BOUNDLESS (Mama's Story) (2 page)

“We the jury find the defendant guilty.”

I had wondered if there would be cheering. With my lawyer’s attitude from the beginning of the trial, I knew there was no chance of any other verdict. And from what I could separate as fact from hallucination from my terrible detox in the holding cell, everyone wanted to see me burn.

But there wasn’t any sort of applause. There weren’t any sounds at all.

It was as if all of the people in the courtroom had already anticipated this outcome, just as I had. There was an air of acceptance, of resignation, even. Yes, of course she’s guilty. We knew it all along.

There were a litany of charges against me, all of them having to do with promoting prostitution and compelling prostitution. The real feather in the prosecution’s hat was the sex trafficking conviction. That meant real time.

Time. It was a funny thing. At night, it dragged by, the darkness absolute in my holding cell. I was left alone and it gave me so many long hours to think about my life. What I’d done. What I hadn’t.

The day after the verdict, I’d met with my lawyer.

“We could always appeal,” he said, not looking at me.

“And how do you think that would go?” I asked, just to see what he’d say.

“It’d only put off the inevitable, Wanda,” he said. “I’ll be honest with you.”

“I’ve appreciated your honesty from the beginning,” I said sardonically. I’d never even bothered asking for my lawyer’s name.

Time passed—several months’ worth. After the verdict came the sentencing. The judge made sure that all my girls were compensated. I didn’t know how I felt about it anymore. I used to think all the money that the nightclub was earning was mine. I’d started the nightclub, after all, and I’d done it to make enough money to build a life for my family.

Now it was all gone.

Time was the only thing I had left, miserable time, and the judge gave me a whole twenty years of it in prison. I was rich with time.

I don’t know what I expected to happen with the sentencing. If I knew that the verdict was already set in stone before I went to trial, then it was the sentencing that was the mystery. Twenty years in prison and not a cent to my name. By the time I got out, I’d nearly be seventy years old. An old woman, and most of her prime spent locked up.

“Don’t despair,” my lawyer told me as he almost cheerfully packed up his blank pad of paper in his briefcase.

“What should I be doing?” I asked, raising my eyebrows at him. Twenty years and no money? Life was pretty much over for me.

“With good behavior, you could be paroled in about six or seven years,” he said, putting his pen in his jacket pocket.

Six or seven years? That didn’t sound nearly as bad as twenty.

“How does that work?” I asked as the bailiff approached.

“Adhere to the rules of the facility,” my lawyer said, looking at some spot around my nose. Was the man incapable of making eye contact with me?

“That’s it?” I asked. “Follow the rules?”

“Show that you’re willing to change and ready to do so,” he said. “Let no good deed go unnoticed. Don’t waste the time you were sentenced to. Think of it as a gift.”

“A gift? Prison? Really?”

“A chance to get your life put back together,” the lawyer said. “Did you really think that you were going to run a brothel for the rest of your life? Learn a skill. Figure things out. Get yourself together again. Move on.”

It was funny, in a way, that the most valuable advice my lawyer had given me came after the trial and the sentencing—neither of which outcome he’d even attempted to influence.

“Thanks, I guess,” I said, looking at his wan face, his overpriced suit. I still didn’t know his name, and I still didn’t care to know it. The bailiff led me away, out of the courtroom, away from the spectators and the cameras and everything that had happened.

Maybe the lawyer was right. Maybe it was time, now, to move forward. To find a different plan. To make a new life.

They shuttled me from the courthouse to the prison in a van that had a cage separating me from the driver, like I was some kind of animal. When we got to the prison, I was sure I was an animal. I was stripped and searched, hosed off, given a new jumpsuit to wear and a bundle of blankets.

I had a quick meeting with a corrections officer assigned to me—Pitt Harrison. He was an older man, his hair more salt than pepper, but his figure was still trim—no expanding, old man’s belly. In another time and place, I might even consider his polite smile, his blue eyes handsome, but this was neither the time nor the place. He was my corrections officer, in charge of my time here. His desk was neat, orderly. There was a framed picture on the surface that featured him smiling with a pretty blonde woman, a tow-headed child grinning up adoringly at them.

“You’ll come to me with any concerns,” he said, looking over my file, dragging my attention away from the picture. “And I’ll make sure you know about any concerns that I have about you.”

I wondered what was in that file. Was it my measurements? My crimes? Every heinous thing I’d done? If it shocked him, Pitt’s face didn’t reveal a thing.

“How—how does this all work?” I asked. I could really, really go for a drink about now. This seemed too overwhelming. There were so many women here, so many mistakes that had been made. Where was I going to fit in?

Perhaps I’d find that this was the place I belonged the most.

“First time inside, I see,” Pitt said. “Keep your head down until you figure out how to live in here. Careful who you trust. Do you have anyone on the outside who can send you money or care packages?”

That was a laugh. Would Johnny French send me anything? That was a resounding no, and he’d perhaps been one of the customers I was closest to. I was also pretty sure that the mob didn’t do care packages.

“No,” I said, shaking my head and staring down at the tips of my rubber-soled shoes. There had been a time in my life when I’d taken great pride in my appearance—fixing my hair until it was just perfect, sweeping on makeup until I glittered under the lights, picking out just the right dress or shoes or outfit to pull everything together. Now, it was going to be jumpsuits and rubber-soled shoes for years. It was a foreign concept. I knew exactly what I was going to be doing years from now. It would be staring down at these ugly ass shoes.

“There has to be someone, Wanda,” Pitt said, looking up at me. That was a small degree of comfort. At least my officer could look me in the eyes. “Don’t you have any family?”

“I have a son,” I said, hesitating to even say anything about it, “but we’re estranged.” As an understatement. I hadn’t seen my child in years and years. Even if I’d had a gun to my head, I wouldn’t be able to say what he was doing, recite his address or phone number. He was a stranger to me, even thought it hurt my heart to admit it.

“Well, all you have is time in here,” Pitt said. “Maybe you should try to spend it mending fences. Improving yourself.”

“That’s something to think about,” I said, nodding. “Thank you.” I wondered if he was speaking from experience. With a family in that picture frame as happy as his looked, I somehow doubted it.

There was a knock on the office door.

“Enter,” Pitt called, closing my file and bumping it against his desk to ensure that all the papers within it were straight.

“You called me, Mr. Harrison?”

I turned in my chair to see a thin brunette at the door, her hair twisted into tight cornrows. The bottoms of the braids had been decorated with pink plastic beads, which made her rattle whenever she moved even a little bit. I wondered if she ever got sick of the sound and resigned myself to the fact that I probably would very soon. Her skin was on the sallow side of fair, and she had a thermal shirt beneath her jumpsuit. I couldn’t fathom why—I was hot and uncomfortable, sweat prickling my scalp.

“Yes. Wanda, this is Willow Masterson. Willow, this is Wanda Dupree. Your new cellmate.”

I stood as Pitt did, turning to face the door. Willow eyed me a little balefully.

“We’ll have to un-bunk the beds,” she said. “I don’t know if I’d trust you on the top bunk, above me.”

“Suits me just fine,” I said calmly. I should choke this bitch. Nobody talked about my weight like that.

“You all will work out the details, I’m sure,” Pitt said. “Just ask Willow if you have any questions about anything. She’s already used to the system, aren’t you, Willow?”

She ducked her head in agreement, but her eyes flashed. I recognized it as a jibe from Pitt. Was he sticking up for me, hitting Willow where it hurt after she’d insulted me? The thought was nice, that I might have a friend on the inside, but I could fight my own battles. I didn’t need someone else stirring up shit. If this girl was going to be my cellmate, I’d prefer to have a decent relationship with her.

“Let’s go,” Willow said disdainfully, jutting her chin out at me. I followed her dutifully out of the office and into the heart of the prison. I thought I’d get some kind of running commentary as we walked through, but Willows mouth stayed shut. I eyed some kind of glass-encased office that contained computers and other corrections officers. They eyed me right back, and I looked away. A smell of food wafted down from another hallway, and I surmised that the cafeteria had to be that way. A woman adjusting her crotch after walking out of another door and the flush of toilets let me know where the restroom was.

I was attracting some attention. There were women of all shapes and sizes in here, but I had always been pretty imposing. The jumpsuit didn’t do much for my figure, but I tried to keep my head up regardless.

No—keep my head down. That’s what Pitt had told me to do. Maybe that’s why everyone was staring at me. Not because I was new, but because I was new and walking in here like I owned the joint. Jesus. It would be a miracle if I didn’t get jumped before dinner.

When Willow entered a cell, I figured it was because it was ours. It was hard to tell. There was shit everywhere—packets of instant noodles scattered everywhere, a couple of spare jumpsuits and other clothes, shoes, books, pencils, notebooks, letters, and just trash.

Once we were inside and I’d taken stock of this new situation, Willow wheeled around.

“I didn’t ask for this,” she said fiercely, poking a sharp finger into the meat of my shoulder.

“Ask for what?” I asked, confused.

“For a new cellmate,” she said. This close, I could see that her eyes were hazel.

“Well, I didn’t ask to be in prison in the first place,” I said easily, biting down the kneejerk desire to snap the finger jabbed into my shoulder like a dry twig. I wouldn’t make any friends if I started out like that.

“You think I did?” Willow demanded. “You think any of us did? You think you’re better than all this?”

Shit. This was escalating and getting far too loud for my liking. Was I having my first fight with my cellmate before I’d even made my bed?

“I’m just here to do my time,” I said. “That’s all. I don’t think I’m better.”

This was absolute bullshit. I was so thirsty that it made my hands shake. I wanted nothing more than a bottle of whiskey to make all of this go away. Why couldn’t I have that? I bit my lip hard. At this point, I would drink anything. Vodka. Gin. Rum. Tequila. Hell, even beer. I hadn’t drunk beer in years and yet I still craved the idea of the cold bubbles rushing down my throat. Anything for a buzz. Anything to make this situation go away.

“What are you in here for, anyway?” she asked, peering at me, those hazel eyes damning and suspicious.

“That’s none of your goddamn business, sugar,” I said, wanting nothing less than to rehash my trial. I’d already been judged once. Would I spend the rest of my days being judged again and again for the same crimes?