Breaking good, p.19
Breaking Good, page 19
When she was done clearing her armpit, she looked up at me with those intense eyes, and I leaned my head forward. She accepted my offering without a word, as though it were just matter of fact, and lathered up her other armpit. I stood there awkwardly until she scoffed at me.
“You can rinse your fucking hair,” she said.
“You’re not going to…do your legs?”
“Don’t be stupid,” she sneered with her arm over her head, never taking her eyes from mine as she shaved her armpit smooth. “Ain’t no room in here for that.”
I just nodded and leaned my head back into the water, rinsing my hair, and when I stood erect again, she held the razor out to me. Not knowing what to expect, I plucked it from her fingers, and her sour grimace twisted up into a smile. “Thanks,” she said before peering outside the shower stall, waiting for her moment, then hopping out.
I stood there, the shower stream drumming against my back and the floor of the stall, staring at the spot where she had been just a moment before. A single-occupant shower stall had never seemed so spacious. “What the fuuuuuuuuck?” I whispered…and then rinsed the razor to use it myself.
“Right in there with you?” Roxy asked me over the phone the next day. It was the first time I’d talked to anyone on the outside since I’d gotten to OCCC. Luckily, Roxy was never far from her phone. I leaned against the desk at the guards’ station, the only phone we had access to, and conditional access at that. I knew I had to be careful not to say anything incriminating, even if the guards were only half-assing it and barely listening anyway.
“She just hopped right in like it was nothing. And apparently, this is totally a thing. Old-timers do it to fresh blood all the time, and they’re not always looking for a razor.”
“Ooh…baby…that is not the kind of female bonding I think you’re looking for.”
“Not from them. I’ll be taking the shortest fucking showers in history from now on. I can tell you that.” It was nice to actually laugh. It was the first time I had in weeks. “How’s Bella? Is she okay?”
Roxy paused for a long time, then sighed and said, “She’s…not great. She lost her job. And she lost you. And…it’s rough. But I’ll keep an eye on her as much as I can.”
“Thanks, Ma.”
Talking to Roxy had made my day. I hadn’t expected any contact with the outside world once I was at OCCC, not any phone calls and definitely not any visitors, so you can imagine how jarring it was to me when later that week I heard my name called out from the guards’ station.
“Mammano, you got a visitor!”
I bolted up out of a very comfortable slouch, slightly suspicious that I was being jerked around. I never got visitors. Anyone on the island who might think to come see me would know better than to come within a hundred feet of OCCC. But the excitement of getting out of the module for even a few minutes got the better of me.
I walked into the visiting room to find a short-haired woman in a tailored pantsuit, an Islander from the look of her, sitting at the table. She jumped up, revealing she was rather short, though she made the most of her stature. It could have been the soft butch power suit, but I think it was just how she carried herself.
“Nikki? Reinette Cooper, your lawyer.”
I shook her hand, deeply confused. “I have a lawyer?”
Apparently, I did. Keilani, well aware that I was going down for her and still hadn’t given her up, had reasoned the least she could do was help get me out of prison. But her growing agoraphobia was stronger and more justified than ever, and out of self-preservation, she wasn’t going to touch anything near me with a ten-foot pole. Instead, she gave the money to Bella, who took it straight to Reinette, who now stood before me, gesturing to the chair with a cordial smile.
“I think our best strategy right now is to see if we can get the charges dropped on a technicality.”
“We can do that?”
“We can try.” She looked me dead in the eye. “I’m going to get you out of here, Nikki, but we’ve got our work cut out for us. I’m not going to sugarcoat it. You are in some seriously deep shit, and the case against you is strong. You’re looking at thirty years, easy, so if you don’t want to piss away the prime of your life, you need to pull it together and help me help you.”
“Yeah. Yeah, no fucking problem.” I was in. Whatever it took, I was in.
My brief moment on the local news had turned into a reliable conversation starter among the inmates, but I already knew my story. I was way more interested in learning about everyone else, and poker games were usually the best time to do it.
Liberty House Lucy was named for the chain of bougie department stores that, at the height of its prosperity, had about fifty locations throughout Hawaii and Guam. Lucy was a shoplifting genius, truly gifted in the sleight of hand of stealing shit. She was always talking about getting “back to business” as soon as she got out and promised to score me some of the highest-quality merchandise once we were free women (in exchange for some quality meth, of course).
The skittish, giggling girl to my left rolled her eyes and called bullshit on Lucy. I don’t remember her actual name. We all just called her Cooch. Why, you might wonder?
“So, we’re trying to get away, right? And the cops, they’re already on us, so I’m just trying to fly out of there, but I’ve got all the goods, right?” And then she explained in graphic detail how in her haste, she had stuffed a whole load of diamonds and other jewelry up inside her vagina. Not quickly enough, apparently, because the cops had caught her anyway. “So, they bring me down to the station. I’m booked, strip-searched, everything!” Her voice kept getting louder and louder as she stood up, gesticulating wildly. She got up on her chair to provide us all with a visual aid. “They look here, they look there, it’s getting real personal, know what I mean? But they couldn’t find it. And I’m almost free and clear and out of there, when they tell me to cough. And then…pop!” She thrust her hand away from her crotch, miming the explosion of rings and loose jewels. “It all fell right out my cooch!”
We were all dying, heaving with laughter. I’d barely remembered to turn my fan of cards face down. Didn’t want to lose that round on account of a giggle fit.
“You nasty, girl,” squawked a rawboned old lady as she cruised by on her scooter, shaking her head. Edie was an old-timer. Most people get transferred somewhere else long before they clock the time there she had, but she’d been around so long no one knew when she’d gotten there or what she’d done to earn it, only that she could no longer walk and needed that scooter to get around. But we all figured if she was still around and getting by at her age, it might be wise to leave her alone. You find a lot of people in the pen you’re better off leaving alone. My cellmate was one of them.
Rhonda was cranky and paranoid, but fairly quiet about it. And listen, if I were stuck limping around prison on a prosthetic leg, I’d probably not be in the best mood most days either. She wasn’t aggressive, at least not until backed into a corner, which was exactly what happened when I started to notice my shit was going missing. I’m not really the type to go around pointing fingers, but the list of suspects was pretty short, so one day I finally asked her.
“Fuck you!” she snarled, hobbling toward the door. It wasn’t hard for me to jump ahead of her and block the way. “Move, bitch! I don’t have your shit!”
“Where’s it going, then?”
“How the fuck should I know? Ask the guards, maybe?” She had a point. They would have access to our cells and could easily raid them any time with impunity, but my gut said no. I had Oscar’s protection, and while it was only good for so much, my commissary had never gone missing before I’d started bunking with Rhonda. “You want to check my stuff? It’s right over there. Go ahead.” But I didn’t. I could see from where I stood what was there, so I just let her by.
My stuff kept going missing. Smokes, chocolate, noodles, toiletries…they were all slowly but steadily disappearing, and I didn’t know where to until one day when a guard busted Rhonda in the act. And wouldn’t you know it, he unfastened her prosthetic leg, tilted it over, and out spilled about as much as someone could fit inside, all of it mine.
They couldn’t arrest her. What she’d done hadn’t, strictly speaking, been a crime or even a violent infraction, so she got a slap on the wrist, and that was that. It didn’t foster goodwill between us, though. Not long after that, we got into a fight, and it was the last I saw of that cell.
From time to time, if a situation got out of hand and needed to be controlled, there’d be a lockdown. It could be hours you were confined to your tiny little cell with your cellmate, or it could be weeks; there was no way to know.
The guards, with the aid of the medical unit, were not shy about medicating the inmates for any reason they could come up with, and make no mistake: There were times when they just made shit up. My fight with Rhonda had just been the excuse they had been waiting for. The moment one of us was even the slightest inconvenience, we were put on something. In my case, some meds that my body really didn’t like.
So, there I was, on lockdown with someone who was clearly not on the right medication, because she would just talk to herself all the time—seriously, all the time—and then she’d turn toward me and start jabbering on about some shit I couldn’t even understand, much less remember now. And all of this was going on while my body was taking a bad turn.
Holy fuck, I remember thinking. I have to get the fuck out of here. But I was stuck in there without any relief from my cellmate’s insane babbling or the medication I should never have been on in the first place. I continued to feel sicker and sicker until I started to shake. I pushed past my new cellmate, who was ranting as she paced the narrow strip of floor, and banged on the door with what little strength I had. The spasms in my muscles would cease for a long moment, then return, rapid-fire. Then finally, they started constricting to the point where I couldn’t extend my arms or legs, and I crumpled to the floor. Lucky for me, a guard heard my banging and decided to respond. They rushed me to medical immediately.
Once I was stable, I begged them to take me off the meds, and to my surprise, they did. Being free of that crap didn’t make things easy. I still had work to do around the module. One day, I was cleaning the guards’ bathroom, a fairly routine chore I was often assigned, when I reached the sink and froze where I stood. Right there on the porcelain, forgotten by one of the guards, was a meth pipe. The bulb had been burned black, and the puddle of meth along its bottom had already hardened, so there was no telling how long it had been there or who might come looking for it. All I knew was that the nearly used-up product had almost certainly been mine, supplied by Oscar from the last stash I’d sold him.
That remaining residue wasn’t much, but it would have been enough to send me far, far away, if only for a little while. It was a vacation I could have used, one my body was begging for—my mind too. I was surviving at OCCC, but surviving isn’t enough, and with the results of Reinette’s efforts still up in the air, I was just as on edge as when I’d first gone into detox. And now, here in front of me, lay an opportunity to escape it all for a little while—on my own product, no less. How poetic was that? If only I’d had a lighter.
I had half a mind to throw the meth pipe out. That tiny bit of spite might have felt good for a few hours, but it would have only pissed the owner off, which meant he’d take it out on us. It wasn’t worth it, so I left it there and finished cleaning up.
Reinette had really sold me on this “technicality” strategy, and busted her ass trying to make it work, so when it didn’t I started to get really scared. The plan had seemed so airtight, so very doable, that if it was a bust, what hope did I have left? Reinette didn’t give up, though. She just circled back around to square one and commenced with Plan B.
Having come so close to getting out, prison started to feel even smaller, even more suffocating, until after a month of practically climbing the walls, I broke down and played a card I’d been avoiding at all costs. After more than a year of radio silence, I called my parents.
Asking my mom and Gene for help was the last thing I wanted to do for a lot of reasons, not the least of which would be the inevitable catch. It was not an easy conversation. I sidestepped more questions than I answered, and I still gave away too much, enough that could and probably would be used against me down the road.
“Again, Nikki?” My mom’s voice sounded so weary.
“Look, if you’re not going to help…”
“Of course I’m going to help you, Nikki, but…” She paused, and I held my breath. “How many times can we go through this?” But what she meant was, How many times are you going to disappoint me? How many times are you going to ruin the Hallmark card? Tempted though I was to call her out or simply hang up, I was in prison, so I swallowed my pride, weathered the guilt trip and the scolding, and once she’d gotten it out of her system, she called my grandparents to ask them to post my bail.
“But you’re getting out?” Roxy said to me over the guard station phone.
I played with the cord, leaning against the desk. “Sometime in the next few days. I just don’t know when.”
“Honey, you made it this long. You’re going to be all right, just remember you’re getting out, don’t forget to breathe, and when that time comes, you call me. I’ll come get you.”
I discreetly wiped my eyes, thanked Roxy, and hung up. She was right. I’d lasted this long. I just had to hold out a little longer.
I was in my cell, sitting on my bunk and brooding over how the minutes seemed to keep stretching into days, when I was called for bag and baggage. I jumped down and breezed through the door, almost breaking into a jog, not giving a thought to the commissary I was leaving behind. Fuck it. Who cared? Within a couple of hours, my discharge was processed, and on my way out the door, I was handed the personal effects I’d arrived with.
My clothes barely fit. All that bread and little yard time had packed on a few pounds, but it was fine. I could find something new to fit me.
I walked out the front door of OCCC and into the sun, throwing my head back, and taking a deep breath of free air. Jeremiah’s car sat on the curb. I’d never been happier to see such a dinged-up, rusty piece of crap. Jeremiah was at the wheel, Roxy riding shotgun. Bella stepped out of the backseat, and I strode right up and fell into her arms.
CHAPTER 15
No Rest for the Wicked
My stay at Roxy’s would only be for a few days, after which she’d pull up stakes as she always did and move on to her next hotel suite, and since she couldn’t host me forever, it seemed like a fair enough time for me to go back out on my own. For a few days, though, it would be nice to be back with “Ma” and Bella and even Jeremiah.
Bella wasn’t looking great. I could see the toll her worsening meth habit had taken on her. She had that look, weary and hyper-aware at the same time, and while I’d been the one living on prison food for the past two months, she looked even more excited than I was that first night when Jeremiah brought in a pizza for dinner.
After we ate, I took a shower, the first one I’d actually been able to relax in for months. When I came out, Bella was snoozing on the couch, so I sat beside Roxy.
“So, what’s your plan from here?” she asked.
“My lawyer told me about this new plea deal that’s on the table. Overpopulation in the prisons is kind of a thing now, so they want to keep people out if they can. So, as a first-time offender—on the books, anyway—I could get a reduced sentence if I plead guilty. I’d be a registered felon for life, but it would mean less time.”
“How much less?”
“Next to thirty years, does it matter?”
Roxy couldn’t say it did.
The truth was that under this new protocol, some people in my position could get away with probation and no time at all, but given the gravity of my case, that didn’t seem likely for me. As for my next move, I didn’t know. I didn’t have much choice but to take things one step at a time. But as for what I’d be doing for money…
I figured that Roxy must have found another supplier while I’d been in prison. She had done right by me as well as she could have, hanging onto my Beretta and the few personal items I’d left with her, but she still had to make a living. She’d moved on to another dealer, as had most of my clients, and with good reason. Rumors always circulated when someone in our world got nabbed and locked up. Did she talk? Is she going to turn someone in? Is she a narc now? There’s no shaking that reputation once it’s stuck to you, and no one of consequence was going to come anywhere near me for a long while, if ever again. I didn’t blame Roxy for taking care of business. Life moves fast in the fast lane, and it had moved on without me, probably for good.
A few days later, my mom and dad, divorced for over a decade, flew out together to see me. Reinette said it would be a good idea and helpful for my case. I was sober when they arrived. Sure, I was basically homeless and my days at Roxy’s were numbered, but I figured I’d make the most of the amenities while they were available to me, especially if my parents were going to get their first look at me in years. A fresh outfit and combed hair wasn’t going to fool them into forgetting why they were there, but it might help convince them I was still me.
They kept the conversation nice and light for the first hour or so, and then came the talk of rehab. I wasn’t interested in repeating that experience. For one, it hadn’t really worked the first time. And two, I’d just been released from captivity, and while a rehab facility and a prison are very different settings, to someone who doesn’t want to be there, one surrender of control over yourself looks pretty much like another. So, I resisted and changed the subject every time it came around.
