Insiders (5 page)

Some people think that law enforcement officers are inhumane or uninteresting. Personally, if I became personally involved with every person sitting there crying, I couldn't function in my job. I'm not inhumane – I'm just removed from the emotion.

Georgia Walton, deputy sheriff at Sybil Brand Institute.

Kathryn Watterson,
Women in Prison

‘Good morning, sir,' the new inmate began briskly as she was ushered into the Warden's office by Officers Camry and Byrd.

Gwen Harding didn't get many chances to laugh during an Intake meeting, but the dumbstruck look on Jennifer Spencer's face when she got her first look at ‘sir' was almost comical. Like so many other women, Spencer obviously assumed that Warden Harding would be a man with whom she might flirt. The girl was clearly more than just a little rattled by her discovery.

Spencer was thin, taller than average, with big dark eyes and lots of dark hair. Staring at the Warden, those eyes went from registering surprise to embarrassment, and then quickly to something closer to …
manipulation.
Oh yes, Gwen Harding thought, this girl was capable of causing
trouble. ‘Too smart for her own good' was the phrase that Gwen's father would've used to describe Jennifer Spencer. ‘Take a seat,' Gwen told her and pointed to the chair that sat directly in front of her desk.

There were two chairs for visitors in the Warden's office. The one beside the desk was rarely offered to inmates or even coworkers. The other chair – which was known as the ‘hot seat' – was the chair intended for Jennifer's butt. But Miss Spencer seemed to be past any discomfiture, and, ignoring the ‘hot seat', she slipped quite easily into the chair beside Gwen's desk. Officer Camry moved to stop her, but the Warden shook her head. She'd see how this all played out. ‘You may go,' she told the officers, and they turned and left, closing the door behind them.

Gwen looked the girl over. There was no doubt that she was going to be a problem. Deciding where to put these high-profile types was always a tough call. She had to get it right the first time, because there was no good way of changing it later. Gwen thought she was a pretty good judge of character, however, and while Spencer might be high profile, Gwen didn't think she'd end up being high maintenance. Number 71036 was too proud for that.

‘I trust that your trip here and your processing at Intake was not too difficult,' Gwen began. Gwen realized as she said it that it had been
very
difficult for this young woman. She could tell at a glance that Jennifer Spencer never expected to be stuck in a prison. Jennifer Spencer would've been far more comfortable heading up the JRU meeting than coping with what she was about to experience at Jennings.

‘Miss Spencer,' the Warden continued as she opened her desk drawer and took out the inmate manual. ‘You'll find
this booklet to be indispensable during your stay here.' She handed the bright yellow pamphlet to Jennifer, who took it, set it on her lap, and folded both hands on top of it.

‘Thank you,' Jennifer said. ‘I –'

‘You must read it completely later, but now I'd like you to turn to page three. It's headed
Inmate Responsibilities.
'

As instructed, Inmate 71036 opened the book, but only glanced at the page before she began to speak. ‘It's important –'

‘It's important that we read this page together,' Gwen interrupted. ‘I want to touch on a few items listed here.' The Warden began to read: ‘You are responsible for your behavior, actions, and attitude.' Gwen saw the girl shift in her seat.

‘Warden Harding,' Jennifer said. ‘May I speak frankly?'

‘Please do,' Gwen said dryly, waiting for the inevitable. Often Gwen found that if she let a new inmate ramble on long enough, she would catch some pertinent detail, some insight into her personality that would enlighten Gwen on how she might help the woman to help herself. Gwen believed in rehabilitation, not punishment. But she could almost bet that Jennifer Spencer was going to put this belief to the test.

‘I guess you've probably already heard from Attorney Howard McBane of Swithmore, McBane, or from Thomas Branston at Hudson, Van Schaank & Michaels,' Jennifer began. ‘Or maybe Mr Michaels himself called.' Before Gwen had a chance to respond, Jennifer crossed her legs, leaned in toward Gwen, and continued. ‘This situation has gotten a little out of control, I'm afraid. I wasn't meant to come here at all, and I certainly should not have had a rectal or pelvic exam. When I speak with my attorney I'm
going to have to mention it and see if legal action should be taken.'

‘Legal action?' Gwen asked. She was getting more than just annoyed with this woman.

‘Yes,' Jennifer said flatly, ‘I am neither a drug offender nor a smuggler. The invasive examination wasn't needed. And your intake officer didn't seem to have any medical education.' She took a deep breath, and Gwen saw that, in spite of her bravado, the girl was trembling. Gwen felt a stab of pity for the girl as she watched her toss her head back and continue. ‘Anyway, I'd like to talk about Attorney Branston's arrangements for my special needs while my appeal is being heard.'

‘Special needs?' Gwen echoed.

‘Did he tell you that I would like a sunny room? And I can't have a roommate because I'll be keeping late hours. If desks and laptops are not standard issue then I'll need to get one of each.'

Gwen merely blinked.

‘Also, I'll need access to a copier and hopefully some secretarial help. I don't know if you have a trained staff, but I'd be more than willing to pay for someone to come in.'

Gwendolyn Harding sat in a state of stunned disbelief as 71036 enumerated her expectations of ‘white-glove treatment' and ‘special considerations'. This wasn't the standard protestation of innocence, but rather a list of demands from the kind of young woman who was used to giving orders – and having them carried out. Not even when women like Margaret Rafferty – someone from a very high social position – were taken in had Gwen run into this lack of reality and misguided arrogance. Did Spencer really think Jennings would revolve around
her
? Who had led her to
think such a thing? Her boss? Her success on Wall Street? Spencer's file indicated that she was clearly not from the kind of social background that would justify such an astonishing sense of self-importance.

Gwen took a deep breath. Whatever the reason for it, this was not an attitude that would allow Spencer to survive within the prison population. And it certainly was not endearing her to Gwen, either. The longer Gwen listened, the tighter the muscles cramped in her neck, jaw, and throat. All of her life she had fought a debilitating stammer when confronted with ignorance and pride. Years of speech therapy had taught her to modulate her breathing, focus her thoughts, and to speak in a rhythmic pattern that allowed no time for a stutter. She had managed to control it throughout the horrible JRU meeting, but now she felt that the stammer would return and it angered her. When she was certain that she had mastered her own emotions, Gwen placed her hands on her desk and leaned her face close to 71036. ‘Your opinion to the contrary, Miss Spencer, you are not – in charge – here.'

The rhythm of the statement echoed ‘On your mark – get set – go.' But the intention was not to start a race, but to stop Jennifer Spencer dead in her tracks. It worked. Spencer shut up and paled. This result pleased Gwen, and consequently she felt the spasm of anger release its grip from her throat. She would not be intimidated by this young woman, nor would she let her forget why they were both here. Jennifer Spencer
needed
Gwendolyn Harding's help.

‘
You
are here – to get – help,' Gwen told her, continuing with the steady rhythm of
pa-dum, pa-dum, pa-dum.
‘
I
am here – to help – you.' With her anger under control, Gwen took a cleansing breath and continued in a more relaxed
tone. ‘You will not be given an office or a laptop, nor will you – be assigned – a desk. Or a secretary. You will work on prison work for which you will be paid. Every woman – at Jennings – works. There are no – special favors – here. Have I made – myself – clear?'

The
pa-dum, pa-dum, pa-dum
achieved the desired effect. The new inmate dumbly opened and closed her mouth a few times – kind of like a guppy – uncrossed her legs, and nodded her head with a robotlike rhythm that matched the cadence of Gwen's speech.

Fine, Gwen thought. She looked closely at Spencer's face. She had originally thought of assigning this new inmate to the library, but now she could see that Jennifer Spencer was going to need something very different than the cool and gentle hand of librarian Margaret Rafferty. This girl needed to learn values, cooperation, and probably some humility if she was going to survive incarceration.

The warden relaxed a bit, rose from her chair, sat on the edge of her desk, and continued. Jennifer in turn adjusted her attitude and sat and listened as if she were attending a lesson in the Baltimore catechism.

‘First, you have to be passed through Observation for a night,' the Warden told Jennifer. This was SOP – Standard Operating Procedure. It probably wasn't needed in Spencer's case, but it was just possible that under that bravado, she was suicidal or drugged. Gwen knew Spencer wouldn't tolerate Observation well. It was an extremely dehumanizing but necessary evil. However, the real question was, after she was finished with that, where would inmate 71036 fit in?

‘Miss Spencer – I assume – that you know that here – at Jennings – we all work. In addition – to the jobs – such as
maintenance – there is work – to be done – in the shops.' Gwen stopped and waited to see if any of this was sinking in. She saw the girl nod.

‘The pay is next to nothing. You work to help defray your cost to the taxpayer.'

‘Yes,' Jennifer said calmly, ‘I know. I'm in a very high tax bracket myself.'

Gwendolyn looked to see if there was any attitude or irony in the comment. It was then that she knew exactly where Jennifer Spencer needed to work. ‘You will start in the laundry – for now,' the Warden told her. ‘I believe that will be for the best. In due time, you may be promoted,' she added with a smile of encouragement. And then, with a deep and meaningful intake of air, Warden Gwendolyn Harding prepared for her big finale. It was a speech she had given often, to each and every new inmate that she welcomed to Jennings.

While she recited the words, she was simultaneously deciding where to put Spencer after Observation. She concluded that she must go right into the middle of Movita Watson's crew. With a good teacher like Movita, Spencer would eventually settle in and learn how to take care of herself. Gwen knew that Movita was fascinated with Jennifer Spencer. She had seen her take the papers and magazines from the library cart that was available to the inmates and read every article that was written about her.

The Warden paused for a moment, then continued both speaking and thinking. There was structure in Movita's crew. She was a good leader with an eye for talent. Of course, no one in that group had ever known the kind of wealth and privilege that Spencer knew, and if that girl looked down her nose at Movita like she had with Gwen –
well, she was likely to have that nose put out of joint. She studied Spencer's face intently. Movita would either take Spencer in – or Movita would take her out. Only time would tell. If she did take her in it would take time.

The Warden's speech was at an end, and she told Jennifer that their meeting was over. She called for Camry and Byrd to take her away to Observation.

Later, all alone in her office, Gwen couldn't help but feel disappointed with the turn of events that day. Jennifer Spencer had actually shaken her self-confidence. Or maybe it was the JRU people who had done that. Why had they all rattled her so? Gwen had seen both Spencer and the women from JRU scrutinizing every inch of her person and her clothing. They all looked like those haughty store clerks at Saks. Except with Jennifer Spencer it was even worse. She walked into Gwen's office like she was coming in for the quarterly earnings report. Gwen didn't know who made her feel the most insignificant, Spencer or Baldy from JRU.

Gwen had kept a daily journal from the first day she began at Jennings. She kept it carefully locked in the bottom left drawer of her desk – where she also kept a bottle of gin, a glass, and a jar of olives.

Most often by the time Gwen finished her journal entry for the day it was deep into the evening. She'd write and sip, sip and read. Night after night she told herself that she found both solace and inspiration in recording her thoughts and observations, but in her heart she knew that it was really the gin that kept her at the office a little later each evening. The gin and the emptiness of her house. So far, she had sternly refused to drink at home. But with her
mother dead, her beloved Yorkie gone almost two years, and her husband gone for far longer than that, there was little reason for Gwendolyn Harding to rush home at night.

A cat pent up becomes a lion.

Italian proverb

When Jennifer was escorted out of the Warden's office – sandwiched between the two guards – she was flooded with a feeling of such terror that she had to sink the nails of her fingers deep into her own palms just to keep from screaming or running.

But there was nowhere to run to. Jennifer Spencer couldn't believe that she was actually being incarcerated at the Jennings Correctional Facility for Women. People like Jennifer Spencer didn't go to prison. So she'd been told by Donald and Tom and so she'd believed.

There had been only one person who had warned her not to participate in the deal with Donald Michaels. That was Leonard Benson. He was the financial officer involved, and had always seemed less than enthusiastic about the plan. As the assistant to George Gross, the CFO – Chief Financial
Officer – Lenny was privy to a lot, but not all, of the machinations at Hudson, Van Schaank & Michaels. ‘Don't do this, Jennifer,' he had pleaded to her. ‘When you play with the SEC, you play for keeps.'

But Jennifer was not only under the influence of too many drinks that particular night; she was also drunk on the praise and the promises that Donald had been lavishing on her. She had turned on Lenny and demanded, ‘Hasn't Donald Michaels made
you
rich, too?'

‘Yes,' Lenny admitted, ‘but …'

‘He took me straight from school when I had nothing – nothing but loans to pay off, and now – well, you know my net worth.'

Lenny had nodded. He prepared Jennifer's taxes and helped her keep as much of her income as the law would allow. He certainly knew how much she was worth. ‘But you earned all of that,' he insisted. ‘You worked hard for Don. There's no reason now to take this kind of risk.'

‘But it's such a small risk,' Jennifer retorted. ‘And it will save Donald. I owe him something.' She grew adamant. ‘He's made you rich, Lenny. Aren't
you
grateful?'

‘I work my guts out for that guy,' Lenny had protested. ‘I'm available twenty-four-seven. And I
am
grateful. But that doesn't mean that I'd take the rap for him.'

‘Hey, that's the point,' Jennifer had explained, as if Lenny was stupid, deaf, or not even present. ‘There
is
no rap. Donald doesn't do anything that the boys at Salomon Smith Barney or Morgan Stanley or Lazard Frere don't do every day of the week.' She, who had never worked at any of those places, was only parroting back what she'd heard. ‘They're envious.'

‘You don't know
what
Donald has done,' Lenny had shot
back. ‘Nor do I. None of us do. That guy is the most compartmentalized person I've ever met. He doesn't even let his left hand know what the right one is up to.'

Jennifer put her hand on Lenny's narrow shoulder. ‘Thanks for trying to look out for me,' she said. ‘But you forget that I
like
taking risks. No guts – no glory.'

The grip on Jennifer's left arm grew tighter and she was snapped out of her reverie. Now every step she took away from the Warden's office put Jennifer deeper into the hideous nightmare of the Jennings Correctional Facility. As she was marched off to Observation – whatever the hell that was – she felt that if she didn't get some fresh air to clear her head and her lungs she might actually fall to the floor. The meeting with the Warden had been catastrophic. How had it gone so wrong? Was it her fault? Hadn't Warden Harding been contacted? If not, why not? Donald Michaels was powerful enough to get the governor on the phone in a heartbeat at any time of the day or night. She knew that. Why hadn't he reached the Warden? The answer had to be because he didn't want to. So whom had he reached
instead
? Perhaps, just this once, Donald had made a mistake and aimed too high. If he started with the governor, or even the State Attorney General's Office, how long might it take for the trickle-down effect to take effect?

‘This way,' Officer Camry instructed. Jennifer thought she saw a look of pity on his bland, round face. The idea that this thirty-eight-thousand-dollar-a-year civil servant with the thinning brown hair, the flat brown eyes, and the plain brown uniform – the
idea
that this pathetic excuse for a man whose IQ probably wasn't one hundred and one in the shade had reason to pity
her
made her feel both furious and pitiable. She wondered whether Roger's life at home was any
better than his life in prison. Who would choose to do a job like this? You had to be nuts, stupid, or very, very limited. She glanced at Roger Camry out of the corner of her eye. He looked like he was probably all three. Officer Byrd, on the other hand, wasn't even
that
qualified. But he obviously received another kind of compensation – women to frighten or even hurt.

Jennifer tried to keep her head as they passed from the administration wing into the prison itself. It all looked oddly familiar, and Jennifer was reminded of how she felt whenever she saw a famous landmark. There's no surprise when you finally see the Eiffel Tower – it looks just like all the pictures. The same was true for Big Ben and the Statue of Liberty. But, despite the familiarity, the same was not true with prison. Sure, it looked just like every jail photo and movie she'd ever seen. But the enormous surprise was the horror that she felt at being here herself. Jen couldn't control the shakes in her hands, so she clenched her fists again. It won't be for long, she reminded herself. What had Tom said? A day. Two at the most. Not long.

The three of them – Jennifer, Roger, and Byrd – walked through one more set of doors, buzzed in this time by an observer in a glass booth, and entered the Observation Wing – at least that's what it said in chipped gray paint over the door.

Jennifer suddenly realized just how tired she was. She would've been grateful to lie down somewhere – anywhere – in the dark and just sleep. If she couldn't have fresh air, then at least give her unconsciousness. But the place she entered almost took her breath away. The room was a kind of office/reception area. It was hard to tell if the stench was more urine than ammonia, but the underscents of vomit
and sweat were still strong. For a moment Jennifer thought again of Donald Michaels – this time of his penchant for his costly, custom-blended Floris aftershave and soaps – each bar close to a hundred dollars. She wondered bitterly if one of Donald's scented Floris candles would cover
this
odor.

All right, she told herself. Someday next week, she and Tom and Donald would laugh at this story. She imagined them at Fraunces Tavern or Delmonico's. Donald would laugh and shake his leonine head and wipe the corner of his eyes the way he always did and order another bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

But that would be later. Now she was steeped in this squalor and the noise would not let her mind wander. The sound of another correctional officer's heavy steps, the gruesome static and squawking of his and Camry's and Byrd's walkie-talkies, and the harsh grinding of the gates as they closed behind her chilled her more than she wanted to admit. But the noise and stench weren't the worst things. The light was so harsh it was merciless. Exhausted as she was, if she closed her eyes she could still feel the fluorescence burning through her eyelids. Sleep in this room would be impossible.

There was a lot of paperwork in triplicate and some ribald talk between Byrd and the new officer, a huge black woman. Then she was taken, at last, to Observation.

‘Spencer, here,' the huge female officer told the big uniformed woman in a booth at the end of a long catwalk.

‘Fourteen,' was all she said in response.

The fat woman nodded. ‘How's the other freshman adjusting?' she asked.

‘Just about how you'd expect a withdrawing crack whore to adjust,' the woman in the booth snapped. ‘But she'll be
fine in another thirty hours or so.' The woman officer motioned with her head, took Jennifer by her orange-plastic-coated shoulder, and turned her to the left into one of the cubicles.

‘Let's go,' he said.

The space was one of perhaps a dozen concrete cabinets. Jesus, she thought, wasn't Hannibal Lecter confined to something like this? It was achingly bare. A blanket, a mattress, and a commode. Not that she could use the latter, since the entire outside wall of the cell was made of thick Plexiglas and she could be seen, not just from there but also from overhead. There was no ceiling to the cubicle, and as she looked up she could see an officer patrolling along the catwalk that allowed him to look down into each cell.

‘Wait!' Jennifer said, and it wasn't a ploy or a power trip; she was truly terrified to be left here. ‘Can I please make a phone call?'

The big woman officer laughed out loud, a guttural
haw-haw.
‘Look, this is jail, girl, and you don't have a quarter. You're in prison now,' she said. Then she softened. ‘Observation is tough, but it's usually only for a day,' she added almost apologetically to Jennifer. ‘After you get out of Observation you can make collect calls from your unit.'

She had barely finished speaking, when someone – or some
thing
– began to screech in a subhuman wail. It was a noise of pure rage and despair. ‘I'm sorry about the noise,' the officer said. ‘She's going off. But you won't be here long. Maybe twenty-four hours. So try to make the best of it.'

‘Oh my God!' Jennifer wailed, then fought and won control of herself. The officer handed her a black booklet to go with the yellow one she still clutched under her arm. ‘Maybe this will help,' she said, and Jennifer took it,
imagining it must be some religious tract. Only a saint, a sadist, or a cult member would voluntarily work here with this stink and noise. She stepped into the cell. ‘You'll get used to it,' the big woman said, and for some reason that was the thing that filled Jennifer's eyes to almost overflowing. She turned her head away. God, she certainly hoped not!

She looked over at the stained mattress and paper sheets. It was only last night – in her own home – that she'd slept in a bed made with Pratesi sheets.

Jen crouched down in the corner of the observation cell and closed her eyes. The light still beat on her eyelids but she tried to transcend to another consciousness. She could stand anything for twenty-four hours, she told herself. She thought of the nights of endless study at college and business school. She'd pulled plenty of all-nighters at Hudson, Van Schaank & Michaels, too, when she was more tired than this. So she'd pull one more now. Maybe her last. All she had to do was concentrate. But on what? Concentrating on her situation was unbearable, and without her cell phone, she couldn't check on deals, her portfolio, or her apartment. Then she thought of it: She'd spend the night concentrating on her closet and every garment in it.

Jennifer didn't have a lot of clothes; when the interior designer had discussed the bedroom Jennifer insisted that she didn't want a built-in closet, just the antique armoire. ‘But it's only twenty-seven inches of hanger space,' he'd protested. She'd shrugged.

Now she sat in the corner like a child ordered to take a time out. She remembered what she'd said: ‘Twenty-seven inches ought to be more than enough for any woman.' And it was. She'd always longed not for quantity but quality. Now she had it, hanging in her armoire back at home. Aside
from the one she had foolishly worn today and doubted she'd ever see again, she had three other Armani suits – one black twill, one black and brown tweed and one dark brown heavy silk. Each one had been well over two thousand dollars, but she'd bought them as an investment, and every time she slipped into one she felt like a million bucks. Next she thought of the two Yamaguchi suits that made the Armanis seem cheap in comparison. She'd considered one for more than a month before she'd bought it, hoping it wouldn't be sold. That was the black one with an asymmetrical jacket; a lapel and a hem were higher on one side than the other. Jennifer couldn't wear it for a meeting that included middle managers or conservative CEOs, but it went over big with high-tech and advertising types. The other, even more costly Yamaguchi was in a neutral gray-beige miracle fiber that she could fold into her purse if she had to and it would unpack as if it had been pressed by Sister Mary Margaret herself.

Jennifer sighed. Thinking was difficult sitting on the cold concrete floor. She began a mental inventory of her drawers. When she was home she wore cashmere sweats that she'd bought at TSE. They'd been very expensive, but nothing was softer against the skin – except perhaps silk. She had a tall lingerie chest, and when she wanted to spend money foolishly she indulged herself in La Perla lace bras and matching underpants or silk wisps from any one of a dozen French and Italian stores on Madison Avenue. She moved her fingers against the tough fabric of her jumpsuit and almost shuddered. Her underwear made her feel special and secretly feminine, and she thought Tom, her fiancé, enjoyed wondering what she was wearing under the sophisticated suit when he saw her at work. Like any good girl,
Jennifer washed her panties out by hand at night – she never threw them in the machine on the delicate cycle because they were too fine for that kind of treatment.

Jen's knees and ankles and butt hurt, but she wouldn't lie on that disgusting mattress, she wouldn't use the cardboard blanket. She wouldn't eat and she wouldn't sleep. Not until she got out of this place. If there was one thing Jennifer Spencer knew about herself it was that she had a strong will. She thought back to the Cooper Corp. deal and the prolonged negotiations at the airport Marriott. Despite the grimness around her now, she almost smiled. Back then – and it seemed like years ago although it was only five months – she remembered how she had complained to Donald about having to stay in a Marriott. ‘What a hell hole!' she'd told him. ‘This could drag on for days, or even weeks. Couldn't we arrange for a Hyatt at least?'