The correctional officer tells me to put my purse in one of the lockers.
It’s the last place I want to leave my new Kate Spade.
I’m not normally that boujee, but I am here.
I look at him unsure, put my bag inside and close the blue door.
He hands me the key and I tug at the locker door to make sure it’s locked.
“It’s locked,” he said in a don’t-worry-about-it tone.
I put the tiny key in my skirt pocket.
And then I take a seat outside of the huge and very secured jail door.
No — I haven’t been arrested.
Yes — I’m on the job and at a bond hearing, my first one in Horry County.
I’m anxious as I wait to go behind the four — yes four — thick doors and into the room where inmates wait to see if they’ll be released.
People gather in the waiting area to watch the hearings on television screens.
I’m the only one they’ll let back.
The officer says it’s time.
My heart starts to pound.
He takes me through three of the doors, and each one slams hard behind us. He swipes a key card or pushes a button at each door to unlock them.
I’m on my own to get to the fourth door.
I walk in my hot pink mules on the concrete floor to the last door. And block walls are on each side of me.
I look through the sliver of a window and see inmates right there — they are feet away, and I have to walk right by them.
Of course they are regular people who have been suspected of doing bad things. And I’m used to seeing mugshots and hearing about those bad things each day — not much phases me anymore.
But from the movies and gossip and the society I’ve grown up in, criminals or alleged criminals always seem to have been separate from the outside world, not just physically.
It’ still an odd feeling to be in the same room.
Nobody comes to the door and a brief panic starts because I’m locked in a hallway I can’t get out of either way I turn.
Then I bang on the thick door — it takes a lot to make a noise through these.
All the inmates sitting on the rows of benches turn to look. Another officer lets me in.
He opens the door and I walk through, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.
I hear giggles from the inmates as I walk through and whispers.
I’m so uncomfortable. And I’m the only person from the news media there, so all eyes are on me as I walk in.
And what’s even scarier is they aren’t handcuffed and have free reign around the court room, though many are seated. Oh, and that there’s like only two officers in the room.
But most of the inmates listen well to the officers’ instructions.
I’m told where to sit — on a cream-colored plastic chair beside the pew-like bench the women inmates are sitting on. The men are in a glassed off area where the door is I walked through.
The woman are calm, motionless. The men — loud and joking around.
I just watch.
The first person is up.
He gets a bond of about $100. And when it’s time for him to go back, he scoffs at the officers, says, “Take me to jail.”
He bucks his chest at an officer.
And a short scuffle starts.
I’m already freaking out that nobody in the room is wearing handcuffs or has shackles on their feet.
And then I remember — there are four bolted-tight doors between me and the free world.
I try not to panic.
Then it’s time for the two guys I’m there for to stand in front of the judge, who is sitting behind a glass wall.
The judge denies bond for both of them.
And they clearly aren’t happy, don’t understand.
The two men walk through one bolted door.
I stand up to go toward that same bolted door to the hallway that leads me to three more bolted doors.
But the guard won’t let me in the hallway just yet.
The two men are arguing with an officer, and he says he doesn’t want me in the hall with them.
So instead, I’m standing in the glass room with more than half a dozen inmates. And anxiety rushes to my head.
I need out.
He finally walks me down the hall to the three doors I’ll have to walk through to get out.
And I’m free.
I grab my purse out of the locker and rush to my car.
There’s no time to address my anxiety.
I have a story to get online.