After Katrina: A Ten-Year Roller Coaster, Part 15

A photo of a judge's gavel

Beth Cortez-Neavel/Flickr

Previously: It was a nice warm April day outside, but inside the paddy wagon, it was dark and shadowy. I was seated in the cage behind two cops, my hands cuffed in front of my body and my ankles locked in shackles. We got to the 5th District Precinct, and they asked me my name, date of birth, and took fingerprints—the usual stuff they do. They also make me change into prison clothes. They escort me to a cell with around 20 other guys in it, all waitin’ to get transport through the system. When I first hit the cell, a few of them knew me. They were like, “Damn they got my man Orleans. We saw you on the news!” Homicide police detectives come to the cell, askin’ to talk about the crime in the neighborhood. Like askin’ us to be snitchin’.

After the detective tryin’ to get me to rat on other dealers, and me tellin’ him, “If I did know I wouldn’t tell you,” he threaten me with life sentences.

Then he say, “I know you wannna smoke a Newport.”

I say, “I sure do, but I’m not gonna rat to smoke a Newport. Give it to one of your rats, not me.”

After me bein’ in the cell four or five hours, a guy tell some of us, get ready to be moved. A van gonna be here soon to escort you to court.

With me knowin’ the system anywhere I go, I know I’m gonna be first on the list due to my last name beginnin’ with A.

So after bein’ removed, we get in the holding tank, where we wait for them to call us to go see the judge. It’s the first time I ever heard the holding tank so quiet you could hear a rat pee on cotton.

It’s like a house of silence, because everyone be thinkin’ about they charges and what’s gonna happen. It’s very seldom somebody gets a break and gets to go home afterwards.

It’s very clean here in district court cells, no writing on the wall like in the state prison. In the holding tank you got Mexicans, Spanish guys, Chinese, all different races. You don’t see too many kingpins—they like celebrities and the feds don’t want them to mingle.

I ask the Federal Marshall, “What time you think I be goin’ to see the judge?”

He told me no time soon, because we waitin’ on the other guy to come from jail, the one you was out on the street with.

I was thinkin’ to myself, I never dealt with the FBI. The people I know who deal with the FBI, they never see the street again.

Old guys in the state pen told me never to get caught up with the FBI, because they don’t play. Even my father told me that. But hard head as I am, I got caught up and now I’m miserable, screwed up in my mind about what’s gonna happen to me.

One thing I know: I’m a standup guy and I ain’t gonna tell on anyone.

After hours in the holding tank, they came and told me, “They’re ready for you to go to court.”

So they cuff my hands in front of me and do the same with my my co-defenders and then they escorted us to the courtroom in shackles.

That’s when the judge let us know what we bein’ charged with, how many counts, the bond, and stuff like that.

I got a state appointed lawyer—he say he represent me.

He say, “You got 38 counts indictment.”

I say, “Damn, can you tell me what the indictment is?”

He tell me, drug traffic—buying and selling controlled substances. He also say, wiretap, which means my phone was hit.

In my mind I’m thinkin’ I ain’t gonna see that blue sky again for a long time.

To be continued . . .

My book, Still Standing: How an Ex-Con Found Salvation in the Floodwaters of Katrina is available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle form. It’s a tough story but also good, because I’m still standing, so it makes a nice Valentine’s gift! I hope you will tell your friends about it. It tells a story of poverty, life on the streets and in prison that many from age 12 to 92 would not otherwise know. If you like it, maybe you can write an Amazon review. Thank you!


Issues |Weather


Region |Washington DC

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