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the corner of South Broad and Tulane Avenue is a plethora of buildings dedicated to every infraction of the law you can imagine, often done by those to those they know and love. Police Headquarters is located here. Even if you didn’t know that, it’s easy to tell because there are a zillion police cars parked everywhere—illegally. The Criminal Court building is here, Night Court is here, the Municipal Court for minor offenses is here, and the Orleans Parish Prison—the jail—is here. Everything about this complex of buildings is utilitarian and appears to be in constant need of pressure washing, both inside and out due to never ending shuffle of the unwashed masses through the system.
    When I arrived at Central Lockup, I had to stand in the filthiest waiting area for what felt like forever. The only furniture there was fiberglass molded seats nailed to the floor. Every surface in the fifteen by fifteen square foot room was marked with profane words and suggestions. It provided the only reading material in the lobby. Reading misspelled four-letter words carved on every available surface—the result of our stellar public school system—helped to pass the time. The creative spelling kept things challenging. ‘Go screw yourself’ looked like ‘go skruw yoself’ or ‘skru you’. Crap appeared as krap, or crappe.
    There was always a line of twenty to thirty people waiting to speak to the officer at the window. He sat behind a window of four-inch bulletproof glass reinforced with wire mesh and only spoke to the person on the outside through a speaker. The speaker was probably installed when the Pope was an altar boy. It would squelch every time either side pressed the button when it was their turn to talk. He had the control of when he wished to stop listening to a vulgar, threatening rant that we still had to endure on our side of the window. He indicated this by cutting them off in mid-sentence with a blast of what sounded like metal scraping along metal then blasting “NEXT” over the speaker. He and Julia must have gone to the same charm school.
    The air in the waiting area of Central Lockup in New Orleans Parish Prison swirled with putrid odors from alcohol induced vomit, feces, and urine. There wasn’t enough Lysol in the universe to get the nasty odor out of this place. My shoes stuck to the floor with every step and they made a crinkling sound when they peeled off to take the next one. I thought if I stood in one place too long my shoes would permanently adhere to the vinyl floor. I would be stuck here forever or walk out barefoot.
    “Next,” boomed through the small room with the decibel power of a Klaxon horn. Everyone in line shuffled forward a half step as a woman moved up to the window.
    Squelch. “State your business,” stuttered over the oldest looking speaker on the planet. I’m not sure how old it really was or if the amount of rust and dust encrusting it made it look like a relic and, I’m sure, negatively impacted its function. It, along with everything else in the area, appeared to have been left off any cleaning or maintenance schedule. Standing in a line this long allowed you to hear the same format over and over so that even if you didn’t hear all the words, you could figure out what was said.
    “I want to know when you gonna release Theodore Smalls?” the woman asked.
    The officer, without informing the woman, left his seat to get an update or take a break or go to lunch. No one knew. We all just had to stand and wait. He returned after what felt like his lunch break and the P.A. squelched to announce an answer was forthcoming.
    The officer remained standing to look out the glass to see how long the line was and then read it from a clipboard, “Theodore Smalls was transferred to the emergency room at University Hospital. You have to go there and see what they plan to do with him.”
    “Today? You let him outta here today? After he beat on me, you gonna let that good fo’