proud or happy. What had they done? The jailers came out to take me inside. As I stood up the jailers laughed at my loose chains, and the deputies looked uneasy. “Stand over here” said a jailer, and I did. “Lean against the wall.” I was facing the jailer and the wall was to my left, so I leaned my left shoulder against the wall. The other jailers laughed uproariously and one of them laughed “Well, you told him to lean, so he leaned!” I was so embarrassed. He meant the old TV thing: “Put your hands up against the wall, feet back and spread ‘em.” And he said something to that effect, to which I sheepishly complied.
After the nurse cleared me the jailer gave me a sleep mat and a cell. I slept on the mat on the cell floor until awakened for breakfast a few hours later.
Shocked in the Suburbs 