One For the Road Ch. 03

I volunteered to be a part of it Saturday and again on Sunday, enjoying a cup of instant soup and some crackers both nights. I had learned that I wasn't the only 'drunk' in the mix; a term I immediately hated to hear. They inmates seemed to know what your crime was and whatever it was was where you were lumped. There was some pride and jockeying in the inner hierarchy and I'm sure it was different in each location, but here Assault with a Deadly Weapon was like the kingpin of the Section while Rape was the ultimate bottom. There were also degrees of variety like Larceny was both Grand and Petty with the former having more prestige than the letter. Drunk and Disorderly was a bit low on the pecking order but Assault and Battery raised my standing. All in all, it was very 8^th grade and very childish - but it was my world and universe for four and a half very stress filled days.

Finally Monday came and I was escorted along with almost 20 other men from my Section and others to a waiting blue and white prison bus where we were cuffed to our seats and driven that rainy morning to Nassau Courts in Westbury. We were taken in and allowed to wash up (no shaving) and generally make ourselves tidy while we waited in a side room away from the public.

And waited.

Court was held from 9 to 11:30 and again from 1 to 3:30. And besides our presence, there were a lot of people at court. We could glimpse them through the drawn shades, hundreds of people milling about back and forth. A few of them would stop near our window and press their faces against the narrow slit to peer in. I mean, what the hell? Was this the cafeteria? Were they looking for the bathrooms? Some of them were pretty damned fat, slovenly, or unshaven - which given the state of myself and my fellow inmates made no sense. I would be thrilled for the chance to wear something better and get myself all cleaned up and these dumb asses are home and out in the real world and they just have no pride in their appearance.

One by one our names were called and a court officer would lead the guys through the back door and to whatever courtroom they were supposed to be in. I watched them go, one after the other, waiting for my own chance to go through.

"Skelly, James Skelly," came the call at 11:04 according to the clock. I raised my hand and the officer unlocked me from the bench and led me down a short hall to a greenish painted room. There was a round table and four chairs, a couple of pictures of plants on a counter, and one other door out of here on the opposite wall.

A thin man in his mid 30's with bad posture, a small gut, and thinning hair was sitting here; his body radiating all the signs that screamed out 'I don't give a shit about the job I'm doing right now'. He stood up, extended his hand to mine to shake and introduced himself. "Mr. Skelly, I'm Nathan Sweeny, your court appointed attorney." I shook his hand and was surprised to find a firm grip from him even if his palm was a bit sweaty.

"Nice to meet you , Mr. Sweeny. I wish it were under other circumstances."

We both sat down, the court officer remained standing by the door. "I've gone over your case and wanted to know if you had any complaint against pleading guilty?"

""I don't know...what exactly guilty of?"

"Assault, drunk and disorderly conduct. We don't admit guilt to resisting arrest since you never actually approached the officers. We also fight against the endangering a minor charge since your sons were not there during the altercation."

"Whoa, whoa," I held up my hand. "Where did THAT one come from?"

"Since your incarceration, Mrs. Skelly has had an order of protection filed against you in her name and against you in the names of John and Joel Skelly." He ran his hand through his hair and then went back to thumbing the papers before him. "I believe we can plea against this one even though they were on the property, it depends on what the judge is looking for."

I was still fixated on what he said earlier. "Wait. What. Why would Myra do that? What does...I can't see my kids? Does she need to protect them against me? I'm their fucking father. I love them and I love her. Why does anyone need to be protected from me?"

Nathan shrugged. "I am sure you love your family, Mr. Skelly, and that they love you. But Mrs. Skelly has to take these steps even to your detriment in order to protect her children."

"OUR children," I corrected him, pointing at my own chest. "Mine and hers. Ours. They are our kids. And again, I hear this 'protect' crap. Protect against what? Me?"

"Mr. Skelly, the courts work in a particular way and they work slow. No one is looking to keep you from your family one minute longer than they have to. Everyone wants the best for all parties, but when it comes to children, they often err on the side of caution and that means that there are certain steps we have to take before the matters are resolved."

"So what happens now then? How do we get this fixed fast so I can return home?"

"We go in and plead guilty to Assault and Drunk and Disorderly conduct. You have no prior convictions or record. You enroll in an alcohol dependency program, show some material improvement, satisfy the court and then the orders are lifted and you can return home."

"And how long will that take?" I asked wondering.

"15 days in jail, less time already served."

"What?"

He continued, "Then 3 months worth of therapy and dependency to follow and another 3 months of supervised visitation before the orders would be revised or lifted."

I gaped at him, eyes wide in shock. "Are you fucking shitting me?"

Nathan drummed his fingers on the table, staring at me with as neutral an expression he could muster. "No, Mr. Skelly. I am not shitting you. That's the way it works." He clipped his papers together and slid them into his briefcase. "And that's assuming everything works to our satisfaction and you follow the programs without deviation. If you don't, it could be considerably longer."

"What...what if I plead innocent? Then what?"

He shook his head. "I would seriously counsel against that. Your wife sustained injuries that had been documented. Your children were the point of discovery of the assault. Your actions were documented by eight different individuals even though four of them were minors. You were visibly intoxicated however be thankful that you weren't driving at the time as your penalties would be more severe."

Straightening his collar, he continued, "Plus, if you plead innocent there will be depositions, bond, and the potential for much greater jail time and monetary fines. My professional opinion is to do as I outlined. Or if you are unsatisfied with my counsel you are welcome to retain your own attorney should you wish."

My head was spinning. I didn't want to piss this guy Sweeny off since he seemed to know what he was doing and I really seemed to be fucked. Ok, Jimmy, you can go out there, eat some crow, and get yourself into whatever shit they want you in. "Alright, Mr. Sweeny. We'll do it your way. I just want to get home and get back to my life."

"Excellent." He motioned to the officer who nodded his head and disappeared down the hall. We chatted a bit longer until the officer came back and indicated that we should follow.

We stopped at a thick wooden door with a thin window where the court officer opened it and escorted us in. The courtroom was pretty small, smaller than I expected it to be. I saw my wife at one table, wearing her white button blouse I called her "church shirt" since she wore it every time we had to go to a wedding, mass, or a funeral. I looked but didn't see my boys which made me terribly sad. Sitting behind her was my mother-in-law Stephanie and my pop. Being that I didn't see mom anywhere I guessed she was babysitting the J's.

I wanted to call out to Myra but kept my mouth shut, shuffling along in my prison supplied clothes and feeling like shit; escorted to another table where my lawyer and I sat on the other side of the room. I stared at Myra who was looking back at me with a watery gaze and quivering lips. Her cheeks were splotchy and it was obvious to me that she was barely holding it together. Stephanie had a cool expression, only the diamond hard glint in her eyes let me know that she was royally pissed at me. Terrific.

As for pop, his skin was ruddy and flushed and his jaw was clenched so tightly I thought he was going to crack a tooth. He was breathing so hard that his nose was flaring and compressing with each breath, his chest pumping like a bellows. It had been years since I had seen my pop lose himself to his Irish rage, and I had to admit, I was glad I was in court instead of facing off from him and his boiling temper.

"The case of Myra Skelly vs. James Skelly and New York State vs. James Skelly is called." One of the court people intoned, standing near the judge. I didn't know who was who, but the judge was pretty obvious. Had to be over 50, hair going white, pair of glasses with thick frames, that judge robe they wear and sitting at the bench. But it was the look on his face, the way that everyone in the room was staring at him - it just affirmed to everyone in here that THIS was the judge and you were in his kingdom.

I listened to some attorney on Myra's side talk for a bit and then Sweeny did his spiel, trying to refute everything the other guy said and soften it up. I had to admit, 5 days sober and fresh from jail, I sounded like a real cracked up piece of fucking work. The judge had a few comments and questions but I was only half listening as the lawyers did their dance thing; my attention was entirely on Myra.

I love that woman. I know all her moods, her thoughts, her wants and needs. And I knew without a doubt two things at this time: 1) she was terribly sad and overwhelmed, and 2) she was also terribly pissed and ashamed of me. From the same flintly glower I would catch from her now and again; matching the one her mother had. The firm narrow set of her lips, pressed almost bloodless white when she caught herself looking too long in my direction. From the way she gently but incessantly bounced her right foot slowly up and down, rising up to her toes and off again.

I don't know another time that Myra had ever been this damned furious. And I couldn't talk to her which was only making the entire situation more fucked up.

Nathan gave me a nudge in the ribs and my attention came back to the judge and his narrow-eyed glare in my direction. "I said, Mr. Skelly," the judge repeated, "are you willing to join an Anger Management group as well as an Alcohol Dependency group?"

"Yes, sir. Yes, your honor. Whatever it takes."

He stayed hyper-focused on me before backing off slightly and glancing down at his desk. "You will be required to successfully complete both programs before we can talk about altering the orders to allow you supervised visitation with your children. You can use that as an incentive to cooperate with the counselors and graduate swiftly."

"Yes, your honor. I'll do it."

He nodded his head. "You will be remanded back to Nassau Correctional for a 15 day sentence at which time you will be released. Be aware that you are not to approach Mrs. Skelly or the children any closer than 100 yards. You are to remain away from the marital home as well. Upon your release you can arrange with the Sheriff's department to go to the home and gather whatever personal effects are needed." He rapped his gavel and intoned, "Dismissed."

Nathan stood with me as one of the court officers came to escort me back to the waiting room. My pop's voice called out, "I'll pick you up when you're out. You'll be staying with your mom and me."

I nodded my head and looked at Myra, mouthing "I'm so sorry" to her but she shut her eyes and shook her head sadly. She didn't even watch me be led from the courtroom.

As Nathan said, I only had to spend another 10 days in Nassau Correctional; but to my way of thinking, it was 10 days too long. My mom put $25 on my account at the Commissary for me which might not seem like a lot but it was like a little slice of heaven. I had purchased a 20 oz bottle of root beer as my first item and it was like drinking liquid bliss. The next day I bought a small bag of Lay's potato chips. Another day I purchased a cup of coffee. Small items, but when you don't have access to them and are denied the opportunity to partake, they are that much sweeter when you finally get to have it.

On my 13^th total day in jail while I was enjoying our 1 hour of 'yard time', which meant we could walk around outside, I was approached by four Latino looking guys who were walking up to me with their palms showing. "Oi! Are you Jimmy Skelly?"

Quiz time. Do I answer yes or no? They obviously know who I am since they singled me out and came right up to me, so the question was rhetorical. They wanted to see what I was going to answer. Yes and I was upfront, no and I was a pussy and a punk. And I wasn't a fucking punk. I stood up slowly to my full 6' 4" height and stared at the one who spoke with my most 'I-couldn't-give-a-shit-about-you' glance. "Yeah."

That was it. Nothing else. Let them take up the slack.

"Thought you might wanna know that Les is pissed at you."

I shrugged. Who the fuck was Les?

They looked at each other. "You not bothered?"

"Couldn't care. Don't know anyone named Les."

"Les, man. Jorge Morales. You damn near broke his neck."

Ah, that was the guy I got into a fight with. "And?" I didn't want to assume anything.

"Just sayin', man. Les ain't right in the head. He's got that Napolean thing going, always picking fights with big dudes. He's a cell warrior at best."

"Listen. Thanks for the heads up, but I'm out of here in two days and I ain't looking to ever come back in here again. As long as he gives me some space, I'll do the same."

The speaker of the four-some shrugged. "No problem, man. Carlos wanted to let you know that Les was foamin' for you. If he does come after you, it's not because the Iron Nation has any beef, Les is selling wolf tickets when he mentions the Nation. Ok?"

I really had no idea what was exactly being said but it sounded like Les, Morales, whatever the fuck he was, was pissy at me but his gang wasn't because he mouthed off a lot to the big guys. Like me. Fucking lovely. What was next for me, an invitation to the Crips Christmas party? I had to get out of here and away from this high school playground horseshit. "Done, got it. Thanks and tell...Carlos thanks too."

"De nada," he replied and the four of them wandered away.

And then it was time. Day 15. I took a long shower with the crappy scratchy soap and the shampoo that smelled a little like oil, trying to get clean. As I was mustered out, given my original clothes (unwashed - ugh) and belongings and then escorted to the front doors where they cycled me through the main doors and both parts of the barbed wire fence until I was in the parking lot.

And there was pop.

He was standing next to his crappy Honda Civic arms across his chest, his big assed gut hanging out underneath. There was a lot more grey in his ginger hair than I ever noticed before, and it was odd, but I never realized how deep some of the lines were in his face. He had to weigh a good 60 lbs more than I did and he was north of 50, but I didn't want to be on the receiving end of his punches or slaps - my memory filling in the many times his heavy handed corrections came into play while I was growing up.

"You look like shit, Jimmy."

Nice fucking greeting, pop, tell me something I didn't know. "Sorry, pop. The stylist doesn't come in till Thursday."

"Don't fucking sass me, you smart ass." He opened the driver's side door and climbed in, motioning for me to get in the other side. "It's already enough I have to pick up my son from jail, I don't have to listen to your fucking mouth." He waited for me to sit before starting the car. "Buckle up before I'm tempted to kick your ass out on the side of Newbridge Road."

We drove home in quiet, my pop breaking hard and accelerating roughly. He gripped the wheel tightly and had his eyes firmly riveted on the road. "Listen, pop," I said, "I'm sorry." He snorted. "I am. Really."

"Your wife had big assed black and blue finger prints on her damned wrists for a week, you prick." He slapped the dashboard. "What kind of a shit are you?"

"Dad, it was an accident."

"Bullshit, boy. I call bullshit on that." He sneered as he spoke. "Too much salt is an accident. Tapping another car while parallel parking is an accident. No, Jimmy, what you did was fucking deliberate. You deliberately had too much to drink, and you deliberately hurt your fucking wife."

"I didn't mean it."

"Fuck you, Jimmy. Just fuck you with that whiney assed shit. I didn't mean it my grandfather's bleeding asshole!"

I kept my mouth shut the rest of the ride until we arrived at my boyhood home. The first thing I noticed was my baby on the street. There were a number of boxes and bags piled inside of it; I assume it was clothes and stuff. Pop got out of the car grumbling and I followed close behind. He opened the door and called out, "Mary! I'm back with your son, the felon!"

My mom came out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on the pockets of her housedress. I could smell corned beef cooking and I could only assume mom was making it for me. "Hey, mom," I greeted her, hands in my pockets, unsure of the greeting I was going to get.

She only held back for a second before stepping in and giving me a big hug. "Oh, Jimmy. Welcome home, son. Are you ok? Did they hurt you in there?"

"Jesus, Mary!" my pop exclaimed, "The boy's bigger'n most everyone he meets, he was fine."

"It's ok, mom. I'm good. Thanks for letting me stay here."

"Don't you think nothing about it. We just want you to get yourself better is all." She led me to the kitchen. "Come on, I have dinner cooking and you look like you haven't been eating right."

My first day home involved me not telling my mom about my time in jail, not pissing off my pop by being around him, and taking a shower with real soap and wearing my own clothes that fit and felt right for a change. I awoke the next day early, December 11^th, and drove my car to Florence Building to talk to Doug about what happened and hopefully get whatever check was still there.

When I walked in the door at 6:50 the conversation around the counter stopped as all my peers just stared at me. Someone whispered, "Holy shit, Jimmy. Where've you been?" And that was enough to call Doug from his office with the sound of his chair scraping against the wall.

"Jimmy? Skelly?" He came out of the doorway and stopped, staring at me. "You," he said in shock. "What the fuck...Get in my office. NOW!"

I followed him in and he slammed the door closed behind me. "Where the fuck have you been?! I told you, I fucking told you, you screw up once more and you're out of here. Didn't I tell you that? Didn't I? What the fuck? Did you think I was screwing around? Making that shit up?"

"Doug. I'm sorry. I was in jail."

"Well la-dee-fucking-daa; thanks for the news flash Channel 7. I found out you were in jail when I finally got a hold of your wife by Tuesday morning."

"Doug, you have to let me explain..."

He held up his hand. "No, Jimmy. No I don't." He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out two envelopes. "Here you go. Your last check, and whatever vacation and sick time you haven't taken. Take it and go." He waved his hand towards the door. "I won't fight your unemployment so go sit on your ass for a while; figure out what you're going to do. Because whatever it is, it isn't working here anymore."

I took the checks and stuffed them into my pocket, standing up. "Thanks Doug. I...I really fucked up."