Still, Jennifer couldn’t quite accept or believe what he seemed to be telling her. Then it hit her. Donald Michaels, of course. He wouldn’t just abandon her. He was concerned about her welfare, he wanted to know that she was all right. But he certainly wasn’t free to come to the prison, not if he was under the media scrutiny that Tom had described. He must have been the one who had asked Lenny to send the package. And he must have sent Lenny now to try to take care of her until they got this all straightened out. ‘Did Donald ask you to come?’ she whispered.
‘No,’ Lenny told her, but perhaps he was being overly cautious.
‘It’s all right, Lenny. You can tell me.’
Lenny leaned in to the table, put both his elbows on it, and extended one hand across to her. Very gently he touched her forearm, and then held it. His hand was surprisingly big and his fingers wrapped around her wrist like a bracelet. ‘Listen, Jennifer,’ he said, his voice even more gruff than usual and his eyes – such a deep, deep brown – staring directly into her own. ‘Listen,’ he repeated, ‘I think you’re going to be really disappointed if you expect much from Donald. I’ve been around him longer than you have. I admit that when things go well for him he’s a generous guy. But when they don’t, or when they get complicated … well, let’s just say that if he’s the general partner and you’re the limited partner when the deal gets audited he’s not going down.’
Jennifer felt her arms go gooseflesh, even where Lenny was holding her. She pulled back from him. ‘Don’t tell me that Donald has forgotten me,’ she said, and realized that her voice had risen. A few of the people at the other tables turned to look. She forced herself to stay calm. ‘Tom told me that things are going slower than they expected but that it will be fine. Donald is one hundred percent behind me on this.’
Lenny shook his head. ‘Jennifer, I’m afraid Donald is ahead of you. That’s my point.’ He took his arms off the table.
She felt fury mixed with fear rise in her. She wanted to slap his face right then, throw his glasses onto the floor and stomp on them. ‘Donald isn’t going to renege. And even if he wanted to, Tom won’t let him. He’s taking care of everything,’ she hissed.
Lenny looked away and nodded. ‘I’m sure you’re right. I just don’t want you to be disappointed,’ he said. ‘And I want you to know that you can call me anytime, day or night. You have my cell phone number, right?’
Jen shook her head. Why would she need his cell number? She realized that she hated Lenny Benson, with his long nose and his five o’clock shadow and his damned wet eyes. She just wished this negative, boring man would leave. He probably meant well, but he was frightening and upsetting her. She wouldn’t tell him to shove off, but she just sat there, silently waiting for him to do it.
‘So?’ he asked, finally standing up. ‘Is there anything else I can get for you or send to you?’
‘I’m not going to be here that long,’ Jennifer said defiantly. She stared intently at Lenny for some reassurance, but he said nothing. ‘I’m not. Tom says I’m going to be out of here in just a couple of weeks.’
Lenny nodded, then handed her his card. ‘I know the office number,’ she said and smiled.
‘It has my home and cell on the back. Call me anytime. I mean it,’ he said, and he walked away.
17
Maggie Rafferty
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 i
t 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.’
18
Jennifer Spencer
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 h
ot 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.
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