May 1, 1968. Mayday. Transferred to County without explanation. I’ll miss those guys. But, as Doc says, everybody does their own time.

First night in a two-man holding cell with a young black guy eating cold turkey dragging himself all night to the toilet, moan, sweat, shit, vomit, piss.

On the tier. Wrapped in a cold glaze, careful, learning fast, sopping up the Rules, pacing along the edge of fear, trying to give off the image of being knowing, tough, which I’m not. Too many prisoners for the cells. The overflow sleep on the tier. My act works, no one gives me the intimidation bit. Life-saving ability. Two days to visiting day. You get a lot of visitors, your status increases. Maybe some info on Jennifer Warden.

I was sitting on the tier reading. A tall, gangling black guy in cowboy boots came & stood in front of me, staring.

- How long you been in, man? I asked.

- I don’t know. I just ain’t sure.

He wandered off mumbling to the far end, sang Temptations songs in a clear voice, sunk in the music.

Later he came & sat next to me quietly & watched me read.