I stare at the van’s passenger-side mirror as we leave the parking lot and cross over to the other side—the federally restricted side—of the one-armed gate.
“Objects in mirror are closer than they appear,” I read in the etched glass surface. Hannah stands in the same spot that I left her, waving pathetically, while Sam climbs back into the car, his face impassive.
It’s gonna be a long trip home.
I check out my new surroundings. To the naked eye, Alderson doesn’t look too bad. Colonial-style brick buildings, neatly trimmed lawns, leafy trees. I half expect to see someone driving a golf cart or giving a campus walking tour.
Up the grassy hill, I spot a line of khaki-clad women exiting a building and walking down a path. Headed to dinner, maybe? They appear to be on their own, no guard in sight. Except for my van driver, I don’t see any guards at all. No razor wire either. The only thing separating me from freedom is that lousy one-armed gate.
“You’re late,” the guard mutters.
“Sorry,” I say, not sorry at all.
“Did ya come far?”
“Pretty far.”
“Ya married to that Chinese guy?”
“He’s Korean. And yes.”
“No offense. I can’t tell ’em apart.”
Seriously? I have no words.
We pull up in front of a boxy brick building.
“Well, here we are,” the guard says, “R&D.”
“R&D?” I ask. In my line of business, R&D stands for research and development, but I doubt there’s much of that going on around here.
“Receiving and discharge.”
The guard gets out of the van. I follow her up the steps of the building into an empty room with cheap vinyl floors and buzzing fluorescent lights. I can practically feel my soul getting sucked out of me.
“Wait here,” the guard says. She points to a plastic bench along the wall and leaves.
As I sit and wait, I slip off my Chanel espadrilles and admire my toenails. Royal blue, red, gray, with a French tip of white. New York Giants colors. I had them done yesterday. I figure the gel polish will last a month if I’m careful.
One month down, one hundred—plus or minus—more to go.
“You here to self-surrender?” someone says.
I look up. Another guard. Male this time.
“Yeah,” I say, slipping my shoes back on.
“You’re late,” he says. “Last admission is at five o’clock.”
He points at the plain white clock on the wall. It reads 5:15.
“Great, I’ll just get out of your way, then,” I’m tempted to wisecrack. Instead, I just nod.
“You have your IDs?” he asks.
I walk over and hand him my Social Security card and driver’s license.
He starts filling out one of those government-issue forms, the kind with the white top page and the pink and goldenrod carbons. He holds up my driver’s license and compares my face to the photo, like a bartender checking a fake ID.
That’s right, I’m trying to sneak my way into prison.
Fucking idiot.
“Okay, this way,” he says.
He walks me over to a smaller room where I see the original guard—the one who drove me in the van. She closes the door and tells me to strip.
I feel like the star of some low-budget porno flick. I strip down to my underwear and bra while the guard watches. She can’t take her eyes off me.
“All your clothes,” she says.
I obey.
“Run your fingers through your hair.”
“Really?” I ask.
I take it from the guard’s scowl that she’s not in the mood for questions.
What’s next, I wonder. Lick my lips and pout?
“Okay,” she says, “now open your mouth and lift your tongue.”
As I follow the guard’s orders, I can feel my nipples getting hard from the window air conditioner set to Arctic. I hope she doesn’t take it as a compliment. I’m not sure why I need to be stark naked while she inspects the inside of my mouth. I feel like a goddamn cow at the Iowa State Fair.
“Now squat and cough,” she says.
Damn, just when I thought it couldn’t get any more humiliating. I wonder if anyone has ever just shit on the spot, leaving a big pile of steaming feces on the floor as an FU to the whole US criminal injustice system.
“Stand and lift your arms.”
After she makes sure I haven’t concealed any assault weapons in my pits, the guard hands me a small bundle of clothes.
“I’ll give you a minute to get dressed,” she says. She opens the door to leave.
Now she’s giving me privacy?
I slip into my new wardrobe of khaki polyester-blend separates and canvas slip-ons. The elastic-waistband slacks are super flattering. I haven’t worn tube socks since middle school gym.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Ready?” the guard asks, peeking through the crack in the door.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say.
“Want your clothes sent home?”
“What are my options?”
“Send ’em home or destroy ’em.”
I look at the pile of clothes on the floor and imagine Sam’s confused reaction when they arrive in the mail. Sam’s not good at figuring things out on his own.
“We pay for shipping,” she says. As if that’s the reason for my hesitation.
“Just destroy them,” I finally say.
We head down a hallway to an area that looks like a nursing station at a hospital. There’s a group of three guards drinking coffee in foam cups and shooting the shit. When they see us approaching, they stop talking. Two of them walk away, like they’ve got something they need to get back to. Maybe a box of stale donuts.
“Late admission, self-surrender,” my guard says, handing over my paperwork.
The clerk at the nursing station looks annoyed. I just ruined her day by making her do her job. After reading through my pile of forms, she turns to her computer—some crappy circa-2000 Compaq with Post-it notes all over the monitor—and logs in. Based on her Post-its, I’d guess her password is ILoveKitty. I wonder if that’s her cat or her girlfriend.
“Give me your hand,” the clerk orders.
She grabs my hand, rolls each finger on a spongy cushion of ink and then rolls them on a piece of paper. When we’re through, the clerk pulls a premoistened wipe from a nearby pop-up container and gives it to me. The baby powder fragrance reminds me of Ally.