The jail cell was a cinder-block room with a solid steel bed frame and thin rubber mattress. In the corner was a stainless steel sink and toilet without a seat. There was a narrow window with thick glass recessed into the wall that looked out into the parking lot of the adjacent courthouse from the third floor. It was Tom’s only assurance that the world continued to turn. Echoes of angry men screaming for their one phone call bounced off the walls. It was cold and the florescent lights stained the room a greenish hue. Tom sat on the steel bed and buried his head into his hands. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t.

Three years ago, he had been riding a wave of success. Tom and his family moved to the Village of Clarkston, a tiny collection of historic homes in North Oakland...

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