Chapter 6
After processing me and questioning me for what felt like days at the precinct, the police dump me in a cell in the back of the courthouse while I await my lawyer.
I feel like the deflated bags of trash that mark so many city streets.
Smelly and only welcomed by rats. The cell is connected to interview booths where people talk in a semi-private manner to their attorneys, before being hauled off toward a door that opens to a bright space—a courtroom, I assume.
I watch the corrections officers with the sort of anticipation I have waiting for a pizza slice to warm up in the oven.
I’d kill for some pizza right now. Wrong choice of words, I think immediately after.
Any small movement gives me hope that I will be ushered into an attorney booth to speak to someone. Hopefully Amaya.
There are a half dozen other women in various states, all waiting to speak to their court-appointed attorney.
One woman is clearly not well. She is curled in the fetal position and has been sick—from both ends—twice already in the small toilet we all share.
There’s not even a door for privacy. Soon, the cell is filled with a stench so foul, I think I’m going to be sick myself, but I realize that would only add to the aroma.
I ask the guards if they can get the woman some medical treatment.
Upon closer inspection, I’m positive she is going into severe drug withdrawal.
No one seems to care. I’ve seen this before.
Most people have on the subway or sidewalk; a few times, I’ve seen it up close in my cab.
I’ve rushed a number of people to the hospital, and when I asked one why he didn’t call an ambulance, the man said he had no insurance and couldn’t afford the costs.
“She may die,” I try to protest. It’s the most inflammatory thing I can think of to say to the officer to get the woman aid.
Surely, this has to provoke some reaction.
The officers still do not acknowledge me.
In fact, they don’t bother to look up from their phones, as if they are practiced in tuning out the complaints of the people they are supposedly in charge of.
I say it again, and this time the officer looks up. “No more tampons, we’re out,” he says. I’m momentarily confused, and then I realize he isn’t listening to a word I’m saying and instead providing some canned response to a frequently asked question.
The other women in the cell, contrary to what I’d thought and been told by the police, are leaving me alone for now.
Everyone is in such a sorry state, they only have enough energy to worry about their own problems, and sometimes not even the energy for that.
No one seems to acknowledge or notice me.
The cell itself is incredibly dirty. A half-eaten apple has rolled to a stop in the middle of the floor. A few hard benches line the walls, and there’s one pay phone in the corner. No matter what you are charged with, this feels inhumane.
Time moves at a glacial pace when there are no clocks around.
How long have I been here now? To get my mind off being both cold and hungry, I try to think of my stupid, silly, wonderful older brother and all the adventures we had across the city.
But, when I think of him, I only remember my last words to him.
The argument we had. The memory whizzes through my mind before a voice brings me back to my sobering reality.
“Siriwathi!”
I immediately rise with strength and gusto, grateful to be broken out of my reverie.
I know at once it is Amaya from the lilt of her voice.
She did not abandon me, though I could have forgiven her if she had.
The cell spills directly into interview booths, and I wander toward her voice.
I sit down in the chair across from the clear piece of plastic that separates us, smudged by months—even years—of fingerprints.
“Hello.” A little bit of my exhaustion and fear fades when I see her face.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her lips contorted into a pained position, her face filled with empathy. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t be there at the precinct. I kept demanding that I be able to see you, but they didn’t care. I told them it was illegal to hold you for so long.”
“I’m okay,” I say. While I feel far from okay, I don’t want to worry her. Besides, I feel pretty stupid complaining as I look at the other women just behind me. I think of the woman going through withdrawal, suffering despite my attempts to get her medical help.
The time that follows is a blur, with Amaya asking rapid-fire questions, not only about what happened that night, but about my life, my family, and my job.
The personal questions, she explains, are for my bail application.
A bail application contains all the reasons that I should be released and why I won’t flee.
It’s the CliffsNotes version of my life.
All the poetry and nuance is gone. It’s only the sterile facts.
“They are asking for bail,” Amaya explained. “This means that there will be a certain amount of money that you or your family has to put up to get you out.”
“We don’t have any money,” I say, looking down at my feet, feeling like my poverty is something to be ashamed of and certainly not something I want to discuss with Amaya. “What happens then?”
I know what comes next, I just hope somehow I am mistaken. I hope Amaya won’t say it.
“If you can’t pay, you get sent to Rikers Island.”
My hope is dashed.