Insiders

by Olivia Goldsmith

  When Camry returned, Morticia was with him. Jennifer couldn’t help but notice that her jumpsuit fit as though it had been made to measure. And Morticia was giving Jennifer a good looking-over, too. They both stood there, glaring at each other as only two women who have come to the party wearing the same dress can. When Morticia caught sight of Jennifer’s belt, she covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. ‘You ready for your close-up, Miss DeMille?’ she asked. Jennifer didn’t say a word.

  ‘Cut the crap, Cher,’ Camry said firmly to the woman. ‘Just bag her personal effects. And Miss Spencer,’ he turned to Jennifer, ‘please take off the belt. It’s against regulations.’

  ‘He’s afraid you’re going to hang yourself,’ Morticia smirked, further betraying her hillbilly origins with her accent. ‘Also the brassiere and underpants if you have them.’

  ‘What?’ Jennifer asked.

  ‘I’ll have to pat you down,’ Morticia said. ‘Then Ms Cranston’s goin’ to give you an internal.’

  Jennifer groaned and did what Roger Camry told her to do, but as she removed the belt she noticed that Morticia had picked up her shoes and was stroking one of them as if it were the Holy Grail. Jennifer guessed that she’d probably never seen a Louboutin before in her poor trash life. Then she turned her back and tried to carefully remove her bra without dropping the cell phone. Just as she was about to secret the phone into the sleeve of her jumpsuit she felt someone standing beside her.

  ‘What is this?’ Morticia asked as she grabbed the phone and held it up in the air for the officer to see.

  ‘Where’d you get that?’ Camry asked. ‘That’s what contraband is, Spencer, and it can get you into big trouble here at Jennings. Lucky for you it was found now and not later.’ He tilted his head toward the personal effects bag and Morticia went over and slid the phone into the bag.

  The white-coated intake officer returned and asked, ‘Are we about ready to get on with this?’

  ‘Miss Spencer is ready,’ Officer Camry said, and he took hold of Jennifer’s elbow. As he steered her toward the door, Jennifer saw that Cher was slipping one of the shoes onto her foot.

  ‘Hey!’ Jennifer protested. But Cher quickly pulled the shoe off and put it back on the counter before anyone could catch her.

  Camry turned to look at Cher. She met his glare with the blandest look on her face. ‘Get busy with that, Cher,’ he said. ‘Catalogue every piece of clothing and put it all away.’

  ‘Where is she taking my things?’ Jennifer asked, but she didn’t get an answer from either Camry or the intake officer. Jennifer looked down at the jumpsuit she was wearing. Well, if that Cher person stole her clothes, she’d just have to ask Tom to bring something else for her to wear when he came tomorrow to take her home. She could trust Tom to select something appropriate. He had great taste in clothes and sometimes looked better in his Prada suits than Jennifer did in hers!

  ‘All right then, let’s get started,’ the intake officer said in the deep voice that gave Jennifer chills.

  The rest of the processing was like some kind of surreal out-of-body experience. It was almost as if Jennifer wasn’t there. She became just another woman in a prison uniform, and this disassociation actually made it all a little easier to take. She was weighed, measured, and photographed. When the officer fingerprinted her she calmly watched as her fingers were rolled in the ink and then onto the paper. As her prints were being made, Jennifer asked, ‘Do you have any suggestions on how to get this ink off your fingers? It’s almost impossible to wash it off with just plain soap and water.’

  ‘Well, Spencer,’ the officer opined, ‘maybe you might try Estée Lauder’s Youth Dew.’

  The sarcasm wasn’t pointed or funny enough for Jennifer to laugh, but she did respond. ‘I just thought that, since you worked with the stuff all the time, you might know. I’ll make a note to tell our clients at Chesebrough-Ponds to develop some sort of cleansing cream for fingerprint ink.’

  The intake officer threw back her head and roared with laughter. ‘Yeah,’ she chortled, ‘you can call it Out Damn Spot! Now get up on the table.’

  Reluctantly Jennifer climbed onto the stainless steel bench. As soon as this monster was done poking and prodding, she would call Tom. He was probably already well on his way to getting her out of this place. Jennifer knew that everything was going to be all right. And then the officer told her to stand up.

  ‘Bend over and open your jumpsuit,’ she said matter-of-factly. She picked up a thin latex rubber glove and began to slowly and deliberately pull it over her hand. When she snapped it against her wrist, the sound sent a shiver down Jennifer’s spine. ‘Cavity check,’ the intake officer said, and Jennifer felt her stomach start to rise.

  ‘Why?’ Jennifer whispered. This was too much. She certainly didn’t have a prostate to examine. ‘Why do I need a cavity check?’ she demanded more loudly. ‘I’m not in here for drugs or on a weapons charge.’

  ‘C’mon,’ the officer sighed, ‘it’ll be over before you know it. It’s a lot worse when we have to hold you down.’

  4

  Movita Watson

  Rich women have the Betty Ford clinic; poor women have prison.

  A prison commentator. Kathryn Watterson, Women in Prison

  I declared that until I said different, this candy – a name on the Inside for a new inmate – would be known to my crew as Number 71036. ‘She’s just another piece of snotty white meat,’ I told ‘em. ‘It’s not like we all have to sit up and take notice just because she dragged her sorry ass into this joint. She don’t mean nothin’ to us.’ I’m queen bee at Jennings. And while I know that might not mean much on the Outside, when you’re on the Inside it’s important to stay on top. Nobody wants to be on the bottom. Not the bottom bunk, not the bottom of the crew, not the bottom of nothing in a prison. I’ve always been on top, and I plan on staying there.

  Cher’s the funniest, smartest, and baddest in our sisterhood, and she said to me, ‘Well let me tell you, that Number 71036’s sorry ass was dressed in the best damn silk underwear I’ve ever seen.’

  My crew was sitting at our usual table in the cafeteria eating lunch. Dinner is always at one of our houses but lunch is quick and gotta be in from food service. When you first see us, you might think we’re kind of an unlikely group. I’m a proud and beautiful black woman, but all the rest of the women in my crew are white. Unlike men in prison, where black and white rarely mix, women inmates tend to group up based on whether or not they like each other, and what they can do to help each other out. My women make up the most organized, efficient and tight-knit crew in the joint. We’re a family.

  Like I said, I’m the boss. As the Warden’s secretary, I hold a position of power (and opportunity) at Jennings that few, if any, can challenge. Cher McInnery works Intake, and that means that all sorts of nice things flow like a river over the desk in that room where the new inmates strip and leave all their possessions behind. Some of that river of riches, maybe just a small stream, gets diverted in Cher’s direction – and some of that gets passed on to my crew.

  Right now Cher had an advantage over the others in the crew. She was the only other of us who had actually seen Jennifer Spencer. Even though I insisted that she was ‘no big fuckin’ deal’ to me, we had all heard and read plenty about Number 71036 in the news – the fall of ‘the Wall Street Princess’ – and we were all anxious to talk about her.

  You see, inside a prison nothing ever changes. That’s probably the worst damn thing about living Inside. Everyone’s in the same uniform, Christmas looks just like the Fourth of July, the windows are too high to see out of, and the exercise yard doesn’t have a blade of grass that hasn’t been examined by four hundred pairs of eyes. There just isn’t much to look at except the walls and each other, and women, we like to look at things. I read once in one of the Warden’s magazines that the experts call it ‘sensory deprivation’. I call it goddamn hard.

  ‘What was she wearing?’ Theresa LaBianco wanted to kn
ow. She’s into ‘How was her hair styled? Does she know how to put on makeup?’ Theresa used to be at the very top of one of those big makeup sales pyramids. Had a couple of hundred housewives sellin’ mascara. I could just imagine what the kites – secreted notes – would say about this new candy.

  Theresa worked in the canteen and could always manage to buy us the freshest produce or the best chicken when we got to shop. It wasn’t until her husband was caught cooking the books that she found herself on the Inside at Jennings. But Theresa never lost her love for life or blusher. And the bitch could dish. She especially loved to hear Cher talk about all of the new inmates. ‘It’s kinda like window shopping,’ she would say.

  ‘Well,’ Cher began, because she knew what was expected of her, ‘her shoes were the softest damn leather I ever felt.’ Cher shook her head. ‘Shoes like that must go for four hundred bucks if they go for a dime.’

  ‘Well, you know what they say about shoes, don’t you?’ Theresa asked. ‘They say, you can’t know someone’s sorrows until you’ve walked a mile in her shoes. That’s what they say about shoes.’ Theresa had a damn saying for everything. She lived by sayings. She said that was how she had motivated her sales force, but they drove me nuts.

  ‘Well, I don’t think 71036 has ever had too many problems walking in those shoes,’ Cher sneered. ‘And I plan to walk more than a mile in ‘em,’ she told us and laughed.

  ‘Did you take ‘em, Cher?’ Suki asked, all wide-eyed. Suki Conrad was our crew’s innocent – our baby. She worked in the laundry and in Suki’s case it wasn’t so much what she could do for the rest of us, but what we could do for Suki. I think Suki made us all better women.

  ‘Damn right I took ‘em,’ Cher said proudly. ‘When I saw that those shoes were a size eight, I took that for a sign.’ Cher lived by signs and omens like Theresa lived by sayings. ‘My parole date is comin’ up, and I figure those pointy shoes were pointing directly to my getting outta here.’

  ‘Girl,’ I said with a sigh, ‘you can’t just keep stealin’. You’re gonna get caught, lose your chance at parole and damn it, it’s wrong.’

  ‘You know what they say about stealing, don’t you?’ Theresa chimed in. ‘They say that God helps those that help themselves. That’s what they say about stealing.’

  I was never sure with Theresa if she meant to support me or sass me when she said somethin’ like that.

  ‘That’s not what God meant,’ Suki protested. ‘God said, “Thou shalt not steal.”’

  ‘NBD – No Big Deal – I haven’t stolen from God since I used to swipe money out of the collection plate at Sunday school,’ Cher laughed. ‘And I never take nothin’ from people who can’t spare it. Won’t steal from the simple minded, neither,’ she added.

  Cher was a thief and she didn’t mind saying so. She didn’t see anything wrong with what she did. What was wrong to Cher was that everyone else had more than she did, and the only way to make up the difference was for her to take what she needed. That’s what she’d done to get herself incarcerated and what she did every time a new inmate was processed into Jennings. She just put the things she didn’t want into a bag with the new inmate’s name and number on it, and she put the good stuff into another bag with a different name and number. No one would ever reclaim the second bag, because the name and number on that bag belonged to a dead or released inmate. Cher had perfected the system, and now had plenty of bags hidden right out in plain sight.

  ‘What was she wearing?’ Theresa wanted to know.

  ‘Armani!’ Cher giggled. ‘I’ve never managed to steal Armani before. It’s so damned expensive that the stores usually have it wired to the rack.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think 71036 ever had to steal anything,’ Suki said. ‘It said in the papers that she’s really rich.’

  ‘Yeah. And greedy, too. She got busted for stealing that money on Wall Street,’ Cher shot back. ‘That makes her a thief just like me.’

  ‘But did you see her on the TV news?’ Suki asked. ‘She looks just like a movie star.’

  ‘Well, you know what they say about pictures, don’t you?’ Theresa began.

  ‘Yeah, we all know what they say about pictures, Theresa,’ I said in exasperation. ‘You all act like we never had us a celebrity prisoner before. What about Jackie James, the sick little twist from Montgomery who killed her two babies on a tourist trip to New York, then said they’d been kidnapped by a black brotha’? That was in all the papers.’

  ‘Nobody likes baby killers,’ Cher said.

  ‘Or baby rapers,’ Theresa added. ‘Whatever happened to that teacher, Camille Lazzaro, who decided to teach one of her boy students more than geography? Didn’t she just give a whole new meaning to the term “teacher’s pet”? She had the baby and the daddy wasn’t even thirteen years old yet.’

  ‘Or that Carole Waters over in Unit Three?’ Cher added. ‘She got her boyfriend to murder both her husband and her mother-in-law just for the insurance and the inheritance. She was in all the papers, too.’

  ‘I steer clear of anyone who kills for money.’ Theresa shook her head. ‘It’s one thing if you catch your man screwin’ your sister or your daughter. I say shoot ‘em. But to kill someone just for money, that’s cold.’

  ‘That reminds me,’ Cher said, laughing, ‘any of you heard that Dixie Chicks song on the radio called “Goodbye Earl”? It reminded me of you, Movita.’

  As soon as Cher said that, it got real quiet. ‘We ain’t gonna talk about Earl,’ I said – and I meant it. Cher didn’t say another word. She didn’t dare to. It’s an unspoken but well enforced rule that you don’t never talk about anyone’s life on the Outside. You specially don’t never mention no one’s family or her man unless you’re invited to.

  Most of the women on the Inside are here, one way or another, because of a man. Either she got involved in one of his illegal schemes, or he beat her until one day she fought back and killed him. It’s safe to say that most of the women in Jennings wouldn’t be here at all if they hadn’t been hooked up with low-life no-goods like my Earl. Men are a weakness, like drinking or drugs. I know I was weak willed with my Earl, and fact is I don’t like to be reminded of it.

  Suki was the first one to speak up again after the silence. ‘You think this Jennifer Spencer got in trouble because of her boyfriend, too?’ she asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ I said. ‘I know about bookkeeping, and it doesn’t matter if it’s a dental office in Kew Gardens or investment banking on Wall Street. It all comes down to shifting the books and what you’re allowed to get away with. Men still make the rules about that and they probably always will.’

  ‘Well, 71036 seems to be pretty comfortable around men,’ Cher said. ‘You shoulda seen her flirtin’ with dumb ol’ Roger Camry. He was all “Miss Spencer” this and “Miss Spencer” that. It was enough to make ya’ sick.’

  ‘What about Byrd?’ I asked her. ‘Was that prick hittin’ on her?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Cher said with a smirk. ‘He’ll get her eventually, but right now it looked like he was gonna let Roger have first crack at her.’

  As soon as Cher said that, Suki stood up, took her tray from the table, all angry like, and said, ‘I’m not gonna sit here and listen to this dirty talk. I gotta get back to the laundry.’ She took her tray to the dirty dish window and left.

  ‘Well, what’s wrong with that one?’ Cher asked, not that she really wanted to know.

  ‘Maybe she’s having her time of the month,’ I answered, though I was afraid I knew the answer and it wasn’t that.

  ‘Well, you know what they say about women living together in prison and their periods, don’t you?’ asked Theresa.

  ‘Theresa, if we all got our periods at the very same time,’ I laughed, ‘this ol’ building would vibrate so hard from the tension that the cement blocks would all collapse and we’d be able to just walk on outta here.’

  Just then old Springtime, who tends the flower gardens, was passing the tabl
e and overheard what I said. ‘Is someone planning a breakout?’ she asked, her voice hushed but all excited.

  ‘Nah, old sista’,’ I told her gently. She’s tried to escape fifty or sixty times by now. ‘We’re just waiting for the place to fall down on its own so you can hop your withered old ass right over the pile of rubble and get out.’ I smiled at her and she grinned back.

  The whole room looked our way as old Springtime’s cackle echoed off the steel and cinder blocks.

  5

  Gwen Harding

  Some people think that law enforcement officers are inhumane or uninteresting. Personally, if I became personally involved with every person sitting there crying, I couldn’t function in my job. I’m not inhumane – I’m just removed from the emotion.

  Georgia Walton, deputy sheriff at Sybil Brand Institute.

  Kathryn Watterson, Women in Prison

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ the new inmate began briskly as she was ushered into the Warden’s office by Officers Camry and Byrd.

  Gwen Harding didn’t get many chances to laugh during an Intake meeting, but the dumbstruck look on Jennifer Spencer’s face when she got her first look at ‘sir’ was almost comical. Like so many other women, Spencer obviously assumed that Warden Harding would be a man with whom she might flirt. The girl was clearly more than just a little rattled by her discovery.