The Ritual

THE RITUAL

Morning was always my favorite time of day. It was a time for calmly collecting my thoughts and reviewing my plans. I would sit alone at my dining room table staring into my coffee as if that dark steaming liquid were some sort of passage to understanding. In that quiet moment alone I would gaze into that portal, my crystal ball, and contemplate my state of affairs. Where have I been, where am I going, where am I now? This was MY time and my whole family knew not to intrude, not to defile my sacred moment of peace and tranquility.

This nightmare started during my morning ritual. I was sitting at the table when I heard the cars in the driveway. Who could this be invading my morning solitude? My children were grown, off on their own, and my friends weren't the type to come calling unannounced at six-thirty in the morning.

As I curiously gazed out the tall window in the center of the front door the picture became increasingly more confusing. What could the police possibly want at my house at such an early hour? In fact, why were there so many and why were they surrounding my house like something out of a made-for-TV movie? This was all too much for my mind to handle. I was simply incapable of mentally digesting that much absurd activity before ingesting my morning cup of understanding.

I got up, walked to the front door, opened it and found myself staring into the barrels of an array of police revolvers and shotguns. As I opened my mouth to ask what was going on I was viciously grabbed and slammed face first into the side of my house. My arm was twisted up behind my back and I was forced to the cold, damp ground while they searched me and then cuffed my hands behind me.

"You're under arrest for conspiracy to distribute narcotics," the young officer snarled as I was led toward a waiting cruiser in my driveway. "You have the right to remain silent," he started reading me my rights and I began to pray that this was only a bad dream.

"You've made a mistake!" I cried, as he finished his monotone recitation from the laminated card he carried to help him remember the constitutionally guaranteed spiel known as the Miranda Rights.

"Do you understand these rights?" he shouted over my pleas.

My whole body ached. My nose was bleeding from being slammed against the house and my knees were scraped from being shoved to the ground. My arms throbbed from being unmercifully twisted behind my back and all these pains made it quite clear that this was much worse than any nightmare. This was really happening! How could this be? I don't even drink, much less use drugs. Cripe, I'm a fifty-five year old widow and mother of five. I've lived in this same small town for nearly thirty years. Surely someone will realize the mistake when we get to the station. Surely someone will recognize me for the upstanding citizen that I am. As soon as we get to the station, I thought, I'll make my phone call and this atrocity turned reality will finally come to an end.

As I look back now, I realize how naive I was to think that it would be so simple to straighten out this twisted chain of events. I wasted my one phone call contacting my family. I know that sounds terrible, but hindsight tells me that my first call should have been to a good lawyer, one of those guys with a full page ad in the telephone book. There wasn't really anything that anyone could have done for me until my arraignment anyway. My family did contact a lawyer for me, that was good; then, he contacted the county jail and was informed that my bond would be set at my arraignment, first thing Monday morning. I would be forced to spend the weekend in jail; there was no way around it.

I have never experienced anything like the humiliating ordeal that is the booking process. The officers simply ignored the trivial fact that everyone is innocent until proven guilty. They treated me in the same contemptuous manner that I'd previously believed was reserved for those convicted of such heinous crimes as child molestation and mutilation type murders.

"Where do you get the drugs and how much are you moving a week?" This was the Sergeant's first question and it was asked so matter of factly that it threw me off balance. I recall that I even shook my head in disbelief as the tears began to build up.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I replied. My throat began to tighten involuntarily just as the tears were about to burst forth.

"Yeah, sure. That's quite an operation you had going there. We never had a clue. That government job is one hell of a cover. I'm sure nobody in your town ever suspected that their sleepy little village was a clearinghouse for drugs."

"I told you, you've made a mistake! I don't know what in God’s name you people are talking about," I screamed through the flow of tears.

"The tears are a nice touch honey," he smirked. Turning to the small crowd of on looking officers he coldly ordered, "Book her. We'll see if she decides to be a little more cooperative in a few days."

After the questioning session came the finger printing and mug shots. This was followed by the extremely degrading strip search where they not only examined, but also made rude and disgusting comments concerning my body's private parts. Even today, the thought of how they poked and prodded me, how they belittled me with their foul mouths and belligerent attitudes makes my skin crawl and my stomach churn. The officers performing this search may have been female, but they were a far cry from being ladies.

At my arraignment, nothing my lawyer said seemed to matter. My spotless record, without even a traffic ticket, was completely disregarded. My long-time ties to the community were irrelevant. My bond was set at $200,000.00, cash. They would accept neither a property nor a surety bond, only cash. I had some savings, but no way of coming up with that kind of money, so back to jail I went.

The court system's idea of a speedy trial differs significantly from mine. I would not, by any stretch of the imagination, call the five months the pack of prosecutors took preparing my case for trial, speedy. I spent those months in the county jail living under conditions that I would not subject my dog to; the food was cold, sometimes luke warm, and so were the showers. My clothing consisted of one pair of under garments and an ill fitting jumpsuit which were only washed once a week. I had access to a telephone but I only talked to my family a couple times, I knew the calls were monitored and I was truly afraid that anything I said would be devilishly twisted and used against me in some way. In this particular facility everyone is housed together; those awaiting trial, those convicted of misdemeanors such as fill-up and flee, and those convicted of felonies such as assault or murder. Everyone is treated in the same vile, inhumane manner.

The lawyer my family got for me didn't feel he could handle my case. He advised me to contact someone who specialized in criminal cases, recommending an attorney from a nearby city. This new lawyer told me that he could defend me, but it would not be cheap. I was informed that it would cost me at least $25,000.00 with no guarantee that I would be found innocent. I wanted to cry, but instead I bit my lip and decided to try to somehow raise the money.

The waiting was driving me crazy. I had always been a take-charge type of person and I was unaccustomed to having no control over my life. I was unfamiliar with the court system and did not fully understand what was happening, nor why. The uncertainty about my future was unlike anything I've ever experienced. I was awakened several times each night, either by nightmares or by guards shining their flashlights in my eyes as they made their rounds making sure that no one had somehow miraculously escaped. I can't even remember how many times I whispered to myself, "I'm not an animal. I've done nothing to deserve this! Why me? My God, why me?"

My lawyer seemed to be working hard on my case.  I'd met with him a few different times, but I was seeing no genuinely positive results. He kept in close contact with me as well as my family and quickly informed us of any new findings. My one hope seemed to be something called a 'Motion of Discovery', it was supposed to tell us what "evidence" the prosecutors had to use against me, but my lawyer never even received it until two days before my trial.

The first 'deal' the prosecutor offered was a sentence of 28 to 100 years in prison in return for my plea of guilty. There would also be fines as well as the forfeiture of my home. At first I couldn't believe it, but they were serious. As my court date drew nearer, the offers got better. A week before my trial was to begin I was offered a deal that would run all my various charges together, concurrently as opposed to consecutively, for a total of 7 to 25 years. This would be suspended after six months in prison and I would then be placed on five years probation. This was still unacceptable to me. I was innocent. I would not plead guilty to anything. I had no intention of having a felony on my spotless record, much less of spending time in prison. Oh God, I was scared. Why couldn't these people understand that I'd done nothing wrong?

"You have to try to understand," my lawyer told me, "this is not about what you actually did or didn't do. This is all about what a jury is going to believe. Juries are usually very unsympathetic toward drug dealers. That's really putting it mildly. People are sick and tired of drugs and your jury will probably be extremely hostile. You need to be thinking about how much time you are willing to do in prison. This is probably the best deal you can hope for."

Am I actually paying this jerk for this advice? I wondered. What angered me even more was the sickening feeling that even my lawyer didn't really, fully believe me. The fact that I was truly innocent meant absolutely nothing. In the course of getting arrested I had been labeled a slick, drug-dealing con; and now, all my actions were viewed from that perspective. Once again I wanted to cry, but my furiously growing and fully justified anger prevented the tears completely, at least for the moment.

My trial lasted three days. The prosecutor's case was based on the testimony of a known drug dealer now acting as a paid informant for the State Bureau of Criminal Investigation. He had been arrested as well as convicted several times and was setting up drug deals to keep from going back to prison. He claimed to have accompanied a man to my residence, my home, to purchase a large quantity of cocaine. He testified that even though he had waited in the car, he saw me open my door for the man making the purchase. He claimed that he'd overhead the entire conversation and that we had openly discussed the purchase and delivery of the drugs.

Sitting through the first day of testimony left me drained, both mentally and physically, and I hadn't even taken the stand yet. I was tired, very tired, but sleep was impossible. My mind was racing and wouldn't slow down. What have I done? I know, I mean I think; well, no, I mean, I'm not a criminal. Am I? I was becoming unsure of my chances as well as unsure of myself. I couldn't stop asking myself, 'What if my lawyer is right?' The thought of spending the rest of my life in prison, which had to be worse than where I was at, was just too much. I thought, I probably really can survive the six months in prison they're offering and probation couldn't be all that bad. At least I'd finally be free. I couldn't believe it! I was so scared that I was actually contemplating pleading guilty to something I hadn't done. God, what was the matter with me?

I awoke with a start.  I was shaken to my very soul. When had I fallen asleep? Then I began asking myself questions. What kind of court system is this that works through intimidation? Who are these prosecutors that prey on the human weaknesses that surface due to the mental stress this system creates? I was in the clutches of a soul-less beast and I was ready to surrender. Am I strong enough? Should I just go ahead and take their deal? I was considering giving up, but I desperately wanted to hang in there at least a little while longer.

The next day, under the skillful cross-examination of my attorney, the prosecutor's informant began to contradict himself. He wasn't familiar with the town in which I lived, so he couldn't be positive about the address. Again, my mind was racing, I have to mention my front door to my attorney. The center third of it is glass from top to bottom, I've never seen another one like it in my entire life. My lawyer continued his questioning, mentioning that it had been a dark, moonless night. How could he possibly be one hundred percent certain that it was me who'd opened the door? It had been raining, so he had the car window partially up, but the driver's window was closed, so he couldn't really be sure what had been said at the door of the house. The car had been parked in the driveway which is on the right side of my home, so how could he have actually really heard anything? The informant didn't seem real sure of anything anymore.

"Come on now, did you ever, really, see my client taking part in any drug deal?" My lawyer leaned over the rail into the witness stand. "Or, have your lies simply gotten out of control? Has your fear of going back to prison and the pressure of making a bust come to this? My lawyer’s voice had gotten steadily louder, "Are you really ready to send an innocent old lady to prison to save your own worthless hide?

The prosecutor had been continually shouting objections to this badgering of his prime witness and the judge was pounding his gavel on the desk in an attempt to regain order.

Over the din, my attorney quietly withdrew the question, announced, "I have no further questions for this witness," and returned to his seat.

"The jury will disregard the previous statements by the defense," the judge instructed. From the looks on the juror's faces, he might as well have been talking to himself. My lawyer's outburst had affected them. The damage to the prosecutor's case had been done.

They are finally seeing me, I thought. They are finally looking at me as another human being, not some kind of animal. There's still hope, I thought, as I finally felt free to breathe a sigh of relief. I wasn't out of it yet, but I'd caught a flash of hope.

The jury wasn't convinced that this paid informant knew much of anything either and they showed that fact in their findings. I was found NOT guilty on all counts; however, that doesn't bring this story to a happy ending. During my stay in the county jail I was unable to work so I was terminated from my job after seventeen years of service. I also spent my entire life's savings on my attorney. While this was money well spent because it regained my freedom for me, it left no money for retirement or the many long over-due bills.  As a result I had to sell my home, taking a tremendous financial loss, and I was forced to move into an apartment complex where I can neither watch the sun rise nor set.

My morning ritual has been forever changed.  My once quiet moment of meditation is now overshadowed by feelings of dread as I sit and stare at my first cup of the morning, yearning for the peace and tranquility of mornings long past.  I am no longer the self-assured, positive, powerful-thinking individual that I once had been. I feel physically dirty and emotionally scarred, much like a rape victim.  In the process of proving my innocence, I lost my innocence; replacing it with insight, understanding, anger and fear.  I now possess a much better understanding of the criminal justice system, and it scares the daylights out of me.