I’ve traveled around the world, but the coldest I’ve ever been was in sunny Southern California.

One morning, three days after my arrival at the Ventura County jail, I was escorted from my cell to a concrete interview room. The room was about the size of a one-car garage. A small rectangular table with chairs on either side was situated in the middle.

The overhead lights were blinding. I glanced around at the shiny white walls, searching for a light switch or a dimmer, but all I saw was a plastic analog clock that read 10:40 a.m. and a small, stainless steel square with tiny holes and a single button. I was about to push the button when I realized what it was.

“Don’t touch anything!” a firm voice boomed out of the intercom. “Take a seat. The public defender will be with you in a moment.”

Suddenly I realized how cold I was. My orange jumpsuit, with its short sleeves, was no match for the super-cooled room. It was like being inside the dairy refrigerator at the grocery store. The air conditioning vent was directly above me. I tried to move the chair away from the breeze, but it was chained to the ground and didn’t move an inch. 

I got up to walk around the room to stay warm, but as soon as the deputy saw me walking, the intercom barked, “Stay seated! I told you, your attorney is on his way.”

I sat down with my hands under my armpits to stay warm and closed my eyes while I waited, and waited, and waited.

The cold was bitter and brutal.

I didn’t believe in hell, but it crossed my mind that, if it did exist, it would be made of ice and not fire.

I was finally dozing off when I heard the sound of the door opening. I looked at the clock: 2:15 p.m. A tall, skinny white man in his late 40s walked in. He wore an oversized brown coat and a striped tie that was not properly tied. He was clean-shaven with a ponytail and reminded me of a used car salesman. 

Without hesitation, he announced himself and said: “I’m here to represent you. I spent a lot of time during the weekend reading your file. A lot of time. About two hours. I think you should take a deal: 15 to life.”

Still confused and ignorant of the legal system, I naively asked, “Don’t you want to ask me anything?” 

“I already read the police report,” he said. Taking a long breath, he sat down and added, “OK, what do you wanna tell me?”

I felt so cold that I couldn’t think, much less speak. I just nodded. 

The public defender told me to think about the deal; he would contact me in a week or so. Then he left. I remained there, shivering, until a deputy arrived to escort me back to my cell. It was after 4 p.m. 

Twenty-nine years later, I’m still living in a cold cell. But I’m not so pessimistic. At least now I have two blankets to keep me warm.