by Lexie Ray
Maybe the lawyer was right. Maybe it was time, now, to move forward. To find a different plan. To make a new life.
They shuttled me from the courthouse to the prison in a van that had a cage separating me from the driver, like I was some kind of animal. When we got to the prison, I was sure I was an animal. I was stripped and searched, hosed off, given a new jumpsuit to wear and a bundle of blankets.
I had a quick meeting with a corrections officer assigned to me—Pitt Harrison. He was an older man, his hair more salt than pepper, but his figure was still trim—no expanding, old man’s belly. In another time and place, I might even consider his polite smile, his blue eyes handsome, but this was neither the time nor the place. He was my corrections officer, in charge of my time here. His desk was neat, orderly. There was a framed picture on the surface that featured him smiling with a pretty blonde woman, a tow-headed child grinning up adoringly at them.
“You’ll come to me with any concerns,” he said, looking over my file, dragging my attention away from the picture. “And I’ll make sure you know about any concerns that I have about you.”
I wondered what was in that file. Was it my measurements? My crimes? Every heinous thing I’d done? If it shocked him, Pitt’s face didn’t reveal a thing.
“How—how does this all work?” I asked. I could really, really go for a drink about now. This seemed too overwhelming. There were so many women here, so many mistakes that had been made. Where was I going to fit in?
Perhaps I’d find that this was the place I belonged the most.
“First time inside, I see,” Pitt said. “Keep your head down until you figure out how to live in here. Careful who you trust. Do you have anyone on the outside who can send you money or care packages?”
That was a laugh. Would Johnny French send me anything? That was a resounding no, and he’d perhaps been one of the customers I was closest to. I was also pretty sure that the mob didn’t do care packages.
“No,” I said, shaking my head and staring down at the tips of my rubber-soled shoes. There had been a time in my life when I’d taken great pride in my appearance—fixing my hair until it was just perfect, sweeping on makeup until I glittered under the lights, picking out just the right dress or shoes or outfit to pull everything together. Now, it was going to be jumpsuits and rubber-soled shoes for years. It was a foreign concept. I knew exactly what I was going to be doing years from now. It would be staring down at these ugly ass shoes.
“There has to be someone, Wanda,” Pitt said, looking up at me. That was a small degree of comfort. At least my officer could look me in the eyes. “Don’t you have any family?”
“I have a son,” I said, hesitating to even say anything about it, “but we’re estranged.” As an understatement. I hadn’t seen my child in years and years. Even if I’d had a gun to my head, I wouldn’t be able to say what he was doing, recite his address or phone number. He was a stranger to me, even thought it hurt my heart to admit it.
“Well, all you have is time in here,” Pitt said. “Maybe you should try to spend it mending fences. Improving yourself.”
“That’s something to think about,” I said, nodding. “Thank you.” I wondered if he was speaking from experience. With a family in that picture frame as happy as his looked, I somehow doubted it.
There was a knock on the office door.
“Enter,” Pitt called, closing my file and bumping it against his desk to ensure that all the papers within it were straight.
“You called me, Mr. Harrison?”
I turned in my chair to see a thin brunette at the door, her hair twisted into tight cornrows. The bottoms of the braids had been decorated with pink plastic beads, which made her rattle whenever she moved even a little bit. I wondered if she ever got sick of the sound and resigned myself to the fact that I probably would very soon. Her skin was on the sallow side of fair, and she had a thermal shirt beneath her jumpsuit. I couldn’t fathom why—I was hot and uncomfortable, sweat prickling my scalp.
“Yes. Wanda, this is Willow Masterson. Willow, this is Wanda Dupree. Your new cellmate.”
I stood as Pitt did, turning to face the door. Willow eyed me a little balefully.
“We’ll have to un-bunk the beds,” she said. “I don’t know if I’d trust you on the top bunk, above me.”
“Suits me just fine,” I said calmly. I should choke this bitch. Nobody talked about my weight like that.
“You all will work out the details, I’m sure,” Pitt said. “Just ask Willow if you have any questions about anything. She’s already used to the system, aren’t you, Willow?”
She ducked her head in agreement, but her eyes flashed. I recognized it as a jibe from Pitt. Was he sticking up for me, hitting Willow where it hurt after she’d insulted me? The thought was nice, that I might have a friend on the inside, but I could fight my own battles. I didn’t need someone else stirring up shit. If this girl was going to be my cellmate, I’d prefer to have a decent relationship with her.
“Let’s go,” Willow said disdainfully, jutting her chin out at me. I followed her dutifully out of the office and into the heart of the prison. I thought I’d get some kind of running commentary as we walked through, but Willows mouth stayed shut. I eyed some kind of glass-encased office that contained computers and other corrections officers. They eyed me right back, and I looked away. A smell of food wafted down from another hallway, and I surmised that the cafeteria had to be that way. A woman adjusting her crotch after walking out of another door and the flush of toilets let me know where the restroom was.
I was attracting some attention. There were women of all shapes and sizes in here, but I had always been pretty imposing. The jumpsuit didn’t do much for my figure, but I tried to keep my head up regardless.
No—keep my head down. That’s what Pitt had told me to do. Maybe that’s why everyone was staring at me. Not because I was new, but because I was new and walking in here like I owned the joint. Jesus. It would be a miracle if I didn’t get jumped before dinner.
When Willow entered a cell, I figured it was because it was ours. It was hard to tell. There was shit everywhere—packets of instant noodles scattered everywhere, a couple of spare jumpsuits and other clothes, shoes, books, pencils, notebooks, letters, and just trash.
Once we were inside and I’d taken stock of this new situation, Willow wheeled around.
“I didn’t ask for this,” she said fiercely, poking a sharp finger into the meat of my shoulder.
“Ask for what?” I asked, confused.
“For a new cellmate,” she said. This close, I could see that her eyes were hazel.
“Well, I didn’t ask to be in prison in the first place,” I said easily, biting down the kneejerk desire to snap the finger jabbed into my shoulder like a dry twig. I wouldn’t make any friends if I started out like that.
“You think I did?” Willow demanded. “You think any of us did? You think you’re better than all this?”
Shit. This was escalating and getting far too loud for my liking. Was I having my first fight with my cellmate before I’d even made my bed?
“I’m just here to do my time,” I said. “That’s all. I don’t think I’m better.”
This was absolute bullshit. I was so thirsty that it made my hands shake. I wanted nothing more than a bottle of whiskey to make all of this go away. Why couldn’t I have that? I bit my lip hard. At this point, I would drink anything. Vodka. Gin. Rum. Tequila. Hell, even beer. I hadn’t drunk beer in years and yet I still craved the idea of the cold bubbles rushing down my throat. Anything for a buzz. Anything to make this situation go away.
“What are you in here for, anyway?” she asked, peering at me, those hazel eyes damning and suspicious.
“That’s none of your goddamn business, sugar,” I said, wanting nothing less than to rehash my trial. I’d already been judged once. Would I spend the rest of my days being judged again and again for the same crimes?
Willow shrugged, so I figured tha
t was a standard response to the question.
“Help me with the bed,” she instructed.
I set my bundle of things on a chair and got on the other side of the stacked bunk bed. It was easy enough to lift down, though I suspected that Willow was doing less than her share of the work. We got it settled against the wall, Willow grimacing at me as I accidentally stepped on one of her packets of noodles.
“Don’t touch my shit,” she warned me.
“Don’t leave your shit strung all over the room,” I retorted. I had no patience for this, no desire to play the little political and emotional games that prison was evidently going to be filled with. I was bone tired and had a terrible thirst. I had to grip the material of my jumpsuit to keep my fingers from twitching with the desire of it.
Willow scowled at me as she gathered up her belongings, stuffing them into a cabinet on her side of the room. She crossed and opened up what I presumed was my cabinet, yanking out even more things before tossing them in her own cabinet. I was stunned that someone in prison could amass so many possessions. It was clear that Willow had people on the outside that cared about her, that she had the means to have possessions.
My cabinet was going to be depressingly bare. I might as well allow her to keep some of her things in there, but I didn’t want to seem weak.
I made my bed with the mattress and blankets they’d given me upon my entrance. It was lumpy, and when I sat down on it experimentally, I could feel the bed frame beneath me. It was extremely uncomfortable and I knew it was going to be hell on my back. Well, this was prison. It was meant to be a punishment, thought my sentence now was seemed to stretch longer and longer. I guessed I had at least six or seven years to sleep uncomfortably, to exist without friends, to just be in this wretched place.
Was any of it worth it? Had the nightclub been worth being locked up? Maybe if I still had my money I could tolerate this a little better. But there was nothing waiting for me. Nothing. Prison was all I had—this half of the room, this mattress I was sitting on, this jumpsuit that was showcasing my belly and my thick thighs, these fucking ugly shoes.
I pushed my fingers through my hopeless hair, realizing that things I had taken for granted before were notably absent here. My hair hung in hanks around my head. I hadn’t done it since the last night I’d worked at the nightclub. Throughout the trial, I’d tried to run my fingers through it, tried to shape it into something, but I still knew that I looked awful, hardly put together.
That was my next six or seven years, if I could make it without hurting someone or breaking rules. Skanky hair, shit wardrobe, and not a drop of goddamn alcohol.
This wasn’t prison. This was hell.
I looked up to see Willow watching me. This was my cellmate, the person who would be sleeping with me for God knew how long. We’d definitely started off on the wrong foot, though it hadn’t been my fault. I’d certainly done nothing to try to relieve the tension between us. Maybe it was time to make nice.
“So,” I said. “Tell me about a normal day in prison.”
“That’s none of your goddamn business, sugar,” she sniped, shoving the last armful of noodle packets into her cabinet. She was barely able to shut the door without possessions tumbling out.
So this was how the game was going to be played. Great.
I cleared my throat. “I’m in prison because I was convicted of sex trafficking, sugar,” I said, “and a number of other things on top of that.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Willow said, shrugging as she hopped into her bed with a Twinkie. Where was this girl getting Twinkies?
“You asked me why I was here,” I said. “I’m trying to tell you.”
Willow ate her Twinkie delicately and with great relish. I had the feeling she was trying to make me jealous, but I was in no mood for Twinkies. All I wanted was liquor. Any kind of liquor as long as there was a lot of it.
“What’s sex trafficking?” she asked finally, after she’d rattled the wrapper obnoxiously for no less than five minutes as she’d hunted down all the little crumbs and smears of filling.
“They said I coerced girls into selling their bodies for sex,” I said. “That I forced them to.”
“And did you do it?” Willow asked.
I shrugged. “The jury seemed to think I did,” I said. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You didn’t have any appeals left?” she asked.
“My lawyer thought it was best not to drag it out,” I said.
“So you did do it,” Willow crowed.
“It was a business,” I protested, pushing myself off the bed and standing over her, crossing my arms. “It wasn’t what they said it was. If they didn’t want to do business, they should’ve left.”
“Okay, okay,” Willow said, holding her hands up. “You didn’t do it, then.”
I blinked a couple of times. Didn’t I do it? I was confused now. It had been my nightclub and my business. And sure, I was anything but naïve. I knew it was wrong. Still, I was surprised by the testimony from the girls. It had hurt. I’d always thought that they’d worked there because they wanted to be there. The idea that I’d forced them to do anything was distasteful.
“Cell check! Cell check!”
Willow leapt off her bed so fast that it made me stumble backwards.
“Shit, shit, shit,” she hissed. “Someone must have snitched. Fucking bitches, all of them. Shit.”
She reached into the bottom of her cabinet and produced a black garbage bag that was tied tightly and wrapped in a towel.
“What’s that?” I asked, eyeing it. “What’s cell check?”
“The guards are going to be in here in a minute to sweep this room for contraband,” Willow said, holding the bundle as if it were a baby.
“What’s considered contraband?” I wondered.
“This,” she said, thrusting the package at me. I backed away from it.
“I don’t want it,” I said. “I just got here. I don’t want to get in trouble.”
“They won’t suspect you,” she said. “You’re new. Please. Take it. Put it in your jumpsuit. You’re so big they’d never notice.”
“Fuck you,” I spat at her. “That’s the second time you’ve said something about my weight. There won’t be a third time, bitch.”
“I’m sorry,” she spluttered. “I didn’t mean it. Please. Please take it. I can’t get in trouble again. Please.”
I took the package, which sloshed a little bit, and flattened it against my stomach, securing my jumpsuit just as a pair of guards entered the cell.
“Outside,” one of them ordered, and Willow and I dutifully obeyed. The garbage bag inside of my jumpsuit made what seemed to me to be a thunderous rattling sound, but if the guards noticed, they didn’t let on. Why had I put my ass on the line for a girl I didn’t even know? I couldn’t believe the stupid decisions I was making in prison, and it was only my first day.
Willow fidgeted as we stood out in the hallway with other inmates getting their cells searched.
“Are they searching everyone’s?” I asked.
Willow nodded. “Sometimes they do it randomly, but it’s usually because they get a tip. As in some bitch snitched.”
This last part, she said a little louder, drawing the attention of other girls standing out there with us.
“No one snitched on you,” someone hissed.
“Quiet in the hall,” a guard called, and I tried to stand as still as I could. There was no reason to make any extra movements, to rattle the bag and whatever it contained and give myself away. Willow had said that I wouldn’t be suspected because I was new, but I was sure that if I got caught with whatever I had inside my jumpsuit, I wouldn’t escape punishment. Follow the rules, the lawyer had said. Keep your head down, Pitt had said. So far, I was doing a miserable fucking job of both things.
“There’s an awful lot of you, isn’t there?”
I turned to my other side to see another inmate leering at me.
“What you
see is what you get,” I sneered.
“More of you to love,” the inmate said, raising her eyebrows suggestively.
“Stay away from the new meat, Tama,” another inmate said softly. “She looks a little squishy.”
My eyes darted up to tell off whoever had made the jibe, but the guards exited our cell.
“Clear!” they announced. “Return to your cells.”
Willow and I filed in to assess the damage. Her cabinet had been positively turned out, its contents scattered back out across the floor.
“I just cleaned this up,” she complained.
Both of our beds had been unmade, the mattresses dumped on the floor. Even the bundle of clothes I hadn’t had a chance to put away yet had been picked through and strewn on the floor.
“They don’t really seem to care about our stuff, do they?” I asked, stooping to collect my things and gasping. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten about the bag of contraband I’d been carrying around. Bending over made it gurgle and the bag crinkle unmistakably.
“Glad you didn’t get the chance to bend over out in the hall,” Willow said critically, holding her hands out. “Everyone would’ve been able to tell what you’re carrying.”
I unfastened my jumpsuit and handed my cellmate the bundle. It had warmed against my skin, but I could tell now that it was pure liquid inside. What could it contain?
“So this is contraband?” I asked, readjusting my jumpsuit.
Willow nodded. “I’ll show you—I at least owe you that—but it has to wait until lights out.”
“All right,” I said. “Here, I’ll help you clean up.”
“Why are you helping me?” she asked, her suspicious look back in place.
I shrugged. “I’ve already helped you by hiding your contraband. It seems to be becoming a habit.”
I gathered up all of Willow’s things—she had to really like those instant noodles for as many as she was hoarding—and helped her arrange them in her cabinet. It was easy to put the beds back together with two people working at it, and soon the room looked better than it had when I first got there.