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From: juliesheart@aol.com
Dear Rhett,
I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. I was in the county jail for a few days before they
transferred me to the halfway house and I had to settle in before I could start using the computer
I’m in a town called, Westchase
which is outside of Tampa. The halfway house is strange--it’s in an actual
neighborhood but they let criminals live here. Mostly drug addicts.
Sawyer says it will be much better for me than when he was in jail. It’s warm outside and there are even kids in the neighborhood. There is a computer I’m allowed to use for personal use 60 minutes a day.
I hope it is okay I am writing you. I am still in shock of all this, but writing to you has always made me feel a little bit better. Please write back if you’d like. We don’t have to talk about UL or the trial or anything. Unless you want.
~*Juliana*~ (:
From: juliesheart@aol.com
Dad
I think Raleigh is too busy with his new clients to keep helping me with my case. I need a new lawyer. Please get me out of here. I’m so scared and I
“Aren’t you hot ?,” a voice asks.
I quickly minimize the window I was writing my e-mail in and turn from the computer.
“You’ll pass out wearing that,” Mr. Eldridge, the director of Turning Point House says as I fiddle with the zipper on my hoodie.
I look at the parrot themed thermometer stuck to the window. It’s night outside, but it is still almost 100 degrees and the house doesn’t have central air. Truthfully, I’m burning up, but I’m more comfortable with the sweatshirt on.
I smile at Mr. Eldridge to tell him
it’s okay. He is in his late 40's with thinning hair and has so far been the only kind face I've seen since coming here.
“Don’t tease her. You know she’s dumb,” Miss Cora, the house supervisor tells him.
She’s sitting behind the desk that is in the office space in the living room with the phone on her ear. Miss Cora is only a few years older than me, but I still have to call her Miss. She was supposed to be monitoring me on the computer but for the entire time I’d been sitting at the computer she’d been talking to her friend about a wedding she didn’t want to go to.
“It's called selective mutism,” Mr. Eldridge corrects her. “Jesus, Cora it’s the 21st century.”
Miss. Cora just shrugs
I turn back to the computer to see my session on the computer had timed out. I should have e-mailed Dad first instead of wasting time e-mailing Rhett. I wouldn’t get another chance until tomorrow evening.
There were 12 other women staying at Turning Point and we spent the mornings in counseling sessions, AA meetings and education courses. At night we went to the big office parks in Tampa and cleaned the offices for $6.00 an hour—although 40% of that had to go to Turning Point.
Mr. Eldridge reaches over me and taps out his password on the keyboard and the computer opens up again and the timer in the corner resets.
“I think you deserve another few minutes after that comment.” he says referring to Miss Cora calling me dumb.
I smile at him in thanks.
“I know that crazy cult leader hurt you badly,” Mr. Elridge tells me. “But I hope you know the scars are gone. You don’t have to cover yourself like that.”
I nod like I appreciate what he is
saying, but I don’t. I was fine.
I quickly finish my e-mail to Dad before going upstairs to shower and get into bed.
I share the room with three other
women who’d previously been in jail together. They were already asleep and I
was glad for that. They always made passive aggressive comments about how I
hadn’t served actual time and didn’t deserve to be here. They thought I’d
gotten off easy coming here directly here from my sentencing and not to the prison.
I hate the bed. The room is sweltering and I don't know how the other women can sleep under their covers.
My sheets smell like dirt and mold. I didn’t have money to buy new ones yet and they’d found these in the attic. The comforter smelled like mothballs , but it was soft I just slept on top of it.
I was close to sleep when I hear the door open and my bed squeaked as I felt the weight of someone sitting behind me on the twin bed. I freeze when I smell Mr. Eldrige’s spicy cologne. He puts his hand on my back. I wonder if I gave him the wrong impression and pretend to be asleep.
After a moment his hand wanders below the small of my back and I open my eyes in shock.
Loren, the girl who slept across from me, was awake now and we were making direct eye contact. She looked sympathetic, but didn’t say anything.
She couldn’t.
If you got the Turning Point staff mad they sent you back to jail for being combative.
I laid still and Mr. Eldridge's slips his hand down the elastic of my pajama pants. Hot, shameful tears spring to my eyes as he starts rubbing my underwear. I shift my legs closer together, but still pretend to be asleep. He just moves his hand lower and before I can react he pushes my underwear to the side and puts his finger in me.
I can’t pretend anymore and jump from the bed. Mr. Eldridge jumps up and hits the lights on.
“Get back into bed, Juliana,” He yells at me. "Or I'm putting a strike on your record."
The other women start to wake up and some scowl at me. I sit on the bed without another look and Mr. Eldridge leaves the room, shutting the lights and closing the door behind him.
The moment the door shuts close I stand back up. I shouldn't be here. I couldn't be here. My instinct to run comes back. I look out the window—we weren’t that far up.
“Don’t be a little bitch about it,” Loren says to me as if she can read my mind.
I don't listen.
I take out my sneakers, grab my backpack and open the large window. I’ve snuck out of places my entire life and I
easily reach for the tree outside and jump from it.
I have my bus pass and a roll of quarters. I walk along parkways and ride almost a dozen different buses before I finally get to Miami.
8 hours later, Rosa finds me waiting on the doorstep of the apartment she
shared with Raleigh. I'm tired, dirty and still wearing my pajamas.
A look of horror passes through her face when she sees me, but then she breaks into a smile for my benefit.
“It’s okay,” Rosa tells me. “Come inside.”
I settle in their apartment--she has it decorated like a magazine with flowers and photos. I sit on their couch and Rosa makes me a sandwich and doesn’t ask any questions.
Raleigh comes back a few hours later with a rolling suitcase of paper work.
“Oh fuck no,” Raleigh says when he sees me on the couch. “No. No. No. Have you lost your damn mind ? You’re a fugitive now.”
I take out my pad and paper and scribble a note.
I can’t do it. I want to go to an all women’s jail.
“No you don’t . The Florida jail system is terrible,” he tells me. “I’m taking you back. I’ll try and smooth things over. Come on.”
I write another note.
I want to go to jail. I don’t feel safe there.
His face softens.
“Okay,” Raleigh says. “I’ll work on it, I promise. But in the meantime you need to go back or they’ll extend your sentence.”
Raleigh calls the police and I thankfully hadn’t been reported as a fugitive yet. He explains I am with my lawyer and he drives me back to Turning Point House.
Mr. Eldridge meet us at the door and takes me back inside. He assures Raleigh I won’t be reported and when he touches my back to guide me in it makes me want to beg Raleigh to take me away.
But I don't.
When I stand in line for medication that day Mr. Eldridge gives me an empty cup instead of my pills and reminds me that if I run away again I’ll go to maximum security prison. He was lying, but I didn't know that at the time.
“You need to learn the rules,” Mr. Eldridge tells me before motioning for the next girl to get her medication.
I just nodded.
I did learn the rules.
I tied the strings on my pajamas tighter and slept under my covers even though it is always close to 100 degrees in the room and he never touched me again.
Everyday became about survival. I paid attention to the counselors, I learned and got better
When Turning Point was shut down a few weeks later I spent 9 months in Hillsborough County jail, I’m then moved into a new halfway house and when that one is overflowed I go to another.
I write my letters, study and do everything I’m told.
I keep my head down and I count the days and
months and years until I’m finally allowed to leave.