"Let’s wake the bastards up,” are the first words I hear. I’ve entered the darkened control room that looks out onto the inmate population of the county jail, and within thirty seconds I realize that I’m going to have a huge problem fitting in.
I take a seat in one of the empty chairs, my presence ignored by the four uniformed deputies, including Corporal McCully. He is one of five people who interviewed me for the position. After about ten minutes, he informs me that Carla, the woman training me, is late. Another five minutes pass, and Carla breezes into the room. Hair bleached blonde, colorful clothes, and lime-green Croc sandals, she is the physical antithesis of the other deputies. With her presence, I feel less alone and, for some reason, less guilty, relieved at where I’ve found myself—behind bars.