Insiders

Quickly she took the handkerchief that she kept tucked in her sleeve and wiped her nose as if she had sneezed. Well, she thought, as long as Warden Gwendolyn Harding was still at the helm of the Jennings Correctional Facility for Women it would be neither a country club nor a corporate headquarters. It would be a place where sad, damaged, and angry women were locked away from a society that required their removal. And if she had the courage and the stamina to make it happen, when these women were released, they would leave Jennings somewhat healed, more hopeful, and partially rehabilitated and acceptable to society. That was her modest dream.

She shifted in her seat and cleared her voice. As Warden she was used to being watched and obeyed by hundreds of people. Even the slightest narrowing of her eyes usually brought a response. But in this meeting she could probably set her hair afire and it wouldn’t stop the young woman who was now babbling on and on about telemarketing. Telemarketing?

Gwen glanced at her watch. She’d give them four more minutes and then they were out of there. She had to meet with today’s new prisoner, tell her the rules, and assign her to a cell. Jennifer Spencer was going to be a tough call for Gwen. She was coming in as a ‘celebrity’ inmate. Everyone in America had read all about her long before she had been sent to Jennings. Her story had been in all of the newspapers and magazines, and the photos of her and her handsome young lawyer looked like something right from the society pages. Even when she was led into the courthouse in handcuffs, she held her head high and kept her nose in the air as if she was going to a meeting of the board of directors.

Gwen Harding was afraid that Jennifer Spencer was coming to Jennings to cut herself a deal. In all of the stories that she read about the arrest, the trial, the conviction, and now her imminent incarceration, Jennifer Spencer looked and sounded like a thoroughbred who always came in in first place. Jennifer Spencer was accustomed to being treated like a winner. And that meant that there were probably a lot of losers who were fashioning a knife out of a contraband piece of metal wrenched off a window frame just so they could slash the face of a woman like Jennifer Spencer. Unprovoked violence wasn’t epidemic at Jennings, but it did occur and it was a constant worry to Gwen Harding. But she took her mind off it and tried to focus on the snip of a girl in front of her.

‘So, in effect,’ the young woman was saying, ‘the telemarketing personnel could be monitored by only three shifts of management, which would give twenty-four-hour coverage of an operation that could sell nonstop, guaranteeing a –’

That was enough. These people were only visitors. She didn’t report to them – yet. Gwen stood up, looked at Jerome and nodded her head. ‘Well, thank you,’ she said briskly. ‘This has been most informative.’

Informative and beyond Gwen’s grasp. The JRU people began to shuffle their papers and regroup. They had no idea what they’d be dealing with. Who was going to train the women? And more importantly, what was going to motivate them? All of Gwen’s staffers and all of Gwen’s guards couldn’t get them to do the laundry with any care, or even to prepare meals that were anything better than slop. Many of the inmates were content to live in squalor, and few took any pride in their appearance or personal hygiene.

Gwen stood, opened the door of her office, and bid the fools from JRU good-bye. They all walked out without so much as a glance toward Gwen’s receptionist, Miss Ringling, or Movita Watson, the inmate assigned to Gwen’s office from the prisoner population. Movita was the notable exception among the inmates at Jennings. Gwen knew she shouldn’t – really couldn’t – afford to have favorites, but Movita was … well, she was one of a kind. She was more competent, more clever, more stylish, with more attitude, intelligence, and tricks up her sleeve than anyone Gwen had even known. Movita ran the tightest crew in the prison, and perhaps ran the prison as well. Her crewmates loved and respected her in a way that Gwen – in her more perversely ironic moods – almost envied.

If the fools from JRU had any sense at all, Gwen thought, they’d be talking to Movita rather than me.

3 Jennifer Spencer

They try to strip you from the very first minute … When they brought me in county jail, the first thing they did was take my wedding ring and my earrings. Then they stripped me stark naked and made me jump up and down on the floor in a squat position – while they all stood around watching. They have to forget we’re human beings to treat us that way.

A woman prisoner. Kathryn Watterson, Women in Prison

As the prison van moved past the crowd at the courthouse and into the city streets, Jennifer put her face up to the smeared, barred window. As the van lumbered through the tunnel and then through poor suburban streets it was as if Jen was traveling back in time. She watched overworked women lugging laundry and groceries through the littered blocks, the kind of low-rent neighborhood in which she had grown up. Tears filled her eyes for a moment. Every one of those women reminded her of her late mother. And every staggering drunk looked like her stepfather.

Jennifer shivered again and rubbed the flesh of her arms vigorously. She hated being in this van, she hated these streets, and she hated the memories she was having of living in streets like them. It had taken motivation, intelligence, and hard work to climb out of the place they were driving through. Ironically, it now seemed as if that same motivation, intelligence, and hard work was bringing her right back, or to a place even worse. Prison! She wouldn’t let her tears fall. She reminded herself that this was only a temporary setback. But she was glad that her mother hadn’t lived long enough to know about her trial or see her riding in a prison van.

Jennifer turned away from the window. She couldn’t worry about the women on the street; she had her own problems. She’d dressed so carefully that morning – as she did every morning – but now the bench that she was sitting on was speckled with God only knew what kind of dirt. The rubber-matted floor smelled as if unspeakable things had been deposited there, and she was afraid to lean against the wall because of the nasty graffiti that was written in – what? Blood? Snot? Magic Marker? Jen thought ruefully of all the taxes that she had paid over the years. She wondered why some of it wasn’t spent on keeping prison vans a little cleaner. Well, the horrible interior was probably just a show for the press. As Tom said, they were making an example of her. Things would be a lot better once she actually got to the prison. What had Tom said? It was a country club. Fine. She could handle that for a day or even two. Right now, though, the filth and the stench were permeating her hair and her clothes. Worse, Jennifer felt too tired to sit erect any longer. She gave up and leaned back. What does it matter? she thought. She would take her suit to Chris French Cleaners back on Ninth Street in a couple of days and they would work their magic on it. They would remove the smells and stains, just as Tom was working to make her personal record spotless once again. She thought of pulling out her hidden Nokia and calling him, but the driver might hear and surely he couldn’t have accomplished anything this soon. She should just zone out and wait.

Just as Jennifer relaxed into the ride, the driver sped up and recklessly rounded a corner. She was thrown from the steel bench onto the filthy floor. Jen struggled to get back on the bench and, in her surprise, she forgot for a moment just exactly what her situation was. ‘Excuse me,’ she shouted to the driver through the wire cage, ‘but don’t you think we’re going just a little too fast in a residential neighborhood?’

His head spun around. ‘I don’t need no driving lessons from a convict,’ he sneered. Then he looked straight ahead and drove on even faster.

Jennifer was angry and ashamed of her outburst, but still she insisted, ‘It’s dangerous. Your driving threw me onto this filthy floor.’

‘I don’t care if you fall on your ass. You ain’t riding in a limo anymore, convict.’

Convict! He kept calling her a convict. She climbed back on the bench and tried to brace herself against the walls of the van. The handcuffs jangled and cut into her wrists. How in the hell had it come to this? Jennifer always followed the rules. She never smoked pot or had unprotected sex. She never took shortcuts; she never had an overdue book from the library. Hell, she never even left dirty dishes in the sink. And he’d called her a convict. Well, Jennifer thought with a shock, she was a convict. For a moment the reality – the smell, the dirt, the ugliness – broke over her in a wave. What was she doing here?

The ride continued endlessly. Jennifer went from nauseated to sleepy to hungry and then back to nauseated again. Through it all she was frightened. At last the driver made another sharp right turn, and as Jennifer held on as best she could, the brakes screeched and the van came to an abrupt stop. Jennifer peered out the window. The prison gates were opening, and slowly the van pulled into the yard.

This wasn’t like any kind of country club that Jennifer had ever seen – and the crazy-looking woman who was squatting in the flower bed was no greenskeeper. Jennifer had no way of knowing her name at the time – nor could she have ever guessed it – but ‘Springtime’ was the first inmate to greet her with a smile. The old woman’s birth name was long lost, as was her youth. Her dark, leathery skin was pulled so tight over her skull that her death-head’s grin reminded Jennifer of the cheap skeleton masks all the kids in her old neighborhood used to wear on Halloween. That grin and those loony eyes were Jennifer’s first spooky glimpse of prison life. As the van continued forward, the old woman pointed to the flower bed. Jennifer couldn’t see what it was that she was pointing to until they were farther away. There, in a withered garden, bright orange marigolds and faded blue argretum spelled out Welcome to Jennings.

Beyond the flowers Jennifer saw the terrible glint of razor wire coiled across the top of the chain-link fence. Ten feet behind it was a twin fence, also topped with the same wire. The sight stopped Jennifer’s breath for a moment. What was happening to her? It looked as if she were in a Kurt Russell movie. The van approached a high concrete-block wall with garage doors that slowly opened to let them in. The doors closed behind them, the engine was turned off, and they sat in total silence. A burning bile rose in Jennifer’s throat and she swallowed hard. She was soaked with sweat. What were they doing? Nobody moved or said a word. Why were they just sitting there in the dark stench of this disgusting van? It was all so unnerving. She needed air – fresh air. ‘Excuse me,’ she said softly, ‘but what happens now?’

‘Jesus Christ!’ the driver sneered. ‘Are you really in such a hurry to get Inside?’

Before Jennifer could answer, an alarm sounded and, as if in response, overhead lights went on. The driver and guard got out of the van, slid open the doors, and reached in to pull her from her seat. Two prison officers had come from somewhere and stood on the tarmac. ‘Right this way, Miss Spencer,’ the shorter officer said.

‘Welcome to Jennings,’ the taller one said with a leer.

Jennifer lost her footing as she made the big step down from the prison van and she nearly fell onto the slippery concrete of the Jennings garage. She blinked her eyes against the harsh fluorescent lights and tried her best to regain her balance and maintain her composure. Dizzy, she teetered on her heels.

‘Can you walk on your own?’ the shorter of the two officers asked Jennifer with what sounded like real concern. Although they were dressed in identical uniforms, the two men couldn’t have been more different in their demeanor. While the short one seemed calm and almost caring in his work, it was clear to Jen that the taller officer was wound tight as a spring and seemed ready to explode into violence at any moment. Good cop – bad cop, thought Jennifer. She was studying the faces of her captors when she felt the tall guard’s grip tighten firmly on her arm. ‘You were asked if you can walk,’ he sneered into her face. ‘What’s your answer?’

Jennifer looked at him. Who was this guy? His nameplate read KARL BYRD, but he was no bird. He was a six foot, six inch, two hundred pound hyena. ‘What’s your answer?’ he repeated. ‘Can you walk on your own?’ Jennifer only nodded in response, and the officers flanked her on either side and walked her toward the prison door.

Byrd reached up to his shoulder with his free hand and snarled, ‘Open One Oh Nine,’ into his shoulder-mounted radio. A buzzer sounded and he pushed the door. As Jennifer twisted in an attempt to see the good cop’s nameplate, she noticed that he was locking a contraption on the wall that looked like a night depository at a bank.

‘It’s for our weapons,’ he told her, answering her unasked question. ‘No guns are allowed inside Jennings.’ His name was Roger Camry. Jennifer decided that she liked Roger Camry. He wasn’t some vengeful sadist. He was just a short civil servant with a job to do. For the first time since she left home, Jennifer smiled. Well, this was better. The hallway didn’t stink and the officers were unarmed, and one of them was even kind of nice. Maybe this was a country club after all.

But then she stepped further inside. What was that smell? It wasn’t clinical, nor was it sterile. Before Jennifer could take another sniff, the heavy door slammed behind her with a loud and resounding clank of metal against metal. It made her jump, and Byrd laughed. It sounded far too final.

Jennifer looked ahead down the long, empty hallway before her. She froze. Even with Byrd’s menacing ‘Let’s go,’ she literally could not take a step. The linoleum glinted an anemic lime green. The green mile. She told herself that she wasn’t going to the electric chair, but her legs were actually trembling. She needed some air. She needed just a few more minutes. Her legs were shaking so badly she couldn’t walk and she didn’t want to let them see. ‘So, uh,’ she stammered, ‘I see your names are Roger and Karl.’ She tried to sound casual. ‘I’m Jennifer Spencer,’ she said, and extended her hand.

‘We know who you are,’ Byrd said with a snort that made him sound like a horse. ‘Your face has been splashed across every newspaper and TV screen in the country.’ But he didn’t shake Jennifer’s hand as if she were a celebrity. Instead, he grabbed her elbow and jerked her forward.

Jennifer hated it when people did that. It reminded her of being herded along by Sister Imogene John back in parochial school. Byrd’s touch made Jennifer flinch, and that was enough to provoke him to tighten his grip even more. Her legs were still weak. She would have paid a thousand – no ten thousand – dollars for just a few moments of fresh air. But it wasn’t going to happen. She was locked inside. There was no way out. She took a deep breath of what foul air there was, and she knew now what she smelled. It was despair.

The guard pulled her by her upper arm. ‘Please don’t shove me,’ Jennifer said defiantly to Byrd. He said nothing in response, but continued to shove her just the same. ‘We’re not getting off to a good start here,’ Jennifer said, stumbling once again on the highly polished floors.

‘You better take off the heels,’ the officer named Roger told her, not unkindly. ‘Why don’t you take them off and carry them? That will help. We don’t want you to fall.’

Jennifer looked down at her Louboutins and then at the long hallway before her. She didn’t want to go barefoot, but Byrd drew his face right up to Jennifer’s, and she could smell the hot, unpleasant combination of tobacco, chewing gum, and … With real venom he rephrased Roger’s suggestion into an order and barked, ‘Get rid of the shoes. Do you understand?’ His breath withered Jennifer’s anger. She took off the shoes, and then, with one in each hand and a guard on each elbow, she took her first steps into the prison. Maybe it was a defense mechanism, but at that moment, all Jennifer could think about was how much those shoes had cost.

The hall seemed endless. When at last they stopped in front of a closed door, Jennifer suddenly panicked. She actually didn’t want the guards to let go of her arms. She was afraid that she might collapse in fear. The sign on the door read INMATE INTAKE. With false bravado she asked Officer Camry, ‘Is there another door for Inmate Exhaust?’

‘In here,’ Byrd ordered as he opened the door. Jennifer walked ahead of them and into the room alone.

Inside, a counter cut the small, gray-green space in half. Behind the check-in counter was an open door, and in that doorway lounged a tall, attractive woman. She had the palest skin and the blackest hair that Jennifer had ever seen – a sort of jailhouse Morticia Addams. If she had had a better haircut, she would’ve been stunning. But even here, in that ugly jumpsuit and in the hideous fluorescent lighting, she was striking. She had the high cheekbones, the long straight nose, and the pale blue eyes of a better-looking Celtic hillbilly. Well, at least now Jennifer could begin the process of getting out of this place. Without hesitation, she strode up to the counter where the desk clerk stood and asked, ‘Have I received any messages?’

‘Have you what!’ Morticia asked in amused disbelief.

‘Have I received any messages?’ Jennifer repeated. ‘I’m expecting a call from my lawyer.’

‘Oh my Lord,’ the woman laughed, ‘she’s one of those.’ And both officers – even the nice one – laughed right along with Morticia. Jennifer cursed herself for her foolish gaffe. Her head was swimming. But she was so accustomed to hotel check-ins, where the faxes and messages were always waiting, that only now did she realize that the jumpsuit the woman was wearing was in fact a prison uniform – she was just another inmate. Jennifer felt her face color.

Officer Camry pulled out a key chain packed more densely than the A train at rush hour and unlocked a door on the wall next to the counter. ‘Please step right through here and turn to your left,’ Officer Camry said.

Jennifer obliged his courteous request, and found herself in a room with nothing in it but a chair that had a bright orange jumpsuit folded neatly on the seat. She took a step closer to the chair and heard the door slam behind her just as yet another door in the far wall burst open. Jennifer spun around to see that she was alone, then she spun again to see who was about to enter. In her dizzy state she lost her balance, almost fell to the floor, and watched as her expensive shoes slid across the polished surface and into the feet of a tall, severe woman dressed in a long white lab coat.

‘You’ll need to strip down,’ the woman said firmly. ‘It’s time for your exam.’ Her voice was deep – as deep as her waist was wide. She wasn’t really fat, but any niceties like a waistline or hips – if she’d ever had them – were long gone. ‘Get on your feet, strip, and fold your clothes,’ the baritone in white instructed.

‘Are you a doctor?’ Jennifer asked without standing.

‘I’m the intake officer,’ came the reply, which Jen noted was not exactly an answer but, it seemed, was all she was going to get. The intake officer pointed to a sign that read, in both English and Spanish: REMOVE ALL CLOTHING, JEWELRY, AND OTHER PERSONAL EFFECTS, INCLUDING CONTRABAND. HANG YOUR CLOTHES ON THE PEGS OR PLACE THEM IN THE PLASTIC BAG YOU’LL FIND UNDER THE GOWN. WHEN YOUR FINISHED, RING THE BUZZER.

‘Can you read?’ she asked in her neutral tone.

Jennifer looked at her as if she were crazy. ‘Yes, I can read,’ she shot back. ‘I can read well enough to see the typo.’

‘What typo?’ the officer asked.

‘The second your,’ Jennifer told her.

‘It’s not mine,’ the officer sighed.

‘That’s the point. The your isn’t the personal possessive. It should be the contraction,’ Jennifer continued.

‘Do you understand what the sign means?’

‘Yes,’ Jennifer admitted.

‘Fine,’ the officer said. ‘Then forget the spelling and do what you’re told.’ Then she turned and left Jennifer alone in the room.

Jennifer read the sign again. It might as well have read, ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.’ God. What could she do? On the other side of the door she could hear the guards laughing. This was no country club and so far she certainly wasn’t receiving the special treatment that Donald and Tom had promised she would get. This all had to be some kind of mistake. She must be in the wrong department. That must be it. There was probably some other area, some VIP lounge where decent people were waiting for her. She stood up, gave the buzzer a push, then lifted the jumpsuit and plastic bag off the chair and sat down to wait, mindlessly stroking the nasty synthetic texture of the jumpsuit as if it were a kitten she held on her lap.

The door was suddenly pulled open and Officer Camry walked in. ‘Do you have a problem, Miss Spencer?’

Jennifer smiled at him as if she were a debutante who had found herself at the wrong cotillion. ‘Well,’ she began, ‘I don’t think it’s really a problem. I just realized there’s probably been a mistake. I don’t think I’m supposed to be here. Is there someone besides the … intake officer you could take me to speak with?’

Camry took a deep breath, then shook his head. ‘Miss Spencer, you were told to follow the directions on this sign, and while you’re here at Jennings, you will not be told anything twice.’ God! Even the good cop was turning nasty on her. ‘Do you understand that?’ he asked. Before Jen could nod she heard Byrd yell.

‘She need help pulling off her panties? I’m available for a strip search,’ he said and laughed.

Jennifer shuddered, then stood up. She didn’t want to lose the only friend she had in the place, but she tried one more time. ‘Yes,’ she told Camry as calmly as she could, ‘I do understand. But do you understand what I’m saying? I’m not supposed to even be here. I’m supposed to be in some other wing, or department, or whatever it is you call it. You’ve brought me to the wrong place.’

For a moment Camry looked confused. ‘And just where do you think you’re supposed to be, Miss Spencer?’ he asked.

Jennifer used her most intimate and ingratiating smile. ‘You can call me Jennifer,’ she said as pleasantly as she could. ‘May I call you Roger?’

The officer gave her that same look and then said, ‘Just follow the rules, Spencer. Put on the smock and let the intake officer get on with her job. You’ve already wasted too much time. Trust me, you don’t want to keep the Warden waiting.’

The Warden! Of course. The Warden. That must be it, Jennifer thought. She just had to get through these formalities and then her white-glove treatment would begin. She smiled again at Officer Camry and said, ‘Fine. If I could have some privacy, then.’

Camry nodded and turned to leave, but just as he reached for his keys, the door flew open again and the looming hulk of Officer Byrd strode in. ‘What in the hell is going on in here?’ he wanted to know. ‘What is taking so long?’ Jennifer quickly stood and both the jumpsuit and plastic bag fell to the floor.

‘Pick that up and put it on,’ Byrd shouted at her. ‘And leave it unbuttoned.’

‘Now wait just a minute!’ Jennifer said. ‘I think you’ll find if you check with the Warden that my lawyer has called ahead, and he has made …’ Jennifer stopped. She could hear more than a hint of hysteria rising in her voice and she didn’t want to lose control.

‘Check with the Warden? Ha! I’ll let you do that. You think your lawyer called ahead and he made what?’ Byrd asked. He was leering at Jennifer. ‘Do you think you just checked into a friggin’ hotel? Do you think you have special reservations? A room with a view? A table for two?’

‘Sarcasm won’t get us anywhere,’ Jennifer said as calmly as she could.

‘That’s right,’ Byrd agreed. ‘You’re not getting anywhere until you strip naked. And that is the end of this discussion.’ He looked hard at Jennifer. And Jennifer looked right back.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’m not here to make trouble. I won’t be here for long, anyway.’

Officer Camry chimed in, clearly trying to make peace. ‘Please just follow the directions and ring the buzzer when you are finished.’

Jennifer looked around the room again. ‘Do you have any hangers?’

Byrd laughed aloud. ‘Use the pegs,’ he said as he exited. ‘And don’t hurt yourself.’

Both Byrd and Camry left the room and Jennifer proceeded with the ridiculous drill. Right, she thought. Roger Camry was right. She was wasting valuable time. Tom would’ve made the necessary arrangements directly with the Warden. These low-level functionaries knew nothing. The sooner Jennifer got through this Intake stuff the sooner she’d be Exhausted. She took off her Armani suit and the matching silk blouse, wincing as she hung them on the pegs. When she had removed her slacks she hung them with the jacket, only to see both pieces fall onto the floor. She stooped, picked up the clothes, and tried again. And again. The peg gave way and the clothes fell in a heap. With a shiver, Jennifer realized that the pegs were not an April Fool’s joke – they were designed to swivel under weight so that no one could hang herself from them.

Not likely, Jennifer thought with a toss of her head. She hung each piece of her outfit on its own peg, then put on the nasty orange jumpsuit. The fabric was harsh against her body – probably Tercel or Herculon or something worse. And it was enormous – probably a ‘one size fits all’ kind of thing. She didn’t want to have to meet the Warden like this. There wasn’t a mirror in the room, but Jennifer did the best she could. For years she had managed to make even the drabbest Catholic school uniform look a little stylish. She slipped the alligator belt from her slacks and cinched it around her waist. After just a few tucks and a little flouncing, Jennifer rang the buzzer. She kept the phone in her bra. She was ready to meet the warden.

When Camry returned, Morticia was with him. Jennifer couldn’t help but notice that her jumpsuit fit as though it had been made to measure. And Morticia was giving Jennifer a good looking-over, too. They both stood there, glaring at each other as only two women who have come to the party wearing the same dress can. When Morticia caught sight of Jennifer’s belt, she covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. ‘You ready for your close-up, Miss DeMille?’ she asked. Jennifer didn’t say a word.

‘Cut the crap, Cher,’ Camry said firmly to the woman. ‘Just bag her personal effects. And Miss Spencer,’ he turned to Jennifer, ‘please take off the belt. It’s against regulations.’

‘He’s afraid you’re going to hang yourself,’ Morticia smirked, further betraying her hillbilly origins with her accent. ‘Also the brassiere and underpants if you have them.’

‘What?’ Jennifer asked.

‘I’ll have to pat you down,’ Morticia said. ‘Then Ms Cranston’s goin’ to give you an internal.’

Jennifer groaned and did what Roger Camry told her to do, but as she removed the belt she noticed that Morticia had picked up her shoes and was stroking one of them as if it were the Holy Grail. Jennifer guessed that she’d probably never seen a Louboutin before in her poor trash life. Then she turned her back and tried to carefully remove her bra without dropping the cell phone. Just as she was about to secret the phone into the sleeve of her jumpsuit she felt someone standing beside her.

‘What is this?’ Morticia asked as she grabbed the phone and held it up in the air for the officer to see.

‘Where’d you get that?’ Camry asked. ‘That’s what contraband is, Spencer, and it can get you into big trouble here at Jennings. Lucky for you it was found now and not later.’ He tilted his head toward the personal effects bag and Morticia went over and slid the phone into the bag.

The white-coated intake officer returned and asked, ‘Are we about ready to get on with this?’

‘Miss Spencer is ready,’ Officer Camry said, and he took hold of Jennifer’s elbow. As he steered her toward the door, Jennifer saw that Cher was slipping one of the shoes onto her foot.

‘Hey!’ Jennifer protested. But Cher quickly pulled the shoe off and put it back on the counter before anyone could catch her.

Camry turned to look at Cher. She met his glare with the blandest look on her face. ‘Get busy with that, Cher,’ he said. ‘Catalogue every piece of clothing and put it all away.’

‘Where is she taking my things?’ Jennifer asked, but she didn’t get an answer from either Camry or the intake officer. Jennifer looked down at the jumpsuit she was wearing. Well, if that Cher person stole her clothes, she’d just have to ask Tom to bring something else for her to wear when he came tomorrow to take her home. She could trust Tom to select something appropriate. He had great taste in clothes and sometimes looked better in his Prada suits than Jennifer did in hers!

‘All right then, let’s get started,’ the intake officer said in the deep voice that gave Jennifer chills.

The rest of the processing was like some kind of surreal out-of-body experience. It was almost as if Jennifer wasn’t there. She became just another woman in a prison uniform, and this disassociation actually made it all a little easier to take. She was weighed, measured, and photographed. When the officer fingerprinted her she calmly watched as her fingers were rolled in the ink and then onto the paper. As her prints were being made, Jennifer asked, ‘Do you have any suggestions on how to get this ink off your fingers? It’s almost impossible to wash it off with just plain soap and water.’