“I know,” I replied.
“This means you now have three guarantees. A guarantee signifies lack of respect for the law. But like I was saying, you’ve only been arrested for prostitution. No violent crime or anything like that. I’ll see you in just a moment.”
He stood up, gave me a serious look, and left.
I waited for my turn to go in for my hearing, praying I’d have good luck with the judge.
Then a police officer appeared and escorted me to the courtroom. The moment they opened the door, I heard a voice say:
“Juan Cruz also known as Luis Rivera.”
That was me. Juan Cruz also known as Luis Rivera. What a criminal you are, loca, I thought to myself. You even have an alias. They took off my handcuffs and sat me down next to the attorney. I felt him looking at me with a restrained smile. It wasn’t enough to promise the judge I’d do all the community service he wanted. The judge, who had a face like a friendless dog, wouldn’t let his arm be twisted: he gave me three months in Las Rocas and, at the end of February, another hearing. Or five thousand for bail. That was the irrevocable sentence.
From the courthouse, they took me to Central Booking, also known as the Tombs, because it was located in a sort of basement under another, bigger courthouse in Chinatown. Calling it a tomb seemed accurate—it never saw the light of day. I was in a cell there for hours. Until I heard the call that I would hear repeated so many times: Juan Cruz also known as Luis Rivera.
I stood up. An officer took me down a long hall that led outside, where a bus with bars at the windows was waiting for me. I climbed into that jail cell on wheels, which was full in less than fifteen minutes. I looked around at my travel companions. I saw frustrated expressions all over the place, but I also saw so many faces of guys who were used to all this.
An armored door separated us from the driver. We were all handcuffed. I felt the buzz of motors and far-off voices. Through the window, I could see several identical buses approaching ours. Armored buses that transported the crème de la crème from every county in New York City: Staten Island, Queens, the Bronx, Brooklyn, and, of course, Manhattan, were represented among those who washed up. They made us climb out and go into one of the two stations in front of us. They were made of cement-colored bricks. Men came and went, all in gray or orange jumpsuits. Of the people who passed me, 80 percent were prisoners. The rest, guards and police officers. I don’t know how so few people can control so many.
They put me in a line. Almost three days had passed since I got arrested because of that fucking Santa Claus. My makeup had worn off, with the exception of my waterproof mascara. I hadn’t spent those ten dollars in vain. The rest of the makeup I’d stolen, of course. Three days without showering, three days without shaving. In sum, I was a bewigged queen who looked like Freddy Krueger. I waited my turn. An inmate crossed in front of me. I was shocked by the color of his skin, a complexion so white it must not have seen the sun in years. Skin that became almost transparent under the lights of the shed. Then it was my turn. They made me go into a big room that looked like the bathroom of a dilapidated athletic center.
They told me to take off my clothes. The wig was the first thing I took off. Next came my shoes and everything else. I couldn’t believe I’d been wearing heels the whole time. Until that moment, I hadn’t even noticed.
They put all my things into a big paper bag. When I was ready to get in the shower, the inmates who had been there for a long time and were in charge of these procedures started to play with my nipples, which were hard because of my sporadic experiences with female hormones and how cold it was in that place. To one of them—who was pretty handsome, I might add—I gave a look like touch whatever you want, babe. We smiled at each other. And before I could start to dream that he was my husband in there, the time came for me to get in the shower.
I had just three minutes. Those had to be the three most enjoyable minutes of the last few days. I had to put on the orange uniform and matching slip-ons. All of us were silent. Tired. A long vacation at Rikers Island Resort awaited us.
After the shower, they drove us over to another building. The one that housed the dormitories. It was a spacious place, with around fifty or sixty beds. There was a guard in a barred cubicle with a window looking onto the dormitory. He communicated with inmates through the window.
I’d just entered when someone came up to me. He was a white man with a brown beard, around my height. He said hello and welcomed me. Surprised, I said hi back. I sensed a Latino accent, so I asked where he was from. And because I’d had enough of lying about my origins, I answered him:
“I’m from Chile. From the South of South America.”
“Oh, a Chilean one!” he exclaimed. “There’s another guy from Chile here. Do you want me to introduce you?”
“No, please. I don’t want to meet any Chilean guys. I came here from my country a long time ago. And honestly, I’m not in the mood for Chileans. Now less than ever.”
I’d just finished my sentence when they announced lights-out. Time for bed.
I hadn’t had any time to get settled, so I lay down in the first empty bed I could find. I threw myself down and, with no blanket to warm me, started to shiver from the cold. In complete darkness, I asked my neighbors in the next beds over for something to keep me warm. Someone told me to ask the guard in the cubicle. So I, rather sure of myself, called out into the darkness:
“Guard. Please, I need a blanket.”
“Who’s talking?”
“Juan Cruz also known as Luis Rivera. I need something to keep warm.”
“It’s the end of my shift. I’ll let the next guard know.”
“Thank you, sir,” I replied, getting used to my surroundings.
I lay shivering from the cold. Suddenly, I heard a voice.
“Hey, did you just get here?”
“Yes, it’s my first time.”
“Here, take this.”
He tossed over something heavy and furry that fell on top of me. I could barely see my neighbor in the darkness of the dorm. I wrapped myself up in the blanket.
As I was beginning to fall asleep, I heard, “Where’s Juan Cruz?”
“Right here.”
“Do you need a blanket?”
“No, thanks. Somebody gave me one.”
He’d probably seen on my record that I was a lady of the night, along with the photo in my file and the reason for my arrest.
Loudly, he said, “Ah, I see how it is. Traded it for a blow job, right?”
The silence suddenly erupted into shouts of mockery, contempt, and shock. I didn’t have the energy to think or react. I fell asleep.
All of a sudden, I sensed voices and movement. Light invaded the space. I was so tired that everyone, or almost everyone, had gotten up before me. I sat up in bed and tried to find the face of the person who’d welcomed me.
My bed was in the middle of so many beds. I was in the middle of so many people. Lots of them were walking in the same direction, toward the bathroom, I assumed.
I spotted my neighbor. He was walking in my direction. I greeted him enthusiastically as he walked by. He looked over and immediately looked away. He walked right by me. Before I let myself feel too surprised by his reaction, I remembered what had happened the night before. Everyone knew that a loca had arrived. I went over to the guard’s station, which now had a woman in it. I asked her for a towel. Without looking at me, she handed me one, along with a small bar of soap. An African American man gave me a shove with his shoulder, all tough-guy, get out of my way. I looked all around me. The showers were empty. I was on high alert. I showered quickly. I didn’t even use soap. I returned to my bed. I threw myself onto it. It was my territory, the only place where I could feel safe and, dare I say it, protected.
In the adjoining room, they switched on a huge TV mounted on the ceiling. A group of Chinese men were playing chess. I sat up and walked over to them, miming hey, let’s play. But they, too, ignored me.
Th
en an announcement came over the loudspeaker that it was time to go out to the yard. I wanted to stay in the dormitory.
The prisoners returned from their jaunt. Nobody looked at me. Nobody said hello. Everyone split into groups. White people with other white people, Boricuas with other morenos. The Chinese guys ignored one another. The Mexicans had their own group off to the side.
I realized there was an empty bed right across from the guard’s station. An instinct, maybe one of survival, sent me running over to it like a shot. I asked the guard if the bed belonged to anyone. Empty and available, she replied indifferently.
I took my blanket over and settled in. From then on, that spot was my refuge. It would be harder for anyone to do something to me if the guards were watching. Once again, everyone got up from their beds. From their little homes. I assumed it was lunchtime. I was so hungry I could have eaten a whole cow.
I stood at the back of the line. As we moved through the halls, other lines of prisoners joined ours. We had to walk between the wall and a white line on the f loor. To step over the line was enough to make the guards bark at you like furious dogs.
I heard one inmate say it was his first time in jail and he didn’t know he was supposed to walk inside the line. He didn’t get to finish his sentence. Two police officers threw themselves on top of him. Once they had him on the f loor, they handcuffed him and dragged him back to the dorms.
“An extra lunch!” yelled someone in line.
We all started laughing.
In the cafeteria, I took a plastic tray. Other prisoners who had to work in the kitchen that day were in charge of serving the food. Pasta, juice, bread, and an orange. I sat down at a random table. The pasta, which had no tomato sauce on it, got clogged in the middle of my throat. It was viscous, unswallowable. The guy sitting next to me asked me if I was going to eat it. I said no. He grabbed my plate and devoured the pasta.
I saved the orange for myself. I ate it slowly, trying to imagine it was a hamburger or something like that. I ended up drinking the juice. I can’t remember what kind it was, but I liked it; it was sweet and refreshing.
When I finished eating, a white man in his early thirties sat down across from me. He was so attractive that I can still see him perfectly. He looked around as he ate, like someone was after him. He had a teardrop tattoo under his left eye. Later on, I learned this means you’ve killed someone. Every tear is a kill on your record. His presence terrified and fascinated me. He left as soon as he finished eating. Maybe he was being chased by the spirit of the dead he carried with him in the form of that teardrop. As my misfortune or luck would have it, I never saw him again.
A guard announced that lunch was over.
Back to the line, again. Back to marching between the white line and the wall. Once I was back in the dormitory, I got settled in my new place, in the bed across from the guard who looked over us. I didn’t want to lie down. I stayed seated. I started to blame myself: this is what you get for being a loca estúpida. You knew they’d get you sooner or later. What would it have taken to just show up for your hearing and ask for forgiveness? They would’ve given you a month of community service and fined you less than a hundred bucks. But no. Bonehead. Look where it got you. A cage.
I was almost ready to throw myself onto the bed and surrender to depression when I heard a voice with a familiar accent.
“Hey, vos soi chileno?”
I lifted my head and saw a face smiling at me. A face that reminded me of some classmate from school or other. Of some neighbor. Of some friend of a friend. It was the very same person that I, in my arrogance, had refused to meet.
“Hi. Yes. I’m Chilean,” I answered with a mix of joy and gratitude.
“Can I sit down?”
“Of course.”
He took a seat and continued.
“What’s your name?”
Tired of false names, I told him the truth.
“Iván.”
“I’m Vladimir.”
He sat there looking at me, as though he was waiting for me to ask him something. When I didn’t say anything, he continued:
“I know. Vladimir isn’t a very common name in Chile. It’s just that my dad was a communist. And he loved anything that sounded Russian. My name is Vladimir and I have two younger siblings, Igor and Tatiana.” He thought for a moment and looked at me. “Wait, but you have a Russian name, too! Iván.”
“Yes,” I said, smiling. He seemed like a really nice guy. “But my dad isn’t a communist. What are you in for?”
“My vices,” he answered.
“What do you mean?”
“They caught me buying heroin. I’ve been here three months. At least I’ve been able to get clean. They give me methadone, so the cravings don’t get too bad. When I got here, I didn’t sleep for four days. My bones hurt so much all I could do was scream. But then, on the fifth day, they gave me methadone. And from then on, tranqui, tranquiléin. What about you? Why are you here?”
“I let a few guarantees add up.”
“Oh!” he said, realizing I didn’t want to tell him why I got arrested. He stood up. “You look a little tired. Take a nap and I’ll come back in a while.”
“Cool.”
I stretched out in my bed. A pleasant warmth washed over my body. I took a nap. I know I slept with a smile on my face.
I don’t know how much time passed. All I know is that I heard a voice waking me up.
“Psst, hey.”
I opened my eyes and saw my new friend.
“Check it out. I have tea and cookies. Snack time!”
I sat up like a shot, fighting the urge to hug him. I contained myself. I felt happy.
Once again, he asked with ceremony if he could sit down. Without saying anything, I moved over to make space for him to sit.
He sat down and put the tea bag into a plastic cup full of hot water.
“This is enough for two.”
“How Chilean is this?” I replied, laughing.
“These even look like Tritón cookies. Eight of them. Four for you and four for me.”
The cookies were like a Coca-Cola in the middle of the desert. I devoured them.
“When do you get out?” he asked me.
“At the end of February. I could get out sooner if I paid bail.”
“How much is it?”
“Five thousand dollars,” I told him, blowing on the hot water in my plastic cup, which had started to turn the color of tea. “As you can probably imagine, I have no money.”
“All you have to pay is five hundred.”
“No, I said five thousand.”
“Yeah, but you only have to pay 10 percent of the bail. If it’s five thousand, you only pay five hundred.”
“Really?” I asked him, shocked, scarfing down the last of the cookies meant for Vladimir.
“Totally. My bail is ten thousand. So I only have to pay a thousand. I called my ma to get her to pay it, but she said no, I’ll be better off staying here until I’ve been clean for a few months. She said maybe it’ll clear my mind and I won’t do drugs again.” He took a deep breath and continued. “I think she’s right, cachái? Mothers are always right.”
“How’d you call her?” I asked, incredulous and excited at the same time. “You don’t have a cell phone in here, do you?”
“Man, you can tell it’s your first time. See the telephone over there on the wall next to the bathroom?”
He pointed toward a phone identical to the public ones all over the streets of New York.
“All inmates have a right to two calls a day.” He paused to pick up the two empty cups. “Well, I think it’s almost lights-out. I’ll see you tomorrow, Iván. Good night.”
“Wait! Do you think I could call now?”
“Sure, but you should hurry. They’re about to turn the lights off.”
I got to the phone in a f lash. I didn’t have a cell phone back then, so I knew all my friends’ numbers by heart. I called La Maru, my friend from the C
helsea projects, the last person I’d seen. It didn’t even ring twice before she answered.
“Hi, Maru? It’s me.”
“Oh my god!” she yelled from the other side. “Where are you? What happened?”
“Just here in the bote, as Mexicans say.”
“We were all going ballistic. La Silvia and La Manuel have been acting crazy. They won’t stop calling to see if I’ve heard from you.”
“Well tell them to get together five hundred dollars so I can get out of here. They need to go to the courthouse on Centre Street and give my name, and they’ll tell them what to do. La Silvia knows all this by heart.”
“Okay. I can’t promise you anything, but the good thing is that you’re—”
“Alive,” I said before she could finish the sentence.
“La Silvia was ready to start looking for you at the morgue.”
“Tell that queen I’m still kicking.”
All of a sudden, I heard a whistle. The warning that the call was about to end. Quickly I told La Maru, “When they go to pay my bail, tell them to ask about Juan Cruz also known as Luis Rivera. Remember that. Juan Cruz, Luis Rivera—”
I’d just finished saying it when the call got cut off.
When I went back to my bed, the guard was giving the lights-out. Time to sleep.
“Thank you, Vladimir!” I said loudly, laid out in my bed.
“You’re welcome,” he replied from the darkness.
A few days passed like that. A week, maybe. Vladimir always showed up with tea and Tritón-style cookies at six in the evening. He got along so well with all the inmates that everyone started talking to me, even coming up to say hi. And I started feeling comfortable, maybe even a little too comfortable.
Once, when I was resting in my bed, I heard Vladimir’s voice.
“Hey, Iván, come over here.”
“What’s up?” I replied from my bed-home.
“Just come over here and I’ll tell you.”
I stood up and saw that he was standing a few beds away, talking to another inmate. I walked over to them.
“This is Carlos. He’s the boss in this dorm. Anything you need, any problem or whatever, always talk to him,” Vladimir said, with his characteristic formality.
Las Biuty Queens Page 2