Bio - 26 in My Bio

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…”