The Jailing of Cecelia Capture

ONE

No watch. Nobody in the holding tank had one, since all their belongings had been taken away as part of the booking procedure. No clock. No window.

Three or maybe four hours had passed since Cecelia Capture Welles’s arrest. Or was it really only an hour or so? It was hard to say because she had been very drunk at the time and she was still not quite sober and was grateful that she wasn’t. Being a little drunk took the rough edges off reality. Almost always.

There was time enough to have been transported to the Berkeley jail, hands manacled behind her back. Was that necessary? she wondered. Did they believe that it was? The skin around her wrists was red, and her wrists themselves felt as if they had been bruised, but no bruises were apparent. They would probably show up later, she thought, all blue and purple and ugly.

Mugshots had been taken. At least they hadn’t asked her to smile for the camera. She had an uncomfortable thought: The photographs will turn out ugly, because I’m drunk and they didn’t let me do my makeup or even run a comb through my hair and this lighting is anything but flattering. At least she had had a good salon cut in San Francisco just the day before, or was it the day before that? It seemed almost humorous to her that she cared how she would look in the mugshots.

She was fingerprinted and given a breathalyzer. The machine was not working right, and the policeman who was trying to administer the test was angry and frustrated. He kept accusing her of not cooperating. His partner came in every few minutes and, speaking in soft, kind, intimate tones, told Cecelia she had better watch out. This other one was mean, he would say, and she had better cooperate or they would have to take a blood sample.

Cecelia told them to stop Mutt-and-Jeffing her. (She had learned about that police method in her criminal law class back in her first year of law school.)

They took the blood sample then, without her permission, which they could legally do because she had given her permission to be tested on the breathalyzer but would not cooperate—or so they would say in the police report, would testify to in court if it came to that. Of course it was because the breathalyzer was not working right and they needed the blood sample for evidence.

She was drunk and therefore somewhat anesthetized and also trying to remain detached from all of this, yet she did feel a surge of anger as she watched them stick the syringe into her unwilling flesh. She felt violated. She watched the tube attached to the syringe fill with her life’s blood, deep, dark red. Her very blood was taken without her permission.

Except for the grey concrete floor, the holding tank was painted yellow. It contained a sink and a commode. Long, narrow wooden benches ran along two walls. The room was dirty, gritty, littered with gum wrappers, cigarette butts and empty cigarette packages. It looked as if it hadn’t been swept out or otherwise cleaned for a week or more and had held many temporary inhabitants in that time. Its shabbiness matched the shabby way Cecelia felt: unbathed, hair uncombed, teeth unbrushed, still wearing the rumpled clothing she had worn since early the morning before. At least, she thought, there were no wine stains on her dress. The cell had a bad smell to it, too. Just, she supposed, body odor.

Cecelia had two cellmates: Velma and Ethel.

Velma was a thin white whore with needle tracks up and down her arms. Her teeth were very bad, and her overbleached, dry blond hair hung limply about her face. She had a pale, sickly look, the look a vampire might have, Cecelia thought, if there were such creatures as vampires, and who was she to say there weren’t.

Then there was Ethel, a black woman in a black velvet jumpsuit that zipped up the front. The seams strained over her fat, beefy body, her great breasts and her almost unbelievably huge, round, jutting derriere. Ethel had a tough, threatening countenance. She sat on one of the benches, glaring. She told Cecelia to bring her a drink of water, which Cecelia did. Ethel did not say thank you. She drank the water, dropped the Styrofoam cup on the floor and leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes.

Velma wore a bright red miniskirt and a white satin tank top. Thin as she was, her upper arms looked flabby. Her limp hair needed a shampoo. Cecelia thought how strange it was that this woman was desired by men, often, and by many men, so very much desired, in fact, that she was able to earn her living the way she did.

Yet—and she did not just realize this now; she had known it for some time and turned it over in her mind, decided it was not valid, and continued to do it anyway—it was through attracting handsome men that she, Cecelia Capture Welles, sought a measure of self-esteem.

It was through her ability to attract men that she found the assurance that she was an attractive and desirable woman. Maybe her husband didn’t want her any more, but she could still get men, plenty of men. But then, so could Velma, and they were willing to pay good, hard-earned cash for the privilege of lying down with Velma. Cecelia wondered if a prostitute’s customers kissed her first.

Hey, girl, what you starin’ at? Velma asked in a loud, hostile voice.

Nothing, Cecelia said. I’m not staring. She didn’t mean to stare at Velma. It was just that the cell was so small, and there were not many places to cast one’s eyes.

The hell! You just sittin’ there starin’ a hole through me!

You bitches keep it down! Ethel spoke without moving or opening her eyes. Her tone showed that she meant business. In a quieter voice Velma asked Cecelia what she was in for.

DUI, Cecelia answered. Driving under the influence.

Drunk drivin’, Velma said self-righteously, is worse than peddlin’ your ass. Drunk drivin’ kills and cripples. Damages property. Fuckin’ never hurt nobody.

Tha’s right, Ethel said, eyes still closed, eyelids completely motionless. She didn’t say another word, though both Velma and Cecelia waited for her to continue. But she didn’t say anything more, just Tha’s right.

I know, Cecelia said. It was true. She belonged in jail more than Velma did. Velma spoke with a straight tongue.

Fucking never did hurt anyone, except maybe in a roundabout way. Certainly not the way the drunken driver of a big, powerful, fast-moving automobile could hurt.

She remembered how she had driven aimlessly through the streets of Berkeley in the pouring rain, windshield wipers not turned on. It had seemed cozy inside the old Chevy, the heater making it warm and comfortable, the radio turned to KCOW, the Bay Area country music station. The rain on the windows softened and blurred the outside world, which she already viewed through an alcoholic haze, and she had been crying. Yes, she remembered now, tears and rain and alcohol. What a combination. She had almost managed to blot out the world.

Velma, who had been pacing, sat down on the bench, eyes narrowed, and looked at Cecelia, the woman who knew she was a menace to society and belonged behind bars. Velma studied her carefully, taking her in from head to toe. Twenty-seven, she would guess, or twenty-eight or thereabouts; hard to tell. Dark skinned. Not very dark, but dark enough to show she wasn’t white. Mexican, more than likely. Orientals and Mexicans, it seemed, held their ages differently than white people.

She wore a conservative light blue knit dress. Joseph Magnin, probably. Dark shoulder-length hair, newly cut. Velma took in the expensive Italian shoes and the wide gold wedding band on the third finger of her left hand. Velma had known she was a married woman, though, even before she spotted that obnoxious ring. There was just something about her that seemed married.

Velma lit a cigarette.

Well, she said, and a married woman, too, huh?

Yeah.

Married women are worse than whores, Velma stated flatly. Damned hypocrites. I personally have no use for them. Never did. Never will.

Cecelia did not respond. She wished she had a cigarette. Oh, God, but she wished she wasn’t there. In jail. Almost anything would have been better. Maybe she should have let Roberto take her home. No. Being in jail was better than that would have been. Imagine waking up beside Roberto.

Velma paced around again, picking at the skin on her arms. Cecelia hoped she wasn’t going to start going through withdrawal now. She didn’t know anything about heroin addicts, how long they had to go without before withdrawal began.

Velma paced, and Cecelia could see the beads of sweat on her forehead and upper lip. She was apparently very agitated, picking at her skin and pacing. Come on, Velma, Cecelia thought, talk mean and bad some more. Say something. Don’t get sick. Velma stopped pacing and sat down.

The only difference between a married woman and a whore, Velma told Cecelia, is that they fuck just one dude and get paid a lot less. Then they walk around looking down their noses and thinking they’re so good.

Cecelia shrugged, relieved that Velma seemed all right again, at least for the time being. Velma took out her pack of cigarettes and offered Cecelia one, which she accepted gratefully. She needed it.

Thanks, she said, inhaling deeply.

Did you call Hubby yet? Velma asked in a mocking tone.

Cecelia shook her head. Hubby. Her husband, Nathan, was not there. He was in Spokane, Washington, supposedly waiting for her to finish her law degree and return to him and the two children and the house they were buying on a lot and a half in a peaceful little middle-class neighborhood near Northtown Shopping Center.

In reality, though, it was not that way. In reality, she knew, her husband wanted her never to come home. He had not been her husband really for a long, long time. He had become another enemy to struggle against and try to keep herself safe from.

You gonna call him?

No. I’m not going to call him.

What you think he gonna say when he find out his nice little wife been a bad girl? Cecelia just shook her head, wondering how come a white woman like Velma talked black.

Humph. Don’t matter, Velma said. You gonna be otta here anyway in just a few hours on OR.

Most likely will.

Humph. Don’t even make sense, Velma said. Some irresponsible bitch like you, goin’ around endangerin’ citizens’ lives gets out on OR while a workin’ girl like me has to wait for her old man to bring ’round the bail money.

Well, Velma, that’s the way it is, Cecelia said, more to herself than to Velma. She wished she had a drink. She was very nearly sober now, beginning to feel afraid and panicky. She was certainly in no mood for sobriety to take hold.

Yeah, a married woman is worse than a whore, Velma said again, more to herself than to Cecelia.

The iron door opened and a policewoman stood at the entrance and read: Welles, please. That was Cecelia’s married name. She stood, hopeful. Come with me, the policewoman said. Cecelia thought she would be released now; they must hold drunken drivers only a few hours on the first offense. Or maybe they would hold her overnight. That would be all right, she guessed. She worried that something might have gone wrong. But what? A case of mistaken identity? Maybe she was the spitting image of some desperado. Maybe it was worse than that. She tried to push such thoughts away. Maybe they were releasing her now.

She was taken along a corridor and up in an elevator. No, they were not going to release her. Panic. Along the way they passed a clock. Three o’clock. Was that all? How could that be? Down another corridor. Then she was put in a cell. Her own cell. Clean and quiet and empty except for herself. She was all alone now and was supposed to lie down and go to sleep, despite the light, which could not be turned off.

She felt afraid. Her body ached. She wanted to go to sleep. A strange thought entered her mind: Saint Jude. Praying to Saint Jude would be in order now. Her mother had often prayed to Saint Jude because he was the patron saint of the down-and-out, the one who helped a person when the situation seemed hopeless. Her mother could pray to Saint Jude, but she could not.

Cecelia lay down and covered herself with the thin jail blanket and closed her eyes. She prayed, not to Saint Jude, but to some unknown factor, please, for oblivion. Just take it all away from me and let me rest. I need to rest.

The one thin blanket Cecelia was given was not enough to keep out the cold and let her fall into a deep sleep. Instead it was a restless sleep. She shifted her position on the thin plastic-coated, sheetless mattress in a futile attempt to get comfortable.

In her dream, a man with a grotesque lined face the texture of rubber peered through a window at her, grinning, as she lay sleeping. Only she was not sleeping. She was conscious, but could not open her eyes, could not move her body, could not force herself awake in order to escape, could not utter a sound, let alone a scream.

Then it was snowing outside, and the window was covered with ice. The man was gone. The window shattered and fell away in thin little pieces, letting in the snow and the cold wind, and still she could only lie there as if in a deep, deep sleep. She could hear the wind blowing. There was the familiar feel of the snow and the sound of the wind during a blizzard as it swept across the frozen hills and echoed through the forest, and then the sound of the coyote howling.

Idaho. Back home on the reservation in Idaho. She still could not move, and the snow fell on her, covered her long, long straight black hair, which lay spread out around her, covered her eyelids and then her entire face. Soon she would be buried in snow, would die when her blood turned to ice. That would be all right. That was the way she always hoped that she would die, like Moses Brokentooth back home, when she was a child of four, or maybe five.

Moses Brokentooth was from a nearby Montana reservation, the husband of one of her cousins. Moses was always crazy, they said later, cared more for dying than he did for his wife and seven children. The year before, he had tried to die, had held a small gun to his head and fired but succeeded only in partially paralyzing his face, so that he was unable to speak. Then the next year he went out and got drunk one night.

His friends said they let him off at the road leading to his house. It was snowing but not heavily. The house, all lit up, could be plainly seen from the mailbox, where Moses hollowed out a nest for himself in the snow and lay down and polished off a pint of whiskey. They found the empty flask clutched in his frozen hands.

At the wake Cecelia stared at the corpse lying in its casket. Dead, she thought, like the deer her father hunted and brought home and allowed her to help skin and clean.

You must always cut the throat right away, he instructed her, to prevent clotting. She never saw him do it because he always did it right after the shooting, on the spot, and he never took her hunting with him.

She remembered how she liked to scrape the innards from the carcass when it was cold, because it warmed her hands. She remembered the way the innards looked: grey and then startling bright red, yellow and purple, as they lay on the stark white snow with the steam rising in the cold air above them.

That was the only death she knew before Moses Brokentooth, the deer death, and she never wondered about their dying, if they had suffered, if they had been terrified, any more than, as an adult, she would wonder such things about the packaged, bloodless hamburger meat or pork chops she bought at the market.

But she did wonder about Moses’ dying. They told her no, he did not suffer. Freezing was not like death by fire or drowning or sickness. He had had alcohol in his blood already, which made him feel warm even in the beginning, though he was not. When his blood began to slow, he felt warmer still. By the time his blood froze and his life ended, he was in a deep, warm sleep. No, they said, Moses Brokentooth did not suffer pain or fear.

He looked odd lying dead in his casket, his skin a sort of bluish color. He, whom she had seen only in Levi’s and flannel shirts, dressed in a white shirt all buttoned up to the neck, wearing a carefully knotted tie and new grey suit, his hands folded piously and holding a rosary, as if he ever went to church. Cecelia heard the adults saying to each other in low voices when Moses’ wife wasn’t near how good it was of the priest to allow his burial in hallowed ground. She didn’t know what they meant.

Yes, from then on, a frozen death was what she would always hope for for herself when her time came. There would be no pain, no terror, only the cold perceived as warmth and the gradual slowing of the blood in her veins, a deep, warm sleep until her blood froze still.

In her dream she was covered in snow, and the snow continued to fall, and then all there was was stark white. She no longer struggled, unable to move beneath the snow. She was no longer afraid. She lay still and peaceful, accepting the chill, waiting for the warmth she knew would come.

The hollow echo of footsteps in the hallway, the handling of keys and the loud slam of a heavy iron door woke her from the dream.

She lay on the lower berth of an iron bunk bed in a cold, windowless cell illuminated by a single, dim overhead light encased in steel mesh. The cement floor was plain, cracked grey. The cement walls were painted an ugly institutional green, like the walls of an Indian hospital.

That she was in jail was unmistakable. The Berkeley City Jail, of course; it would have to be. How or why she came to be there she could not recall.

Her last clear memory was of leaving law school in the late afternoon after a halfhearted attempt to read the cases and prepare briefs for the next morning. The memory of the night was not lost, though, she could tell. It would all come back. She was in no hurry to remember the events that led her to this dismal little cell.

Her head pounded and her mouth was dry. She was very thirsty. She wondered if the water from the little sink in the corner was safe to drink. Of course it would be. This was not a foreign country. American jails would have to have sanitation standards. She got up off the bed and walked over to the sink, bent down to the faucet and took a long, cool drink, ran the water over her hands, splashed some onto her face. Coming back to life. She wondered why she bothered.

A matron in a Berkeley City Jail uniform brought breakfast: cornflakes in milk, one slice of more-than-one-day-old plain white bread, black coffee in a tin cup. A tin cup. They really used tin cups in jail.

The police matron was a Hispanic, short but very sturdy-looking. Her countenance was stern. She wore her hair in a short, austere style.

When will I be released? Cecelia asked her.

She answered only when she had stepped outside the cell, without looking at Cecelia. Have you been interviewed yet?

Cecelia wasn’t sure what she meant. By whom would she be interviewed? Probably the OR people or the public defender’s office. What for? Maybe to determine eligibility. What was happening here? Why was it all getting so complicated? She knew the policewoman wasn’t going to give her any answers.

No, I haven’t been interviewed yet, she said.

Then they should be coming around to interview you. I don’t know how soon after that you would be released. It would depend.

When will they be coming around?

Sometime this morning. They only do interviews in the mornings. She slammed the heavy door closed.

Cecelia ate the cornflakes and drank