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1:34 p.m. - 2004-10-18
Footnotes and Fancypants
I can�t wait to tell you how much fun I had last Thursday night�.*

*For the record, this entry is a little long. But every single detail and word was necessary in re-creating my experience. Except for these footnote thingies. These are just for me.

Because my court date for my little run in with the law* is on Tuesday, I had to start collecting funds for the �restoration cost�. Basically, the State just wants their money back, so I need to come up with it. Pronto.

*I fought the law and the law did indeed win.

I could only come up with half, or rather, $1400. Because of this, I will now have to ask for an extension at my court date. You know, so I can have some time to sell my kidney for the other half. A repercussion in paying only half is that I had to go downtown to get �booked�. You know, in case I�m able to sell that kidney for $10,000 and just decide to blow this joint. Apparently, they consider me a flight risk. Which is funny. Cause if I could afford to start a new life in a new country, I would have by now. My attorney said saying that as a defense wasn�t a good idea.

My summons paperwork stated that I needed to go down to the Pima County JAILHOUSE* to be photographed and fingerprinted. Notice it said photographed. Not mug shots. This is cause I haven�t actually been arrested. I�m going in and being released on my own recogsignance (sp??). It stated I was in fact supposed to be released. Which I was, but the 5 hours it took for my release, was the most educational, infuriating, and disturbing experience. Ever.

*Jail. House. As in Elvis. Only without the Rock.

Let�s take a look at each hour shall we? Maybe then we can appreciate our fine judicial system and the many people who graciously work for the state to protect us from evildoers such as myself:

Hour 1, or 5:00pm
I drove to the county jailhouse, both amused and scared that this was where I had to go to get my �photograph� and prints. I had been arrested once when I was fifteen, for possession of pot (oh come, that�s nothing) and remember the experience of mug shots and fingerprints as rather tame. However, I was at the sheriff�s office, not the jailhouse. And I was stoned out of my head. So I wasn�t really sure what to expect now. I buzzed the outside of the large non-descript building and talked with a man about coming in to get my photo taken and fingerprinted. He had a friendly, helpful voice, and he said it would be a few minutes before someone came out to get me. He asked if I had any weapons (er, no, left those at home today), drugs (um�nope. Took those earlier.), cell phones or lighters. I remembered my cell phone and he said someone would take it from me.

I learned after 35 minutes of standing outside that door, that the term �a few minutes� was on a different time scale to these people. I was growing impatient, although, had I known what was in store for me inside, I would not have been tapping my foot so impatiently. During these �few minutes�, a Hispanic girl (cause that�s all that�s around there) came up and informed the speaker box that she was there for the same reason as I was. When a male officer opened the door to let us both in, he said we would have to wait for a female officer to come get us. First, um, couldn�t they tell I was female on the speaker? And second, um, why do I need a female officer?

Hour 2, or 5:55pm
A female officer has now come outside to �escort� me and the other girl into the building. When we walked in (and I can�t tell you how relived I was that there was a �we� instead of a just �me�, cause at this point, I went from kinda irritated to whatthefuck scared), we were in a small room made entirely of cinderblocks. You currently have no idea how often I am going to have to use that word in this story. Cinderblock. The officer told us to hand over our purses, she said we would get them back afterwards. I noted that the term �afterwards� sounded like a long drawn out process. She then patted us down. The standard stand with feet apart, arms out routine. Not that this was standard to me, just, you know. Standard. She instructed us to follow the red line on the ground through the building once we were permitted into the next room. I noticed she spoke softly intentionally so that when I said �Excuse me?� she would then have a good reason to yell at me. Which she did. Often. The metal CELL* door slide open and there I stood in front of a busy hubbub of criminals. I was first to follow the red line and when I walked through, I immediately jumped a good 10 feet in the air. All along the left side of the building were cells with Plexiglas with the most absolutely crazy people in them who found it amusing to scare the shit out of anyone who walked by. This anyone was currently me. Some leered at you, some looked very drunk, some looked suicidal for attention, but most look truly psychotic. The other girl was about 10 feet behind me with the officer who was directing her by her arm. We walked through the building, which was relatively small. In the center of the room was a sunken area where all the detainees were being held. I only saw briefly that there were about 50, with officers milling all around along the top of the area. We walked through it quickly and I suddenly found myself in front of another cell door. The officer opened it, and we entered. I noted mentally that I was the only white girl within a good 15 miles. I also noted that it would suck immensely should I have to spend any time in that pit.

*As in A REAL FUCKING CELL DOOR.

I was told to wait for my name to be called. I sat on a bench made of cinderblocks and saw five windows, much like the DMV, with five girls who were experiencing just another day at work. There were a few other people waiting with me, a couple drunks, who stank like no one�s business, and a girl who was brought in behind us in handcuffs. She couldn�t have been more than 20. I immediately guessed shoplifting. Turns out it was drive by shooting. Oh. My. God. Some one please show me the door to the reality room, cause this can�t be it.

Before my name was called, I noticed the officer had given my purse to one of the girls in the window. She proceeded to go through it. I don�t mean just looking for something that shouldn�t be there. I mean, calling the other gals* over and literally rifling through it. She opened each thing of make up and showed it around to the others. She opened my wallet, took out my credit cards and passed them around. She would glance up occasionally with a smile to me. I was growing angry and my attitude was rapidly going from willing participant to downright pissed customer. Which is funny if you think about it. Cause you know, I wasn�t a customer. Get it?

*Does anyone still use this term except me?

Her hand then fell on something that triggered every facial muscle to contort into a frown. She slowly pulled out my Zippo lighter. Everyone around her gasped. You could hear it through the Plexiglas. I stood up and began to walk over to let her know there was no fluid in it. It was new. I was yelled at by three officers to sit down, and they rushed toward me like I was trying to make a break for it. You know, like I was gonna get enough steam to run right through that cinderblock wall. Cuz I can ya know.

Hour 3, or 6:00 pm
I have now waited for my name to be called to the point of insanity. Which didn�t take long. I imagined I was at the DMV, the Social Security office, the post office. But it didn�t work, cause all those places you are there to get something important. I was not getting anything remotely important to me in this case. No fancy shmancy new drivers license. No blessed SS card to replace the one I washed with my jeans. No package from some unknown relative for my birthday. Just endless waiting.

I was finally called and all they did was scold me about the lighter (yeah, I was gonna try to burn these cinderblock walls from the inside), told me they had to throw it away (what the fuck for???), and then verified my address. I waited all that time for them to VERIFY MY ADDRESS. As I rolled my eyes and headed back towards the officer to �escort� me to the photo-op area, I walked through the metal detector and set it off. I looked at her. She at me. I said that there was no way I had anything on me, she had patted me down hadn�t she?

She �escorted� me to a back room where she patted me down again. As she was doing this, I noted that everyone who had walked through that detector had set it off. Everyone. Could that just be set that way so that they could pat you down again? I turned around when she was finished with an apparent irritated look on my face. She began to speak, and here�s the conversation that took place:
Her: Okay, now remove your pants.
Me: I�m sorry���.What?
Her: You need to remove your pants.
Me: Um. I haven�t even been arrested, and I�m just here for my photo and fingerprints. Is a strip search necessary.
Her: We can do this the hard way or the easy way.
Me: glareglareglareglare

I removed my pants. I was glad I had normal underwear on. Seriously. If I had been caught during a strip search with a thong on, I�d never shop at Victoria Secrets again. Cause they need a disclaimer for that shit.

Her: Now remove your shirt.
Me: moreglaringmoreglaringmoreglaring

I removed my shirt and looked down and saw I had a clean bra on. Thank the Gods!

She then had me lift my bra from underneath and turn it up. You know, cause I have MASSIVE* cleavage and could easily hide a butcher knife under there.

*No. Not even remotely close to the truth.

I got dressed then and she appeared to be just glaring at me. Maybe it was cause all my underwear garments were VS and all my clothing was from the Gap.* I think my entire ensemble was probably worth more than her weekly paycheck.**

*I�m a consumer whore. I know this. Shut up.
**Have you SEEN the prices at the Gap????

Hour 4 & 5 will conclude tomorrow. Commence blinking.

Tune in!

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