1978, Kanawha County, West Virginia

By Emma Jeffries

It’s late September and warm. He is dressed in a cotton suit. It is rumpled and permanently creased in all the wrong places.

I am on one side of the bars sitting in a chair. No luxury of a private room here. He sits on the other side; as he does, all the wrinkles in his suit disappear, all but the creases where his arm bends at the elbow.

“Are you OK, have they been treating you well?” he asks.

I tell him I’m OK.

“Tell me what happened?”

I tell him exactly what happened. Yes, I was read my rights, no, no one hurt me. Yes, I did it, they caught me doing it. No one made me do it. Of course I’ll cooperate. No, don’t call my family.

It had been the easiest thing in the world to do. Open a checking account with a few dollars, go back in a week and cash a check. We had been doing it for over a month now and it was easy. The checks weren’t ours; they were stolen. What made it even easier and more professional looking was the machine Rick stole also. It punched in the amount of the check so we didn’t have to write it.

This little discovery was made during a late night robbery Doug and Rick did while looking for some quick money for drugs. Doug didn’t tell me about it for almost two weeks. He finally had to tell me. He was bringing home money from a job he didn’t have. He and Rick had already passed a few checks in the neighborhood without any problem.

I am taken to the county jail. Once all the introductions have been made, my picture is taken, a strip search by a female officer who then has to watch me throw up in a trashcan. She takes me to the bathroom so I can wash my face, which now has ink on it from my hands. I’m taking too long, so she opens the door to make sure I’m not trying to kill myself. She helps me get the ink off.

I’m handed over to another female officer and taken upstairs to the women’s section. There are only two others there. One of them looks at me. “Take any cell that’s empty. Leave the others alone.” I nod. There is a long bench facing one wall of bars. The others are watching the television mounted on the wall over the stairs. I sit on the far end of the bench. I wonder where Doug is.

The FBI people are respectful so I am respectful. I spend an entire morning writing out checks, signing my name, signing other peoples names, signing Doug and Rick’s name. They are pleased that my handwriting doesn’t match any of the checks they have. Do I recognize the handwriting or the names? I tell them Rick for sure, but I don’t see Doug’s small handwriting, not even his forged handwriting. They bring me a hamburger, fries and a Pepsi. I don’t throw up until I’m back in my cell.

The men’s section is right below us. I’m sure I can hear Doug’s voice down there but know better. He wasn’t with me when I went into the bank. He was across the street at a restaurant having coffee, waiting for my return. I know he saw the police cars. I know he panicked. I know he ran. But I’m sure I can hear his voice.

I think I’m pregnant. My lawyer is telling me something but all I can think about is throwing up. I ask him to repeat the last thing he said. “You transported the check writing machine over state lines, not to mention the checks. That’s a felon and the government wants to prosecute. Because of this, the state will not. Nor will any of the states you’ve been in.”

“So, when I go to court I won’t stand trial for Michigan, Ohio, West Virginia….”

“No. Well in a sense you are, but since you’ve cooperated….”

“You mean I’m the only one they can get to.”

“They caught you in the bank cashing one of the checks. They found the machine in the bus terminal’s locker. You had the locker key on your person. You’ll do time for all of that.”

I nod. He’s speaking plainly, which is fine. I can’t get past the fact that I might be pregnant. He hands me $10 and says he’ll be in touch. I tell him my fear. He looks at me and nods, then leaves. I throw up on the floor.

I miscarried two months ago. It seems so much longer.

Female FBI sits with me in the doctor’s office. The exam is over so she has put the handcuffs back on. The doctor is full of himself, nearly smiling. He’s not even attempting to hide his arrogance I can see him telling his wife at dinner later about the felon who sat across from him. No, I’m not pregnant. It could be stress. I am amused. I look at the FBI woman and she looks at me. She is also amused but hides it very well. I wish I could throw up now. I tell this to her on the ride back to jail. She grins.

I am alone in the cell for days. Depression takes over, but I don’t know what depression is. I do sleep. I don’t eat. By dinner, the female officer checks on me. She asks about withdraw. I tell her I’m well beyond that. She can’t make me eat, but insists that I try. She’s been kind to me so I want to please her. She leaves and returns with a tray of soup beans and cornbread, still hot. She has bought me a Pepsi to drink also. She stands behind the bars while I eat. I thank her. I do feel better. When she leaves, I think I hear Doug call my name. It is barely a whisper, but I listen.

Prisoners come and go until Thanksgiving, mostly transients on their way to or from Alderson. I wonder if that is where they will send me. I listen to them talk about this place. Most have been there before.

Thanksgiving is quiet with just a handful of prisoners, one of them a young girl, who has written threatening letters to the president. Her face is emotionless and haunting. She speaks twice, once to ask where to get toilet paper. Later she tells us the president she wrote letters to was Jimmy Carter. One of the girls laughed and said “no kidding.” The girl moves closer, nearly nose-to-nose with the laugher, but says nothing.

The dinner trays contain flat pieces of turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, dressing, and something that looks like corn. Dinner rolls come up a half hour later. We don’t ask why.

My trial won’t take place until the first of the year. Almost three months in the county jail already, December will be four. My lawyer tells me that I’m looking at five years. There is a chance I’ll get probation instead of time, which could also be five years. It’s up to the feds. Since I have been cooperative and I’m a first time offender, he’s seeking leniency on my behalf. He hands me $10 for cigarettes and Pepsi.

FBI woman comes in two days later with my lawyer. Stay with the guilty plea, she’ll help me get probation. Do I know someone who will take me in if I get probation? Yes. I give out phone numbers and addresses to both my lawyer and FBI woman. I am glad I don’t have to tell my mother. FBI woman hands me $5 for cigarettes.

I am alone again. The days drag by. I have talked to some of my family, a friend who will take me in if I get probation. I receive Christmas cards. One holds a picture of my nephew. Three have money in them so I can buy cigarettes. I cry after opening each one. The tears are useless. I hear laughter from the men’s floor. I’m sure I hear Doug.

Transients arrive for lunch. They won’t stay long, they are on their way to Alderson. I stay in my cell to protect what little I have. They are loud, laughing as if they are on their way to a party. I watch one of them in the cell across from me. She reaches into her jeans and pulls a syringe out. I can only imagine where she had it. She sees me looking and offers me some. I shake my head. She plunges all of the liquid into her arm then grasps the bars. Eyes closed, she sways to the rhythm of the drug rushing through her veins. Her nod is brief. I think of Doug.

Three days before Christmas one of the officers walks up to the floor with packages and wrapping paper and asks if I want to make some money. I wrap nine gifts with ribbons and bows, then attach the tags for him. He gives me $20 and thanks me.

Christmas Eve my lawyer visits briefly. He won’t see me again until the trial. He hands me $20 and wishes me a Merry Christmas.

FBI woman comes by. She won’t see me again until the trial. She hands me $20 and wishes me a Merry Christmas. “Are you all right?” she asks.

“I’m fine.” I thank her for the money, then thank her for everything. I think I remind her of someone.

She nods and moves away.

Man officer and Woman officer bring three men up from the floor below. The men sweep the floor outside the block. None of them are Doug. I’m not allowed to talk to them. I want so badly to know.

I buy chips and Pepsi and watch “It’s a Wonderful Life” through the bars. I listen for Doug’s voice from downstairs.

Christmas Day we get turkey for lunch and dinner. There are three of us now. I buy chips and Pepsi for all of us as we watch Scrooge being whisked around by ghosts.

I dream of Doug later that night. I wake and find that the cell doors haven’t been locked. It’s just before midnight and the lights are off. I move to the block and see the television is still on. I sit down. A different woman officer comes up the stairs. I ask her if I’m allowed out of my cell. She tells me don’t cause any problems, then offers to get me a Pepsi. She’s getting some for the men. I give her $1.

I smoke my cigarettes and drink Pepsi as I watch “It’s a Wonderful Life.” The volume is low. I can hear the men talking. I’m sure one of them is Doug.

Emma Jeffries is a freelance writer in Ohio. She is using a pseudonym.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Monday, March 26th, 2007 | Email This Post

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