Sam Paul - Why I Committed Suicide

He asked what was going on and before you know it, I started blubbering like a baby in rehab again! The words start coming out about my addiction, the car accident and everything. I knew to hold back about the thefts around town because of the Hasting’s incident, but I couldn’t stop myself from pouring out all this personal pain to him. It must have been boiling just beneath the surface waiting for a release.

Through my whole spiel he’s acting concerned for my well being, like he genuinely has some sort of answer he can give me, like he really cares! I’ve got snot pouring out of my nose and my vision is blurred with tears while he watches sympathetically, but then he releases the kicker. He sort of casually lets out, “we’ve been investigating a couple of burglaries around the campus area.” as if it’s a natural part of our conversation. EXCUSE ME?!!

All at once the tears dry up and I knew I was just played for an ass. My wide crying eyes narrow into evil little slits and I focus every fucking ounce of pent-up hurt negativity and rage through my pupils, into his fucking corneas and penetrate the back of his fucking brain all at once, trying to get his head to hemorrhage or preferably explode. He even backed up for a second in the cold cell where we are talking under observation, looked back at the video camera on the wall and leaves nervously before I can poke my fingers into his fucking eyes and twist them around until he’s Stevie-fucking-Wonder blind! I’m fuming, fuming, fuming mad, but I know what’s going to come next. He’s blown the good cop shit, so he’s got to play the bad cop now. It’s psychologically smart and I’ve been played like a fucking idiot schoolgirl up until now but I realize I’ve got to sit and be calm. So I focus, and breathe and stare directly into the video camera high up on the wall for about ten straight minutes letting the glare off the lens help me focus into a more relaxed meditative state. I know I have to be smart now or this cop’s going to fuck me hard. Sure enough, ten minutes later a Lt. comes in and politely takes me back to his office and offers me a seat. Here it comes I think, be cool. Be fucking ice cream in the Arctic cool.

To this guy, I present myself as Joe Schoolboy. I’m Mr. “In over my head and scared but innocent student” to this guy. I’m sure he was watching the exchange with Goldberg in the cell since I’m probably the only interesting diversion in their full day of writing traffic and parking tickets. I’m the potential “winning-lottery-ticket-of-burglaries-that-might-take-some-of-the-heat-off-their-ineffec-tive-asses” guy. The Lt. starts in on the “this could be hard on your paralyzed girlfriend routine” which almost pisses me off and I’m silently thankful for the meditation time they gave me to analyze the angles that would likely be put in play against me.

When he sees that won’t work he tries to tell me they have fingerprints from the crime scenes and that they will find out if mine match and I can make it easier on myself by just admitting to him the extent of my criminal enterprises. Yeah-fucking-right! I was born at night, but not last night. No matter how green I am at this criminal routine, I’m learning really fucking fast. Innocent as can be I ask him if they really have fingerprints. Of course he says “yes”, his eyes suddenly getting predatory and hungry, his mouth going dry with anticipation for a brief moment before I let out an over-exaggerated sigh of relief and say “Oh, thank you!” I proceed to let him know I’m really glad they have the fingerprints so they’ll know it wasn’t me and thank him over and over while I watch the cast of disappointment fall into his eyes. We exchange a few more words and then I am out of there going back to my cell. Goldberg’s waiting outside the lieutenant’s door and he’s pissed. As he’s taking me to the cell he makes sure to painfully punch me a couple of times in the ribs and slam me up against the concrete wall, but as he walks out I get the satisfaction of giving him the barest hint of a smile. Fucking cock sucking whore bastard. Fucking cock sucking dead whore bastard.

So I’m here in Denton County Jail looking at another misdemeanor charge and, get this, my first felony charge! Possession of a controlled substance under one gram. The fucking bastard got the last laugh by charging me with felony possession of heroin along with my misdemeanor and throwing me in jail just to watch me spin. I’m nervous, but I am assured by the fact that I am innocent of the felony. I had nothing on me. Unless they have drugs to plant on suspects just lying around, like New York, Minnesota and Dallas cops do, I doubt they even have a decent case. It must really suck to be nothing more than an overblown campus traffic cop.

Now it’s just a matter of me waiting around in here. I’m not 100 percent assured that being innocent will actually mean I come out of this experience a free man, but it’s something to latch onto, and thanks to bad government policies causing prison overcrowding I know a first felony will get me automatic probation at the very worst.

The wait is going to be murder. Unless you take the guilty plea, the City of Denton will keep you for damn near as long as they want. File me away, let me plot and rest. Like the black people say, “They gotta let me out one day. Until then, get used to baloney.”

Believe it or not, being in County Jail isn’t too bad. Don’t get me wrong, the food sucks and the process of getting integrated into the system is its own circle of hell that I’ll save for another time, but once I got to my “residence” where I was going to be living for a while it actually wasn’t too bad.

I’m in an area loosely attached to a wing of the jail that fences in a set of portable prisons where they put minor offenders and folks that are trustees or people in relatively good standing. Imagine a large storage shed or a double-wide trailer home completely gutted of its interior and fitted with 6 rows of bunk beds down each side wall. In the very back, open to God and everyone, are three toilets and two small showers off to the side. Each trailer house has one thick wall down the middle, completely and solidly separating it into two living areas, an “A” side and a “B” side. By dividing it in half, they can add twice as many bunk beds, allowing the whole building to hold a total of 48 prisoners instead of 24. Another great part is that only one guard sits behind a thick screen at the very front of the building, watching both sides and unknowingly saving the prison money by not having to hire extra guards.

Here is a picture:

There are four of these buildings next to the main jail, three men’s buildings and one women’s, each with an “A” and “B” Unit. Five of the six men’s Units house the “trustees,” usually the people who are in jail for minor enough offenses that they’re trusted enough to go out and perform all sort of meaningless tasks; everything from mopping up puke in the drunk tank to cooking meals for the prisoners. It’s free prison labor and almost all the guys all do it without objection because it helps pass the time. Hell, one day I rolled a whole pouch of tobacco into cigarettes for a guy in exchange for a single Snickers Bar. I don’t know much about rolling tobacco but I learned quickly with hunger as my main motivation.

Since I’ve got a felony I’m in Unit 3B, the only 1/8 of the four porta-potties that doesn’t have or allow trustees. I’ve put in an application to be one because I’m told that if you work in the kitchen you can find semi-edible cuisine on occasion.