First lockup

One Woman's Journey After Vehicular Homicide


Imagine going to sleep, waking up and finding out you killed somebody. 
That's exactly what happened to me. 
Two years ago, I was drunk and fell asleep at the wheel. I'm not trying to make excuses.
But I never ever would have done such a thing on purpose. And if there were 
some way I could go back and change it, I would. 
In fact, I've been sober ever since.
Now I'm paying for my crime by being incarcerated two weeks a year for the 
next 10 years.
This blog follows my journey afterward, trying to put my life back together in 
between spending a week in jail at Christmas and at Father's Day each year.

...


Dec. 30

Being in jail isn't any fun.
It's about following orders from officers charged to police an entire pod.
Many times, it's like walking on eggshells around these men and women, who with a few words can make you be completely silent for hours at a time, or even worse, locked up in your room for hours longer than usual.
There were times I felt cagey. I didn't like my cell door being locked, but I got used to it.
I learned to suck it up, though, to do what I was told when I was told. For instance, I had to wake up around 4 a.m. for  "chow time" every day.
That meal usually consisted of either plain oatmeal or grits, bologna, a little cake or pancakes. Sometimes, we got to eat "out" in the day room, but most of the time I ate in silence in the dark in my cell, while various cellys (cellmates) slept.
Lunch was always the same: peanut butter and sometimes jelly and bologna and cheese sandwiches, stale tortilla chips, cookies and juice (a Kool-aid like mixture that wasn't very sweet. I had one celly who even said it was really gelatin mixed with water.)
Supper was my least favorite meal of the day: Salsbury steak, rice with beans and bologna. On Christmas, we had a piece of what was supposed to be ham (really a big slice of bologna), sweet
potatoes, corn and green beans.
Still, even though the food wasn't great. It gave me something to look forward to in the lockup.
Other things I looked forward to were the times I could be in the "dayroom," the big room in our pod where we sometimes ate, talked and watched TV together.
I got to know some of the girls in the dayroom over the seven days I spent there.                                                                                                                    
I explained my charges to them: vehicular homicide by intoxication and leaving the scene of a fatality.
I explained how the judge gave me a 10-year sentence, requiring me to serve a week at Christmas and a week at Father's Day each year for that decade.
I told them that two years before, I was drunk and fell asleep at the wheel, how I hit and killed  a tow-truck driver, father and husband, how I would give anything to go back and change it, and how I knew I'd never be able to.
You see, I was in a unique position there. I knew I likely had the most serious charge of anyone there. And I had a cautionary tale to share, one that included drinking and driving, death and  the loss of everything that meant anything to me as a result.
Even if those girls, Michelle, Tammy, Angela, Tabitha, Monique, Ariel and Darlene, just to name a few, never got sober, I still knew that my story could make an impact in their lives. Maybe, just maybe, they wouldn't want to get behind the wheel of a car after boozing or drugging it up.
One day, we even tried to have an impromptu recovery meeting. One of the girls recited a traditional reading, but then we were called away to do something else.
It still meant a lot to me that the girls were willing to try.
We had church meetings twice while I was there, my first night, the 21st, and then on Christmas Eve.
Trevecca Community Church brought us Christmas presents, a Ziplock baggie filled with candy and a printed Bible verse. The members of the group were former inmates and churchgoers. One of them sang "His Eye is On the Sparrow."
The experience brought me to tears, just knowing someone was showing consideration for me while I was in jail at Christmas.
I had at least five cellys during my stay in jail. It was hard getting to know people and then seeing them leave one by one, either being moved to another area or being released.
Another thing I looked forward to in lockup was the time I spent getting closer to God.
I had a lot of time to pray, read the Bible and try to meditate. I used that time wisely.
I would sing "His Eye is on the Sparrow" when I was alone in my cell. I would pray silently and aloud for myself, for my children, for my parents, my sister and her kids and my pod mates.
The thing I looked forward to the most was being released.
Each day, I would count the number of days until my release day and tell myself, "I've just got to make it another six, five, four, three, two days, then one day, and finally just a few hours until I could get out."
Around 4:30 p.m. Wednesday, the 28th, I asked the guard if anyone had called about me. He said, "No. I would have told you if they had." I said, "Well. I think I'm being released between 5-6 p.m., so they should be calling soon."
At exactly 5 p.m., the call came in. I eyed the guard closely and noticed he was looking at me. He got off the phone and said, "Cornwell, pack it up." I said, "Yes," pulling both arms down in a gesture.
It took me all of about two minutes to roll up my covers and sheets and get the rest of my stuff in a bag.
I stood in the dayroom, waiting for Officer Baxter to walk me out or hand me off to someone who would.
He went around and checked all the cells for contraband - excess food mainly - before he addressed my
release. I was so happy I didn't care.
One by one, the girls that I met, that meant something to me said "Goodbye."
I said, "God bless you," to each one of them, and they said it back to me.
I couldn't help but smile as I walked out of the pod, down the hall and outside to go down the hill to intake.
I took off my uniform and put on my clothes, got my medicine and property and walked out to meet my
family, who was waiting for me with a sign that said "We missed you. We love you." It had each person's name on the sign. My nieces had made it for me.
When I got home, there were more signs on the front door and on my TV in my room. I never felt more loved, and more grateful to be home again.
I have six months until my next incarceration.
I intend to make it count, helping where I can around the house, trying to get back on my feet and loving my children the best way I know how.