Long Blue Line: Based on a True Story

by E. McNew

  Before my downhill spiral, I was quick to judge people who were in bad situations because I assumed that it was entirely their fault and they could have prevented it. Because of my experiences, I no longer judge anyone. You never know why someone may be in the situation they are in. You can't know what they're feeling inside, and you'll never know who they could one day become. Never, in a million, years did I think that I would be a teenage mother shackled and pregnant for the third time, degraded by law enforcement and shunned by people whom I had once respected and looked up to. I was mad that this was becoming my new identity. That was never supposed to be me.

  The doctor put the jelly on my stomach and apologized for it being cold. She then put the machine’s sensor on the cold jelly so she could get a clear picture. I didn't know what I was having, but I assumed it would be another girl. I saw for the first time a sweet and tiny little picture of the miniature body. The baby's legs were crossed so she could not give me a definite answer, but she said that if she had to guess, she would say that it was a girl. I was really excited. After seeing my baby I began to feel like I really was pregnant, and not just in a state of denial. Before the ultra-sound, I hadn’t connected with my baby. I was terrified that I would end up having her in jail or lose her to Social Services when she was born. After the ultrasound, the doctor gave me about ten pictures to take with me along with a folder full of prenatal information. I was really happy that I had so much literature to take back to the jail because there wasn’t a whole lot to read there, especially about pregnancy. The jail staff only let me take two of my ultrasound pictures with me. I had to leave the rest of them with my confiscated personal property. It was pretty stupid because the pictures weren't even on photo paper. They were on thin paper, and I knew that they could have made an exception. But the woman felt like being a bitch as usual. This was the same person that had ‘credit-carded’ me the previous year.

  I showed my jail buddies the pictures of my baby, and everyone was excited to have something new to talk about. That night I laid down to read one of the books that saved me from getting too deep into my fear and grief. For the first time, I felt my baby move. I knew what to expect, and I knew that it would initially feel like a very light thump. The baby's movements became very strong and very frequent. I thought it was kind of cool that I had a little friend with me through this horrible nightmare. It was so bizarre to think that there was a living baby inside of my body again. That gave me an unexpected comfort. It just goes to show that I ended up pregnant for a reason. If it had been just me sitting there in jail for those sixty-two days with nothing to love or anyone to talk to, I might have just called it quits. I did wonder about how people committed suicide while in jail. One way would be to take the sheet and strangle yourself, but you would have to do it carefully and be creative. There weren’t very many places to hang the other end of it. If you didn't do it the right way, you would just fall to the ground taking the ceiling light fixture with you, and the jail population would be surrounding you as you woke up wondering what the hell your deal was. I never thought about killing myself while I was in jail, because it would be too much work and I had someone else now that needed me alive. Her survival depended on me.

  I didn’t want to be dead, but I had moments where I felt so empty and alone that I thought it would at least relieve my pain. It was like a chronic illness except it wasn’t physical pain. It was deep and cold. It was lonely and tragic. My heart was struggling to beat. It had to beat extra hard because a big part of it had been taken away. I didn’t know if I would ever be able to really get through it. How am I ever going to be happy if I don’t get to watch my babies grow up, I asked myself. How could I ever possibly return to the ambitious, motivated, and happy girl that I once was? It really didn’t seem possible. The only thing offering me just enough hope to hold on was the new little gift that God wanted me to have.

  There were two other pregnant women in jail when I arrived. One of them was close to my age or maybe a little older, and she was much further along than I was. She was about seven months pregnant. She had been arrested for fraud. She and some others managed to make fake checks. The Judge sentenced her to a year in jail. That meant that she would have her baby while she was incarcerated. I was sure that she was numb to her situation just as I was to mine. Her Public Defender was trying to get the Judge to consider releasing her in time to have her baby, so she was still not sure what would happen. I felt so bad for her, and her situation scared me. I was so worried about being in the same situation. It was a terrifying thought. The other lady who was pregnant was about four months along, and she had four other children that she and her husband had permanently lost custody of. I didn’t ask why, but she appeared to be pretty levelheaded and normal. I assumed that it was probably a drug addiction that she couldn’t kick. Drugs will change people and alter their ideas of reality. I was happy that I was clean and away from that.

  The next night after diner, Derrick showed up for his visit. He was really good about consistently showing up for as many visits as he was allowed, which was only two per week. I showed him the sonogram picture. He told me to stand up and show him my belly. It was definitely looking pregnant, but I could still hide it if I had to because the shirts were so baggy. My medical information was going to be kept completely confidential, and the nurse reassured me that legally they could not tell anyone. Derrick always put money in the books he brought me, and every week I had $50 to get what I needed from the commissary. He also somehow paid the outrageous collect call fees so I could talk to him for fifteen minutes every night before I went to bed. I’ll admit that he did make the torture I was going through as comfortable as it could possibly be. He also wrote me letters on a daily basis so I had something to read every night before I went to sleep.

  In one of the letters I wrote to him, I told him I wanted to have my pregnancy book that I had read when I was pregnant with the girls. I wanted to be able to refer to it every week to see how my baby was growing and developing. He could not send me the book because it was a hardback copy. Instead, he scanned and made copies of every single page. Every week of my pregnancy he would send me the relevant information. I began to believe that he really did have good intentions and he really did love me. As far as I could tell, he was not using drugs while I was in jail. He was his regular weight, and he never came to a visit with the pale and tense face he had when he was high.

  I was proud of him, and I started to gain respect for him again. He stepped up and took care of me in the best way that he could - even more so since I was stuck behind bars. Over time, we became more emotionally connected. He was the only person that knew what I was going through. He went through it with me. The struggles that we endured would cause other relationships to weaken or fail. The opposite was happening for us. We thought that if we could make it through this, we could make it through anything. I don’t know if it was the Court battle we were fighting together or the pregnancy, but I became more attached to Derrick than I had ever been to any other person. I felt like I knew him even better than before and that he just wanted to take care of me as well as our new baby. Throughout letters and rare visits, we fell in love all over again.

  My dad tried to visit me towards the end of my jail stay. When the correctional officer announced it over the loudspeaker, I knew that it was someone unexpected because I already had my visits for the week. “Can you tell me who it is that’s requesting to see me, please?” I yelled into the speaker. “It is a man by the name of Ron,” he replied. “Okay, I am not going to accept this visit. Can you please tell him not to visit me in the future?” I asked. He said that he would relay the message. I knew that my dad was only there to give me a guilt trip and that was the last thing I needed. Plus, he didn’t know that I was pregnant. It was becoming more difficult to hide the pregnancy and I had to move up a size in my orange pants to make room. I called my mom later that night just to talk because I felt most lonely at night when I was supposed to be at ho
me and in bed.“

  Have you heard from your dad lately?” she asked. “Actually, he tried to visit me today,” I replied. “Oh no, Liz, you didn’t see him?” she asked sounding worried. I knew that something was up because rarely did my mother have sympathy for my father and vise-versa. “Merri told me that your Grandpa passed away a few days ago. He was probably there to tell you that Liz!” Damn it! I thought. “Now I feel horrible! I didn’t want him to see that I was pregnant, and I figured he was just going to yell at me!” I felt so bad. If I had known, I would have just dealt with the possible conflict and accepted the visit. I didn’t know my Grandpa too well because they lived five hours north, but my Grandparents were both so nice to Merri and me as we were growing up. Our Grandma always had pies in the oven and our Grandpa always kissed us on the forehead and pretended to rub it in so it would stay there forever when we left. I had hurt another person I loved when he was already hurting. It seemed as if the only thing I could accomplish was to hurt people in spite of my good intentions. Life was no longer in my control in any way, shape, or form. The only thing I could do was pray for God to take the wheel and help me get through my mistakes and the pain they caused.

  Chapter 41

  Another three weeks went by, and I still had not heard anything from my Public Defender about getting me out of jail and into a rehab facility. At that point I had no desire to use drugs and, as dumb as I could be at times, there was no way that I would ever use them while pregnant. I never understood how a woman could even have the desire to use drugs knowing that she was pregnant. When I quit smoking, it sucked, but I wanted to because I was afraid of harming my baby. I wanted to be anywhere but in jail, but from other women’s stories of going to this particular facility, it honestly sounded like heaven. Having to wake up at 6:00 in the morning to do a meditation session for thirty days sounded totally miserable. A pillow and a regular bed, regular food, and something to drink besides a carton of milk, sounded like heaven. I was desperate to get out of jail. I began calling and nagging my Public Defender every day. She was usually busy, so I had to leave a message with her assistant.

  Once a week on Thursday nights the jail offered an outreach meeting for inmates who had been sentenced to jail more than once. At first I thought it would be nothing but a bunch of nagging women talking about their problems. I already had enough of my own to deal with. However, I noticed that if I stayed busy the time went by a lot faster. While I was waiting for news from my Lawyer, I tried to stay as busy as possible. The restlessness and anxiety was just about killing me. I liked Janet, the leader of the group. She was older and an ex-addict with time spent in prison. At one point she had been in the very jail we were sitting in. She was able to recover and told us that part of her recovery was to help other people who were in similar situations. She was really laid back and let everyone have a chance to talk.

  I told her about how I was trying to get out of the jail and into the rehab facility. I didn’t know what the holdup was and I told her I was getting nervous because I was almost six months pregnant. “Elizabeth, I’ll call SRR for you. I work for them part-time so I might be able to help you get over there.” I was so happy that I had someone who would actually help me. I was not used to other adults, especially community role models, giving me any kind of civilized treatment. I had a feeling that Janet would be back in the next day or so to help get me to the recovery center. I was wrong. She showed up about an hour later, ready to get me “the hell out of there.” She even said it in exactly those words.

  An officer came to do a quick inspection of my cell and make sure that I had cleaned my area for the next inmate. I was completely surprised, and so was he, when the entire pod of at least thirty women began to clap loudly to display their excitement for me and that I was finally on the path to going home. The officer was thoroughly baffled. “Wow, Ms. Jeter, you’re a celebrity in here!” I just laughed. I didn’t know what else to do. I thanked all of them and hugged as many of them as I could on my way out and wished them good luck. I gave each person whom I had become close to a personal item because I knew that they would appreciate it more than I would. I had a stack of romance novels sent to me by Derrick and my mother and an entire laundry-sized bin full of snacks, soap, and pretty much everything on the commissary list. I could care less about taking any souvenirs with me from my 62 days in jail. I was ready to get out of that sad place, start over, become a better person and hopefully get back to being myself again - if that were possible.

  For the last time, I walked down the blue taped line and waited in that same cold holding cell that I had been in two months earlier. It felt like I had been there for years. It was by far the longest two months of my life. A female officer opened the heavy, clanking door and asked me to walk across the walkway so I could change into my regular clothes and get my personal items back. I was so excited...until I opened the green mesh bag to discover a tiny, slutty nightgown. There was no way in hell I was putting this on and going to the recovery center to introduce myself! I told the officer about my dilemma and she laughed and told me not to worry about it. She went into the laundry area and returned with a white t-shirt and sweat pants. I could do this. So much better than what I had, I thought.

  When I was finally dressed and ready to go, I went to the desk next to the exit area and signed for my small bag of jewelry and thirteen dollars. It must have been leftover money from my commissary fund. Gina was waiting for me just behind the door. The receptionist lady wished me luck and said I was free to leave. For the last time, I heard the door buzz to unlock, and I stepped out into the beautiful sunshine and let the rays soak into my face. The air smelled amazing. I felt as if I had just landed in some beautiful vacation destination.

  One of the most valuable lessons that I have learned in life was one that I learned on that trip to jail. It was from a female inmate I had met and had initially disliked. The more I got to know her, the more I realized that she was just a quirky person with a funny sense of humor. I actually became friends with her. I was talking to her about halfway through my stay and telling her about how miserable and anxious I felt every day. “Humans were made to adapt to their environment. You'll be okay, just tough it out. It's only temporary. Time is the worst thing that can be taken from you, but it is also the one thing that will eventually reach its destination.” Her words helped me get through the time I spent in jail. Any time I was feeling sad or depressed, I heard her voice in my head. I was made to adapt to my environment, I would think to myself. Eventually my time would be served, and I knew I would get out of there. Time is one of the worst things that someone can take from you because our time to live is limited.

  I was so excited to be outside, and I was so excited to know that I did not have to go back into that lonely jail. I even jumped up and down for a minute practically attacking Gina with a hug as I thanked her. She looked at me like I was crazy, but she knew where I was coming from. We walked toward the bus stop and sat down on the bench while waiting for our ride down the highway. I knew of the place we were going, but I had never actually been there. I had no idea what to expect except for the tidbits of information I had gotten from some of the other inmates who had previously been there. They were supposedly very strict and would kick a person out for breaking the smallest rule. If I got kicked out, I would have to go back to jail and start the entire sentence over again. I had every intention of listening to the counselors and cooperating to the best of my ability, but I was still afraid. I had developed the strong belief that everyone was out to get me, and no matter what I did, it would never be good enough. The system had made me feel like I was invalid. Nothing I would say mattered anymore because I was officially a felon. I was now entering into society as a convict. My dreams of becoming a nurse were entirely over.

  I thought about all of this during the bus ride. When the bus pulled up to our stop, we got off and headed into a small convenience store that was on the way to the recovery center. My eyes grew wide with excite
ment when I came face to face with soda and candy bars. Gina paid for my candy despite my protests. “Hurry up and drink your soda, hon, we are right around the corner from the building.” “Okay! Watch this!” I said as I began chugging my favorite bubbly pleasure. I was a champ at chugging drinks from my beer drinking party days. I almost finished the entire bottle and belched as we walked down the residential street. Gina again looked at me like I was crazy. I was feeling a bit crazy in my own little way. We approached a white house, and I was totally confused. “Where are we?” I asked. “This is the Recovery Center silly,” she replied. I hadn’t realized that it was in an actual house. I thought it might be more like a medical center. I knew the neighborhood that we were in because my mom had a friend who lived nearby. I hoped that she wouldn’t see me at any point during my stay. How embarrassing that would be.

  I checked in and answered a hundred questions for the staff member behind the desk. “So, let me ask you, Elizabeth, have you ever used drugs before?” He wanted to know when and exactly how much I had used. “I didn’t use drugs until I was eighteen so that was last year. It started with cocaine, and after that I did meth pretty hard for a few months until I lost everything,” I answered. “Do you think that you have a problem with drugs now?” he asked. “Yes, because in my opinion, even using drugs on a single occasion is a problem. It should have never happened but it did.” I was ready to be honest and face the stupid choices I had made. Plus, I knew that if I lied it would just take even longer for me to get home. They would know and keep me past the thirty days to get me out of denial. I was sure they saw that on a regular basis. When I was in jail, there were plenty of women who would admit to using drugs but would never admit to being an addict or that it was a problem. I thought it was sad. The only way they could ever get better was if they first admitted to themselves the reality of substance abuse and their addiction.