Borrow Trouble (3 page)

B
efore they returned me to my cell, I was ushered down yet another dim hallway into a communal shower, along with two other women. By now my legs felt like rubber. It had been a while since I'd felt my butt. I was surprised that under these extreme circumstances, I was still able to walk and function.

I had seen a lot of large female guards in the compound, but the one who escorted me to the showers, then accosted me with a rubber hose, was the most strapping one I'd seen so far. She was not that much taller than me, but she weighed at least three hundred pounds. A short, severe Afro covered her moon-shaped head like a stocking cap.

Without saying a word, the hefty woman strapped on some kind of a surgical gauze mask and then proceeded to hose me and the other two women down with icy cold water, like cattle. The other two women squealed like injured mice and cursed in Spanish.

“Shaddup! Shaddup you mouths right now!
Rápido!
” the woman with the hose shrieked, her words slightly muffled by the thin mask covering her mouth and nose.

The cold water caused goose bumps to immediately pop up on my flesh. I felt as if I no longer had a voice, so I couldn't scream like the other women. Even if I had wanted to.

All of my jewelry and every other thing that belonged to me had been confiscated. They'd even taken my luggage and passport, and the souvenirs I'd bought, from the luxurious hotel room that I had checked into a week ago. One of the first things that they had snatched was the two hundred-dollar bills that Jose had paid me for my “services.” Lord knows, I had earned it. But it was the one thing that I would not retrieve upon my release, even if they offered it back to me on a silver platter.

I had never liked getting my hair permed, so I had always made regular trips to the beauty shop to get my hair pressed. But I owned several hairpieces and wigs, which I wore for convenience. With the weather being as humid as it was in the islands, I knew that a press and curl would not have done much good for my hair. That's why I had brought a few wigs with me. They had taken all of the wigs that I'd left in the hotel room and then snatched the last one right off my head.

The cold hard water and the harsh soap from the hosing down had reduced my hair to its worst state. I couldn't stand to look at myself in the dull mirror outside of the shower. My head looked like a cocklebur.

One other indignity that I had expected and feared was a strip search. I was surprised that that had not happened yet. When it did happen, shortly after the brutal shower, in another dismal room with no windows, next door to the shower room, I was not surprised. The rubber-gloved fingers that roughly explored the most intimate parts of my body made my flesh crawl. The grimace on the examiner's face made me feel like I was contaminated.

After the humiliating strip search, a pair of thick brown hands tossed a drab pea-soup green smock and a pair of woolen footsies on top of my naked body when I was still stretched out on my back on a slab of a cot. The smock had enough room in it for two women my size. The footsies were long and wide enough to fit the huge, flat feet of any one of the enormous female security guards.

“Can't you at least give me a dress and shoes that fit?” I asked the matronly woman standing over me, removing her rubber gloves. “None of this stuff fits,” I complained.

The matron clucked her thick tongue before she spoke. “This ain't a catwalk in Paris, Miss Naomi Campbell. You either wear what we give you, or you wear the suit that Mother Nature gave you,” she told me, with a smirk.

On the way back to my cell, I saw the other two women who had been in the shower with me. They were being marched back to their cells, buck naked.

I sat down hard on the side of the lumpy uneven cot and tried to organize my thoughts. That was not so easy to do with all the moans and groans coming from my neighbors in the other cells.

As sorry as I felt for myself, I still managed to have some sympathy and concern for the other women in the cells on my block. I didn't know their backgrounds, but based upon the harsh way they were being treated—marched around naked—I thought that I was the lucky one. I was not like them. And, in my confused state of mind, I thought that being an American was in my favor, and that that set me apart from the others. The fact that they'd segregated us, lodging me in a cell alone, made me think that I wasn't the only one who felt I deserved special treatment.

Dinner was a stale cheese sandwich, some flat black beans, and a ball of overcooked rice, which my body refused to digest. I made trips to that portable toilet on the floor, in the corner facing my cot, every ten to fifteen minutes. About two hours after the gruesome meal, a trustee of some sort, pushing a metal cart with squeaky wheels, came by. With a long-handled pole, she removed the scary pots from the cells and replaced them with empty ones. The stench from the body waste throughout the area was so profound, it made my eyes water and my nostrils burn.

The stiff blanket on my cot felt like it was moving across my body. I couldn't have slept even if I had wanted to that night. I still couldn't believe what was happening to me. What was even harder to believe was the fact that Leon had turned his back on me. But in all fairness to him, I had to ask myself how I would have reacted if he had been the one who'd been arrested for prostitution. I didn't have to think about it too long or too hard. Leon was my husband, and despite his flaws, I loved him. If he had been arrested in any city in the world and called me for help, I would have done everything in my power to help him. Whether I'd have stayed with him after the fact was another story. But the bottom line was, I would never have done to Leon what he did to me. I was still sitting on the side of the cot when morning arrived, still wondering how Leon could have turned his back on me.

With the exception of the guards, I wasn't too clear on who did what. I still didn't know exactly what Debra Retner's job was. I had not seen her since she had met with me the morning before. About an hour later, when she did return, escorted by two armed guards, I was glad to see her.

“What happens now?” I asked, stumbling out of my cell. I didn't realize how exhausted I was until I bumped into her, almost causing us both to fall to the hard floor. Both of the guards drew their weapons and gave me their most threatening looks. My immediate response was to raise my hands high above my head. Debra held up her hand and spoke to the guards in Spanish. I was too muddled to try and interpret, but the guards put their weapons away and fell in behind Debra and me as we made our way down the grim hall.

“I've got to get out of this place,” I whimpered, clutching Debra's arm. “You've got to get me out of here. If I have to go to jail, can't they deport me and send me to a jail in America? Don't foreign countries do that anymore?”

“Some do,” Debra said in a hopeful whisper.

“I'm going crazy. You've got to help me get out of here,” I insisted, wringing my limp hands. Not only had the harsh shower reduced my hair to a frazzle, it had also made my skin so dry and ashy that rashes had already formed on various parts of my body.

“I can't promise you that, but I can promise that I will do everything in my power to make your experience as painless as possible,” Debra said, giving me an affectionate pat on the back.

T
he two guards stayed right on our heels all the way into what I assumed was a courtroom, where Debra led me to a table with two chairs. There were a few other people in the courtroom, including the man from the bar who had wooed me into bed then set me up. Jose. That son of a bitch! He occupied a front-row seat in the spectators' area.

Jose glanced at me, his evil eyes rolling up to my matted, nappy hair. Without my make-up and my wig, I looked nothing like the woman he'd first met. Had I looked like the frump that I looked like now when Jose first saw me, he probably wouldn't have even noticed me. His lips curled up at the ends in what looked like a weak smile. Or a triumphant smile, I should say. I recalled how one of the officers had told me that the men who worked with the authorities to help identify prostitutes got paid for their roles. I felt really let down and unattractive thinking that I'd been approached because of a possible price tag on my head, not because of my beauty.

A scowling bull of a man in a black robe, his face and hands almost as black as his robe, sat down hard on a bench facing us. Sweat was already sliding down his face, and his jaw was twitching. He looked like he wanted to put the whole world behind bars. And this was the man who was going to decide my fate.

A prim-looking stenographer slid into a seat near the judge. Without a word, Debra approached the bench. The judge gave her an impatient look before he leaned forward. He casually rolled up his sleeves and folded his arms as Debra spoke to him in a voice too low for me to hear. Whatever she was saying only seemed to irritate the judge. He shook his head, unfolded his arms, and started waving both, also speaking in a voice too low for me to hear. When his lips stopped flapping, he jerked his head up and looked at me like I'd just organized a coup against his country. With a grunt, he dismissed Debra with a sharp wave of his hand, as if she had turned into a bothersome fly. With her head bowed submissively, Debra returned to my side.

“What were you saying to that judge?” I asked, concerned because the judge was still giving me dirty looks.

“It doesn't matter,” Debra told me, both of her cheeks and brows twitching. “It did no good, anyway,” she added, her voice cracking.

“And why is Jose here?” I wanted to know.

“Oh. Well, if you plead not guilty, he will be asked to make a statement, refute your version of the events.”

I glared at Jose so hard, hoping to see some remorse or compassion. All he gave me was a look that was so smug, it looked like it had been painted on his face.

About a minute later, two men in dark suits approached the bench and spoke to the judge in Spanish.

“What are they saying?” I asked Debra in a whisper. Not only were they speaking too fast for me to understand, too many other things were crowding my mind. “Who are they?”

“The one on the left is trying to talk the judge into simply deporting you. He's trying to talk His Honor into letting you off with just a warning, no fine, no more jail time,” Debra told me, talking with her hand half covering her mouth. “Like I just tried to do.”

“Is he like a public defender?” I asked.

“He works for the court. His position here is to try and alleviate a situation such as yours, make a recommendation in your favor. Ironically, he gets paid the same whether he wins or loses. This is just a job to him, so don't think that he really cares about what happens to people like you.”

People like you?
Debra's words almost seared a huge spot in my brain. This is what I had been reduced to. “What about you?” I asked in a steely voice. “Do you care about what happens to…people like me?”

Debra smiled. “I do.” A painful expression eased onto her face, and she spoke in a soft but hollow voice. “My daughter, Justine, is serving a life sentence in Malaysia. She and her boyfriend tried to smuggle heroin out of the country. She's nineteen. She has been in jail for only a year. She's my only child….” Debra's voice trailed off, and she just stared at me for a few seconds, with eyes that refused to blink. Then she nodded. “Yes, I do care about you.”

I bowed my head. “I am sorry about your daughter.” I decided to shift the direction of our conversation. The two suits were still talking to the judge, and I still couldn't interpret the conversation. The way the man speaking on my behalf was waving his arms and raising his voice, it didn't sound too good for me.

“Debra, a ten-thousand-dollar fine or three months in jail for…uh…what I did sounds pretty severe for somebody who's never been arrested,” I said hopefully. “I'm a tourist, ignorant of the laws here. Doesn't that mean something to these people?”

“You will find little or no mercy here. These people are not known for their compassion,” Debra informed me.

“I didn't hurt anybody. I didn't steal anything. My punishment does not fit my crime,” I said, talking in a slow, mechanical way.

Debra slowly shook her head and dabbed at her eyes and nose before she spoke. There was an extremely sad look on her face, and I was sure that it was because she was still thinking about what had happened to her daughter in Malaysia.

“Last year the fine was only five thousand or one month in jail. Two years before that, there was no fine or jail time for first-time offenders. Just probation. That kind of leniency only made the situation worse.” Debra let out a loud sigh. “I can't imagine what it's going to be like a few years from now.”

I looked back to the two men talking to the judge. “Who is that other man?”

There was a frightened look on Debra's face, which she tried to hide, but as soon as I saw it, I became even more concerned about my fate. “The other man is a prosecutor. He feels that since all of the other women who were arrested the same day as you pleaded guilty, you should be encouraged to do so as well.”

“But those other women are real prostitutes,” I reminded.

Debra gave me an exasperated look, but then, a split second later, she looked at me with pity. “Do you remember what we talked about yesterday?”

I nodded.

“Let me tell you something about those other women. Jail is a blessing to most of them.” Debra sniffed. “So many of them are homeless or involved with men who mistreat them. They have no families to turn to. It is very dangerous on the streets doing what they do. In jail, they have food and shelter, and medical attention if they need it. They look forward to spending a few months, or years, in jail. It's a bleak life to those like you and me, but so many people are not as fortunate as you and me.”

Shaking my head, I said, “How should I plead?”

“Like I've already told you, you can plead not guilty and spend up to a year in jail, anyway, while awaiting trial. Or you can plead no contest, or guilty, and accept your sentence.”

“They told me that I'd have to do three months if I plead guilty. There is no way I can survive three months in jail down here.” At this point, it didn't make much difference to me if I had to face three months or a year in jail. I couldn't imagine doing either one.

“Shhhh. The judge is about to speak.” Debra smiled, then gripped my hand. “Let's hope for the best.”

As soon as the judge opened his mouth, I sucked in my breath and held it.

“Renee Denise Webb, you have been charged with the crime of prostitution. How do you plead?” the judge asked. His deep, gravelly voice was like the boom of a cannon and seemed to bounce off of the walls. There was not one thing that I liked about this man. He had that smug look I'd seen on the faces of foreigners on the six o'clock news. The angry ones in a position where they could get back at the American government by taking out their wrath on any American.

I opened my mouth, but I couldn't get any words out until Debra jabbed me in my side with her elbow. “Uh…guilty, Your Honor,” I said, almost choking on my words. That's the last thing I remember, because I fainted. When I came to, in the same infirmary, in the same detention center that they'd taken me to the first time I'd fainted, Debra Retner and two guards were standing by the side of the cot. My forehead was throbbing. I reached up and felt a knot the size of a jawbreaker, which had formed a few inches above my right eye.

“What happened?” I asked, looking at Debra.

Before she responded, she waved the two guards out of the room. Then she sat on the side of the cot, blinking hard.

“As soon as the judge announced your sentence, you fainted and fell face first against the edge of the table. That's how you injured yourself. You'll have to return to the courtroom tomorrow to face the judge again. Hopefully, you will remain lucid until he passes sentence again and invites you to comment.”

“If he's already sentenced me, I don't need to go back to that courtroom,” I protested, still rubbing the knot on my forehead. It didn't take long for it to become as numb as the rest of my body.

“The court has to be thorough. You fainted before the judge had finished making his comments. I guess this is not your day,” Debra said in a weary voice. “I guess the judge is having a bad day, too. He wants to make an example of you….”

“I have to spend three months down here in prison?” I asked, struggling to sit up.

Debra dropped her head and nodded.

“I did all I could do for you. I am so very sorry, Mrs. Webb.” Debra's eyes were red and swollen. It was obvious that she'd had a bad night herself. She had lost her daughter to a system that few people could understand. Now she was losing me, too. To another system that few people could understand.