(Editor’s Note: By request, this story from the archives of 2004 is being republished. Maybe the Willie Nelson pot arrest from my previous post brought this up, or maybe I have a friend who got caught up in a similar experience. It has no relevance to the mission of TechDrawl, and I doubt it’s a story Fred Wilson could tell. But, you might find it entertaining. You may not know some of the place names in Atlanta if you don’t live there, but you’ll get the idea.
And, how other many VCs do you know who have reached the status of "Inmate" on a jail's web site?)
John Flack, an notable Atlanta venture capitalist, provided this first-person story for our edification:
Part 2 of a 3-Part Series
So I found myself being taken from my Buckhead home in handcuffs on a warm spring Friday night about 12:30 AM. Being entirely sober at the time, and not being particularly claustrophobic, I thought to myself that this would be just another experience in what a friend called a "full life." It was a first for me; I figured a couple of hours, fingerprints, and back home in bed. I had not committed a crime, but that wasn't the arresting officer's opinion at that moment.
My first stop was the Buckhead Zone (pictured above), which I thought was pretty convenient. Perhaps I could grab a late night snack at Eatzi's afterwards. After about thirty minutes more in the car watching my driver type the particulars of the "incident" into the onboard computer (looked like an antiquated DOS system to me, but I didn't want to offer any unsolicited advice), I was transferred to a genuine Paddy Wagon. The new driver did take some compassion on me as she removed the cuffs and shut me in the cage. Fortunately I was alone, but there was still that distinct aroma of porta-potty. Unfortunately the heater was running, turning the cage into a hot box out of Cool Hand Luke, and I was told we were going to make an intermediate stop on Howell Mill to pick up another "prisoner" on the way to the "Fulton County Jail" - prisoner?? jail?? the Fulton County Jail?? - not me!
After some delay we finally get in motion, the heat is controlled, and I'm just merrily bouncing around collecting deep bruises in this hard surface cage. I watch as the driver goes down Piedmont, catches the old expressway, turns around at Rhodes Hall, goes back up Piedmont, makes a U-turn in front of Rollins, takes the same route again, turns around at the Varsity this time, back up Piedmont, another U-turn at Rollins, then finally gets onto I-85 to transition to I-75 North. We cruise around awhile to no avail, never stopping to pick up anyone else, and I'm not sure exactly what territory we covered. Well, we're soon again at the Varsity, me still alone in the back and not having much communication with the driver through the thick security glass in a very small window.
We head west from the Varsity toward Georgia Tech, then to Howell Mill, at which point the driver starts making frequent stops asking "Do you know where the Fulton County Jail is?" Picture this - the driver of a van clearly marked "Atlanta Police" stopping in random parking lots asking where to find the jail. Who was she asking at this wee hour? Where else does a Paddy Wagon normally go? Trust me, I may have an arrest record, but I couldn't make this up.
At about 3:30 AM we arrive at the Visitors Entrance to the Fulton County Jail. Wrong. After a few laps around the neighborhoods, we get to the secure entrance. Our van pulls in, the garage door slams shut, I'm cuffed again and marched into "Intake." Intake is a cafeteria sized room with substations "Book-In," Pre-Trial," "Medical," and "ID." I'm one of about 100 people, and the sheriffs seem to be processing one about every thirty minutes or so. The "tower" guard in the center makes sure we stay in our hard plastic chairs and don't walk around. Occasional roll calls make sure we don't doze off, even if we could.
Asking questions like "What happens next?" or "How long will this take?" elicit very little response other than "We know where you are; get back in your seat."
Of course we were given wrist bands as we entered, mine blue. The happy drunk leaning on me and the "trustee" inmate both tell me: "Don't worry, blue is just a misdemeanor; you'll be out by Saturday night." Saturday night - Hell, I have a tee time Saturday morning.
I pass on the 4 AM meal - four pieces of white bread, one plastic wrapped cheese slice, and mystery meat, not quite Spamtastic. I do find a taker for my meal.
I'd like to have called home. After some pleading, the deputies turn on a phone bank so we can make collect local calls. (No cell phones allowed, just like any fine country club these days.) The phones have very short cords so we can't swing them as weapons, and all but the very tiny inmates are contorted trying to use these waist-high phones, about half of which don't work anyway.
Things pick up a little about 7 AM when there's a shift change. At least I think it's 7 AM; no clock is visible in the room and no one seems to have a watch. One feature of the shift change is that roll calls are now accompanied by loud whistles, since a few of my colleagues just have a hard time staying awake. Evidently many of the prisoners are being processed for court appearances at 10 AM this Saturday morning, and there is some new sense of urgency in the proceedings as more personnel man the workstations.
The morning drill sergeant, as I choose to refer to him, calls roll again and seats us more or less in order near the Book-In counters. I'm 14th. The do tell me that my dear wife has come to bail me out and that I've been moved up the list. The sergeant has an interesting way of relating to his inmates, or "dogs" as he calls us. (Somehow I don't think he is referring to UGA "dawgs.") He makes it clear that wearing pants with waistlines around the knees was a 2003 style but is no longer acceptable in 2004. The guards all pay attention to this and keep the dogs hitching up. My H. Stockton khakis and Bobby Jones golf sweater seem a bit out of fashion too but don't draw any comment. The sergeant has a curious turn of phrase "Do we have an understandment?" that he uses repeatedly as he explains the rules. I think to myself I'm really in a "stuckment" here.
Since there are no televisions and no reading materials in this uncomfortable setting, we must make do with people watching. Every once in a while a new prisoner is admitted to the room, ranging from those who look like street people to an attractive young lady brought in by the Georgia State Patrol on what must have been a DUI charge. At one point a worker rolls by a cart of the Saturday papers, and I'm looking forward to a bit of reading, but those are only for the guards who are busy not getting us booked.
The time passes very slowly. I memorize the names and numbers of all the bail bondsmen on the electronic scroll, in case I need one. "Free at Last" is my favorite brand. Somewhere around 10 AM, I'm guessing, I finally get booked, which is a pretty straightforward data entry procedure.
The kindly sergeant then puts me in front of the pre-trial counseling desk, where I'm told that I don't need to post bond and that my charge will likely be dismissed. However, this "recognizance bond" requires a criminal records search in all states and the federal files, and I'm set to wondering how many other John Flacks are out there. I've already had my credit butchered by one of them whose identity got crossed with mine.
But, I'm still missing one step in the process - the ID station - fingerprints and mug shot. Do I want the Nick Nolte (above) or Glen Campbell look, or should I maintain my guise as an upstanding citizen? I opt for the latter. Fingerprinting is mostly done by an electronic scan. The machine acquires two images of each digit and tries to match them up. About half of them match, and the others have to be overridden by a supervisor. I wonder what this accomplishes.
By now it is afternoon. I did eat the faux Spam and cheese that was offered mid-morning, and I have completed three calls to ascertain that my family is trying to help me get out. I've observed that those prisoners going to court are first put in cells in groups of ten and then shackled together as they are marched off to the courtroom. Some of them come back with plastic tubs to gather their possessions; they appear headed for long-term stays. Others are not seen again.
I make small talk with a couple of distinguished looking prisoners who seem pretty familiar with the process - they are wearing Cobb County Jail jumpsuits - one in for drugs, the other for assault - and they're experiencing "intake" so they can stand trial in Fulton County.
Suddenly a sheriff strides up and says: "Wake up sleepy head and come with me." I'm thinking that I'm getting out right then. We walk down two long, wide, brightly lit hallways. At the end I'm handed off to another deputy, who directs me to the afternoon faux Spam and cheese line. Why would I want this treat to go? I'm leaving.
Well, not quite yet.
I find myself in a cell with 16 others, all of us apparently on our way out, we think. We can see two other cells with about another 20 people in our little hallway. Picture the cell - about five hundred square feet, an open toilet, trash on the floor (mostly sandwich debris), nowhere to sit but a ten inch wide metal bench along the wall, and that fully occupied by my cell mates. It's hot too. I take off my golf sweater, comb my hair, and realize that everyone is laughing at my primping. That turns out to be a bit of an icebreaker, so I soon make a number of interesting acquaintances.
Most of my colleagues are in the drug trade. We carry on a very business like conversation about margins in their different products, supply chain management, packaging - all the usual stuff we talk about at the office. Some of the guys are nervous, some humorous, some bummed out, all eager to get away, but we just carry on.
A deputy comes by to tell us we'll all be treated humanely and released when our paperwork is ready. How long can this take?
A long time... For the next three hours, we sit. One of the dealers is exceptionally antsy and keeps trying to get the attention of a guard, but that certainly doesn't help. Another is rather good natured and keeps reassuring us we'll all be out in a few more hours. A few more hours? I thought I was already "out." Evidently this one gentleman has been in this room before, once for eleven hours.
Glory - a few minutes after 5 PM, my name is called first! My wife had earlier been called and told to pick me up at 1:30, has waited a couple of hours to no avail, and then gone home again. But, evidently having a family member nearby during the day had moved me way up the priority list. And, she made some interesting acquaintances of her own as she waited along with other inmates' relatives on hand.
So, I got marched out with seven other guys from the other two cells - into another cell! Here I have the opportunity to buy some stolen phone cards, but I decline. I also hear some sincere confessions of regret. One guy says he's going to confine his drug usage to fun times with women and quit hanging out with the guys who get him into trouble. I think he means what he says when he talks about the joys of doing dope for 8 straight hours with his girlfriend.
We watch through a window the young lady DUI get processed out, then I'm next. One more fingerprint check, then into the visitor waiting room, sunshine, a change machine, vending, freedom. I call my wife and start walking toward Bankhead Highway, enjoying every foot of distance between me and the Jail. (I'm not the only one doing this, by the way.) When my wife arrives, I learn of her day of going back and forth. On her mid-day visit the desk clerk had a little trouble locating my record and gave her a choice of me or two repeat offenders named Flack but of a different race. Fortunately she chose me.
My attorney subsequently tells me (a) I should never have been charged in the first place and (b) he had seen other cases where the inmate was "released on bail" only to wait five days for all the paperwork to clear. That put my miserable day in a bit more positive light.
So, that's my story. It is easy to see how one could be born into an environment that would result in frequent visits to such a facility. I'm sure some of my drug dealer acquaintances are already back. But, there are also plenty of remorseful people there who would rather not be incarcerated.
Some things in daily business life take on a new perspective after this experience. It's no big deal sitting in the middle seat at the back of a crowded plane stuck on a runway or waiting out a traffic jam. No food tastes bad. No bed is uncomfortable. And, I'm still wearing my khakis.