In 1969 I was assigned to represent a defendant in the retrial of a violent crime. My client, who I will call “Jimmy,” was incarcerated in the old Rensselaer County Jail, a dismal three-story structure that the Troy legal community playfully referred to as “that little hotel at Fifth and Ferry.”
One summer day, I went to the jail to discuss matters relating to the case. Jimmy, who was usually relatively calm, was very excited. He told me that he was in love. A young female who had been living in an apartment above the Nassau Hardware Store had been arrested for shoplifting or some other nonviolent crime. Her stepfather, a New York State trooper, thought it best that she spend a few days in jail to understand the consequences of her actions better. She was thus housed in the small women’s section of the jail. Jimmy told me that they spotted each other and had an instant attraction.
I don’t recall whether Jimmy’s cell was on the first or the third floor of the jail, but the young lady’s cell was either two floors directly above or two floors directly below his. They discovered (probably by the jail grapevine) that they could speak to each other using the toilets as telephones. Jimmy said they spent hours shouting their love into their respective toilet bowls and making plans to be together after their respective releases. Sometimes, however, their love talk was rudely interrupted when the inmate on the second floor flushed his toilet.
Their romance became a joke among the jail staff, and as soon as her stepfather found out, he bailed his stepdaughter out of jail and arranged a “time served” plea for her.
They never did get together, and Jimmy died in a state prison in 2006.
