Insiders

Insiders
Olivia Goldsmith

To Jack Rapke

Because you always knew how good it would be

An imprisoned creature was out of the question – my mother would not have allowed a rat to be restrained of its liberty.

Mark Twain

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Epigraph

Book I

1 Jennifer Spencer

2 Gwen Harding

3 Jennifer Spencer

4 Movita Watson

5 Gwen Harding

6 Jennifer Spencer

7 Maggie Rafferty

8 Jennifer Spencer

9 Movita Watson

10 Jennifer Spencer

11 Gwen Harding

12 Jennifer Spencer

13 Jennifer Spencer

14 Gwen Harding

15 Cher McInnery

16 Jennifer Spencer

17 Maggie Rafferty

18 Jennifer Spencer

19 Movita Watson

20 Jennifer Spencer

Book II

21 Cher McInnery

22 Jennifer Spencer

23 Gwen Harding

24 Jennifer Spencer

25 Maggie Rafferty

26 Cher McInnery

27 Jennifer Spencer

28 Gwen Harding

29 Jennifer Spencer

30 Movita Watson

31 Maggie Rafferty

32 Jennifer Spencer

33 Gwen Harding

Book III

34 Jennifer Spencer

35 Gwen Harding

36 Movita Watson

37 Jennifer Spencer

38 Cher McInnery

39 Jennifer Spencer

40 Jennifer Spencer

41 Maggie Rafferty

42 Jennifer Spencer

43 Movita Watson

44 Maggie Rafferty

45 Jennifer Spencer

46 Gwen Harding

47 Jennifer Spencer

48 Jennifer Spencer

49 Jennifer Spencer

50 Jennifer Spencer

51 Jennifer Spencer

52 Movita Watson

53 Maggie Rafferty

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Recommended Reading

About the Author

Praise

Also by Olivia Goldsmith

Copyright

About the Publisher

Book I

1 Jennifer Spencer

What is now proved was once only imagined.

William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

‘All rise.’

Jennifer Anne Spencer watched as Judge Marian Levitt entered the courtroom, her black robes swinging loosely from her shoulders, not concealing her dumpiness, her white hair cut in a simple bob. She climbed the three steps to the bench holding Jennifer’s future in her hands.

Jennifer stood beside her lawyer and the rest of the legal team and faced Judge Levitt with what she hoped was a calm and honest gaze. She knew that the photographers would pay a great deal to have a picture of her at the time the verdict was given. But they were barred from the courtroom and for that, if nothing else, she was grateful.

Although she had been assured and reassured that the judge would see things ‘their way’, it was not an easy thing to stand before the woman as she leafed through her papers. In fact, although she doubted that she would be judged guilty, she was certain that even if she was, she would be given a suspended sentence or public service or a fine.

Jennifer had to admit that she felt sick to her stomach just standing there. That she had virtually volunteered to be there didn’t make it any easier. She felt a fluttering beside her and realized that Tom, her attorney, was reaching for her hand. She entwined her fingers in his and knew that he could feel her trembling. She hoped that the judge could see neither that nor the fact that they were holding hands. But she supposed it wouldn’t make any difference to the outcome of the trial.

For what seemed like an interminable time, Judge Levitt paged through the notes in front of her. She had on a pair of half-glasses that were perched at the very end of her long nose. Both Donald and Tom had strongly urged Jennifer to forgo a jury trial. ‘This is complicated law,’ Tom had said. ‘A judge would be more likely to understand the distinctions.’ Donald had laughed. ‘Let’s face it,’ he’d said. ‘Civilians hate us and would be only too happy to throw the book at you.’ Jennifer had nodded. ‘We’re the fat cats,’ Donald had continued. ‘We’re the Wall Street smart-asses. When they make money during a bull market they resent us for making more. When they lose money they blame us. You can’t win when you’re on the Street. You’d never get a jury of your peers unless they could get a dozen guys from the Street, and none of them have the time to sit on a jury.’ They had all laughed.

But now, looking up at Judge Levitt, Jennifer didn’t feel like laughing. She told herself it was all going to be all right. Donald and Tom would see to it. This was the worst of it, and after this she’d be so well rewarded that …

‘Jennifer Spencer. You have been accused of fraud. I find you guilty. On insider trading I find you guilty on all counts. On …’

A loud buzzing began in Jennifer’s ears. The word ‘guilty’ coming from Judge Levitt’s lips seemed to move from the bench to her and hit her like a blow. This wasn’t what was planned. She felt dizzy and she had to close her eyes for a moment to stop the room from spinning. Tom’s hand on her now clammy one did not feel comforting. She wanted to shake him off and wipe the sweat off herself. How could this be happening?

When she could hear again, the judge was intoning something about her sentence. A sentence? If she was found guilty, there wasn’t supposed to be a sentence. ‘… three to five years at Jennings Correctional Facility for Women.’ The judge paused, took off her glasses, and looked across the bench at Jennifer. ‘You are very young,’ she said. ‘It’s better that you learn now that this type of manipulation and illegal profiteering is unacceptable and that it could destroy your entire life.’

Jennifer couldn’t respond. Even on that horrible day when the Feds came into her posh office at the prestigious Wall Street firm of Hudson, Van Schaank & Michaels to take her away in cuffs, Jennifer didn’t believe that she would spend even one moment in a jail cell. The arrest made her a little nervous, of course, but that was only because she’d never been in trouble before with the law.

‘This is just a publicity stunt,’ her boss told her. ‘They’re firing shots over our heads to cool down this overheated market.’ That boss was the legendary Donald J. Michaels himself, and Jennifer never questioned his judgment or authority. ‘Believe me,’ Donald assured her, ‘these charges are going to be dropped. And even if you do go to trial, you aren’t going to be found guilty of anything. Trust me,’ he added with his reassuring smile.

Jennifer did trust him. After all, she wasn’t guilty of anything. She was just taking the heat for Donald in order to deflect any further investigations into his firm’s rather dubious business dealings. If the SEC – the Securities and Exchange Commission – had gone after Donald they would have thrown the book at him. ‘And they’ve got a damn big book,’ Donald had joked. ‘You know how jealous, how envious, people have been over our success in the last few years.’ Jennifer did know. During his Wall Street career Donald Michaels had made not only his own fortune, but had also made dozens, maybe scores – or even hundreds – of other millionaires. Jennifer herself was a millionaire at twenty-eight – but now she was a millionaire who was leaving for prison in less than an hour.

Standing in the courtroom, Jennifer cradled her right elbow in her left hand and her left in her right hand and shivered as she felt both her gooseflesh and nausea rise. How, she wondered, did it come to this? How had Tom, her lawyer, let it happen?

Thomas Philip Branston IV was the sharpest (and most handsome) young counsel on the Street. ‘Nothing is really at risk,’ he had told Jennifer, echoing Donald’s assurances. ‘It never is in cases like this. Even if you are convicted – which is virtually impossible – we’ll have an appeal before the judge can pound his gavel. Donald has good friends and deep pockets,’ Tom said with a knowing smile. Jennifer had no reason to doubt what he said. After all, Tom was not only a Harvard undergrad and Law Review at Yale, he was also much more than her brilliant attorney. He was her beloved fiancé.

‘Think of it, Jen,’ he had said days ago, ‘everyone here will be in your debt. You’ll not only have Donald’s gratitude, but also the gratitude of the partners and all of the employees, right down to the secretaries and the mail-room staff. They’ll all owe their fortunes and their jobs to you.’

‘I only regret that I have but one life to give for my firm,’ Jennifer had joked on that day when she, Tom, and Donald got together with Bob, the financial officer and Lenny, his assistant, to hatch their plan. There was plenty to drink and lots of laughter at that meeting as they discussed how Tom would prepare her statements, how they’d all sign them, and how Tom would ‘turn her in’ to the SEC. The Feds would be ripsnorting mad to miss their shot at Donald, but if she confessed they were scotched in their witchhunt, and Jennifer would be back at work within a week.

At the time their plan sounded solid; after all, Jennifer loved the heart-stopping thrill of high-risk deal-making. She loved the power of outleveraging any competitor in a buyout, and she loved the rush of watching one of their IPOs – Initial Public Offerings – burst onto the market to take the lucky or the gullible investor for the ride of his life. She loved it all – but most of all she loved the money and what it bought. She loved the Pratesi sheets on her bed, the silk Kirmans on her floor, and she loved every piece of Armani, Prada, Gucci, and Ferragamo that she kept neatly in her Biedermeier armoire. Even if her Tribeca condo was a little small, it was beautiful and in the best neighborhood in New York. (John Kennedy, Jr. had lived just around the corner.) With the very generous bonus that she was likely to get from pulling off this little charade, Jennifer was sure that she’d be able to move right on up to the penthouse.

‘Jennifer, I’m so, so sorry. It’s a mistake. Honestly. I thought we had Levitt in line,’ Tom said to her now. Jennifer just stared at him, speechless.

The court officer began to move toward her. ‘We’re going to have to go now,’ he said.

‘What?’ she asked. He must be joking. ‘Go where?’

Tom looked away from her, unable to meet her eyes. ‘To be transported,’ he said. ‘To go …’

‘To go to jail?’ she asked, and heard her voice rising. After the indictment she’d been out on bail before the desk sergeant could call the press and tip them off to her presence. ‘Ridiculous,’ she said, with more bravado than she felt, but the guard came at her relentlessly and when he reached her he pulled out handcuffs. Jennifer almost fainted. ‘No,’ she said, and it came out almost as a moan.

‘Surely handcuffs aren’t necessary …’ Tom began.

‘It’s procedure,’ the marshal said, and it was clear that there was no negotiating. He snapped the cuffs on Jennifer’s wrists, then had to stop and adjust them again and again because her wrists were so small. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s go. We have transport waiting.’

‘We’re going to have to go out there,’ Tom told her. ‘There will be a lot of photographers and journalists.’ He paused. ‘Look, this is only a momentary setback,’ he said. ‘You’ll be there overnight. We’ll appeal or we’ll get a mistrial. Don’t worry about this.’

‘Let’s go,’ the marshal said again and took her, not gently, by the arm.

‘Um, could she fix herself for a moment?’ Tom asked.

Jennifer, dazed and confused, didn’t know what he was talking about, but Jane, one of the other attorneys, took out a comb and tissue and actually fussed with Jennifer’s face as if she were an actor about to go before the cameras. As she was being preened, Tom stood very close to her and she felt something drop into her pocket.

‘Call me sometime,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘Look undaunted,’ Tom continued as he stepped back, while she was marshaled out to face the exploding lights and equally unsettling questions. ‘Are you sorry now?’ a woman’s voice yelled.

‘What will you do in prison?’ she heard someone else shout.

‘Jenny, look over here!’ a husky voice intoned.

‘Jenny!’ echoed behind her.

‘Jenny! Jenny, here!’ was being chanted all around her.

Now she realized why people photographed for the newspapers always looked guilty. She, too, had to hang her head down to protect herself from being blinded by the flashbulbs and strobes. The marshal had been joined by several court officers who were pushing the media out of the way. Jennifer realized that she didn’t know if Tom was still with her or not, but when they walked through the double doors and she found herself at a loading dock, Tom was right behind her, though blessedly the wolf pack was stopped in their tracks.

But right now, the idea of prison gave Jennifer another roll of nausea. She tried to quiet her fears with the confidence that she had cut quite a deal with the firm. With Tom in charge of her appeal, and Howard McBane, senior partner of the white shoe firm of Swithmore, McBane pleading it, there was – she reminded herself – essentially no risk. When all the dust was settled, Donald Michaels was going to owe her big time. She may have left the firm in cuffs, but she was certain that she would return as a senior partner.

In the days following her initial arrest, Jennifer focused her energies on practicing her testimony with Tom and deciding what to wear to court. She was charged with investment fraud, so it seemed that she should try to look as unfraudulent as possible. She chose Armani over Yamaguchi, because who could appear fraudulent in Armani? And for shoes she opted for Louboutin over Manolo Blahnik. Only a classic Gucci purse would do, and with a new hairstyle and makeup done to perfection, Jennifer was sure that she was dressed not only for success, but for an acquittal.

What she hadn’t planned on, however, was the possibility of a female judge. For all of her success, Jennifer had never learned how to deal well with other women – especially the fat, dumpy types who prefer to cloak their femininity in the dark uniformity of robes. When Jennifer saw her judge it was like seeing the ghost of Sister Mary Margaret from St Bartholomew’s school. Jennifer had looked to Tom for encouragement.

But as clever and handsome as Tom was in his own impeccably tailored suit, he had no charm over this severe incarnation of Lady Justice. The grand jury hearing was a disaster. Jennifer was indicted and brought to trial amidst a media frenzy that made national headlines. Donald had warned her that the Feds were looking for a high-profile scapegoat. They found one in Jennifer Spencer. Her story kept the tabloids churning out edition after edition, and while the humiliation of the live television coverage was considerable, what really frustrated Jennifer was the judge’s inability to see that the charges against her were bogus.

At the van Jennifer cried as Tom held her close. ‘This is only a little setback,’ he told her. ‘It’s all going to blow over. We’ll get an appeal. You’ll get another judge. We’ll get Howard McBane for the appeal. McBane is an appellate genius and every judge in the state knows him. Your case will be decided on its merits.’ Jennifer tried to remind herself ‘No guts – no glory.’ The shame of the publicity and the shock of the verdict would be a small price to pay for a senior partnership in the firm – and a lifetime of wealth with her beloved Tom. She’d taken a gamble and if this was the downside of it, the upside was well worth a few days of a little discomfort. ‘I’ll call ahead,’ Tom told her. ‘I’ll pull a few strings and make sure that you get nothing but white-glove treatment.’

Jennifer nodded as yet another horrible wave of fear, anger, and shame washed over her. She was leaving for prison! She wished Donald Michaels, the author of all this, had come to see her off, but that thought had barely registered when they moved through the doors and, as if out of nowhere, the prison transport van pulled up and two armed officers got out.

The shorter officer carried a clipboard on which various papers were signed and exchanged. Then the taller one opened the doors of the cold parking bay in which they stood. Immediately a second horde of photographers swarmed into the loading area, and in the frenzy and noise Jennifer searched their faces, hoping that Donald might be among them. He wasn’t there, but Lenny Benson was. There, in the back of the crowd, Jennifer spotted good old Lenny standing all alone. He gave her a small wave good-bye just as she was told to get into the van.

‘I guess I have to go,’ Jennifer whispered to Tom. She felt her throat close and her eyes tear up.

‘Don’t worry. This is nothing,’ Tom said, though he looked as pale as she must have. ‘It’s going to be okay, Jen. Trust me.’

‘I do,’ she told him, and only later thought about saying those two words in this awful context.

‘Come on,’ the tall officer urged.

Tom bent to kiss her, but not on the lips – only on the forehead. It made Jennifer feel like the dutiful child she had behaved as. She did trust Tom, but so far he had been wrong when he said that she wouldn’t be indicted, wouldn’t be tried, and then that she would get off. She looked up and tried to smile into his handsome face. ‘Are you sure you’re going to want to marry an ex-con?’ she asked, heroically trying to joke.

Tom stared at her intently, then took her face in his hands. ‘You are so beautiful,’ he said in the husky voice he used when they made love. ‘You know that?’ he asked her. ‘Think of this as just an ugly business trip. I’ll take care of all the legal aspects. There will be an appeal, we’ll win and it’ll all be over soon. This will be completely expunged from your record when you’re exonerated.’

‘I love it when you talk legal,’ she told him bravely, but a betraying tear slipped down one of her cheeks.

‘Come on! We got a schedule to keep,’ the tall officer nearly barked.

Tom looked down at Jennifer’s hand. There, on the fourth finger, she wore his ring. ‘Maybe you should leave the diamond with me,’ he said. ‘Just for safekeeping,’ he added with an apologetic smile.

Jennifer was stunned. She loved her ring. When he’d put it on her finger she’d planned to never take it off. But … well, of course it was silly, insane really, to wear a three-carat diamond to … She tried not to think about what she was doing, but again, like a child, she did as she was told and slipped the gorgeous emerald-cut ring from her finger and gave it back to Tom.

It was almost a relief when the van doors slid shut. As she looked out, hoping for a last glimpse of Tom, she saw nothing but photographers, and then, there in the crowd was Lenny’s stricken face. She lifted her ringless hand to wave good-bye through the wire mesh. ‘This Jennings place is like a country club,’ she reminded herself as the van lurched forward and took her away from her job, her luxurious home, her love. And her life.

2 Gwen Harding

The law is the true embodiment

of everything that’s excellent.

It has no kind of fault or flaw,

And I, my Lords, embody the law.

W. S. Gilbert, Iolanthe

Whenever Warden Gwendolyn Harding was asked to give the occasional speech to a group of young people or a women’s association, she would usually begin by telling those assembled, ‘When I was a little girl and people would ask me whether I wanted to be a nurse or a teacher or a mommy when I grew up, I’d answer that question by saying, “No, I want to be a prison warden, because then I’ll get to be all three of those things at once.”’ The story always got a laugh, and Gwen Harding liked to think that laughing helped people to relax a bit. If you can make someone laugh, aren’t you making his or her life a little better? Isn’t it giving him or her a small gift? That was why Gwen was often so disappointed with herself after a long day at Jennings. She couldn’t make the lives of the inmates much better, and she most certainly could not make them laugh. She wished that she could.

She also wished that she could make the five representatives from JRU International laugh as well. They were all solemnly seated before her in her sunny but somewhat dusty office at Jennings. This wasn’t the first time she’d met with Jerome Lardner, the bald little man with the protruding Adam’s apple, but she didn’t recognize the rest of his staff. They seemed to be interchangeable in their little suits, their little haircuts, and their little ages. They looked like they ranged between ages twenty-four to twenty-eight. Gwen Harding was used to seeing young prisoners, but her staff were mature. Even Jerome Lardner, whom Gwen uncharitably – but only mentally – referred to as ‘Baldy’, was well under forty.

‘What we are hoping to achieve,’ Lardner was saying, ‘is not just a new level of productivity, but also a new level of profitability within a correctional facility.’

‘Well,’ Gwen pointed out with a smile, ‘any profitability would be a new level, wouldn’t it? Prisons have never made any money.’

‘Certainly,’ Jerome nodded, ‘certainly none of the public prisons make money, but the privatized ones do.’

That word! Gwen decided yet again that she would not argue statistics with Jerome Lardner. Whenever she called any of his ‘facts’ into question, he was always ready with statistics. If figures didn’t lie, then liars like Jerome certainly didn’t figure out anything except how to protect their own position. ‘Inmate Output Management Specialists have been very effective in supervising the productivity of privatized facility workers,’ Baldy droned on.

Sometimes it took Gwen as long as five minutes to figure out what the JRU terminology meant. They seemed to avoid using straightforward words like ‘prison’ or ‘forced labor’ when they could use their multisyllabic buzzwords instead. It might fool the politicians, but it didn’t fool Gwen. ‘Whatever you just said, I’m sure you are right,’ Gwen responded.

At last! She got a bit of a chuckle and a few laughs from the JRU staff. That would be her little gift to them. Gwen suspected that they were probably laughing at her, not with her. She imagined that she was probably the butt of plenty of JRU jokes. But that was nothing new. She knew, for example, that at Jennings many of the women – both the inmates and the staff – referred to her as ‘The Prez’ – as in ‘The President’. This wasn’t because of her strong image or authoritative air, but rather because of her somewhat unfortunate name. When Gwen Harding first arrived at Jennings, her nameplate had been erroneously engraved to read: WARREN G. HARDING instead of WARDEN G. HARDING. She assumed that the error was an innocent one and not a purposeful attempt to make her look silly. She had had the sign redone, but she kept the original one at home and amused friends and relatives with it at dinner parties and family gatherings – back when she gave dinner parties and had a family to gather.

Gwen could laugh about the nameplate now, but it was not the most dignified way to begin her tenure as the new warden. Fortunately, over time, Gwen had noticed that fewer and fewer of the women who were sent to Jennings even knew who Warren G. Harding was. She imagined that ‘The Prez’ would eventually be replaced with a new name – probably something even more offensive. Maybe it already had. The inmate population grew, changed, and became less educated and more troubled each year. She’d been shocked only last week when Flora, the middle-aged inmate in charge of the laundry detail, apparently didn’t know the difference between a city and a country. ‘When I get out of here, I’m going to Paris,’ Flora had said.

‘France?’ Gwen had asked her.

‘There, too!’ was Flora’s reply.

It would have been something to laugh about if it wasn’t so sad. But Gwen would’ve preferred that she and Flora had something to laugh about together. Jennings was such a sad place, she wished that all of them – the inmates, the officers, the staff – had something to laugh about. But, after all, it was a prison, wasn’t it? And she was the Warden – not a clown. And most certainly not a teacher, a nurse, or a mommy. The job wasn’t what she had once hoped for. Contrary to what she (and no one else) thought of as her ‘amusing public speaking anecdote’, being Warden had very little to do with nurturing, medicine, or motherhood. Increasingly, it was a purely administrative position that required an expertise in staff management, food preparation, health services, and custodial care, along with – quite obviously – criminal behavior. If she had to do it all over again, Gwen Harding would’ve gladly chosen to be a nurse, a teacher, or a mommy. But she didn’t and she couldn’t.

Gwen looked at the JRU International staff seated before her. She sighed. It was a big waste of time. As she tried to concentrate on the ongoing monotone monologue of the bald one, she realized that she wasn’t sure she knew what she was any longer; the thrust of her job had changed too much. She had more and more paperwork, less and less contact with the inmates, and virtually no programs in education and rehabilitation. The greatest focus of her work was on cost containment – especially since JRU had begun to explore the privatization of Jennings nearly a year ago.

Baldy finally stopped speaking and a member of his very young crew was now going on about a ‘facilities facilitator’, who would make the buildings better, stronger, cleaner, bigger, and more beautiful. It wasn’t clear to Gwen how this was going to be achieved without an immense infusion of money. The Jennings infrastructure hadn’t been invested in in decades. She couldn’t even find money for routine maintenance.

It was very difficult for Gwendolyn Harding to comprehend how an underfunded and crumbling government-controlled institution for the so-called ‘rehabilitation’ of women could suddenly be transformed into a profitable subsidiary of an international corporate conglomerate. Not only did Gwen have difficulty imagining how it could happen, she was also becoming unnervingly aware that these JRU fools seemed to believe it would be up to her to see that it did happen. Ha! Not even Warren G. Harding could do the job. The job Baldy had in mind for Gwen to do required an understanding of sales, marketing, and most aspects of the private sector. She had no experience or expertise in any of these areas – nor did she want any.

What if these bozos did succeed in getting a contract from the state? When it came to the state, anything was possible. What kind of havoc would ensue then? Gwen envisioned management so cruel and incompetent that an armed insurrection would not be altogether unlikely. She looked at the twentysomethings gathered before her. If each and every one of them were blown away in an Attica scenario she wouldn’t be sorry at all. She’d only regret that the inmates would be forced to serve more time. And as far as Gwen was concerned, it would be grossly unfair to serve time when you were just trying to perform a service for humanity.

Gwen was growing weary and angry at these jackals. What if the staff whom she had hired and trained over the years was fired so that some twenty-three-year-old ‘executive’ could take over? What if she herself was replaced by a ‘facilities facilitator’ or an ‘inmate output management specialist’? Jennings was a correctional facility for women, not one of those ‘country club’ joints for the white-collar crooks from Wall Street.

That reminded Gwen of the intake meeting that was scheduled for that afternoon. Jennifer Spencer – the Wall Street showboater who the papers said was ‘sentenced to three to five at a country club prison’ was due to arrive. A country club! Someday Gwen wanted to visit one of those fabled facilities for herself. Maybe they existed somewhere for male white-collar criminals, but to her knowledge – which was extensive – there wasn’t a correctional facility for women anywhere in the United States that was not miserably overcrowded, pathetically understaffed, and/or dangerously in need of major repairs. There was nothing at Jennings that even remotely resembled the amenities of a country club.

Gwen had all kinds at Jennings. She had women who had violently murdered, and she had a grandmother who had done nothing more criminal than to grow a little marijuana to help her grandson with his MS. And why? Because when the governor declared his war on drugs, and the legislators passed mandatory twenty-year sentences for even the most minor offense, everyone caught in the net – dolphin as well as tuna – eventually wound up on Gwen’s doorstep.

And when they did, it was up to her to take care of all of them. She fed them, housed them, put them to bed, and tried to attend to their medical needs. At the same time she did her best to maintain the discipline and decorum that kept the lid on the Jennings pressure cooker of anger, resentment, and – most perilous of all – boredom. In the meantime, there were no full-time medical professionals on staff, the educational and training programs were substandard, there were no special facilities for family visits or overnight stays with children, and while there were a few on her staff who were hardworking men and women, Gwen also had more than a few union-protected liars and sadists who she fervently hoped would eventually end up on the other side of the bars. A country club? Gwen hardly thought so. A profit center? That was even more ridiculous. Gwen actually snorted out loud.