The Long Way Home

By Eddie Miller

This book is about an inmates life inside the Department of Corrections. I venture through two county jails, two state prisons, and a work release center. It addresses why individuals are sentenced to prison instead of alternative sentencing and discusses their opportunity to be productive while incarcerated. It reveals the day-to-day trials and tribulations of inmates and their families. This story was written to make people realize that the selfish decisions they make affect their families and others in their daily life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984528179

Eddie Miller

I was born on October 13th, 1971 in a small town in the midwest. I graduated from High School in 1990 with a class of 200. I attended a well known university until 1993. I worked for an electrical contractor for 9 years before opening up my own company in 2001. I was sentenced to 14 years on July 23, 2009. I was incarcerated until September 20, 2014. I still live in the same midwest town but with a different perspecticve on life.

Book preview

Copyright © 2018 by Eddie Miller.

Library of Congress Control Number:      2018905767

ISBN:                  Hardcover                              978-1-9845-2819-3

                           Softcover                                978-1-9845-2818-6

                           eBook                                      978-1-9845-2817-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 07/10/2018

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

769440

CHAPTER 1

Being handcuffed in a courtroom, not knowing what lies ahead, gives a feeling of despair. I was handcuffed with my hands behind my back for only a few seconds as I was led into what looked like a break room for employees of the courthouse or, in this case, the third floor of the Jace County City building. I was standing by a large round wooden table, when the sheriff’s deputy took off my handcuffs. He then instructed me to take off my shoes, which he inspected, not so thoroughly. Then a quick pat down before he told me to put back on my shoes. This was my first time to walk out of a courtroom and into a jail cell. My mind was trying to comprehend what was happening, but in reality, I was in shock. The deputy then escorted me about ten feet down the hallway, to what he called the bull pen. The bull pen is more or less a waiting room for inmates from the jail that have a court date.

When I walked into the bull pen, there was only one guy in there, so we immediately began a conversation. Like most jail conversations, it began with why we were there and how long we were going to be incarcerated. See, it would have been very weird not to talk to him because the bull pen is very small. It’s a room about fifteen feet by six feet with three benches to sit on. One on each wall and one in the middle. There is one jailhouse toilet and sink combo in the corner with an exceptional amount of trash around the base of the toilet like someone was using it as a trash can. But in fact there is no trash can in the bull pen so, of course people were using the toilet for that purpose or at least throwing their trash around the base causing a mess that looked to have been there for quite some time. When you are in the bull pen and out of normal jail circulation, you are fed sack lunches. On the menu for this day, like every day, was a piece of bologna, two pieces of bread, one packet of mustard, and a snack pack of raw carrots. So all that trash that any inmate had was just discarded on the floor. So there we sat just the two of us, Leon and me, talking about the day’s events. He seemed very versed in courtroom lingo and had plenty of paperwork which told me he had probably been here before and possibly for a good period of time. He gave me some advice on what to expect from this day forward. He explained that since I did not get any paperwork from the court, I should ask the deputy to get me a copy from the clerk before I leave for the main jail facility. He was also going on and on about his case, but I was not paying any attention to what he was saying.

I learned a long time ago not to believe anything I heard in jail. So all I was doing was acting like I was interested when in fact the only interesting thing he talked about was faking his handicapped condition. When there weren’t any deputies around, he acted fine. Walking around the pen, using the bathroom with no assistance, but as soon as a deputy showed up, he acted like he was severely handicapped. He told me he was playing the handicapped card so he would be treated accordingly. He said he would get a bottom bunk pass which would enable him to a single-level bed no matter what facility he was in at the time. Also he would be able to request different medications depending on what injury he would be faking at the time. I had no idea until now how witty ole’ Leon really was. I still found it hard to believe that a person would go through this much song and dance for those benefits. I also didn’t understand at the time how precious those benefits are in prison. Around an hour or so later—hard to tell time with no clocks—a deputy appeared with eight more inmates. The fifteen-by-six feet cell just got smaller. As everyone found their two square feet of personal space, lunch was being delivered. My stomach felt like a small person was inside playing the bongos, so I wasn’t going to be able to enjoy this afternoon’s delicacy. I picked out my raw carrots and gave the rest to Leon. My plans for today had not included going to jail, so I hadn’t eaten anything before court. The night before, I had grilled out a two-third-pound hamburger, topped with fresh tomato and Vidalia onion. I was only able to eat one due to my pending court appointment in the morning; the midget was only warming up then. Oh, what I would give to eat that delicious hamburger today. So in one day I had already learned a valuable lesson, complacency. Allowing our lives to tick by without smelling the roses. Not being grateful for all the little things in life. Not the money or personal possessions but happiness from small things, like a hamburger.

After my wonderful lunch, I began pondering about my future and what is going to be like to be away from my family. I thought my sentence was two years, but I would learn later that it was in fact going to be much longer than expected. In the back of the bull pen, there was one single window. You can actually see this window from the street on the south side of the city market in the downtown area. This was a makeshift jail cell. Looked to me as if someone converted two offices into cells by installing bars six inches from the walls. One cell for us and one for the female population going to court. The female cell, next to ours, didn’t quite have the pungent odor of urine like the male side did. You couldn’t actually see the females, but you could hear them talking which was enough to pique the interest of several male inmates. Outside my portal to the free world, I could see many people, both on foot and in cars, enjoying this beautiful July afternoon. I had been to the city market several times, most recently last winter to look at some business space. Ironic how I’m back in the same location with a very different perspective. Standing here looking out a window, in the city county building, figuring out how the hell I was going to survive. To put it mildly, I was scared to death. I spent a good while in my own thoughts listening to the chatter of the other inmates in the bull pen. I then saw my attorney riding his Segway on the sidewalk in front of the market. Had he already forgotten about me? Were his thoughts on to the next case, or was he grateful to be free after watching his client got led away to jail in handcuffs. An hour or so had passed when inmates started leaving the bull pen and going to their court date. I was just trying to relax my mind, knowing it was going to be a very long afternoon. One inmate in particular caught my attention when he was surprised at the length of his sentence. Come to find out, that this fine fellow had flunked a urine analysis while on probation. Not only one but three in the last two months. The county probation urine screens are set up through a phone system. You call after 6:00 p.m. and if your number comes up, you show up the next day, downtown to the basement of the city county building for a drug screen. The courts sentenced him to one-and-a-half years. Where, I don’t know. So here I stand next to a guy who knew would be going to jail today, maybe not as long as he first thought, and me standing there in shock, thinking about that hamburger. Many more inmates were in and out of the bull pen in the next couple hours, more stayed in than left. There were now fifteen inmates in there, and along with the rising heat was the rising smell of body odor and a dirty toilet. The smell of urine had now intensified into a pungent smell that burned my nose hair. So with no air circulation, all I could do is pull the neck of my shirt over my nose and mouth and grin and bear the smell. A total of around twenty people had been in and out of that cell that day. Around four-thirty in the afternoon, there were only four of us left, Leon, me, and two others I hadn’t been formally introduced with yet. I had been in that fifteen-by-six feet cell for six hours with a bag of carrots to eat, welcome to the county jail. Finally a deputy came to transport us to my next home. You never knew where you were going but always anticipating something more comfortable. Three of us were handcuffed then chained together and escorted through a hallway to an elevator. Leon stayed behind because he had to wait for his wheelchair. Remember he was handicapped. We entered the elevator and went down. When the door opened, there was no doubt where I was now, it was the intake for the county jail. This jail was rated at one of the dirtiest jails in America. This was not the first time I had been here, so I knew it wasn’t going to be pleasurable. The first thing that happened was I turned in my property. All I had was a dress shirt, dress pants, and a pair of shoes and socks, no property. I really liked those clothes I had on; in fact, I wore them every time I had to go to court. Not knowing it at that moment, but I would never see these clothes again after that day. They take you into a room and do a quick strip search. You have to take all of your clothes off and hold your hands out, turning your palms over and back. Then you have to open up your mouth, and stick out your tongue while moving it up and down, like licking a lollipop. Then taking your fingers and spreading out your cheeks like a largemouth bass, sideways. Next you have to lift up your genitalia then turn around and lift one foot at a time. And you are requested to spread your butt cheeks. They’d tell you to go into a squatting position, spread your butt cheeks, and cough. The idea behind this is if you are hiding something sharp within your rectum and you cough the contraction of the muscles will cut you on the inside. So after you get done coughing in that precarious position, you get dressed and sent to a holding cell. There were six other inmates in the cell, and when I entered, they were all interested if I had anything illegal on me. Other than metal objects, a lot of people keyster objects to bring inside jails and prisons for their value or medicinal purposes. Tobacco is more than likely the most common item, but I could only imagine what else is brought in, and more than that, what is caught trying to come in. I told them I hadn’t brought anything in with me, so they all went back to what they were doing, nothing. This was another typical holding cell with concrete benches on both walls of an eighteen-by-ten foot room. We waited there to get our jail-issued identification bracelet then moved to yet another cell to receive our bunk assignment. There were two options. The County Jail or Corrections Corporation of America (CCA). CCA was started by Bob Barker, yes, that Bob Barker. The story goes that Bob’s son was arrested and sentenced to enough time that Mr. Barker established CCA in hopes his son would have an easier time in jail. CCA houses inmates sentenced to lesser jail time than does the County. Stories that I have heard, because luckily I’ve never been there, was it was inhabited by a bunch of loud obnoxious teenagers who don’t know how to do time. Sitting there waiting for my fate I was greeted with a surprise, another sack lunch for my dinner. The delivery of my delicious dinner brought my attention to the time, 6:00 p.m.; it felt much later. Time definitely drags on in jail, every second feels like one minute. There was a female guard sitting behind a window, reminding me of a McDonald’s drive-through window, asking me a series of questions. Have you thought about suicide? Do you take any medications? Do you have any illnesses? She was downloading all this new information while checking my other information that was already in my file. After she was finished making sure I was sane and well, to the best of her $18-an-hour ability, she handed me a piece of paper with my assignment. A2 in the County Jail. There were two distinctive sides to the County Jail. One side was the original, very old and dirty, filled with guys doing years in jail, and the new side that resembled most cell blocks people are familiar with in the movies. As I made my way, after only waiting another thirty minutes, to my next cell to wait some more, I noticed the smell and trash again had reappeared. This week the good ole boys, NASCAR, was in town, and the drunk tank I now stood in showed it had been a bad race weekend for some. Trash was scattered among the three concrete benches and metal toilet. After another fifteen minutes of meditation time, I was moved into a room with a single wooden bench. There were two large-sized deputies sitting behind a counter with a rack of orange jail clothes behind them. One by one, we were called up to the counter to put our clothes in a brown paper bag. The deputy writes your jail-issued identification number and your last name on it with a black magic marker. Bye-bye clothes. You were not given any shoes, just a pair of pants and a shirt. I got my clothes and could barely put my shirt on because it was way too small. The guy next to me was complaining to the deputy about his being too big. I asked the guy to flip-flop shirts, and one of the deputies sarcastically said, Oh god, don’t use those words in here. Guess he was referring to homosexual activity, but I wasn’t aware of flip-flop being used that way. Then the deputy told me to keep the shirt that I got. These two obese middle-aged guys had nothing better to do than to make jokes at the inmates coming through their doorway of control. This whole system is full of individuals like this, and it’s very troubling to me. I would think these people, soaking up state money, would want to help people and make things a little easier. They have no idea what inmates personal situations are and still have the audacity to act so damn immature. Anyways I got my bigger shirt from my fellow inmate and headed to a different holding cell. I was now dressed in an orange shirt with the word INMATE on the back, a pair of orange pants, and my brown dress shoes with my dress socks. Would have loved to have a picture of that look. I could see outside again after being trapped in a maze of holding cells with no windows. Something about being able to look outside gave me a feeling of assurance. The world hasn’t ended. That was the feeling I got inside those walls. That the earth had stopped spinning. All life had come to a screeching halt. My view now was a field house where they play NBA basketball. The sun was getting low on the horizon. It had been a very long day, and I still didn’t have a bunk assignment. Mentally I was exhausted thinking about my lack of a future, with no one to talk to but strangers dressed in orange. Not too long after enjoying my view, I was escorted down another maze of hallways, given a mat and a towel roll. The mat was blue and very thin. Like it was tested for comfort by an elephant. In the towel roll, you would find a small bar of soap, a plastic cup, a spoon, and a toothbrush that was already losing bristles. All of these items are jail-issued crap. The toothbrush was preloaded with enough paste to brush your teeth twice. The soap was as big as a matchbox. I was also given a sheet and a blanket that had seen better days. There is no reason to complain about any of this because you already know the response. You get what you get. After receiving my property, I was placed in a cell with six black males. The cell was only eight-by-eight feet. There was a large group of females about twenty feet away from this cell that was keeping the attention of these fellows. After being in there for a few moments, I realized the guys had been talking to these females long enough to irritate the deputy. The deputy was asking them to be quiet. One of the guys replied, I just got out of prison and there ain’t sh——t you can do to me. We are already locked up, so whatcha gonna do? The deputy in a calm voice again asked