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Poor Choices

Richard K. Williams

    My wife and I were standing in line in front of the high arched imposing wooden doors of the Caldwell County jail. At the time I was sure that I would rather be doing literally anything else. But here we were waiting along with dozens of other sad individuals, for visiting hours to commence. Our friend George had recently snagged his third OUI which included a bonus charge of leaving the scene of an accident. It seems he slammed into a parked car and fled. What he didn’t realize was, in the crash his license plate was knocked off the front of his car. So, by the time he managed to find his way home, the police were waiting for him. He also blew above the legal limit and was sentenced to ninety days in jail with a ten-year loss of license added on for good measure. I suppose it’s safe to say that nearly every group of friends has at least one individual that chooses to travel the toughest road possible. They function normally, or as normally as is socially acceptable with perhaps a tenuous hold on life but, then something knocks them off track and they rush headlong into careless, irresponsible, and dangerous behavior. George was one of those, the one in our group. But we still hadn’t abandoned him yet, so we were visiting him in jail to see if he needed anything.
    However, George is not the subject of this story he is merely the catalyst.
    As I said my wife and I were waiting for visiting hours to begin. Eventually the heavy wooden doors swung open to allow the visitors to file into a large, empty, sterile feeling anti room. High ceilinged, ancient feeling, with a helping of ominous thrown in for good measure. Across the expanse of vacant tile floor was a set of heavy steel doors guarded by a correction officer. As we visitors loosely circled the room winding our way inside the velvet rope maze forming a line, I realized the objective was to pass before an open doorway in the center of the left-hand wall. The opposite side of this doorway contained a wooden desk pushed up against it with two more correction officers seated at the desk. Since this was happening in the early nineteen nineties, this was the level security they had, no metal detectors, no body scanners, a few analog cameras, no sophisticated electronics, just straight forward questions, and honest answers under the watchful eyes of the correction officers.
    As we inched our way toward the open doorway and the desk bound correction officers, we heard the same conversation repeated over and over to each visitor. The officers would ask. “Who are you here to see?” “Please show me some ID.” And “Please empty your pockets.” After each visitor had complied, they were directed to the officer guarding the door who would unlock and open the door into the actual prisoner visiting area.
     Standing directly in front of us in line were two young men. I don’t believe either one was more than twenty years old. They cheerfully chatted with each other as they moved along with the crowd in line. When their turn arrived to face the correction officers, I assumed they were aware as the rest of us were of the questions the officers asked, having heard it repeated so often. The officers asked. “Who are you here to see?” The young men gave the name of the person they were here to see. The officers checked the list of prisoners and verified that the one they wanted to see was available. “Please show me some ID.” Both young men removed their wallets from their pockets and removed their drivers licenses, handing them to the officers. The officers looked them over checking them against another list of what I assume contained the names of visitors allowed to enter the jail. “Please empty your pockets.” The two men began to deposit the usual items on the desk, wallets, keys, some loose change, then, the fellow closest to us dropped a dime bag of marijuana on the desktop between the two correction officers. At this moment everything shifted into slow motion. The two young men were oblivious, continuing to chat between themselves as if tossing a bag of weed in front of people involved in law enforcement while in the confines of a county jail was the most natural thing in the world. The officer’s reaction was priceless to observe; They stared at the baggie of pot siting on their desk. Their mouths dropped open, eyes widened in shocked surprise, color rose in their faces. They turned their heads and stared at each other. They turned their heads to stare at the two young men. They turned their heads back down to stare at the bag of weed, then at each other one final time. Returning their full attention back to the one youth who casually tossed the baggie down in front of them. One of the officers stood up placing his hands on the desk he leaned over closer to the one youth and asked. “Who did you say you were here to see?’ The youth answered repeating the name of the individual he intended to visit. The officer replied. “Well, looks like you going to be spending a lot of time with them.” “Whachewmean?” Came the young man’s response his voice in a slightly higher register. “You just dropped a controlled substance on this desk in front of my partner and me! You’re going to jail son!” The officer said. “You tole me to empty my pockets!” Came the excited higher-pitched reply. At this point the correction officer who was watching the door to the jail moved closer to the two youths as simultaneously, the other people waiting in line, my wife and I included, sensing the possibility of an escalating situation began shifting away. One of the officers came around from behind the desk and joined the third officer. They proceeded to escort the two young men toward the door to the jail proper. The one youth who was the owner of the baggie was still repeating his last comment though in a high whiney register. “But you tole me to empty my pockets!” The officers somberly led them through the doors which slammed ominously behind them. The crowd of visitors remained utterly silent for several seconds before the room returned to normal chatter accented with catcalls like “enjoy your stay!” Followed by outbursts of laughter. We had our visit with our friend George (remember George?) who was released after his time was served. Sadly, we lost touch with George, but we did hear some years later that he drank himself to death. Of the two young weed dropping men, their fate remains a mystery.

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