a great justice system

The Tale of Drug Court, or How I Got Off Easy Part Two

So, now I'm sitting in jail with no way to let Micheal know about it, so I did the only thing I could do: I called his mom. I knew that he had been in touch with that bitch Connie so I figured she would let him know. That is, after the celebratory "michelle-is-finally-away-from-micheal" party that he undoubtably threw that night. We started writing back and forth to each other from one cell to the next. He was incarcerated in the "drug dorm" which is a program within the county jail. It is the predecessor for "drug farm" which is a 1-3 year program designed for people who are facing long prison sentences, or if you're just doing county time it still looks good when you go before the judge.

Two weeks later, I was moved to stockade into the drug dorm. Micheal was facing prison time, so he was on the drug farm waiting list. But now we really had something to talk about- both male and female drug dorms had the same DIs (drill instructors), the same therapists, the same stupid rules, the same time-outs, the same pull-up sheets, the same Quiet Time One and Quiet Time Two, the same classes and the same schedules. Now we had something to make fun of together!

But as it turns out, one of the rules was "no writing letters to the male drug dorm." I never heard that rule anywhere, I never even tried to hide it! But hell. I was moved out of stockade back to the main jail and to GP (general population) and he was moved to B Dorm, known throughout the stockade as "the Gladiator Dorm." His chance at drug farm was gone, and he had to go back before the judge.

I got released into the Drug Abuse Foundation (DAF) with a 6-month suspended sentence if I walked. Now I could write to Micheal with no problems. I hated it there and knew that if I threatened to kill myself, I'd be sent to the Mental Health Pavillion at Columbia Hospital which was a hell of a lot better than DAF. I knew I'd have to go back, but I was just killing time because I only had to be there 3 months. I had only been at DAF 3 or 4 days at this point. I went into the Pavillion, got put on meds, and was released back to DAF a week later.

But what I didn't know was this: somewhere between the jail, the county-sponsored treatement center, and the mental hospital, I had gotten head lice. They couldn't have me there if I had head lice! So they sent me home for 2 weeks. This is right before Christmas too. I was the happiest girl alive. I hadn't been home for 3 days when I got a phone call. From Micheal. And it wasn't a collect phone call. I didn't hear that he was an inmate at the Palm Beach County Stockade. All I heard was "hey Michelle, it's me." I rode my bike about 5 miles to his mother's house just to see him that night. He had gotten out with Time Served, which I was jealous of. Fuckhead robs a house and I just had a little dope and he gets out BEFORE me? What kind of justice system is that?

Turns out it's a great justice system. I didn't return until 3 1/2 weeks later, testing positive for heroin, cocaine, and marijuana. I was re-admitted. I never went back before the judge. And I got released after spending only 6 days, which is 9 or 10 total days, if I include the time I spent at the Pavillion it's about 16 days. Out of the 3 months I'm supposed to spend in treatment, I did 16 days. And I've never been arrested for drugs since. I was picked up once with some coke and twice with some dope, but I haven't been to jail for any of it. And that is called getting away with murder. I have a feeling that if I was a guy or if I was old and ugly, I wouldn't be getting away with shit.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

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