You've Just Been Sent To Jail

What Does It Mean To Be Sent To Jail?

You’ve been jailed.

You’re in such shock you can’t believe it. You’re too stunned even to cry.

The words the judge used…you couldn’t understand them.

You were listening to them speaking, but you couldn’t hear them.

Suddenly you don’t feel like you. There’s an unmistakable tremor in your legs.

You’re aware that you feel very cold. You begin to shiver and you teeth begin to chatter.

Has the courtroom become cold?

Your sense of smell also seems to have completely abandoned you.

"But you had been lying to yourself

and now you would pay the price

for that deception too"

The judge has left the bench. It is 4:30pm. You were the last case in the list today.

You watch them disappear through a door at the back of the court.

Funny, you’d been sitting in court all day and you hadn’t noticed that door.  The wall behind the judge’s bench is decked in dark mahogany wood.

The door to the judge’s chambers is also covered with this mahogany panelling. As they vanish beyond, the door closes automatically with a sharp, final click.

They are gone.

This is it.

Your lawyer approaches you with a look of resignation.

‘I tried my best’ he says, looking down at his shoes. You don’t think he did. You doubt he does either.

There were things he forgot to say, should have said. Things you spoke about before. You’d repeated them like a mantra. Why didn’t he say them?

It might have made a difference.

You want to scream at him but you can’t form the words. So you just stand there staring at him mutely. He shrugs, picks up a sheaf of papers from the lawyer’s bench behind him and wanders away.

Just like that, he’s gone.

"There is a psychological phenomenon known as the ‘availability bias’.

It says that humans tend to use information that comes to mind

easily (‘available’) when making decisions.

That accident had been all over the media

and the judge had been aware of it"

 

A police officer motions you to a cordoned off area to the right of the court room.

Behind it is another door built into a wood panelled wall. This one isn’t camouflaged.

All day long you had seen prison officers emerge from this door. You had wondered where it led.

Not really, you had partially guessed. You’d seen the lags being brought in and out all day. You had wondered whether you would disappear behind it. You told yourself you wouldn’t.

But you had been lying to yourself and now you would pay the price for that deception too.

All day long people in handcuffs had been led out from behind that door into court.

Most had been silent, resigned even. Some had smug looks on their faces. One or two had waved at family members in court. A regular social event.

All had vanished behind that wood panelled door into the bowels of the courthouse beyond. Now you too would disappear behind that door and swallowed up inside.  

The police officer motions you towards the cordoned off area. A large burly prison officer approaches you both. The two men nod at one another. No words are exchanged.

Everyone seems to know what’s going on except you.

You are the proverbial ‘piggy in the middle’.

"There are no blankets. They are prohibited in these cells

because they are flammable. When something burns in a cell,

the small place immediately fills with deadly black smoke

that quickly makes breathing impossible.

Lighters are not allowed"

You’re taken from the courtroom to the waiting cells underneath.

The place smells of bleach and cheap cleaning fluid. In the corner there’s a mop and bucket. You notice that it is wet.

There are 4 holding cells. The doors to each are made of heavy steel. A narrow slit at head-height allows a view into cell. The cell is about 12 feet long by 6 feet wide. It is made entirely of concrete. Just beyond the door is a steel toilet bowl.

Privacy is non-existent.

The floor is wet because a prisoner stuffed toilet paper into the bowl and kept flushing until it was backed up and started to overflow. It didn’t seem to bother him that nobody could use the toilet either. ‘Sticking it to the system’ was more important.

These are your new ‘flatmates’ for the next 6 months.

The bench in the cell is raised 3 feet off the ground. It too is made of concrete. A flame retardant mattress lies on top. There are no blankets. They are prohibited in these cells because they are flammable. When something burns in a cell, the small place immediately fills with deadly black smoke that quickly makes breathing impossible. Lighters are not allowed.

In these holding cells are the shackled men you saw  earlier. They live in these places.

Now you do.

"It wouldn't have mattered if Jesus Christ himself

had been representing you.

You were going in"

The prison officers will always try to ensure that you are not placed in a cell with them. They see you for what you are: a middle class person with no previous convictions.

One of them, a tall slim man, smiles.

'You’re not really a criminal' he says quietly, nodding at the cells beyond.

'We’ll take care of you.'

'Not a criminal' you ask yourself? You had crashed your car into someone else and had fled on foot. Luckily the other driver wasn’t injured. But luck was against you today.

The weekend before news broke of a mother and child who had been hospitalised when a speeding motorist had crashed into the side of their car. The driver of the offending car had fled. He was arrested an hour later. Both mother and child had been lucky to survive the crash.

There is a psychological phenomenon known as the ‘availability bias’. It says that humans tend to use information that comes to mind easily (‘available’) when making decisions. That accident had been all over the media and the judge had been aware of it.

You had paid a heavy price for that. The Judge had referenced the ‘cowardly act’ of hitting someone else and running away, ‘especially after what happened last weekend’.

You knew then that you were done.

You didn’t want to accept it but deep down you knew.

It wouldn't have mattered if Jesus Christ himself had been representing you.

You were going in.

"Everything is taken out of your pockets and

placed into a large envelope, including your phone.

You will not see it again for 6 months"

You mutter something about appealing.

Does it have to come to this? Is there no other way? You’re certain that you’ll die in prison. People like you don’t belong there. Neither of the two prison officers by your side even looks at you. They’re reluctant to tell you. This is the end of the road.

There’s no turning back. They want you to come quietly, not to start screaming and making a scene. It wouldn’t make a difference even if you did. The judge is not coming back. Their car left the courthouse carpark a few minutes ago.

‘The van is ready’ the officer says to you. You don’t know what he means. He tells you that he is going to search you.

Everything is taken out of your pockets and placed into a large envelope, including your phone. You will not see it again for 6 months.

*****

The journey to the prison is in a van. This is not a journey you ever want to take.

But first, priorities.

As you have been sentenced to imprisonment your title has changed from ‘defendant’  to ‘prisoner’. You are a convicted criminal. And just like the movies you will be assigned a unique 6-digit number. This number is specific to you, like a PIN number.

To the end of time those 6 numbers will be yours. It almost feels special.

Being a prisoner comes with other perks too. One of them is handcuffs.

Handcuffs are placed on all prisoners as a matter of policy. People have tried to escape from custody in the past, so don’t be offended if they don’t take a chance on you. You’ve seen handcuffs being placed on bad guys dozens of times on tv over the years.

Those cuffs don’t look like these.

The officer politely asks you to hold your wrists out in front of you. A large rigid plastic restraint with circular metal claws at either end is produced from a holster at his side. They will now be manacled to you.

‘This won’t hurt’ the officer explains softly as the claws are placed over your wrists. As they are closed you can hear a series of rapid, metallic clicks as the ratcheting claw engages with the internal latch mechanism.

An image of a man impaled on the stocks in the Middle Ages, head and hands locked in front of a large wooden board, flickers before your mind. Your hands are useless to you now. Their independence is over.

"As you have been sentenced to imprisonment your title

has changed from ‘defendant’  to ‘prisoner’.

You are a convicted criminal.

And just like the movies you will be assigned a unique 6-digit number.

This number is specific to you, like a PIN number.

To the end of time those 6 numbers will be yours.

It almost feels special"

When the cuffs are closed against your skin the officer takes a tiny key and inserts it into a lock in the middle. Your hands now go where he wants them to go.

‘This is to stop the cuffs slipping and getting tighter’ he explains.

He says it matter-of-factly, like you should be thankful. You nod silently as your hands are swallowed up in front of you. Once you are ‘secured’ he produces another pair of handcuffs. These are different.

He places a handcuff on his wrist. It is connected to another handcuff by a 4-foot chain.

That other handcuff is placed on one of your wrists. You are shackled to the officer.  

Now it’s real. Now its not a dream.

Now comes the tears…

"You want the world to open up and swallow you.

Actually if that could happen right now

you would jump into the fires of hell.

Anything but this humiliation"

You are led sobbing, head down, arms dangling in front of you by a prison officer who sighs knowingly. He has seen this performance many times before. But it’s earth-shattering for you. Or at least it feels that way.

For the first time in your life you follow someone who is chained to you. All your life has led to this moment of degradation. You think of your parents.

You want the world to open up and swallow you. Actually if that could happen right now you would jump into the fires of hell. Anything but this humiliation.

The prison van is like no other you’ve ever seen, at least on the inside.

The first thing to hit you is the smell. The prison van reeks of stale cigarette smoke. A door at the side allows a metal stairs to be folded down to street level. You are led up by the officer in front of you.

"Televisions cut suicides overnight.

People could distract themselves,

didn’t have so much time to think"

Inside to your right is a central corridor. On both sides there are steel doors. Behind those doors are tiny cells. This place is in virtual darkness. There are no lights here. Each cell door has a small reinforced window so that prison officers can look inside at the prisoner. As you are led down to your cell, eyes behind the reinforced glass look at you curiously. One of them smiles.

When the smoking ban was introduced in 2003 smoking in public places was prohibited.

An exemption was set aside for prisons. It was believed that banning a prisoner’s ‘right’ to smoke in their cell might tip the prisons into open revolt.

At the best of times these places are powder kegs. A spark is all it takes to blow them up. So smoking stayed. The prison officers were in favour of it actually. Helped to ease tensions they felt. Just like tv’s being introduced into cells.

Hardcore elements in society had screamed in opposition when televisions were brought in. Prison was starting to look like a hotel they claimed.

But older prison officers welcomed it.

Politicians did a lot of talking to try to sound tough on crime. But the officers had to work here, not them. They wanted a quiet life and tv brought it.

"Even in here you have to wear the handcuffs

The last ounces of dignity trickle miserably out

of you onto the dirty cigarette-lined floor below"

Televisions cut suicides overnight. People could distract themselves, didn’t have so much time to think.   

Still, prison is prison. It’s one of the most dangerous places in the country.

And you’re going there.

A bunch of heavy-duty keys are dangling off the officer’s belt and he opens the door to your tiny cell. It is a metallic cube, not much larger than a coffin. It is not built for comfort.

You’re aware of voices outside the van. They are shouting. Shouting begins inside the van too. They are calling out to people outside.

Two or three people outside on the street are yelling to one of the prisoners inside the cells. One of them has a baby. She’s shouting to her man that she ‘loves him’. The prisoner shouts at her to ‘go away’. She either can’t hear him or decides to ignore him.

She swaddles the baby next to her and waves it’s tiny hand at her father. But the windows are darkened and it’s hard to see the person inside.

Anyway the father is in no mood to wave back. He does not respond to her. He doesn’t want his daughter to remember this moment.

You take a seat. You have no choice. There is nothing to do in this tiny space other than sit. The cubicle is much smaller than the cubicle of a restaurant toilet. The officer points you to your new lodgings. He is impossibly kind, which actually makes this process even harder.

"Your mind starts racing.

What will happen to you in there?

Will you be sharing a cell with others?

Who will they be?"

‘Just take a seat there’ he points gently. You look inside. There is only space to shuffle in, turn your body and sit. There are no other facilities. This will be your home on the journey back to the prison. Your eyes begin to fill again.

The officer notices this.

‘Don’t let them see you upset’ he whispers. ‘The first night’s the worst. It’ll be better tomorrow. Your family can come visit you. It won’t be that bad’.

Won’t be that bad? Is he serious? You can’t think of anything worse.

And family? Here? You never want them to see you here.

The door is shut behind you, metal on metal, and keys jangle in the lock. It has come to this. You are all alone. For the first time since you were sentenced to prison you are not handcuffed to a prison officer.

You are alone in your own casket, sitting on a metallic seat raised about 2 feet off the ground. You’re barely aware of the shouts as you stare at your hands in front of you, welded together by handcuffs. Even in here you have to wear them.

The last ounces of dignity trickle miserably out of you onto the dirty cigarette-lined floor below.   

"They hate being stuck in these vans.

The tiny cells become roasting hot in the summer.

‘Sweat boxes’ they call them"

What little light from the outside that made its way into the back of the van is snuffed out as soon as the door at the top of the van had been shut. Up there, there is fresh air and light. Down where you are is darkness, the smell of bad hygiene and years-old cigarette smoke caked into every crevice of this place.

Down here you languish with the 3 or 4 others each in their cells. There is laughter among one or two of them. The diesel engine of the hulking prison truck starts up with a shudder and a roar of joy goes up among the prisoners. They are finally on their way.

They hate being stuck in these vans. The tiny cells become roasting hot in the summer.

‘Sweat boxes’ they call them.

Sometimes they can be sitting in these cubicles for 5 or 6 hours until court is done. On a warm day it can be agony. But the sound of the truck taking off means they’re only an hour from ‘home’.  

Now it will be your home. Your mind starts racing. What will happen to you in there? Will you be sharing a cell with others? Who will they be?

You’re not built for this horror. You heart starts racing until you feel it might burst out of your chest.

The pit of your stomach turns like a worm.

Opposite you, in the next cell, someone is calling to you.

‘What are you in for bud’?

You don’t hear him but he calls again.

‘Hey bud, it’s ok. You’ll be ok…’

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