She laughed, a deep, rattling smoker’s laugh full of phlegm. “Guess nobody told you we’re all innocent in here.”
I ignored Pinky, who was still laughing, as I made my bed. Then I climbed up to the top bunk, curled into a ball, my bag of toiletries tight against my stomach in case she tried to steal anything. I wanted to wash my face and brush my teeth but I was too tired, and too scared. I closed my eyes, started to drift off.
Pinky popped her head up and grabbed my arm. I tried to tug it back, but she was holding fast, her hands white claws with long nails. Her thin face looked like a skull in the dim light. I almost screamed.
“I wouldn’t go around telling anyone that shit about you being innocent,” she hissed. “They’ll beat your ass.”
She let go and disappeared down below. I stared up at the ceiling, my heart thudding, still feeling her fingers digging into my flesh. A few minutes later I heard her snoring. I pulled the thin blanket over my head, trying to drown out the sound, trying to drown out everything.
*
For the first few days, I stuck to myself and tried to learn about the terrifying new world I’d been thrust into. My mood swung between helpless rage, where I wanted to punch and kick something or someone, and depression. But mostly there was fear, whenever another inmate glanced at me, whenever I thought about how long I was going to have to stay in this place.
The prison was old, noisy, and housed about a hundred and eighty women of various security levels. The air was poorly ventilated, the corridors and stairwells dark and narrow. Everything felt cold to the touch: the walls, the bars on our cells, the floor. The prison was broken into four units. One wing was the minimum-security side, for women who were the lowest risk. Over on my side, there were two ranges. I had been placed on A Range, which was medium-security. Both ranges were long two-tiered banks of about sixty cells, but B Range was about half the size of A Range and was the maximum-security side. The other half of B was protective custody and the segregation unit.
I sat stunned, still trying to take everything in, while I was given an introduction class for general orientation, and a handbook with information on things like visiting, phone calls, and inmate accounts. I’d be going through an assessment over the next ninety days, where my institutional parole officer would look at my risk level and needs. Then they’d come up with a correctional plan. Everyone was polite, businesslike, and firm, and I tried to pay attention to what they were saying, but part of me kept screaming in my head, No, this isn’t for me. I don’t belong here. I didn’t do anything wrong. Nicole’s killer is still out there!
There weren’t set visiting days, but I had to mail forms to anyone I wanted on my list. I also had to fill out a form to get a phone number approved. The cost of a call would be billed to the receiver—if I called collect. I was told it could be weeks before my phone number and visitor lists were approved. I could write people as much as I wanted, including Ryan, which was a relief, but all mail was inspected. I was allowed books, but a limited amount of paper, and each cell had a storage tote where prisoners could keep their belongings. There was a personal line each week for health and hygiene—anything else would have to be bought at the canteen. I was also allowed to purchase a fifteen-inch TV, a CD player, and a few clothing items like underwear and socks, or approved jeans. But I wasn’t permitted to have more than fifteen hundred dollars’ worth of personal effects in my cell. If I broke any rules I’d get a charge, which could be a fine or the loss of a privilege. If I did something really serious, I’d be sent to segregation. I wasn’t allowed in anyone’s cell, and I wasn’t allowed physical contact with another inmate. At the time I didn’t give a rat’s ass about that part—there was no one I wanted to touch anyway. It would be years before I discovered that loss of physical contact was one of the hardest things to deal with.