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.’
‘Well, Spencer,’ the officer opined, ‘maybe you might try Estée Lauder’s Youth Dew.’
The sarcasm wasn’t pointed or funny enough for Jennifer to laugh, but she did respond. ‘I just thought that, since you worked with the stuff all the time, you might know. I’ll make a note to tell our clients at Chesebrough-Ponds to develop some sort of cleansing cream for fingerprint ink.’
The intake officer threw back her head and roared with laughter. ‘Yeah,’ she chortled, ‘you can call it Out Damn Spot! Now get up on the table.’
Reluctantly Jennifer climbed onto the stainless steel bench. As soon as this monster was done poking and prodding, she would call Tom. He was probably already well on his way to getting her out of this place. Jennifer knew that everything was going to be all right. And then the officer told her to stand up.
‘Bend over and open your jumpsuit,’ she said matter-of-factly. She picked up a thin latex rubber glove and began to slowly and deliberately pull it over her hand. When she snapped it against her wrist, the sound sent a shiver down Jennifer’s spine. ‘Cavity check,’ the intake officer said, and Jennifer felt her stomach start to rise.
‘Why?’ Jennifer whispered. This was too much. She certainly didn’t have a prostate to examine. ‘Why do I need a cavity check?’ she demanded more loudly. ‘I’m not in here for drugs or on a weapons charge.’
‘C’mon,’ the officer sighed, ‘it’ll be over before you know it. It’s a lot worse when we have to hold you down.’
Rich women have the Betty Ford clinic; poor women have prison.
A prison commentator. Kathryn Watterson, Women in Prison
I declared that until I said different, this candy – a name on the Inside for a new inmate – would be known to my crew as Number 71036. ‘She’s just another piece of snotty white meat,’ I told ‘em. ‘It’s not like we all have to sit up and take notice just because she dragged her sorry ass into this joint. She don’t mean nothin’ to us.’ I’m queen bee at Jennings. And while I know that might not mean much on the Outside, when you’re on the Inside it’s important to stay on top. Nobody wants to be on the bottom. Not the bottom bunk, not the bottom of the crew, not the bottom of nothing in a prison. I’ve always been on top, and I plan on staying there.
Cher’s the funniest, smartest, and baddest in our sisterhood, and she said to me, ‘Well let me tell you, that Number 71036’s sorry ass was dressed in the best damn silk underwear I’ve ever seen.’
My crew was sitting at our usual table in the cafeteria eating lunch. Dinner is always at one of our houses but lunch is quick and gotta be in from food service. When you first see us, you might think we’re kind of an unlikely group. I’m a proud and beautiful black woman, but all the rest of the women in my crew are white. Unlike men in prison, where black and white rarely mix, women inmates tend to group up based on whether or not they like each other, and what they can do to help each other out. My women make up the most organized, efficient and tight-knit crew in the joint. We’re a family.
Like I said, I’m the boss. As the Warden’s secretary, I hold a position of power (and opportunity) at Jennings that few, if any, can challenge. Cher McInnery works Intake, and that means that all sorts of nice things flow like a river over the desk in that room where the new inmates strip and leave all their possessions behind. Some of that river of riches, maybe just a small stream, gets diverted in Cher’s
