so this other time in jail.

You need to read the first half of this story to really understand how I ended up in jail - twice.  Two years after my first 5-hour jail stay in Hamilton County, I was quite proud of myself for keeping my nose clean for so long. I was married to an actual adult and we'd purchased our first home and all was well (well, I may have gotten a ticket or two over the course of those two years, but who keeps track of those types of things?). 

I wanted to have my new Over-The-Rhine address on my drivers license since I had "recently" moved from our first little house in Northern Kentucky to our hip, new grown-up loft on 12th and Republic (which was the first "crack-house-drug-dealer-war-zone"  I lived in, according to my dad). I say "recently" loosely because it had been a solid year since I'd moved. 

When I arrived at the BMV, I was informed that I was driving on a suspended license (GASP.. Impossible!!).  I argued with the lady for awhile and let her know that I "took care of my business", but she told me I had to go to Campbell County and straighten this out. I had gotten a ticket(s) in Campbell County a year earlier, but hadn't went to court or paid the ticket because we were right in the middle of moving.  It was a legitimate oversight and I was certain I could explain that I was too busy moving and growing up to bother with things like paying tickets and/or showing up for court.

 

I arrived at the Campbell County Courthouse and waited my turn in line with the biggest attitude of "I'm too busy and way too good to be hanging out in places like this on my lunch break.. I should be sipping lattes or something right now.  Look at these people. Shame on them for not taking care of their business".  My pride and sense of entitlement during this time was out of control, but that's another story.  The clerk let me know that I couldn't just pay the ticket, but that I had to come back and go before a judge to explain myself. Her words were met with lots of huge eye rolls and exaggerated sighs from yours truly; I wanted to make sure she knew how much this was screwing up my day. 

My court date arrived and I casually asked my brother Jon to ride over with me so we could get some lunch afterward.  We waltzed into the courtroom and found a cozy seat near the back for optimal people-watching. The judge finally called my name: "RIV-EE-AIR-OH? RI-VER-EE-OH? Ma'am, do you speak English?" I hadn't even gotten a word out of my mouth yet and immediately took offense to that, which only encouraged my I'm-better-than-you-because-you-are-obviously-not-cultured-at-all-you-freaking-hillbilly attitude. Ironically, as I posted part 1 of this story yesterday, I learned the judge has since been publicly reprimanded since my rock star husband sent a sweet note to the commissioner about his little "do you speak English?" comment. I deserved to be in trouble, but you can't just be profilin' people.

I answered "yes" and he said a bunch of words after that, which I don't even recall because it's been a few years (plus I wasn't listening).  I do remember him asking why I hadn't shown up for court and I gave an awesome answer of "I was in the process of moving and I forgot" (diva move). Then I heard the words I'll never forget: "That's gonna cost you 5 days in JAIL".  I shot a fast look at my brother as if to say "WHAT? is he for real?! Can he do that?!!" My ears started ringing and I didn't hear anything after that. I just walked over and signed some papers with the little lady at the mini-desk next to the big judge desk and walked out. The first words out of my brother's mouth when we were outside of the building were "Hannah, you need an attorney".  Oh crap. Ooooh... crap.  This was about to get real.  

I was to check in to jail at 5pm on Friday.  It was a lot like checking into a resort. They even sent me a little list of things I could bring, like 5 pairs of white cotton socks, white cotton underwear and a white cotton bra (with "no underwire" because apparently lots of people are using their underwires to break out of county jails or shank other people). I was decked out in a fabulous brown dress and heels for my arrival at the Big House. I joked with my parents about how it was going to be a nice little vacation and how it might be nice to unplug from the world and be quiet with my thoughts for a few days.   


A woman greeted me at the intake-gate (I know all the jail lingo now: intake, dressed-out, general population, commissary... all sorts of new words) and took my new socks and my jewelry, kinda like a valet service.  I tried to joke with her the whole time, saying things like "I got dressed up for you folks" or "try not to wrinkle those white cotton socks, ok? they're brand new". Each joke made her want to hit me with her belt-attached bat a little more. 


She said since I hadn't been arrested, she needed to search me to make sure I wasn't bringing in contraband. I was cool with that since I'd seen so many episodes of COPS where they pat you down and check your shoes, etc.  She directed me to the bathroom and I quickly realized that this was not an episode of COPS.  I'll spare you the amazing details, but I'll just say that she and I got REAL personal, real quick. She made sure I wasn't carrying anything. Anywhere.  Anywhere at all. Buckie-naked style. I've said too much.


I was then placed in an open area with these chicks that were pretty cool.  I wasn't scared because they weren't yelling or dropping combos like those girls in the JC.

These girls were regular "weekenders" and they knew the ropes.  They told me stories about how wonderful it is after you get "dressed out" (put into your striped uniforms) and sent upstairs to "general population".  We'd be able to watch tv, take a shower, read some books, etc.  It was like paradise up there, according to these fabulous ladies. I called my mom from a little pay phone and told her how I was fine and had made some great new friends and that it was all good at the Campbell County Jail. 

Campbell County Jail (yes, I've been in jail in two states)

Just after I hung up the phone, I was asked by one of the guards to come with them.  I was so excited to be going upstairs to paradise city. He opened a big steel door and asked me to step inside.  I peeked my head in and it was a room that smelled like death with concrete walls, no seats and no windows.  I asked what room this was and he said "please just step in here, it'll just be a few minutes".  I spent the next 18 hours sitting on the floor of that room in my dress with no food or water, a broken toilet that smelled awesome and a toilet paper roll as a pillow.  They were overcrowded upstairs so they put me and two other nice ladies in there while they did a shift change and sort of forgot about us. This was a room designed for people who were too drunk to go upstairs, commonly called a "drunk tank" by my new friends.  There was a phone on the wall where you could make collect calls, so I called my parents and screamed into the phone for them to please get me out. They couldn't. 

It looked like this, only not as nice.

They finally came to "dress me out" and gave me a bowl of outmealish-meat with ketchup and it was delicious. Another lady led me to a bathroom and again, I will spare you the details but I will say that you haven't really lived until you've taken a supervised ice water shower followed by a good old fashioned "de-lice-ing". I understand the problem that lice would cause inside of a jail, but seriously - it burns and you never forget that smell or the humiliation of being buckie naked while the lady hoses you down with the de-lice liquid. Amazing. 

I was escorted upstairs but when the doors opened, it wasn't the paradise I'd heard about. None of my new friends from intake were there; just 3 angry looking women and 1 nice one.  There was no tv, no books and no showers - just another stainless steel sink/toilet combo.  I quickly learned that "due to overcrowding" I had been placed in the maximum security part of the jail for the duration of my stay.

My bed was on the floor and it looked like a plastic sled.  They gave me a nice blanket that was made out of luxurious materials comparable to burlap and hair from an old man's beard. About 4 minutes after I got settled into my sleigh bed, two of the girls in my "pod" started getting rowdy and a fight broke out about 4 feet from me. The nice lady I mentioned above, pulled her sleigh bed over by mine and whispered "just pretend like you don't see them and don't cry".  Two guards came in and pulled them apart and took them to "iso" as the weekenders called it (isolation). It was just me and two other ladies. 


The nice lady started talking to me and asked why I was there and I explained the events and she was compassionate and really kind. She asked if I knew who she was and I didn't. She asked if I'd seen her on the news and I said that I hadn't. She said, "my name is Cheryl McCafferty and I allegedly murdered my husband". I wasn't sure how to respond to that and she knew it, because after about 5 seconds of me silently picking my jaw up off the floor, she said "it's okay to be shocked, but I'm not a monster".  

I spent the next two days sharing stories with Cheryl about our lives and she told me all the events leading up to what happened (she actually did kill him and is serving her prison sentence now).  That time with her changed so many things for me. When I left, I gave her all of my freshy-fresh white cotton socks and my brand new no-underwire white cotton bra, since they are the jail equivalent of gold.  I was finally released and spent the next few nights wide awake thinking about Cheryl, so I wrote her a letter.  She wrote me back a few days later and we wrote back and forth every week until she went to trial.

Letter from Cheryl

Lots of letters.

I never broke the law again.  I haven't gotten a single ticket, but if I ever do, I'm going to show up in court, on the right day, at the right time, on the front row and I'm going to be sorry.  Really sorry.