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with its comfy chairs, and me in the gallery with its wooden church pews for seating. A bailiff held out a hand as I approached her, a signal to not get close enough to pass weapons or other such contraband to the people in orange.
    â€œYou need to bail me out,” Mom said in a frantic whisper. Up close I could see that the stress of her incarceration had hung deep crescent bags of exhaustion under her bloodshot eyes. She looked as if she hadn't slept in days.
    â€œHow much are you talking about,” I said.
    â€œThe jailer said I'll probably need three thousand to bail out. Else I gotta stay in jail.”
    â€œThree thousand!” I said. “I need that money for school.”
    â€œI can't take jail, Joey.” My mother started to cry. “It's full of crazypeople. They stay up all night yelling. I can't sleep. I'm going crazy, too. Don't make me go back there. Please, Joey.”
    I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I felt sorry for her—I mean this was my mother, the woman who gave me life. But if I gave her three thousand dollars, I would run out of money midway through my next semester. My thoughts of staying in school were colliding with the vision of my mother in her most desperate hour. I was unable to speak. No matter what I said, it would be wrong. I was rescued from my dilemma when a couple of women entered the court through a door behind the judge's bench, and the bailiff called for everyone to rise. I took a deep breath, thankful for the interruption. The judge entered and instructed everyone to sit down, and the bailiff escorted my mother to a seat in the jury box to sit with the other folks in orange.
    As the clerk called what she referred to as the “in-custodies” up to the bench, I listened to the dialogue that went back and forth between the judge and the attorney, a female public defender handling all four defendants. It reminded me of a Catholic funeral mass I had attended when one of my high-school coaches died. The litany had been spoken by the priest and the parishioners so many times that the rote presentation seemed toneless to us outsiders.
    The judge said: “Is your name…? Do you live at…? Do you understand your rights? Counsel, does your client understand the charges?”
    â€œYes, your honor, and we waive any further reading of the complaint.”
    â€œHow do you wish to proceed?”
    â€œYour Honor, we waive the rule-eight hearing, ask that my client be released on his personal recognizance.”
    The judge would then set bail, giving each inmate the choice between paying a higher bail amount with no conditions or paying lower bail—or no bail at all—provided that they agree to abide by certain conditions set by the judge.
    When Mom took her turn before the judge, they went through the same back-and-forth, with the judge setting bail at $3,000, but then hecontinued with the second option. “Ms. Nelson you can pay the three thousand dollars, or you can be released on your personal promise to appear at all future hearings as well as the following conditions: keep in contact with your attorney, remain law abiding, no possession or consumption of alcohol, and be hooked up to an alcohol monitoring bracelet. Any use of alcohol will bring you right back to jail. Do you understand those conditions?”
    â€œYes, your honor,” my mother said, looking absolutely Dickensian in her role as the pitiful soul.
    â€œThat's all,” the judge said.
    Mom shuffled back to the line of people in orange, all of whom now stood up and started moving in chain-gang fashion toward the door that would lead them back to the jail. As she passed, Mom looked at me with a glare that would have been the envy of Medusa. “Come down to the jail and bail me out,” she whispered.
    â€œBut mom, the judge just said—”
    â€œDon't argue with me,” she hissed as she left the court room.
    â€œAnd…she's