Orange Is the New Black

by Piper Kerman

  We served each other as a barrier against the freaks, of which this small unit had an astonishing array. In addition to poor suicidal Connie, there were several bipolar arsonists, an angry and volatile bank robber, a woman who had written a letter threatening to assassinate John Ashcroft, and a tiny pregnant girl who would seat herself next to me and start running her hands through my hair, crooning. I saw more temper tantrums and freakouts in a few weeks than I had in many months in Danbury, all of which the CO basically ignored. There was no SHU for women in Chicago (we were one floor above the men’s SHU), so the only disciplinary action that could be taken against us was sending a female off to the Cook County Jail, the largest in the nation at ten thousand inmates. “You do not want to go there!” warned Crystal, the mayor, who seemed to know what she was talking about.

  Now that we had been in the MCC for a couple of weeks, the sisters and I saw that there were in fact some sane women present. At first no one really came near us; it took a while to realize that some of the residents of the twelfth floor were scared of us—after all, we three were hardened cons from real prison. But after a bit they must have recognized that we were “normal” like them, and then they made eager overtures: a couple of sweet and friendly Spanish mamis, a very short sports fanatic, and a hilarious Chinese lesbian who introduced herself to me hopefully with the line “I like your body!”

  We were instantly elevated as authorities on anything and everything involving the federal prison system. When we explained that in fact “real prison” was much more bearable than our present surroundings, they were perplexed. They also wanted legal advice, lots of it, and I found myself repeating, “I am not a lawyer. You have to ask your attorney…” But all of them had court-appointed lawyers who were rarely accessible. There was a bizarre black Batphone on the wall, which was supposed to tap directly into the public defender’s office. “Fat fucking lot of good that does us,” complained one of the arsonists.

  I did not have the representation problems of my fellow prisoners. One day I was called out of the unit, told I was going “to court,” and sent down to R&D to sit in a holding cell for hours. Finally I was handed off to my escorts, two big, young Customs agents, federal cops. I’m not sure what they were expecting, but it wasn’t me. When I turned my back to them to be cuffed, the guy doing the honors got rattled.

  “She’s too small. They don’t even fit her!” He sounded anguished.

  His counterpart stuck a thick finger between the cuffs and my wrist and said he thought we were good.

  In the worldview of these burly, clean-cut young guys, I was clearly not supposed to be resident in this fortress. I probably looked too much like their sister, their neighbor, or their wife.

  After being locked away for so many weeks, I enjoyed the ride through the streets of Chicago. At the federal building on South Dearborn, I was taken upstairs to a nondescript conference room and deposited, with the less-rattled officer to guard me. We sat across the table from each other, in silence, for fifteen minutes. I wasn’t looking at him, but I could tell he was watching me, which I guess was his job. He seemed to be getting agitated. He shifted in his chair, looked at the clock, looked at me, shifted again. I thought he was just bored. With prison Zen, I waited for whatever was going to happen next. Finally he couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “You know, we all make mistakes,” he said.

  I turned my eyes to him. “I know that,” I replied.

  “What were you, an addict?”

  “No, I just made a mistake.”

  He was silent for a moment. “You’re just so young.”

  This amused me. It must be the yoga. He was definitely younger than me.

  “My offense is more than eleven years old. I’m thirty-five.” His eyebrows shot toward his hairline. He had no idea what to do with this information.

  Mercifully the door opened, ending the conversation. It was my lawyer, Pat Cotter, with the Assistant U.S. Attorney and a roast beef sandwich. “Larry said roast beef was your favorite!”

  I wolfed it down in as ladylike a fashion as I could muster. I had almost forgotten about my orange attire, but now I felt a little self-conscious. He also brought me a root beer. This is what a top-shelf, white-shoe criminal defense gets you. I was very happy to see him.

  Pat explained that because I would appear as a government witness, the AUSA, the woman who had put me in jail (well actually, that was me; she just prosecuted) got to prepare me. He again reminded me that my plea agreement obligated me to cooperate. He would stay with us, but I had no legal protection per se. Nor was I in any legal risk, as long as I didn’t perjure myself. I assured him I had no plans for that, then pressed him about getting me out of the MCC and back to Danbury. He said he would see what he could do; Jonathan Bibby’s trial date had already been pushed back twice. I knew that meant “Fat chance.”

  I was very tired when I got back to our fortress prison. “You’ll get your turn,” I told Nora and Hester/Anne. We had managed to get moved into a six-person cell with three other women, so now in addition to everything else, we were roommates. I went to sleep.

  THE BIGGEST problem with the MCC was that there was nothing to do. There was a pathetic pile of crap books, decks of cards, and the infernal televisions, always on, always at full volume. There had been nothing to do in Oklahoma City either, but there the surroundings were spotless and serene, with about ten times as much space. Mercifully in Chicago we received mail, and letters and books began arriving for me. I shared my books with my bunkies.

  When you are deep in misery, you reach out to those who can help, people who can understand. I picked up a pen and wrote to the only person on the outside who could begin to grasp my situation, my pen pal Joe, the ex–bank robber. He wrote me back immediately.

  Dear Piper,

  Got your letter. Thanks for reminding me of how much I hated the Los Angeles Metropolitan Detention Center (MDC). I laughed like a mental patient when you told me you are withholding your birth date from your chatty, amateur astrologist bunkmate. That’s hilarious. Must be driving her nuts.

  So I officially met your boy Larry when I was in NYC last month. A cool guy. We chilled at a nice coffee shop near where you live. It’s good that you have a loving place to land when you are officially released altogether from the halfway house.

  Talk about places to land, I was trapped in Oklahoma City (during my transfer from California to Pennsylvania) for 2 months. And I was a high-security risk so I spent that entire time locked in the hole. In the middle of summer. I suffered. I’m so fucking happy that I’m done with doing time. I got good at it, but I never want to be good at it again. That’s one talent I don’t mind squandering.

  You mentioned seeing your old crimeys, that it was chilly at first. It’s amazing how misery can instantly bond folks. Once upon a time I was doing time in a California prison but had to go to a county jail to receive another sentence. I was at the county jail for a month and couldn’t wait to go back to the state prison. I wanted my old routine, my old friends, my own clothes, better food. So I understand your desire to go back to Danbury. I once felt the same thing.

  Anyway, stay strong, Piper. You’re almost done and then you can put this thing behind you in a large way. Not completely, but mostly.

  Until next time,

  Peace.

  Joe Loya

  · · ·

  THE MCC tested my endurance and tolerance. At least we had feminine hygiene items, all emblazoned with Bob Barker’s name. I finally was allowed to buy shampoo, conditioner, stamps, and food from the commissary, plus tweezers. My brows were in a shocking state, and as there were no mirrors in the MCC, the Jansen sisters and I had to play beauty parlor. I did push-ups and crunches, but there was no place to do yoga without someone eyeballing me, certainly not in our six-woman cell. It contained the three of us, an Eminemlette, a cheerful six-foot-four giantess called Tiny, and a new Spanish mami named Inez who was also in Chicago on a writ.

  When Ine
z had first been arrested, another woman in the county jail had thrown cleaning solution in her eyes and blinded her. After nine operations she had recovered partial sight, but she was extremely light-sensitive and so was allowed to wear gigantic wraparound sunglasses. Inez had just celebrated her fiftieth birthday; we tried to make it cheerful.

  Now I didn’t just miss Danbury, I also missed Oklahoma City. The Jansen sisters agreed. We talked longingly about doing “the shackle dance” on the tarmac again. Our shared mantra became “It can always get worse.” We literally repeated it aloud every day, as a charm to ward off the possibility that our situation might grow even more unpleasant.

  The women’s unit was granted “privileges” only once a week, such as recreation time in what resembled a 1970s elementary school gym with dead basketballs and no weights, just one medicine ball, and access to a law library that contained cheesy paperbacks in addition to ancient legal texts. We were escorted by a CO to and from these activities like a kindergarten class. During these journeys we always encountered male prisoners at work; they had far more freedom of movement than we did, which infuriated me. To get to the gym we had to pass the kitchens, where some hopeful-looking guys were always waiting to catch a glimpse of us.

  “You ladies need anything up there?” one of them asked one day as we were being herded onto the elevator.

  “More fruit!” I shouted.

  “I’m gonna send you some bananas, Blondie!”

  I COULD barely contain myself when I got the news that Larry was going to visit me. It took all my self-restraint not to climb up onto one of the unit tables and pound my chest and scream. But the most dangerous thing in prison—jealousy—was not something I wanted to tangle with right now. So I kept it on the down-low. Plus, I was growing skeptical that anything would ever go right for me again.

  On the Saturday he was supposed to come from New York, I took a hot shower. Another prisoner had tipped me off that there was one window of time in the morning when for some reason we could get hot water. My wet hair hung down my back—no hair dryers in the MCC. I went into the bathroom and stared at myself in the metal plate that was bolted over the sinks in lieu of a mirror. It was probably for the best that I couldn’t really see what I looked like. I noted the pencil scrapings on the wall, where other prisoners had made makeshift eyeliner by mixing the lead powder and Vaseline. I didn’t have that kind of skill.

  Visiting hours were very short in Chicago. I sat nervously watching the clock. The Jansen sisters sat nervously watching me. “He’ll be here,” they assured me. It was sort of touching how invested in his visit they were, how they had started to talk about Larry as if they knew him. I felt bad that Hester/Anne’s husband was not able to come visit her in Chicago—he lived not far from the prison where she was serving her seven-year sentence.

  After over an hour of the visiting time had elapsed, I was beside myself. I knew what was happening. The morons who ran the MCC had turned him away. I was sure of it—these people were completely incompetent in every way I had observed so far; why on earth would visitation be any different? I was beaten and furious, a horrible combination.

  And then the security door opened, and a CO walked in and conferred with the CO on duty in the unit. “Kerman!”

  I bolted across the room.

  When I finally got into the big, dirty visiting room, I felt calmer. There were a lot of prisoners with their families in there, and at first I didn’t see Larry, but when I did, I felt faint. I hugged him, and he looked a little faint too.

  “You wouldn’t believe what they put me through. These people are just unreal!” he almost shouted. We sat where we were told, facing each other on molded plastic chairs. I felt truly calm for the first time since I left Danbury.

  The remaining hour flew by. We talked about how on earth I was going to get home, what was going to happen. “We’ll figure it out, babe,” he soothed me, squeezing my hand.

  When the guards called “time,” I wanted to cry. After I kissed Larry goodbye, I practically backed out of the room so I could see him as long as possible. And then I was being herded into a room with a handful of female prisoners. Everyone had the postvisit glow of happiness, and they all looked a lot better for it.

  “Piper, you had a visit?” someone asked.

  “Yeah, my fiancé came to see me.” I grinned like a fool.

  “He came all the way from New York to see you? Wow!” It was as if he had come from the moon.

  I just nodded. I didn’t want to be boastful of my great fortune to have a man like Larry.

  I HAD been hearing about the roof since I got to the MCC. Apparently there was a recreation area up on the top of the building, and when the weather was agreeable, an officer might bring us up there. I had been indoors for weeks now; I was dreaming about the track and the lake at Danbury every night. Finally one day it was announced that we could sign up for roof time. As many women crammed into the elevator as could fit. At the top there were nylon coats we could throw on, and then we were out, high in the sky, albeit caged under razor and chicken wire. There were a couple of basketball hoops up there, and the temperature was in the forties. I immediately got hiccups from the oxygen differential and just breathed as deeply as I could. The roof reflected the building’s triangular footprint, and you could see far in every direction. In one direction were railway yard tracks. A nearby building had a fabulous art deco statue at its pinnacle. And to the southeast I could see the lake.

  I walked to the south side of the rec deck, which was fenced with black iron. The bars were wide enough apart that I could wedge my face between them. I stared out at the lake, scanning the city below me.

  “Hey! Nora. Come here!”

  “What?” She came over.

  I pointed through the bars. “Isn’t that the Congress Hotel?”

  She stared through the bars for a moment, trying to find the spot where she had packed a suitcase full of money for me to carry, more than ten years before. “I think you’re right. You are right. Jesus.”

  Neither of us said anything for a moment.

  “What a dump.”

  THE TRIAL finally began. Jonathan Bibby, the guy who had taught Nora how to smuggle drugs way back when, claimed that he had been an innocent art dealer who happened to hang out with a lot of convicted drug smugglers. But the feds had detailed evidence against him, including records of him traveling to Africa on the same flights as Nora, Hester/Anne, and others. Hester/Anne was taken away to appear in court first. She had known the defendant for years. She came back teary-eyed; the defense attorney had ripped her apart.

  Nora went out next. I remembered that George Freud was somewhere in the building; I figured there was no way they weren’t calling other codefendants as well. On February 14 I was called to R&D. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” cracked Nora. She had no idea how close to drowning she was.

  My escorts to court this time were older, burlier, and more confident. They were also solicitous. “Is there anything we can get you, Piper?”

  I was stumped by that one. I didn’t smoke. I was pretty sure they weren’t going to give me scotch. “I would love a good cup of coffee?”

  “We’ll see what we can do.”

  I had never seen Jonathan Bibby until I was marched into the courtroom in my best orange jumpsuit and stepped into the witness box. Yet I spent what seemed like hours on the stand recounting my own experience, while the jury listened. I wondered what they made of what they were hearing. All of the defense attorney’s questions to me centered on Nora, so it was obvious that she was the star witness. I truly hated testifying for the government, but I was also pretty peeved that this jackass didn’t have the good grace to plead guilty as his codefendants had and spare us all this hassle and discomfort.

  On my ride home my escorts pulled over under the El. One of them hopped out and returned with a piping-hot cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. He uncuffed me. “There’s sugar and cream in there, I wasn’t sure how you take it.”


  They sat in the front seat and smoked while I enjoyed every sip of that coffee. I listened to the roar of the train above and watched people going about their lives on the street. I wondered if this was as weird as it was going to get.

  When it was all over—the jury found Bibby guilty—no one felt good. All I wanted to do was go back to real prison, meaning Danbury. And then go home.

  WITHIN THE stifling women’s unit, Crystal “the mayor” made an effort to maintain a faint semblance of prison protocol. Of course, this involved the Lord. Crystal was a big fan and liked to listen to a local minister’s daily morning TV broadcast turned way up loud. She was a much more persistent proselytizer than any prisoner I had known in Danbury. Every week she would swing by when they called for the church group to go out of the unit, Bible in hand. “Coming to church, ladies?”

  The Jansen girls would scowl. Although Hester/Anne had been born again, she shared my distaste for prison religious ceremonies. “No thanks, Crystal.”

  She wasn’t giving up easily. I figured you had to fight fire with fire. The next time they called us for gym time, I went looking for Crystal.

  “You coming to the gym, Crystal?”

  Looking at me as if I had lost my rabbit-ass mind, she squawked with outrage, “What? Gym? You won’t find me in no gym, Piper. Tire myself out!”

  That Sunday she was back, optimistic as ever. “You comin’ to church, Piper? It’s a good one this week!”

  “I tell you what, Crystal. You go on to church, and I’m gonna ask you to pray for me. And this week when I go down to the gym, I’m gonna work out for you. Is that a deal?”