The days drag on interminably, but the weeks have flown by since my arrest a month and-a-half ago, but time is a curious concept in jail.
For the first two days I was in a jail proper, I was constantly looking at my watch. How long ‘till we’re let out of our cells? How long ‘till supper? How long ‘till visiting starts… but after two days I suddenly realized I was the only person in jail wearing a watch! I thought, perhaps, that inmates took them off precisely because they didn’t want to see how time dragged, but when I mentioned this to the “Boss” he quickly got me to remove it, explaining watches were banned by the guards and they would have confiscated (and pocketed) it if it had been spotted. I managed to hand it to Rob on my first visit, but I spent the next few days craning my neck to see the sole wall clock mounted in the prison yard.
You can always tell the newbies because they’re always trying to tell the time, but eventually everyone stops looking. I now mark time by the shadows cast by the bars on my cell door. They move steadily across the tiled floor like some diabolical sundial, but unless it’s cloudy it is as reliable as the Tissot I gave up. The only time I think about now is how long I’ll have to serve once this runs its course.
We (and I use the plural because I know my family and friends are feeling everything I do) suffered a setback on Friday. The original urine test carried after my arrest proved negative, meaning the police were inclined to pursue a more serious charge of dealing rather than using, so we arranged for a hair test via BNN, the national narcotics body. Ostensibly, a hair test is far more reliable as a follicle, like a tree trunk, can reveal a history of use for up to 90 days. Given my admitted usage, I was confident the result would be positive, so it was a great shock when it came back negative. I heard the news at an assessment hearing at BNN HQ on Friday after sitting through two panel interviews. The first was before a psychologist and two medical doctors who quizzed me on my mental and physical health. I was open and candid and I got the impression I’d had a sympathetic hearing, helped beyond measure by written testimony from my former counsellor David Tredrea and ex Elizabeth.
The second panel consisted of a prosecutor (although not necessarily the one who’ll try my case) a former policeman and a retired judge. They were far more brusque, dealing only in the ‘facts’, as they said. They made it clear early on that my test result was negative and as such they could not rubber stamp me for so-called article 127, which carries a maximum 2 year sentence including any period of that time in rehab. It was no consolation that they said they would have had no hesitation in suggesting rehab had I proved positive. The police said that they had no evidence to suggest I was a dealer, so it looks at this stage like I will be charged with possession which can be anything up to 10 years.
Of course this is nonsense. If I tested negative, what on earth have I been smoking for the past five years? I want my money back. I won’t say too much about this here, but while the result was obviously a disappointment, it wasn’t entirely unexpected. This is the way the system works here. This is a body blow, but not a knockout punch.
Earlier in the week I’d felt my spirits sagging and the black dog stirring as a result of my continued cheek-by-jowl incarceration with Joe, the person responsible for my arrest. I can’t think of any punishment more cruel than being forced to spend almost every second of the day inches away from the man who “dobbed you in.” It’s a punishment I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, except, perversely and obscenely, my worst enemy was sitting directly opposite me.
Things came to a head on Tuesday when I overheard him telling another ridiculous lie to the deputy Boss and I snapped, launching a pent-up tirade of abuse to which he responded: “I don’t give a shit about you. I’m glad you’re going through the same thing as me.”
His reaction clearly disgusted the boss and a short while later we were finally separated. He now shares a cell meant for four with 12 other people, while I share a “solitary” cell with a nice local lad with whom I practice my Indonesian. It has been an enormous relief, like a dark cloud passing, and certainly put me in a better frame of mind for when I heard the test result.
I realize this probably makes for unhappy reading, but I’ll write more this week on general observations of prison life. I’m still finding incidents of great love and humanity behind bars, and I’d like to share them with you. Thanks for your thoughts and concern. It means everything to me.