My Shattered Illusions of Justice and Fairness
By: Morgan Godvin
Tags: Criminal Justice, Jail, Justice, Addiction, Police

My Shattered Illusions of Justice and Fairness

Growing up white, middle class, with a parent in the military, I believed in the system. I asked to be sent to jail, thinking it would save me.

My illusions of this nation being a fair and just place — illusions founded on my own racial and class privilege — shattered into a million pieces.

OxyContin morphed into smoking heroin morphed into IV heroin. Those things weren’t in my life plan — all I’d ever wanted to do was work in the medical field. Recreational use had descended into hellish addiction, but somehow I partially kept my life together.

I worked full-time and bought as much heroin as my tips earned that day would allow, never turning to auxiliary crime to support my addiction. Enticed by the promise of school loans and a better future, I even managed to attend community college. I had dreamed of going to paramedic school as a precursor to eventually becoming a doctor, and in preparation I got my EMT license and took a year’s worth of emergency medicine courses. I thought that if I could create a life worth living, then and only then I would stop using heroin. This semi-normal life combined with my white skin and suburban under-policed neighborhood allowed me to evade criminal justice system involvement for years.

All good things come to an end. I was arrested for the first time (as an adult) at the age of 23, still in my work uniform from the pizza place. “Possession of Heroin” was a Class B felony.

I knew that if I was found guilty, I would lose my EMT license and any chance of a future career in the medical field. I was pretty sure it would ruin my financial aid and make it hard for me to find housing or jobs. A felony is forever. As if being addicted to heroin isn’t miserable enough all by itself, and somehow making things more miserable would make me stop using.

Motivated by the fear of a felony and the myriad collateral consequences that would destroy my life, I opted for drug court. If I successfully completed, the charge would be wiped from my record. I assumed that would be enough motivation for me to get clean. I misunderstood the nature of my own addiction.

I went to detox and then treatment thanks to still being under my mom’s insurance. I got lucky and found a suboxone doctor who was accepting patients. After completing treatment I was doing well-ish.

Then I had a fateful interaction with a Washington County Sheriff. He asked me for permission to search my car, to which I responded, “No sir, I do not consent to searches.” He told me to get out of the car, slammed me against my car, and patted me down. He then shoved me towards my open driver door and pointed at something inside of my screaming, “What is that! Hand me that!” Scared, I obliged. First I handed him a receipt off my floorboard, thinking that is what he wanted. “No! Not that, that!” I then grabbed a scrap of plastic also on my floorboard — cleanliness has never been my strong suit. I handed it to him and he let my shoulder go, left me standing there, and marched off to his cruiser.

When he swabbed the scrap of plastic and said it tested positive for heroin. I hadn’t thoroughly cleaned my car in months. I was arrested for yet another felony possession of heroin charge for the trace amounts found on the plastic.

After I was taken into custody less than a tenth of gram was found “embedded in the seat upholstery” of my car. Yet more trace amounts of heroin I didn’t even know I had. I was adamant the search was illegal. I was convinced I would be exonerated. I had my mom retain a private attorney for me, even. When I asked my lawyer to review the dash cam footage to prove my version of events he informed me Washington County does not have dash cameras. It would have been my word against the officer’s. Junkie versus cop in a court of law.

My attorney advised me to take the plea deal. The truth was irrelevant, I lost.

I lost my resolve to stay clean, too. I used heroin for several consecutive days and didn’t take my medication. I was still in drug court and still had a deep desire to stop using, despite the setback. I believed the system was there to help me. The incident in Washington County had been a one-off thing, an isolated incident. The system was still there to protect me. I leaned into it.

I had devised a plan. I had my check-in with the drug court judge coming up. I was going to ask the judge to take me into custody so that I could be re-stabilized on suboxone.

Without confessing my relapse to my doctor for fear of being kicked off of Suboxone, I asked him to write a letter for the courts explaining that Suboxone is life-saving medication crucial to my recovery. Familiar with the courts being reluctant to permit medications for opioid use disorder despite their obvious medical benefit, he complied without hesitation. He believed in what the evidence proves — Suboxone saves lives.

I had both my written prescription and my physical medication with me when I showed up to court. Getting stabilized on the medication was the only way I was going to stay clean and avoid a criminal conviction that would destroy my life. I had hope that both counties would dismiss the charge if I would only get and stay clean.

Walking towards the courtroom, I felt brave, my desire for recovery outweighed my fear. I did my hair and make-up, knowing I was going to request jail time and the booking mugshot would live forever online.

I went before Multnomah County Judge Ryan. I sat through two dozen other check-ins, all people who were desperately trying to avoid a felony possession charge by participating in drug court. Judge Ryan, nearing retirement, had white hair, kind eyes, and was known for his genuine compassion. I went last, the courtroom was nearly empty.

I stood from the bench where I had been seated and walked up to the defendant’s table with the microphone. I felt brave and terrified simultaneously. In that moment, I learned what courage felt like. It feels like volunteering for jail time in a last-ditch effort to save your own life.

Judge Ryan was known for his compassion and genuine desire for his defendants to succeed. He had white hair and kind eyes. I was terrified of him.

As soon as I reached the podium I blurted out, “I need to be taken into custody for the sake of my sobriety.” I didn’t trust myself to wait through the pleasantries. The words had been uttered, there was no undoing them now. I stood, wide-eyed, awaiting his response.

He obliged my request and sentenced me to seven days in jail.

The bailiff radioed for backup, “We have a custody in Judge Ryan’s court. I’m going to need back up.”

“How are we going to get Ms. Godvin back into inpatient? She obviously wants treatment.” Judge Ryan asked the prosecutor and treatment coordinator, and they spoke for a long while about waitlists and logistics. Nauseous from fear while they spoke of my “bravery,” I heard little of it.

Finally, it was over. They stopped talking, a gavel slammed. The bailiff’s took me by each arm, gently, and placed handcuffs on me. They grabbed my things — suboxone and letter included — and escorted me to booking.

My initial arrest had been a book and release. I had never actually been to “jail” before. I made sure the letter, prescription, and medication were all logged with my property. I asked the booking deputy to get those things to the medical staff. He didn’t even respond to me, just stared at me blankly, blinked repeatedly, and then looked away. Strange, I thought.

You never forget the first time you get “dressed down” into jail clothes. 4 women stood in a row, separated by open stalls, before the deputy.

“Remove all of your clothing. Face the wall, lift your right foot, wiggle your toes. Left foot, wiggle your toes…” But this wasn’t the hokey pokey. “Bend over, spread your cheeks and cough.”

If this is what I have to do to get clean, so be it. I want my life back.

During my medical exam I assumed medical care in jail was an extension of the type of medical care I had been receiving my whole life. A tired-looking nurse coldly took my vitals. Maybe she’d had a long day. Always taught to advocate for my own needs I asked, “And when will I be given my suboxone?” She looked at me and said, “It is unlikely you’ll be given that medication. Put in a medical request form when you get to the housing unit.” It was not a conversation, and I was immediately put back into a holding cell.

Eventually I was shackled to a stranger and transported in the back of a paddy wagon to Multnomah County’s Inverness Jail. I was naive and hopeful, despite the warning from the nurse. I had a prescription. Of course they would give it to me. Once in the dorm I immediately put in a Medical Request Form and explained the situation.

The next day I was in full-blown and excruciating withdrawal. I did not despair because I believed they would give me my prescription. Finally, they called my name. “Godvin! Medical!” A middle-aged female deputy was there to escort me, stern faced with her arms crossed.

“Hands against the wall,” she barked. I shuffled over to the wall in my jail slippers, put my hands on the wall, and was patted down intimately. She then silently walked me to the holding tank for medical, shutting me inside the metal box. I was freezing cold but sweating profusely, the withdrawals were getting worse. I waited for what felt like a long time.

Finally, the door opened. An older woman, overweight and unfriendly, with grayish-blond hair pulled back into a pony tail spoke without taking her eyes off of her clipboard, “Godvin? Come with me.”

She took my height, weight, and vitals again. It almost felt like a normal trip to the doctor, so I spoke to her like I normally would.

“I need my suboxone. I was booked with it, the prescription, and the letter from my doctor. I am in full-blown withdrawal and need it urgently.” So calm and rational, almost medical. So ignorant. The nurse asked me, “But why are you prescribed suboxone?” When I responded, “Opioid use disorder,” she actually scoffed.

“We will not be continuing your medication.”

Doctor knows best unless you’re in jail, I learned.

They wrote, “Patient upset about not receiving suboxone but understands,” in my chart. “Upset” is an understatement. What I “understood” was that they were willfully denying me access to evidence-based medicine and condemning me to preventable suffering instead.

And suffer I did. Withdrawals are agonizing. I begged them to read the letter from my doctor. I begged them for my medication as I writhed in pain. It was futile. Medications for opioid use disorder were against jail policy, which flies in the face of a decade’s worth of data proving it saves lives and reduces recidivism.

Jails across the country have been refusing to continue people’s prescription medication for decades, costing them their recovery and sometimes their life. Naive and 23, I learned this history lesson the hard way.

My illusions of this nation being a fair and just place — illusions founded on my own racial and class privilege — shattered into a million pieces.

I became bitter. The system betrayed me. I requested jail time because I thought it could save me. I was wrong.

My withdrawal lasted the duration of my jail stay. The jail didn’t even give me a cup to drink from. Dehydrated and weak, every time I wished to drink water I had to stand and walk across the dorm to the drinking fountain. The mere effort it required deterred me, I became more and more dehydrated. I suffered crushing insomnia made worse by the fluorescent lights that never turned off.

The same country I had once sworn to defend with my life had disregarded me completely, opting for punishment over rehabilitation, even when I’d volunteered for the jail sentence. Most of what I had been taught about my government’s intentions had been a lie. I was heartbroken.

The woman in the bunk next to me, who was homeless, was changing from her jail scrubs into her nightgown when I saw her legs, a mess of black and purple bruises. This was before I’d learned not to ask questions in jail. You rarely want to know the answer.

“Oh my gosh, what happened to your legs?”

“The night before I got arrested. I was out by the bike trail with my dog. This guy walked up to us…. He asked to pet my dog. Then he raped me. I’m not the first, he’s been out there, targeting us. I know it’s the same guy.” I could barely make sense of what I had heard. She was a “criminal” according to Multnomah County, charged with petty theft. She got released back to the streets, no safety to be found anywhere.

After the seven day sentence, I was released back into the same environment from which I had came. There was no bed in inpatient treatment. I had not been stabilized on my medication. There was still no dash cam footage.

There was only hurt, betrayal, post-acute withdrawals, and cravings.

The ironclad resolve to stop using that inspired me to request jail time had been destroyed. Feeling heartbroken and defeated, I sought solace in my old standby, heroin. Within 24 hours of my release I relapsed. Though the drug brought me its familiar relief, it also brought the sudden realization I was doomed. I was going to end up with a criminal record, lose my EMT license, and lose all hope for my future. I’m lucky I didn’t overdose that weekend, like so many others do after their release.

I was back in jail within a month. Then the month after that. I was eventually convicted of both felonies. I lost my job, my will to live, and resigned myself to a life and death in heroin addiction. Nine months after my first time in jail, I sold a gram of heroin out of my personal supply to one of my best friend’s, Justin. Later that night, alone in his bedroom, he overdosed and died. I was arrested and sentenced to five years in prison for my role in his overdose.

I was sentenced according to my criminal history which was calculated as a “category three.” Two prior felonies plus felony probation boosted my sentencing guideline by 30%. Thirty percent more time in prison for heroin because I had a history of being addicted to heroin.

If the jail would have given me my suboxone, maybe I would have stayed clean, maybe I wouldn’t have. I cannot know. I just know that the jail had an opportunity to provide evidence-based care and they chose punishment instead. Punishment for the sake of punishment comes at the price of public safety.

Eventually I found my path to recovery not because of jail, but despite it. While Multnomah County Sheriff Mike Reese alleges what happen to me then would not happen today, I am skeptical. A records request indicated that while Multnomah County Jail has a protocol to initiate buprenorphine, there is no mechanism likely to activate it. I have lost faith in my government to do the right thing. It seems like their penchant for punishment surpasses their desire for a safer and healthier community.