An 11-year old boy writes about his time in juvenile jail. Locked in a cell for 21 hours a day and forced to sleep in a diaper at night, the boy forges a strong friendship with his 10-year old cellmate.
"Josh Taylor, I find you guilty of shoplifting. The security camera clearly shows you pocketing the item and exiting the store. Is there anything you want to say before I announce your sentence?"
I was 11-years old when I heard those words from the juvenile judge. Ten days earlier, I had been detained by a security officer at a discount store for trying to steal a rechargeable lithium headlight for my new bicycle.
I stuffed the blister-packaged headlight into my pocket and tried to casually walk out of the store. Much to my surprise, an alarm went off as I passed through the exit. I later learned that the package had a magnetic security strip attached to it. Unless the strip is deactivated at the time of purchase, it sets off an alarm.
After an embarrassing confrontation with a security officer, I was taken to a back room and ordered to empty my pockets. I tried to claim that I forgot to pay, but since I didn't have much money with me, the security officer dismissed that claim and called the police.
Two policemen came to the store, arrested me, did a pat-down search for weapons and handcuffed me behind my back. Then they sat me in the back of a police car—a metal grill separated the back seat from the front—and drove me to the police station.
At the station, the handcuffs were removed and I gave the police my name, date of birth, address and my parents' phone number. Then I was taken to another room, and fingerprinted and photographed. The cops didn't question me about the shoplifting. I found out later they couldn't question me unless a parent was present.
After doing some kind of police report, a cop escorted me to the rear of the station. He unlocked a metal door and led me to the juvenile holding cells. I was terrified and my whole body was shaking.
"Calm down!" said the cop as he locked me in cell J-1. "You only have to stay in here until your parents can pick you up."
I always thought jail cells had bars or metal doors, but this cell had a clear plastic door and window. The cop who locked me in the cell said the plastic was unbreakable and stronger than steel. He was right, too. After he left, I kicked the door hard. It didn't break or even crack.
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After an hour in that plastic cell, my parents arrived at the police station and took custody of me. My mother had tears in her eyes and my father was angry.
When we got home, dad took me to my room and spanked my bare behind. I only get bare-bottom spankings for serious misbehavior. Shoplifting was definitely a pants-down offense.
After the spanking, I felt a sense of relief. My punishment was over. Only after dad hired an attorney did I realize that I still had to appear in juvenile court and face the possibility of jail time.
"I'm sorry I took the light," I said to the judge as tears welled up in my eyes. "I don't know why I did it, but I promise I won't steal again. My dad has already spanked me. Please don't send me to jail."
The judge sighed. I think he hated having to sentence me, a first-time offender from a good home, to juvenile jail, but he had no choice. Three years ago, our county supervisors had passed a new ordinance called the Shocked Straight Program. The ordinance required that all juveniles serve time in jail for misdemeanor crimes.
The ordinance was passed in order to combat the rising rate of juvenile theft and vandalism in our county. Community service and probation had proven ineffective, so the Shocked Straight Program was enacted.
Status offenses—truancy, running away and violating curfew—were not considered crimes, so no jail time was required.
The Shocked Straight Program was intended to "shock" juveniles into leading crime-free lives after spending a few days in jail. All offenders served their time in the Juvenile Detention Center (JDC), which was located north of town. The JDC was formerly a county jail substation.
When school was in session, the JDC operated only on weekends. It was open from 7:00 PM Friday until 7:00 PM Sunday. During summer school vacation, the JDC operated seven days a week, but kept the same 7:00 PM entrance and exit times.
It was a hot Tuesday afternoon in July when I appeared before the judge, awaiting my sentence.
"Josh, I understand that you've been punished at home," said the judge. "I commend your father for disciplining you."
Maybe the spanking will be my only punishment. Maybe he won't send me to jail.
That glimmer of hope faded when the judge spoke again.
"However, the Shocked Straight Program requires that you be imprisoned for your crime. Please stand for your sentencing."
My legs were shaking as I stood up. My attorney had already advised me that the minimum sentence was two days in jail. The maximum penalty was 30 days.
"A month in jail?" I asked in shocked disbelief.
"Don't worry!" said my attorney. "It's your first offense, so I'm quite certain you'll get the minimum sentence. If you get more than two days, we'll appeal the decision. You'll be released to the custody of your parents during the appeal process."
"If I get two days, can we appeal that, too?" I asked.
"It wouldn't do any good," said my attorney. "By the time the appeal is filed and processed, you would have already served your two days. You're definitely going to be incarcerated, so prepare yourself."
How do I prepare myself for jail? What do I...?
The judge interrupted my thoughts. Looking directly at me, he announced my punishment.
"I sentence you to serve two days in the Juvenile Detention Center. You will report to the JDC no later than 7:00 PM today. Your release date will be Thursday at 7:00 PM. You can pick up your detention order from the court clerk. This proceeding is adjourned."
Tears trickled down my face as my parents rushed to embrace me. Except for the spanking, mom and dad had been very supportive of me. Now they were helpless.
As we left the courtroom, I picked up the detention order from the court clerk. Seeing my name on that paper made me shiver. It was now official. In less than five hours, I was going to juvenile jail.
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On the drive home, I read the small pamphlet that came with the detention order. The pamphlet advised me to wear regular street clothes when I reported for incarceration. It also advised me to bring no personal possessions. The jail would provide everything that I needed: clothes, shoes and personal hygiene items.
All I had to do was show up at the jail, then I'd get locked up.
