66. Polyneeeesia!!
CHAPTER 66
POLYNEEEESIA!!
MARGAUX
T he cell is overcrowded. Built for two, it holds five of us.
The walls are stark, the concrete cold underfoot. The temperature hovers somewhere between chilly and unbearable, but the discomfort barely registers next to the tension coiling in my gut.
Roaches scuttle across the floor—fat, confident creatures that seem to thrive in this confined hell. Two women have claimed the narrow bed platforms, while the rest of us are left to find spots on the floor with our flimsy mats and thin blankets.
I’m super stylish in my paper shorts and top, no shoes. And I don’t want to think about what substances might be on the floor.
The cellmates are a mixed bag. The white woman, who calls herself Moonracer, is tweaking, her hands twitching as she mumbles to herself. The other three are Polynesian women with an air of seasoned resilience. They’ve been through this before.
I’m the outsider here, and I know it. My ginger hair and pale skin might as well be neon signs flashing ‘ not one of us’.
There’s a metal toilet and sink, just like I’ve seen on TV. It’s weird, seeing jail in person. I mean, I had an idea of what it would be like from binge-watching 60 Days In, Love During Lockup, Orange is the New Black , and various other TV shows and movies, but actually being in a cell hits different.
In any case, I’m intimidated. Scared.
“Do you know when we’ll be let out?” I ask, my voice hesitant.
The obvious leader of the group, a broad-shouldered woman with tattoos winding up her arms, sizes me up. Her dark eyes narrow slightly before she responds. “Court’s in the morning. The judge will decide. What’re you in for?”
I hesitate, but decide to tell the truth. “Domestic abuse. The guy who fractured my skull called the cops on me and said I pulled his hair.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Jesus. Are you still with him?”
“No,” I reply quickly. “I mean, the skull fracture happened months ago. I didn’t even know about it until the hospital scanned me on the way here. But this… this changes everything. It has to.”
Her expression softens, but only slightly. “Wait. You’ve got an accent. Where’re you from?”
“New Zealand,” I say, the words tasting foreign on my tongue in this place.
Her face lights up. "Oh my gosh— POLYNESIAAAA! She’s POLYNEEESSIIAAAAAN!!! "
Relief washes over me as the tension in the cell shifts. I’ve passed some invisible test— been granted inclusion into this unlikely sisterhood. Thank fucking god.
The women introduce themselves. The leader is Malia, here for assault. The two other Polynesian women, Leilani and Tia, nod in solidarity. Moonracer mutters something incomprehensible, still lost in her drug-fueled haze. Their stories spill out in bits and pieces, mostly violence-related offenses. I’m grateful that none of their charges involve anything more sinister.
Every so often, someone farts or burps, but in the peculiar politeness of our cell, each is followed by a murmured apology. The juxtaposition is surreal.
Somewhere down the hall, a woman’s unhinged shrieking echoes, clearly in some kind of drug-induced psychosis. I’m relieved she’s not sharing this cell.
We’re given peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The bread is stale, the jelly sickly sweet, and I’m not hungry, anyway. I set mine aside.
Later, I watch as Malia grins, calls to an officer as they pass by, and actually gets him to bring us more sad sandwiches. It’s bizarre, almost funny, this tiny kindness in a bleak space.
Eventually, the lights dim. It takes forever for sleep to claim me, but exhaustion wins.
“My husband’s in one of the other cells,” says Malia, peeking out the window. “Oooh, some guys are coming past. Heyyy!” she hollers, and I can’t help but laugh. That’s what I call making the most of a bad situation.
I wake to a sharp nudge. “Move!” snaps Leilani as I realize I’ve rolled onto her mat in my sleep. “Oh shit! Sorry!” I say, scrambling back to my own space.
Somehow, I manage to sleep through the rest of the night.
In the morning, the officers come to shackle us together for transport. The cold bite of metal around my ankles feels surreal, like I’ve stepped into a nightmare.
We’re led out in a chain gang to the transport van, passing the still-shrieking woman. One of the guards mentions she’s a regular, high on whatever she can get her hands on every couple of weeks. Thankfully, she’s locked into her own separate compartment in the transport van, a thin metal wall separating her from the rest of us. She pounds the walls, her screams grating. One of the other women yells back, “Shut the fuck up, you crazy bitch!” followed by a few death threats.
When we reach the courthouse, we’re herded into a larger cell. The dynamic changes as new women join us, including another tweaking girl and an older lady with a quiet intensity about her.
At one point, a cockroach the size of my palm skitters across the floor. I shriek and jump back, finding an unlikely ally in one of the tweaking girls as we huddle in mutual disgust.
More stale peanut butter and jelly sandwiches arrive, and I force myself to eat this time, knowing I need strength for whatever comes next.
Hours crawl by, before I’m taken to a smaller holding cell with Leilani. We exchange small talk to pass the time, but the anxiety hangs heavy.
Finally, I’m led to a consultation with a public defender. She’s efficient but detached, explaining the process and letting me know she’ll be entering a not guilty plea on my behalf.
Then it’s my turn before the judge.
The courtroom is sterile, all hard edges and glaring lights. The judge glances over my file, listens to the public defender, and grants my release on my own recognizance.
Relief floods me as I’m told I’m free to go. I visit the property desk where I’m handed my belongings, and then I step out into the fresh air of downtown Sunset Cay, still dressed in my jail-issued paper attire.
I call an Uber and strip off the paper outfit, pulling on my shorts before discarding my jail-wear in a nearby trash can.
When he arrives, the Uber driver glances at me curiously but says nothing.
As I sit in the back seat, I message Alice:
Me:
I just got out of JAIL! HE had ME locked up!
Alice:
WHAT?! Are you okay?
Me:
He said I assaulted him. I spent the night in jail.
Alice:
Press charges against him. You need to get out of this situation.
Me:
The most interesting part? They took me to the hospital first. Turns out the last time he attacked me, he fractured my skull.
Alice:
This is insane. This is the rest of your life. Counter arrests and violent attacks.
You need to leave. Distance yourself. You have to get out.
Me:
I don’t want him to take Sunset Cay from me.
Alice:
You can always go back. Right now, you need literal distance or he'll come find you.
She’s right. We brainstorm a little, and identify several people I could stay with in other states—plenty of mutual roller derby friends.. But there’s a catch—I can’t leave the island until my court appearance.
Alice:
This is how people get stuck with their abusers. They have literally zero ways to get away.
I notice a missed call from his mom from last night.
When I dial her number, she answers on the first ring, and I tell her about my night in jail.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry that happened,” she says. “I’m glad you’re out of there. I don’t know why he did that.”
I sigh. Nobody knows why Timmy does many of the things he does.
Not even Timmy.
We chat a little more.
“Jennifer has some rental properties. Maybe you could rent a place from her,” his mom suggests.
What the actual fuck?
No, I don’t want to rent an apartment from Timmy’s ex-girlfriend.
“I’ll figure something out,” I reply.
“I hope your cat is okay,” she says. “I’m really sorry about all this.”
We hang up.
Me:
Yeah, it’s dumb. I just spoke with his mom.
Alice:
What did she have to say?
Me:
That she’s very sorry, and she hopes I can find my cat.
Alice:
Tell her that since you can’t leave now, they should come and remove him for your safety.
Me:
Yeah, I would hope they’d do that, but his dad is a massive enabler.
Alice:
Enough of an enabler where he’d let his son stay and abuse someone?
Me:
I’m not sure.
Scrolling through my phone, I discover the aftermath of Timmy’s latest betrayal.
Me:
I am in jail.
Oh my fucking god. The audacity.
Me:
I am in jail.
I scroll to the next text message.
Me:
I am in jail.
Oh my fucking god.
He’s broken into my computer, accessed my cloud-stored texts, and sent a single, humiliating message to several people in my contact list.
I’m so mortified that I went to jail in the first place. And I’m angry, because he got me locked up for things I didn’t do.
And now he’s rubbing it in by making it public?
Nothing makes sense.
Up is down, down is up, and I need a shower and a nap.