Insiders (12 page)

Good laws lead to the making of better ones; bad ones bring about worse.

Jean Jacques Rousseau,
The Social Contract

I looked up from the letter that I was writing to my son to see Movita Watson standing in the doorway. Movita didn't come to the library often. She'd probably read any of the books worth reading before I arrived here. Also, she already had the job in the Warden's office, which gave her something comparatively interesting to do. So when I saw her there, coming to see
me
rather than to get a book, I was pleased.

She glowered. ‘You're lookin' glad to see me,' she said. ‘Don't make me feel bad. I ain't got no good news.'

I had, of course, heard about the incident in the visitor's room. When you're as high-profile and respected as Movita Watson, something like that doesn't go by unnoticed.

‘Brought back some books,' Movita said, and pushed
Make Way for Ducklings
and
Sarah, Plain and Tall
across my makeshift desk.

I laughed – something I rarely do anymore. ‘I don't expect good news,' I told her. ‘I'm imprisoned, not crazy.'

Movita smiled. She had the most beautiful mouth – I'd once seen those lips on the Thanos Venus. ‘I got a couple a questions, and you're the only one might have answers. You don't mind, do ya'?'

‘Please,' I said. ‘Of course not.' I've always respected Movita Watson. When I first came here I was viewed as a thing, a celebrity. She was the only one who looked at me as if I were a person. The other women's eyes glossed over me as if I were invisible. Because I'm old, of course. An older woman brings to prison neither looks nor style, nor anything from the Outside that is of interest to the incarcerated. The one thing that caused unfailing interest among my social peers, the fact that I shot my husband, wasn't an interesting point to anyone at Jennings: It was no big deal as a crime.

Now Movita sat down in the only other chair in the library and frowned at the floor. She didn't usually mince words. When she started to speak, she did so very slowly.

‘The first thing I wanna know is, what exactly is “privatization”?'

I almost laughed again. Was Movita thinking about investing in East German railroads? ‘It depends,' I said, ‘on the circumstances. There's always talk about possibly privatizing the U.S. Post Office, for instance. That means that it would no longer be run by the government but would be purchased by a private company or different companies, and run by them.'

Movita nodded. ‘Why do they do it?'

‘Well, sometimes it's assumed that the government lacks the skill and ability to run the business efficiently but that private enterprise could.'

‘But why would they
wanna
?' Movita asked me, crossing her legs and settling back into the chair.

‘For the same reason they do anything. They think that they can make a profit on it.'

‘A profit, huh?' Movita frowned at me, then looked back at the floor and was silent for several seconds. I could tell she was torn, something rare in her strong personality. ‘Yer sons know all ‘bout this stuff, don't they?' she asked.

‘As a matter of fact, yes, they do.'

Movita frowned again. I had to admit that I was curious. ‘What's this about?' I finally asked.

Movita looked around the empty room, leaned forward and reached into her jumpsuit. For a moment I was afraid that she had contraband, and I was relieved when she took out a sheaf of papers.

‘You'd betta take a look at these,' she said, handing the papers to me. They were still warm from her body. ‘There's somethin' happenin' here, and from what ya' say, it's a real bad thing.' She looked past me across the room and spoke as if to herself. ‘Profit? I didn't understand. Jesus Christ!'

I unfolded the thick pile of papers and saw the business logo at the top of the first sheet.
JRU.
I had never heard of them, but what did that mean? I had a large portfolio, not that it did me any good, but my sons managed it.

I quickly read the first few pages. It was, indeed, a proposal for privatization. I continued to read.

Movita was right. From the beginning it sounded very bad. The way they talked about Jennings, as if it were a poorly run factory or a chicken farm that didn't produce
enough eggs, was shocking. In the dozen pages that I quickly read there was no indication at all that there were human beings living in Jennings. I guess JRU didn't consider prisoners people.

‘My god,' I said, looking up from the white pages. I'm sure my face was equally white. ‘I'm waiting for them to suggest trying out experimental drugs on us as a profit center. Except that there's no mention of us yet.'

‘And it gets worse,' Movita told me. She stood up. ‘I gotta go back to work,' she said. ‘I ain't gonna tell ya' that I never seen that and neither have you.' I nodded my understanding. ‘I'm gonna leave it with ya' to read. I'll come back. ‘Cause we gotta talk about it.'

I gathered the papers off my desk and put the proposal on my lap. Then I looked up at her. I didn't know what to say.

‘It looks bad, don't it?' she asked. I nodded. ‘You got it for two hours.'

I took out a legal pad and my fountain pen. I began to read from the beginning, jotting down notes as I went. It seemed as if JRU had done a thorough study of the facility. Every room, including my closet of a library, was measured down to the inch. JRU had found that most of the space was ‘underutilized'. The visitor's room was used once a week and sat empty the rest of the time. The cafeteria had a two-hundred-person capacity and only one hundred thirty-five inmates ate there. It also was empty for a good part of the day. The library was ‘unnecessary' because books could be listed, the list given out, and then a book cart circulated throughout the cells. Human needs – like the need for air, light, privacy, a place to cry – were all disregarded. I could hardly believe what I was reading, but JRU seemed to
be saying that prisoners should spend more time in their cells! When they weren't working, that is.

My chest was tightening up. For some time I've experienced a kind of mild angina-type pain but ignored it as best I could. This, however, was a vise. I waited for it to pass, for the blackness to turn to red and then clear. I took a few breaths and read on.

The plan appeared to be that the inmates must become productive. Jennings was going to become a factory! Now I am the last person to object to work, but this was not work that they were proposing. It was slavery. Pay would be minuscule. Jennings would become a concentration camp. Inmates would be either in the ‘production rooms' or in their cells all but one hour of every day. Breakfast and dinner would be ‘prefabricated' à la airplane meals and delivered to cells to save time! Lunch would be delivered to ‘work stations' and eaten alone.

I was having trouble breathing by this time and should have stopped, but this was my future they were planning. I was sixty-four years old and had had at least my share of hell in my life. I couldn't stand to have any more. I set the proposal down on my lap and looked across the room at the books on the shelf. My eyes teared up. Pathetic of me, I know, but I loved them, even
The Power of Positive Thinking.
A most terrible thought struck me. What if I wouldn't have any time to read?

A person of my age can never experience physical distress without thinking the worst, and I am no exception. I was finding it impossible to get my breath and feared I was having a heart attack. But so what? I thought, perhaps it was better this way. I would rather die than live as a slave to an inhuman system. Every cell of my being rebelled against
it. In fact, if I didn't die, I would have to kill myself, I decided, as the proposal slipped off my lap and fell to the floor. Why should I want to live on? Already it was a strain.

I started to weep, which relieved the pressure in my chest. I hadn't wept in years. What a front I kept up, even to myself! Then, to my horror, I heard a noise at the door. If it was that damnable Officer Byrd about to do another malicious shakedown, I thought I might bodily attack him. But it was Jennifer Spencer who walked in. Tears streaked my face, my hair was awry, but worst of all, the proposal was splayed all over the floor. If a CO walked in and found it, it wouldn't just jeopardize me and my position as librarian, it would also hurt Movita and anyone else who'd assisted in getting a hold of the proposal in the first place.

I tried to bend down to pick up the papers, and as I did I felt every year of my age. It isn't easy getting old anywhere, but in prison it's almost impossible. I could only manage to pull myself up to the little table that served as a desk. I must have looked dreadful, for Miss Spencer hurried over to me. ‘What is it? Are you ill?' she asked.

‘No. No,' I answered weakly. ‘I'm just … very upset.'

‘You're very pale. Should I take you to the nurse? Can I get you something?'

‘No. I'm okay.'

Jennifer sat down across from me, where Movita had been sitting.

‘Can I help in any way?'

I was touched by her manner. But I couldn't say anything.

Jennifer noticed the papers on the floor and knelt to pick them up. I made a gesture but couldn't stop her. Luckily, in her concern for me she just collected them and set them on
the desk without looking at them. Then she looked back at me with a face I'm very familiar with, though I hadn't seen it in a while. It consisted of three parts: recognition and surprise, followed by embarrassment. Jennifer Spencer realized who I was. I suppose it was my ghastly look. I had looked ghastly all through the trial, in all the pictures in the newspapers.

‘I see you recognize me now,' I said softly to keep her distracted while I tore the sheets with my notes off the pad and folded them. I was still feeling dreadfully bad, but I could breathe, not that I much wanted to. ‘Don't be embarrassed. I'm quite used to people knowing more about me than I do about them.'

‘I'm not,' she said. ‘It's just a bit of a surprise.' She paused. ‘I followed your case.'

‘And I yours,' I told her. ‘Now, can I help you?'

‘Did something just happen, or are you ill? Should I call someone?'

‘That's the last thing I want,' I said. ‘I'll be okay.'

She nodded, and though she looked a little doubtful, went over to the bookshelves. ‘I never thought you were guilty,' she said.

‘But I was.'

‘How long are you here for? I don't remember the sentence.'

I froze. The question was not a welcome one. It brought back the specter of more years, more and more years. ‘My dear,' I said, ‘I'm going to give you some advice that you will do well to follow.'

‘What?' she asked.

‘Never ask anyone here their crime or their time. Not unless you're looking for trouble.'

Her eyes dropped. I must say that at that moment I liked her. I pulled myself up in the chair, took the proposal off the windowsill and secreted it under me along with the notes. ‘Did you want a book?'

She looked at me, confused.

‘You came in here. Did you want a book?'

‘Oh. Yes. I was hoping to look at some law books.' She gave the collection a doubtful look. ‘Whatever you have.'

‘Torts, I assume.' She nodded, and perhaps she blushed. ‘We have one, and it's over there. You can't miss it. It's next to
Grow Your Own Terrarium.
'

Jennifer retrieved the book. She came back to my desk. ‘Do I need to sign anything?' she asked.

Wordlessly, I handed her the sign-out sheet.

‘You sure you're okay?' she asked again.

I nodded. She signed the sheet, took the book, and with one more look at me left the library.

In prison, like in life, one must learn to trust in very small things for happiness. A shaft of light that falls, just so, across the hall each afternoon. The comfort of soft slippers on the feet. A sugar cookie melting on the tongue. A smile. I sat still, waiting for some kind of clarity to return. When it did, I picked up the report again and read it through, but I didn't have the heart to take notes. As it was, I had to stop frequently to remind myself to breathe.

It seemed hours before Movita returned. When she saw me her face fell. ‘So ya' read the thing,' she said.

‘Yes.'

‘It's bad, huh?'

I nodded.

‘It's as bad as it seems?'

‘No,' I told her. ‘It's much worse.'

You better believe that being locked up and at the mercy of these people is hell.

Delia Robinson, former inmate. Andi Rierden,
The Farm

Once again, the work in the laundry was unbearably hot and tedious. A seemingly endless train of carts filled with fouled sheets, musty towels, and smelly uniforms was wheeled into the room where the laundry was unloaded, sorted, and stuffed into the huge washing machines. Then the great heavy armfuls of steaming wet laundry were lifted into the dryer, and finally run through the enormous ironing machines. With each new step in the process the temperature in the room rose exponentially as the heat and the humidity transformed the laundry into a tropical inferno.

Jennifer's rage intensified with the heat. Tom had better have some kind of terrific explanation before she would forgive him for this hell she was in. Though she kept telling herself that it would all be over soon, it couldn't be soon enough. Why was it taking so long? What in the hell was he
doing? And why hadn't she been able to reach him? Three times in as many days she'd called and gotten only his voicemail.

As Jennifer summoned the physical strength to heft the heavy loads of hot, steaming laundry, she grew emotionally weaker. She thought about the surprise visit from Lenny Benson. Was he just nervous and naturally negative or had he been trying to warn her, prepare her for … what? Her tears began to intermingle with the steam and perspiration; her hair hung in a tangled mop of sweat on her brow.

Jennifer stopped to study her hands. They were already red and swollen from the harsh chemicals of the detergents, but at least the ink on her fingertips had finally been washed away. In a way she was sorry to see it go; it was the only enduring reminder of who she had been on the day she entered this place. She continued to stare at her hands and wondered how long it would take to get them back to normal. The chapping might heal and the color would return, but she doubted that the horror of these days and nights would ever fade from her memory.

Try as she might, Jennifer could no longer remember the justification for this gamble she'd taken and the strength of her belief that Tom and Donald were right when they told her that this was all going to be so easy. Why had she been so sure of herself? Jennifer looked over at Suki, who pulled over a canvas cart and emptied it into a dryer. Jennifer felt so sorry for herself and so pathetic that she stood there wringing her hands and mindlessly caressing the naked finger where Tom's engagement ring had once been.

‘Hey you! Debutante! Wake up and get to work,' shouted Flora.

Jennifer squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and
wiped away her tears. The astringent odor of bleach from the wet laundry burned her eyes as she continued with the soul-numbing labor.

That night, back in the cell, Suki took one of her chafed hands, looked into Jennifer's eyes, and asked why she had been crying. ‘I think I must be allergic to the soaps and stuff,' Jen told her.

‘Yeah? What detergent did you use at home?' Suki asked. Jen was too ashamed to tell her that she hadn't done her own laundry in almost a decade. Instead she merely blamed the red and swollen puffiness on the bleach. She wasn't going to admit to any weakness – not even to Suki. She decided that she was going to close the door on that existential chasm of anxiety threatening to swallow her. She'd trust Tom's love and Donald's respect for her. She had to. She had nothing else in which to trust or believe. There was one good thing about the work in the laundry: She would sleep tonight.

Suki was sitting quietly in the chair next to the table, patting her belly. ‘You sure you're okay, Jenny?' she asked.

Jennifer mumbled only a ‘Yeah' in reply. Lately, Jennifer had begun to doubt that Suki was pregnant at all. She certainly didn't appear any fatter. It could simply be a pathetic attempt to get more attention from the crew.

‘Me and the girls had a pretty greasy supper,' Suki admitted. ‘How was yours?' she asked as she stood up and started to get ready for bed.

Jennifer didn't answer. She didn't want to talk about her supper. She didn't want to talk at all. She turned her back to the well-meaning girl and stared at the wall, willing her eyes to pierce the dirty pink concrete and to look beyond to
the walls of her own beautiful apartment. What wall is Tom looking at tonight? she wondered.

‘I'm sorry,' Suki spoke in a whisper, ‘but I have to use the toilet.'

Jennifer merely grunted. A moment later Suki grunted as well. Every tired and aching muscle in Jennifer's body threatened to cramp in the dank, sick chill of nausea that washed over her. She shut her eyes tightly and tried to deny the reality that Suki was suffering from diarrhea just inches from her head. Her own stomach was about to betray her as it churned the prison meal that she had so hungrily devoured.

The lights-out bell rang in concert with Suki's flush, and as Jennifer was plunged into the dark and horrifying reality of where she was, the last thing that she saw was the dirty pink paint on the wall.

‘Sorry,' Suki said again as she slipped into her bunk. ‘It'll be morning before you know it.'

‘I'm fine,' Jennifer assured her. ‘I just hate these damn pink walls, that's all.'

‘Yeah, I try always to tell myself that it's the color of a sunset,' Suki said.

Jennifer let out a derisive snort of disbelief. ‘Uh huh,' she sighed, ‘a sunset.' She closed her eyes and tried to envision the sky; she couldn't remember the last time she had really looked at it. Somehow she was always rushing, always looking down at her computer screen or a memo or a proposal.

Jennifer stretched, and in the dark her hand reached out and brushed against something warm. It was another hand and it held hers. Then, all along her left side she felt Tom's long lean body beside her. ‘Get closer,' he whispered as he often did when they made love. ‘Get closer.'

Beneath her Jennifer felt the sand give and she rolled into position beside him. ‘Let's stay like this all night,' he whispered, and she could feel his arms tighten around her. She couldn't speak; there was something in her throat, but she could nod and in her mind she said, ‘Let's stay like this forever.'

‘Yes, forever,' Tom agreed, and for a moment she wondered how he could hear her thoughts. Then she opened her eyes. ‘Look,' he said. ‘It's the dawn.' And she could see that they were lying on a beach and that a thin line of light was illuminated along the horizon. The sky was just beginning to color and she remembered that they'd been married and now they were on their honeymoon. How could I have forgotten that? she thought, and she felt Tom laughing beside her. Now that they were married and on this beach, she realized that she would never have to struggle again. It had all been worth it: The studying and the competition for grades and scholarships and the work on the papers she had written and all the time she'd put in on the job had paid off with this. His arms were around her and he loved her and the warm sea was beginning to turn the palest aqua as light continued to fill the sky. It was the most beautiful dawn she had ever seen and Jennifer felt her heart beating in her chest against Tom's own heartbeat. She would never have to be alone or frightened again. She felt a deep peace flow into her as if it had come in on a wave from the Caribbean and washed away all of her anxiety. She was safe. She was loved. She was not alone.

It was the smell more than the noise that woke her. The sour, stomach-rocking scent of vomit was in her nose, down her throat. She opened her eyes and realized with horror that she'd been dreaming. Tom, the sand, the sea and her
security were all gone. She was staring, not at the sky but up at the bottom of the bunk on top of her while Suki was making
awe, awe
noises just two feet away from her head.

‘I'm sorry I woke you up,' Suki said. Jennifer began to tremble. In the confusion of waking she couldn't tell which was worse, losing that feeling of being bathed in Tom's love or remembering that she was imprisoned here. All she wanted was to close her eyes and go back to that beach and that feeling. She wanted to spend the rest of her life in that dream.

‘You okay?' Suki asked. ‘You were trying to talk or something in your sleep.' Jennifer knew it was hopeless to try to return to her dream, but giving it up made her feel desperately bereft. She turned her head and looked at the exhausted blonde child who sat on the floor next to the toilet. ‘Do you want to talk about it?' Suki asked her.

Jennifer shook her head and turned her back to Suki. No, she still didn't want to talk to Suki about her precious dream. She wanted to live it. She wasn't one of these illiterate, victimized, stupid women. She had a future.

She heard Suki stand up. ‘My grandmother said that a dream was God's way of telling the brain something that the heart already knows,' Suki told her as she rinsed the bowl of the toilet.

Jennifer did not – could not – respond. She turned her face to the wall and pulled the blanket over her head and tucked it in. If only when she opened her eyes the next time and took the blanket down she could see something other than the dirty pink paint on the cement walls of her cell. She had a terrible feeling that she would never again feel that tremendous love from Tom.

Jennifer tried to call Tom the next morning before laundry detail but no one answered his phone at home. His office number and his cell only got voicemail. She thought about the dozens of times he and she had looked at their caller ID and laughed or grimaced and refused to answer. I can't let myself get paranoid, she thought. That night Jennifer tried to remain calm as she attempted, once again, to reach Tom Branston. She got to the phone in the rec room, which was the usual zoo, but she was even more than usually agitated. She was desperate to talk with him. She
had
to. And she had to
see
him. Her heart skipped as the intense feeling from her dream moved through her. She had felt so loved, and so loving. Without the dream she actually felt abandoned. Jennifer shook her head to clear away the ridiculous feeling. Tom wasn't in the Caribbean lying on a beach with her but neither had he abandoned her. He was working to get her released.

She waited in line again and tried his office once more. This time the phone was picked up, but by a secretary whose voice Jen didn't recognize. ‘Please put Tom Branston on the line,' Jennifer snapped into the phone. ‘This is Jennifer.' She knew several of the women inmates were watching and listening, so she tried to keep her back to them and smile as she waited, but the smile quickly faded when the secretary responded.

‘I'm sorry,' the voice said. ‘He can't come to the phone.'

‘What do you mean he can't come to the phone? You haven't even told him who was calling!'

‘He asked not to be disturbed. Perhaps you can call back later.'

Jennifer's voice rose sharply. ‘No, I can't call back later.
I'm in prison, goddamn it!' and she slammed down the phone.

Jennifer looked at the clock. She had forty-five minutes before work detail and she absolutely had to hear the sound of Tom's voice. Worse than that, she needed to be reassured that he existed – that anything Outside existed. She was watching the line of women still waiting for the phone when Movita sat down beside her. ‘Tryin' to reach your lawyer or your boyfriend?' she asked her, but Jennifer didn't want to bother to explain. She just nodded her head.

‘What can a goose do, that a duck can't, and a lawyer should?' Movita asked. Jennifer shrugged. ‘Shove its bill up its ass,' Movita said and laughed.

To her surprise, Jennifer laughed, too. She didn't usually like vulgarity, but the joke was so unexpected that it caught her off guard. And, Jennifer thought, it wouldn't hurt to be nice to this woman, considering she could put in a good word for her with the Warden.

‘Ya' gonna grind yer wheels right down to the spokes,' Movita volunteered. ‘Not that you asked, and not that it's none of my bidness. Speaking of that, what exactly was it that ya' did on Wall Street? You some kinda hot shot, huh?'

‘I was in venture capital and IPOs,' Jennifer told her.

‘And what would that mean?' the woman asked.

‘I help companies raise money to get started or to expand.'

‘Any kind of company?' Movita asked.

‘Just about.'

‘How ya' know ‘bout all kinds of companies, all kinds of bidnesses?'

The woman didn't sound hostile, exactly, but she sounded more than idly curious. Jennifer was in no mood to
give a lecture on stocks, capitalism, and the American way. ‘I don't know everything about every business,' Jennifer told her. ‘I just know how to look at the finances of a business, compare it to its past and look at its future to decide if it's a good bet.'

Movita looked intently into Jennifer's eyes. ‘Ya' usually right?' she asked.

‘Usually,' Jennifer told her.

‘Then how come you're here?' Movita asked.

Jennifer shrugged. ‘No one seems to understand,' she said. ‘I'm not
supposed
to be here.'

Now it was Movita's turn to laugh. ‘Honey, ya' don't understand,' she said. ‘Ain't none of us
supposed
to be here. What God of mercy would want women penned up in a place like this?'

‘Yeah. And kept from your children. I'm really sorry.'

The black woman's eyes flashed. Her whole body stiffened and Jennifer could actually see her elbows, knees, and spine tremble. ‘Look, forget about that. You was nice and that was fine, but I don't get visitors and I don't ‘spect them. That was just unexpected, that's all. It won't happen again.'

‘I'm sorry,' Jennifer said. She hadn't asked this crazy woman to sit down next to her and now she was sorry she had. She looked again at the line and realized that she wouldn't get another shot at the phone before work. Movita followed her eyes.