Thanksgiving In Prison

Back in 1995, long before any of that, we were living in pure survival mode—working nearly twenty hours a day on almost no sleep.

At five in the morning, I’d load post office bins into my beat-up Honda Civic, drop mail at the Manhattan post office, drive through the Holland Tunnel, and head straight to work.

Eventually, that pace caught up with us.

* * *

Here’s how we ended up spending the night in jail—at least as I remember it.

* * *

Carmen and I got into an argument. About what, I honestly don’t remember. Emotions escalated, and at some point she called 911. Things moved fast. I heard sirens, looked out the bay window, and saw multiple police cars with lights flashing. Neighbors gathered in the street. The officers came inside and focused on Carmen. One of them recognized me from years earlier, and we acknowledged each other.

A senior officer asked Carmen why she had called.

She said she felt threatened and wanted to press charges.

The officers spoke with both of us. From my perspective, they seemed skeptical and asked several follow-up questions.

Eventually, they explained that if charges were pursued, arrests would have to be made so things could be sorted out at the precinct.

Carmen said she wanted to proceed.

* * *

She was handcuffed and taken outside.

A short time later, I was handcuffed as well.

With neighbors watching.

It was humiliating.

That night was one of the lowest and most surreal moments of my life.

* * *

We were taken to the Jersey City central precinct, fingerprinted, photographed, then transported to the county jail.

We were each allowed one phone call and told someone could pick us up by posting a $50 bail.

* * *

Carmen didn’t call her parents on Thanksgiving Eve.

She called a friend.

No answer.

I called Engin.

No answer either.

He later told me he’d been at a biker bar in Pearl River with Claudia and never heard the phone ring.

With no one reachable, we were processed, handed orange jail uniforms, and placed in general population.

About twenty-four hours later, on Monday morning, the judge dismissed the charges.

We were released outside the Hudson County courthouse still wearing our orange uniforms, with HUDSON COUNTY PRISON printed across the back.

It was freezing.

* * *

I tried flagging down a police car.

“We were just released,” I said. “We have no cash. Can you give us a ride home?”

The officer rolled his eyes and drove off.

Eventually, we made our way home, left our temporary prison ID cards on the kitchen table, changed into regular clothes, then drove back to the jail to retrieve our belongings.

* * *

While we were gone, Marilyn—my ex-wife—stopped by the house.

She took the prisoner ID cards, complete with our high-resolution mug shots, glued them back-to-back, sealed them in acrylic, and turned them into a keychain.

She proudly showed it to her coworkers.