The Price: My Rise and Fall As Natalia, New York's #1 Escort

by Natalie McLennan

  I needed so much more than my lawyer—I needed my father. Well, not my father, but the father I should have had. In that moment, I got smacked in the face with the one thing so missing from my life. I almost felt like a huge chunk of me was not there, were it should be, like physically not there.

  I knew my lawyer felt horrible. I could see it in his face. All the emotion coming out of me must have felt like a tsunami hitting him. The people with guns each took an elbow and walked me down a hallway. We got to a door, and they opened it. A gust of wind hit me. It was cold. The last time I’d been in handcuffs had been the end of July, sunny and hot. It was cold now, and I was wearing a $500 sweater I thought would make me look demure.

  I got onto the bus. There were only three other girls on it. I didn’t know where to sit. Of all the things to panic about, I panicked about not knowing where to sit.

  Right in the front? The back? Next to someone? Everyone seemed to know the drill. The bus was so small, I couldn’t even stand up, and I’m not exactly Tyra Banks. I slid onto a seat and pressed myself next to the window. The girl directly behind sighed loudly and then sucked her teeth at some indignity I had apparently inflicted on her. Maybe I shouldn’t have sat right in front of her? I had no idea. But I had a feeling this was only going to get worse.

  I had visions of what awaited: being beaten up, my hair being pulled out, of breaking down. The doctors had been right after all. I was going to melt down and shatter. I hated that they’d been right. I should have committed myself. If I had taken the gift of recovery that my friends had set up for me, I would not have been sitting there. I wanted to go back in time and scream — scream for the help that I needed. Instead I’d been stubborn and belligerent and tried to pretend that I was fine, and now I was paying the price for it. They’d tried to help me, and I’d behaved like a child. What they had offered looked like torture, like a prison. Now I really was in prison.

  Some of the windows in the bus were open and, because we were handcuffed (they’d transferred my hands from behind my back to the front), we couldn’t push them up. We all started to freeze as the frigid air swirled about us. One of the girls asked the officer if she could push up a window, and she replied, “No.” That’s it, just “No,” the first of a million “nos” I’d hear over the next month.

  By the time we arrived at the skinny bridge that takes you out to Rikers Island, the overcast sky was turning a dark, deep gray. It was autumn in New York, usually one of my favorite times of year. I love the crispness that comes with fall in the city, but now the cold and the clouds took on a foreboding, almost gothic quality. It used to be that the city inspired me, pushed me to be the best I could be. But since Paul and the abuse, there were songs I couldn’t listen to, restaurants I didn’t want to go back to, clothes I didn’t like wearing, all because they were too painful in some way or another. Now all of New York felt tainted by these waves of negativity and fear.

  The guards at the bridge’s security checkpoint waved us through, and we had officially left New York City behind.

  As we drove past the mass of low-lying jail buildings surrounded by the maze of razor-wire fences, I started thinking about Jason. He was in there somewhere, suffering the same fate I was about to be subjected to. I hadn’t been to visit him since my own arrest. My lawyer had forbidden it. Now I couldn’t believe that I was going to be so close to him. It wasn’t love or longing that I was feeling; it was anger. This was all his fault. Why had he had to open his mouth and get us in trouble? Why hadn’t he paid me what he owed me? At least then, I might have saved enough to make my bail. I wasn’t strong enough to accept any responsibility. That would come later. For now, Jason was the only villain.

  We drove past Jason’s building, then around to the other side of the island. I could see the tip of Manhattan in the distance across the river. The wind was starting to pick up, and the water looked choppy and dangerous. We stopped in front of the female facility building and were told to get off the bus. We shuffled out of the van, more defeated with each step. Inside, the intercom announcements, doors clanking open and shut, and loud, profanity-laced chatter pierced my ears. There was a desk smack in the middle of the room, an island unto itself raised on a platform, surrounded by caged cells and dozens of detained women. The cells surrounding the perimeter of the intake area didn’t have vertical bars the way jail cells do in the movies. In fact, nothing I was seeing was anything like the jails they portray in Hollywood. They were big, square cells with chicken-wire-style metal caging—more like being at a dog kennel than a jail.

  A really loud female officer asked if we had any weapons or drugs. We all meekly shook our heads no. She asked again louder and angrier.

  “I say-ed, do you have any weapons, illegal drugs or drug paraphernalia on your person?”

  “No!” we all answered.

  “Thank you! You will be assigned to one of these cells, processed one by one, and then eventually go on to a building. But that probably will not happen tonight, ladies, so get comfortable.”

  She looked around at all the cages, then back at us.

  “Okay, you three, right here.”

  She pointed to the closest one and swung open the door. It was empty.

  “You,” she looked at me, “come with me.”

  I felt my heart lift. My mind created an instant fantasy that maybe somehow it was all a mistake. I didn’t belong here with these women, these criminals. I was going home. Okay, that was implausible. Forget that. But maybe they were just taking pity on my skinny white ass and were going to send me right through to my jail cell, and then I wouldn’t have to stay in this dirty, smelly place with the rest of the herd.

  I followed her around the huge island-like desk in the middle of the room, and she unlocked the door to the biggest cage, which was filled with at least a dozen women, and opened it. Fantasy over.

  “Get in,” she said. So I did.

  The cage was packed. Some women were sitting on the benches that wrapped around the walls, some were lying on the floor. There were so many on the floor, there was barely any room to walk. As I wove my way through, my high heels clicked on the floor. Everyone who wasn’t asleep looked up and stared at me. Several of those who were asleep were awakened by the clickety-clack of my conspicuous shoe wear. I was the only white girl. And I was surely the only one in Gucci heels.

  I found a free corner on the bench. I thought that might be a safe spot. Maybe I could even lie down and get to sleep. I saw a few girls who were sweating and holding their stomachs, moaning.

  Holy shit, I thought, they’re detoxing.

  That could have been me. I thanked God I was sober and not coming down from a night of partying, or a five-day binge, or still doing heroin and getting sick. I think I might have died. I looked at the woman closest to me, and I realized why this prime, bench real estate was free. Right at my feet was a homeless woman who looked and smelled like she hadn’t bathed in months. She reeked of piss and shit. I gagged and almost threw up, but I looked around and saw there wasn’t anywhere else to sit.

  It went downhill from there.

  Morning came in the Rose M. Singer building, or Rosie’s, as everyone called it. The gears of the prison started turning—you could feel it. I didn’t know what was next. One by one, women’s names were called, and they were then led through to the medical wing. Everyone around me was taken away. Hours more passed. New prisoners were led in. Lunch came: peanut butter or baloney sandwiches (yes, it’s true, that’s what they give you) and cartons of milk. I don’t eat peanut butter, didn’t want baloney and can’t drink milk, so I didn’t eat or drink anything. Sometime in the early afternoon, I had to go to the bathroom so badly, I couldn’t wait anymore. I had watched other women use the seatless metal toilet in the corner of the cage and realized that like everything else here in my new digs, I didn’t have a choice—my choices were being made for me. Where I slept, what I ate, where I went, even where I went to the bathroom. Right now, that meant in a cage fu
ll of other women. I got up, walked over in my heels, pulled up my skirt and pulled down my tights. I hovered over the toilet, my thighs shaking from lack of strength, and peed as quickly as I could. I hadn’t had anything to drink in more than twenty-four hours, but it still seemed like my pee lasted forever.

  Finally, my name was called, and I was led down a short hallway and into a waiting area. I sat down and looked around. There were office-style cubicles everywhere. It was the medical area, and they seemed to be in a rush. I guess they were almost done for the day, but they needed to process and house me because I had been in processing for almost twenty hours now. I sat down on a hard, plastic chair in the corner of one of the cubicles, and an Indian nurse took out a clipboard and started asking me dozens of questions: Was I pregnant? Did I have any medical conditions? Was I HIV positive? Was I allergic to any food or medication? Was I on any medication? Was I under the influence of any drugs? Did I regularly use any drugs? Was I having thoughts of suicide? Did I have a history of depression or mental illness? I answered no to everything. It seemed unnecessary to share any info, like the fact that I’d been a heroin addict and was less than five-months detoxed.

  I had one goal in my mind: to get out of there as soon as possible. I didn’t want anything to slow me down, like being diagnosed clinically depressed and put on medication and then not allowed to be released on bail, or something like that. I didn’t know if that would happen, but I wasn’t interested in finding out. The depression question seemed especially comical: how could I not be depressed? I was in hell on Earth. The nurse seemed a little thrown that I was so sure of my answers and that I was being so easy. I imagined that some of the prisoners found every reason to prolong this medical process, as for some women it was probably the only way they could get medical care.

  I was picked up by an officer who looked at me and barked, “Where’s your I.D.?”

  I looked down and pointed to the waistband of my skirt.

  “It’s supposed to be on your shirt.”

  I unclipped it and attached it to my shirt. It was a cute picture, actually. I gave them a hot angry look.

  “Where are your shoes?”

  “They took them,” I said. On my way out, someone had noticed them and enforced the no-high-heels-in-jail rule.

  “Well, you’re going to have to get some shoes.”

  We walked down a series of long hallways, and she handed my file to a man sitting in a big, glass booth overlooking my new cell block. She never looked at or spoke to me again.

  “I’m C.O. Patterson, Officer Patterson,” said the male officer.

  He looked at my file and said my name, “Natalie McLennan. What is that, Irish?”

  “Scottish, I answered.”

  He looked at me amused.

  “Go on inside.”

  He hit a buzzer, and I pushed on one of the two swinging doors.

  “Other door,” he said when it didn’t budge.

  He laughed a little and pushed the buzzer, and this time I made it inside. My new home. I wandered in. The floor was cold under my feet, with only a thin layer of nylon and spandex between my skin and the concrete.

  For the first three nights, I didn’t have a pillow or blanket in my cell. It was freezing, and I was shivering. I approached one of the officers. There were two: one who sat in the glass bubble and one who sat by the entrance in a chair beside a table. The one sitting told me to talk to the other guard who informed me he didn’t have any extras. I would have to wait two more days for the weekly sheet/towel swap. I lay alone in my cell and froze each night, until I eventually managed to cry myself to sleep.

  I spent most of my time in my cell because I didn’t have anything else to do, and I felt safer there. About a week in, I decided to venture out to the main area of the building where the other inmates hung out.

  * * *

  Everyone found out that I was “that girl,” or more accurately, “the hooker.” The New York Post article with the full-page photo of me was passed around. I was instantly a pariah.

  There were only two other white girls in the building whom I came across. One was named Jennifer. She was a bad ass from Queens who was at Rikers for beating up some girl over a guy. Then there was Angelica, a Sicilian chick, who was in for selling drugs. She had been in federal prison for transporting guns and drugs from Florida to New York. They would both prove to be my only friends. It’s totally politically incorrect to say, but in prison you seek compassion and protection from your own kind. It’s just the way things work inside.

  Jennifer was a little tougher to get along with. She was really moody and seemed on the verge of getting into a brawl at any given moment. But both of them could tell I was in over my head and looked out for me. Angelica especially took the time to explain the unwritten rules that you must follow to get by in jail. She helped me get cleaning supplies for my cell when I told her it was putrid.

  “Natalia!” Angelica hissed at me from the second-story balcony.

  Her cell door was propped open with a bucket she was using to clean. Where did she get a bucket? Talk about resourceful. She glared at me and gestured toward her cell, meaning she wanted me to come up to see her. She grabbed my arm and pulled me inside and sat me down on her bed, cot, metal-framed-nightmare-machine, whatever you want to call it.

  “Why were you talking to that nigger?”

  She used the word freely. At first it really freaked me out, and I was scared I would become a target if people heard her, but over time I realized everyone in jail uses that word for everyone. That’s not to say it ever came out of my mouth.

  I shrugged. What did I do wrong?

  “Don’t fucking talk to anybody. Talk to me. The only reason these bitches are so interested in you is because they’re jealous, and they want to fuck you up, you understand?”

  “Jealous of what?” Of my destroyed life? They could have it.

  “Of everything, Natalia. That you have a paid lawyer, that you have your picture in the newspaper, that people give a shit about you. They’re jealous of your fucking hair…what does it matter? Do not talk to them.”

  “So, what, I just ignore it when someone speaks to me?” That didn’t seem like such a good idea.

  “No, you just don’t put yourself there in the first place. You’re a good person, Natalia. You don’t belong here. And I mean that when I say it. When they say it to you, it’s ‘cause they want you to agree so they can say, ‘what are you saying…that I do belong here?’ and that’s when they kick your ass and fuck up your pretty face.”

  Man, jail is complicated, I thought. Thank God for my Angelica.

  * * *

  My nickname, fittingly, was Tinkerbell because I’d been wearing a skirt when I was brought in, and I’d probably seemed about as tough as a fairy. Finally, on a visiting day, my friend Morgan brought me some clothes: socks and underwear, sweats, a few tee-shirts and a sweatshirt. Some of the things she brought never got through because they were blue or red, the verboten colors of the Crips and Bloods. Thank God there wasn’t a gang called the Black Knights because ninety percent of my wardrobe would have been banned. I still didn’t have proper shoes. I was shuffling around in a pair of orange slip-on sneakers. They were two sizes too small, and I have really small feet. I folded the back of them down and managed to get by. I washed out my tights every evening and let them dry overnight.

  As I sat across from Morgan in the visiting lounge we tried to go over everything that needed to be discussed about my case. She explained that she had tried to set up a meeting with my lawyer, but he wasn’t returning her calls. I had barely spoken to him as well. I guess I couldn’t blame him. I hadn’t paid him. He’d probably taken my case because he knew it would get him tons of free publicity. But now, with his celebrity client locked up, he wasn’t looking like the go-to guy anymore. I don’t know if he was embarrassed, or just pissed I didn’t have any money. Either way, I had the feeling he just wanted me to go away.

  Morgan said Ron was
the only one who was offering anything constructive, but as I had found out, he wasn’t exactly Perry Mason.

  Morgan told me she’d also spoken to my mother who’d said she wanted to come visit. A chill went up my spine. I wanted to see her, but I didn’t want her to see me like this. I changed the subject.

  On her way out, Morgan remembered one more thing she had for me: a book, Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand. New York magazine’s Mark Jacobson had bought it for me after he found out it was Jason’s favorite novel. I’d never got around to starting it. I was a little intimidated—it’s over a thousand pages long. But it turned out to make perfect Big House reading.

  I read for hours every day, but sometimes I would realize that I’d been reading for pages and couldn’t remember anything I had just read. My brain was having a really hard time focusing, but after a while, I buckled down and got into it. I began to see why Jason liked the book so much. It was all about a group of elitists who believed they could rise above the masses’ self-defeating and outdated sense of morality. Jason was like a mix of Larry Flynt, P.T. Barnum and John Galt, the book’s mysterious super-capitalist hero.

  With my new duds and something to read, life on the inside got a smidgen better. But the status of the State of New York vs. Natalia hung over my head every waking second. The day of my first court date arrived, and I woke up super early, all nerves. The bus left for the courthouse at 6:30. We were served those mini boxes of cereal with milk for breakfast—I just ate the dry cereal— and herded into a gymnasium. There were four buses going to the different boroughs. The Brooklyn bus was always the fullest. The Manhattan bus was sparsely populated. I was handcuffed to a tall, big black woman who at first looked like she was going to bite my head off. She turned to me and asked, “You want some of this Pop-Tart?”

  It was the nicest thing anyone had done for me since I’d gotten to Rikers. It was stale and sweet. I’d never tasted anything so good. I could barely keep down the jail fare: mushy pasta with canned tomato sauce, slabs of meat of unknown origin, powdery mashed potatoes and overcooked, tasteless veggies.