Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Robert Presley Detention Center
Riverside, California
Rose stared out the window as the police car approached the Robert Presley Detention Center, Riverside’s jail. Mari had fallen silent, but continued to give defiant looks to the officer whenever he glanced her way.
Rose felt like throttling her. It was Mari’s fault that they were in this fix—if she had only restrained herself from hitting that woman over the head with a picket sign, they wouldn’t have gotten arrested—and Mari still didn’t seem to understand how much trouble they were in. Her continued defiance was not likely to make things better.
Or maybe, Rose thought, as she caught Mari’s eye, she does know how much trouble we’re in. Mari often used bravado and defiance to cover fear, nervousness, or stress. And the look in Mari’s eye was definitely frightened. Neither of them had ever been arrested before, and neither was sure what to expect. Mari had never even set foot inside a jail, while Rose’s only visits to jail had been to free Jack and to confront Cal, neither of which she talked much about. Jack had told her about his time in juvenile hall, though, and most of those stories hadn’t been pleasant.
They arrived at the jail and were hustled inside. After their handcuffs were removed, each woman was photographed standing against the wall. Mari made a rude noise and aimed a stiff middle finger at the camera before finally cooperating. After that, they were searched, and most of their belongings—particularly anything that might be used as a weapon—were confiscated, to be returned when they were released.
They were sent to separate cells, to keep them from getting together and causing trouble. Rose was in a cell with three other women, all of whom looked her over disdainfully when she was pushed inside and the barred door locked after her.
Rose looked at her cellmates evenly, not wanting to get into any more trouble. She had no idea how long she would have to stay there, or what she would be charged with. One of the guards was going to escort her to make a phone call in an hour or so, but she had to deal with her cellmates for now.
The other three women stared at her. Rose wondered what they were in for—something minor, like prostitution or vagrancy, or something more serious, like a violent crime?
Finally, one of them spoke. "Look what we have here. What’s the matter, honey? You get caught joyriding or something? Take off with your ex-boyfriend’s car or something?" She snickered.
Rose responded, her voice level. "Actually, I’m not sure what I’m in here for. I think I was at the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Ain’t that the truth," another said. "You’re always in the wrong place at the wrong time if you get arrested. So, what did you do?"
"I’m not sure what I’m being charged with."
"What do you think you did?"
Rose tapped her chin thoughtfully. "I’m not sure. Inciting a riot, maybe? Disturbing the peace? Insulting the wrong people?"
The third woman, who had been sitting quietly in a corner of the cell, spoke up. "Ain’t you Rose Dawson? That singer?"
Rose was surprised at being recognized, and wary. "I am."
"You rich?"
Rose smirked, shaking her head. "Hardly. If I was rich, I wouldn’t have to worry about finding cheap daycare for my daughter."
"Why bother? Just teach her to behave."
"She’s two years old!"
"So’s my kid, and he knows what’ll happen if he does anything."
"That’s why he was taken away from you and given to your ex-boyfriend," one of the other women responded. "’Cause you beat him half to death."
"He deserved it. That’s how you keep kids in line—good, solid discipline."
Rose looked at her, her mouth twisting with contempt. "I rarely spank Lizzy, and she’s a good kid."
"You think you’re better than me?"
"If the shoe fits..."
"Oh, shut up already." The first woman who had spoken to Rose glowered at them all. "I’m fucking sick of listening to you fight."
"I’m putting her in her place," the other woman retorted.
"You’re nothing but a child abuser. At least I didn’t hurt anyone."
"Probably just spread around disease."
"It’s not my fault if the men are too stupid to protect themselves."
That answered the question about what two of them were in for—prostitution and child abuse. Curious, Rose turned to the third woman, who was just watching the three of them.
"What did you do?" Rose asked her.
"Crack."
Rose raised an eyebrow. "Selling, buying, or using?"
"I don’t sell that shit, and my husband bought it. I just used it. And the son of a bitch turned me over to the cops. I got him back, though." She smirked. "I told them it was him who bought the crack, and they arrested him, too."
A guard came to the door. "Rose Dawson? You can make your call now." She unlocked the door, letting Rose out.
Rose walked stiffly, uncomfortable with being watched so closely, as she was escorted to the phone. Once there, she had no privacy to make her call, but could only turn her back on the guard while she called Jack.
He answered on the third ring. "Hello?"
"Jack?"
"Rose? Rose, where are you? It’s past six! I got a call at work from the daycare center, because no one had come to pick Lizzy up. I had to leave early and get her. Where the hell are you?"
"Uh...Jack...I’m in trouble. I’m at the Robert Presley Detention Center."
"You’re in jail? Shit, Rose, what did you do?"
"I’m not sure. I think I offended the wrong people."
"I heard that there was a disturbance down where you were protesting. This wouldn’t be related to that, would it?"
"Well...yes. But I didn’t do anything. I got arrested when I was trying to stop Mari from beating someone over the head with a sign."
Jack sighed. "I don’t want to know."
"I didn’t do anything."
Jack paused, then responded. "I believe you, Rose. Have they set bail yet?"
"No."
"What are you being charged with?"
"Nothing...yet."
"You’re in jail, and you’re not being charged with anything?"
"Not yet."
"They’d better either charge you with something or let you out soon. That’s illegal."
"Maybe. You know this sort of imprisonment has increased in the past few years."
Jack sighed again. "I know. Rose, if they haven’t released you or charged you with something by morning, I’m going to contact Maggie Browning, the lawyer who helped clear my record."
"How will you find out what’s going on?"
"I’ll find out. Just trust me. And this will undoubtedly be in the paper tomorrow. Besides, if you’re released, you can just give me a call and I’ll come pick you up."
"Mari’s here, too."
"Well, if they let Mari out, I’ll give her a ride, too."
"She’s being charged with fighting and disturbing the peace."
"You and your ideas..."
"I did the right thing, and I know it, though I wish it hadn’t gotten out of control, and I think Mari should have refrained from hitting anyone—even though they kicked her first."
"I think fighting and disturbing the peace are only misdemeanors. Hopefully she won’t be in too much trouble."
"I hope I’m not in much trouble, either."
"I hope not, too. Rose, I’ll see what I can do, okay?"
"Okay." She paused. "Jack, I have to get off the phone now. If I’m not released soon, could you come and see me, please?"
"Sure. I’ll be there."
"Thanks, Jack. I love you."
"I love you, too, Rose. Try not to offend anyone, okay? Jail is not a pleasant place to be."
"So I’ve noticed." Rose sighed. "Bye, Jack. I’ll see you soon."
"Bye, Rose."
As soon as she hung up the phone, Rose was escorted back to her cell.
"So who did you call? Your lawyer?" one of her cellmates asked.
"My husband. He’ll call a lawyer for me, if I need one."
"You’ll need one. Get a good one, if you can. Those public defenders are no damned good."
"Some of them are, some of them aren’t," Rose responded miserably. She wasn’t looking forward to spending the night in jail—or possibly even longer. But she still wasn’t sorry that she’d organized the protest—only how it had turned out.
"Why’d you get arrested?" another of her cellmates asked, bringing up the subject again. "Were you protesting something?"
"Naturally. How else would I get in trouble?" Rose asked. "Don’t answer that," she added, seeing the child abuser about to open her mouth.
"What were you protesting?"
"Out-of-control development in the area. We—my friend Mari and I—organized a protest of this meeting of city and county officials and developers. It got a little out of hand."
"I heard about that," the prostitute told her. "My sister, Sandra, was gonna be there."
"Sandra who?" Rose asked, wondering if Sandra Montoya was the sister she was talking about.
"Sandra Montoya."
"She was there, with her twins but without her boyfriend," Rose told her. "I don’t think she got arrested."
"No, she didn’t. I would have heard about it if she had been."
"So you really protest things?" the crack smoker asked her.
"If I think something is wrong, I say so. I’ve been doing that since high school. I once made an impromptu speech about how people should have the right to smoke pot if they want. I also protested the dress code at a pep rally."
"Yeah, you’re right. About the pot smoking, I mean. Why should something that doesn’t hurt anyone else be a crime?"
"Some people say there are no victimless crimes, because someone always gets hurt."
"There’s not many victimless activities," the prostitute pointed out. "Everything could hurt someone. You could drive your car, nice and sober, and never go above the speed limit, and always stop at the red lights and everything, and still get in an accident."
"True," Rose agreed, nodding.
The child abuser spoke up. "When you breathe, you use the air someone else could be using. I bet somebody will make that illegal someday…or at least make it too fucking expensive."
"It wouldn’t surprise me," Rose said dryly. It seemed like far too many laws were made specifically to benefit a few people—those with money. Involuntarily, an image of Cal flashed into her mind. He had gotten away with a lot before his attempt to murder herself and Jack. Pushing the image away, she looked up as the crack smoker spoke up.
"Maybe you could organize a protest in here," she suggested.
"Um..." Rose hesitated. She was in enough trouble already.
"Not like a riot or anything. Besides, you’re already in jail. What else can they do?"
"Give me a long prison sentence?" Rose suggested.
"Nah. You’re white. They won’t do anything to you."
"Uh-huh." Rose could think of several white people who were in prison or had been in prison for committing crimes—like Cal, although she couldn’t help but wonder if he would have received a more harsh sentence had he been a minority—or even poor. Justice was often meted out unevenly, with harsher sentences given to the poor and minorities, regardless of the severity of the crime.
"I’ll do it," she decided, getting up and standing in front of the door, her back to it. "It’s important to stand up for what’s right, no matter what the consequences are. It’s not right that people should go to jail for crimes that harm no one, and it’s not right that people are treated differently because they’re poor or not white. Everyone should be treated equally—but they’re not. Let’s say something about it."
Her organizational skills coming to the forefront, Rose began discussing ideas with the other women, still wondering at the situation she had found herself in.