Testing The Limits of Respect When Liberty Is Taken

Obviously, it goes without saying, my compassionate disdain for mediocrity has begun to become more or less just a passionate disdain. Well, perhaps it is worth stating, when one considers the immense stress of losing all rights as an American citizen and all rights as a human being, because a few unethical members of Orange County, CA administration and their enforcers learned that I had an estate worth robbing. Let me catch you up to date on the happenings in the wondrous OC of our failing country.

On February 21st, 2020, while visiting my fiancée at the county jail, I overheard one half of a conversation between a female inmate and a Mexican American who was visiting her, seated in the booth. The earpiece of the phone was pressed to his ear as he nodded...

"Sí. Sí. Kona seeds. Sí." The woman behind the thick plexiglass protection that separates the vicious criminals from their would-be loved ones, had dark raven hair flowing just past her shoulders, distorted by the glass. The short sleeves of the orange jumpsuits always allowed more of the shoulder to be revealed than any decent article of clothing ever really should, but in her case, she wore a blue smock. These were indicative of the orderlies—those inmates responsible for cleaning the cells, mopping the halls, and feeding the animals trapped in the Santa Ana loop.

"Sí, sí. Birdie," the man said as he continued nodding. The pale skin of the woman in her late 40s made the tattoo on her right shoulder stand out even more prominently under the fluorescent light of the jail visiting area. The man went on to describe where it was in the garden—these seeds of Kona.

"Birdie...no way could they mean my Birdie. You're being paranoid, Jacob," I thought to myself as the beautiful face of Alberta Padilla came into view. That huge bright smile had nurtured me through PTSD and soothed my anger when flashbacks of the daily beatings from Gary Wayne Messer would strike my consciousness like a hot knife into bare skin. For the moment, a dismissive approach seemed the most appropriate. I said nothing of the conversation occurring a mere two stalls to my right and picked up the visitation phone while reveling in the smile I adored.

February 29th, 2020: I leave the Tustin Temporary Emergency Shelter at around 9:30 am and have the Lyft driver drop me and Chappo off at the Burger King on Main St in Santa Ana. A quick Junior Whopper and it was up the way to the probation office to await Birdie. She would be coming in through their offices, as she had chosen The Great Escape program that allowed inmates to get a 3-day "kick" as they call it. In other words, she would be allowed to leave a few days early, receive a bit of extra assistance and guidance on how to re-acclimate, and be reminded to visit their probation officer on the first day out. She had mentioned the plan at our last visit and spoke at length about the classes she was taking. Alberta had signed up for Santiago College while she was on the forty-five-day stint. Ninety days with half, thus forty-five days. The "half" is one of the many ways Orange County, California, has developed to skim funding from a system that is already far too stretched.

From the Santa Ana police station jail that makes you quickly change out your shirt for a mug shot...to the bologna labeled "Not Suitable For Human Consumption," the lengths that the waning powerful elite had gone to in order to maintain their lavish lifestyles were beyond compare. I remember thinking this while slowly turning to look at all the completely empty seats at the police station. My eyes squinting, my brow furrowed. "What the hell is this place," I thought.

"You guys should be processing space departures, not this crap," I muttered under my breath.

"Go back in the cell and sit down." Happy Thanksgiving indeed, I thought to myself as I walked past fifteen or twenty rows of empty bucket seats, past the phone on the wall with a frayed cord leading to nowhere, and retook my seat on the cold, hard concrete bench in the cell with no window. My mind wonders back to the sidewalk on Main Street and my Pitt Bull violently jerking me awake and nearly breaking my arm.