Doing time part time: Weekend jail in Virginia Beach

June 15--VIRGINIA BEACH -- Every Friday evening, around 150 people line up outside Building 7 at the municipal complex in Princess Anne.

This is one line you do not want to be in.

But if you're expected, you'd better be on time. When the double doors swing open at 7 p.m., weekend jail begins, and latecomers are out of luck.

Weekend jail is a privilege, not that it feels like it once you're inside. Misdemeanors -- driving offenses like DUI, failure to pay child support, petty theft -- can land folks here, but only if they're fortunate enough to have a judge who lets them serve their time in 48-hour stints, a break that allows them to keep reporting to weekday jobs.

On a recent Friday, the parade began rolling in around 6:30 p.m. -- everything from a shiny Mercedes to a pickup with peeling paint, disgorging an equally wide range of humanity. The first-timers stood out -- scared eyes in a sea of calloused ones.

The woman in a long skirt, biting her nails. A man in khaki shorts who seemed like he should be coaching Little League. A clean-cut kid who kept to himself and looked like he belonged in high school.

A cloud of smoke formed as final cigarettes were furiously puffed. Late arrivals trotted across the parking lot toward the line, well aware that tardiness will turn a "weekender" into a "straight timer," whose sentence must be served in consecutive days.

Several weekenders agreed to talk with a reporter, but they didn't want their names or faces to appear in the newspaper. They're embarrassed, or worried they'll tick off the guards with something they say. It takes multiple weekends to satisfy most sentences -- five to 30 days is typical -- and they just want to get it behind them.

"You feel so vulnerable in there," said one woman, a financial services broker in her mid-40s who was given 15 weekends after hitting a parked car and leaving the scene. "They can make your life hell in there if they want to."

Marc Schuster, the jail's spokesman, brushed aside such fears.

"Our first concern is for the safety and security of staff and inmates," he said.

At the same time, he said, the experience isn't supposed to be fun.

The hope is that people will reflect, regret and never return. But 25 years with the sheriff's office has shown him that's the exception. A discouraging number of those in the line have been incarcerated before.

"My wife tells me I've become very cynical," he said. "Even weekend jail is a revolving door."

Weekenders such as the broker are what Schuster refers to as "situational offenders" -- people who made mistakes that are outside their normal behavior. In Friday's line, there was a telecom guy in his mid-50s who tried to drive home after drinking at a company Christmas party. A retired Navy man with seven kids who got behind the wheel with a suspended license.

The broker said plenty of her cell mates have been "hoodlums and drug addicts," but there was also a nurse, a librarian, an insurance agent and several teachers.

"Normal, everyday people you'd walk beside and never know they were spending weekends in jail," she said. "They were devastated to be there."

For first-timers, Schuster said, jail "is a low point in their lives. They're the ones we have to be the most concerned about for things like suicide."

The double doors opened, and deputies emerged, shouting at the crowd to drop the cigarettes and stop talking. The transformation to inmate had begun. Everyone shuffled into a holding area, where they were issued rubber sandals and a mesh bag to hold street clothes. Women -- typically about 10 percent of the weekenders -- were separated from men.

Deputies mingled, sniffing for the scent of booze. Anyone who appears inebriated is given a sobriety test. If they fail, they're arrested again and sent to straight time.

Straight time also awaits those who neglect to pay upfront fees associated with weekend jail: $50, plus $7 a day. The woman in the long skirt was led away to a holding cell, guilty of the oversight.

Everyone else waited for their names to be called by deputies manning stacks of files. Intake is taxing on the staff.

Inmates must be medically screened -- blood pressure, temperature and the like. They're allowed to hand over prescription drugs to be doled out to them later, but only medicines that have been preregistered, confirmed with a doctor and considered life-sustaining. They are asked about their mental state: Any thoughts of suicide?

Next came the initial pat-down, hands spread high on a wall, feet back. When cleared, small groups were led through a set of heavy steel doors into the jail proper, where they were strip-searched, issued an orange jumpsuit and photographed.

Inside, they find a world of fluorescent lights, bullet-proof glass and cinder blocks painted with untold gallons of "Courthouse Beige." Every corridor looks the same. Every door has a stout lock and closes with a thunderous clang.

They were led past a cart, where each inmate picked up a Styrofoam cup and plastic spork -- their utensils for the weekend. Another cart held bedrolls, composed of two thin blankets, a small threadbare towel, a tiny tube of toothpaste, a short-handled toothbrush and a hotel-size bar of soap.

Inmates with serious health problems or in danger of detox were detoured to "medical," where they'll be observed

throughout their stay. The rest were herded to standard weekend lockup -- the women to a large cell with steel bunks, the men to a stripped-down gymnasium, where they grab mats from a stack and sleep on the floor.

The telecom guy, halfway through his 10-day sentence, has learned to search for the least-worn mats in the pile, and to be quick enough to stake out a spot along one of the walls.

"At least it gives you somewhere to lean," he said. "I spent my entire first weekend sitting Indian-style. My back was killing me."

Before his first weekend, he said, he was filled with anxiety. The only thing he knew about jail is what he'd seen on TV -- an image Schuster says is "hyper-inflated" for drama.

Jail -- especially the weekend kind -- isn't prison, where lifers prey on one another.

"We don't usually have behavior problems," Schuster said. Violent offenders aren't allowed, and "people know they're getting a break in here."

No one wants to "go upstairs," where 1,400 full-time inmates reside.

Instead, a sense of camaraderie tends to settle inside weekend jail. The men talk about sports and cars. Some sing. The women talk about children. Some cry.

"People I'd never have met in real life looked out for me," said a 64-year-old grandmother who did 10 days earlier this year for DUI. "Rough-looking people. I couldn't believe it."

Food becomes the chief complaint. Inmates are roused for breakfast at 4:30 a.m., and given a bag lunch for later. Dinner arrives around 4 p.m.

"It's slop," said the grandmother.

Monotony becomes the biggest enemy. Unlike regular inmates, weekenders get no TV, recreation, phone calls, visitors, books or magazines. With no clock or daylight, time seems to stand still.

The only respite comes from items preordered through the sheriff's website, which hawks its offerings using pitches like "Help pass the time with stuff to eat and games to play!" and "OMG! Mouth Watering Good!"

For $8.99, a weekender can have a Philly cheesesteak, fries and a soda delivered. Fifteen bucks will supply an e-cigarette or a "Time Passer" package, which contains a puzzle book and a rubbery pen, a deck of cards, Doritos, crackers and a beef stick. Similar care packages can be purchased for full-time inmates.

"That puzzle book becomes everything," said the telecom guy. "That first weekend, when my pen didn't seem to be working, I thought I might lose my mind."

The boredom isn't intentional, Schuster said, but unlike full-time inmates, weekenders aren't covered by guidelines from the Department of Corrections that mandate a certain amount of entertainment.

"We're happy we can provide this program," Schuster said, "because it gives the court some flexibility. But it's a bit of a strain to get all these people into the system every weekend. We've got to keep them separate from the general population and keep everyone safe. Comfort is not our priority."

The telecom guy made it clear that he doesn't feel sorry for himself: "I made a bad decision, and I'm paying for it. I know it could be worse."

But sleep is fitful with strangers snoring all around. The door bangs open twice an hour, every hour for deputies doing rounds. The lights never go out. Some rules seem to change with each shift. Guards can be grumpy. On Sunday nights, the release process can drag out for hours, making it hard to arrange for a ride. He goes home exhausted.

He's never appreciated his own bed so much, or a private bathroom. Weekenders share a handful of toilets, shielded only by a waist-high wall. He avoids eating much of anything, hoping he won't have to use one.

"I can guarantee you one thing," he said. "I will never put myself in this position again. I'm already dreading next weekend."

That's the plan, Schuster said.

"You're not supposed to want to come back here."

Joanne Kimberlin, 757-446-2338, [email protected]

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