Ripoff

by St. James, Morgan

  Cameron looked through the window at the expanse of green lawn extending to razor-wire atop the fence beyond. She whispered to Kate and me, “Yeah, and how many would want to?” I tried to keep a straight face while Julia gave instructions.

  She was using one of those little wireless clip-on microphones and her voice filled the tight space. “Our bungalows are outside the main security area.” She gave a forced laugh. “Don’t worry, you won’t be in prison overnight. The bus will park in front of the factory now. You will not, and I repeat, will not, be going into the main area of the prison. You will not be anywhere near the cell blocks.

  The communal sigh of relief practically rocked the bus.

  “Leave your purses and other belongings on the bus. They will be safe. The only thing you can take in with you is your driver’s license for identification.”

  I shrugged, then pulled the license out of my wallet and put everything else under my seat. I saw the others did the same. We filed off the bus and walked to the admittance area. A uniformed guard wearing a gun in a holster on his hip greeted us. “Take off your shoes, belts, watches and earrings—anything that might trigger the metal detectors. We set them at a much higher sensitivity in prison than the detectors in airports. Any little thing can set them off.”

  A broad smile spread across his beefy cheeks. His piercing blue eyes sparkled when he said, “Oh, by the way, you gals don’t have to worry about taking off under-wired bras.”

  Did I spot a leer, or was I letting my imagination run wild?

  “I can guess by lookin’ at you, that most of you were probably worried about that.”

  All I could think was that the guy was sure enjoying himself.

  “If it sets off the sensors we can wand you.” With that he gave a grunty sort of laugh. It might have been his private joke, but to tell the truth I didn’t find it very funny. I also noticed Julia didn’t object to his disrespect.

  She put her license in the tray on the ledge at the side of the detector frame and stepped through. There was a beep and the grinning guard passed the wand across her generous bosom. Obviously they had been through this dance together many times. I wondered if the guard ever lost his control and groped her. He sure looked like he would like to. She turned and said, “See. Nothing to it. Now all of you do the same. Put your license in the tray and just walk through.”

  The guard collected the licenses and gave them to another guard seated behind a window on the other side. Julia said, “They’ll keep those until we come out. After passing through the detector they stamp your hand. It’s a precaution to make sure no one on the inside can switch places with you. They write down the number of your stamp and keep it with your license. When you come out they’ll put your hand under a black light, match it up, give you back the license and let you out.”

  One of the women said, “But Julia, this isn’t a woman’s prison and we’re all women. Wouldn’t it be pretty obvious if some guy tried to switch with us?”

  Before Julia could answer, the guard at the window said, “Don’t be a wiseass. Rules are rules.” He looked at the first woman in line. “Now give me your hand.”

  Once inside the factory, my eyes popped. I had pictured something much different. For some reason I thought we would enter a big open cavern of an area with multiple floors of cells all around the perimeter. I had pictured guards marching the inmates into this area so they could work at primitive equipment to produce furniture. In other words, a poor excuse for a factory— something you would expect to see in a comedy.

  Instead, as I looked around I realized how ridiculous my expectations were. How could I have thought $800,000,000 a year worth of business could be produced from the Mickey Mouse operations I’d envisioned?

  This factory was filled with modern computerized manufacturing zones. Some of the men in green uniforms worked lathes, extruding machines, and other noisy equipment while others worked on finer details like dovetailed drawers. From an explanation I’d received when I bought my new bedroom set, I knew that dovetail-style joining of a drawer front to the drawer body was an indication of good quality as opposed to the stapling used in cheaper furniture construction.

  Julia waved her hand toward the busy floor. “Look around, ladies. See the guys in the green uniforms? They’re inmates. The ones in gray are guards, although I’ve said it before. The way a few of them act sometimes, it really does make me wonder if the colors got mixed up.” She waited for us to laugh.

  We did and she began the guided tour through the massive facility. We stopped at an extruding machine. The inmate operating it told us with pride that he was making composition edge banding that would be stained like wood and used to finish the edges of desk tops. He was surprisingly courteous. I wondered what he was in for.

  We continued, stopping at each machine for an inmate to explain what they were doing. Most of the men showed extreme pride while demonstrating their respective jobs, making it hard to believe that all of them were convicted criminals. I hoped none of them were murderers.

  Only the upholstery sewing machines were inside of locked chain link enclosures. Julia explained that the needles and scissors had to be accounted for because they could become weapons.

  A few hours later, we left the production area of the factory and were shown into one of the many meeting rooms in the facility. My first thought was that the huge, highly polished mahogany conference table, surrounded by comfortable blue leather executive chairs with the FACR logo embroidered on each back, seemed far more luxurious a meeting room than one would expect in a prison. Another of my misconceptions. I would have to get used to not automatically assuming everything would look tacky because it was government or prison. After all, this could easily function as a showroom for government buyers who came for a factory tour.

  Heads snapped to attention when a no-nonsense woman with a rather stern face, her dark brown hair drawn beneath a hair band, entered the room. I guessed she was far-sighted because rimless glasses, perched almost at the tip of her generous nose, made her brown eyes look massive. This new arrival reminded me of one of those female German generals I’d seen in vintage newsreels.

  Kate and Cameron exchanged glances with me as if to say, “Uh-oh. What next?” It wouldn’t have surprised me if the woman said in an authoritative tone, “You will be good little salespeople.”

  Instead, she flashed a cold smile and said in a clipped New England accent, “Welcome. I’m Lena Hemmelmacher, Director of Training.” Her tone implied that we had better show respect, or else. In all honesty, she spiked some fear in me.

  The formidable Lena snapped open a laser pointer, aiming it at a white board mounted on the wall. “Welcome to my training room. We will spend the next two days here, so pay attention. When I’m done with you”—she fixed each of us with a frosty stare—“you will know everything about how to mount an attack against those purchasing agents.” I pictured her snapping a riding crop.”

  Attack? What were they going to do next? Issue the sales staff weapons?

  ~7~

  For the rest of the afternoon Lena hammered out information in drill sergeant style while everyone took notes and answered questions when called upon. I felt like I was in grade school with a witch for a teacher.

  I’ll admit, I wasn’t quite as attentive as the others. After all, my job wasn’t to sell the stuff. My job was simply to do what I’ve always done. Keep track of the finances. Still, I pretended to pay attention. I’m good at that.

  Back when I was in school, it was easy for me to slide through tests on what I heard in class, and this was no exception. In fact, I actually surprised myself with correct answers the few times she pinned me with her laser gaze.

  At the end of the day, exhausted and somewhat bummed out, we all piled back on the bus. Kate sat next to me, while Cameron took the aisle seat across from Kate. Cameron said, “How about that Hemmelmacher? Can you imagine her and someone like Leona Helmsley locking horns? Gives me the chills just thinking
about it.”

  Kate nodded. “Yeah. Helmsley was in prison, but she died in 2007. Still, Helmsley might have won. She was better looking than Lena and had the bucks. All that Frau Hemmelmacher has is attitude. I sure don’t want to get on the wrong side of her. You know, government employees can’t be fired unless their job is eliminated. I think the best they can do is transfer them.”

  Tucker sat in front of Kate. Hearing our chatter, she turned around, her soft Southern drawl flowing like molasses. “You know what, y’all. Julia told me our lovely Training Director was a matron in a women’s prison before getting this job. From what she said, I guess that ole gal was caught getting way too forceful with some of the inmates. That’s why she was transferred to this job where she doesn’t have much direct contact with inmates except training. All she does here is introduce them to the conditions of the FACR program if they’re lucky enough to get in.”

  Cameron said, “I don’t doubt that one bit. She’s so nasty I believe one look from her would make a grizzly bear turn tail and run. I also don’t think she and Julia like each other one iota. ”

  “Well, y’all, besides running training sessions for the inmates, Julia said something about her having administrative duties, but I truly can’t remember what they were.”

  “Hmmm. Since she handles the orientations, maybe she has to write up reports or something.”

  “Could be—“

  Julia tapped the mic. “Ladies, ladies—a minute, please.” When she cleared her throat, the mic’s amplification made it sound like an avalanche tumbling down a mountain. Now what?

  “Ladies, ladies. Please be quiet. This is important. Before we get there, I wanted to let you know the…er… accommodations are a bit, um, ‘rustic.’ Unfortunately, it’s the only choice with the lack of motels in town. I just didn’t want you to expect anything luxurious.”

  Tucker snickered. “Luxurious? Out here in a place that looks like the end of the earth? Is she serious?” She shrugged. “Listen, y’all. I can put up with something like a Nightcap Motel for a night. No problem.”

  Just at that moment, the bus pulled a sharp right turn, jostling all of us, and then continued for about half a mile along a horribly uneven road filled with potholes. We felt another sharp jolt when the driver slammed on the brakes in front of a nondescript gray structure that looked like barracks. I squinted to read the faded sign: Paradise Cottages. Who were they kidding? Since when were concrete barracks called cottages?

  We all clambered off the bus and waited as the driver unloaded our bags.

  Inside the low cinderblock building one of the women whistled and said, “Holy shit! Calling this place Paradise Cottages is like saying you met an honest politician. What a stretch of the imagination.”

  Another said, “It is quite a hellhole, but at least it’s only for one night.”

  I looked around Cottage Seven, a dismal place boasting eight cot beds with rusty footlockers at the end of each one. Flakes of yellowish green paint had peeled off the walls and lay in little piles on the floor. I wondered when, if ever, the place had been cleaned. I poked the mattress on the bed that was to be mine. It looked like it was only about an inch thick with a thin blue blanket folded at the end. The pillow, stuffed into a dingy white pillowcase, reminded me of a sack of cement.

  Ugh. Now I knew why Julia had treated us to nice rooms and a good dinner the night before. The phrase “the condemned man had a hearty meal,” kept running through my mind. I desperately hoped there was a decent restaurant close by. But then, I also wished for world peace and a fat bank account.

  The little town of Paradise Hills didn’t have a motel that could accommodate all of us. Since it is forty miles east of everywhere, apparently this was the only choice. If I were a gambling person, I’d have given odds that even the inmates’ beds weren’t this sad.

  It got worse. The bathroom was a big area with a long row of grayish-toned basins that may have been white a long time ago, set into a barf-green counter. The doors on the toilet stalls were so out of square, they wouldn’t close. The one long water-spotted mirror running the length of the sinks reflected expressions ranging from shock to horror as our crack sales team took everything in. Compared to this dump, anything would look luxurious.

  Cameron complained, “All I can say is our expense allowance better be enough for decent lodgings once we’re working our territories. If not, I’ll quit. I don’t think I’ll get any sleep tonight.”

  From what I’d learned about my new colleagues, the sad truth was that most likely none of us could afford to quit, so Julia never heard our complaints.

  We all piled back on the bus for a foray into the actual town of Paradise Hills where food at the local McDonald’s was considered haute cuisine. Unfortunately, for us, we passed that eatery by and continued to a dilapidated café located about a mile past it. The neon sign outside blinked Cuppa Joe and Sanwiches on and off. Sandwiches was spelled wrong. And that wasn't all that was wrong about the place once we got inside.

  If it didn’t float in grease or taste like cardboard, Cuppa Joe didn’t serve it. As for the namesake, the coffee could best be described as sludge. What was wrong with Julia? None of us finished our meal although she downed two cups of the drink they called coffee and didn’t even leave a scrap of the “Best Steak in Paradise” on her plate. I’m serious. Who in their right mind would even call that charred piece of shoe leather a steak? Oh for a Big Mac, fries and a coke. I suspected Julia was happy with anything, as long as it remotely resembled food.

  On the ride back, Tucker seemed very jumpy. “What do y’all suppose will happen tomorrow? After that dinner and seein’ where we’re sleepin’ tonight, I’m actually a mite worried, aren’t you? After all, we’re comin’ face-to-face with criminals and all.”

  Kate reached out and patted her hand. “Calm down, I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. Okay, it’s painfully obvious this isn’t the Ritz, and Frau Hemmelmacher really sucks, but I don’t think any of the inmates would dare try anything. Just keep telling yourself once we’ve made it through this dumb training, we’ll be able to start making some real money. Picture the bonuses. That’s what’s keeping me going.”

  I laughed, “Yeah. I guess we can survive another day of this. Besides, I want all of you to make lots money. If you do, so do I. Anyway, Julia said we’d be going back to Seattle after the last session today, didn’t she?”

  Cameron did her lip-bite thing and groaned. “We’d better. I swear if we have to spend another night here, I’d refuse to sleep on that thing they call a cot.

  • • • • •

  At seven the next morning we all clambered back aboard the bus for our return to Paradise Prison.

  Kate whispered, “My God, after last night I think I know how the princess in that fairytale The Princess and The Pea felt. And, she had a stack of mattresses between her and the pea. The only thing between us and the bedsprings in this hellhole is a mattress as thin as a pancake. No wonder I felt something poke me in the butt all night.”

  “Know what, y’all,” Taylor peered over the back of her seat, “I was about to put that little ole scrap of blanket and the pillow on the floor thinkin’ it would be more comfortable, but then I heard scurrying. I think we disturbed the cockroaches.” She fanned herself reminding me of an addled Southern Belle and slumped back into her seat. “I’m gonna need what’s left of the weekend to recuperate.”

  As the bus bumped along toward Paradise Prison, not one of us was in a good mood. Call us spoiled, but after enduring the food served at Cuppa Joe’s followed by bedsprings poking us all night, I don’t think anyone could have faced the next day smiling.

  • • • • •

  Lena Hemmelmacher was already in the conference room, dressed in a tailored light blue suit, crisp white blouse and clunky brown orthopedic oxfords. We settled into the same seats we occupied the day before, while Lena scowled and tapped her laser pointer on the conference table.

  Julia
passed out large four-inch binders with Federal Association of Correctional Reform emblazoned in gold on the dark blue vinyl cover, the FACR logo below and the Federal Seal of the United States above the name. The rings were crammed with brochures, so I assumed the next thing on her agenda was to go through the binder. Boy, was I wrong.

  There was a gentle tap at the conference room door and Lena Hemmelmacher clomped over to open it. An inmate came in pushing a dressmaker dummy on wheels, a sardonic smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He was followed by a handsome man standing about six feet tall, black slacks topped by a beautifully tailored gray blazer. The newcomer flashed a friendly smile that revealed a slight gap between his two front teeth. Thick brown hair tumbled over his forehead and a neatly trimmed mustache added to his sex appeal. He stopped at the head of the conference table and surveyed the room, amusement reflected in his chocolate brown eyes.

  Julia welcomed him like a long-lost friend, and gave him a hug before leading him to a chair beside her. “Welcome Matt. I’m so happy to see you. Sorry you had to drive out here yourself.”

  I thought, “Yeah, what a sacrifice. I’ll bet he’s devastated about missing a ride on the big black bus and staying at Paradise Cottages.”

  “Everyone, say ‘hello’ to the man I call my right arm, Matt Thorne, Director of Design and Marketing. Matt is actually the brains behind our wonderful new marketing plan.”

  While Julia continued to speak, the inmate pushed the dummy to a wide open space beyond the table. We all stared after him as he backed out of the room. An inmate walking around by himself? Julia mouthed, “He’s a trustee.”

  “Good morning, ladies.” Matt flashed a sexy smile. “Just to clarify, trustees are inmates who have special privileges because of their good behavior.”

  A little enlightened hum buzzed around the table.

  “Let me start out by sharing my background. I recently relocated from the D.C. office to work hand-in-hand with Julia. FACR is on the move, and you will all be part of it.” He really looked like a nice guy—someone I’d like to know. I had a feeling we were going to hit it off.