400 Hail Marys

The night I panicked, I practically fell against the chain-link fence surrounding the desk where Officer Rule sat. Something must have wanted me to live that night, because I’d thrown myself at the right DO. Anyone else might not have given a damn.

“I’m going to kill myself or do something very stupid if I don’t get the hell out of here! I can’t take this anymore! I can’t!” I wailed hysterically.

Without a word, Rule reached for the phone, dialed Medical, and told them what I’d said. Then she stood up and motioned for me to follow her. She led me to Medical, where I poured my entire sob story out to an older nurse.

“I can’t work because I just can’t sleep in that zoo. It’s like trying to sleep in the middle of a circus! Besides, I have a problem with working for free and an even bigger one when it’s for the very system that screwed me over.”

“Then you’ll be locked down and on restriction,” the nurse said dubiously.

“So be it then. I have no choice. I simply can’t do what I can’t do, and I can’t work without sleep. Plus I’m gagging on cigarette smoke. You know they smuggle that shit in there all the time, and you know I’m asthmatic.”

Though it seemed rather ridiculous, I signed an agreement promising not to hurt myself. I mean, what were they going to do if I actually killed myself? Charge my corpse with suicide? Then again, I wouldn’t put it past that state to try such a thing!

“Officer Armstrong is here to take you to A Tower,” the nurse told me on my way out.

Then Rule told me to wait a minute while she pulled Armstrong aside in the hallway. I couldn’t hear what they said, but by the way Armstrong glanced at me a few times, I assumed they were talking about me. When they finished, Armstrong went in the opposite direction, and Rule turned toward me. In a conspiratorial tone, she informed me there was another option.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Ad-Seg.”

“Ad-Seg?”

“Administrative Segregation. It’s like protective custody. You’ll still be locked down twenty-three hours a day, but this way, you’ll only have up to two cellmates, and you’ll be able to keep your privileges like visitation and commissary rights.”

“Oh, that’d be nice. I’d hate to not be able to see my husband over this.”

“We’ll have you fill out a form, but you have to be very careful about how you word it. You have to tell them you fear for your safety. Use the smoking to your advantage. Tell them you snitched because of your asthma.”

We returned to the tents, where I filled out the Ad-Seg form. Then she took me back to my tent to retrieve my few precious belongings before escorting me to A Tower.

A Tower held 130 inmates. There were four pods surrounding the tower. Two of the pods were general population, one housed the chain gang, and the other was for both Dis-seg and Ad-Seg inmates because both were only allowed out of their cells for one hour a day.

Each pod had fifteen cells. The pod I was in was the only one with an extra set of bunk beds in its cells. They put up to three people in these cells. The cells were about eight by twelve, with nothing more than a small metal table bolted to the wall, a small metal stool bolted to the floor, and a toilet. The back wall had a narrow strip of a window near the ceiling.

In the dayroom, there were tables, two shower stalls, and some payphones. A camera sat high on the wall, aimed at the main section of the room.

Although the DOs walked through each pod every fifteen minutes, inmates got most of the things they needed, like soap and toilet paper, through the trustees on their hour out.

A Tower had plenty of mice, and I’d drop little pieces of bread for them late at night. Tom found it kind of funny when I told him that a mouse once ate a corner of a candy bar I had stashed at the head of my bunk. I had just been about to nod off to sleep when I heard papers rustling by my head. I fumbled through my stuff but never did see the mouse responsible. The next day, I discovered the nibbled candy. I simply broke off where the mouse had chewed, then split the rest with my celly.

M Dorm, where I spent most of my sentence, was much smaller, cleaner, and quieter. No mice there, unfortunately, since I loved the little cuties. M Dorm had an open area for drug offenders that held about 30 inmates, much smaller than the other dorms. The dorm also had two identical pods. One was for juveniles, the other for Ad-Seg. These pods only had five windowless cells. Two held four people, and three held two. I hated the big cells—not just because of the extra cellmates, but because of how exposed I felt in them. Bars were a thing of the past. Everything was now concrete, steel, and tempered glass. The big cells had glass doors and two glass windows, making me feel like I was in a giant display case with no privacy whatsoever. Being in a big cell also meant having to use the toilet in front of more people. The toilet could be seen perfectly from the tower. The small cells had just two strips of glass in their doors. All cells had metal desks with shelves and movable chairs on hinges.

The dorm, commonly referred to as “the princess dorm,” also had a dayroom in its pods with tables, payphones, and a shower room, though the pods were much smaller.

While I was in A Tower, I met with a therapist a few times. Her name was Kara. She was very supportive and encouraging, though like the others, she couldn’t do much to help me.

Somehow, I managed to sleep through most of the noise and commotion around me, though not very well. My usual sleeping hours were from around 2 a.m. to 10 a.m., but not without many interruptions in between. I usually slept in spurts and spent a lot of time being tired. Eventually, it caused me to catch my first cold in four years, another thing I could thank my abusers for. Breakfast came as early as 5 a.m., and then other things would wake me throughout the morning—uniform exchange, sheet exchange, underwear and towel exchange, hour outs, etc. Some cellies were harder to sleep with than others. Those who were up when I was asleep and weren’t very quiet or considerate made it harder to sleep.

When you’re told to “roll up,” it means you’re to gather your things to be moved to wherever they’re going to put you. One of the hardest things about being in jail was all the moving around they made us do. Just when I’d get comfortable with one celly (or two), I’d be moved to a new cell with new cellies. On top of missing Tom and home, being forced to interact with people constantly was the hardest thing. Having to interact with coworkers was one thing, but living with strangers was another. I felt so smothered, and not having any space or privacy sucked, even though I spent about two out of the six months I was there alone.

Another thing that was hard was having to use the toilet in front of others, and how so many of my cellmates would constantly beg for things. When it got out of hand, I wouldn’t hesitate to remind them they weren’t my responsibility. Although most of the inmates were just regular people like anyone else, there were also a lot of crazies in there. Sometimes, I felt more like I was in a mental hospital than a jail.

The showers were usually either ice cold or scalding hot.

During my hour out, I’d usually shower, sweep and mop my cell, get pencils sharpened, stock up on soap and other essentials, and call Tom, depending on the time of day. He was working day shifts at the time, so I couldn’t call him during the weekdays.

Since I was in Ad-Seg, I had closed-contact visits with Tom twice a week for half an hour to an hour, depending on how much time he signed up for. We had a total of an hour and a half each week. We sat in little rooms, not much bigger than phone booths, with a bulletproof window between us. It was hard not being able to hug him.

Helen, the therapist I had started seeing before my sentencing, stuck by me throughout everything. She sent cards and letters, even visiting me once. I received a few letters from Paula and a Chanukah card from Tom’s mom and sister. I wrote to them once or twice a month.

Luckily, I wasn’t on any life-saving medication, because if I had been, I’d be dead for sure. It took two weeks just to see a doctor. I was still using inhalers at the time and needed them for three to four years after quitting smoking. Sometimes, I’d get my inhalers on time, but more often, I had to fight for them.

We could request items through “tank” orders, medical tanks, and grievances. Tank orders were for things like library books, legal information, or Bibles. Medical tanks were for medical and psychological requests. Grievances, though, were mostly a waste of time. While inmates had the right to complain about the living conditions or the conduct of the DOs, a sergeant would always back the DOs. You could say a DO slapped you, threatened to kill you, or harassed you in any way, but they’d stand by them. Only after numerous complaints from multiple sources would anything possibly be done.

About a month into my sentence, I found out I was eligible for work furlough. I declined for several reasons. First, I didn’t have a job to go to in the city. Second, any money made went to the jail, and there was no way I was going to work for them. Third, I could barely sleep inside the jail, let alone in the tents, and I was too run down to work. Lastly, I knew it’d be too tempting to run if I was let out, and honestly, I would’ve done just that.

As I sat on my bunk, somewhere in the middle of my sentence, I thought back to the day I was sentenced. It felt like an eternity ago, as each month in jail seemed to drag on and be double in time.

Ratsy had died two days before my sentencing. He was two and a half years old, old for a rat. Our only remaining rat was Houdini, and rats need companionship. Rats loved to play together, just like kittens. So, the plan had been to stop and get a new rat and mouse on our way home from court, even though I had a bad feeling that day. But instead of going home with new pets, Tom went home with an empty passenger seat and two empty cages, thanks to the twisted events that followed.

Four months into my sentence, Tomasewski came to tell me that The Arizona Republic wanted to do an interview with me, but I quickly declined. I wasn’t about to be made a fool of again. They could say whatever they wanted about me. They could even call me a mass murderer, and I wouldn’t care, but I wasn’t going to assist them in making a spectacle out of me.

Tom regularly sent letters and pictures of himself and the animals. I avoided looking at them too much because they only made me break down in tears.

One day, I found myself wondering how Kim and Bob were doing. I hadn’t talked to them since we left Phoenix. I also wondered if any of my jailhouse experiences were similar to Bob’s time in prison.

I thought about Andy and how he once suggested I write novels in addition to journals.

“But what would I write about?” I had asked.

“I don’t know. A mystery, a romance, whatever. Maybe even a lesbian love story.”

So, we talked about me writing a story about a woman who gets framed and thrown into jail or prison, only to fall for a female guard who returns her feelings. At the time, I had no idea that the fantasy we concocted and that I put into print was about to become a reality. I never would’ve believed it if someone had told me this would happen!

My first cellmate was a 21-year-old named Kim, a proud member of the Aryan Brotherhood. However, she didn’t have an issue with Jews because she saw Judaism as a religion, not a race. Despite prioritizing drugs and gun-running over her own kids, Kim was surprisingly smart for someone her age.

When Kim told me most of the inmates were bisexual, I thought she was exaggerating. But as it turned out, all but a few of the 25 cellmates I had celled with had been with women at least once in their lives.

“Not bad for a hate symbol,” Kim once joked while I jogged in place.

I glanced at the Nazi symbol tattooed on her middle toe and said, “I wish I had my little mister to cool me down.”

“Oh, those misters are amazing! Definitely a gift from God, don’t you think?” she replied.

“Actually, mine was a gift from my husband,” I said with a grin.

About a week later, 24-year-old Jessica, who was naïve and a bit flaky, joined us. She’d ended up in jail for leaving her one-year-old son in a shopping cart at a grocery store. She and Kim eventually got into a fight, and Jessica was moved out.

“Has the fact that it was Black people who put you here changed how you feel about them?” Kim asked me one day.

Had it? Did this whole ordeal make me racist? I thought about it for a moment and replied, “Well, what they did certainly didn’t help. What they did is not a good way to get people to like and accept you. But I also know there’s good and bad in every group. It’s just going to take some time for my mind to focus on the logical side of things and not the angry side.”

And it would indeed be a while, and to be honest, I don’t think I could ever forgive those involved in jailing me, including the very white DA and judge. Even if I’d been totally guilty, no one deserves such a ludicrous sentence.

I constantly tried to remind myself that everyone deserved the benefit of the doubt. I wouldn’t want to be blamed or automatically hated for something another Jew or white person did. But being “fair” proved difficult at times, and I couldn’t help but worry about other Black people deciding to hate me for some reason and then crying racism against me, especially in a state and time when it was all too easy to do so. It was unsettling to know they would almost certainly be believed no matter what I said. Still, I hoped that the tactics being used then wouldn’t work forever, and eventually, the race card would lose its power as it became overused.

Next came 35-year-old “Agent Tara,” who claimed she had worked for the FBI since she was a baby, after being created in a laboratory. She said she knew the government killed her children when her breasts suddenly appeared smaller. That was before they stole her ovaries to make pies with.

This is what drugs did to her mind. Any questions?

In just a few days, the “agent” was gone, replaced by 40-year-old Bible-thumping Gretchen. She was in for drugs, and her way of coping with jail was to recite 400 Hail Marys three times a day, even when I was trying to sleep.

Although Gretchen was half-Black, Kim tolerated her until she was moved.

Then came 31-year-old loudmouth Lora, also in for drugs. According to her, she was once a CO in a prison, and that’s why she was in Ad-Seg.

Kim and Lora were moved to M Dorm one night, leaving me alone for a day or two until I was moved there too. Kim and I had been there once before, in a small cell, but we were sent back to A Tower when a closed-custody hermaphrodite named Alex needed our cell.

This was when I got my first taste of how miserable it was to be in a big cell. Besides dealing with Lora again, I was now with 21-year-old pregnant Madoline and 34-year-old Deanna, both in for drugs.

Although Madoline could be just as obnoxious as Lora, I preferred her. We even developed a little evening ritual where we’d argue in a fun and playful way.

Deanna snored worse than my husband and mother combined, but for some reason, it didn’t bother me, even though it drove everyone else crazy. I guess it was the consistency of the sound that helped; it was the unexpected noises that usually bothered me when I was trying to sleep.

On the morning of my 35th birthday, Deanna and I staged a fight to get me out of there, knowing how much I hated big cells. At first, I thought she was genuinely mad at me for yelling at her earlier about some annoying moaning sounds she was making, but then I realized it was all part of the plan.

A month and a half later, Deanna and I ended up as cellmates again in a two-man cell, but it didn’t work out. She wouldn’t sit still when I needed to sleep. We tried staging another fight, but the DO on duty wasn’t stupid. Fortunately, we managed to get separated after a few days. I wasn’t happy with her either, as she, like so many others, used race as an excuse to get us separated when it wasn’t the issue. Our incompatibility was the problem.

Once I was in a small cell by myself, my craziest cellmate yet joined me—33-year-old schizophrenic Melinda, in for drug and littering charges. She was not only delusional but also the loudest, most hyperactive person I had encountered. She’d climb around the cell like a monkey, tear up magazines, and yell out the door. I could only sleep when she was asleep.

After warning a DO about what I might do to her if one of us wasn’t moved, I was sent to Alex’s cell while Melinda was in court and Alex was in D2, the psych ward.

Then Alex returned. Not wanting to go back to the psycho, I was thrown into a four-man cell again. A week later, Deanna and I staged another fight to get me out, and I ended up back in A Tower because no other beds were available in that dorm.

For about a week, I was alone in A Tower, then I was moved in with 43-year-old Tina, who was also in for the usual thing…drugs. If it wasn’t that it was prostitution. Tina and I argued a lot but eventually got along. She just drove me crazy at times with her constant chatter!

A few days later, 21-year-old Rosa joined us. She became my favorite cellmate. Rosa didn’t speak English, so I was grateful that I spoke Spanish, and Rosa appreciated it too. I’d often translate for Tina.

I was shocked when I saw Rosa’s papers, which stated she was in for child abuse and second-degree murder. I thought, This girl? A baby killer? My gut told me she was innocent, just as much as Myra over in M Dorm was guilty of child abuse and molestation.

Rosa told me that her 1-year-old daughter died after falling and hitting her head while she had left the bathroom for a moment. Her husband, who visited her regularly, wasn’t charged with anything. She had also recently found out she was pregnant with her second child.

In Spanish, I told Rosa not to show anyone her papers. Meanwhile, she took my mind off my situation, making the days pass faster. She was cheerful and easy-going and would console me with a hug when I felt homesick. We’d even play jokes on Tina while she slept, doing silly things like pretending to blow our noses into toilet tissue and then putting it in her open mouth while she snored. We’d try hard not to laugh loud enough to wake her.

After a couple of weeks, I was moved from Rosa and Tina into a cell with 42-year-old Ruby, who was in for drugs. Supposedly, I was placed there to “babysit” her because she was epileptic. At the time, I had no idea that Officer Palma, the hot DO who moved me, was attracted to me (though I didn’t always care for her personality), and that she was jealous of my friendship with Rosa.

Although Ruby didn’t believe much in showers and therefore didn’t smell great, she was an okay cellmate. She slept a lot, and when she was awake, she loved to chat.

A few days later, I was moved again, this time in with 39-year-old Carolyn and 43-year-old Marian, both in for drugs. Marian was also in for prostitution.

I didn’t enjoy my week with them. They’d chat while I was trying to sleep, and Carolyn wouldn’t stop talking about God when I was awake. This drove me nuts.

“If God’s so wonderful, why is the world in shambles?” I asked her one day. “Little kids are kidnapped, raped, and murdered. How can we call that ‘God’s will’ and still worship Him? It just doesn’t make sense to me. How can we say God has justified reasons for letting such things happen? You say He doesn’t want bad people in His “house”—well, I’d be more than happy to stay out of His house if He’d have let me stay in mine.”

On New Year’s Day, I was moved to M Dorm for the last time. That was the day I met Mary. As soon as we met, I knew we’d be friends after getting out, though she was still inside at the time of this writing. We write regularly, and I’ve helped her with her book by typing up some drafts. She was the one who informed me that “Teddy Bear” was transferred to Madison St. jail six months after my release for flirting with too many inmates.

Mary didn’t seem like a typical inmate. She was slim, pretty, and always wore a friendly smile. The 23-year-old brunette had the ends of her hair dyed bright red, and it looked great on her.

We were very compatible as cellmates. Both of us were night owls, and we had a lot of good talks, laughs, and even tears as we poured our hearts out to each other.

I felt bad for her. She didn’t deserve to be in jail any more than I did, though for a very different reason. Her ex killed her one-year-old daughter, but she was charged with neglect. I suppose they felt she should have left him before it happened, and I know she regrets not doing so.

After nine days of being cellmates, one of my least favorite DOs swapped her with Deanna because of a fight in the big cell next door. Neither Mary nor I was happy about it.

Concrete, Steel, and Snacks

Many urged me to turn to God after receiving the insane sentence I did. Yet, my hatred towards Him only deepened. If God existed, allowing this to happen to me—on top of everything else I’d already endured—was despicable, inexcusable, and unforgivable. Sure, everyone had their struggles, but I certainly didn’t deserve what I got, and many others agreed, though they had no power to help me.

Tom patiently supported me through the 180 days I was stuck in Phoenix’s Estrella Jail. He wrote to me weekly, visited twice a week, and kept money in my account for commissary.

What angered me most was knowing that no one who had ever wronged me—whether in a big or small way—had ever faced any consequences. People tried to convince me that God would “get ‘em” in the afterlife, but I had no way of counting on that—or even knowing if an afterlife existed.

The next six months were filled with anger and homesickness, but they were also packed with unexpected adventures. I met interesting people and learned a lot of new survival tactics. I learned how to peel kiwis with plastic spoons, the only utensils allowed. I trimmed my bangs with nail clippers. I discovered that gum could be made by rubbing orange peels against Styrofoam cups, softened by their acids, and flavored with toothpaste—though I found it pretty disgusting. Jail taught me that things could have more than one use. Toothpaste doubled as glue for sticking pictures to the wall, though the DOs often made us take them down. Wet wads of toilet paper worked well to block part of the air vents so we wouldn’t freeze so much. The old-fashioned, non-stick maxi pads without pins made surprisingly good washcloths and could also be repurposed as earplugs using the cotton core.

The food was beyond terrible. Rarely did we get anything halfway decent. Mostly it was bread and overly spicy hotdogs or sausages. And the showers were just as cold as the jail itself.

In pencil, since pens weren’t allowed, I documented my day-to-day experiences, good and bad. I’d send a few pages at a time home to wait until I could return to type them up.

Miraculously, I made it through my sentence without a single write-up, though I had a few close calls.

County time is hard time, but as strange as it sounds, I had more freedom in jail than I did in Brattleboro or Valleyhead. They didn’t run us ragged all day and night. Oddly enough, more people seemed to care about me there, and having a set release date from the start made things a bit easier. In those other places, I never knew when I was leaving until the day I actually left.

Of the sixty or so detention officers (DOs) I encountered, I only disliked a few. Most of them were surprisingly cool, especially officers Pérez, Palma, Chambers, Temple, and Espinoza—“Espi,” as we called her. But none could compare to Johnson, whom I affectionately referred to as “Teddy Bear.” I had always been attracted to her, and although the feeling was mutual, neither of us realized it until close to the end of my sentence. There were a few others—three female officers and one male—that I knew were also attracted to me.

In court, I would’ve refused to sign the appeals paperwork after the judge sentenced me if it weren’t for the bailiff urging me to do so.

“What’s the point?” I said. “I’m too white and definitely too Jewish to fight these people.” I didn’t yet know I’d been framed in a clever and successful way, and I also knew that by the time anything happened with the appeal, my sentence would be over.

During one of our visits, Tom told me he had written a complaint to the Bar Association about Paul, but naturally, they refused to do anything.

My heart nearly stopped in fear. “Tom, don’t! Please don’t. It’s hopeless. I appreciate your support and I know you’re just trying to seek justice, but there is no justice in this case. Don’t fight for me; it’ll only make things worse, especially while I’m in here. But how did that pig know I was Jewish?”

“Well, you do look it—with your facial features. Plus, he would’ve known your maiden name. I really believe you’re here more for being Jewish than for being a complainer.”

“I just don’t see how I could end up here for so long for sending journals, Jewish or not.”

“You’re not in here for the journals. It’s because of that letter—and the cop was personal friends with her.”

I looked at him in disbelief.

“Yeah, haven’t you figured that out yet?” he asked, pointing out their behavior in court.

I thought back to the way they’d interacted. “I suppose I should’ve realized, but I couldn’t stand looking in their direction that much. I was afraid I’d come completely unglued if I did. But yes, I sensed something was off. I just didn’t want to admit it. It’s terrifying to acknowledge that these things really happen. After all, I did have the dreams warning me of trouble ahead.”

I knew I couldn’t have been their only victim. Just like a rapist doesn’t only rape once, I knew the corrupt cop had very likely used and abused his authority over others as well.

We discussed how I should’ve gone to trial. If I had, it was unlikely I’d have been convicted and sent to prison for a year and a half as Paul warned. All I would’ve had to do was claim I knew nothing of the letter (had I had a lawyer tell me that’s what I was being charged with up front), which would’ve planted enough doubt in the jurors’ minds. Paul manipulated me into not going to trial because trials cost money.

“No one’s going to hurt you,” said the detention officer as he handcuffed me after the sentence was handed down. He walked me out of the courtroom and into the Horseshoe, the central booking station. I was crying hysterically. We passed a chain of male inmates awaiting their own court appearances. One of them handed me a religious booklet. I let it fall from my hands onto the cold, hard concrete floor. God was the last thing I had any faith in at that moment.

They took my hair barrette and put me in a room not much bigger than a phone booth, alone. There was nothing to sit on, so I slid down the wall and onto the floor, sobbing until I was nearly hyperventilating. I was numb with utter shock and disbelief. This was only supposed to happen to other people—or on TV. Eventually, a female DO came to get me to go over some forms, but I honestly can’t even remember what they were about. Probably just general info.

At first, I refused to cooperate. I knew it wasn’t right to take out my frustration on the detention officers (DOs), but I was done with “cooperation.” Look where it had gotten me.

After they removed my cuffs, I was frisked, photographed, had my blood drawn, and my fingerprints taken. Then they threw me into a holding cell with about twenty-five other women. The cell was all concrete and steel, with a three-foot wall partially shielding the toilet. Two walls had concrete benches, while the third had three steel bunks, completely bare of mattresses.

Some of the other inmates tried to console me, but at the time, I was beyond inconsolable. I wasn’t just shocked and depressed—I was furious. Every “if only” raced through my mind, even though it was pointless. If only I had taken the neighbor’s crap and done nothing about it. But since I didn’t, if only I hadn’t opened the door to the cops. But I did, and after that, if only I hadn’t gone to court. If only I had gone to trial. If only, if only, if only.

After fifteen grueling hours in the holding cell with nothing to eat (not that I could have eaten), we were cuffed in pairs and loaded onto a bus for the ten-minute ride to Estrella jail. The male inmates were packed into tiny, phone-booth-sized enclosures. The women, including me, sat on open seats. My cuff mate was a large woman named Becky, who kindly tried not to squash me every time the bus jerked around a corner by our crazy driver.

When we got to the jail, we filed into the intake area, where we were uncuffed.

“Be a man!” I suddenly heard a female officer shout at a male inmate. Her name tag read Wilder. “How bad do you want that work furlough? A little tact and class takes a man a long way.”

We were then separated and put into different holding cells. With limited bench space, most of us lay on the cold floor, huddling together for body warmth.

After about a half-hour, an inmate trustee came by to get our sizes so we could change into the ridiculous black-and-white-striped uniforms issued by the jail.

When I finally received my ID card, I stared at the photo. Damn, I look terrified, I thought.

From that moment on, I was no longer Jodi S. I was just a number.

Around midnight, we were assigned to different areas of the jail based on our classification. Unsentenced inmates, pregnant women, and those with medical issues were sent to the dorms, large rooms holding 130 women in rows of bunks. Sentenced inmates like me were sent to Tent City.

Tent City consisted of ten army tents set up in a yard surrounded by two layers of fifteen-foot-high, razor-wire-topped fences. Even more razor wire was coiled at the base of the outer fence. Each inmate was assigned to a tent based on their job, as everyone was expected to work a shift. When you first arrived, you were placed in the “welfare tent” until assigned a job. Most inmates qualified for “two-for-ones,” where each day worked reduced their sentence by a day. Of course, I was one of the unlucky few with a flat sentence, so I didn’t qualify.

The indoor area included a dayroom with picnic-like tables bolted to the floor. Lockers lined one wall where we could store personal items if we bought a lock through commissary. Off one side of the dayroom was a small room with showers, and on the other side, a bathroom. The three-foot-high walls between the stalls offered little privacy, so if you wanted any, you had to use the filthy, mice-infested porta-johns outside. There were also sinks, payphones, and the DOs’ station, which was enclosed in a chain-link fence that ran from the floor to the ceiling.

When I was assigned to the laundry tent—the biggest of them all—Officer Trilock, known for being strict, assigned me to a top bunk.

“But I can’t climb up there,” I told her.

At first, she glared at me like she wanted to kill me. Then she asked, “Are you Jodi S.?”

I nodded.

Her expression softened. “You’ll be okay,” she assured me, and later assigned me to a lower bunk.

What I didn’t know was that the media had been all over my case, and many DOs felt bad for me, regardless of whether I was guilty or not. I also didn’t look like the typical inmate. Most of the others were there on drug charges with their hardened and less-than-attractive appearance, missing teeth, and unkempt look. So, I definitely stood out.

I got hit on by several inmates and soon realized that Johnson, who I would meet later, wasn’t the only DO who liked me. They didn’t have to say much—it was in the way they looked at me as opposed to their words. I got more attention in jail than I ever had in all the gay bars combined.

Officer Arajo was one of those who seemed attracted to me, though the feeling was far from mutual. Standing six feet tall and mean in every way, she was a stereotypical “dyke,” as people would call her, and that wasn’t my type.

Overall, despite a few arguments and one near-fight, I was well-liked by both the inmates and most of the DOs.

The DOs wore beige uniforms with their first initials and last names displayed on their name tags. They typically addressed us by our last names, but some called me by my first name, especially the ones who liked me—not just physically but because they saw me as smart and funny, though they knew I could be a bit of a bully at times.

About forty of us slept in the laundry tent with only two portable heaters at each end of the forty-foot tent. The days were pleasant, but the nights were freezing. Despite wearing thermal underwear under my stripes and bundling up with half a dozen blankets, I was still cold.

At night, the women on the lower bunks would ask me to check for mice nesting in their blankets, as I wasn’t afraid of them.

We woke up at 4:00 AM for a nauseating breakfast and were then cuffed in pairs and led to work in the laundry department. There were three supervisors: one I didn’t like, and two others, Kevin and Maria, who were pretty cool. Both expressed that they believed I’d been railroaded and encouraged me to fight my case, but at the time, I couldn’t see how that was possible. Still, I wanted to fight, not just for me, but for others who might also be victims.

Maria nearly fainted when she realized who I was. In a high-pitched voice, the stout, motherly woman exclaimed, “You’re Jodi S.? Oh my God!”

Yeah, lucky me. The one and only infamous Jodi S.

There was no coffee in jail. No tea, no soda—just milk and juice. Toward the end of my sentence, a coffee cart came around selling decaf coffee, tea, hot chocolate, soda, and soup, but it didn’t last. Apparently, they weren’t making enough money.

The food was atrocious. We often got “slop,” tiny bits of mystery meat in congealed gravy. Spicy hotdogs were a favorite at Estrella, but nothing was as common as the bread and bland potatoes they constantly served.

If you had no money, you’d get an indigent package each week: a short toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, ten sheets of paper, five stamped envelopes, and a golf pencil. Combs, soap, and feminine supplies were on demand. If you did have money, you could buy a radio (until they took that option away after I left), writing supplies, hygiene items, and snacks—but first, you had to pay $30 a month for “rent.”

During their sentence, most inmates gained around 30 pounds due to the abundance of starch, sugar, and lack of physical activity. I, on the other hand, made an effort to jog in place with my little radio on most days—when I wasn’t completely exhausted. I arrived at 115 pounds, dropped to 105, and left at 119.

My biggest fear when I was first sentenced was losing our house. I was terrified they’d demand I move back to Phoenix, but I was determined not to. I had dreamed of owning a house like ours and living in a rural town for too long to let a group of hateful people take it from me. While the county could dictate my life in jail, I wasn’t about to let them control how I lived on the outside, especially over such a petty and false accusation.

I also feared dealing with a nightmare of a probation officer, especially after the corrupt cop, deceitful lawyer, and vindictive judge I had already faced. I was anxious about being ordered to work outside the house, but I was ready to stand my ground. After all, I lived miles from any bus line, and as far as I was concerned, I already worked. I was sick of society’s disdain for homemakers, even though my responsibilities went beyond just cleaning the house.

Life in the tents was a nightmare. Sleep was nearly impossible with people constantly moving around, yelling, laughing, and sometimes crying. Whenever I did manage to fall asleep, I was woken up over and over again. The DOs would make announcements over the loudspeakers, and inmates were always noisy, often smoking with cigarettes smuggled in during their open-contact visits. Ever since I quit smoking, I became extremely intolerant of secondhand smoke.

On my second or third day there, a DO told me Channel 3 wanted to interview me. My heart raced with a sliver of hope—someone cared! Someone thought six months for a letter was absurd, whether I was guilty or not!

Or so I thought. In reality, they hadn’t come to offer support; they came to attack me. Though they initially claimed to be “neutral,” it was clear just minutes into the interview that they were there to make a spectacle of me for entertainment. The anchorwoman, speaking as if the supposed victim was the one who’d been wronged, eventually came right out and asked if I was a racist. Suddenly, the entire narrative shifted to whether Jodi S. hated Black people.

I should have left the room as soon as I realized I was under attack, but I stayed, trying to be polite. I was confused, unable to understand why I was receiving the same kind of media attention usually reserved for murderers or celebrities. Was Oprah going to call next?

That night, when Tom saw the news segment, he told me they’d edited out everything I said, making me look like some horrible monster.

Feeling utterly helpless, used, and depressed, I returned to the tents, more hopeless than ever. I sat in the dayroom and cried. Looking around, I wondered how many others were there for petty offenses, trumped-up charges, or perhaps even innocent like me. I couldn’t be the only one in this situation.

An Asian woman named April approached me. She was a therapist in jail for beating her husband, though it was hard to imagine such a small woman, probably no more than 90 pounds, doing that. She hugged me, introduced me to others in nearby tents, and let me cry on her shoulder. While she couldn’t help me get out of jail, just having someone care enough to listen made a difference.

The first inmate to show me physical affection was Angel, who bunked in my tent. She generously gave me paper and an envelope so I could write to Tom since you had to be there a week before receiving commissary or indigent packages. But her fondness wasn’t mutual—I wasn’t attracted to her. Even so, she wanted to soap my back in the showers, kiss me, and hold my hand every chance she got. Fortunately, I was moved inside before I had to break her heart and tell her we weren’t on the same page.

The DOs weren’t allowed to open legal mail, but we had to open it in front of them. One day, LaBorde—whom I privately called “LaVoice”—handed me a letter from the adult probation department. I opened it, and as she walked off, I read the terms and conditions of my probation.

No alcohol? No problem. I didn’t drink.

No contact with the “victims”? Only in my dreams, I thought sarcastically, shaking with rage.

No contact with the arresting officer? Of course not. Why would they want us to confront them for screwing us over?

No guns? No problem—though we didn’t own one, you could bet we’d get one if anyone caused trouble at the house. They knew where we lived, thanks to the media and their “pig pal,” and we weren’t about to be sitting ducks. No system could keep us from defending ourselves if it came to that.

As I sat with my list of “no-nos,” I felt like a child again, being told what to do, when to do it, and how. If there was ever a time I felt my life wasn’t my own as an adult, it was then. I wondered if I’d ever feel free again.

How had these people managed to seize total control of my life from such a distance? Before, they hadn’t cost us money or my freedom, but now they owned every aspect of me. They dictated my every move, from where I was to what I wore, ate, and even when I slept. Ironically, I slept better with them just a few feet away making all the racket they made! They controlled my visits with Tom, took me away from my home and pets, and even from my dental care—I was without my retainers for two months, causing my teeth to shift.

As I sat on my bunk, I reflected on the last 24 hours. My heart was heavy with sadness, my fists clenched in anger.

Each day, it became harder to pull myself out of bed to fold laundry from 5:00 AM to 12:30 PM. I was sleeping less and less each night. By the fourth night, I was tossing and turning until 1:00 AM, listening to the shouts and laughter of other inmates.

“This is impossible,” I told myself. “I can’t work with no sleep, and I don’t deserve this. I didn’t do anything wrong, and I won’t work for a sheriff who’s degraded me to a common criminal. Screw this! I’m not going to kiss this state’s ass!”

A sense of panic welled up inside me. For the first time in years, I wanted to die. If I were dead, I’d never have to worry about being stuck in places I didn’t want to be or dealing with society’s bullshit at my own expense.

I thought of ways I could kill myself before anyone could stop me. Maybe I could hang myself with a sheet from the fence, or slam my head against the wall.

Then I remembered the razors that littered the shower room floor. My heart pounded as I climbed out of bed, feeling drawn toward the showers and those razors. But as I approached, another force seemed to push me past it, leading me toward the DOs' station.

Ad-Seg Sanctuary

During the twelve hours I spent in Florence jail, I was at least grateful I had quit smoking—I didn’t have to deal with craving a cigarette on top of the shock of learning the charges against me were for stalking, threatening, and intimidation.

How had I “stalked” these lunatics by sending them my journal entries? How had I “threatened” them? And intimidation? How was it my fault if this twisted woman felt intimidated? I couldn’t control her emotions, nor could I see how I was responsible for them. Besides, I knew the truth: she wasn’t intimidated by me—she was angry and full of hate.

Yet, there I was—being fingerprinted, humiliated, and treated like a criminal. Eventually, I was handed a frayed blanket and shoved into a tiny cell with three other women. It was close to 1:00 a.m. by that time.

I stood there clutching the worn blanket, unsure of what to do. Two women were sprawled on the cement bench, and one was on the cement floor, all of them fast asleep. I found a spot on the floor by the three-foot wall that surrounded the toilet and sink. Both were operated by push buttons since regular handles could be used as weapons. I lay on that cold, hard floor, trying to figure out how things had gotten to this point.

A few hours later, the door creaked open again and another woman entered. She stared out the small, square window in the steel door for what felt like an eternity.

When 6:30 rolled around, after dozing off for maybe a few minutes, we were handed brown paper bags. Inside were sandwiches with some kind of questionable meat, a bag of chips, an orange, and a small bottle of juice. I gave mine away as I certainly had no appetite.

Not long after, the door opened again. I asked for pain relievers for my cramps and was surprised when I actually received them a few minutes later.

Shortly after that, a judge read off our charges and handed us papers with court dates.

Around 7:00 a.m., we were taken upstairs into an open pod with about a dozen cells, each with two bunks welded to the wall. A small table and chair were welded to the opposite wall. A long, narrow window overlooked the parking lot. The pod echoed with the voices of a couple dozen inmates as two female detention officers stood nearby. Some women were clustered in groups, while others sat at metal tables bolted to the floor.

I was led to a cell on the lower tier, where I met Joy, a skinny, six-foot-tall blonde. One of the officers informed me that if I wanted out, I just had to push the button by the door and the DO behind the desk would unlock it.

Joy got right down to the begging and bartering, offering me her car if I bonded her out, while another woman asked if I could contact her daughter long-distance when I got out. I turned both of them down, of course.

When the phones were turned on around 8:00, I tried to call Tom, but there was no answer. I assumed he was out trying to get me released. My bail had been set at just over $2,000, and it was going to cost $266 to get me out.

By 11:00, Tom had secured my release, and we headed to Sharon’s place nearby. She was the bondslady. Sharon and her brother were former corrections officers from a nearby prison. They were pleasant enough, but I was just eager to go home. I wanted nothing more than to crawl into my own bed after a sleepless night on that cold, hard floor with a TV blaring just outside the door.

Sharon chatted about her son, who had been imprisoned for years just for planning a robbery—emphasizing planning, not committing. She went on about Arizona’s strict laws and sentences, as if I hadn’t already begun to figure out just how extreme they were.

“Anyone can have anyone arrested,” she said grimly. “You could tear your blouse, slap some bruises on yourself, claim your husband did it, and they’d haul him off to jail. All it takes is an accusation.”

Before I left, she urged me not to take a plea bargain, no matter what. She also gave me instructions to call her every Tuesday to check in, then sent me off with a hug and an ice cream sandwich.

That night, I went to bed feeling like something had tried to prepare me for a greater challenge by throwing me in jail for twelve hours.

Determined not to spend another dime on my perpetrators, I contacted a public defender—another mistake I’d come to regret. Paul turned out to be more of a “public pretender.” Tom and I regretted not doing our homework on the legal process upfront. I ignored my gut instinct, but by the time we realized how mishandled the case was, it was too late. The police had acted illegally from the start. For one, by law, I should have been provided with an interpreter since I’m deaf in one ear yet they never even mentioned it.

My lovely lawyer also withheld crucial information. There was a hearing I could have had that would have helped my case immensely. He even proved that much of the journal evidence had been falsified. He read something to Tom over the phone that he had neglected to tell me during our earlier conversations—claims supposedly from my journal, including an outrageous statement that I had stood around with a gun we never even owned, contemplating shooting the kids next door. I’d never in a million years think of doing such a thing even if we did have a weapon.

I had three court dates in August, September, and October, costing us more money each time for parking. When I called Paul after returning from Florence, I immediately sensed something was off. Tom reassured me that I was just being paranoid, but I knew better. Paul seemed out for blood. After all, he worked for the county—and the county was against me.

At my first court appearance, I pled not guilty.

By the second time I met Paul in person was when the bribes started. At the time, I didn’t see a way around it, and I wasn’t always aware of what was happening.

“I don’t see how they can call this ‘stalking,’” I protested. “What I did wasn’t stalking, no matter what the laws say. Stalking is following someone, taking pictures, leaving notes on their door, calling them—that’s stalking.”

“But there are different definitions of stalking,” Paul said. “If you plead guilty, you’ll be charged with attempted stalking, and you’ll get a year of probation. If you plead not guilty, you’ll go to trial for stalking both Joely and Debra—and I don’t see how you could win. It would take a miracle.”

“So, if I go to trial, I’m a stalker. But if I plead guilty, I just ‘attempted’ it? That’s absurd. We’re talking about journals here, not bombs. Maybe I shouldn’t have sent them, but probation? I just want these people out of my life. I’ve been harassed for years, and I’m at my breaking point. I need to move on.”

Paul kept feeding me lie after lie. “Relax,” he’d say. “Everything’s going to be fine.” He even told me that if I went to trial and was convicted, I wouldn’t go to jail. What he conveniently left out was that the journals weren’t even the main issue. I was being charged for sending a threatening letter I didn’t even know existed—the same letter the cop had handed me during the so-called interrogation.

On my second trip to court, I endured a lengthy interview that lasted over an hour, mostly filled with irrelevant questions about my background, medical history, financial status, mental state, and hobbies. What in the world did my love for singing have to do with the case?

Then she asked me a strange question: was I planning to fight the outcome? Like an idiot, I said no. I was promised a year of probation and genuinely believed that’s what I’d get. I didn’t realize then that they ask this to figure out who they can take advantage of more easily. I didn’t know that the more people they had in jail, especially on probation, the more money the county made. It was just another business, like any other, driven by profit.

When she asked how much our property was worth, it felt like she was fishing to see what she could get from me. I regretted answering, wishing I’d said, “I don’t give out personal information,” even though they could have found it out anyway.

Seeing Joely, her boyfriend, and their little friend Mr. Bias in court (though I didn’t yet know they were friends) was one of the most humiliating moments of my life. I was the victim in every sense, yet there she was, playing the “poor, poor victim” and lying through her teeth.

First, she whined about losing her section 8 because of our complaints. Then she claimed she was eight months pregnant when she moved. If that was true, why was she skinny as a rail? We saw enough of her during those three years to know she had never been pregnant.

Then she used her child to her advantage, accusing me of threatening it. First, it was supposed to be with a gun we didn’t even own, then with a knife. She couldn’t even keep her stories straight, but nobody seemed to care.

She also claimed she had to move twice after leaving our street, but if someone was harassing her wherever she went, it wasn’t us.

In late October, I received a call from a guy in the presentencing department. He said his job was to speak to everyone involved and not to help anyone or pass judgment. He wrote down every word I said, which I’d later hear repeated in court.

“Expect the worst and hope for the best,” he told me. “Probation’s a possibility, but so is jail.”

Of course, I’m not going to jail for this, I thought. That’d be ridiculous. No one goes to jail for something like this, and if they do, it wouldn’t be for more than a few days.

Still, the bad vibes and nightmares continued. I even suggested to Tom that we pay off the bond and stop going to court.

“It’ll be ok. You’re just being paranoid,” Tom said.

“Then why do I feel like I’m walking into a trap? One I could avoid if I just walk away now. The more I keep answering Paul’s calls, going to court, and giving in to these people, the more I’m asking to be victimized. The old neighbors started this, and we need to end it.”

But Tom truly believed everything would be fine.

Just minutes before sentencing, Paul led Tom and me into a tiny room and told us the DA was recommending six months in county jail.

“Six months! Is she crazy? Hell, why not just execute me? I never harmed anyone!” I cried, stunned by how simply wanting them to shut the fuck up and keep their noise to themselves could lead to so much grief like this.

Then we saw things we’d never seen before, like a threatening letter supposedly signed by a KKK member.

“Are you really a KKK member?” Paul asked.

“No! I’m Jewish, for God’s sake!”

Tom and I started to suspect that our lovely ex-neighbor had some serious connections in the court. What we were about to witness would confirm it.

Back in the courtroom, there was the judge, the DA, Joely, her boyfriend, and Mr. Bias himself, whose mannerisms and behavior made it clear he was not only friends with the sick bitch but had coached her on what to say.

For a moment, I had a glimmer of hope when the judge asked why the case had been pled down to attempted stalking if it was such a big deal. But the DA quickly interjected, saying it was the only way to get “deals,” and that the other “victim” couldn’t be found. The “other victim” being Debra and her drug dealing lazy associates, many likely being illegals with warrants out on them.

The DA then insisted I hated them. In truth, I hated Joely and her connections because they made my life hell for no reason other than my religion and my request for lower music volumes—not because of their skin color.

When it was our turn to speak, Paul gave a weak defense, talking about how fragile I was and pointing out that many people who physically attacked others didn’t even go to jail.

But the judge had already made up his mind, just like everyone else in that room. He sentenced me before I’d even had a chance to defend myself.

When I heard the sentence, the room started to spin. How I wished I were guilty of something that matched the sentence! At least then I could say I deserved it. I couldn’t help but wonder—what would I have gotten if I’d actually attacked her? Less time? No time?

The judge’s voice droned on: “…six months in Maricopa County jail, beginning today, October 30th, 2000… probation for two and a half years… a misdemeanor upon successful completion of probation in 2003…”

Power Trips and Paperwork

We had barely been in the house a few days when a knock on the door jolted me from a sound sleep on the morning of January 5th, at 10:30 AM. I peered out the window and saw a cop standing at the foot of the steps. Right away, I feared something might have happened to Tom. This was just before he switched to working days.

“Yes?” I asked after I opened the door.

“Are you Robin?” the cop inquired.

When I told him I wasn’t, he mentioned something about wanting to get word to her that her father was ill, asked for my name, and then left. I was too relieved that nothing had happened to Tom to think much more about the strange visit.

The next day, another rude awakening came—this time at 8:30 AM. Frustrated to be woken up twice in a row, I groggily shuffled to the door. The same cop was there, but I didn’t notice the others, who were hiding.

I flung the door open, ready to say, “Hey, I’m not Robin!” I figured I could just show my ID, go back to bed, and move on with my life. But before I could say anything, the cop stepped aside, and in walked a Black man who had been hiding around the corner. His shirt read “Biased Crimes,” and I’d soon learn his name was Jerry.

He wouldn’t explain why he was there at first. He asked for my name, showed me a picture of Tom, and asked if he was my husband. I said yes, then asked how he got the photo.

He shrugged and said, “I’ve got pictures of all your relatives.”

Was that supposed to intimidate me?

They let me dress in the bathroom, then led me outside. That’s when I saw four or five cruisers parked outside—some from Pinal County, others from Maricopa.

All this for one person?!

While I suspected the freeloaders in Phoenix were behind this, I started to wonder if something bigger was going on—something I didn’t know about. Could it be more than the journal excerpts I had shared when we left Phoenix, where I made it clear what I thought of the neighbors? Yes, I had used some very harsh and controversial words. But those words weren’t because I hated them for their color; I used them because I knew it would piss them off, and I wanted them to feel as angry as they had made me for years. It wasn’t about race—it was about them. Yet, they saw this as a perfect opportunity to make it about race. Sadly, after the OJ Simpson case, this became all too common.

I was cuffed and placed in a Phoenix PD cruiser with two white officers. The ride to Phoenix felt like it took forever. Meanwhile, Tom, still at work, had no idea I’d been legally kidnapped. I knew he’d be worried when he came home and found me missing but I was later able to call him and get a cab ride to his mother and sister’s place. That was the thing about the police; they’d gladly give you a ride when they wanted you but would happily leave you stranded when they were done with you.

I tried not to worry, reasoning that it was just words on paper. But then there was this Black cop—Jerry—who, for all I knew, might hate whites and was using his power to spite me. I told myself that kind of thing only happened in movies. Surely, this wasn’t about power and control. He couldn’t be that corrupt or vindictive, right?

Still, the way he looked at me—with such contempt blazing from his eyes—made me wonder. I had been lied to by law enforcement before, more than once.

What I didn’t know at the time was that Jerry was a personal friend of Joely, and both of them were everything they accused me of being—full of hate and vindictiveness. I also didn’t realize how anti-Jewish Arizona could be, or how corrupt law enforcement was. Ironically, I wasn’t even really “Jewish” just because my family was. I wasn’t religious at all, wasn’t sure I believed in God, and saw religion as a bunch of silly rules and superstitions, often narrow-minded, especially toward women and gays.

The scariest part of the whole ordeal was realizing that if this could happen to me, an ordinary person, it could happen to anyone. More and more people were being framed or jailed for petty or trumped-up charges, while real criminals walked free with barely a slap on the wrist.

Minorities were gaining the upper hand in the courts, especially after the L.A. riots. Judges were afraid to rule in favor of whites when minorities were involved—fearful of riots or accusations of racism. Because I was white and Jewish, I suffered greatly, as did Tom. Hurting me meant hurting him too. Tom would have to spend six lonely months apart from me, forced to take on both my responsibilities and his own.

Looking back, I regret being so polite and cooperative with Jerry once at the station. I should have kept my mouth shut and demanded he either charge me or let me go. That probably would’ve angered him enough to book me on the spot, but it didn’t matter—I was destined to end up in jail anyway.

I didn’t realize until nearly a year later, after my sentencing, that I had been convicted of sending a threatening letter. I had been tricked into pleading guilty to something I wasn’t even charged with because I was led to believe the case was about the journal excerpts, not this letter. This letter either came from someone else they had crossed or was used to frame me. When Jerry handed it to me to ask if I had seen it, he ultimately got my fingerprints on it.

It still stuns me to this day that I spent six months in county jail, followed by years of probation, all because of a letter. Even if I’d been 100% guilty, it was a ridiculously harsh sentence, and anyone can make threats. But what’s that saying about actions speaking louder than words? No one was forced to read anything I actually did send.

So there I was, sent to jail in late October of 2000 for nothing more than words. First, Jerry told me the case would be dropped, then a public defender assured me I’d only get probation.

My probation was supposed to end in October 2003, and the minor felony dropped to a misdemeanor. But much to my surprise, my probation officer, Scot, told me I was off probation in May 2002, and in the end, I was vindicated.

But it was too late. The damage had already been done, and I had no intention of forgiving anyone involved. This paled in comparison to when my sister Tammy called the police on me after I wrote a threatening letter to her ex, who had been abusing my niece. I was stunned when she took his side after everything he supposedly put her and her daughter through.

I blamed my sister for my legal troubles just as much as I blamed the freeloaders and the corrupt cops, lawyers, and courts. After all, when the cop came to talk to me about Tammy’s complaint, he found, to my shock, that there was a Failure to Appear warrant out for me. I had no idea it existed because we didn’t have mail service where we lived. We had to pick up our mail from a PO box. If it weren’t for her, that warrant would have eventually expired, and I wouldn’t have gone through the hell I did.

She always denied calling the cops, even though it was a no-brainer that she was involved, especially since the cop mentioned her name as the main complainant. The only thing we weren’t sure of was how she got our address because we never told her where we moved to. I cut ties with everyone on my side of the family, including a few friends, upon moving.