Phoebe wandered the halls of the penthouse one last time, as agents tracked her every move. They’d been in and out of the apartment for weeks, tagging every item to enter in a master list so that she wouldn’t take off with what was now property of the US government.
She’d become inured to the insanity of what they’d tagged, wondering who’d bid in the planned auction of all things Pierce. Of course, the rare Vacheron Constantin watches, some more than a hundred years old, and her Van Cleef & Arpels diamond earrings, worth over seventy-five thousand—and so heavy she rarely wore them—would bring salivating buyers. But Jake’s boxer shorts and her yoga pants? Her colander?
Phoebe steeled herself against the humiliation of having her life displayed in a hotel ballroom where people judged her by cloth and jewels. All she wanted were a few things from her mother, her grandmothers—things not bought with blood money—for Katie, for her granddaughters, but no. They wouldn’t let her choose anything from before Jake’s crimes. Even the 10K gold ring worn to a sliver of gleaming metal by her great-grandmother’s fingers was added to their list of items for sale. She begged to keep the red Pyrex mixing bowl from her mother’s set—Deb had the blue one. The bowl was no collectible. Fork scrapes marked a thousand beaten eggs. But apparently someone might want to pay for the privilege of owning the homely bowl. Like everything else, by order of the feds, she’d leave it behind.
The feds thought everything the Pierces owned was valuable enough to auction off. She tried to imagine what pleasure or revenge someone could derive from Jake’s underwear or her kitchen appliances. Their infamy must be far larger than she imagined if owning her mother’s bowl provided cachet.
Today she’d leave with a small cloth suitcase so old it lacked wheels, filled with the few things her lawyer had won in the battle for bras and belts. Some jeans. A few sweaters. A lined raincoat. Harriet Joyner, the woman Gideon chose as Phoebe’s counsel, fought harder than Phoebe thought she deserved. She sat in Harriet’s office, nodding as the steel cable of a woman drew up paperwork that paid no attention to Phoebe’s innocence, guilt, or desire to divest herself of anything related to Jake’s crimes, including all the money he’d put into accounts in her name.
“It’s your last chance to come out with a penny,” Harriet had drilled into her. “I don’t care what the world says. You worked, you started a business, and you raised a family. You never had a clue what Jake did. You were another one of his victims.”
Harriet came from Brooklyn, middle class, same as Phoebe, although her version of growing up Brooklyn was as a black girl in the Canarsie neighborhood. The connection united them enough for Harriet to still Phoebe’s objections with a glance. After fighting for the whole enchilada, knowing the end product would be a fraction of her request, if anything, Harriet had shocked the legal community with a million-dollar deal. This number, which to the average person sounded like an unimaginable fortune, would be considerably shrunk by the time Phoebe paid Harriet and gave half to Deb.
In the end, she might have a quarter million, which she’d leave untouched, hoping she could bring in seven thousand to eight thousand dollars a year in interest while she lived on Social Security. She’d be more secure than most retirees in the country, though a pauper by previous standards.
And then there was the theory of relativity. No more having to report expenses over a hundred dollars. Her minders from the feds had previously turned down her requests to subscribe to the New York Times. Basic cable was all she was allowed. Her prescriptions for Ambien and Xanax were scrutinized, but in the end, Harriet fought for her right to have the pills while Phoebe remained under federal control. Now it was over. She could fill morphine prescriptions if she so pleased. If she walked out with nothing but her jeans and raincoat, freedom was hers, if only from the government’s oversight. However, Jake still swung from her neck like the millstone he’d become.
Phoebe removed from the fridge curling pictures held with magnets, grateful that Harriet secured her personal photo albums, starting with her three granddaughters, none of whom she’d seen since November, nine months before. Then she leaned her fingers on her antidote for tears, the decidedly different item on the refrigerator: rules from the Federal Bureau of Prisons.
Dress Code
Wear clothing that is appropriate for a large gathering of men, women, and young children. Wearing inappropriate clothing (such as provocative or revealing clothes) may result in your being denied visitation.
The following items are not permitted: revealing shorts
sundresses
halter tops
bathing suits
see-through garments of any type
crop tops
low-cut blouses or dresses
leotards
spandex
miniskirts
backless tops
hats or caps
sleeveless garments
skirts two inches or more above the knee dresses or skirts with a high-cut split in the back, front, or side clothing that looks like inmate clothing (khaki or green military-type clothing) Visiting Duration
By law, an inmate gets at least four hours of visiting time per month but usually the prison can provide more. However, the Warden can restrict the length of visits or the number of people who can visit at once, to avoid overcrowding in the visiting room.
General Behavior
Because many people are usually visiting, it is important visits are quiet, orderly, and dignified. The visiting room officer can require you to leave if either you or the inmate is not acting appropriately.
Physical Contact
In most cases, handshakes, hugs, and kisses (in good taste) are allowed at the beginning and end of a visit. Staff may limit contact for security reasons (to prevent people from trying to introduce contraband) and to keep the visiting area orderly. The Federal Bureau of Prisons does not permit conjugal visits.
Phoebe folded the list and tucked it into her jeans pocket.
The world wanted her to suffer, and she would. Punishment felt deserved. Why the hell should she benefit in any way, including the amount Harriet managed?
A good girl to the end, Phoebe locked the door as she left, knowing the men and women in FBI jackets would change the locks within the hour. She pressed the elevator button and then traveled down, hefting the suitcase her mother had carried so long ago.
Manny hugged her with undeserved warmth.
“You’ve been so good to me,” she said, as she leaned her head into his shoulder. “Why?”
“They pushed you down so far that it’s impossible not to give you a hand up.”
Shit. How did she not see him before? How many people did her ascension blind her to? “I’m sorry for whatever asshole stuff Jake or I did.”