Insiders

by Olivia Goldsmith

  I stood at one end of the catwalk and I gotta say I was real nervous as all the inmates filed in and took their seats. There was a little printed brochure on each chair and they all started reading it right away. It had an allowance for each inmate and little drawings of the different tops, pants, jackets, and accessories. I’m not a shy person, but that was a tough crowd and I was a little worried about the dykes. I’m not afraid of speakin’ my mind but that’s different from speakin’ in public. So the models were ready – we used Flora and Frances and Theresa. Cher woulda been great to go down the catwalk but we got a tall, thin new girl named Lorrie instead. Jennifer wouldn’t do it, even though I begged her. And Maggie just laughed, even though I told her we needed someone to represent senior convicts. In the end I had seven women. And I made sure that their outfits fit and that they were scheduled so they had time to make changes in between each appearance. Maggie and Suki were in charge backstage.

  So, once the cafeteria was full and the COs were leanin’ against the wall with their arms crossed, the warden introduced me. I started talkin’, well, readin’ from my cards ‘cause I was too damn nervous to even look up. Old Gwen had explained that this was the new choice of uniforms and that everybody would get seven pieces – after that they could buy ‘em. No one could have more than twelve. But the first seven came to you as a gift. So then out steps Frances and I say, ‘Ladies and bulldaggers, presentin’ Prison Blues.’ And the music comes up loud and those girls began to strut just like they were real models and for a couple of minutes, well seconds really, nobody in the audience does nothing ‘cause it was all so different from what we was used to. And then the place went crazy – but in a good way.

  Theresa and Flora and Lorrie and all those model girls came out in my clothes and the women started to whoop and cheer. The dykes were whistlin’ and the music kept playin’ and for a minute I thought we was going to have a riot – not the good kind – but it was just everybody’s enthusiasm and they were clappin’ for my things. Then they started arguin’ with each other about which would be better to have and I could hardly believe it. But I kept on talkin’ and I explained that we were settin’ up a production sewin’ unit and that anybody who was workin’ for a higher-level pay scale could apply. And we’d be makin’ these uniforms and other stuff as well. And by the time the whole show was over I looked up from my cards and it wasn’t just everybody in the audience clappin’ but it was also Jennifer and the Warden and Maggie and every single one of the COs.

  I never felt so proud of myself in my whole life.

  37

  Jennifer Spencer

  Through all the drama – whether damned or not – Love gilds the scene, and women guide the plot.

  Richard Brinsley Sheridan

  There weren’t enough hours in the day. Jen felt pumped, the way she used to feel during high-stakes negotiations at Hudson, Van Schaank. But now it wasn’t indirect. She would receive benefits from what she was doing that would daily influence her quality of life and that of others. When the music came on for wake-up, the lassitude and depression she had faced each morning since her arrival had gone. She hopped out of bed, full of new plans and new tasks.

  It seemed as if the IPO package she and Lenny had worked so long and hard on might be acceptable, but it presented Jen with another financial issue. She needed, of course, for the IPO to go smoothly and for people to buy up the stock. She also needed some money with which to buy as much stock as she could and to help in making the offering look as good as possible.

  That day at the library she got on the phone and called Peter Grant, one of the dumbest brokers she knew, and the one with the biggest mouth. Donald had used Peter when he wanted word circulated out on the Street. ‘Peter?’ she asked when he picked up the phone. ‘It’s Jennifer. Jennifer Spencer.’

  ‘Hey! Great to hear from you!’ He lowered his voice a decibel or two. ‘Sorry about that trouble you were in. Glad it’s over.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. She shook her head. He probably assumed she was out of prison. It was hard to remember that you were not the center of everybody else’s life and interest. ‘I took the fall for Donald but I’m getting repaid big time now.’

  ‘I figured it was something like that,’ Peter said, voice booming. ‘Good for you!’

  ‘Yeah,’ she agreed. ‘It’s not like a grand larceny conviction stops you from getting invited out.’

  He laughed, a real har-har-har. ‘Actually, it’s more of a social asset,’ he told her. ‘You know what they say: The unindicted are uninvited.’

  What a jerk! ‘Well,’ she said, ‘my social life has been looking up since I got out.’ Why not let him continue with his assumption. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘Listen, Peter, I’d like an account. I’m going to do a lot of … well, just between you and me, a lot of things Donald’s told me to, but I know I can count on you for absolute discretion.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Absolutely the opposite, she thought. That’s why I’m calling you, you schmuck. Then his stupidity and greed gave her another idea. ‘Could we put it in his name?’ she asked. ‘I’ll get it in writing or put him on the phone if you like.’ She held her breath.

  ‘Hey, I’d be honored,’ Peter said. He paused and she thought that perhaps she’d gone too far and the jig was up. Then he continued. ‘You know, he opened one before. Remember? It’s been inactive for a long time. I’ve been very disappointed about that.’

  It had been inactive because Donald had only used Peter Grant’s account when he wanted every dumb bastard to jump on something. You couldn’t keep an account like that going for long because the SEC monitored big gains and would be on his back. But it was a great bit of luck that he had never closed the account. Jennifer thought as quickly as she could and smiled.

  Peter was the kind of guy who would watch every trade Donald made and would jump on any wagon, no matter how rickety. ‘Great,’ she said. ‘Let’s just use that one. Send all the info to my new email address and you’ll be hearing from me. We’ll make a small initial deposit, and then probably work on profits from then on.’

  Peter laughed again, his stupid har-har-har. ‘Hey, Donald’s credit is always good with me.’

  Yeah, she thought, you and every other greedy bastard on the Street. ‘Trades may come from other email addresses, phones, or faxes,’ she told him. ‘You know how it is.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. But he didn’t know anything.

  ‘But let’s for security’s sake use a code word to insure authenticity.’ She thought for a moment. Then she said, ‘Could you hold? I just want to ask Donald,’ she said.

  ‘Sure,’ Peter said. ‘Tell Don hello for me.’

  A, Donald didn’t know Peter Grant from a Chinese wok and B, anyone who knew him knew he hated to be called Don. Jennifer put Peter on hold and tried to think of a code word that only Donald and his closest associates might use. SOB? YELLOW RAT BASTARD? She thought of Lenny and smiled. Then it came to her. Oh, it was so great! Yes! She got back on the line. ‘Peter, I’ve got it. It’s Grendel,’ she told him and spelled it for the ignoramus. She doubted that he knew Grendel was the monster in Beowulf. Or that it was the name of Donald’s female bull mastiff. ‘Oh, and he says hi,’ she lied.

  ‘Great!’ Peter said. ‘Tell him we ought to get together sometime for a round of golf.’

  ‘I’ll tell him,’ she said. The guy must have been named Peter because his mother knew he was going to grow up to be a dickhead. Donald hated golf, and an invitation like that from a guy like Peter would be enough for him to sic lawyers on the dumb bastard. Lucky for Peter Grant this interaction with Donald Michaels was all imaginary or he might wind up in trouble. Well, with any luck, he’d wind up in trouble anyway.

  ‘Great!’ Peter told her.

  ‘He says he’ll call you. Well, gotta go. Thanks for your help.’ She paused, just for a moment. ‘Oh, and Peter?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I may ask that some of the … pro
fits,’ she giggled, sounding as close to a foolish, guilty girl as she could. ‘Well, some of the profits – not much, but some – we might want distributed in cash.’

  ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘under ten thousand dollars and we’ll give you a cashier’s check. If you want I’ll run down to the bank and cash it for you. In pennies, nickels and dimes if you want.’

  ‘What a guy,’ she said. And at least that line was true. ‘Gotta go,’ she told him again. She took the concealed laptop from under the table top, opened it up, and went online. She picked several dozen penny stocks, did a Google search and selected the handful that looked like there was some way to sex them up. She put in a buy order and then she began the ancient process known in the trade as ‘pump-and-dump’. She visited chat rooms and Web sites, and sent out emails to brokers and mutual fund managers, all touting the stock. Needless to say, she used different screen names, different writing styles, and gave Movita several dozen similar messages to post from her workstation. When Miss Ringling was out to lunch they signed on and sent another few dozen messages from there. Then she called Bryce.

  ‘Hey, gorgeous,’ he said when he picked up the phone. ‘Can I send my car for you?’

  ‘If only,’ she said. ‘No, right now I’m in a little money-raising compulsion. No time for a ride.’

  ‘Hey,’ Bryce said. ‘Those rides are the best of all.’ And Jennifer was sure he believed that to be true. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m buying ten thousand shares of a company called Rivdek.’

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you care?’ she answered. ‘It’s a vehicle right now. Since I can’t use your car. Anyway, I need you to buy some too.’

  ‘Sure,’ he told her. ‘How many ya’ want?’

  ‘Well, right now it’s priced at a dollar nine,’ she said. ‘I’d like you to buy up to thirty thousand shares, but not if the price goes higher than a dollar twenty.’

  She heard the smile in his voice. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘And you will let me know when I’m supposed to unload these suckers.’

  ‘I certainly will,’ she promised him.

  ‘And you will also let me know whether you think I’m a manly man,’ he added.

  He was a ridiculous flirt. He could dish it out but she wondered if he could take it. ‘I thought I already told you that,’ she said.

  ‘Did you?’ he asked.

  ‘Uh huh,’ she said, ‘but only in body language. Perhaps you don’t read body language.’

  ‘I not only read it, I speak it fluently.’

  Set and match, she thought. ‘Well, I look forward to a more complete conversation at some other time,’ she said. ‘Gotta go.’ Bryce was fun to flirt with, but between the two brothers she thought Tyler had a little more depth. Not that that mattered. She had missed flirting, being looked at like she was attractive. God, it must be hard for women who spent the best decades of their life in prison. She had forgotten how nice it was to communicate with attractive men. She didn’t wonder that some of the women inmates would do almost anything to get a male CO’s attention.

  She dialed a number on the cell phone. ‘Lenny Benson, please.’

  ‘Accounting.’ His voice sounded stern.

  ‘It’s me, Jennifer. I need your help transferring money so I can buy some Rivdek stock,’ she told him.

  ‘Hi, there.’ She could hear his voice soften. ‘Before I do that, have you gotten the power of attorney back from Tom?’

  ‘He should have all the papers by now and everything should be transferred.’

  ‘Well, just in case they’re not in place, I’ll bring the papers up for you to sign,’ Lenny said, and she thought she heard a bit of excitement in his voice. ‘And since it’s of a business nature I shouldn’t have to wait for visitor’s day.’

  ‘But I’ve already signed them.’

  ‘Well, it’s just an excuse to come see you,’ Lenny said quickly as if she wasn’t supposed to hear it.

  What was going on? First Bryce, now Lenny. Was there a certain thrill to hitting on a woman who’s incarcerated? She had to get him back to business. ‘Look, I want you to do whatever you need to do to get the stock purchased and I want you to hype the hell out of Rivdek.’

  ‘Okay, and if I have to I’ll float you a loan,’ he assured her.

  ‘Thanks, Lenny. Well, I gotta go.’ She pushed the red button on the cell phone and went back to the laptop.

  She bought a little over ten thousand shares of Rivdek and watched the quotations. Her purchase at a dollar ten was fine but when you added all of her touting and then Bryce’s purchase the stock rose to a dollar eighteen. Then a dollar twenty-seven. She’d already made twenty-five percent additional but it wasn’t enough, so she sent out more messages of congratulations to many of the Web sites and chat rooms until, by closing, the stock was up to two ten. She put a call in to Bryce. ‘Sell,’ she said. And she did, too.

  She doubled her money that day, and then did it again the following day. She’d always had nothing but contempt for day traders but she could see the compulsive pleasure one could take in the game. If everyone in the prison were given an account with Peter Grant, she thought, there would be no more acting out. They’d all be busy buying and selling stocks. Of course, like all outsiders, they’d eventually get burned. But even that would give them something to think about.

  That night, over a dinner of tortellini and ‘gravy’, Jennifer didn’t have the energy to talk much, but she felt as if she’d had a really good day.

  38

  Cher McInnery

  The hardest thing to face getting out is the decisions. For months, for years, you haven’t been able to decide anything for yourself. Then all of a sudden, you’re supposed to be able to decide everything, make every kind of decision. It’s just too much.

  Emma Green, parolee from the state prison for women in Lansing, Kansas. Kathryn Watterson, Women in Prison

  Cher wriggled her toes with pleasure in the thick pile of the silk Kirman. She loved watching her flat-screen TV in her new Tribeca loft.

  On the day she was released from Jennings, Cher regretted that she had to be somewhat selective in what she actually took with her. It broke her heart to leave so much of her hard-earned bounty behind, but she had no intention of leaving those items that belonged to Jennifer Spencer. She took them all, and when her processing was finished, Cher McInnery walked out of the Jennings Correctional Facility a free and well-dressed woman. She had served close to four years for grand larceny, and she couldn’t wait to get started again. Except this time there would be no petty coins, no boosting from stores, no grifting. After all, Jennifer Spencer’s Armani suit was a perfect fit, and there was no reason to think that everything else in her closet wasn’t going to fit Cher as well. She was grateful to Jennifer for opening her eyes to a larger world, one where stealing and manipulation was a respectable way of life.

  It had always seemed dead wrong to Cher that everyone else had more than she had, and stealing was the only way she knew to settle the score. She only had one rule when it came to thievery: Never steal from no one that’s poorer than you. And besides, it was a lot easier to steal from people who had more than they needed.

  They got sloppy and did stupid things. They took their house keys to prison. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to find the doors that those keys unlocked. When she first got to Jennifer’s address, Cher was somewhat surprised to see that Jennifer’s place was in an old meatpacking plant or something, but once she got inside she knew that she had struck gold. The views out the window from the huge living room looked south all the way down the Hudson River. Cher could even glimpse the Statue of Liberty in the distance – a good omen for her for the beginning of her new freedom.

  She left prison with over thirty-eight hundred dollars that she had managed, bit by bit, to accumulate by acquiring and selling things on the black market. She was shocked to see how quickly money went here. She couldn’t get into a taxi or eat a
slice of pizza without breaking a ten dollar bill. And Cher didn’t like to live tight and have to watch her pennies. She preferred to make lots of Benjamin Franklins rather than watching every George Washington. But Cher had plans. She had learned something in prison and it wasn’t any crap about reforming. She had learned that she’d been thinking on too small a scale – that what she had considered success was penny ante. Prison had opened her vistas. Just like this view down to the New York Harbor did. And both were courtesy of Jennifer Spencer. She had to be grateful to the girl, and she was, in her own way.

  Cher went to her purse – well, it had once been Jennifer Spencer’s purse but it was her purse now – and took out the phone numbers she had hidden there beneath the tiny slit she had made in the lining. She was finished with the short con or even the big con. Blowing off the mark had become more and more difficult and they were more and more likely to bleat – go to the police. In the old days, marks were too embarrassed after getting conned to do anything about it. That was the whole point. Cher didn’t plan to spend any more time Inside ever again.

  She looked down at the phone number in her hand. JoJo ran a boiler room and a bucket shop here in New York. Cher had no interest in sitting all day, trying to make scores over the telephone, talking old ladies in Des Moines out of their savings, but the bucket shop might work. That was, if JoJo gave her a chance. His brother was a pickpocket with a whiz mob that sometimes worked New York, but JoJo looked down on him. She didn’t want to try to talk herself into a job with him over the phone – she doubted if that would work, even with her refined tone of voice. But if she could find out where he was, go in for a meeting, or get him to take a walk, she was certain, dead certain, that she could move up.

  But enough daydreaming. Cher had luxuriated in the pleasures of her new digs long enough. It was time to get to work. There was a whole lot she needed to get done before sunset. She clicked off the TV with the remote control and headed for the kitchen. It was a damned nice layout, but it didn’t look as if the debutante had ever prepared a meal here in her life. Cher thought back to the crap Jennifer had served up at Jennings. Hadn’t her mama taught her how to cook? The only useful thing Cher found in that kitchen was the drawer stuffed full of menus from places that delivered. She remembered Theresa’s favorite joke: ‘What does a debutante make for dinner? – Reservations!’ Hell, this girl didn’t even do that, she made phone calls. Well, if that’s the way they did things in Tribeca, that’s the way Cher would do it, too.