"Ma'am, could you step out of the vehicle?" an officer said much to my surprise. Tears streamed down my face as passers-by gawked at me being patted down. The latch of the cuffs made me realize I was not above the law. When I was tucked into the back seat of the squad car, I was relieved to find a cubby hole to place my hands so I didn't have to sit on my cuffs. I was pulled over for not wearing a seat belt and told there was a warrant for my arrest. I skimmed through memories of everything I had ever done that could be illegal. I was being booked for not appearing in court two years ago. I hadn't been running from police, I hadn't been trying to hide what I was guilty of, I had simply been 18 years old and irresponsible as hell. For that irresponsibility, I spent 48 hours on the E block of the Monroe County Correctional Center.
During the 2007 spring semester, the IU Police Department arrested more than 70 students on charges of assault, burglary, possession or selling of drugs, disorderly conduct, drunk driving, public intoxication, fraud, harassment, indecent exposure, robbery, theft, trespassing and vandalism. Not all spent time behind bars, but the majority were locked up in detox, commonly known as the "drunk tank," until they were bailed out. Some students received jail sentences, causing them to drop their lifestyles as students and become inmates.
I arrived at the jail and was escorted to a room where I turned over all belongings, including body jewelry, hair accessories and shoes. I traded flip-flops for a used pair of orange slip-ons. I was taken through a security search and locked in a room alone. All I could do was wait. No one on the outside knew where I was, and I had no idea how I could get out of this mess.
"Classification" is a term for how an inmate is placed in jail. For Monroe County inmates, a triple background check is performed before they are put in "population," also known as "the block." The check includes current and past charges, age, escape risk and substance abuse history, said Monroe County Correctional Center Sgt. Sam Crowe. The classification is run on a point scale, and inmates are placed with others according to their level of risk. "We try to get people with the same type of score together," Crowe said. "We don't want predator inmates with prey inmates."
Four hours after my arrest, I was allowed to make one local phone call. I got an answering machine and left a message. Back to the "cell" with no one aware that I'm in jail. I was locked up for 12 hours before I spoke to anyone.
"Really there is nothing that states an inmate has to have a free phone call," Crowe said. Inmates in on charges involving intoxication or battery are generally not given phone calls, for fear they might sound too incoherent or try to call the victim. "With the overcrowding we have right now, we want to get people out as quick as we can, so we try to get them to a phone," he said. Before inmates can be placed on the block, they must shower, dress, get photographed and fingerprinted.
I was strip-searched, observed while showering and given an orange jumpsuit. As I stood shivering in my jumpsuit, I felt disgusted at the thought of not wearing a bra and underwear. I was given my own bed -- a one-inch thick, green-plastic pad -- and a blanket. I was given two cups, a toothbrush, tube of toothpaste, roll of toilet paper and a bar of soap. I placed my mat on the cement floor and tried to sleep. Breakfast came before 6 a.m. -- oatmeal with an inch of film on top, fruit, bread and Tang.
All meals are planned according to the food pyramid, said Monroe County Correctional Center Facilities manager Nikki Farris. Generally, a day's meals consist of two to three meat servings, three to five vegetable servings, two to four fruit servings and at least six servings of grains. Each meal is served with milk. Special options are available for inmates who cannot eat what is on the menu, for example, vegetarians. \n \nDuring my stay, I saw inmates cut elastic bands from socks to make hair ties, and toothbrushes jammed in cracks to hold towels off the ground in the shower. When officers handed out toilet paper and sanitary products, each woman asked for two sanitary pads. This confused me, but at our next meal I realized why the pads were vital. Wash rags were not issued by the jail, so the women scrubbed dining tables with shampoo-covered pads. This was the first ounce of humanity I noticed through the mass of jumpsuits, tattoos and foul language.
Every Monday, inmates place orders to the commissary, which has products from candy bars to clothing. Funds to buy items come from accounts provided by someone on the outside, or money that was on the inmate upon arrest. Orders are filled Friday, and anything not bought at the commissary or issued by the jail is contraband. Altered items are also contraband. Crowe said commonly altered items include cut T-shirts and sharpened toothbrushes.
As the women on the block sat around the television singing along with CMT and styling one another's hair, I began to look past the jumpsuits and rugged faces to see these women had bonded. If I imagined them in different clothing, out of the confined walls of the block, I might easily confuse them for a group of friends passing time in a lounge between classes. Confinement was something they shared and made the best of.
