Malice

by Danielle Steel

  She had heard hideous stories about rape and stab-bings while she was in jail, but she forced herself not to think of that now. If she had lived through the last four years, she could make it through the next two. Somehow, some tiny shred of what Molly and David had said to her had given her hope, and in spite of all the miseries in her life, if only for their sakes, she was determined to make it. It was different now. Someone cared about her. She had two friends, the first she'd ever had. They were allies.

  “No, I didn't read about the drug bust,” Grace said quiedy, and the other girl shrugged in annoyance. She had bleached blond hair that looked as though it had been sawed off at her shoulders with a butcher knife and hadn't seen a comb in decades. Her eyes were cold and hard, and Grace noticed when she glanced at her arms that she had powerful muscles.

  “They tried to get me to turn state's evidence against all the big guys, but I'm no snitch. I got integrity, ya know? Besides, I ain't lookin’ to have them come lookin’ for me at Dwight and fry my ass. Know what I mean? You work out?” Her accent said she was from New York, and she was exactly who Grace expected to meet in prison. She looked angry and tough and as though she could take care of herself. She seemed anxious to talk, and she started to tell Grace about the gym she'd helped build and her job in the laundry the last time she'd been in prison. She told her about two escapes that had taken place while she was there, but they had caught all the women who'd gotten out within a day. “It ain't worth it, they stick on another five years every time you do it. How long you got? I'm in for a dime this time, I should be out in a nickel.” Five years … ten … it seemed like a lifetime to Grace as she listened. “What about you?”

  “Two years,” Grace said, not volunteering anything more than that. It seemed long enough to her, although it was certainly better than ten years, or what she might have gotten with another verdict.

  “That's nothin’, kid, you'll do that in a minute. So,” she grinned, and Grace could see that all her teeth along the sides were missing. “So, you're a virgin, huh?” Grace glanced at her nervously at the question. “I mean this is your first time, right?” She really was a fish, and the idea amused the older girl. This was her third time at Dwight, and she was twenty-three years old. She'd been very busy.

  “Yes,” Grace answered softly.

  “What'd you do? Burglary, grand theft auto, dealin’ drugs? That's me. I been doin’ cocaine since I was nine. I started dealin’ in New York when I was eleven. I spent some time in a youth facility there, what a shit place that was. I been there four times. Then I moved out here.” She had spent a lifetime in institutions. “Dwight's not bad.” She talked about it like a hotel she was going back to. “They got some good girls there, some gangs too, all that Aryan Sisterhood shit. You gotta watch out for them, and some pissed-off black girls who hateem. You stay out of their hair and you won't have no problem.”

  “What about you?” Grace looked at her cautiously, but with interest. She was a phenomenon that three months ago Grace would never even have dreamed of. “What do you do when you're there?” Five years was an eternity to spend in prison. There had to be something to do there. Grace wanted to go to school. She'd already heard that there were courses you could take, other than beauty school and learning to make brooms and license plates, which was somewhat less useful. If there was any chance at all, Grace wanted to take correspondence courses from a local college.

  “I don't know what I'll do,” the other girl said. “Just hang out, I guess. I ain't got nothin’ to do. I got a girlfriend who's been there since June. We were pretty tight before I got busted.”

  “That's nice for you.” It would be nice to have a friend there.

  “Yeah, ain't it just.” The other girl laughed, and finally introduced herself and said her name was Angela Fontino. Introductions were rare in prison. “It sure makes the time roll along when you got a cute little piece of ass in your cell, waiting for you to come home from your job in the laundry.” Those were the stories that Grace had heard, and which she dreaded. She nodded at the other girl, and didn't pursue the conversation further, but Angela was clearly amused by Grace's shyness. She loved teasing the little baby fishes. She'd been in and out of enough correctional facilities over the years that she had become very versatile about her sex life. There were even times when she actually preferred it this way.

  “Sounds pretty raw to you, hey kid?” Angela grinned, showing her missing teeth in all their glory. “You get used to anything. Wait a while, by the end of two years you may even figure you like girls better.” There was nothing Grace could say to her, she didn't want to encourage her, or insult her. And then Angela laughed out loud, as she tried to rub her wrists where they were deeply chafed by her handcuffs. “Oh my God, maybe you really are a virgin, huh, baby? You ever even had a guy? If not, you may never even have to shake your little ass at one, maybe you just stick to this for good. It ain't bad at all,” she smiled, and Grace felt her stomach turn over. It reminded her of the afternoons when she'd come home and knew what was in store for her that night. She would have done anything not to come home, but she knew she had to take care of her mother, and then she knew what would happen. It was as inevitable as the setting sun. There had been no escaping it. She felt the same way now. Would she be raped by them? Or just used, as she had been by her father? And how would she ever fight them? If there were ten or twelve of them, or even two, what chance would she have? Her heart quailed as she thought of it, and the promises she had made to Molly and David that she would be strong and survive it. She'd do everything she could, but what if it was just too unbearable … what if … she stared hopelessly at the floor as they left the highway and drove up to the gates of Dwight Correctional Center. The other inmates were hooting and jeering and stamping their feet, and Grace just sat there, staring straight ahead, trying not to think of what Angela had told her.

  “Okay, baby. We're home.” Angela grinned at her. “I don't know where they're gonna put you, but I'll catch up with you after a while. I'll introduce you to some of the girls. They're gonna love you.” She winked at Grace, and Grace could feel her skin crawl.

  But two minutes later, they were all being shepherded from the bus, and Grace could hardly walk when she stood up, her legs were so stiff from sitting there and being shackled.

  What she saw in front of her, as they got out of the bus, was a dismal-looking building, a watchtower, and a seemingly endless barbed-wire fence, behind which was a sea of faceless women in what looked like blue cotton pajamas. It was some kind of a uniform, Grace knew, but she didn't have time to look any further, they were immediately shoved inside, down a long hallway, and through endless gates and heavy doors, clanking their chains, and hobbling in their leg irons, their wrists still burning from the handcuffs.

  “Welcome back to Paradise,” one of the women said sarcastically as three huge black female guards growled at them, as they shoved them toward the next gate without further greeting. “Thank you, I'm thrilled to be back, nice to see you …” she went on, and a few of the women laughed.

  “It's always like this when you get here,” a black woman said to Grace under her breath, “they treat you like shit for the first couple of days, but then they leave you alone most of the time. They just want you to know who's boss.”

  “Yeah. Me,” a huge black girl said, “they touch my big black ass, and I'm callin’ the NAACP, the National Guard, and the President. I know my rights. I don't give a shit if I'm no convict or not, they ain't layin’ a hand on me.” She was over six feet, and probably close to two hundred pounds, and Grace couldn't imagine anyone pushing her around, but she smiled anyway at the look on the girl's face as she said it.

  “Don't pay no attention to her, girl,” the other black girl said. It surprised Grace that many of them seemed so friendly. Yet there was still an aura of menace. The guards were armed, there were signs everywhere warning of danger or penalties or punishments, for escaping, or assaulting a guard, or breaking the rul
es. And the prisoners coming in with her looked like a rough group, particularly in what was left of their street clothes. Grace was wearing a clean pair of jeans and a pale blue sweater Molly had bought her as a gift. She just hoped the authorities would let her keep it.

  “Okay, girls.” A shrill whistle blew, and six female guards in uniform, wearing guns, lined up at the front of the room, looking like coaches on a ladies’ wrestling team, “Strip. Everything you have on in a pile on the floor at your feet. Down to bare-ass nothing, please.” The whistle blew again to stop them from talking, and the woman with the whistle introduced herself as Sergeant Freeman. Half of the guards were black, the others white, which was fairly representative of the mix of the prison population.

  Grace carefully took her sweater off, and folded it on the floor at her feet. One of the officers had un-cuffed them, and now she was going around removing the circlet of steel around their waists that the chains were attached to, and the leg irons so they could remove their jeans. It was a great relief to have the leg irons off, and Grace slipped out of her shoes. She was surprised when the whistle blew again, and they told them all to take everything out of their hair, any rubber bands or bobby pins. They were to let their hair loose, and as she slipped the rubber band off her long ponytail, her dark auburn hair fell in a silken sheet well past her shoulders.

  “Nice hair,” a woman behind her murmured, and Grace did not turn around to see her. It made her uncomfortable knowing the woman was watching her as she took the rest of her clothes off. And in a few minutes, all their clothes were in little piles on the floor, along with their jewelry, their glasses, their hair accessories. They were stripped entirely naked, as six guards walked among them, examining them, telling them to stand with their legs apart, their arms high, and their mouths open. Hands riffled through her hair to see if there was anything hidden there, and their hands were rough as they tugged at the long hair and moved her head from side to side. They shoved a stick in her mouth and moved it around, gagging her, and they had her cough and jump up and down, to see if anything fell out of anywhere. And then one by one, they had them stand in line, and get on a table with stirrups. Sterile instruments were used, and a huge flashlight to see if anything had been concealed in their vaginas. And as Grace stood in line, she couldn't believe that she had to do that. But there was no arguing with them, no discussion about what they would or wouldn't do. Ope scared girl tried to refuse and they told her that if she didn't cooperate, they'd tie her down, it was all the same to them, and then they'd throw her in the hole for thirty days, in the dark, buck naked.

  “Welcome to Fairyland,” one of the familiars said. “Nice here, huh?”

  “Ah, stop bitching, Valentine, you'll get your turn.”

  “Shove it, Hartman.” The two were old friends.

  “I'd love to. Wanna look when it's my turn?”

  Grace's heart was pounding as she got on the table, but the exam was medical, and no worse than most of what she'd been through, it was just humiliating going through it with an audience, and half a dozen of the other women seemed to be eyeing her with interest.

  “Pretty cute … here, little fishie, swim to Mama let's play doctor … can I take a look too?” She seemed not to hear them at all as she followed the rest of the line to the other side of the room and stood waiting for further instruction.

  They led them to a shower room then, and literally hosed them down with near boiling water. They used insecticides on any area with hair, and sprayed lice shampoo on them, and then hosed them down again. At the end of it, they reeked of chemicals and Grace felt as though she'd been boiled in disinfectants.

  Their belongings were placed in plastic bags with their names, anything forbidden had to be sent back at their own expense, or disposed of on the spot, like Grace's jeans, but she was pleased that she was allowed to keep her sweater. They were issued uniforms then, a set of rough sheets, many of which had blood and urine stains on them, and given a slip of paper with their B numbers and their cells, and then they were led away for a brief orientation as to the rules, and they were told that they would each be given job assignments the following morning. Depending on their jobs, they would be paid between two and four dollars a month for working, failure to show up for work would result in an immediate trip to the hole for a week. Failure to appear a second time would result in a month in the hole. Failure to cooperate generally would wind them up in solitary for six months with nothing to do and no one to talk to.

  “Make it easy on yourselves, girls,” the guard in charge of orienting them said in no uncertain terms, “play it our way. It's the only way to go at Dwight.”

  “Yeah, bullshit,” a voice whispered to Grace's right, but it was impossible to tell who it was. It had been a disembodied whisper.

  In a way, they made it sound easy. All you had to do was play their game, go to work, go to chow, stay out of trouble, go back to your cell on time, and you'd do easy time and get out right on schedule. Fight with anyone, join a gang, threaten a guard, break the rules, and you'd be there forever. Try to escape and you were “dead meat hanging on the fence,” or so they said. They certainly made themselves clear, but there was more to it than just pleasing them, you had to live with the other inmates too, and they looked as tough as the guards, or worse, and they had a whole other agenda.

  “What about school?” a girl in the back asked, and everyone jeered.

  “How old are you?” the inmate standing next to her asked derisively.

  “Fifteen.” She was another minor, like Grace, who had been tried as an adult, but they were rare here. Dwight was almost entirely for grown-ups. And surely for grown-up crimes. Like Grace, the other girl had been accused of murder, she had plea-bargained it down to manslaughter and saved herself from the death penalty. She had killed her brother, after he'd raped her. But now she wanted to go to school and get out of the ghetto.

  “You've had enough school,” the woman standing next to her said. “What do you need school for?”

  “You can apply after you've been here ninety days,” the guard said, and then moved on to explain what would happen to them if they ever had the bad judgment to participate in a riot. Just the thought of it made Grace's blood run cold, as the guard explained that in the last riot, they had killed forty-two inmates. But what if she got caught in the middle? What if she was taken hostage? What if she was killed by an inmate or a guard while she was just minding her own business? How was she ever going to survive this?

  Her head was reeling as they finally walked her to her cell. They went in a single line, watched by half a dozen guards and hooted and jeered at by most of the inmates, standing on the tiers, looking down at them and squealing and laughing. “Hey, look at the little fishies … yum yum!” They blew kisses, they shrieked, the girl in front of Grace in the line was even hit with a flying Tampax, and Grace almost retched when she saw it. It was a place like nothing Grace had ever dreamed. It was your worst nightmare come to life. A trip to hell from which Grace could no longer imagine returning. She could still smell the insecticide on her face and hair, and as they stopped at the cell she'd been assigned to, she could feel her asthma starting to choke her.

  “Adams, Grace. B-214.” The guard unlocked the door, signaled for her to step in, and the moment Grace had, she heard the door clang shut, and the key turn. She was standing in a space roughly eight feet square, there was a double bunk, and the walls were covered with pictures of naked women. There were cutouts from Playboy and Hustler and magazines Grace couldn't imagine that women would read, but they did here. Or at least, her roommate did. The lower bunk was neatly made, and with shaking hands, she set about making the top bunk, and put her toothbrush on a little ledge with a paper cup they'd given her. She'd been told that she had to buy her own cigarettes and toothpaste. But she didn't smoke anyway, she couldn't with her asthma.

  When the bed was made, she climbed up and sat on it, and she just sat there, staring at the door, wondering what would happen
next, or how bad it would be when she met her roommate. It was obvious what her preferences were from the photographs on the walls, and Grace was braced for the worst, but she was surprised when a sour-looking woman in her late forties was let into the cell two hours later. She glanced up at Grace, and said not a word. She paused for one long instant, looking at her, and there was no denying that Grace was beautiful, but her cellmate didn't look impressed, and it was fully half an hour later before she said hello and that her name was Sally.

  “I don't want no shit in here,” she said tersely to Grace, “no funny stuff, no visitors from the gangs, no porno, no drugs. I been here seven years. I got my friends and I keep my nose clean. You do the same and we'll be fine, you give me a pain and I'll kick your ass from here to D Block. Got that nice and clear?”

  “Yes,” Grace nodded breathlessly. Her chest had been getting tighter and tighter since that morning, and by dinnertime, she could hardly breathe. She was wheezing badly and they had taken her inhaler away from her when she arrived.

  “You need help, you call a guard,” she'd been told, but she didn't want to do that unless she really had to. She would die first before calling attention to herself, but as they blew the whistle for chow, and she got off her bunk, Sally saw that Grace was in trouble.

  “Oh Christ … looks like I got me a baby. Look, I hate kids. I never had any. I never wanted any. And I don't now. You gotta take care of yourself here.” Grace noticed as she looked down at her as Sally put on a clean shirt that her back, chest, and arms were covered with tattoos, but in some ways she was a relief to Grace. She was fully prepared to mind her own business.