I wanted money in hand in case I needed to bribe some CO’s or inmates or both. In theory, there was no cash at Coolis: you got issued a photo–ID card with a computer chip when you were admitted. Any money in your account was programmed onto the chip and then deducted when you used the card, whether in vending machines, at the commissary, or doing laundry. The idea was you wouldn’t have gambling or bribing or drug sales if you kept out the cash, but in my four days here I’d already seen plenty of bills changing hands—and not always very secretively.
Freeman frowned and said in his most austere tones that he would speak to Lotty, but only to advise her of the felony nature of my request.
He finished making notes in his quick, tiny script and packed up his papers. “Vic, you know my steadiest advice as your counsel is for you to post bail and come home. If you decide to listen to me, a call to my office will get someone out here on the instant.”
“Freeman, before you go, do you know why I’m here? I mean, instead of at Cook County? Was this some shenanigan of Baladine’s?”
He shook his head. “I have to confess I wondered about that, but once you were arrested, even with Lemour involved, you moved out of Baladine’s orbit. The simple truth is, Cook County is always filled to capacity, and on the Fourth they started splitting at the seams. Women arrested at precincts on the far North or West Sides were automatically shunted out here. Anyway, Baladine is out of the country. He’s taken his family on some exotic vacation.”
“I know: to the South of France. Is Robbie with them? I don’t know what became of him after I left the house on Friday morning.”
Freeman told me that Baladine had wrested Robbie from Mr. Contreras in the middle of the night Saturday. The old man (“He’s been living with you too long,” Freeman said in an unnecessary aside) had tried to hold off a warrant from a Du Page County sheriff’s deputy. He only gave in when Robbie said he couldn’t stand it if they arrested Mr. Contreras; he would leave if the sheriff promised not to hurt the old man. Robbie’s father had taken him to South Carolina, to boot camp, before flying out to join the Poilevys and the Trants with the rest of his family in the Pyrenees.
“I tried to talk to Baladine, but his staff wouldn’t give me his number overseas. They say he left strict orders that even though he has the kid back he’s not doing a deal with you,” Freeman added.
“Freeman—if they don’t know I’m here don’t tell them. If anyone asks, let them think I posted bail and am lying low.”
He gave me a queer smile, half loving, half exasperated. “As you wish, Donna Victoria of the Rueful Countenance.”
He tapped on the window to let the guard know we were finished. I was searched, the guard spending more time than necessary on my bra, and taken back to the jail wing. Now that I was alone I felt unbearably desolate. I lay on my bunk, a strip of towel over my eyes against the light, which stayed on from 5:00 A.M. until lights–out at nine, and let myself give way to misery.
37 In the Big House
The next four weeks were the hardest of my life. I hunkered down and tried to learn the ropes at Coolis—how to avoid being beaten up by my sisters in chains, how to butter up the CO’s without having to have sex with them, how to keep myself busy enough that the pervasive helplessness and boredom wouldn’t drag me so far down I couldn’t function.
I wanted to talk to Miss Ruby, to thank her for her help on Sunday, but mostly to find out what she could tell me about Nicola, and about getting work in the clothes shop. I let everyone I talked to know that I’d like to meet her, but except for a couple of times in the dining hall, where the CO’s kept us firmly in place at the table, I didn’t see her after that first day.
Freeman’s visit did bring a material change in my physical comfort. True to his word, he sent his intern out with money for my account, along with my clothes allotment. The intern had a stack of legal documents for me to read and sign. In the middle of them was a letter from Lotty. She begged me to post bail in lines of such loving concern I was hard put to stick to my resolve about staying, but in a postscript she added, I helped Freeman’s secretary pack your clothes and mended various tears.
“She especially wanted you to know about a hole in the waistband to your shorts,” the intern said primly.
Lotty was no seamstress. When I got back to my cell, I surreptitiously picked apart an inch of the waistband seam. Tightly folded bills almost matched the khaki of the fabric. I pulled out a twenty before stitching the seam shut again—it was the safest place to store money, and washing wouldn’t hurt it any.
With my prison trust account set up, I was not only able to buy a toothbrush and soap at the commissary but also some cleanser to scrub out the sink–toilet unit in my cell. The cash I would keep for bribes, once I knew to whom and how to administer them.