Disconnection notice

When someone calls you from the Washoe County Jail, the first thing you hear is a calm, computerized operator warning you that your conversation may be recorded. It's a lot like the one the phone company uses to inform you that the number you've dialed has been disconnected, if a little less human; a little less friendly. And it never says "we're sorry" or encourages you to have a nice day, because they aren't and you won't.
"I'm in some trouble," Elva said from what sounded like very far away. My humor reflex kicked in and I almost shot back, "Yeah, that's what the robot said," but I managed to stifle. If you need somebody to crack jokes in a crisis, Matt Farley's your man. It always makes me feel better and helps me focus, but I've heard rumors that some people don't feel the same way. I suspected that if I were sitting in an institutional waiting room while a jailer processed my information, I might be one of them.
"There's things I should've told you," she said, and then told me some of them. Most were things she'd previously alluded to, others I'd suspected and one caught me like a short left hook to the ribs, the kind of shot that makes your heart palpitate and your guard drop. For a second, my brain struggle to reconcile the new information with the old but couldn't. No matter which way I turned things, I couldn't make them all hang together. I decided to set them aside and await further developments. As with any story, I'd either piece together something resembling the truth later or I wouldn't, and asking a lot of stupid questions now wouldn't do any good.
The immediate point was that the version of Elva I knew and cared about, whichever carefully polished fragment of the whole girl she might have been, was locked up with the rest of her. And I wasn't sure how I felt about that at all. I've always had some white knight in me, and he wanted to storm the castle, battle the guards and make big promises. But another part of me, the guy who has been lied to by one coed too many, had no problem letting her fend for herself. They fought to a draw before I could speak.
"Well," I said after the robot turnkey announced that we had 30 seconds left before he broke the connection. "I'm really sorry things went this way. Maybe we can talk about it after you get things taken care of. But...I don't think I'm going to do this."
If you're ever feeling particularly good about yourself, try hanging up on someone you genuinely like who's just begun to cry inside a correctional facility. I guarantee your attitude will even out in a big hurry.
The thing that really bothers me, though, is how eager I was to overlook the truth. If the county hadn't gotten involved, I might never have figured things out. I consider myself to be pretty skeptical, but I never thought twice about the answer I got when I asked, "What did you you do today?" (If you said, "Meeting with my probation officer, Alex," you're today's winner.)
Even though it's scary to contemplate, most of our lives are still built on trust. We trust the bank not to lose our money. We trust drivers not to pop up onto the sidewalk or crash into our living rooms. We trust our friends not to do anything completely out of character. And when someone goes off the reservation and starts abusing trust, folks get violently angry, especially when the perpetrator escapes punishment. What most people don't talk about, though, is that sometimes when violators do get caught, we almost wish they'd gotten away with it.