Unusual Circumstances

“The State of Arizona versus Mayani Nolen,” announced the bailiff, followed by the reading of the case number. Mayani rose from the rather uncomfortable wooden bench she’d been sitting on for what seemed like an eternity and headed toward the podium that stood between the rows of benches and the judge. The judge’s seat was perched high above the podium and benches, as if to suggest a powerful and imposing presence within the room. The judge, an older, mean-looking woman in her early sixties, peered over her bifocals at Mayani as if to suggest she was less than human. A mere speck. A germ. Then she looked down at the papers before her. Mayani glanced at the public defender beside her, Pablo Ceran, and wondered if she’d made a mistake in not hiring a real lawyer. One who didn’t work for the state. If she were in any other state, perhaps it would’ve been okay to use a public defender. But this was Arizona, and she’d heard enough stories about Arizona when it came to its laws. It was just that she hadn’t been able to afford a real lawyer, and Nana certainly didn’t have the money to help her out either. Between Nana’s retirement checks and her own checks from book sales, they didn’t make much more than just enough to get by. “At least you broke the law after the new experiment had been enacted,” the slick-looking public defender had told her. The “new experiment” consisted of giving those convicted of petty crimes suspended jail sentences while placing them in the homes of qualified people within various areas of law enforcement, be it police officers, guards, probation officers, and others in similar positions. If any defendant broke any of the rules while in the homes of the officers, they would then automatically be sent to jail to carry out the remainder of their sentences, if not more, depending on what their violations were. Nonetheless, she continued to wonder if she should have pleaded not guilty and fought her case all the way. Maybe then all she’d have gotten was a small fine, or maybe just a few months of standard probation—the kind where you pay a monthly fee and report to a probation officer once or twice a month. The judge’s eyes met hers once again as she began to hand down her sentence. “Having pled guilty to being in the company of one charged with the possession of a controlled substance in the third degree, you are hereby sentenced to a suspended sentence of sixty days. This means you will be under house arrest at an assigned officer’s home. The house arrest can be revoked in the event of any violations, at which time you will be remanded to the county jail for the remainder of your sentence, plus any additional time, depending on the nature of the offense committed. In the meantime, until an officer has been contacted and briefed on your case, Miss Nolen, you are to remain in custody.” Mayani gasped, glancing quickly at Pablo Ceran. “Are there any questions, Miss Nolen?” asked the judge. Mayani turned back to face the judge, frustrated and anxious. “Well, Your Honor, it’s just that no one told me I’d have to do any jail time. In fact, it was just the opposite. Mr. Ceran here told me I’d be taken straight to the officer’s home.” The judge glanced at the public defender for a moment, then returned her steely gaze to Mayani. “Perhaps you misunderstood, Miss Nolen. All defendants are held in custody until a proper placement can be made. Such arrangements take a little time—usually a few days. We can’t expect people to come running the instant a defendant is sentenced. Will that be all? If so, I’d really appreciate it if we could move on. I have a long day ahead of me, and chatting isn’t going to help get me through it.” “No. No questions,” Mayani said curtly, not bothering to hide her anger. The public defender led her toward the waiting bailiff at the side of the courtroom as another bailiff called the next case. “Thanks for telling me I’d still have to go to jail anyway,” Mayani hissed at the public defender. “I’m sorry, Mayani. I thought you knew.” “No, I didn’t know. How could I have? I’m not a lawyer, so I couldn’t possibly know anything that you didn’t want me to know.” The bailiff, a middle-aged man with mostly gray hair, had Mayani put her hands in front of her while he mechanically placed a pair of handcuffs on her, his face void of any real expression. “I’ll get the appeals going pronto,” Pablo Ceran said. “Forget it, Pablo. If I’m going to try to appeal the case, I’ll handle it myself.” “That’s not a good idea, Mayani.” “Neither were you.” The bailiff led her to a holding cell, where she waited for what seemed like a lifetime. The overcrowded holding cell was both smelly and noisy. Hardly an inch of the walls was unmarked by writing. A few of the other inmates attempted to make conversation with her, but she simply smiled politely and turned away, lost in her own thoughts and worries. Damn that joke of a lawyer for not telling her she’d be in for this. Did all lawyers do this? Were they all deceitful? Did they all withhold information from those they were supposed to defend? If so, she hated to think of what her temporary housemate might be like. She retreated into her own mind as an escape and used her imagination to create a more pleasant surrounding for herself. It was a technique a therapist had once taught her when she was coping with the family tragedy that had occurred when she was fifteen. “Using it as a coping mechanism is okay,” the therapist had said. “But whatever you do, never use it as a means of denial.” There was one thing she couldn’t deny, and that was that she’d been with the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time. She knew appeals would be a waste of time and that she should simply be glad she hadn’t gotten an even harsher sentence. A couple of months at some stranger’s home was better than years in prison. Still, it was time for a little escape. Therefore, she closed her eyes and exhaled deeply, transporting herself to a wonderfully deserted island. The tropical air was warm and smelled fruity, not like urine as it did in the holding cell. She roamed through the gentle breeze, admiring the coconut palms and the waves that lapped at the shores around her. Her feet sank through grains of fine sand with each lazy step she took. Her long, yellow-blond hair fluttered behind her, and her tanned skin glowed with youth and vitality. Her violet eyes sparkled like gems. The sound of the steel door opening tore her away from her quiet, serene little beach and placed her back in the midst of the loud, foul-smelling cell where she sat. Her rump was beginning to get sore from sitting on the hard concrete bench. How many hours had it been now? The door opened, and a male guard stood in the doorway. He briefly glanced down at the clipboard he held. “Mayani Nolen,” he called. Mayani rose stiffly and made her way to the guard just as several inmates came forward with various demands and questions. “I didn’t do anything, so why won’t they just let me outta here?” “I’m starving! Aren’t you going to feed us anything edible soon?” “I need to use the phone so my mom will know to pick up my kids when they get out of school.” “I would’ve killed the bastard that put me in here had I known he’d actually succeed in doing so in the first place!” “Quiet down, ladies!” the guard demanded, shouting above the noise just as Mayani stepped out into the hall. He then slammed the door shut with a loud metallic clank. “God, it never ends,” he said, frustration thick in his voice. Mayani smiled weakly, then followed the brisk-paced guard to a room where she had blood drawn before being fingerprinted, photographed, and asked some general questions by a frail, elderly woman—someone you’d hardly guess worked in a jail. Mayani thought she resembled her grandmother and felt compelled to be polite to the seemingly fragile woman. “Are you presently on any medications?” the woman asked. “No, ma’am.” “Any chance you could be pregnant?” “No.” After the interview was completed, Mayani was led back to the holding cell to wait even longer. It wasn’t until close to 6:00, nine hours after she was sentenced, that she was finally brought to a cell on another floor. It was in an open pod that was just as noisy, but at least she now had just one roommate and not fifty. Yvonne was her roommate’s name. She was a tall, slender redhead, twenty years old and in on a probation violation. “How do you pronounce this name of yours?” Yvonne asked, picking up her ID card. “My-on-ee. Have you ever been assigned to a law enforcement official’s house like I’m going to be?” “No chance. They’d never assign me to one with the kind of rap sheet I’ve got. Hookers and drug dealers don’t exactly qualify for being someone’s houseguest,” Yvonne said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Oh, I see.” “I hate to say it, but I don’t know that I’d be all that glad to get house arrest.” “Why is that?” “Because I’ve heard some rather unpleasant stories about it. It could all be hype, but maybe it isn’t.” “What stories have you heard?” Mayani asked, brows creased with curiosity. “That they can be so damn strict that you might as well be in jail anyway.” “Could it really be as bad as this?” Mayani said, gesturing to the noisy, crowded dayroom outside their cell. “I mean, look at all the people out there. Listen to how loud they are. And do you think we have to go to the bathroom in front of others in one of these people’s homes?” “I doubt it, but other than that, I hear it’s still pretty rough.” “Oh, I’ll bet it is. After all, there’s no place like home sweet home.” “Do you live alone?” Yvonne asked. “No, I live with my grandmother. My parents are gone, and since they had no siblings, I have no aunts, uncles, or cousins. Even the rest of my grandparents are gone now. Nana’s all I’ve got, and sadly, she’s ninety years old now, so I don’t expect to have her around much longer.” “Can she get around okay by herself?” “Yes, although not very well. She’s pretty arthritic,” Mayani said grimly. “Well, just be glad you’ll only be away for sixty days. Meanwhile, I think they’ll let you see her once or twice a week.” “I hope so,” Mayani said, climbing onto the top bunk, where she lay staring at the graffiti-covered ceiling above her. She wondered why people felt so compelled to write on the walls and ceilings of jails. Were you simply not a true inmate if you didn’t? Her thoughts shifted to the person whose home she’d be residing in for the next two months, and she wondered what they’d be like. Would they want her to succeed? Or would they be mean and evil, determined to see her trip up? And if so, just how far would they go to make that happen? It wasn’t until late Wednesday morning, two days later, that Mayani was sprung from the jail by one of the transportation officers. The officer was a short, plump, friendly Black woman in her early twenties. Her name tag bore only her surname. “You can call me Tanya,” she told Mayani. “Your stay here wasn’t too rough on you, I hope,” she added once Mayani was officially signed out and released. “No, but it wasn’t pleasant either. The food was terrible, and it was pretty noisy. I kind of missed being able to pee in private, too.” Mayani followed Tanya to her car. “Where are we going?” “To the home of Officer Kaylin Bennet. She’s a detective, actually. I’ve known her a while now.” “Is she nice, or is she some kind of mean drill sergeant?” Tanya chuckled. “You’ll survive her. She may come off a bit gruff at first, but she’s okay once she gets to know a person.” “If they’re going to place someone under house arrest, why not do it in their own homes? Why are they having them go to someone else’s house?” “Because they feel they can supervise the defendant more easily if they’re in a person’s home—someone they’ve been assigned to work with on a one-to-one basis. In their own homes, the officers have to constantly keep checking up on them.” “Where does she live?” “On the west side.” “Oh, good. That’s not too far from my grandmother’s place. Think she’ll let me get some of my stuff? I especially need my laptop.” “I don’t see why not, if everything runs smoothly. That’s something you’ll have to take up with her. What do you do?” “I’m a writer.” “Really?” Mayani nodded. “What do you write?” “I write for a gay and lesbian publishing company.” Tanya smiled. “Oh, do you? How interesting. What kinds of things do you write?” “Romantic suspense novels.” “Wow. Well, I can see why you’d need your laptop.” “It would help. Longhand writing is no fun. It can’t be edited as well either.”