Loud echoes of chatter can be heard from outside the hall. When one of the officers opened the door, the pungent smell of musk, sweat, and other things immediately hit Julius's senses. Holding his right arm bonded with handcuffs from his side, the other began to drag him inside the hallway, his feet reluctantly following. He kept his head low, be it from unfamiliarity or shame—he couldn’t tell. His eyes stayed on the floor, watching his tsinelas scruff the cemented walkway.

They halt in the fourth to the last cell. Heavy laughter startled him, making him look up from the noise. “Chief! Would it hurt you to put him in another cell?” A man with a thick beard spoke, a teasing hilt in his voice, as he looked at the two officers with him.

One of the officers slots the key onto the padlock, opening the door of the cell to let him in, while the other frees him from the metal shackles placed on his wrists. “Treat him well.” One of them gruffly reminded, leaving him alone and locking the cell bars before walking outside the hallway. The man from earlier eyes him, and he couldn’t read the look on his face. Fear creeps up on his spine as he sees each man in the cramped space settle their eyes on him.

“How old are you?” another man asked, a large bandage wrapped around his right arm and a hue of red on his knuckles.

“Nineteen, sir,” Julius answered shakily, trembling from his suddenly coming attention. He bowed his head; at least he wouldn’t have to look at them as they questioned him. As he was asked again, he felt nothing was right in his mouth.

“That’s awfully young. What are you here for?” Another quipped, voice an octave higher than the first two men.

“Drug trafficking, sir.”

“Ay, putcha! Again?” His reaction prompted him to look at the man who spoke, the sardonic tone not escaping his ears. “You’re just like Rivera and Consuelo here. They always say it’s drugs.”

A few other men chuckled, seemingly finding humor in the situation. Julius didn’t understand what was so amusing and wasn’t about to question anyone.

After he was assigned a spot where he could sleep, he tried to sink onto the floor. The lack of beds is telling, considering the cramped space hosts over thirty grown men. Yet that isn’t important right now. Julius hopes to get out of here as soon as he finishes his hearing and gets the judicial decision.

He observes the people around him. Most of them have resorted to ignoring him entirely. A sense of dread washed over him as he sat on the floor. His eyes wander around the small cell, not lingering on anyone in particular but focusing on the dulling feeling of restriction that creeps up on his spine.

The last time he stepped into the courtroom was the day he got detained; days turned into weeks, and weeks blurred into a month and another.

Julius has become used to the four walls that cage them. He sees men come and go. Those detained in a day refuse to sit on the floor and wait for their time to return to their homes. Their pleasant lives. He used to envy them. How easy it was for them not to fall into his inadequate life. His first few weeks were also like that: hopeful and impatient. Demanding an officer at least a phone call. When he gets to the phone, though, no one answers.

So, he did not bother again for all the other weeks. He tried to be hopeful, hoping for his trial date to come.

When he voiced this hope, though he received only a scoff, he knew it wasn’t because his cellmates were unkind—after all, they had been here way longer than he had.

There are days they are let out of the cell and get to do gardening. He considers it a kind gesture, a way for them to be useful to these people and stretch their legs as they labor.

He was transporting a wheelbarrow full of seedlings when he saw a door open. From where he stood, it looked similar to an office or a studio apartment. It spat two officers. Their big bellies bellowed in laughter as they conversed with a third person. The man inside wore the same uniform as Julius. The only difference was that the other looked new—the shirt was clean from dirt, much like any other man in the garden. The officers shook his hand, and a look of satisfaction marinated on their greasy faces as they walked away.

Julius walked toward the small shack and noticed the air conditioning was installed. He scoffs, of course.

As they get escorted back to their small, smelly prison cell, Julius imagines a life that one can live comfortably, similar to the man at the small shelter in the back of the garden. He imagines what it was like to not sleep with another person breathing in your back or not having to swat mosquitoes. He imagines what it was like to be like those men his age, quickly getting the chance to prove their innocence.

He imagines a phone call with his Father, his weak voice answering in relief as he reassures him that they will bail him out. He imagines visits from his Mother, her weak cries of pleas pressed into his chest and a comforting hand on her back as he coaxes her.

The feeling of restriction creeped on him again, as he hoped for justice. As he hopes for freedom.

“Oi!” he hears one of his cellmates call, “What’s got you daydreaming?”

A chuckle bubbles on his chest. “Just,” Julius murmurs, “thinking of getting out of this room.”

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