On Becoming a Rapist (eBook)

Chapter Two:
Parish Jail

To enter the parish jail, numerous doors and obstacles need to be navigated. The very first entry was the main gate. At the main gate there was a small guard house with a guard in it. Once you got through this there was a half mile drive through bean fields to reach the parking lot of the jail. Next, you had to walk into a small hallway that had two thick metal doors on each end. Only one door could be unlocked at a time, like a de – pressurizing chamber you see astronauts get into when they are returning to their space shuttle, after performing some chores on the exterior of their ship. Once the first door slammed shut behind me and the lock was driven to its home, the second door popped open and the officers escorting me encouraged me forward. After the second door slammed home and I heard the bold clank, a sickening feeling grabbed hold of me on the inside. Within a matter of seconds my freedom of movement had been reduced a million fold over and over again. In the most laconic fashion, the two sheriffs escorting me led me to what they call a ‘holding cell’. The name of this cell accurately fits its purpose. It is literally a cell to hold people in for some unknown duration of time, like a holding pin for cattle. There was a large Plexiglas window on top of a half wall and this allowed people to see into the cell, and out of the cell with relative ease, like looking at animals in a zoo. As I looked into the cell from the outside, I saw nearly a dozen people crammed into various places within this single cell and almost all of them had a desperate sort of expression on their faces. The door popped open and I was encouraged to enter. As the door closed, one of the sheriffs said, in what seemed to be an after thought–––

–––“wait here and they’ll call you for booking.” BANG! Went the door as it slammed shut along with another million fold of my freedom of movement. Already, the hopelessness that was shown on everyone’s face could be felt in my soul.

This holding cell was beyond demoralizing. It was crafted and created to suppress the Spirit of Humans, I have no doubt. This cell was not much more that a 6 X 9 and within it were thirteen people. There were great vertical columns of concrete on either side of the cell and these acted as seats. There was one toilet made of stainless steal tucked away behind another half wall. They call it a half wall, but in reality it was a quarter of a wall, since it only rose to about three feet in height and it did not provide anyone with any sort of privacy when they needed to use it. Also in the cell was a single roll of tissue paper that no one seemed very inclined to used, except for as a pillow when they couldn’t take it any longer and laid down on the filthy floor. The temperature was an average 66 ° at all times and in this harsh environment, that single roll of toilet tissue was an object of envy. Something you would eventually come to covet, if you were left in the holding cell long enough.

Hours went by inside this holding cell like days. Rarely, very rarely did it seem as though someone had their name called and they would be allowed to step out for a moment to speak with the officers who worked inside the jail. Most people seemed to have minor infractions and they were allowed to bond out of jail. Eventually it was my turn to get the toilet tissue. There was an unspoken rule that whoever had been in the holding cell for the longest, got to hold on to the toilet tissue. As I seized the roll of tissue to use as my pillow, I heard my name on and intercom–––

–––“William Webster! Proceed to the reception window!” blasted the intercom, which always seemed to be turned up way to loud.

The door clicked open and I walked out, allowing the door to slam shut behind me. Stepping out to the holding cell provided a small sort of instant relief. As you step out and the door slams shut behind you, it becomes obvious that you have gained back some sort of freedom of movement. The reception area, which was within view of the holding cell, also had a Plexiglas window on it. In addition to this there was a small hatch at the bottom which could be opened and closed from the inside of the reception area. This set - up protected the Officers inside and made it so that no crazy or angry person could grab them, spit at them, throw water, etc… It also allowed them to pass and receive paper work. I approached this window and stopped, I looked over the middle aged white lady who seemed to be way too joyous for my taste, given the circumstances of where we were at. This woman obviously did not understand the seriousness of what people were going through in that holding cell, less than ten feet away.–––

–––“Hi!” She began, all chipper like. “Is your name William Webster?”

–––“Yes” I answered, sounding exactly how I felt, miserable.

–––“Alright then, I just need to get some general information from you and then we will get you booked in. It doesn’t look as though you will be allowed to bond out anytime soon.”

This woman asked me everything. Hair color, eye color, skin color, religious preference, spoken languages, shoe size, height, weight, and if I used drugs. If so, what kind of drugs do I abuse. She wanted to know where I was from, where I was born, what my social security number was and whether or not I had any known enemies in the area…–––

–––“Wait, What?” I balked, and wondered for a moment. “Surely this woman doesn’t expect me to stay the night here with all these criminals, locked up like an animal with no freedom of movement. I’m a good guy and I don’t belong here, she can ask anyone and they’ll tell her the same.”

Those were the types of thoughts running through my mind. You see, little did I know, there were a lot of ‘good guys’ in prison. Neither did I know that it would take two or three years before the reality of my situation would start to kick in. I had been charged with the crime of rape and the implications of such a charge are not truly imaginable. Neither is it imaginable to many humans of greater intelligence, as I came to realize in time.

After an hour of questioning, the woman asked me to go back to the holding cell to wait.–––

–––“Shit…” I thought

–––“We will call for you to get your finger prints in just a few minutes” she added.

–––Bang!––– went the door slamming home behind me, shutting out all hope once more. I took a quick glance around the holding cell, there were 7 people in it now which means there were only 6 people more than what should have been in that cell instead of 12. On top of that, the realization that someone else had grabbed the toilet paper demoralized me right back to the very brink of despair. I realize how stupid this sounds, concern over who has the toilet paper, given the circumstances, but I am for real. That toilet paper was the best thing to have within the holding cell as, hope did not exist. Several hours later, they finally called me for finger prints. Again, they asked me a slew of questions as they acquired my prints. They even documented my tattoos on a sheet that was designed specifically for tattoo documentation. It is at this point I see what they have charged me with for the first time since the day began–––

–––William Webster. ID #7654321: Charge: Forcible Rape

–––“No freaking way”, was the thought. “This can’t be right. There was no way it could be true. This mess will get straightened out, it’ll have to. The truth would come out, because everyone knows I would never commit such an act.”

I stood in a trance as the guy obtained my finger prints, along with what seemed to be more trivial information. Finally he asked me to go back to the holding cell–––

––––BANG!–––

By now, most of the people who were in the holding cell had made bond and they were allowed to leave. It was a blessing and a curse to see them go. Meaning you would be happy for them while simultaneously brewing in malice because it wasn’t you who was allowed to leave. But, it was getting late. When the officers picked me up that morning, it was approximately 7 A.M. Now, it was approaching midnight. At no point during the day had there been any food or drink offered to me and the only way to get water was by using your hands as a cup in the sink of the holding cell. It was a bitch of a situation to say the least.

Once midnight finally arrived a group of male officers approached the holding cell and informed the remaining people, that those who were unwilling or unable to bond out would be dressed out and moved to the back. If you are new in jail, these words have absolutely no meaning, but you can sense there is nothing great about what is going to happen. As things were, I had a non – existing bond and would be among those they ‘moved to the back’.

A quick assessment of the officers was all that I needed to make a decision. There was no way to take all five of the officers by myself. Most of them were nearly the same size as me and stout looking. Even if I miraculously managed to take them down, there was no place to go. They didn’t have actual keys to the doors here; everything was electronically controlled from secure Control Rooms. Therefore ‘to the back’ I must go.

The three of us who were left in the holding cell at midnight were brought out at...