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nuttin’ go after he been talking with that skank?” The woman became animated, punching the glass in front of the officer’s face and screaming so loudly that two deputies flew out from behind a steel door, each grabbing her by an arm and escorting her to the exit commanding her not to return. When she tried to re-enter they stood shoulder to shoulder blocking the doorway. One deputy said, “You come back here and we’ll arrest you for throwing hot grits in his face. That’s why he’s at University Hospital.”
    University Hospital was now the default public hospital since Katrina devastated Charity to the point it had not reopened and didn’t look like it would. The woman left jabbering away something incoherent and waving her arms over her head.
    The man in front of me was looking back over his shoulder at the excitement. We made eye contact so I said, “Boy, she must be some jealous type if she got that angry over her man talking to someone.”
    “Talking is slang for sleeping with that other woman,” he answered.
    I didn’t make any more comments or even eye contact with anyone else for fear of getting into an altercation over the local lingo and provoking the two deputies to reappear and escort me to the exit.
    Next up was another situation regarding similar indiscreet communication. The woman stated this was her fifth time at the window and her persistence to learn her husband’s exact release time made me wonder why there wasn’t a metal detector where we had to walk through to get in here. We all knew he was better off inside the big house because the little woman found out he was fooling around with her sister.
    No one was spared or given the slightest shred of discretion. Forty-seven minutes later I stepped up to the glass and asked about Julia’s release time. The speaker stuttered that there was no information on Julia Richard at this time and to check back later. Did they think we all had nothing to do but stand—not sit—in this hellhole and wait for another opportunity to get back in line for the same stimulating conversation over the airways?
    When it was my turn again, I advised the officer on duty that I was there to pick up Julia Richard or Julia Sawyer. She was back to using her maiden name of Richard. He informed me she was still in booking. To take a break from the redundant nature of Central Lockup’s waiting room, I walked across the street to gulp air not laden with disinfectant fumes, and bought a coffee at the Latte Da Coffee House. I took my time drinking it while sitting in the luxury of what looked like a federal reserve café with bars on the windows and enough bullet proof glass across the counter reinforced with wire mesh to stop an assault with an automatic weapon.
    Like the waiting room of Central Lockup, this coffee shop had a two-way speaker to place your order through, and then you’d put your money on a Lazy Susan type revolving plate. The plate spun around with the money and at no time did a sliver of an opening from the inside allow infiltration from the outside. After they had your money, you got your order, with any change, on the plate turned back to you. I requested additional napkins and the turn style spun back into action sending out one more paper napkin.
    After I got my order, I wiped off a chair to sit and sip my coffee. Unlike Central Lockup, a comforting smell of coffee and baked bread wafted in the air.
    I remembered Dante told me once, “Someone, most likely in a bar during happy hour said, eating hot and spicy food in hot climates is supposed to make you feel the heat less.” The idea is supposed to force the body to open its pores thereby allowing your internal temperature to equalize with external and fool yourself into thinking you weren’t melting. Not me. The coffee had the same effect the kiss from Dante had on me. My internal thermostat felt like it was pushing steamy mercury up my spine from my toes to my head. I sipped the hot coffee,