I arrived before my check-in at 8 a.m. and waited outside of the Lower Buckeye Jail (LBJ). Nervous among other self-surrendering people of all walks of life, I kept to myself at first, but then gravitated towards a group of women who appeared to be fellow professionals who were first-timers. I neared in on the two red heads and a blond with short hair. After a few minutes of awkwardly lingering beside them, one of them came over holding up the book, Wicked, and asked, “Are you here for the book club?”

Clutching my own copy of Wicked in my arms, I responded in jest, “Why yes I am! What time do we start?”

Whew, I was in.

We stood and got to know each other a bit, searching for common ground, so we’d have “like individuals” to hang with on the “inside.” I was so grateful to learn that not only did the girl with the short hair have her copy of Wicked, but she also loves one of my favorite musicians, Celine Dion. In addition, she has a propensity to collect Hello Kitty desk supplies, a sure-fire IN to my selective Hello Kitty Pokey Posse. She was welcomed into my gang before we ever entered the clink. The initiation was solidified with a pinky swear once we were in a cell – the unbreakable vow to stick together while doing our time.

After we were let in through the huge metal doors that read, “Maricopa County Lower Buckeye Jail,” we were assessed by a nurse, lined up facing a concrete wall, legs spread and searched. From there we were led inside where we hopes were high that we’d soon be taken to the Tents where we would be issued a blanket and have access to food and drinks from the outdoor vending machines.

We walked into an office area, and were immediately led into a 6 x 8′ white slump block cell. I gasped out loud as I passed the dirty metal toilet to my right – realizing that I no longer had the privilege of privacy. My heart sunk, and I was flushed with both fear and strength as I scoped out my surroundings and immediately began the process of endurance. My new friend sat next to me on the cold cement bench and as the others filed into the room, I could feel her tension rise.

“I’m claustrophobic,” she said.

My attempts to calm her were unsuccessful, and before she handed over her medication to the guard, I encouraged her to take another xanax to ensure she would remain calm in case they added more people to the already crowded cell.

Over then next few minutes, we began to get situated, a few of us on the bench, some women standing and the rest sitting on the cement floor around the urine-stained toilet. Two of the long-timers immediately laid on the floor and tried to sleep. A good indication this would be a long stay. After all, they knew this process far better than any of us.

The first three hours in our cell were spent sharing stories, getting through the repeated question,”What are you in for?” The detention officers would frequently walk by jingling keys, giving us hope that we may be moved to the infamous Tents where we could enjoy the basic freedoms afforded in fresh air with a cot and blanket. But the hopes were always crushed as the door was opened and quickly shut again. Sometimes, the guards would let one of us out to take a mugshot, but there were long bouts of time between these incidents.

We had a $20 bet (in quarters we’d later hoped to use in the vending machine) on who would be first to give in and use the bathroom. Our only source of water was a small spigot on top of the toilet. Water rose only about an inch from the top of the dirty metal hole.

Some of the women were in for only 24 hours like myself. Others were in for longer – 15 days, 75 days … and some had been here multiple times, giving us the scoop on the process and telling us of the dream of how glorious it will be at the Tents. For now, we would wait huddled around the soiled toilet that constantly reminded us of an upcoming point of humility.

The crimes ranged from DUI to driving on suspended license, but the scariest part was that several of the women had been in and out of the system for years, for various crimes ranging from drug trafficking to armed robbery and crimes to which they would not admit.

A beautiful Hispanic girl stood in the corner, long curly hair wrapped elegantly in a messy bun. I was intrigued by her, as she appeared quite exotic, but said nothing. After a couple hours sitting on the concrete bench, I offered my space to the other women standing or sitting on the floor. As I looked over to her, she responded in a harsh Mexican Gangster accent, “Nah, I’m straight, girl.”

What the eff does that mean? I indicated as I looked at my new gang member. She whispered, “She’s been around the block. Look at the teardrop tattoos by her eye. It means she’s fine standing.”

I was surprised that such a beautiful girl could talk with such brass and bitter intonation. I was now intrigued by her even more, wanting to hear her story. I tried not to stare, but could not help but to be drawn by the dichotomy of such beauty and hate interwoven.

A playboy tattoo decorated one side of her neck, a hickey on the other. Her hands were swollen, and did not seem to match her build. They looked like hands of someone much larger, swollen by illness or infection. But I could not imagine what. Later, in another cell, several hours later, I learned that the hands had swollen as a result of an injury she incurred while “Punching some fucking bitch in the face.”

Later while in the hard cold cell, she told her story, one of crime and sadness — circumstances that left her hardened and calloused. She mentioned the various people in her life; her homegirl, homeboy and child who she did her best to protect, and a few of the incidents that decorated the past 8 years of crime. I couldn’t help but to imagine her as an infant or young child, and imagine the dreams her mother may have had for her before she became the hurt, bitter and aggressively protective woman she had become.

Another cell mate continually guided us lesser educated inmates about the process and expectations as we awaited the freedom to be found in the tents. We learned about terms such as what it meant to “PC up,” or seek protective custody from a D.O. out of fear of another inmate; “ChoMo,” a child molester; a “Roll Up,” where an inmate receives more punishment for poor behavior if the max time was not served; and what it meant to get a “Page 2,” having a past offense brought forth after a current offense was served.

Hours were spent hearing stories from the wiser inmates – women who “got to wear stripes” and seemingly innocent young ladies who had found themselves back here after being locked up prior to now.

During our 8 hours in that cell, we were individually brought out for our mug shots. Once they were all taken, we were held there longer and then moved out. Excitement filled us all as we anticipated our relocation to the tents. The thoughts of fresh air and light rain that the forecast had promised.

We were led down a hall and as we turned a corner, realized that we had only been moved to another, smaller cell. Disappointment set in as we each found our spots.

Within an hour, we were moved again, to yet another white-walled cell – “Delirious” was scratched into the door and dried clumps of previously wetted toilet paper hung from the ceiling vents, an obvious attempt from prior inmates to block cold air from coming in.

It was now after 6:30 p.m. and we had eaten nothing, and were only afforded the water that came from the spigot at the top of the toilet. When flushed, water would spray across the room, a sure promise that the spigot was hardly sanitary or safe to drink from. The only soap looked like 1976 Motel 6 bars, used and stacked next to the spigot.

I noticed half eaten food had been left by previous inmates. Half tempted to scavang through and see if I could find something that hadn’t been eaten, I decided I could wait. None of the women had used the “bathroom,” or toilet in the center of the cell, since we had met in the morning. After one of the women decided to break her seal, we all took our turn trying to go. One girl would hold a sweatshirt over the glass windows while others blocked the view of the woman using the toilet with their sweatshirts. I became nauseous from the stench of undiluted urine filled the stuffy air. We were all becoming dehydrated, and soon, a bit delirious.

Shortly after we settled in on the cold concrete, more plastic bags were brought in, unopened bags of food. A cup of peanut butter, two rolls, a grapefruit and a small bottle of juice in each. We were elated to have something to eat and drink.

We sat in the urine stench, on the bench or floor by the recently used toilet and scavenged through the plastic bags. It felt like Christmas. One woman began to throw up after trying to eat while others continued eating and sharing food.

The guard had come around shortly after our food was delivered, and he began asking for us, one by one, to get our fingerprints. As he called one of us out, the woman next to me asked him a question about the process.

“Shut it!” I whispered as I nudged her, “Don’t slow him down! Let the man do his job so we can get to the tents!”

“Ok,” she agreed.

“That’s a smart woman right there,” he said as he pointed to me.

“Good dog.” I thought as he shut the door and took one of us away.

In between calling us out, the guards frequently walked by with jingling keys, a hopeful sound of possibly moving to the tents. But most of the time, the jingles echoed down the hall as the guard passed us by.

One of the women asked us to guard her while she used the toilet. Shortly after, she rose with pills she had removed from a condom she had hidden in her vagina. Tales followed of her prior convictions and the wisdom she volunteered to us less educated inmates. My Master’s Degree had no use here.

She told tales of earlier prostitution and explained a time when she was propositioned, “I’d usually just do a lap dance, take the $250, get to business and get out, but this time… he wanted me to do something so nasty I had to refuse.”

“Wow, $250!” An inmate exclaimed. “You must have been really good!”

“Well, we’ve seen what she can do with her vagina.” I noted to the group. Laughter filled the air as we continued to listen to her tale of a man who wanted to eat her feces after she defecated on a plate… a plate she was to bring from her own home. She assured us that she turned down the $800-offer, as there were things even she would not do.

Soon thereafter, she was the most comfortable of the group; she lay passed out snoring in a drug-induced sleep. A state we each envied as we sat in misery, finding it impossible to sleep.

But we tried.

Dispersing a bag of sanitary napkins provided by a guard, (12 hours into our stay, after we were told we could not bring our own into the facility), we used them as pillows and mapped out a pattern on the floor so we could all lay on the cold concrete around the toilet. I conjured up a pillow out of a stale roll I didn’t eat, and one of the unwrapped sanitary napkins.

As we tried to rest, our delusion set in and we became giddy, momentary rest was interupted by hysterical laughter as someone would comment on something mentioned earlier in the day. We were learning each other, and a community of inmates was emerging.

As we tossed and turned, I found myself reflecting on the psycho-social aspect of confinement. Here we were, a group of obviously different women, and within 12 hours, a social breakdown and re-emerging of unity had evolved. It was “us against them” a concept I despised. But a concept I conformed to out of survival.

I found it interesting that we so quickly came to the rescue of the woman who had smuggled drugs in via vagina. Without a second thought, we had clamored to protect her, regardless of whether we approved or disapproved. We were becoming one.

My homegirl and I laid next to each other on the floor and shared stories with the others. After an unknown duration of time, we all came to the conclusion that none of us were able to sleep, with exception of our fearless leader who was passed out dreaming of sugarplums laced with methadone.

I learned of ecstacy, foot fetishes, prostitution and far and distant places such as the Metrix, the Pods, Estrella and the magical land of Tent City.

We were completely unaware of time. None of us wore watches and there were no clocks. The only way we knew time was to look at the fingerprint card that came with a mugshot ID. We were saddened and frustrated as hours were documented as mere minutes on the individual cards as we came back from fingerprinting. Shortly after 10 p.m. we were moved next door, and the dynamic in the group changed as we were re-integrated with other women; some whom had been separated from us before, and others whom were unknown. The Hispanic gangsta had become frustrated with the process.

“This is not what jail is about. This is torture. This is not the experience. There’s so much more out there. So much more in the tents,” she exclaimed, “If we’re serving time, we should at least get the experience of the tents.”

The statement itself seems absurd, but the accuracy was right on, … sista.

As we sat in this long cell, the guard left the door open so he could call us out one by one to get the rest of us fingerprinted. We sat chatting, when out of the blue, the Latina became more and more frustrated.

“Yeah, I could hear you bitches talking and laughing in the other cell. I was ready to kick your asses, fucking bitches shut the fuck up,” she said, angrily.

My homegirls and I suddenly straightened and stopped talking. Looking at each other from the corners of our eyes, the sobering reality hit us at once. We were no longer in our unified group.

Our forced and uncomfortable silence was interupted by a psychotic and haunting bellowing that came from down the hall. Unable to see what was approaching, we all tensed and watched the open doorway awaiting a visual of what was approaching.

Within seconds, the screaming and cursing neared closer, and in an instant, the vision passed in a flash. A woman, identified only by her screaching voice, was restrained in a wheelchair that was directed by guards. A bag-like mask covered her head and she could be heard crying and struggling against the restraints.

The vision lasted long enough to permeate our minds, a haunting vision like something from Silence of the Lambs or a Saw movie.

With terror in her eyes, the young and fearful girl next to me begged, “What the FUCK was THAT!?”

“I have no idea.” I claimed. And I didn’t.

All i knew is that the vision would live in my memory forever.

A short time later, we could hear the shackles being dragged down the hall. A fearful sound that had become a sound of hope, a transition in the tents. As the guards began calling names, selected women left the room. And after they called out my pinky-sworn friend, they said, “And finally….”

Anticipation filled me, please let it be me. And it was. My name was called. I was going to be shackled and cuffed… and taken out.

As I stood next to my friend, they lifted our feet and shackled us together, cuffed our wrists with the pink handcuffs, and began leading us out.

On the way down the hall, the dragging of chains trailed behind us. In front of us, we saw the Hispanic inmate turn and look at the three of us who had become closer.

“I’ll find you and I’ll stab you, fucking bitches!” she yelled at us.

“Hey, watch yourself!” the guard warned her.

And this time as she turned, her face flamed red as she assured him, “I’m ok. I”m alright.”

They led us into the black Maricopa County Inmate bus. It was dark and rainy, but we were relieved at the thought of sleeping on a cot, rain or not. We stepped up into the bus, where we sat together being transported to an unknown destination.

My homegirl and I whispered in fear about the Hispanic girl – there was no guard in the back of the bus. and she could have very easily wrapped her cuffs around any of us. But she didn’t.

We arrived at Estrella and were escorted out. As we were brought into the center of a court of cells, we were taunted by the men who were behind bars. Guards encouraged them to harass us, “Yeah, we brought you some more,” they called out to the men, excited by our arrival.

As they released us from our shackles, my friend began to cry, “This is just so humiliating. All for a DUI? Shackled for a DUI?”

I assured her we’d be fine and to keep it together. Shortly after, we were moved into a cell. But this one had no toilet or water at all. It was here that we would spend the next 6 hours hoping to get transported to the tents. As the hours passed, women were brought into the cell and others taken out to unknown places.

I think it was around 3 a.m. when my friend was called out, cuffed, but not shackled, she walked out of the court. I tapped on the glass and waved good bye as she was escorted out with the other women.

Left with 3 inmates and the mother hen who was sleeping in a cell next to us, I decided to try to get some sleep. I removed my sweatshirt and bundled it up for a pillow. I was now coming down with something, and had stolen a roll of toilet paper from our last cell so I could have something to blow my nose in. I also had gather up the sanitary napkins from the cell where we had all tried to sleep, knowing we may need them later if we didn’t make it to the tents. Realizing that we would not be getting sleep at all, I dumped my belongings in a corner and left the trash and pads there, taking with me my book and mugshot, fingerprint card and two rolls of quarters.

I laid out on the floor, next to a woman I had met outside with my friend. Just as we were comfortable, I heard the sound of keys and the guards opened the door.

“Get up!” I said as I nudged my fellow inmate and floor partner, “They’re taking us somewhere!” We jumped up to throw on our sweatshirts, and just as we got them over our heads, the door shut, and frustration set in.

A few minutes later they moved the mother hen in, and we were to settle in once again.

Frustration overcame me, and tears began running down my face as I was overcome with frustration of being taunted and unable to rest. I was dehydrated and my head pounded. Two of the women in the cell assured me we’d be fine, and calmed me.

I had tried to pee earlier when the other women went, but my nerves prevented me from using the bathroom. Now my bladder was full and I needed to go. I flagged down a guard and asked him to let me use a cell with a bathroom. But he never came to get me. I began looking around the cell for a corner to pee in, if the moment arrived when I could not hold it any longer.

“You’ve reached that point,” I thought to myself.

At what we imagined was about 4 a.m., a guard came and removed us from the cell, handcuffed us and led us out to a bus with men in it. The guards played rock music over the sound system as we drove through the dark rain. I used the small confined grated cell I was in as a resting point for my head, closed my eyes and tried to calm my mind.

As we arrived back at LBJ, we were led back into the first cell we had been taken to that morning. The four of us were introduced to two new women in stripes who there for a longer duration. Shortly after, we were taken out and moved over to the area where they begin to process you out. We were hopeful at this point because the end was near.

I was greeted with a loud “yay!” as I was led into the out-processing cell where my homegirl made room for me. We hugged and sat together.

“Did they take you to the tents!?” I asked her.

“NO!” she exclaimed. “We’ve just been here. Where did they take YOU?”

“Nowhere,” I said, “We just sat there.”

The following hours were haunting and excruciating as we became increasingly dehydrated and discouraged. We knew an end was in sight, but guards threatened to keep us longer – and we were on a constant emotional roller coaster of uncertainty.

Unable to find comfort in any position on the cold concrete, we were constantly moving, and tensions rose as women began to bicker about when we’d be released and whether or not to stand by the front door watching the guards as they processed files and came for different inmates.

As the 8 a.m hour slowly arrived, anxiety set in, the closer the end came, the higher the tension built. I suddenly realized that I had given the guard my out-take papers when he finger printed me out. Fearful that I needed it for release, I was overcome with fear that I’d need to stay longer. My friend assured me, and shortly thereafter, the guards called us out. We were processed and released, and cried as we hugged good bye in the parking lot.