Mini-Dramas, Tension and a Hard Sell at Jail

Going to jail at 5 a.m. wasn’t exactly my idea of a good time, but on this chilly, pre-dawn morning I wouldn’t have been anywhere else.

I had gone to the Orange County Jail to interview Omayma Aref Nelson, who is charged with stabbing her husband to death, then hacking his body into little pieces so it would fit into several garbage bags. Not a heartwarming story but, as strange as it may seem, the kind of assignment most reporters go after with enthusiasm.

All I needed to turn it into a story was to get the accused to agree to be interviewed. She had been arrested earlier in the week, and today was Wednesday, the first visiting day after the arrest.

Visiting hours do not start until 8 a.m., but I got to the harshly lit, stark-white jail waiting room early. Interviews are given on a first-come, first-served basis, and I didn’t want to get in line behind a reporter for another paper.

Luck was with me, and I was the first in the waiting room. Another reporter showed up a scant 30 minutes after I did.

I could have been luckier, however, because I was told three hours later by a deputy sheriff that Nelson had been ferried off to Harbor Municipal Court in Newport Beach to answer outstanding traffic charges.

She would be back later, the deputy said, but he didn’t know when. It could be within three hours, he said with a smile, or it might not be until that evening.

With another reporter stalking behind me and knowing that I would lose my place in line if I left, I opted to stay. I prepared for the long haul.

I had brought a book, but found I was too tired to read. To keep from dozing, I decided to study my surroundings and the visitors to the jail.

I noticed that although the waiting room was full, no one looked at anyone else. Everyone stared stiffly ahead.

I caught a man’s bloodshot eyes, but he quickly blinked away, in the direction of a trash can. His expression was blank. After repeatedly getting the same treatment from others I, too, gazed at the wall.

A little while later, an arresting scene unfolded across the room.

A young woman was in tears. Ten minutes earlier, she had been twirling a daisy in her hand as she skipped from the waiting room to the visiting area in the main jail. Maybe it was the daisy that had caught my attention, or maybe it was the brilliant smile on her face as she left the waiting area.

But now, she tapped her friend’s shoulder and whispered: “He doesn’t want to see me.”

Without a word, the pair walked out, leaving me with a fresh fear: What if she doesn’t want to see me ?

It wasn’t until that moment that I began to consider the improbability of my assignment and several unhappy scenarios: What if Nelson took one look at me, smiled with scorn and walked away? Worse, what if the competing reporter then sent her own request into the cellblock and Nelson decided to tell that reporter her life story?

By then, it was past lunch time, and Nelson still had not returned.

“We have two other busloads coming back from court, one in about two hours, the other in about four,” said another friendly deputy. “You’ve been here eight hours already; you should go and get lunch.”

The other reporter had already left, but if she came back while I was at lunch, would I still have my place in line?

“I can’t promise you anything,” the deputy shrugged and turned away.

A co-worker later brought me lunch.

Shortly after that, another reporter from a competing paper came in and demanded that she be allowed to interview Nelson. I squared my shoulders, preparing for battle, but the deputy saved me the effort.

“Sorry, she was here and has been here,” he nodded in my direction. “It’s first-come, first-served.”

I sat back and waited some more. Nine hours, then 10, then 11 had passed--and still Nelson had not returned. I couldn’t concentrate on the book I had brought, so I studied the faces--new faces now--some more.

Nothing had changed. Some people leaned casually against the wall. Others sat primly on the hard aqua-colored plastic seats set on concrete slabs. The chairs are hard and uncomfortable, so every once in a while they shifted to adjust themselves. Still, no one looked at anyone else.

At 7:30 p.m., with visiting hours over in 30 minutes, I was stiff with exhaustion. The chances of my interviewing Nelson, though never high, were practically gone. But, I had been there from before dawn till past sunset, and I never thought of leaving without knowing if she would speak to me.

Ten minutes before visiting hours were over, the deputy beckoned me. “She’s back,” he said. “We’ll know in about five minutes if she wants to talk to you.”

I felt a numbness settling in. After 15 hours of waiting, I imagined myself either being turned away or given a great interview.

The phone rang.

The conversation lasted barely a second.

The deputy looked at me: “I’m sorry. She wants to talk to her lawyer for right now.”

I blinked in disbelief. And, minutes later, after composing myself, I hurriedly left the jail, thinking that I had to go home and get some rest so that I could wake up early and come back and try again the next day.