My ride-along: Scars, marks and tattoos

Jason Sandford

Jason Sandford is a reporter, writer, blogger and photographer interested in all things Asheville.

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My Ride-Along, Part IV

“What scars, marks or tattoos do you have?”

I’m inside the intake area of the Buncombe County Detention Center, and the question sticks in my head. John Doe is yelling about how his rights have been violated. The jailer tells him to shut up and toe the red line. That’s the first thing you do when you enter the intake area – toe the red line, then lean forward with your hands on the wall. The jailer snaps on a pair of rubber gloves and proceeds to empty your pockets. The items go into plastic bags, which get dropped into bigger mesh bags along with your shoelaces and whatever else you’ve got with you.

Then, at some point, an officer comes over and asks you what scars, marks or tattoos you’ve got. I’ve never really thought about it, but the question’s not asked of me.

The small holding area is packed with cops and suspects, all in close proximity. There’s a leggy prostitute, in sweatshirt and black-and-white camo shorts, sashaying up to an officer. She’s almost a caricature, but not. She stands on the red feet painted on the foor and looks at the jailer for her mug shot. He tells her to turn to the side. Wrong side. She giggles. He tells her to move her hair off her face, and she tosses it back with a flirty flair.

Once done, she looks for someone to complain to. She spots me. “Why does everyone have to bring drama to me? I don’t do drama,” she sighs. “What are you doing here?” I just shrug. She smiles, and I see that her two front teeth have begun to blacken from the meth pipe.

John Doe’s comparing himself to Martin Luther King and both he and the prostitute promise that their arresting officers won’t have jobs for long. That’s the other thing about intake. Every sumbitch in here knows somebody else higher up in the police department, or has a great lawyer that’s gonna haul a cop’s ass into court and get him fired. That, and they’re all bi-polar. And off their meds.

There’s a well-dressed woman being brought in by a Biltmore Forest Police Department officer. She’s wearing a business suit, but she’s got big black goth boots on, and a lip piercing and tattoos showing on her arms and upper chest. She’s scared and crying. The officer tells me later he arrested her for some outstanding warrant.

A State Highway Patrol officer has another woman, a red-head, in tow. She looks hard, but red-eyed and teary. She’s got on jeans and a denim shirt. She doesn’t speak.

I notice a series of mug shots taped to a wall above the mesh bags holding suspects’ belongings. There are six or seven, and they’re posted because these suspects apparently use aliases. I notice that somebody, as a joke, has written in other names next to a couple of the mugs. One says “Chris Tucker.” The other says “Morgan Freeman.” Sure enough, the two carry quite a resemblance to the two celebrities.

This is intake. Welcome to intake. Welcome to hell. Or at least hell’s waiting room.

Three Black Mountain Police Department officers come through the door holding a young guy who looks like he’s just been through a meat grinder. He’s got a gash on his head, red and bleeding through his crew cut. He’s got a fat lip. His jeans are falling off and the cops are holding him up by his jacket. He can’t toe the line. I hear that he’s been Tasered, at least twice. Fucking hell.

Over at the Breathalyzer table, Doug has his suspect in a chair and he’s just read a whole page of information that boils down to the fact that Doug can’t compel the guy to breathe into the machine, but if he doesn’t, his license is automatically be revoked for 30 days. Doug tells the guy he can call a lawyer if he wants to.

“If I’m caught, I’m caught,” the guy says, and signs a sheet of paper agreeing to the Breathalyzer.

Then Doug waits. There’s apparently some waiting period before the guy blows, but I’m not paying close attention because the chief jailer, a sour-looking man with a cup of coffee in his hand, is suddenly in my face. He sees that I’m media and he doesn’t like it. Nobody asked him if I could be here.

The pissed off jailer finally chills out, and I watch Doug administer the Breathalyzer test. The guy blows into a plastic tube for a long time. Once, then again. Doug shakes his head. He can’t believe it. The guy blew a .29 and a .30. You’re legally drunk if you blow a .08. This guy should be comatose.

Doug tells the guy what he blew and the guy catches on at Doug’s astonishment. “Am I legally dead”? the guy slurs, joking. Doug tells me later that if the guy had blown a .30 or above twice, he would have been required to take him to the hospital.

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We’re back on the road. It’s close to midnight and I ask Doug if I can hang out for another hour. I’m worn out, but high on the buzz of the night. I want more. But all I get is watching Doug fill out some paperwork and some more drive time.

At 1 a.m., we part ways. Doug shakes my hand, says nice meetin’ ya. I respond in kind and walk away. I’m exhausted, but Doug’s got five more hours on his shift.

That’s it. My window into a world unseen by many. Unappreciated by most. And I’m still processing it all.