Incarcerated Innocence: The Long Long Wait of Pretrial Detention

Seven months ago, my son was arrested for “attempted purse-snatching”. He was identified as the “suspect” because the woman accusing him had video of him riding away on his bicycle. That’s it.

But what really incriminated him, I think, was his appearance. Ben has schizophrenia, managed currently by a medication with side effects of trembling and fatigue. Add to that the fact that he looked homeless at the time, and (truth) was probably stoned. After months of trying in vain to get a job, he had returned to his old addiction to marijuana.

So - the police had to decide - who to believe? The lady with the Louis Vuitton purse (still in her possession) or the homeless-looking young man with the confused, vacant stare?

Yep. Incriminated by his illness. It’s an old story, sadly.

What has followed, though, is another kind of crime.

My son’s bail was set at - get this - $100,000.

100K!

I’ve heard of murder suspects with lower amounts. Eventually it was reduced to 25K, but still. To be honest, I’d thought a week in jail, waiting for the court date, might not be a bad thing for Ben. He’d sober up, learn a lesson, get some structure back.

But that was nearly seven months ago. Still no evidence, and all sides have thankfully agreed (dozens of character references and court appearances later), that Ben qualifies for a jail diversion program that will give him treatment he sorely needs - substance use, mental health.

This is wonderful news, sure.

But there are NO BEDS. He is currently #10 on a waiting list at last report (haven’t had any response to further inquiries in weeks), and we can’t get updates. If only he could count down to a release date, so he’d know how long he’ll stay in jail, waiting for the chance to see the sunlight again.

Could be months, they said.

So Ben sits, with 55 other pretrial inmates, counting the days. Trying to stay positive, make some friends, help out the newbies. There are positives to knowing he is safe, sober, in a low-security situation more like a big room of “cube-mates” than a prison with bars. Thankfully, he has companions, a tablet, regular injections of his medication, and commissary access once a week. For this, I am grateful. Certainly, it could be worse.

But it is still, well, jail. Very little outdoor time, very little to do. Frequent lockdowns. One day just like the other. There are no self-development services for pretrial incarceration. No classes, no meetings, no opportunities to do anything except play cards, try out “prison cooking” and hope for mail or visitors.

Seven months. So far. And what breaks my heart is that I can feel the hope draining out of Ben. There’s only so much a mother can do - except love him, encourage him, listen to him, and advocate for a better system.

Ben is clearly one of hundreds, thousands, of incarcerated individuals who need treatment. And while he is one of the lucky ones who has been approved to get help, he sits there, still, in jail.

This is a crime. A crime of the very system designed to rehabilitate, not just punish.

We need more beds for those with mental illness challenges, and we need them now. I know my son does.

What’s a mother/conservator to do? I wrote to the public defender, the intake teams at the jail diversion program, the forensic social worker, the jail counselor.

Still no answers. Should Senators and Reps be next? I think so.

Don’t let him lose hope. And he is not the only one. We need change, and we need it now.

An Inmate's Mom: More Powerless Than Ever

Well, here’s a new brick to add to the wall separating me from parents of “normal” children. I am now the mother of an inmate.

Ben has been arrested, and is in jail (not prison, I’ve learned the difference) awaiting his court date.

His crime? He’s accused of trying to snatch a purse (unsuccessfully, but it still counts as larceny). He swears he didn’t do it. It is the victim’s word against his. But my child - my man-child - looks like a thief these days. Though he has been living in a group home, he looks homeless. He won’t let a dentist fix his teeth. He has lost weight and his clothes are shabby because he wears them for days on end. Even his bicycle (which we just paid $500 to have repaired, good as new) looks homeless: the tire off the rim, the paint scuffed.

My son’s appearance itself is a liability when it comes to trust.

Did he do it? I hate to say this, but it is possible. Ben’s life, so filled pre-Covid with work and purpose (yes, even after diagnosis of schizophrenia, but on a different medication), has recently become scattered, desperate and empty. Covid had closed the restaurant business where he had worked for years as a popular server. That was when he lost everything that had given his life meaning.

Back in the hospital for nearly six months. Back on (different) meds after I’d called a hearing for a court order to medicate. Discharged to a group home.

Still. Ben had tried to make a life again. He had valiantly landed a retail job nearby. He’d d tried so hard to succeed at this. He’d walked 3.5 miles to get to work, always on time.

But his odd behaviors between injections of Haldol made him look distracted, even lazy. Of course he never disclosed his illness. He was eventually let go, and I think that’s what broke him. He lost hope after that loss.

Then: boredom, purposelessness, hopelessness. The perfect, awful storm for someone to turn to drugs for relief. What drugs? Can’t say, but we suspect more than marijuana, based on how quickly his money had been disappearing and poorly managed as of late.

Stupid schizophrenia.

The shock of his arrest has worn off for now, and as usual the best support is coming from those who have been there, the power of community. But there are now a lot of new things to learn - and the number one lesson is this:

You thought you had no say in your loved one’s care before? Try having a child in jail, awaiting a court date. He wears a standard uniform. You, parent and conservator, are also lumped into a category: inconsequential. You have zero power.

No one returns your calls. Not the public defender, not the jail “counselor”, not the Marshal's office. There is no way to find out if he is getting his meds, or where his backpack is. Your inmate child can call you, but you can’t call him. Can’t get a message to him. Can’t really help him, except to maybe pay for a lawyer other than the public defender.

So you learn, again, to let go of control, of influence - and even, a little bit, of hope.

The bar of what counts as the baseline of normal gets even lower.

Life with a child with schizophrenia. And now, clearly, addiction. And still worse now, one who has been arrested, fingerprinted, incarcerated.

Yet he is safe for now. And, oddly, doesn’t seem to hate it there in minimum security. He has more people to talk to, play cards and chess with, drink instant coffee with, than he has had in months. He has structure again. He has fewer choices - and is clean and sober.

The future? As always, I’m doing what I can, and letting go of what I must. The specificity of those choices is different now. The bar has indeed been lowered. But the stakes are higher than ever.

I hate schizophrenia - the great thief of lives that could have been. When will we fund research to find a cure, and improve the system that allows lives to get to this point?

The fight goes on.