LA: I am lying on a hard bunk in a prison cell. There is a sinister wailing sound coming from the cell to my left. Despite wrapping myself in the measly blanket like the Turin Shroud, I am freezing. Apparently, they keep it icy cold in jail so that germs don’t spread and I am wearing only a T-shirt, jeans and my Converse trainers – minus the laces, which they confiscated when they ‘processed me’.
What is a nice girl like me doing in a place like this? I went to the Royal Wedding for goodness’ sake. ‘Facebook is like jail. You sit around a lot and waste time, write on walls and get poked by people you don’t know,’ someone has scrawled on the wall. I hoped that was written by a man.
At the moment, I am in my ‘house’ alone but I could get a ‘cellie’ or cellmate in the morning. Oh yes, I am now down with the jailhouse slang. So how did I get here? Let’s rewind a few hours. I am happily chuffing along Santa Monica Boulevard, singing along to my iPod, when I hear the dreaded sound of a police siren.
I had been travelling at 20mph, so I was not worried. The policeman (cute) appears at my window. Licence and registration: the usual drill. He saunters off back to his car to run my driver’s licence through his computer. I am in a rush, so I am feeling irritated. Eventually, he strolls back to my window.
Officer Handsome invites me to sit in the back of his police cruiser. Clearly, he has me confused with someone else. He then wanders off, muttering into his shoulder walkie-talkie thing.
One of his cop buddies arrives and they chat for a while, staring at me. He saunters back. ‘Step out the car, Madam.’ Finally, I am on my way.
Umm, perhaps not. ‘Turn round and face the car. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law...’ he says as he snaps handcuffs around my wrists.
I’m outraged. What am I being taken into custody for? Apparently, there is a $40,000 (about £26,000) warrant out for my arrest. I was pulled over because my registration had expired and the warrant was issued because I forgot to go to court for a traffic violation.
It seems excessive for a traffic violation. During the ride to the police station, I go from furious (‘I want your badge number. I am going to sue everyone’) to panicked (‘Am I going to have a criminal record?’) to crying because I am frightened they are going to make me bend over and cough.
The cop says I will be in front of the judge tomorrow and then I’ll be able to go home.
We drive into the back area of the jail, where I am marched in and ‘processed’. This includes an extremely intimate pat-down by a cross female officer.
I don’t know how Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton look pretty in their mugshots; I look like serial killer Aileen Wuornos. Whereas they can afford to bail themselves out immediately, I don’t have a spare $5,000 (about £3,200).
It is then I am told that there is no court the next day because of budget cuts. So I will be held until Friday morning, 48 hours away.
I have one phone call but it can only be to a landline number. How many landline numbers do you know? I can call my mum, but waking her in the middle of the night from the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department would not look good.
I spend one long, lonely, soul-cold night curled up on a thin mattress with no pillow. I cry myself to sleep and at some point am woken by a scary-looking man in an orange jumpsuit (on ‘work release’ from jail) who brings me a plastic bag with some bread, peanut butter and an apple.
Hours later, a very nice female officer tells me there is court after all, handcuffs me again and escorts me to the big yellow jailhouse bus, which is stuffed with people from county jail (real criminals).
It is just like you see in films. There is even rap music playing, and there is a cage situation at the back with all of the male prisoners, who shout lewd remarks.
The next eight hours are spent in a shared cell underneath the courthouse. Even worse than people using the loo – plonked in the corner in a tiny, windowless cell – (I daren’t gag in case I get beaten up) is feeling so cold.
Remembering that you lose a high percentage of body heat from your head, I am so desperate I wrap mine up in loo roll, like a mummy, with a small slit for my eyes. Another prisoner I’ve become friendly with does the same, except for some reason she only leaves a slit for her mouth. We both laugh our heads off for the next five minutes, rolling around on the concrete bench. A moment of light relief.
Finally, eight hours later, I get to speak to the public defender. When she looks at my charge sheet, she seems surprised that I have been locked up. And, after another hour handcuffed in the corner of the courtroom, so does the judge. He dismisses the charges and I don’t even have to pay court costs because of ‘time served’.
I am escorted back into a cell in the basement and endure another long wait until I am ‘processed out’ and given a plastic bag with my personal items. My new friend is going back to the county jail because she really is a criminal.
‘I am going to laugh if I see you back here again,’ is a female officer’s parting shot before I am released from the bowels of the courthouse into the evening sunshine. Charming.
Next time you are pulled over for a minor traffic violation, thank your lucky stars you live in Britain.
Don’t get me wrong, I love living in the US – I just don’t love its legal system.
Even though I can now look back on the experience and laugh, I have definitely been traumatised by it. Nowadays, if I even see a police car, I feel as if I am going to have a panic attack. It makes me long for British bobbies.
# Source: The Daily Mail, By Emma Parker bowles
