I swear they broke my jaw. It was so swollen that I couldn’t cry out. I couldn’t scream for help. I couldn’t beg for my mother. I couldn’t even whisper the words, “I’m sorry.” I knew that today was going to be the day that I died; this was when they were finally going to kill me.

         I tried to curl into a fetal position to protect as much of myself as possible. I wasn’t very successful, though, because my hands were cuffed behind my back and my feet were shackled together while four men kicked me with combat boots and steel-toed shoes. Fire lanced from my fingers to my shoulders as one of them stomped on my hands and the handcuffs bit further into my wrists. I tried to swallow the vomit that came up immediately after a boot connected with my kidney, because I knew that if I got puke on any of the men, the beatings would intensify. I tried desperately not to make a sound as the tears streamed down my face. There was an explosion of pain in my head, and everything went dark.

Despite the pounding in my head and the throbbing in my jaw that was ballooned to the size of Texas, I tried to open my eyes; one of them was swollen shut, but the other opened after an eternity of trying. White. All I saw was white. I realized that I was facedown and the white that I was seeing was the corner between the concrete wall and the floor, inches from my face. I slowly, gingerly pushed myself up into a sitting position while the world spun. It took a few seconds to remember where I was. This was the second time that I had been beaten unconscious today, I think. Although I don’t remember how I got back here, I was back. Again. 

I was in a concrete box, approximately seven-by-ten feet with a stainless steel toilet on one wall and a rusty steel bunk on the other wall. A cloudy six-by-six-inch plexiglass window allowed a small amount of light into the box from the solid steel door. I gently massaged my wrists as I recognized that I was back in the cell. I glanced down at myself and saw that there were fresh bloodstains on the front of my shirt, and I realized that my lip, nose, and swollen-shut eye were bleeding. I thought it was Tuesday, but I wasn’t sure. I also thought it was August, but it could have been September. And I guessed that it was late afternoon because I had only been beaten twice so far and the evening crew had not arrived to have their go. My lips were cracked, and I was so thirsty. Unbearably thirsty. They’d had the water to the cell turned off for a week, maybe longer.

As I stood up to go drink from the toilet bowl, I collapsed onto the floor when my knee gave out from the torn ACL. I took a moment to just lie there on the floor. Everything hurt too much to attempt getting up again. My stomach grumbled, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had something to eat. Was it two weeks ago that I was given a slice of white bread to eat, or three? I wasn’t entirely sure.

My name is Joshua, and this is my story.

1.     Awakening

“Bork! Attorney visit!” The words reverberated through the air, emanating from a chorus of metallic voices that echoed from multiple loudspeakers.

My heart soared with anticipation. Today was going to be the day, the moment I would receive the long-awaited good news that this was all just a grave error and I would finally return home. I held unwavering faith in the system’s ability to correct itself—why wouldn’t it? Life always worked out, especially for me. After all, even the wise Martin Luther King Jr. proclaimed that “we shall overcome because the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” Now, it was my turn to taste that justice.

Dressing with a speed reminiscent of my Marine Corps days, I almost felt as if I could bend time itself. I was going home! I knew it in my bones. I had committed no wrongdoing, harmed no one, broken no laws, not even caused offense to anyone. Moreover, I was well spoken, possessed a captivating charm, and was undeniably attractive. I did not hail from a troubled background, nor did I bear the weight of a criminal record. My presence here had to be a terrible mistake, and everyone knew it.

It was merely a matter of going through the motions to rectify this error, and I had no doubt it would be resolved.

While waiting by the entrance, my mind raced with exhilaration. What would be my first meal upon release? Or perhaps I craved a refreshing shower and clean clothes to wash away the past. Oh, the bliss of clean clothing and the warm embrace of my beloved dog, Abby!

With a resounding buzz, the door swung open. After what felt like an eternity confined in a small concrete vestibule, a guard arrived to escort me to meet Yvonne, my attorney. An intoxicating blend of excitement and positivity overwhelmed me, nearly causing me to skip like a schoolgirl as I traversed one corridor after another. Furthermore, my previous encounters with Yvonne had been delightful. She possessed a witty sense of humor, an endearing sweetness, and even a hint of flirtation. Our interactions had been so amicable that I intended to invite her for a coffee date once I had cleaned up in a few days.

Finally, I found myself in a small room, handcuffed to the table. Yet an inexplicable tranquility enveloped me. In just a moment, everything would return to normal, relegating the past few months to a mere unpleasant memory, something to laugh about later. “Remember that time when the government and the police made a mistake and came after me? Hilarious! Absolutely ridiculous! I’m just glad it’s all cleared up!”

However, the instant Yvonne stepped into the room, a disconcerting sense washed over me. Her demeanor was serious, stern even. No trace of playfulness remained; it was all business now. Before she even uttered a word, an ominous premonition gripped me tightly, heralding an impending doom.

“Mr. Bork,” she said coldly, “you must come to terms with the severity of this situation. Going home is not an option for you anytime soon.”

“B-but—,” I stammered.

“We need to discuss our options,” she interjected.

Her voice seemed to drift from a great distance, as if emanating from the far end of a long tunnel. It felt like a dreadful nightmare, and all I had to do was wake up.

I forced a smile. “I was just about to ask you out for coffee. Perhaps next month instead of—”

“Mr. Bork,” she interrupted, her tone firm. “This is no laughing matter. I’m sorry, but you need to realize that you are facing years.”

“What!”

“I don’t know why they’ve chosen to make an example out of you, but that’s exactly what they’re doing.”

I don’t recall saying goodbye or the journey back to my cell. The sound of the door locking didn’t register. All I remember is the overwhelming feeling of suffocation within the confines of those gray-and-blue walls, illuminated relentlessly by fluorescent lights.

How had a person like me, a genuinely good individual, ended up in a place like this? 

Pinellas County Jail—how did I wind up here? A respectable Jewish young man such as myself? 

The suffocating humidity weighed heavily, and the pungent odor of unwashed bodies filled the air, affirming that this had to be a terrible mistake.

This place, it was ceaselessly loud, a constant cacophony. It felt as though every aspect of it was engineered to maximize noise, resembling a perpetually raucous high school cafeteria. Conversations swirled in languages foreign to me, laced with slang I didn’t comprehend, the urban culture that remained beyond my comprehension.

What was I doing here?

Steel tables, concrete walls, and ceilings dominated the surroundings, with at least a third of the men incessantly pounding on the tables, aspiring to be the next rap star. The reverberating noise exerted physical pressure on the atmosphere, as if a grown man piggybacked on my shoulders. I tried shoving toilet paper in my ears, pulled a pillow over my face, but nothing could silence the clamor that refused to relent.

I replayed my meeting with Yvonne in my mind, my heart sinking and thoughts racing. Slowly but surely, it dawned on me that slipping away from this nightmarish existence was an implausible fantasy.

How did I end up here? How could something like this happen to an individual like me?

I wasn’t a criminal.     

I did not smoke, drink, or use drugs.

At twenty-five years old, I hadn’t even tried marijuana!

I followed rules diligently, never exceeding the speed limit, never jaywalking, never indulging in revelry. In fact, social gatherings held little allure for me—I was always tucked into bed by 9:00 p.m.

I was the quintessential law-abiding citizen.

Born into a highly educated and prosperous family, with a registered nurse for a mother, three aunts who were also nurses, and an uncle who practiced law. My father, a biomedical engineer and the son of Holocaust survivors, boasted a sister who held a dean’s position at Northeastern University, while my uncle Kerry specialized in graduate-level philosophy.

We were an intelligent, stable, and morally upright Jewish family residing in an affluent neighborhood. Our weekends were devoted to synagogue visits and observing kosher traditions. Furthermore, both of my parents were actively involved throughout my upbringing. Our home was devoid of drugs, and alcohol rarely made an appearance.

So, how on earth did I find myself behind these bars?

I attended reputable schools, even skipping a grade from second to fourth. And during summer break, instead of engaging in playful activities or visiting arcades, I remained at home, diligently learning cursive from my mother.

What kind of child willingly chooses to stay home and practice cursive?

My parents never allowed me to buy lunch at school. I never possessed fashionable clothing or popular toys. Wearing hand-me-downs from older cousins, I was the teacher’s pet who effortlessly answered every question. I wasn’t popular or cool; I was a dedicated scholar and a compassionate soul. I freely provided answers to my classmates during tests so they could keep their grades up and remain involved in extracurricular activities. I worked in the school store, and if someone lacked the means to acquire what they needed, I dipped into my own savings to help them out.

On the edge of the campus, I would seek solace under the shade of a tree, completing my homework, and sharing my lunch with a fellow student who sought refuge there, hiding his lack of lunch money. I suspected he might be on the autism spectrum, but I couldn’t be sure. What I did know was that his parents were deceased, and he resided with his grandparents and lived on a limited income. He never brought lunch to school and was perpetually strapped for cash. On the occasions when I was granted permission to use a classroom during lunchtime for some air-conditioned reading, I discreetly brought him along. While he immersed himself in comic books, I happily shared my meal with him.

I defended this individual against bullies, despite not possessing any inherent toughness. I myself was a scrawny, undersized kid.

How did I end up in a state prison?

I wasn’t a rebel. In truth, I cherished structure. I was a bookworm, one of those youngsters who felt more at ease conversing with older, wiser individuals. Video games and Pokémon held little allure for me. Raised around Holocaust survivors, I relished listening to the life experiences of those who had accrued wisdom and knowledge beyond my own years.

Perhaps it was this longing for structure that led me to enroll in the Sarasota Military Academy in 2001. I begged my parents to send me there. What kind of child pleads to attend military school? I yearned for purpose, meaning, something more profound than what the average high school could offer. Within two years, I became fencing team captain, led the drill team, and secured membership in the National Honor Society. I even graduated early at the age of sixteen to commence my college journey.

What kind of scumbag begins college at sixteen?

In all honesty, I was a bookworm with a nonexistent social life.

Returning for the graduation ceremony with my peers in 2006, I graduated second in my class, surpassed only by a classmate who had an additional semester in Honors JROTC. Standardized tests never posed a challenge—I consistently achieved top scores, reaching the ninety-ninth percentile on the FCATs and SATs. Additionally, I garnered a congressional nomination from Congresswoman Catherine Harris to the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, an accomplishment I cherished deeply.

What sort of criminal earns admission to Annapolis?

I’ll tell you the answer: none!

I did not belong here, among thieves, scoundrels, addicts, and pedophiles. I was a decent and upright young man, someone who did not deserve to be labeled a criminal. I simply did not belong in this hellish place.

Two weeks after Yvonne’s visit, a guard shoved me, and in response, I pushed him back. Like moths to a flame, the guards descended upon me, battering me mercilessly. Pain exploded within my head, and then everything faded into darkness.