Infectious Injustice: The True Story of Survival and Loss against Corruption, the COVID-19 Disaster inside of San Quentin, and the Dumpster Fire that is Known as Mass Incarceration

By Justin Cook

A secret preview into the treacherous journey of a man thrown from a successful life in Silicon Valley into the dark asphyxiating prison of San Quentin, with murders, serial killers, rats, and COVID around every corner. This true story is told by an inmate who was inside, living and breathing in the system of incarceration for nearly two years. He paints a masterpiece of detail by challenging the stigma that prisoners are less than people, that law enforcement is superior, and that the system of incarceration in the United States is still functioning. You will join him in the cell while he recounts hunger strikes, malnutrition, panic, and pandemonium, by weaving comedic banter with a stoic sense of realism. This is a captivating tale of how sick and dying men, caused by the nationally publicized disaster of thirty deaths in a short period in the prison, stitched together the remnants of their shattered dignity and formed a brotherhood to withstand all odds; it paints the solo journey of a man's struggle through addiction, loss, corruption, oppression, racism, and fear. You won't put down this enthralling and uttering engrossing saga of survival, a triumphant testament to the endurance of the human spirit, loyalty, respect, and the fallacy of rehabilitation while incarcerated.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887319735

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Chapter Songs

Part 1: From Bars to Bars

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Part 2: Hell

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Part 3: San Quentin Mainline

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

About the Author

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Infectious Injustice

The True Story of Survival and Loss against Corruption, the COVID-19 Disaster inside of San Quentin, and the Dumpster Fire that is Known as Mass Incarceration

Justin Cook

Copyright © 2024 Justin Cook

All rights reserved

Second Edition

Fulton Books

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2024

ISBN 979-8-88731-972-8 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88982-525-8 (hardcover)

ISBN 979-8-88731-973-5 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

No book will make readers appreciate the little things" in life as much as Infectious Injustice. Justin Cook's intricate description of the physical dangers and the mental torture of prison while separated from normal life will inspire readers to appreciate freedom, family, and work more. This book offers an awakening for the soul, bringing awareness to injustice in the American justice system with infectious humor and the hard-hitting truth."

—San Francisco Book Review

"Nobody said prison justice issues were easy, and no book outlines the concept and process as strongly as Cook's. Another stark difference between this and more distancing analyses of justice systems is that Cook pours his heart, soul, and prison experiences into the story to meld memoir with nonfiction analysis. The result is far more personal and compelling than either approach could have achieved on its own, in contrast to other books that walk a thin line between political correctness and real, gritty experience. Cook's chronicle is both hard to read and impossible to put down. It comes with an added, unexpected attraction: wry and probing humor. Candid and glaringly controversial, its experiences, contentions, and damning tone combine with passionate arguments and examples to create a set of moral, ethical, and psychological insights. These will prove critical for discussion and debate among a wide circle of readers, from book clubs interested in memoirs of prison experience to social justice and injustice classes, political science students, and anyone with a concern about fighting fear, repression, and incarceration disasters that operate undercover in open defiance of democratic and humanitarian principles today. Infectious Injustice should be required, as should assigned reading for inmates and those who have any interest in or involvement in a prison system."

—Midwest Book Review

The Must Read of 2023. Cook's storytelling is a remarkable blend of comedic banter and a stoic sense of realism. He doesn't sugarcoat the horrors he and his fellow inmates endure, yet he finds moments of levity amidst the darkness. This balance adds depth and authenticity to his narrative, making it even more captivating. Prepare to be engrossed in this captivating and utterly enthralling saga. Justin Cook's Infectious Injustice is a must-read for anyone seeking a deeper understanding of the human capacity to endure, evolve, and ultimately triumph over the most challenging of circumstances.

–UK Talk Radio

Death and despair dominate in this bone-chilling account that reads like a dystopian novel. Society hates a bully. We try to protect our children from bullies. The government even has a website dedicated to stopping bullies. Yet Justin Cook passionately illuminates a dark truth: the criminal justice system might just be the biggest bully of them all. As a man who has been chewed up and spit out, yet remains standing.

–Indies Today

Cook doesn't hold back, addressing the corruption, oppression, racism, and fear that are prevalent in the prison environment. He combines a dry and often dark humor with an impressive sense of stoicism. Cook's tale is a testament to the human spirit's endurance, loyalty, and quest for dignity. I cannot recommend it highly enough.

–Readers Favorite

Cook's writing is both evocative and unapologetic, as he delves into the lives of those incarcerated in San Quentin. He dissects the inherent flaws in the U.S. criminal justice system and convincingly argues that mass incarceration is a societal ill that warrants immediate attention and reform. Cook's prose is gripping, and his ability to bring forth the humanity of those affected by these injustices is commendable. Cook's ability to convey the emotions and struggles of these individuals is a testament to his skill as a storyteller. Infectious Injustice serves as a haunting reminder that in the face of corruption, negligence, and adversity, human resilience can prevail, and the fight for justice must continue.

–Book Below

In this remarkable book, the author embraces an awe-inspiring level of honesty. His writing is open and vulnerable. Rather than shying away from the darker and more challenging aspects of his story, he shows us everything, inviting readers to join him on a truly heartbreaking journey. It is difficult not to be deeply emotionally affected. I was drawn in from the first page, and I found the author's emotions impacting my own throughout the story. I admired his strength and resilience and sympathized with him during times of low motivation. It forces you to take a pause from your busy life and question the things you believe are important. Despite the heavy subject matter of the book, the author's writing was quite humorous. I found it amazing that the author kept his sense of humor through all he experienced, and it made the book a lot more enjoyable to read.

–OnlineBookClub

Rating: 10/10 Thoughtful, engaging, and memorable, author Justin Cook's Infectious Injustice is a must-read nonfiction read. The shocking and at times emotional experiences that the author brings to light the overall harsh truths that become a profound platform for prison reform as a whole and the impact that the pandemic had on the prison system as a whole made this a mandatory read for those looking for an inside perspective of this system overall. This was an impactful and gripping read. The juxtaposition of the author's life before in Silicon Valley and the hardships they endured while in prison were dramatic and engaging, allowing the reader to feel the depth of the author's harrowing journey. The humor and wit the author infuses throughout the book into the writing allows the reader to feel the honesty of the author's story.

–Author Anthony Avina

Before We Start

Let's talk.

I've set out to describe the indescribable. To write a book that not only identified the injustices in our criminal justice system but also in life and how to endure them. A guide on how to survive in the midst of the not-so-survivable.

Papa Hemingway tells us to write hard and clearly about what hurts. This book is my deepest wound, and I allowed the words to pour out of me onto the pages. I still can't even comprehend its vastness.

Warning about my words:

Most people would paint themselves in a favorable light. Screw that. You're getting what really happened: my successes, failures, internal thoughts, and who I am transcribed directly into written form without a filter. Things yanked from the soul tend to be a mess.

Cancel culture is taxing. Tiptoeing around every word, Dr. Seuss books being pulled off shelves, schools being forced to change names: it's all ridiculousness. I will say many things in this book that will piss off many people, but it's all a lot of truth. The only way to free myself is to tell the truth. They say a writer should never have to defend his subject matter, only his treatment of it. So here you go. Do not judge me for the horrors, the violence, and the language…because there will be loads of it. Just deal with it, and I promise you it will be worth hearing.

You can say that truth is subjective but not in this book. I will strip out the subjectiveness, suck it out like poison out of a snakebite, guaranteeing the truth survives, even if it kills me in the process. I repeatedly confronted myself to objectively transpose my observations of this disaster and not let my perceptions interfere. Truth must align with observation, and any divergence should not be permitted to occur. Of all the many glorious books I read in my life, the Hunger Games series was not one of them. But there is a brilliant exchange that paints the relationship between Katniss and the president, where he tells her, In the interest of time, we should agree to not lie to each other. We will enter into that same agreement now. The truth may be crude, vulgar, and unrefined, but there is freedom in the unabashed truth. Let's make that covenant now, to be honest with each other, to save time.

You might ask how and why everything is a joke to me. Why is humor interwoven into such a serious subject and the worst time of his life? Well, Nietzsche would say, The deeply wounded have Olympian laughter; one has only what one needs to have, but I would argue what I learned in San Quentin State Prison was if we find a way to laugh about the things that really hurt, that deteriorate us, then they began to lose their power.

How I wrote this:

I learned to write when things were going well and when things were going wrong: to create a relationship with my writing. When I gave myself permission to be alone with my thoughts, I realized I persistently talked to myself, so instead, I just let the pen fly. I also scurried to jot down conversations, took notes constantly on borders and edges of books, wrote on scrapes of clean toilet paper (which is a valuable commodity), and scribbled on the side of the COVID forms they gave us telling us we were all in this together and on anything and everything, even my own arm. An amalgamation of all the data I had witnessed. By writing down everything on paper, did I identify the characteristics in others I didn't want to have? No. But did it make me a better person or more empathetic? Also no. But sometimes, retrospectively reading the bad things I captured caused good things to happen in my life, and writing this book was about bridging the gaps between the man I was, the man I am now, and the man I want to be.

I believe the road to hell is paved with over-embellished writing, so I write exactly how I speak. The truth is I'm not sure if I'm a bad writer with good ideas or a good writer with bad ideas. But I am sure it's one of the two. My goal is to give you a descriptive yet candid view of the justice system from the inside of it, where I mastered the act of being loud and saying nothing, of being visible but not being known.

Chapter Songs

This book, like my life, has a soundtrack. Each chapter starts with songs, so play the songs as you read. Some are songs that I had sung to myself that kept me alive when nothing else could. I didn't hear any music for over six months in COVID Solitary Confinement (as you will see), and let me tell you, music is the liquid form of heavenly sustenance your soul needs to survive, and without it, an unknown part of you starts to die. I don't have any rights or agendas to the songs; I just love them and hope you will too.

Warning about this book:

You're going to read this and feel like it's all over the place. Good. That's exactly what I'm hoping for. I want to provide a window into the panic, the plethora of colliding thoughts that rush into the mind of someone in jail or prison under extreme stress. I want you to drink from the same cup as I did, that sour elixir of chaos. I want you to be discombobulated with overwhelming violence, frustration, and fear. I want to contain you and rattle you the same way it did to me, so strap in for the massive dose of violent emotions.

The interpretation by the listener says just as much about the listener as it does about the speaker. Translation: As I tell you about San Quentin State Prison, it will tell you just as much about me and about you, as it does about that cesspool. Everything is based on perception, but sometimes perception needs to be shifted, such as in this case, where our criminal justice system has become criminal itself.

This story does not have a happy ending. The good guys quite often lose. In real life, the bad guys often trample the good guys without penalty and beat them into something else, where they will either evolve to survive or break. I guess I just see there being two types of people: flawed people and people who purposefully hurt those flawed people. I didn't know this at first, which forever changed my life.

Vocabulary: Now you can call it the coronavirus, COVID-19, the China virus, or whatever the hell you want, but for the sake of uniformity, I will address it as COVID. I had to learn a whole new language to survive in the system, so get ready to learn a whole new slew of words. The people in this book are latent with corruption, lies, power-mongering, and oppression, but I will not be naming names. In fact, I'm changing the name of everyone in this book to protect them, but mostly, to protect myself.

Storytelling: Life is about storytelling—the stories we tell each other and the stories we tell ourselves. Some are bullshit, and we know it, but some are bullshit, and we don't know it. Both are extremely dangerous. Criminal justice in the US is also about storytelling, and I will warn you now, I'm an awful storyteller. Before this, I had never written anything but technical blogs. If I were better and could have told my story in court, I would have never been sucked down the whirlpool of injustice highlighted in this book. I write for content and messaging, not style or flow. I tried to fill this story with all the fractured pieces of me, bad decisions, hard truths, and long-lost grace. I don't strive for originality; I already have that. I like the idea of writing something beyond my understanding, and I think I did that here.

Challenging your view of the US justice system:

There is no longer a doubt the United States of America is at war with itself. We can see it on our TVs, in our streets, at the polls, and in our criminal justice system. Corruption in the California justice system is a restless blind mole on speed, digging, burrowing, deeper and faster, with extreme precision and ferocity. Each day, getting further down into the soil, destabilizing the foundation of the state itself. So I am fighting this retched creature with the only weapon I have: words. After all, a word after a word after a word is fucking power.

Our country has become so fake, the truth bothers people. This book is made of truth, so expect some of it to bother you, but it's not politically driven; it doesn't need to be. The platform is broader than that. Is the goal of this book to condemn all prisons and prisoners, pontificating anarchy, and eradication of criminal justice in general? No. Absolutely not. There are numerous pieces of shit I've spent a lot of time within prison, including serial killers, that I would be perfectly comfortable with frying myself. But for all the rest, there is hope. And that is where I get fired up. Something has happened in our country. Secretly, hope and rehabilitation have been replaced with greed and career-mongering. Worst of all, it's masquerading as reform, when it's, in fact, doing the exact opposite. But I get it. We all have biases, weaknesses, valleys of fears, deficits as human beings. I ask you to temporarily pause them and read on with an open mind.

Frankly, all the PTSD-inducing, dreadful experiences were overwhelming, overpowering, and over, well, anything I want to explain in detail, which is why I'm going to explain them in detail. I want to paint all this so clearly and true, like perfectly cleaned glass, that you can see yourself in it. Dostoyevsky tells us, There is immeasurably more left inside than what comes out in words, but I'll try to prove him wrong.

(Play Doom and Gloom [the Jeff Bhasker Mix] by the Rolling Stones)

All pain is the same. Only the details are different, and I was drowning in my own details. I've always told myself I want a life so magnificently human and chaotic that the gods will rip through the stars to watch it unfold, and as I'm sitting on top of a wooden beach in the San Quentin Prison Yard, watching someone get stabbed with a pencil, I'm sure I've achieved this feat.

Two old men fighting. It's the battle royale of the retirement home, Panzón says, laughing while scarfing down a bag of Doritos. Murder didn't scare Panzón. All that scared Panzón was running out of Doritos.

Over a power scooter parking space, Tyler added and smirked.

Not funny, you idiots, I said as I laughed too. Secretly, I had always wanted to see a prison stabbing. Now, unfortunately, I got my wish.

If there is one thing San Quentin taught me, it is that all monsters are human, but I'm getting too ahead of myself. Let's start at the very beginning, with the part of my life I like to call as the pedal to the floor as we crash.

Part 1

From Bars to Bars

Chapter 1

Pedal to the Floor as We Crash

Play: Gold on the Ceiling by the Black Keys, then Fast Lane by Bad Meets Evil

Day 1

All I remember from the week before I got arrested was the stress—the beautiful, overwhelming captivating stress. I was a solutions architect in Silicon Valley, I had two full-time jobs, and of course, trying to start my own company. I was trying to buy a nearly million-dollar house I couldn't afford, with a fiancée who I fought with constantly. I could never love her fully because I was too busy hating myself, but we'll get to that later. I was paying my ex-wife a massive sum of alimony and child support for our two kids, whom I adore. I also loved partying, drinking late into the night, and doing substantial amounts of coke. This was my life. I was chaotic and chemically fueled, and I loved it. Well, I thought I did. What I liked was the chaos. I was addicted to it, and the drugs and alcohol just fueled the fire. I was pumping myself full of toxins daily, and I was really good at not having anyone notice.

I surged through my existence. My life was like burning through a series of red lights while speeding, laughing uncontrollably from being high on Molly, while drinking whiskey out of one of those jumbo Costco bottles, while blasting music and littering and taking the Lord's name in vain, all at once. I live by my own rules because I simply didn't give a fuck. I wasn't easy to love, but I didn't seem to care. Inside me was a constant war that ripped holes in me I couldn't repair.

Sticking with that analogy, the day before I was arrested, I was driving at full speed, fully aware that my check engine light was on, the tires were baled, the oil tank was out, and the gas was on E. I was burned out.

I woke up drunk in a holding cell. I barely remember how I got here, but I remember one thing. I fucked up. I remember screaming at a cop, and I remember laughing at someone. I remember saying, Oh yeah, I can fucking prove it. Here! Take my passwords and my pin! You will see I'm innocent.

I remember yelling at a cop. I remember making fun of his haircut and his salary. I remember laughing. I remember saying I was innocent and giving him the code to my phone and all my passwords. I remember them slamming me up against the unit, with the K9 inside barking, threatening. I remember that this was supposed to be a hookup of two consenting adults. I remember them laughing at me when they put me in the back of the cop car.

Hey, I want to make a call! I screamed at the top of my lungs to the cops. Of course, there was no response. I know what you fuckers did! It is on the bodycams! Just wait! I said even louder.

A couple of hours later, some cop I didn't recognize came to the door. He stared at me. He was the hunter, and I was the prey in the trap.

You are going to county, he said, grinding his teeth.

I remember this asshole, but how? Oh fuck, he was one of the cops. More was coming back. They claimed I tried to hook up with a minor, then I laughed in their faces since it was something I would never do, and then I started verbally attacking them. No. I opened my phone and tried to show them, and they swiped the phone from me.

I am getting a fucking lawyer, you pieces of shit! I screamed.

I needed to calm down. I didn't remember much. Lights were pounding at a rate nearing explosion; my chest tightened then I passed out. I was trying to remember. I was meeting a girl (yes, I know cheating is bad), and she said to come over. What was next? Fuck. I had no idea who it even was. I needed a beer. The yelling wasn't helping. I couldn't call Olivia, my fiancée. The fucking phone in here didn't work. The next thing I knew, they were coming in and putting cuffs on me.

Transport! someone yelled.

They led me outside. The slamming of metal doors and colliding metal keys were not helping my hangover.

Why is it so sunny? I said out loud without thinking. I did that a lot. What time is it? The last thing I remember, it was 6:00 p.m. I asked the transporter, who looked like an angry cop who hated the show Reno911 because his kids thought that's what he was like.

He looked at this watch. Twelve fifty-nine, he said.

Pm? Holy shit.

He didn't respond.

I had been in lockdown for nearly eighteen hours. Now I lived in Bay Area. Good ol' San Francisco was the most expensive city in the US, meaning there was money there, shitloads. It's full of white-collar jobs and white people with white poodles driving white Mercedes-Benz, making horrendously spoiled white kids, who also had white Mercedes-Benz, who all had white people allowances they spent on snorting white. These were my friends.

Well, at least for a little while. I would waste time chatting it up with friends, whom I just made ten minutes before. Then before I knew it, we would be taking shots like we were fighting a war against our lives.

This lifestyle was baked into my career. After our lunchtime drinks, I would work a couple of hours, then surely be seen gripping an overpriced scotch while ordering overpriced hors d'oeuvres from a waitress wearing overpriced shoes and showing off her new overpriced boobs.

I turned out to be an expert at being constantly buzzed, but it took constant feeding. I had stopped getting hangovers, so naturally, I figured maybe I was just invincible, and now alcohol was my liquid spinach. Blame Popeye. How wrong was I with my unchecked avarice? The problem wasn't the alcohol anymore. It was that alcohol had now become interwoven in every aspect of my life. Company outings with high-level VPs now even involved shots and cocktails.

A world of malarky, you might say, but this was my world. All these people were just living in it, and at least that was what I thought. I justified it all, but everything was systematically tearing a hole in me, and I couldn't see it yet.

Where the fuck am I anyways? He didn't speak and was now driving over some sort of bridge. This cop car smelled like broken dreams, month-old hobo pee, and throw-up from Jack in the Box tacos.

We pulled into a new jail: Martinez County Jail. The last thing Reno911 said to me, You are looking at seven to twenty-five years. Good luck in there.

Was he fucking with me? What the fuck.

Now I was freaking out. I sat waiting for an hour on an uncomfortable cement bench while the guy next to be uncomfortably fought withdrawals from heroin. He squirmed and twisted, and focusing on him was all I do to stop from freaking out and screaming.

I need to call a lawyer. Now.

Some admin clerk with obnoxious glasses fingerprinted me.

I took a mugshot, not my first, but definitely my worst.

She asked me if I wanted to kill myself. I'm considering it.

Why did this feel like checking into a hotel? I thought to myself. Well-orchestrated and efficient to enter jail, but why?

Most all places had some type of energy: happy, sad, angry, depressed. This place had one kind of energy: fear.

It was apparent it was a den of undignified whack jobs, violent repeat offenders, and hobos who liked to pee publicly on things and inject things. They were not my kind of people.

What are my charges? I asked, trying to be friendly and calm, while inside, I was losing it.

We don't know yet. I will take a few days, this desk jockey said.

Days! What the fuck? I said.

The admin clerk just stared at me.

The deputy escorted me to change and had me remove all my clothes. Squat down and cough, he barked.

And I thought my job sucked.

A yellow jumpsuit was handed to me. Piss yellow. Everything here actually smelled like piss, as if there was a rainstorm, a torrential downpour of pee, which drenched every inch of this place and everything in it—clothes, sandals, even the socks, which had more holes than material.

He walked me over, unlocked the light-green door with dungeon keys, and pulled open the cell door. I walked in, then he slammed it hard behind me, almost as if to make a point. This was the first of many doors I would have slammed on myself. Now to be fair, I probably had one slammed on me at the previous place, but I didn't remember much of the last eighteen hours. My palms and back were sweaty. The first thing I saw was a plastic slab for sleeping. Then I saw the disgusting toilet with no privacy. The kind of place where you get an impulse to sanitize everything or die, whichever comes first.

The floor was grimy tile, white tile walls, tile countertops, tile everywhere, everywhere except for the sheet metal tin toilet, which reflects the damn tile, evocative of the American industrial revolution at the turn of the century. Last century, not this one, it was falling apart.

This room was made for one, and it had five people already in it. Two were on the floor lying flat, two more were sitting up, and one was sitting on the plastic bed. Men were sprawled across the cold cement without a blanket, in the fetal position, using toilet paper rolls as pillows. My first thought: Get ready. They were going to try to kill me, but that obviously didn't happen. Instead, they ignored me. Nobody said one word or even looked up, just frozen there on the pee-covered floor. My head was pounding. I was shaking from either withdrawals or adrenaline, or both. I shut my eyes, wishing for sleep, but instead just plopped down, pretending to sleep, how one does when one feels awkward or scared. It seemed smart.

The guy sitting on the mattress looked at me. He was bald, had darkish skin, and had a neck tattoo; come to think of it, they all had neck tattoos. It made me wonder why I didn't have a neck tattoo. I hear them talking. They will call him Scavenger for reasons I will discuss later. He told me something I will never forget…

Welcome to hell. You look awful.

It was the first thing another inmate had ever said to me. Now I was fucking terrified. All the crises in my life seemed to have converged. I tried to suppress them with alcohol, loads and loads of it, and I got it now: this was my punishment. I could feel the withdrawals coming and didn't want to keep talking. I closed my eyes. I would be fired after a few days here, and even if I bailed out, my work wouldn't have it. But what if it was not four days, my life could be over? Seven to twenty-five years? Let alone that there would be no more life of luxury, illuminated with computer screens, I would lose the most important thing: my kids. I have been plunged into darkness.

The door opened. Mealtime. The deputies tossed brown lunch sacks on the ground as if we were animals. The men snatched them up fervently and instantaneously as if they agreed. It was bologna, and oh boy, did I ever hate bologna? I would never forget the sound, the glottal gulps as they forced the bologna down their throats at impressive rates, the mastication of apple pieces, and the crunching and sloshing. They drained their milk cartons as if it was the key to getting out of here. I was not hungry, and Scavenger saw that I was not eating.

Yo, let me get dat meat?

Sure. I handed it to him.

He also asked everyone else for food, then for mustard, then for extra milk, then he ate the scraps of what everyone else didn't.

What was going on? Yes, apparently, I was not the best. I could be slightly asshole-ish. I agree that my ego needed a solid pummeling, but this is next-level ridiculous.

After hours of staring off, Scavenger and I talk, or more like Scavenger talked at me.

Where you from? he asked.

Not California, I said.

I didn't ask him where he was from. I didn't care.

He asked me if when he blinked, his brain was disconnected temporarily, and that's why he didn't see black, and he was worried that one day it would disconnect and not reconnect.

I have no idea, I said.

It's phone time. I need to call Olivia. She answered and was already crying. She knew what had happened because the cops had visited her. She said she would get me a lawyer. I didn't have much time besides that and was forced to hang up. I feel like worse than a piece of shit for doing this to her, maybe like a piece of bologna. We were getting transferred. Before we left, it was chow time again.

Bologna sandwiches in sack lunches for dinner, and fun fact, this was also for lunch. This time, I ate it, and I wish I hadn't. The sandwich was dried up as if someone was purposely trying not to give us moisture. After another twelve hours of lost time of crippling anxiety, we were told we were being moved again. The door opened. Everything around me became magnified with light. I tried to stand up. Things without names on my body were in pain. My stomach hurt from not eating. My legs had atrophied from lying down and not moving. All my muscles were in agony. One of the other guys noticed.

I can tell it's your first time in. If you learn to listen through people in here, it's survivable, he commented.

I am still trying to understand what that even means.

Someone else chimed in as if they were given a fucking invitation to provide me with advice.

Watching your back is important, but knowing what information is useless and what isn't is life and death. Most isn't, bro, so don't stress, but listen, always listen.

Thanks, I said. I didn't want to piss anyone off.

We were cuffed again and loaded into another bus—this time, a big one. It was dark, and I fell asleep.

Day 2 (first day in countyjail)

We were cuffed together, hidden by the shadows, sliding on the long benches in the back of the bus to hell. I didn't even know where I was. I stared ahead, emotionless. I had never felt so numb but also terrified. I'm escorted off and put into the tank.

Once we arrived, we were changed into a new color—this time, light green. I headed into what I would call a closet mixed with a moldy bathroom and tossed out my yellowish pee-colored prisoner clothes. After I was naked, they barked at me to lift my junk, which would include the hot dog and huevos, then commanded me to turn around, spread my cheeks, and coughed to ensure nothing falls out. The deputy did not seem pleased, and I couldn't imagine why. I went through the motions then he told me to get dressed in these. He threw the clothes on the ground—no touching, no cavity search. I threw on the pair of white socks, rubber flip-flop sandals, and pants and shirts, I imagine all the fungus-covered toes that had been placed inside these socks before, and I gagged.

They walked us outside. It was shockingly pleasant. The shrubs were well-maintained, and there was a rock garden. Who does this? I thought to myself. Stupid question, we did. I could see a slight slope of tall trees in the distance. Like freedom, so close, but so far.

West county was in Richmond, twenty-nine miles from downtown San Francisco. I call it countyjail, not county jail, because in countyjail, there was no space—no space for personal thoughts, no space for peeing or shitting alone, no space to watch TV alone, no space to eat alone, no space to think. No space.

The unit was a building divided into two. I was on side B. It was forty or fifty cells: upstairs and down, four TV with two plastic couches and metal tables with metal chairs attached, no grass, no green, just in the distance, six toilets, three upstairs, three downstairs, four showers, twelve sinks. Countyjail was void of color and joy.

I was handed toilet paper, and he commented, We are out of kits. I didn't know what that means, but I nodded as if I did. Turned out a kit was a mini bar of soap, a mini toothpaste, and a mini toothbrush, so mini that midgets would have complained about them being too small, but I needed a kit, and they were out. Awesome.

I was placed in a cell and ordered to match up with my mattress.

The mattress was a flat plastic pad, torn and peeling. I was then engaged in a rolling over marathon that kept me too occupied to sleep until I do.

I had no idea what time it was when I woke up. The worst part of jail was the absence of clocks. Not only did they take your clothes, your dignity, and your sanity, but they took your concept of time. A day could feel like a year. An hour could feel like a week. It was maddening.

My dream last night was in a boat at Lake Tahoe. The boat wasn't rocking but sinking. I heard something that jolted me to action. The kids were screaming for me to help them. Where were they? I turned my head in every direction, panicking, screaming their names. I looked down into the water but couldn't see through it. The ice-cold water was too opaque. I didn't care about the boat sinking. I jumped out of the sinking boat and attempted to rescue them. I woke up gasping. Was this hell?

Once I realized it wasn't real, I calmed down. I needed a dream psychiatrist, a cup of hot cocoa with eleven mini marshmallows, and a big hug. What did this all mean? I didn't want to acknowledge how much I was breaking.

Day 3

I awoke the next day to breakfast at 5:00 a.m. I didn't need an alarm. Instead, I was woken up by the smell.

It smelled like remorse and stale sweat, which was completely understandable. The people seemed to be simultaneously rambunctious, claustrophobic, and calm.

I will go mad in here.

Everyone ate breakfast in their rooms and then went back to bed.

I looked outside the cobweb-covered window. The sky was so gray, so cold, so drizzly; it felt like every inch of sadness in the world, especially massive quantities stored within us, was suddenly visible to me as a torture device.

The next day was the same thing.

The time-honored tradition of waking up to zero airflow. The molecules of recycled oxygen were being strangled by the dust. I found out later that most of our windows didn't open.

*****

The men in the unit want to get to know me and chat. One in particular, yet this wasn't a casual conversation; it was an interrogation, and its tone grew more and more hostile.

Where did you grow up? Where are you from? he said.

Nevada. I went to college there. Then after, I moved a lot, I said.

Oh yeah, where?

Spain, then France, then Germany, then New York City, then Texas, and South Carolina, Georgia, Arizona, and now California, I said.

Well, you weren't kidding. A lot. Your accent is funny.

I have an accent?

Yep. I said you did.

What? I didn't have a Texas drawl, and English was my first language. What was he talking about? What he must mean was I seem like a rich, snooty asshole, as in I sound educated. One critical aspect that I needed to work on is subtracting pretentiousness from my idiolect.

Well, I'm not freaking rich. I think I have $20 to my name right now, I said.

He smiled, and I wish he hadn't. It was a gingivitis colony, a dentist's worst nightmare, so I tried to hide my utter disgust and grimace.

You and I both. Where did you, where did you go to school? he asked me.

Few places.

I tried to be vague. I didn't work.

What places? We got plenty of time. He said smiling again with that awful grin.

The University of Nevada, Georgetown University, University of Texas, a few online schools.

Makes sense. You seem like something, guy. He smiled again. I guess I passed the interrogation.

Did you grow up rich? he asked me. I knew this was coming.

Hah, no. I grew up in Nevada.

Aight, there is snow there, right? he asked me.

I nodded. In the city I grew up in, spring and fall do not exist. We jumped directly from summer into winter. Actually, it was more like falling off a cliff into winter. He instructed me that the first thing I needed to do was ask the deputies at the desk for my list of charges. I naively listened and went downstairs and asked them. He so kindly stood by the desk, waiting to hear them as well.

The deputy saw what he was doing and hesitated. I'll give you them later, he whispered.

In college, you're taught a lesson, then given a test, but in jail, you were given a test, then taught a lesson—sometimes more than one at once.

He was pretending to be my friend to find out my charges and to get some of the items from my kit.

But also, he wasn't the one running the show. It appeared there were workers who were in charge.

*****

First off, I love airports—the beginning of all my adventures, the source of travel, as its essence. I was fascinated by old businessmen who thought they were young and dress that way, by spitfire conversations in all directions, by the long lines to get mediocre, overpriced food, by hectic people hurrying to go nowhere until they do. They were in a hurry to escape death, to escape their boring life, to be something more, and to travel to something more. The X-ray machines pretended they didn't know me so well. If I was sad, mad, or frustrated at an airport, I could find a world of hatred that's just felt like I did. One just needed to look in the right places. I was fascinated by airport bars where I could expense drinks and got drunk for free. God bless America. I was fascinated by how I could be anyone I wanted to be. I was fascinated by how many people pop out of you for zero reason at all. Airports did that, you feel different, and I was not sure why. I could go anywhere I wanted to go. It was full of possibilities—endless possibilities flying up and down all around us. I was fascinated by how much cooler I felt with a TSA pre-check than without it, how this was the position of royalty that allowed you to snub your nose at everyone else in their long lines, those useless peasants.

I now state all of this because the module workers were the TSA pre-checked inmates of jail. They were special, and they knew it. They had permission to go in and out of the unit.

The mod workers were a captivating bunch of hooligans. Certain individuals were chosen by the deputies (they weren't really chosen, the regulars in the jail all knew each other and chose each other, like a group of friends choosing players for a pickup basketball game in elementary school) to be mod workers to help the deputies, clean, hand out food, for which they got perks. Time out of the cell, more TV time, microwaving their food, and extra trays. After each inmate received one meal, then all extras went to them, which they would then sell for soups. The most interesting fact was this food was actually currency and was traded—soups, a.k.a bags of Top Ramen noodles, was and is the ultimate base currency in all incarceration facilities. Top Ramen was treated like money. One dollar in county and a quarter in prison. This was equivalent to the federal reserve regulating currency and therefore regulating all economic industries and transactions.

So the mod workers would sell the extra trays for around two to three soups, depending on the tray, and build their wealth. Also, while cleaning post-lockdown at night, deputies allowed them to pass items between cells, which also required a transport fee, normally a soup or two.

No matter how well I thought a day went, my positive sentiments could quickly evaporate as soon as chow time arrived. We ate breakfast and lunch in our rooms, but dinner was normally all together and quite an event. I watched people pile through a tray in minutes, reminding me of boot camp movies where the maggots get five minutes to pile through the chow, or they didn't eat. I, unfortunately, would cautiously chew down each bite, like a servant testing his king's food for poison.

I couldn't sleep. My cellie was unconscious while I was too conscious. My thoughts compounding and rattling within my brain. I hated this place.

Day 4

Trivial or profound, either way, I needed sustenance—food. I climbed down off the bed; I descended off the bunk as a door snapped open.

It was fucking oatmeal again.

After breakfast, I just stared off for a few hours.

Sometimes I would go running into the past, or maybe trying to grab a point in the future or come up with fake realities. This dissimulation allowed me to hold onto the threads of my sanity. I felt like the insides of my mind were rotting.

When I was a kid, it was easy to tell right from wrong. Everything's black and white, good or evil, simple or complicated, but when you're older, all those simplicities blur, and the black and white became shades of gray. It was hard to tell who the good guys are anymore. When you are incarcerated, the villains and good guys got all jumbled up. Invariably, some of the good guys wear the bad guy's clothes, and the bad guys wear the good guys' clothes with badges. Now some of the good guys talk like the bad guys, and the bad guys sound scary, but they were actually saying good things. Bad things happen to good people, and good things happen to bad ones. Everything was all fucked up.

Hey! You owe me two fucking soaps. Don't make me come up there and get them! someone yelled.

So how do I define a bad one, a villain? This was a matter of life and death, and I was awful at it. Distinguishing who the villains were was nearly impossible. It was like trying to solve a complex math problem while drowning, like calculating ratios as you are being pulled underwater, gasping for air. At first, I made a mistake thinking everyone in there was bad. They were not. I also made a mistake in thinking if you work for the police, you wouldn't break the law. I was wrong about that too, as you would see.

I saw my lawyer today.

Isn't someone supposed to interview me? Talk to me? Interrogate me? I haven't heard one word.

I'll find out, he said, fumbling with his words and pen. I had an overwhelming sentiment that I was being bent over and about to be fucked, metaphorically, of course.

This was not exactly a nourishing and hygienic environment. It made me squirm, but something about this guy made me squirm even more. I was dragooned into thinking he was going to help me.

They will dig up your past and dissect you in public. They will attack your family, your kids. If you fight them in court, they will destroy everything you are and make you into something you are not. So think about that.

Why did I not get let go when I gave them all my passwords which will prove I'm innocent? Why am I not out on bail?

He had no answers for me except that he will see me the next day, and we would plead not guilty. He was much more worried about how he was going to get this next payment installed.

Olivia found him online the day I was arrested, and immediately, I wanted him gone. I knew he didn't have the right attitude, and he would be a nightmare if this got messy. He was meek and shy, and the DA would walk all over him.

Day 5

Early this morning, I went to plead not guilty just before the mark to let me go expired. I took the bus back to Martinez jail, where the court was. I thought I would be let out on bail. The judge set my bail at one million dollars, and my lawyer did nothing. Why was he just standing there? I was not getting out, and it crushed me like a forty-five-pound plate dropped on my chest from five feet above me. They were saying I attempted to hurt a kid. I was drunk, but that was not something I would ever do! I had kids of my own that I adore and love. On the bus back, I freaked out—genuinely freaked out. I couldn't hold it in anymore. I told the guy next to me loudly that I was not guilty and what they were accusing me of, in addition to this.

That is not fucking me! I told them the truth. I gave them all the passwords! All the logins! To stop this! Attempt on a minor! Why are they doing this? Why did I hand them the keys to do this? I yelled.

The guy next to me, named Amsterdam, kept telling me to be quiet and fearfully looked around. He told me to keep it to myself. I hated him, and I hated everyone on this bus. I hated the bus itself. I even hated the wheels on the bus. I hated the person who made the wheels. I hated the person who made the song the wheels on the bus go round and round. I hated that I couldn't control my mouth. I hated myself. I hated the police officers who put me in here. I shut up and pushed it deep down inside.

Day 6

It now felt as if life itself had grown sour, as if I could smell the rot as time fights back, but maybe that was the price of this experience. All the same, it was disenchanting.

You were not welcome amongst us was the message I received. I wondered if the bus guy talked, but he didn't. He just sat in his room and never came out.

The men here talked so differently than me. I lacked the repertoire of tools or experience to deal with what I was surrounded by, but I had to develop it to survive. My usual vocabulary was a red flag, and even if I picked theirs up fast, I would stand out, and that was the most dangerous thing in jail. Their syntax was just so different than mine.

My lawyer said, Regardless of if you are innocent or guilty, everyone will hate you and think you are guilty. They will do everything to make you look guilty to everyone you know. That's their process. They do this to get to you.

I have nothing to hide. I unlocked my laptop and phone for them. I asked to take a lie detector test the second they attacked me. I was honest the entire time, drunk and mean, yes, but honest. This is bullshit, I said.

Regardless of what you think, they will do this because they hate you, but I will try to help you (spoiler alert, he did nothing) but first, we need to discuss money… I'm going to need another ten grand to keep going.

His face was flushed, and he was nervous again. This was a rookie lawyer, and it showed.

I will discuss it with my family. I glared at him with a murderous stare which I tried to hide, but at unguarded moments, it came out.

Also, I asked for a deal. They said no, he told me. Now I'm no lawyer, but it was way too early to ask for a deal. Listen, you are accused of an attempt, which is legally the same as doing the act in this state, so they are coming after you. They're asking for ten years, but it could be worse.

Ten years! Are you fucking kidding me?

Oh my god. What can we do? I asked.

I'll check, but that's just what I heard. First, I need another $10,000 to proceed, he casually added.

I will ask my parents. But listen, I had nothing to hide. I opened my phone. I gave them all my passwords. I volunteered for a lie detector test. Tell the dear judge that, I said.

You aren't getting it. They don't care. Have your parents call me tonight and send the payment, and we can talk more, he said.

Listen. Tell the DA. I will take a lie detector test. Check the cops' body cams. Check my phone. Okay? I said.

You don't get it. This is a slam dunk for them. They don't' c—

I gave them everything! I interrupted.

I didn't do it, but there's no proof. I don't understand much, but I understand I'm fucked.

Listen, I work in IT. I know what encryption is, what a VPN is, and what the dark web is. If I was doing illegal shit, you think I wouldn't use those? I'm not an idiot. This evidence makes me look like an idiot, I said.

I could tell he didn't want to hear anything else. I want a lie detector test, I said again.

Even if you pass, it's not admissible, he said. Call me tomorrow once your parents have sent the money. We will talk more, okay?

I will figure out how to get the money.

I could tell he was trying to screw me, but what could I do? I handed these assholes the keys to my destruction. Something or someone was pulling unseen strings for unknown reasons. I knew I was a persona non grata to the police, but this was extreme.

That night, I fell into my own mind. I started to notice my stoic staring-off problem. Reading was no longer fruitful or a distraction. I was laboring endlessly to increase the substance of my thoughts and the frequency of them, but I was losing to fear. Earlier today, I went into breakdown mode, where I began crying, asking God why, making promises I probably couldn't keep, apologizing for caring only about myself, apologizing for my veracious pride, then I got mad—mad at everything, mad that I apologized, mad at my veracious pride, mad at the monks centuries ago who invented beer, mad at God but mostly mad at myself. Then I asked God to just kill me. Then I waited and got mad when he didn't. Then I apologized again for getting mad. Then I just gave up and went to sleep.

Day 7

Today, it was back on the bus again heading to court, with chained attached to our legs, and then to each other with handcuffs included. So much cold, wet metal touching your skin that you started to feel guilty even if you weren't. The bus to hell screamed to life and bolted from the jail gate. You were separated into groups by cages you couldn't see out of, the windows seemed to be purposefully blacked out, but you could see through small cracks. It was a symbol of how I saw my old life. Most of it was blacked out, but through the cracks, I could barely see everything passing me by, like a kaleidoscope of colliding colors. It wasn't even my world anymore. It felt foreign now. This somber bus ride was all-inclusive, all races and sexes caged up together but separate. Everyone was either quiet or yelling. There's no in-between. I was so focused on my court date and nervous that I rarely spoke. Once you arrived at the courthouse, you were unchained then they threw you in the bullpen, a large waiting room to go into court.

Of all the wretched places on this earth, this was the foulest. It was the heartbreaking tale of American injustice in a room. Mental health collapsing, men shitting and peeing within a few feet of others eating, fluorescent lights so strong that they burned your skin. Warm milk and soggy bologna that was physically thrown into the room like the guards are feeding dogs, and we scrounged them up like starving strays. Some guys were chewing their finger nails down until they were bloody, and the rest couldn't stop fidgeting. The energy was amplified pain, a tumultuous bathtub of anxiety. The air didn't work most of the time, but when it did, the blasting streams freeze your soul. In here, mania and fear ruled side by side. Thoughts that you once trusted turned on you, then on themselves.

In elementary school, when the class was reading out loud, and you were counting the people in front of you, so you knew when it was your turn, and you practiced in advance, but you were still nervous, and it got closer and closer, and all you wanted to do was go home and get under your blanket and hide. Yes, this was what the bullpen was like. This stress room was my least favorite place on earth. Court in this county was more stressful than presenting a budget to the board and having a baby, all combined into one disastrous moment. You could go home today, or you could be sent to prison for another three, five, or twenty-five years.

Day 8

Jail was a dumping ground for the mentally ill. Now San Francisco was full of dirty hippies and self-righteous hipsters. The OG hippies from the '60s were dying off, but they were once just rebellious idealistic unemployed kids, causing their parents' irreparable shame when they couldn't control their behavior. But the funny thing was the ex-hippies sporting peace signs and preaching free love were now a critical part of the economy. Their shanties were now worth millions. San Francisco had a funny way of changing who you were when you were not looking. And the money had changed hands. The hipsters of today were just imitations of the old rich dirty hippies of the past. Driving electric vehicles, living in million-dollar condos, wearing thrift store clothes, and drinking $9 flat lattes.

The city was infested with them. It was also plagued by a growing homeless population: cluttering the streets and bugging tourists who were the city's lifeblood. With nowhere to sleep, they were loathed by locals who paid millions to have apartments above the needle-covered sleeping-bag-infested streets. But nobody really said Fuck off you homeless rats! It was not PC. Instead, it was all about helping and identifying the source of the tragedy, even if it was not the real source. They blamed the system as a blanket term when its actuality, it was quite simple.

California didn't take care of its mentally ill. Nothing had been done to resolve it truly. The state needed to appear to be helping. Many people (and I put myself into this category) saw them as pests. Insects, reeking of shit and failure, muttering to themselves, needed to be squashed under Uncle Sam's boot. I disregarded them as people. But I'd learned that was simply not true. So many of them were sick, and nobody was helping them. Many ended up in jail/prison, with me now. The sad fact was the California justice system was full of vicious spiders: hungry to feed on anyone who landed in their web, hungry to feel like good people who helped when all they really cared about was getting that feeling that they helped someone. Ayn Rand was right: altruism was the ultimate form of selfishness.

How this system handled the mentally ill was appalling. The mentally ill, or J-CATs, screamed and lashed out daily in countyjail without their needed antipsychotics. Some had had adverse childhood trauma. Some had bipolar manic lapses with psychotic episodes brought on by drug abuse, and they used drugs to cope with mental instability. Many were incapable of adequate hygiene. And there were harsh retaliations from mod workers who had to clean up after them. We called those people J-Cats, named from the inmate mental health codes found in article 9 and inmate classification administrative determinants found in article 10 of the California Department

Reviews for Infectious Injustice

[r7b4mwhspm · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book is my favorite book of the year. A MUST READ!