Life in High Def

by Kimberly Cooper Griffin

  She kept to herself all day. Surprisingly, it seemed like no one recognized her.

  Finally, a police officer stopped at the cell and called out a list of names, one of which was hers. As the women were summoned, they lined up at the door. When the officer stopped calling names, he unlocked the holding cell, and they filed out in a slow shuffle. They followed him down a long hall to a metal door that opened to the outside. Single file, through diesel fumes and humid Los Angeles night air, they streamed like broken and beaten cattle into a white bus that was idling next to the building.

  “Reilly! Over here!” called an unfamiliar voice.

  Reilly kept her head down, even when she saw the flashes of light from the cameras out of the corner of her eye. Part of her wondered why anyone would want a photo of her. She was no one now. She had spent the last several months, prior to and during her trial, out of the public eye, and she hadn’t done a single interview. The reporters and her publicist had been relentless, but she had steadfastly refused. Even after she won her second Academy Award. To her mother’s consternation, she had even stood her ground when the studio had threatened to sue when she refused to do publicity for Salsa Nights, which was about to be released. Somehow, publicity hadn’t been a required part of Reilly’s contract, so the suit was dropped. The studio sent her a stern letter, though, telling her they’d have to think long and hard about hiring her again. Reilly hadn’t cared. To her, her career was the last thing on her mind.

  That part of her life seemed so far behind her now. Shame welled within her when she thought about the shallow focus she had had on her trivial life.

  Reilly slid into the first empty seat on the bus and leaned into the metal side near the wire-screened window. Her head lolled against the smudged glass, and she stared without seeing at the brick building across the way. She wondered if she would get used to viewing the world through the inside of a cage. When the last woman took a seat, the bus roared into gear, and Reilly was relieved to find that she was still sitting by herself.

  The bus ride was silent, aside from the roar of the engine and the hot, dry wind that rushed in through the mesh-covered open windows. The smell of fuel and exhaust blended with the moldering smell of the old bus. Reilly looked out through the windows and felt numb as the city streamed by and the desert took its place. When the lights of the city faded away, her eyes peered out at the empty black night. Perspiration accumulated on her back in the plastic-covered seat. By the time they arrived at the low, gray complex of buildings that constituted her new home for the next twenty-three months, the thin fabric of the blouse she wore was plastered to her, but she didn’t notice, didn’t care.

  Through her wakeful catatonia, Reilly learned a few new things:

  Body cavity searches are embarrassing and thorough.

  Prison food does suck.

  A cell is called a house.

  The door to the house stays open during the day, no exceptions.

  The door to the house stays closed during the night, no exceptions.

  Prisoners do not enter other prisoner’s houses.

  She could hear, see, and smell everything anyone did—or did not do.

  She could be silent for three days and no one would ever notice.

  The clock in the day room controlled everyone’s life.

  Time in prison moved when it felt like it.

  Fish

  FISH.

  That’s what people on the inside call a new prisoner.

  Fish.

  That’s what Reilly felt like the first few days she spent in prison.

  Underwater.

  Learning to breathe.

  Avoiding bigger fish.

  Reilly felt the humidity of the showers before she ever saw them. The sound of running water was a welcome thing after her first two full days in prison. She was grungy and dusty, and she wanted nothing more than to rinse the last two days of being treated like an unwanted package from her skin.

  The showers were located at the opposite end of the wing from the cell that she had been assigned. She clutched the towel and small bag of generic toiletries she had been issued to her chest, and she winced at the loud slap of her cheap shower shoes against the polished cement as she walked through the common room that stood between her cell and the showers. Though she was acutely aware of their presence, she pretended to ignore the three lounging inmates watching a crime show on the television that was mounted near the ceiling. She felt their eyes on her as she passed. The smell of soap and steamy water were her focus as she approached the showers.

  A half-dozen steps from the doorway, fear tried to take possession of her limbs. During processing, she and the other new prisoners had been given a short list of suggestions intended to help make shower time as uneventful as possible. The list, and the fact that the facility even took the time to address it, told Reilly all she needed to know about the vulnerability of new prisoners in the shower area. Her senses were on high alert.

  Somehow, she made her legs move, taking a hesitant half-step before resuming her steady gait. She found herself in a large tiled room where she made a quick path to the nearest row of benches and put her small bundle of bath gear down. In an effort to appear relaxed, she scanned the area through the corners of her eyes.

  The bench area was almost empty. By the sound of running water and voices, the majority of the women were already in the showers.

  Reilly kept her eyes on her gear, took a deep breath, shrugged out of the blue work shirt she had been issued, and then pulled her tee shirt over her head. She dropped both shirts in a pile next to her gear. She reached back to unhook her bra, but hesitated when she sensed that she was being watched.

  Without showing her unease, she discreetly knocked her shower bag with her knee, making it fall to the tile floor. She crouched to pick up her stuff, chancing a casual glance around to assess the situation.

  A nude woman leaned against the tile wall near the showers, slowly unwinding a long, thick braid of black hair that was streaked with gray. From what she could take in from the quick scan, Reilly saw that the woman was of average height, well-defined muscle, and wiry build. A twisted rope in the shape of a pretzel decorated the pale skin of the woman’s out thrust hip. Reilly felt the woman’s eyes roam over her like a greasy caress. Chancing another peek, Reilly saw the woman’s eyes flick to a place behind her, and she knew that the woman was working with a friend. A malicious intent filled the room.

  “Shit,” Reilly said, as she picked up her shirt and shower bag, making a show of going through her gear. Then acting as if she had forgotten something, she picked up her belongings and turned to retrace her steps. Two enormous women that Reilly hadn’t noticed lurking near the sinks eased their way toward the door, but she escaped before they had a chance to block her retreat.

  “Hey, fish! You can use my soap,” she heard, as she walked quickly back to her cell, shaking from the thought of what might have happened.

  Footsteps approached from behind. Reilly double-timed her step.

  “Ransome, put your shirt on!”

  She sprinted the last ten feet into her cell. Behind her, a presence filled the doorway and she tossed her things onto her bed. She pulled her tee shirt back on over her head. In her panic, she made the strategic error of getting tangled up in the fabric and struggled to get her arms through the armholes, all the while anticipating hands grabbing her from behind. Finally, her arms free, breathless from fear, she spun around and saw a guard standing just outside of the cell door. Ferguson, the badge read. Reilly recognized her from processing. The guard was huge. She was at least a foot taller than Reilly—and all muscle. Reilly didn’t know if she should be relieved or afraid.

  “Shirts, pants, and shoes are to be worn in all areas, at all times, Ransome. Except for bathing and changing. No exceptions. Next time it’s a tag. Got it?”

  Before Reilly could respond, the guard walked away. Reilly watched her massive back disappear through the common room and then sank o
nto her bed.

  She wished that she could close the door to her cell. But all doors stayed open until lights out. It would be hard to get used to, but she had her own room—at least for the time being. Reilly pulled her legs up onto the bed and lay back on the scratchy wool blanket.

  Still trembling, she smelled her armpit and wondered how long she could avoid the showers.

  Warden Wants You

  REILLY’S FIRST DAYS IN PRISON were a fog as she tried to remain anonymous while navigating an invisible path through a place where landmines were hidden at every turn. She still hadn’t grown accustomed to the smell, a smell that was almost a taste. It was the way she thought that dirty pennies mingled with pine cleaner would be if she rolled them around in her mouth. That was, when she wasn’t assaulted by the funk when she stood too close to some of the other women. The frequency in which she was treated to that pleasure was more often than she would have predicted, as her plan to remain aloof, separate from everyone else, was more difficult to realize than she thought it would be. Somehow it seemed that she had avoided being recognized, at least. And she hoped that she’d be able to make that last.

  Every day followed the same routine, yet every day seemed to bring with it new challenges. The first meal found her sitting at the wrong table, as did the second, and the third. Just when she had almost resigned herself to taking all of her meals while standing, Reilly found a woman who would let her sit next to her as long as she handed over her dessert. Yard time, an event that was almost as fun as shower time to Reilly, happened for an hour, twice a day. It was a sweltering torture, until Reilly found a sliver of shade next to the building’s sewage exhaust grate that no one wanted to fight her for.

  But no amount of study showed Reilly how to avoid the braided woman, whose eyes followed her with a predatory hunger wherever she went.

  It was her fifth day in prison, and Reilly squatted with her elbows on her thighs against a wall in her sliver of shade, breathing through her mouth so she didn’t smell the sewer, hiding as best she could from the woman. She counted the number of bricks that ran up the side of the wall across from her. Every so often she’d let her eyes wander around to take in the social dynamic of the women who congregated in groups within the cement yard that made up the center of the prison compound. She took care not to let her eyes stay in one place too long, or to let them wander across the same women too many times. Observation had helped her avoid having to learn that lesson through firsthand experience.

  “Ransome! Warden wants you.”

  Reilly turned toward the voice and her eyes landed on the enormous guard, Ferguson, who, like the braided woman, always seemed to have an eye on her. The guard turned and Reilly followed her into the prison. Inside was dark compared to the relentless sunlight out in the yard, but the guard didn’t pause to let her eyes adjust. Reilly followed Officer Ferguson through the main entrance of the facility and into a section that she hadn’t been before. When they stopped at an open door, the guard stood to the side, indicating that Reilly should enter by herself. Reilly was nervous and her eyes scanned the room when she entered. She found herself standing in a dark paneled room with heavy wooden furniture that was buffed to a high shine. The head of an elk was mounted on the wall behind the desk, and framed hunting-themed pictures covered the wall all around it.

  The sound of the door closing made Reilly turn. A man in a well-pressed gray suit, with French cuffs and cufflinks, stood next to the door. His hair was impeccable and neat. His fashionable shoes were shined to a high sheen. A handkerchief that matched his yellow tie poked out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket. The man seemed out of place in the colorless, hard world within the prison walls. Reilly couldn’t see him in the uniform worn by the other officers, and even less so, the camouflage of hunting gear.

  He smiled and approached Reilly with his hand offered in greeting. His teeth were whiter than those of most actors she knew.

  “What a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Ransome. Though we’re meeting under, well… unusual circumstances, I’m delighted to welcome you to Ral-Rutherford.”

  Reilly didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing and took his hand and felt hers encased in a dry, limp grip that lasted a beat too long as the eyes before her scanned hers. It was a strange greeting, after months of self-imposed exile and the last several days of institutionalized alienation. Aside from that, she hadn’t said more than a dozen words in the last four days, so she wasn’t sure her voice would work if she tried. She managed to smile and nod her head in the way of a greeting.

  “I’m Alexander Rutherford—the warden here,” he added inanely. Reilly could tell that he expected a certain response. It felt like a first meeting with the head of a new studio. Her actress kicked in out of habit. She smiled at him in what she hoped was a demure way, in a way that she thought he would expect. It seemed to work. He beamed back and finally let go of her hand as he offered her a seat. His gestures were over-effusive and embarrassing. The tall, leather chairs sat at an angle to each other in front of the large desk that dominated the office. When Reilly sat, he took a seat in the chair next to it and crossed his legs in an almost feminine fashion. Because of the angle at which the chairs sat next to one another, Reilly had to twist in her chair to face him.

  “Nice to meet you, Warden,” she said. She was surprised to hear that her voice sounded almost normal and that she could summon the courtesies of her former life. She surveyed the office again. “Do you greet every inmate personally in your own office like this?”

  A flash of discomfort passed over the warden’s face before his practiced smile settled back into place.

  “No. Not every… inmate. Our population is quite large. Though I do make myself familiar with every jacket.” Another look of discomfort crossed his face and he corrected himself. “I’m sorry. File. I read every file.”

  Reilly smiled, taking note of the way he hesitated at using the prison slang in front of her, as if it would offend her. She knew the term “jacket” from processing. A question about why she was an exception danced on her lips, though she already knew the answer. She didn’t know why she had thought she could blend in among the prison inmates without being recognized. Reilly knew an enthusiastic fan when she met one, although she was unfamiliar with how to deal with it in the present circumstances. If the nervous, expectant look on his face as he watched her hadn’t been a giveaway his next words clinched it.

  “I have an admission,” said the warden. He watched his fingers pinch the crease in the leg of his suit pants. “I’m a bit of a fan.”

  “Thank you. I’m flattered, I guess,” she said, and wondered if her response had sounded disrespectful. She was well aware that knowing her place in every situation was a survival skill inside the cinderblock walls of Ral-Rutherford. Pissing the wrong person off could make or break her chances of getting out in one piece. Other prisoners might hurt her physically. The warden could make her life uncomfortable in other ways.

  “Please call me Alexander, Ms. Ransome. May I call you Reilly?”

  “You can call me whatever you want, Warden. You seem to have all the power around here.”

  Reilly didn’t know why she played such a risky game with such disregard.

  A fleeting expression of discomfort clouded the warden’s face again, but he was fast in replacing it with his plastic smile. He didn’t dispute her comment, though.

  “I admit that I wish I could have met you under different circumstances, Reilly. But, seeing as you’re here and I am a big fan, I thought that I would alter the routine a little. Being warden does come with its advantages. If you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to let me know. I’m bound to a certain level of procedure to make sure that I treat every… person… here with the same amount of… protocol. But, if you need anything, I’m sure you and I can come to an understanding.”

  When the warden touched her knee, Reilly understood what any special consideration would cost her. She struggled to keep from slappin
g his hand away, and it was only because she was an actress that she was able to mask the feeling of disgust that hovered under the serene façade of her expression. Distant memories, retrieved from what she felt was an even more distant lifetime, flashed through her mind, and she saw again the look on Drew’s face when Sylvie had taken the lip balm from her hand, the response of the flight attendant that time when the boorish rock star had gotten grabby. Now she wished that she had hit the greasy singer with his own guitar when she had had the chance. On the opposite side of that memory now, she maintained her best smile and hoped that her violent fantasy didn’t show.

  “Thank you, Warden. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Good. Good. Well, you better get back to your day. I have a group of underwriters coming out for a tour, otherwise I’d have reserved more time for us to get to know each other better,” he said as he showed her back to the door. When he opened it, Officer Ferguson stood in the same spot that she had taken when Reilly had gone in. The warden stopped Reilly before she left, just out of hearing range from the guard. He spoke in a quiet voice. “And Reilly, I know how the shower situation can be. But please don’t let it force you into making hygiene a lesser priority than it should be. I can let you use my private shower if those perverted dykes become too much of an issue.”

  Reilly felt her face color with anger as she nodded her head and walked away. She clenched her fists and shook with indignation. She didn’t even realize that it was she who led, and Officer Ferguson that followed, on the way back to the wing where she lived.

  Where she lived.

  It was true. Like it or not, this was her home for the next twenty-three months. The other prisoners called their cells their houses, but she knew that she would never refer to hers that way. And she stank. A tear ran down her face before she had a chance to wipe it away. She walked toward the door that led to the yard and waited for the guard to unlock it so she could go out and become a shadow again.