Shooting Star

Three days later, Michelle's probation was formally revoked, and a warrant was issued for her arrest. It took almost two weeks to get her into custody. She was arrested the morning of June 4 at her home in Tempe.

This time, Michelle remained in jail.
A probation officer interviewed her there, and wrote in a presentence report dated July 8, 1996: "Despite her arrest for a new crime while on probation, this officer sees the defendant as an individual who has the capability of regaining sobriety, and again becoming a contributing and law abiding citizen." (Actually, she was a resident alien.)

The officer recommended a six-month jail term, with early release into a residential treatment program.

One week later, Michelle wrote a letter from jail to the judge who would decide whether to let her out for treatment, or lock her up for a couple of years. They are the words of a lucid, seemingly penitent Mrs. Meat Puppet:

From: Michelle Tardif A073849
Estrella Jail C-302

To: Honorable Judge Alfred Rogers
201 W. Jefferson, Superior Court
Phoenix, Arizona

Your Honor:
This is probably the most difficult task I have had to accomplish: instill trust and confidence in my good character, now that I am an inmate and a convicted drug offender. Having been an addict for the last 11U2 years, I lost my ability to convince anyone of the soundness of my judgment. I knew it at the time (before my incarceration) although I was quite powerless to change without a complete and utter turnaround, affecting every aspect of my life.

I must have undergone some measure of transformation in the meantime because I am now able to think and speak with a clearer conscience and a much greater sense of honesty, for the first time in so long.

I would like to express my profound dismay and disappointment with myself and how I (mis) managed this whole drug-induced nightmare that has landed me in jail. First I'd like to admit that from the time of my arrest in September 'til the moment I was put in custody, I had not succeeded in remaining drug-free. The several attempts I made to "kick" the habit on my own were fully of 2-day agony and horror. I tried Methadone, detox at St. Luke's, TASC--only to reuse, a veritable non-stop festival of stubborn, fear-based (and fear-of-pain based) avoidance of reality.

For the last several months before my arrest, my domestic/home life had been turned upside-down with the onset of my mother-in-law's late-diagnosed cancer. My husband became absent more and more frequently, until he finally moved into her house full-time. We started seeing each other only 1-2 hours a day, and my drug use escalated (or returned to normal, since I was constantly struggling to quit). I started using needles, whereas I previously smoked heroin. All this I kept from him, knowing how devastated her illness had made him; I put on a brave face, a mask of supportiveness, and almost felt proud of myself for "being so strong."

It attests somewhat to my canniness and ability to charm--skills that can be put to better use--that I had been able to deceive so many people for so long; my P.O. [probation officer], the courts, medical personnel, friends and loved ones, my poor husband and ultimately, and most importantly, myself. It is no accomplishment, it is only pathetic. It's no wonder a person under the influence of such a nefarious drug would get caught a second time--for $5 worth, no less--in the hands of the law. And in doing so, spend a lifetime regretting having thrown one's life away.

Your honor, I have been drug free for 11U2 months for the first time in over a year. Upon entering jail my weight was UNDER 100 LBS! (I'm 5'9"!). I have gained 25 lbs. to go along with the resolutions I hope will last me a lifetime. One of these is that the "system" does not only aim to punish--in my case incarceration has so far been the only way to remove me from the drugs I was so incapable of resisting. By the sheer Spartan conditions of deprivation (must I really thank Sheriff Joe? Yes!) I have been made keenly aware of what I used to have: I miss my husband of course; my dog and cat; my friends, job, plants, my comfy bed and my pillow . . . my kitchen, grocery shopping, picking a ripe cantaloupe, you name it! Do I miss DRUGS? All I can remember now is fear (of the law, of the dealers and other unsavory characters, of running out of drugs) and all the other sordid details, basking in shame. While my husband was away caring for his ailing mother, I'd be spending hours in squalid surroundings, trying to blend in (!)--neglecting my appearance, having purposefully alienated my friends (none of whom used drugs nor, I deludedly believed, knew that I was). I had the company of street hustlers and other creatures of ill-repute, and I thought nothing of it. I had become one of them, for all intents and purposes. But I knew in my heart I was different. I still cling to this.