Читать книгу Insiders - Olivia Goldsmith - Страница 12

A cat pent up becomes a lion.

Italian proverb

When Jennifer was escorted out of the Warden’s office – sandwiched between the two guards – she was flooded with a feeling of such terror that she had to sink the nails of her fingers deep into her own palms just to keep from screaming or running.

But there was nowhere to run to. Jennifer Spencer couldn’t believe that she was actually being incarcerated at the Jennings Correctional Facility for Women. People like Jennifer Spencer didn’t go to prison. So she’d been told by Donald and Tom and so she’d believed.

There had been only one person who had warned her not to participate in the deal with Donald Michaels. That was Leonard Benson. He was the financial officer involved, and had always seemed less than enthusiastic about the plan. As the assistant to George Gross, the CFO – Chief Financial Officer – Lenny was privy to a lot, but not all, of the machinations at Hudson, Van Schaank & Michaels. ‘Don’t do this, Jennifer,’ he had pleaded to her. ‘When you play with the SEC, you play for keeps.’

But Jennifer was not only under the influence of too many drinks that particular night; she was also drunk on the praise and the promises that Donald had been lavishing on her. She had turned on Lenny and demanded, ‘Hasn’t Donald Michaels made you rich, too?’

‘Yes,’ Lenny admitted, ‘but …’

‘He took me straight from school when I had nothing – nothing but loans to pay off, and now – well, you know my net worth.’

Lenny had nodded. He prepared Jennifer’s taxes and helped her keep as much of her income as the law would allow. He certainly knew how much she was worth. ‘But you earned all of that,’ he insisted. ‘You worked hard for Don. There’s no reason now to take this kind of risk.’

‘But it’s such a small risk,’ Jennifer retorted. ‘And it will save Donald. I owe him something.’ She grew adamant. ‘He’s made you rich, Lenny. Aren’t you grateful?’

‘I work my guts out for that guy,’ Lenny had protested. ‘I’m available twenty-four-seven. And I am grateful. But that doesn’t mean that I’d take the rap for him.’

‘Hey, that’s the point,’ Jennifer had explained, as if Lenny was stupid, deaf, or not even present. ‘There is no rap. Donald doesn’t do anything that the boys at Salomon Smith Barney or Morgan Stanley or Lazard Frere don’t do every day of the week.’ She, who had never worked at any of those places, was only parroting back what she’d heard. ‘They’re envious.’

‘You don’t know what Donald has done,’ Lenny had shot back. ‘Nor do I. None of us do. That guy is the most compartmentalized person I’ve ever met. He doesn’t even let his left hand know what the right one is up to.’

Jennifer put her hand on Lenny’s narrow shoulder. ‘Thanks for trying to look out for me,’ she said. ‘But you forget that I like taking risks. No guts – no glory.’

The grip on Jennifer’s left arm grew tighter and she was snapped out of her reverie. Now every step she took away from the Warden’s office put Jennifer deeper into the hideous nightmare of the Jennings Correctional Facility. As she was marched off to Observation – whatever the hell that was – she felt that if she didn’t get some fresh air to clear her head and her lungs she might actually fall to the floor. The meeting with the Warden had been catastrophic. How had it gone so wrong? Was it her fault? Hadn’t Warden Harding been contacted? If not, why not? Donald Michaels was powerful enough to get the governor on the phone in a heartbeat at any time of the day or night. She knew that. Why hadn’t he reached the Warden? The answer had to be because he didn’t want to. So whom had he reached instead? Perhaps, just this once, Donald had made a mistake and aimed too high. If he started with the governor, or even the State Attorney General’s Office, how long might it take for the trickle-down effect to take effect?

‘This way,’ Officer Camry instructed. Jennifer thought she saw a look of pity on his bland, round face. The idea that this thirty-eight-thousand-dollar-a-year civil servant with the thinning brown hair, the flat brown eyes, and the plain brown uniform – the idea that this pathetic excuse for a man whose IQ probably wasn’t one hundred and one in the shade had reason to pity her made her feel both furious and pitiable. She wondered whether Roger’s life at home was any better than his life in prison. Who would choose to do a job like this? You had to be nuts, stupid, or very, very limited. She glanced at Roger Camry out of the corner of her eye. He looked like he was probably all three. Officer Byrd, on the other hand, wasn’t even that qualified. But he obviously received another kind of compensation – women to frighten or even hurt.

Jennifer tried to keep her head as they passed from the administration wing into the prison itself. It all looked oddly familiar, and Jennifer was reminded of how she felt whenever she saw a famous landmark. There’s no surprise when you finally see the Eiffel Tower – it looks just like all the pictures. The same was true for Big Ben and the Statue of Liberty. But, despite the familiarity, the same was not true with prison. Sure, it looked just like every jail photo and movie she’d ever seen. But the enormous surprise was the horror that she felt at being here herself. Jen couldn’t control the shakes in her hands, so she clenched her fists again. It won’t be for long, she reminded herself. What had Tom said? A day. Two at the most. Not long.

The three of them – Jennifer, Roger, and Byrd – walked through one more set of doors, buzzed in this time by an observer in a glass booth, and entered the Observation Wing – at least that’s what it said in chipped gray paint over the door.

Jennifer suddenly realized just how tired she was. She would’ve been grateful to lie down somewhere – anywhere – in the dark and just sleep. If she couldn’t have fresh air, then at least give her unconsciousness. But the place she entered almost took her breath away. The room was a kind of office/reception area. It was hard to tell if the stench was more urine than ammonia, but the underscents of vomit and sweat were still strong. For a moment Jennifer thought again of Donald Michaels – this time of his penchant for his costly, custom-blended Floris aftershave and soaps – each bar close to a hundred dollars. She wondered bitterly if one of Donald’s scented Floris candles would cover this odor.

All right, she told herself. Someday next week, she and Tom and Donald would laugh at this story. She imagined them at Fraunces Tavern or Delmonico’s. Donald would laugh and shake his leonine head and wipe the corner of his eyes the way he always did and order another bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

But that would be later. Now she was steeped in this squalor and the noise would not let her mind wander. The sound of another correctional officer’s heavy steps, the gruesome static and squawking of his and Camry’s and Byrd’s walkie-talkies, and the harsh grinding of the gates as they closed behind her chilled her more than she wanted to admit. But the noise and stench weren’t the worst things. The light was so harsh it was merciless. Exhausted as she was, if she closed her eyes she could still feel the fluorescence burning through her eyelids. Sleep in this room would be impossible.

There was a lot of paperwork in triplicate and some ribald talk between Byrd and the new officer, a huge black woman. Then she was taken, at last, to Observation.

‘Spencer, here,’ the huge female officer told the big uniformed woman in a booth at the end of a long catwalk.

‘Fourteen,’ was all she said in response.

The fat woman nodded. ‘How’s the other freshman adjusting?’ she asked.

‘Just about how you’d expect a withdrawing crack whore to adjust,’ the woman in the booth snapped. ‘But she’ll be fine in another thirty hours or so.’ The woman officer motioned with her head, took Jennifer by her orange-plastic-coated shoulder, and turned her to the left into one of the cubicles.

‘Let’s go,’ he said.

The space was one of perhaps a dozen concrete cabinets. Jesus, she thought, wasn’t Hannibal Lecter confined to something like this? It was achingly bare. A blanket, a mattress, and a commode. Not that she could use the latter, since the entire outside wall of the cell was made of thick Plexiglas and she could be seen, not just from there but also from overhead. There was no ceiling to the cubicle, and as she looked up she could see an officer patrolling along the catwalk that allowed him to look down into each cell.

‘Wait!’ Jennifer said, and it wasn’t a ploy or a power trip; she was truly terrified to be left here. ‘Can I please make a phone call?’

The big woman officer laughed out loud, a guttural haw-haw. ‘Look, this is jail, girl, and you don’t have a quarter. You’re in prison now,’ she said. Then she softened. ‘Observation is tough, but it’s usually only for a day,’ she added almost apologetically to Jennifer. ‘After you get out of Observation you can make collect calls from your unit.’

She had barely finished speaking, when someone – or something – began to screech in a subhuman wail. It was a noise of pure rage and despair. ‘I’m sorry about the noise,’ the officer said. ‘She’s going off. But you won’t be here long. Maybe twenty-four hours. So try to make the best of it.’

‘Oh my God!’ Jennifer wailed, then fought and won control of herself. The officer handed her a black booklet to go with the yellow one she still clutched under her arm. ‘Maybe this will help,’ she said, and Jennifer took it, imagining it must be some religious tract. Only a saint, a sadist, or a cult member would voluntarily work here with this stink and noise. She stepped into the cell. ‘You’ll get used to it,’ the big woman said, and for some reason that was the thing that filled Jennifer’s eyes to almost overflowing. She turned her head away. God, she certainly hoped not!

She looked over at the stained mattress and paper sheets. It was only last night – in her own home – that she’d slept in a bed made with Pratesi sheets.

Jen crouched down in the corner of the observation cell and closed her eyes. The light still beat on her eyelids but she tried to transcend to another consciousness. She could stand anything for twenty-four hours, she told herself. She thought of the nights of endless study at college and business school. She’d pulled plenty of all-nighters at Hudson, Van Schaank & Michaels, too, when she was more tired than this. So she’d pull one more now. Maybe her last. All she had to do was concentrate. But on what? Concentrating on her situation was unbearable, and without her cell phone, she couldn’t check on deals, her portfolio, or her apartment. Then she thought of it: She’d spend the night concentrating on her closet and every garment in it.

Jennifer didn’t have a lot of clothes; when the interior designer had discussed the bedroom Jennifer insisted that she didn’t want a built-in closet, just the antique armoire. ‘But it’s only twenty-seven inches of hanger space,’ he’d protested. She’d shrugged.

Now she sat in the corner like a child ordered to take a time out. She remembered what she’d said: ‘Twenty-seven inches ought to be more than enough for any woman.’ And it was. She’d always longed not for quantity but quality. Now she had it, hanging in her armoire back at home. Aside from the one she had foolishly worn today and doubted she’d ever see again, she had three other Armani suits – one black twill, one black and brown tweed and one dark brown heavy silk. Each one had been well over two thousand dollars, but she’d bought them as an investment, and every time she slipped into one she felt like a million bucks. Next she thought of the two Yamaguchi suits that made the Armanis seem cheap in comparison. She’d considered one for more than a month before she’d bought it, hoping it wouldn’t be sold. That was the black one with an asymmetrical jacket; a lapel and a hem were higher on one side than the other. Jennifer couldn’t wear it for a meeting that included middle managers or conservative CEOs, but it went over big with high-tech and advertising types. The other, even more costly Yamaguchi was in a neutral gray-beige miracle fiber that she could fold into her purse if she had to and it would unpack as if it had been pressed by Sister Mary Margaret herself.

Jennifer sighed. Thinking was difficult sitting on the cold concrete floor. She began a mental inventory of her drawers. When she was home she wore cashmere sweats that she’d bought at TSE. They’d been very expensive, but nothing was softer against the skin – except perhaps silk. She had a tall lingerie chest, and when she wanted to spend money foolishly she indulged herself in La Perla lace bras and matching underpants or silk wisps from any one of a dozen French and Italian stores on Madison Avenue. She moved her fingers against the tough fabric of her jumpsuit and almost shuddered. Her underwear made her feel special and secretly feminine, and she thought Tom, her fiancé, enjoyed wondering what she was wearing under the sophisticated suit when he saw her at work. Like any good girl, Jennifer washed her panties out by hand at night – she never threw them in the machine on the delicate cycle because they were too fine for that kind of treatment.

Jen’s knees and ankles and butt hurt, but she wouldn’t lie on that disgusting mattress, she wouldn’t use the cardboard blanket. She wouldn’t eat and she wouldn’t sleep. Not until she got out of this place. If there was one thing Jennifer Spencer knew about herself it was that she had a strong will. She thought back to the Cooper Corp. deal and the prolonged negotiations at the airport Marriott. Despite the grimness around her now, she almost smiled. Back then – and it seemed like years ago although it was only five months – she remembered how she had complained to Donald about having to stay in a Marriott. ‘What a hell hole!’ she’d told him. ‘This could drag on for days, or even weeks. Couldn’t we arrange for a Hyatt at least?’

‘Hey, rough it,’ Donald had replied. ‘It’s their corporate culture. Cooper executives travel coach. Even old man Cooper travels coach.’ He laughed. ‘If it wasn’t for me, you’d probably be having this meeting in a Days Inn, so stop bitching and get your ass to sit down at the table. This is all going to be about stamina, Jennifer. I know you can outlast them, but I’m not saying it’s going to be easy.’ He had paused and laughed again. ‘Goddamnit!’ he said, ‘No one ever makes it easy for you to make five hundred million dollars.’

And, to the credit of her personality and her checkbook, Jennifer and her team had outlasted old man Cooper and his whole lot of Midwestern lawyers. She had sat at that table virtually unmoving, almost unblinking, for hours and hours. Thank God for Cooper’s inflamed prostate or she might have never closed the deal. But the fifteen or twenty trips to the men’s room he made each day while she sat there, coolly waiting for his return, had certainly contributed to his loss of faith and confidence. Then, when she called Donald in for the kill, it had gone fairly smoothly.

And was this her reward? She opened her eyes.

The shrieking in the next cell or down the hall or wherever it was reached an inhuman crescendo but finally, mercifully stopped. For a moment Jennifer wondered if they’d killed the inmate that had been making the noise. In the blessed peace she didn’t care if they had. It wasn’t that she didn’t feel sorry for the woman – this was a place where misery was not just natural but required and she knew everyone didn’t have the self-control that she did – but this wasn’t The Oprah Winfrey Show and there was no need to share your pain so loudly.

That thought and the relative silence strengthened Jennifer’s resolve. She would sit here, the lights burning into her eyes. Let them observe that! She wouldn’t move. She wouldn’t speak. And she wouldn’t sleep. It was the only way she could bring some control back to her ravaged sense of self. And then, hopefully very soon, they would take her out of here and she would call Tom and they would send a stretch limo and whatever else it took to get her the fuck out of here.

And when she returned to Hudson, Van Schaank she’d have a hero’s welcome. Jennifer closed her eyes again against the unbearable glare and tried to imagine that. Tom, so tall, would be at her side, maybe just lightly holding her elbow as she entered the double-wide glass doors to the floor. She’d buy something new to wear – maybe that suit she’d seen in the window of Walter Steiger, no matter how obscenely expensive it was. Yes, and shoes to match. And when she walked into the reception area the secretaries and support staff would be there, and they’d all stare and smile. Susan, her top secretary, would give her a big bouquet and say, ‘This is from all of us. We admire you so much.’ And then she and Tom would walk into the main office area and all the traders, attorneys, partners – all of them, even Dave Jacobs, who hated her – would stand up and they’d begin to clap, and the clapping would rise to a roar and then, the way they did it in European circuses, the clapping would become rhythmic, each pair of hands in perfect unison with the others. And Donald would open his office door and walk toward her and Tom. And Tom, because he was sensitive and wouldn’t want to detract from her moment, would give her elbow a little push. ‘Go to him,’ he’d say, and she would, in front of everybody. And Donald would lift his head and say …

She felt wet. Jennifer opened her eyes, back to the gruesome reality of the observation cell, and jumped to her feet. Water was oozing from under the wall behind her! She looked around. In fact, all along the wall where the mattress lay, the water lapped in, much of it already absorbed by the mattress but plenty spreading across her floor. Surely this wasn’t part of the punishment, some bizarre test? She ran to the door. There were roaches floating in the water! Worse, they were alive, and trying to find a perch or a nest. ‘Hey!’ she yelled. ‘Hey, someone. What’s going on? There’s a flood in here.’

The sadistic Officer Byrd was at her door in a moment. He looked in at her, shook his head and yelled, ‘Jesus H. Christ! Nine must have wadded the toilet.’

Then, instead of helping her or explaining, he ran off down the hall. Jennifer leaned against the Plexiglas of her door but couldn’t see what was going on. She could, however, hear – and in the next moment the howls began again, this time, if anything, even louder and more ferocious than before. Jennifer kept watching, her head pressed against the glass, the water running at her feet, wondering if any of the horror was real. She’d lose her mind if the hideous noise went on for another minute. Then, after one last fiendish screech, the stranger’s voice was stilled. Jennifer could still hear curses and grunts. She imagined the officers were making them and, sure enough, in another moment three burly guys were in the corridor, attempting to drag off a big black woman. She was dressed in a shameful orange jumpsuit but now it was partially obscured by the restraint jacket she had on. Though she couldn’t move her arms, she was kicking out with both legs, moving her head from side to side, and furiously screaming despite the taped gag that muffled her. Her hair was wild but her face was more so.

The woman was pushed back into a hard black plastic chair that sat as low to the ground as a beach chair. Officer Byrd obstructed Jennifer’s view for a few moments but, when he finally moved, Jennifer was horrified to see that the woman had been strapped into the chair at the legs. Then the straitjacket was slowly removed from the woman’s body, and the straps were brought over her shoulders in much the same way that an astronaut would be strapped to his seat.

Jennifer, terrified but unable to move, watched as they struggled to wheel the woman past her window. For a moment the startling blue eyes of the African American woman gave Jennifer an intimate look, certainly not one of apology. She winked at Jennifer. Then she was gone.

Jennifer, shocked, didn’t know how long she had stood there. There was a drain in the cement floor that gurgled.

She waited for a little while, hoping that the guard would return so she could demand some better conditions. But no one came. Finally she balanced on one leg and peeled off first one drenched sock, then the other. She squeezed them out over the drain. At least half a cup of water ran into the sewage hole, but Jennifer’s problem wasn’t solved. Now, without socks, her feet were frozen. She couldn’t sit on the mattress because it was also disgustingly wet. She didn’t know what the correction officer had done with the troublesome woman. Did they have a firing squad here at Jennings? Could she scream for help or attention? She found she couldn’t do it. The woman’s blue, blue eye winking at her, as if they were … together or … bonded somehow had really shaken her. Then she saw, with relief, that Officer Byrd was at the end of the hall about to pass by. Finally she knocked on the glass and he turned to her.

‘I’m wet,’ she said. ‘This whole room has been ruined. You have to help me.’ The fear in her voice only made her more frightened.

But Byrd didn’t have a clue. He turned his mouth to his squawk box and said something. He stepped into the room and turned around.

‘Tsk, tsk,’ he said. ‘You got more than you bargained for.’ Jennifer decided not to even respond. Then he looked her over. It was a sexual leer, and she could tell that he wanted her to be uncomfortable. ‘I’m alone up here now,’ he explained. ‘They had to take that one down to the hold. It was her first day in.’

Jennifer actually shivered. ‘They’ll be back soon,’ she said in a flat voice. What kind of man took a job in a women’s prison and then tried to …

‘Well,’ said Byrd, ‘I could take you down to a cell below six. That’s where the nigger was. She used her towel to stop up the toilet and caused a major flood.’ Jennifer recoiled both at the word he’d used and because he’d moved toward her. His voice insinuated that … Just then his walkie-talkie spoke.

Roughly Byrd took her under her right arm and moved her out of her little glass box. He was rubbing up against her as they walked past the place where the mad woman had been imprisoned, then moved her to number four, a cell exactly like her previous one.

‘Chow will be in a minute,’ he said as he slowly released his grip and ran his hand down her arm.

‘Food?’ Jennifer cried. ‘I can’t even breathe.’ Then she remembered her outfit. ‘And I need a new jumpsuit. This one is wet.’

‘We’ll have supper for you right away,’ Byrd said. ‘But we can’t issue another uniform. Laundry’s closed.’ Then he moved a little closer. ‘Of course,’ he almost whispered, ‘you could take it off and hang it up. There’s nobody here to see you.’

Jennifer looked around at the observation windows, the open ceiling, and the catwalk above. Now she was grateful for them. She wanted someone to keep their eyes on Byrd – or Vulture. But she had a creepy feeling that most of those eyes would get a big kick out of her standing around naked. And would they intervene if Vulture touched her?

‘Maybe I could get you something else to wear,’ he said now, ‘if you wanted to be friendly,’ he added.

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It was a sexual innuendo, wasn’t it? ‘Forget about that,’ she told Byrd.

He shrugged. Had he just offered her something in return for sex? She kept her face calm but swore to herself that she’d have him reported to the governor by tomorrow afternoon. ‘Too bad. You’ll have to wear the damp one until morning,’ he said. He locked the door on the new cubicle and left.

Jennifer was deeply grateful for that. She would have spent some time examining the cell if it hadn’t been quite so obviously identical to the previous one. She’d even be willing to swear in a court of law that the stains in this mattress were shaped identically to the one on the other. Hadn’t there been that blot that looked like the state of Florida on the upper left corner of the previous mattress? The wetness against her ankles was terribly cold and the rough polyester chafed, but otherwise all was the same. Except that this time, when she sat down in her corner, her stomach rumbled loudly enough for her to hear, and maybe loudly enough for the woman in the next room – if there was a woman in the next room – to hear as well.

But she was still determined that she wouldn’t eat anything. And she wouldn’t lie down. Even though the day seemed a hundred hours long, she wouldn’t allow her hunger or fatigue to get the better of her.

She leaned her back against the wall, pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around her cold ankles and tried, once again, to close her eyes and imagine what treats would come her way when she went back to her real life. Donald had better be especially generous with her bonus. In fact, she might not have to wait until the end of the fiscal year. Of course, after December there would be the full partnership and the big office. She took a deeper breath of the fatal air. Concentrate on it, she told herself. Think how beautiful that place will be compared with this one. She knew each partner got a generous budget to furnish and decorate his or her office, but now she thought that she might move her reproduction Beidermeyer desk from home into the office. She’d bill Hudson, Van Schaank and use the money for the dressing table she’d admired in the antique shop on upper Lexington Avenue. She’d … she tried once again to get into the reverie but it wasn’t working.

She opened her eyes. She couldn’t really imagine anything but this room, her freezing feet, the unbearable light and the hunger gnawing at her belly. She tried to remind herself that she was the hero of the Vareen takeover and the heavy lifter in the Cooper Corp. scenario, but she hadn’t been cold and wet and humiliated then. Jennifer may have managed not to drink and not to use the ladies’ room, but if she had had to pee then, she wouldn’t have had to do it in front of a dozen pairs of eyes.

She felt her eyes begin to get wet and forced herself to stand up. Just then a noise outside the cell brought her to the front. Another guard was wheeling a trolley down the corridor. When he reached her, he didn’t even look up. He merely bent toward her, his face forward, and slipped a plastic tray through the slot. It almost looked like an airplane meal.

‘No,’ she told herself firmly one more time. But her cold feet walked, without her permission, over to the tray. She bent and picked it up. Something green. Something brown. And something that looked like it had tomato sauce on it. Whatever it was, she took it to the bed, sat down crosslegged on the filthy mattress, and ravenously wolfed it down.