A $4,000 Breath of Fresh Air

by Steve Rubin

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Spending a night in jail is one of the worst experiences you could ever have. Spending a night in jail for a crime you didn't commit can bring you to the brink of insanity. Sitting in that cell, knowing you don't belong there, knowing that no one cares if you belong there but only that you are there, can turn even a true believer of the system into a cynic. The crime you are in for doesn't matter. Whether it's armed robbery, murder, stealing cars, shoplifting, drug dealing, public drunkenness, or indecent exposure, if you end up in jail for something you didn't do, the levels of anxiety and stress can steamroll into cataclysmic proportion jading the innocent and trustworthy into hateful and bitter people bent on becoming advocates of overhauling the entire judicial system. It will make you start believing that everyone in prison is in fact innocent. Charlie Manson? Innocent. Timothy McVeigh? Innocent. Uni-bomber, John Wayne Gacy, Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer?—all innocent. Caught in the act red handed? Doesn't matter. I've seen the judicial system—from the cops on the street to the bail bondsman to the court judge—and it's much easier than most would expect for an innocent person to end up in jail for a crime they didn't commit. And what's worse? All the aforementioned people know this and do nothing about it. Sometimes it's just easier to go with what you have than to look elsewhere.

"I'm getting pretty buzzed so I'm going to step outside for some fresh air." As Check Your Head by the Beastie Boys blasts in the house party, I make my way down the stairs and to the backyard of the house. I had just got into it pretty good with my girlfriend about nothing worth any significance repeating. The alcohol was flowing, the music was blaring, and my head was spinning. I need a break from all of it. It had been over 5 hours since I last stepped outside. It was about 3 a.m.

Sitting on the back steps facing the house, I could hear people having a good time drinking, smoking, and listening to tunes. No one was out back because it was my house and not many people even realized that we had a back yard with steps leading up the restaurant behind our place. That, and the fact it was early December in West Virginia didn't necessarily warrant many "fresh air breaks". It was the last day of classes of the first semester and my girlfriend had actually finished with her degree. Her mother was in town for her off-stage graduation the next day. Everything was glorious. Except for my buzz and what was about to happen.

When I turned to my left and looked up the parking lot of the restaurant behind my house, the car headlights were directly pointed at my head. Head spinning and buzzed, I immediately covered my eyes to shield the light. The car stopped about 50 yards from where I was sitting when I finally realized it was a police patrol car. "Oh great," I murmured to myself, "coming to break up our party." The car door opened and slammed shut. I noticed a tall, bulky, blonde, young male cop walking towards me. I stood up to greet him.

"How're you doin' officer?"

"Fine. This your house, sir?"

"Yes." I answered, half sobered up already.

"Do you mind if I ask you some questions?" he asked politely.

"Sure." I said, almost relieved he wasn't trying to break up the party. Yet now anxious about why he actually was here.

"Have you been at this location all evening, sir?"

"Yes, I have. It's my house and my roommates and I were having an end-of-the-semester party before everyone leaves for winter break." I spoke honestly and without hesitation or slew.

"Ok, sir. The reason I ask is because we had a break-in a few blocks up at the Stonehouse Restaurant. Are you familiar with the place?"

"Yes. I walk by it on my way to classes some days."

I wasn't nervous because I had no reason to be. I was always good with talking to authority: parents, bosse's, teachers, etc. People who most kids were scared or intimidated by. I just played it cool like I was talking to one of my boys.

"Well, sir. They took five bottles of liquor and we have an eye witness from the video store next door."

"What time did this happen?" I asked.

"About an hour and a half ago." He responded.

"Well, officer. I have been at my house the entire evening and I have about 50 people in there that can back me up."

"I understand, sir. Would you mind if we at least have the witness just take a look at you? I have him in the back of the car and you kind of match the description he gave. He described the person as tall, with a flannel shirt and baseball cap on."

I was a little nervous now. I had on blue Dickies pants, a baseball hat, and a red multi-colored flannel shirt. Nothing too out of the norm for West Virginia students circa 1993. I moved into the cars headlights while the officer walked back to his car parked 50 yards away. I saw him lean into the rear window and point in my direction. A few moments passed and he began to slowly walk back in my direction.

"Sir, I'm going to have to take you in. The witness says you look like the guy."

Amazed, confused, angry, and still half drunk, my voice raised a little bit. "Officer, it was NOT me. I have been at my house all night partying. I have no reason to steal five bottles of liquor. I don't even drink liquor!"

Even so, the officer had a witness who tagged me the perp. He turned me around, gave me a quick pat down, read me my rights, and placed the cuffs on me. Almost on cue, the backdoor to my house swung open and my three roommates, girlfriend, and some others from the party finally notice the commotion and cop lights.

"Hey. What's going on?" my roommate yelled as they walked closer.

"They're fucking arresting me for something I didn't do!" I angrily replied.

"Officer wait! He has been with us all night. There is no way he did this." Another roommate pleaded. "This is bullshit!"

The officer didn't seem phased by any of the commotion. He had his man and he was taking me in for booking. As he placed me into the rear of his car, a few drunken friends started hitting the roof and hood yelling at the cop about how he had the wrong guy. It didn't matter. He had his witness. He had his burglar. It must have been that he looked like he wasn't much older than me, because he almost acted as if he had some sympathy for my situation. As if he knew I didn't commit the crime, but he simply had a job to do.


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