West Side Stories: A jailhouse prayer is answered (sort of)

The other winners of February’s live story slam contest|

Hello.

[He makes a sharp clicking sound, something like a camera]

Momentarily blinded by the light. Profiled!

[He makes another sound]

My fingers, one at a time, first on the inkpad, then on the paper. I was led, beltless, shoeless, pockets emptied, into a tiny holding cell. All there was was a bench bolted to the floor. One side was made of glass, right across the way. I could see them processing my arrest. The woman who accused me is having her way, gesturing with the police, sealing my fate.

They were transfixed.

Why are they only getting her side of the story?

Okay, let me go back.

I was 27 at the time and I was having some fun in the sun, with a little weed, on the Berkeley campus. I realized I was running late, dashed home, skipped shaving, jumped into the shower, threw on my jeans and white shirt, and showed up at the café on College Avenue, where I wait tables.

Now, I’m wondering, “What’s they’re problem?” with this couple, I’m taking their order. They’re looking at me funny. I go to the kitchen to bring their pizza order in, and they chase after me. They intercept me, and the woman goes, “We know you did it! He saw you riding away!”

I looked to her side. He’s a short guy, bald, shiny face. This woman had a crazed look in her eye.

I said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I gotta take care of these orders.”

I rushed off to the kitchen.

Minutes later, my manager brings me to a table where there are two police officers sitting. One of them asked, “Is there anything you want to tell us?”

I said, “Yes. Tonight our special is eggplant pizza, with minestrone soup or a side of salad.”

He said, “You have the right to remain silent …”

After my rights, he said, “Once again, is there anything you want to tell us about the $20,000 motorcycle that you’ve been identified as having stolen earlier today?”

“All I want to say is, I didn’t do it.”

The two police escorted me to the back of the restaurant. We pass my waitress friends who are, at this point, gasping and crying at the spectacle. They take me out the back door, they cuff my hands and they put me in the patrol car. After the mug shots, the guard says, “Okay buddy. We’re going to take you down.”

I go, “I don’t even know how to drive a motorcycle.”

He goes, “Oh yeah? How’d you do it?” Then he says, “Make your call. We’ll go down to the cell.”

I did. I called my friend Steve. He knows me.

The guard takes me to the barred cell, opens the gate and says, “Oh, by the way, it’s Friday night. No judges till Monday. Plan to spend the weekend here.” He clanks shut my slimy, dark cell. There was water on the floor, in this concrete cell and a toilet in full view. I got woozy. There were three other detainees in the cell. The biggest of the bunch comes over and he says, “What’d you do?”

I looked at him and said, “Well, they accused me of stealing a motorcycle, but I didn’t do it. I’m not guilty.” And he goes, “Neither are we.”

And now I’m starting to get a little nervous. I’m feeling trapped.

I am trapped.

I’m not a religious guy, but I prayed to the god I don’t believe in, even as I dreaded every moment of the long weekend ahead. And then, strangely, like a character in a Kafka novel, I started to feel like I was guilty … of something. I’d done many things in my life.

I started to pace, and feel this overwhelming dread.

Two hours later, the guard comes by and opens the door.

“You can go.”

My friend, who I had called, called his attorney, who knew a judge, who was owed a favor. He called the jail and said, “You got the wrong guy. I will vouch for his release. But you got to let him go.”

They waived bail and I was out on my own recognizance.

I cannot convey to you, the magnitude of my relief, when I pushed the bar that opened the door to the fresh air of the outside world.

I was free.

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