Lies of a Real Housewife: Tell the Truth and Shame the Devil

by Angela Stanton

  speaking with me on the phone.

  “Phaedra what’s up?” I yelled arrogantly.

  She promised to visit the next morning. I hung up then waited. The next morning when she arrived for the visit, Phaedra went on and on about how we needed to let the air cool down. She told me that she had not forgotten about me, and promised that I would get out of this situation. I was facing four felony counts of forgery in the first degree for the transferred car

  titles in Georgia.

  Auto Theft Detective, Pete McFarland, made sure he showed up at

  every hearing or court date that was scheduled. Phaedra promised me that everything would be over before I knew it. She gave me her word that she would look after my family if things went sour. Phaedra also explained and decreed that if anything happened to her, we would all lose. That was already understood. I said, “Just get me out of here Phae! I got to get home to my

  babies.”

  In the courtroom, I stood handcuffed and shackled. My big belly

  was protruding and bumping into anything in its way. My hair was nappy and braided straight to the back. My mother and Aunt Carrie sat inside the courtroom that day. They watched and listened as Phaedra pleaded our case. She was a great attorney, and did try her best, but what the hell happened to her influence? And what happened to the secret society amongst lawyers and judges? Superior Court Judge Matthew Simmons sentenced me to serve five years in the state penitentiary. I watched my mother fall to her knees. I broke my mother’s heart that day. She cried like a baby as the Sheriffs led me away

  in handcuffs. My big belly and all walked out of there. That was it!

  I was startled by the fact that I was going to give birth to my baby

  in prison. From that moment on, I made it my only concern to cherish every moment with my unborn child. I talked to her, and I read to her. I would sing to her while I rubbed my belly. I knew I would have to give her up at birth, but I wanted her to at least remember my voice. Five years sounded like a lot, but I knew I wouldn’t have to serve the full sentence of five years. I had committed a non-violent crime. In the case of non-violent crimes, every day you served earned you three days toward your sentence. That meant I would only serve eighteen months.

  My mother did not know that. I can’t imagine how much she was

  stressing about my five-year sentence. She was thinking that her baby was gone for one thousand eight hundred and twenty five days. It wasn’t the case and I couldn’t wait to get back to the housing unit so that I could call and

  calm her nerves.

  Unfortunately, the process would take at least six hours. Although

  all prisoners were housed in the basement of the courthouse, we would not be transported back to the housing units until each and every prisoner saw the

  judge that day.

  My hips hurt, my back ached, and I was constantly in severe pain. The baby’s weight in addition to my own weight was all pressed up against a cold hard steel bench. This was just too much and proved to be unbearable. Jail was made to be uncomfortable and they have definitely managed to pull

  that one off without a hitch!

  Lying down on my right side with my belly hanging over the bench,

  I had a roll of tissue under my head serving as a pillow, and the uniform that I was wearing was my only cover. Cold air was blowing from the vents. The four concrete walls connected to a steal door reminded me of being in a dungeon every time it was opened and closed. This was nothing short of

  modern day slavery. It is what it is.

  My meals consisted of two bologna sandwiches, one pack of

  mustard, warm milk, and a hard sour orange. I had to force myself to eat in the same cell with the crack-head who had just got off of a thirty-day smoking spree. Keep in mind that everything was inside the cell, including the toilet. She smelled like rotten flesh. Now she had all day to take a dump, but she decided to wait right good until I was about to eat to do so. My baby and I both nearly starved while I was incarcerated. I just couldn’t eat in there! I was always nauseated. I’d be absolutely sick to my stomach.

  I began to mentally prepare myself for this latest journey I was

  embarking upon. I had been to prison before so it wasn’t that bad for me. This time was way different however. I had never given birth while I was incarcerated. Here I was again, sitting on their metal benches, and lying on the thin mats. The conditions were trying enough, but I knew I could get past that. What I didn’t know was, how to get over the separation from my newborn baby. I had already been shopping for her before I was arrested. She had everything she needed. Shaheed was in contact with my mother as he awaited the birth of his child. If our daughter needed anything else, then he

  would be there to provide for her.

  I hadn’t seen Shaheed since I left that morning with E on the way

  to Tennessee. We were due for a visit. Seeing him again was different and difficult. I didn’t feel the same about him anymore. My mind kept flashing back to the night my cousin Gina was murdered, the entire time we were having a conversation. My eyes stayed focus on his hands. I stared at them

  wondering what lives they may have snuffed out.

  That first visit with Shaheed was filled with mixed emotions. There

  were questions which he refused to answer. And it left no doubt in my mind that he was totally capable of all the allegations against him. I was so glad when I thought about the letter I had given to Phaedra a few months back.

  About two months after I found out I was pregnant, I wrote that if anything happened to me, Shaheed did it. I told Phaedra to put the letter in her safe, and

  keep it. Just in case. She gave me her word.

  When the visit with him ended, I was heading back to my cell, and

  my water broke on the steps after leaving the visitation area. I could definitely attribute that to the high level of stress during that particular visit. I was taken

  down to the medical unit in a wheel chair. Then from there, I rode to the hospital in the back of the ambulance. All the while I remained handcuffed. I was afraid of whatever would come next for me, but once again, I refused to be fearful. I had no choice but to face up. This was my reality, but conflict

  reigned inside me.

  May 31, 2004, rolled around. I would finally get to meet my baby

  girl. It should be a happy moment, but I dreaded the day. I was apprehensive, but was also looking forward to the birth of my child at the same time. I knew I wouldn’t be able to care for my newborn. This occasion heralded my true calling from God. My right to raise my child was now being stripped away from me by man. I know we all have to be punished for our crimes. Lessons have to be taught, and we have to be reprimanded when we do wrong, but this was different. I felt I was experiencing something so wrong on all levels. But

  these things I know for sure.

  I didn’t kill anyone. I never molested anyone’s child. And what

  made it all worse was I was the child who had been molested. How was I going to protect my baby girl? She can’t speak yet. How could she tell me if someone had done her wrong? Think about this for a moment. It’s natural for animals like bears and dogs to go insane if you attempt to separate them from

  their babies. How can man be so cruel?

  Lying in the hospital bed on my back with one arm free, and the

  other handcuffed to the hospital bed, I was in pain. I was trying to lie on my side, but it was very, and I do mean very, uncomfortable. Somehow I managed to get through a most difficult labor. My eyes were bloodshot and strained watching the monitor, while listening to my baby’s heartbeat. I was busy praying to God, asking that my baby would be okay. I prayed that I

  would be all right. I prayed that we would all eventually be okay.

  Childbirth was supposed to be a joyous occasion, but this period

  had proved to be not only the longest nine months of my life, but also a very thorny time. My mind was swamped with mus
ings. What was my baby going to look like? What about the bonding period between mother and child? How the critical first six weeks of me not being there would hurt my infant baby?

  Yes, I had indeed been a street hustler, but I can tell you one thing,

  and anyone who knew me will attest to the same thing… I LOVE MY CHILDREN! I lived for them. I fought for them. Just like any other good mother, animal or human, I would have given my life for my offspring. In my

  present condition however, that was easier said than done.

  Every other hour, the doctor checked my cervix to see how far I had

  dilated. Meanwhile, I was thinking about my mother, and how she was going to handle taking care of my other children along with my newborn. I didn’t know how she was going to do it physically, and manage financially. I just knew she would find a way to get it done. Finally, the sheriff allowed me to make that one phone call.

  My mother answered on the first ring. Like always, she was most

  encouraging. She told me to put it in Gods hand, and not to worry. She said, “Don’t worry about anything.” The soothing sound of her voice calmed my fears, and assured me that my baby would be okay. Everything would be just fine when I made it back home. Now all I had to do was make it through this

  childbirth.

  Delivering a child while handcuffed to a bed with a total stranger

  was painfully uncomfortable. For the record, it wasn’t the doctor or midwife, but the sheriff who was there staring down at my vaginal area. His presence during such a private moment had to be one of the most difficult obstacles I had ever hurdled in my lifetime. That moment was also the most degrading experience in my life. I felt that his presence there was meant to destroy my

  humanity, kill my self-esteem, and murder my pride.

  Turning her attention briefly to the sheriff, the midwife made a plea

  for him to leave the room. She asked, “Where is she going to run to? She has a seven-pound baby coming out of her butt!” The mid-wife was pleading, on my behalf, for compassion, but this disrespectful sheriff ignored her, and firmly continued to stand guard. He watched the entire childbirth process.

  As the authority figure stared at me, I felt like a slave girl from

  the movie ‘Roots’. This must have been the feeling that my ancestors had experienced during slavery. Maybe this was something I had just seen on TV. I don’t know what it was, but it was a spirit that seemed all too real. The room was well lit, but still seemed so dark.

  There was the midwife standing over me, instructing me to push

  harder. Realizing the delicate nature of the situation, she tried to be as comforting, and accommodating as she possibly could without jeopardizing her job. I wondered how she felt, and how many other times she assisted with the childbirth of some other lost, pregnant, incarcerated woman. How many

  times she had seen mother and baby separated.

  “How much time will I have with her?” I asked.

  “You get twenty-four hours, Ms. Stanton,” the stern sheriff gruffly

  replied.

  Tears rolled down my face, and I bawled like never before. I felt this

  treatment was unwarranted. My behavior didn’t merit my baby being taken away from me. My baby didn’t deserve to have her mother taken away from

  her. Why was this happening to me? Then my baby-girl came.

  Seeing her for the first time was amazing. I could only thank God for

  my healthy, baby girl while looking in her big beautiful eyes. I kept praising God regardless of my circumstances. I still could not stop the tears of joy. This was mixed with plenty tears of sadness. I thanked God for her perfect body, and her perfect health. Once she was all cleaned up, the sheriff removed

  my handcuffs, affording me the honor of holding my newborn child.

  “Emani Messiah,” I whispered in her tiny right ear. I had already

  chosen her name. Emani, also spelled Imani, means faith and Messiah signifies the chosen one. She was chosen, and she did give me faith. Emani blessed me with enough faith to endure the road ahead, and make it back

  home to not just to her, but to all of my children.

  I did not get to sleep a wink after the birth of my baby. It seemed as

  if I watched the big round black and white clock on the wall every minute it ticked. It was the same type of clock that hung on the wall in the many schools that I got expelled from. I sat there hoping and wondering if I could slow down the hands of time just this once. I held my baby close to my heart, sang in her ear, and told her how much I loved her. I told her that mama was going to come home soon. Hopeful that my voice would soothe her, and tide

  her over just as my mother’s voice did for me.

  The more I held my baby, the more I cried. All the nurses, doctors,

  and other patients walking by my room could hear my cries. I was told several times that if I didn’t calm down, they’d take the baby back to the nursery. I heeded their requests every time, but as soon as I calmed myself down I

  started back up again. I just couldn’t help it. The harder I tried to hold it in,

  the worse it got. I was pitiful.

  No one came and took her from me even though they had threatened

  to do so. Most of the staff members on duty that day were made up of women. Deep down inside somewhere, I believe they understood what I was going

  through. I did the only thing I could. I prayed, cried, and held my baby. I was feeling hopeless and helpless. I watched the clock while closely holding my baby. I performed my motherly duties and changed her pampers. I kissed her often, in an attempt to soothe my precious infant. For the entire night I’d keep my eyes on the clock. I had to treasure every second, every minute, every

  hour. I had no idea how big she would be the next time I laid eyes on her.

  It had been twenty-four hours, and it was time to call my mother

  again to let her know she could come to the hospital and pick up the baby. She must have snapped her fingers to get to the hospital. Twenty minutes later, she was standing outside my hospital room. My mother was excited to see me,

  but more excited by the presence of her granddaughter.

  Our visit was short and sweet. It was about ten minutes to be exact. Once the time elapsed, my mother picked up the baby then was instructed to leave. I too would be leaving, but I would be handcuffed, and escorted to a

  patrol car. My mother had only one simple request.

  “Please let me leave before her, I can’t stand to see her in handcuffs”

  she begged the officer. They granted her request, and let her leave first before

  putting me in handcuffs.

  With tears dripping from my eyes, I silently watched from the back

  window of the patrol car. Seeing how my mother took caution in strapping my beautiful baby girl into the back of her car brought me some relief. I could breathe a little better now even though I was still in captivity. There was a

  sense of reprieve.

  I was headed back to jail, not going home with my baby girl, and as

  a mother, my situation made me feel like I was a complete failure. At least my baby girl was in my mother’s care. There was some sense of satisfaction watching my mother’s car driving away. She was the one person who could love my baby, and she now had her. My mother would love my baby girl just like she loved me. Tears were still welling. I felt like sobbing aloud. Without uttering a sound, my heart kept beating fast and with hope. Thank you sweet

  Jesus!

  Chapter Seven

  Finding My Way

  “Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is, walk in it, and you will find rest for your souls.” Jeremiah 6:16 (NIV)

  Thinking of going back to the cold, hard, dark, loud dungeon

  brought me back to the real world. The vacation was over and I really wasn’t in any hurry to return to Clayton County Jail. I would soon miss the comfort
s of warm covers, and the plush mattress of my stay at the hospital. And I definitely could not forget the luxury of the warm, tasty meals that most certainly didn’t get me nauseated. I mean their food actually looked like food

  should be looking. No mystery meat!

  Reality check finally bit me in the ass as soon as I returned to my

  housing unit. My room was taken because the jail was overcrowded. I was issued a thin mattress, one sheet, and a thin blanket to make do with on the concrete floor.

  I had just given birth and we were only allowed three pads a day. The pads were soaked and heavy from the blood caused by afterbirth. I was wearing three pads at a time. Since I had to get up and down off of the concrete floor repeatedly, the strain caused me to hemorrhage. I begged for

  more pads, but was denied any.

  Blood was everywhere. In order to avoid bleeding on everything, I

  took one of my white T-shirts, and turned it into a pad. I had no other choice.

  Otherwise it would have looked like a crime scene. That was my only option.

  I hand-washed the bloody white T-shirt inside the toilet. The water

  had enough chlorine in it to make my blood-soaked T-shirt white again. Stop turning up your nose. I just want you to know that at the time, there wasn’t any other choice. It wasn’t like I could send them out to the laundry. I did

  what I felt had to be done about my situation.

  My breasts were sensitive and swollen with milk, but I had no baby

  with me to enjoy nature’s nourishment. A mere breeze across my susceptible chest would cause extreme pain. The jail doctor had prescribed ice to help with the pain. One day, a guard walked by my cell, and caught me eating the ice. So she called down to the infirmary and cancelled my ice order. What a miserable bi**h! It was just another moment meant to destroy me, but I still couldn’t understand how people could be so hateful. I was in my cell, not out in the open. Here was something she clearly could’ve overlooked. She didn’t have the heart. I mean for heaven’s sake I had just given birth!