Tuesday, March 8, 2005

I cannot tell you the torture of waiting for pen and paper in this place. They do commissary every Tuesday, and if you don’t do your form perfectly, your entire order gets rejected. And that’s the only way to get pen and paper and anything else other than the bar of soap, a roll of toilet paper and a comb that the county provides to each inmate. I’ve been here since Thursday, so finally getting pen and paper has turned my world around.

I wish I could take a picture of this contraption I have to write with. The only thing available to write with are security pens, which is just the ink barrel sheathed in very flexible plastic. It’s like writing with a noodle. I suppose this is so you can’t stab your roommate with it and cause serious harm. I started off trying to rubber band a contraband plastic spoon leftover from breakfast to the pen. It worked, but my hand cramped. Then one of the other girls showed me the trick: peeling off the clear label from a deodorant bottle and wrapping it around the pen. It makes it nice and stiff!

All things considered, I’ve adjusted okay to life in jail, since I have no choice. I will be here for at least five or six weeks, waiting for a bed at Metro State Prison, which is just up the street. All inmates have to go through the Diagnostics program where they do full physical and mental evaluations. That’s something about prison I never considered, really.

Rumor among the ‘priors’ who’ve done this before is that I should be paroled well before nine months is up. But nothing can happen by way of parole until I get into the prison system.

My journey to this pen and paper was odd, to say the least. Kelly spent the night with me the last night before turning myself in. I just couldn’t be alone. We woke up early and left in plenty of time to get to the courthouse by 9 a.m. We stopped at McDonald’s for what would be my last real meal for a long time: a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich with extra cheese, hashbrowns and a Coke. My stomach protested, but I swallowed the food anyway. I knew from my previous experience that the next two to three days would be very difficult with little sleep or food since booking into the jail takes so long.

I didn’t linger too long outside the courtroom. But letting go and saying that final goodbye to Kelly was so hard. I finally forced myself to walk into the courtroom and surrender to the same bailiff. Kelly hugged me and said nothing, only gave me a look of encouragement. The bailiff smiled when he realized who I was. He was a sturdy man in his early thirties. I recalled witnessing his demand for respect and proper behavior in the courtroom the years prior, telling young men to remove their hats, sit up straight in their chairs and to take off their sunglasses. No one defied his instructions as he barked with solid authority, but there was also a kindness to his demeanor.

As he led me back to the holding cell, he offered me the only advice he had.

“Young lady,” he said, “Keep to yourself. Don’t get hung up in everyone else’s drama.”

I told him the only part I was truly scared of was spending any length of time here at the jail in general population. My attorney instilled the fear of the jail on Rice Street into me years ago, telling me it was the last place on earth I wanted to end up. And here I was, processing into the jail.

He estimated I would only be here for a few days since they do transfers on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I was optimistic that I could just endure the weekend and be on the first bus out of there.

“Once you get to the prison, it won’t be so bad,” he said. “Tell the intake person that you have years of business experience so you can be placed on a good prison detail, perhaps in the library or other administrative position. The better your behavior, the quicker you will get out of there.”

He isn’t the first person, and certainly won’t be the last, to tell me that with no prior background record and a solid home environment I will serve no more than a third of my time, or six months. The parole board, he said, will jump at the chance to send me home and free up a bed in the overcrowded system.

He put me into the holding cell, wished me luck while he locked the door, and was on his way. Sitting in that jail cell, I couldn’t fathom how I will make it through the next 24 hours, much less the 548 hours of prison time ahead of me, if I am to serve all of my sentence.

The jail cell was oddly shaped and located somewhere in the guts of the Fulton County Courthouse. The smell of dried urine hung in the air, which I suspected came from the dried urine stains decorating the end of the bench I sat on and the entire left corner of the room. The wall in front of me was a solid, plexiglass window where I had a view of deputies constantly passing by and peering in. To my left was a combination toilet and sink. A very short wall sat in front of the stainless steel cluster to provide minimal privacy when using the facilities. I vowed early in the day to drink as little water as possible to avoid using the stained toilet.

I was alone in the cell. I was afraid to be alone with my thoughts and of the many days ahead of me, but even more afraid of the inmates I would soon be surrounded with. I spent the majority of the day meditating and keeping internal conversations with myself. I contemplated how to handle my time. My options are limited, really. I could either play the part of victim and stay bitter at having been dealt a hard hand, or I could make the best of my time and use this time to grow. I have obviously chosen to go with the latter.

Mike is distraught over having to turn me over to the prison system, both scared for my well being and scared for how he would handle daily life without me. Over our final dinner, I pitched the idea to him about approaching my serving time as one big psychology experiment. I mean, how often in life was one removed from everything they know and are used to and put into a place they would never know otherwise? This experience is the ultimate in being removed from my comfort zone.

I’d been making a living in graphic design for the last twelve years. I’ve been a part of corporate America for as long as I could remember, but my passion was always in psychology. Shortly before the court date that brought me here, I enrolled in school to finish my bachelor’s degree in psychology.

Many psychologists and research groups interview and study criminals, drug addicts inmates and the like. But how many actually lived with them and became one of them? Maybe it’s my defense mechanism, but I’ve decided to embrace living within the inmate society, take notes and learn all that I can. From what I can tell already, inmates have their very own culture.

I tried not to check my watch every ten minutes while sitting in the holding cell. It’s hard getting used to the idea that I don’t have anywhere to be. I don’t have any control anymore over anything but my own thoughts. In my real life, if I don’t like my job, I can quit. If I don’t like where I live, I can move. If someone makes me mad, I can just put them on my ‘do not call’ list. But being here eliminates the ability to choose for myself. I am locked in a cell and only a deputy can decide when I can leave. There’s no quitting in jail; now throwing up my hands and walking away. I am in for the long haul.

The deputy that brought me back to the holding cell must’ve ended his shift because around 3 p.m. a different deputy came to retrieve me and take me to another cell. She wasn’t friendly, but she wasn’t mean either. She was very direct which I’m sure is part of her job. She handcuffed my hands behind my back and walked me down a long hallway. To my left and right were more empty holding cells. The elevated noise of talking women grew louder and louder as we approached the end of the hallway.

The deputy unlocked another holding cell, this one much smaller, and asked me to step inside. Once inside she removed the handcuffs and told me she would bring a sack lunch shortly. The holding cell was about eight feet wide by twelve feet long with the standard stainless steel sink and toilet set up with a short privacy wall. I took a seat on the three foot bench. With it being much shorter, I was thankful for no urine stains.

The only view I had besides three walls was out into the hallway through the standard plexiglass window. I heard a commotion outside just as a string of female inmates, all dressed in the standard Fulton County Jail scrubs and handcuffed together, came streaming down the hall. Each one slowed to look me over as she passed by my little cell. A few stopped to waved and yell unintelligible things through the glass and make gestures, leaving me to feel like an animal in the zoo. I tried my best to look brave and unaffected, but I’m sure my tear-stained face spoke volumes for me.

Two more handcuffed strands of women came down the hall, and I later realized they were all crammed into two larger holding cells. Having just appeared in court they were waiting for transfer back over to the Rice Street jail where I was headed.

As promised, the deputy returned with a sack lunch. The brown bag contained two pieces of odd smelling bologna, four slices of white bread, a packet of mustard, an apple and a red fruit drink. I didn’t have an appetite but I forced myself to eat the apple if for no other reason than to feel like I was boosting my immune system. It is impossible not to feel germ-infested while sitting in jail. I saved the sandwiches and fruit drink. I tried to get a little rest on the narrow bench because I knew the night ahead would be a long one.

The transfer ride from the courthouse holding room to intake at Fulton County Jail on Rice Street is one I will never forget. In more ways than one, it’s a sign that I am capable of spending the majority of my sentence in a very humorous state. I grew up under the impression that anything, no matter how terrible, could be dealt with by way of humor. I know it’s a defense mechanism, but I figure there are worse ways to handle such stressful situations.

The girls in the other holding were chained and shackled together one at a time and led toward the sallyport area where inmates are loaded and unloaded. When the last chain of girls was put together, the deputy came to my door and instructed that I step out and join the others. My heart raced knowing I was about to have my first interaction with the other inmates. Most of the girls were too busy telling the others about their outcomes, disappointments and occasional excitement surrounding their own situations as they played out in the courtroom. As conversations died down, the girls started to take notice that there was a stranger among them. I stood out I’m sure, wearing jeans and a St. Louis Rams sweatshirt, the only one in civilian clothing.

“You goin’ to jail?” a Latino woman asked, looking me over. She looked as though she was once young and full of life, but the years had hardened her face into stone.

“Yes,” I replied.

“You get arrested in court?” the same woman asked.

“No, I had to turn myself in today.”

The girl looked at me quizzically for a moment as if to decide her next words. The room suddenly became very quiet. I had the feeling not too many people voluntarily turn themselves in. Several girls stared at me as if to say, “you stupid fool, why wouldn’t you wait for the police to find you?” I have a feeling I’m going to be asked that a lot.

The conversation eventually picked up and I was left alone with my own thoughts, waiting as patiently as I could to get things going. A deputy finally showed up and instructed us to exit the holding cell. Slowly we were loaded on to buses and vans. There were only twelve girls so we loaded into the smaller van.

Several men filed out of another bay and loaded on to one of the two full-sized school buses. But these weren’t really school buses. They were quite menacing, built like school buses but painted a dingy gray color. ‘Fulton County Inmates’ was scrawled on the side of the bus in bold letters. Several blue and white lights were installed on the sides and top of the buses much like a police car. All the windows were covered in a thick-grade mesh fence to avoid breaking the glass to escape. The mesh was so thick it was difficult to see inside the bus.

Loading ino the van is no easy task when shackled and handcuffed to a string of women. It took great coordination to lift myself into the van without bringing down the women in front of me. It was much harder for the other women to hold their balance because they were wearing flimsy shower shoes.

Once inside, I felt like a canned sardine, squished between two women and face-to-face with another who was only three feet from my face. The first thing I noticed about her was the random and gruesome burns and scars all over her hands. Of course I was curious, but too scared to ask. I remember reading on the internet that rule number one in jail conduct is to never ask questions because inmates don’t like people who pry. That must only apply to others, because the women in here are constantly asking me questions.

She looked older, or at least appeared to be in her late 40s. Long, stringy brown and silver hair hung in chunks around her face. I’m not sure that it’d been washed or combed in at least a week. Most of her teeth were missing and the ones that remained were broken off and strained a brownish-orange color. She noticed the other girls staring at her hands.

“I burned my hands from years of addiction, smoking two crack pipes at one time,” she said. That statement alone has stayed with me. I know nothing about crack cocaine or the pipes used to smoke it, I just know that it must be a serious addiction to get burns on your hands of that nature.

I noted several police cars parked along the bay while waiting to load the van, but I had no idea they were part of the transfer convoy. It was nearly 3 p.m. and Atlanta’s afternoon rush hour traffic was picking up. As soon as the convoy reached Peachtree Street, a main artery through downtown, traffic backed up in all directions along the side streets. Traffic wasn’t a problem for us though. These buses weren’t stopping for anyone or anything, and the reality of my new life suddenly came into focus.

The police cars surrounding the convoy had full sirens blaring and lights flashing. It looked like a controlled high-speed police chase. The police on both sides of the buses were to stop traffic on the side streets. One police car floored the gas to run up to the cross street and block traffic, then the next floored the gas to move on to the next street and so on.

I never witnessed such a thing in my life, even on ‘America’s Most Wanted’. Little did I know at the time that this scenario plays out twice a day, everyday, between Fulton County Jail and the courthouse. People on the sidewalk stopped and gawked at the obnoxious convoy making its way down Peachtree Street, some pointing and nudging others standing around them. I noticed one group of citizens on the corner of a large intersection applauding as we drove by, apparently pleased that the most dangerous criminals in Georgia were finally locked up and put away.

And I was among them. It suddenly set in that I may, indeed, be surrounded by dangerous people now and for the remaining days ahead.

That’s when I began to laugh at myself. How did I get here? I wasn’t a dangerous criminal. I never brandished a weapon or killed anyone. Hell, being a practicing Buddhist, I don’t even kill spiders in my house, much less harm another human being.

I’ve always been a good kid. I’ve been a good adult for the most part, too. A real stickler for rules. I once took one of those personality tests as part of the hiring process for a job and the results said loud and clear that I am definitely rule-driven. I’m not sure what went wrong or at what point I decided to go against my better judgment.

It doesn’t matter what my crime was, what color my skin or my hair color, financial status or education. When I’m wearing handcuffs and shackled to the woman next to me, we are all treated exactly the same.

The process of booking in to the jail was as painful as I remembered. Booking involved being stripped down to nothing and ‘shook down’, which means searching your body for contraband, changing into jail uniform, collecting personal items and signing inventory sheets, fingerprinting, blood pressure and temperature check, an interview with a nurse to determine need for medication or medical assistance, classification based on your crime and mug shots. On this busy Thursday night, it took us just over 20 hours to process. Most of the time was spent sitting in plastic chairs in the common area waiting for your turn at each station. The common area is a very large, open room. The larger side of the room was reserved for men processing in, who far outnumber the amount of women. If I had to guess, I’d say there were over 300 men booking in to the jail that night, compared to just 24 women.

A line of vending machines sat in front of the room, which could be used by the inmates with permission given they haven’t changed into jail clothing yet and had money put into their property yet. A bank of pay phones sat in the middle of the room to make phone calls, which is especially important for the average jailer who is trying to find someone to bail them out. It’s sad, really, because this is the last chance to have a vending machine snack or to spend actual money before becoming a resident of the jail.

The longest part of processing is waiting for classification and a bed in the general population area of the jail. It took about eight hours for my file to be classified. During that time, 22 of us were crammed into a cell with enough seating for eight. Those of us that were without a seat on the bench had no choice but to find a spot on the cold, hard floor. I eyeballed that floor knowing by the look and smell of it that it hadn’t been mopped or washed in ages. But exhaustion took over, and eventually I went to sleep on the floor. No wonder I’m sick.

I managed to make three ‘friends’ during the booking-in process. I don’t know that I have much in common with these women, but it is easier to face going into general population when someone is on your side.

We were finally taken to our zone. I am in 1 North 300, which is the same zone I was placed into a few months ago. Luckily, everyone was still in lockdown when we got there, so it gave me a little time to get settled and to get my bearings. If it weren’t for that issue that landed me here a few months ago, this whole ordeal could’ve been awful. As embarrassing as it is to admit, I feel like an old veteran this time.

The Zone is an octagon-shaped dorm with 20 cells lining one wall on two stories.

The routine is easy to fall into.

There’s a definite schedule, but it’s sort of a guess as to when anything will happen. We have to be ready for anything at all times, but there is a shortage of deputies and staff, which really affects when anything gets done.

3 a.m. – We rise for breakfast if we choose. Usually breakfast doesn’t arrive until between 3:45 a.m. and 4 a.m. But we have to be standing on the stairs waiting. You can’t just sleep until the cart arrives. After breakfast, it’s back to our cell for lockdown.

7 a.m. – rise again, stand around outside our door waiting for mandatory head count for shift change. We see numerous head counts everyday, about every two hours. The head count at shift changes are most important. We are required to remain standing outside our door until the count clears, which means the entire jail is counted accurately and paperwork matches up with actual head count. This rarely happens on the first try, so it’s not uncommon to spend an hour and a half waiting for count to clear. Once count clears, the television comes on and the pay phones are turned on. We are then allowed to come out of our cells and spend time in the common area, take a shower, etc. Most people go back to bed.

10:15 a.m. – lunch is served. Well, we stand around and wait for lunch, just like we do breakfast. Usually we end up eating around 11:15 a.m.

Noon – After lunch, we are required to return to our cells for ‘Quiet Time’, though it’s never really quiet in here. We aren’t usually locked in our cells during this time unless either the inmates are being unusually rowdy or the deputy in charge is cranky. The rule is you have to be in a cell, not in the common area, and you have to be relatively quiet. This is my favorite time of day since it is usually pretty quiet. Most of the inmates sleep or go to someone else’s cell to play cards. I use Quiet Time to do my writing. I am more miserable on the days that we don’t have required Quiet Time (like the weekends).

3 p.m. – Official count again, then we are allowed to come out and the television comes on again.

5 p.m. to 11 p.m. – Dinner, television, phone calls and whatever else until final count and lockdown.

The food… eh, the food. There’s horrible, and then there’s what we eat. Breakfast typically consists of powdered eggs, grits, bologna, three slices of bread and a carton of milk. The only reason I get up for breakfast is the milk, but I also eat the bread when it’s available. I think I see the reason the old “bread and water” joke has been said about prison all these years.

Lunch is the same thing everyday: two slices of the odd, slimy bologna with no flavor, two slices of glossy processed cheese food, four pieces of slightly stale bread, a packet of mustard, a fat free oatmeal pie and most days an orange, though we’ve been known to get an apple now and then. On days that apples are included, I usually end up with quite a stock of them since most of the women are missing too many teeth to handle eating an apple. I don’t like the oatmeal pies; they taste nothing like Little Debbies. They are a hot commodity in here, so I can usually trade them for an extra orange. I figure all the Vitamin C I can get will help. Each meal comes with a community container of what looks like Gatorade, but certainly doesn’t taste like Gatorade. I love the rumors and speculation that there is something put into the drink to take away sexual libido in the jail system. If that’s true, it’s not working based on the things I see and hear in this dorm.

Of all the meals considered, dinner is not usually that bad. Since I’ve been here, I’ve had fish (which is mostly breading and no actual fish that I’ve seen), spaghetti, a hot dog, veal (or something like it, we’re not sure), “hamburger”, potatoes, vegetables, bread, cornbread and cake. The chicken is served on Sundays and is baked. It was a leg and a thigh so it was pretty greasy, but it was real chicken and distinguishable as such. My roommate at the time was a vegetarian so I had a double serving. Most of the dinners aren’t horrible, just bland. Seasonings and salt aren’t offered or used in cooking due to a high population (over 6,000 inmates) and possible hypertension or allergies. This is really hard for a girl who loves salt.

As far as survival things are good for the most part. The problem with county jail is that no matter how positive my attitude is, this place is so negative and depressing. The way the inmates treat each other and the way we are treated by most of the deputies is difficult. For one, it’s so loud in here most of the day. We live in a cement dorm which is one large room so everything echoes. There are 50 women in here, give or take, at any one time. Black women are loud, all but maybe 5 women in here right now are black. This is not a racist comment, merely an observation based on my experience. On top of 50 women yelling above each other, there is a television blaring full blast and deputies screaming at us over the intercom. I’m so used to my quiet apartment that the noise in this environment is by far my most difficult adjustment. Well, that and having florescent lights overhead 24 hours a day.

There is a lot of fighting here, but I’m not surprised considering there are over 50 women crammed into a small space. The thing I’m learning about black women is they can’t let anything go. Ever. I don’t care if someone walks by another person and accidentally brushes her sleeve. That’s an invite for confrontation. I can’t say that about all of the women in here, but most of them. There is always a group of three or four women that runt things by intimidation. They are always the loudest; they never talk, they just yell. Somehow I’ve gotten used to and can tune it out most of the time. I’m convinced that attitude has a lot to do with it. I do my best to stay out of the way and no one really messes with me. In fact, even the bullies always say ‘hi’. I don’t befriend them, but I haven’t felt threatened by them so far.

The worst part about being here is as I suspected: there’s nothing to do. Television and sleep. Up until today, I slept a lot. I usually sleep from 11 p.m. or midnight until about 3 p.m., getting up only for count time and meals. With me being sick sleep came easy. Now that I’m able to write I’ll feel more functional.

My commissary items finally arrived today. The only thing I had to shower with for the last five days was a cheap bar of soap that the state issues each inmate. Not that I’m prissy, but trying to wash my long hair with a bar of soap really wasn’t working. And while this is sort of funny, there won’t be any shaving of anything while I’m here. I can’t recall a time in my adult life that I’ve gone more than a week without shaving my legs and underarms.

Most of the commissary food is junk, mostly candy. There is an unwritten rule about respecting other people’s belongings, but I’d say half or more of the inmates in here are Crack Cocaine addicts. In withdrawal, they crave chocolate and sweets and will steal other people’s stuff before anyone realizes it. On days that commissary is delivered, I have to take my pillowcase to the door of the dorm where the officer reads through the inventory list and dumps my items into the pillowcase. As each inmate walks back to her cell, the other inmates that don’t have the luxury of commissary purchases stares the other down, trying to figure out a weak mark to con for some of the items. It really is a nerve-racking ordeal.

Being here is nothing like its portrayed on television. In Fulton County Jail, we don’t get a free phone call upon arrest. We don’t get one hour of exercise a day. We leave our cells a good portion of the day but we never leave the zone. I left once today for medical and I will for visitation, but that’s it. And there aren’t any bars in this jail. The doors on the cells are solid steel with a small window.
 

With the jail being so overcrowded, there are ten sets of bunk beds lining the zone. When I first arrived, I was forced to live in one of those beds until a bed in a cell opened up. This meant being exposed full force to the constant noise and blaring television and overhead lights. Thanks to my decision to sleep on the floor during intake, I ended up with the flu my first few nights here. I had to endure those nights in one of the exposed bunk beds.

Moving to a room can be good or bad. On the positive side, each cell has its own toilet and sink, the lights are off at night and its somewhat quieter. Your stuff is safer, too. The main variable is the roommate. If you end up with a bad roommate, you will be more miserable. My roommate experience so far has been okay. A deep secret of mine is that I find it very hard to sleep if someone is snoring. That’s my phobia about sleeping in a tiny room with someone. But so far it’s not been a problem. I doubt it will always be this good.

I was moved into a room Saturday night. I have a feeling that while it’s not supposed to, race plays a big hand in the way things are done around here. There were several other women in the bunk beds in the day room that were here before me, yet I was moved into a cell. And the roommate I was moved in with happened to be white also. I think that they do try to keep the races together as much as possible, especially the white girls since they are a rare occurance.

Chris was my first roommate. Unfortunately she left yesterday. She was white, 20-year-old. She and her active duty husband are stationed in Germany. She had a son and was married at 17. Being a former military wife, I’m all too familiar with those stories. Apparently, Chris and her husband had a rough patch three years ago, just after their son was born. When she moved out, he got angry and reported her for child abuse. No charges were officially filed, but the warrant is still active. Chris’ husband just returned from Iraq and they flew to the states to see his family in Alabama. When they swiped her passport here at Hartsfield Airport, the warrant came up and she was arrested. She was held here until Tuscaloosa County decided they wanted to come get her. She’d been waiting a week for them to decide.

Nicky is my new roommate. She’s black and 25-years-old. She’s actually very pretty, which is only a surprise because her life is a mess and centered around a Crack Cocaine addiction. She seems so intelligent, but she knows nothing other than drug addiction and prostitution. She is the first inmate who sat and just talked to me about her life. That was a real treat for me.
 

Ms. Kathi and I are becoming friends in a strange way. After knowing her, I can say I know someone who’s killed another person. She’s a Mexican woman, 39-years-old. She so darn gentle, though. She’s very naïve and uneducated, yet very smart at the same time. I recognized her immediately when I first got here since she was here in December. I don’t have all the details, but apparently she’s bipolar and being treated for it. She and an 85-year-old man ended up fighting and he died. I don’t know anything beyond that, but you know I’m curious. She’s been here since August waiting for trial, which is finally set for March 11.

The Psychologist and her attorney think she won’t be sentenced to life or anything, but she won’t have all the charges cleared. All I know is she’s been one of the kindest people to me. She’s shown me the ropes and been very nice company. We play cards every night to pass the time, but lately we’ve started playing Chess. It’s been a very long time since I’ve played Chess and I don’t think I was ever very good at it. I like knowing there’s something challenging to work on to build skill. She’s really helped me maintain my sanity.

Dee Dee is another girl I recognize from my last visit. She’s a 23-year-old black girl and one of the sweetest girls in here. What made me remember Dee Dee so well was our interaction the last time I was here. We were at sick call together near the nurses station and somehow the topic of STDs came up. She really didn’t know much about safe sex or what the risks were for unsafe sex. When she figured out I knew a lot about the topic, she sat for several hours asking me all kinds of questions. It’s still hard to wrap my head around knowing that there are girls out there that don’t know about the risk for HIV or other STDs.

We didn’t get much of a chance to talk this time, but something happened that truly touched me. She’s been here for several months, pregnant at that, and was released yesterday. I have no idea what the circumstances of her charges are. Right before she left, she came down to my room to find me. Now, up until then, I assumed she didn’t remember me from the last time. But she did. And she remembered my name, too. She came to my room and said, “Andrea, I just came to say goodbye and to tell you to keep spreading that positive attitude and outlook you have. It was so nice just to have someone to sit and talk to when you were here last time, and you never made me feel stupid. I just wanted to thank you for that.” She grabbed my hands and said a prayer, then left.

The other woman I recognize from December is Paula. She’s a white, 38-year-old woman and as hilarious as I remembered her to be. Not to sound judgmental, but she is a walking stereotype: stringy-hair, missing teeth and most of her stories are funny but they involve being drunk. Oh, and she has eleven kids. Regardless, she and I got along great. She left a few days after me in December and was sentenced five weeks ago with charges of burglary, armed robbery and assault. She’s been here waiting for transfer to prison. Fortunately she was transferred yesterday. She was sentenced five years. Normally she’d only serve two or so, but because they are cracking down on armed robbery charges, which is considered a violent crime, she will likely serve all of her sentence, or at least 90 percent of it.