No, I’m not in jail. A friend of mine knocked back a few too many last night, though, got in his car and ended up in the pokey.

It’s been a long day for me in the jail’s waiting room, though. It’s been an interesting exercise in people-watching.

First of all, bailing someone out always looks quick and painless on television. The person posting is always signing the last form as an officer brings out the embarrassed-looking perp.

That’s about as realistic as a 24 plot line.

I got the call from my friend at around 11:20 this morning. I was at the Booking and Release Center by noon, with a $500 money order in hand (and yes, it must be a money order). I filled out the requisite forms and then began my first wait. Before anyone can take my money, the good folks at Orange County Corrections have to be sure that they didn’t need to hold my friend for something else. I wondered why they didn’t check that when they booked him, but I’m certain they have their reasons.

That check took two hours.

During that time, I saw people come and go. An elderly couple sat for some time, looking with disdain at the mostly brown people coming and going. Whenever someone was released, the woman would just look at them and shake her head with disapproval - never mind that they were there to pick up their very own family criminal. She also lamented to her husband that so many of our tax dollars were wasted on the facility in which said criminal was currently residing.

I was also struck by the number of white, presumably English-speaking people that had such trouble understanding English. A large, easy-to-read sign at the entrance listed off a number of prohibited items, yet people strolled right in with sunglasses, food, lighters, knives, etc. The forms were all pretty basic - name, address, phone, etc. - yet, every conversation seemed drawn out with clarification questions “when it says address, does it mean my actual address? Because, well, here’s the story with that…” I never imagined that someone would have a “long story” about how their name wasn’t really their name.

Finally, there was the Army recruiter. One of his inductees had run afoul of the law and Uncle Sam had apparently determined that he could repay society better in Iraq (or Iran), so his charges were commuted. He was very interested in being the first one to see him when he was released. I have no idea how serious the new recruit’s crime was, but if you find yourself in the clink, and with very few options, maybe you should consider using your one phone call to dial 1-800-GO-ARMY.

After the check was completed, they finally took my money - I wish everyone was so reluctant to take $500 from me. I was half an hour into my second wait, when it occurred to me ask how long it might be. Four to six hours, they said. Four to six hours?

It is jail. It’s not supposed to be convenient. But still, why does it take so long? The woman I spoke with was a little cagey on the details, and I didn’t want to seem pushy, lest my friend find himself in for another overnight. She advised that I leave and come back in about three hours.

So, here I am, two hours into my second visit and my third wait. My friend was released almost two hour ago, but they can only be brought out in groups, and they have to get their stuff and yada, yada, yada.
When he finally emerges, however, I have no doubt that he will reveal the one universal truth that I have discovered here: Everyone is happy to get out of jail.