Bio - 28 in My Bio

The night I panicked, I practically fell against the chain-link fence surrounding the desk where Officer Rule sat. Something must have wanted me to live that night, because I’d thrown myself at the right DO. Anyone else might not have given a damn.

“I’m going to kill myself or do something very stupid if I don’t get the hell out of here! I can’t take this anymore! I can’t!” I wailed, hysterically.

Without a word, Rule reached for the phone, dialed Medical, and told them what I’d said. Then she stood up and motioned for me to follow her. She led me to Medical, where I poured my entire sob story out to an older nurse.

“I can’t work because I just can’t sleep in that zoo. It’s like trying to sleep in the middle of a circus! Besides, I have a problem with working for free and an even bigger one when it’s for the very system that screwed me over.”

“Then you’ll be locked down and on restriction,” the nurse said dubiously.

“So be it then. I have no choice. I simply can’t do what I can’t do, and I can’t work without sleep. Plus I’m gagging on cigarette smoke. You know they smuggle that shit in there all the time, and you know I’m asthmatic.”

Though it seemed rather ridiculous, I signed an agreement promising not to hurt myself. I mean, what were they going to do if I actually killed myself? Charge my corpse with suicide? Then again, I wouldn’t put it past that state to try such a thing!

“Officer Armstrong is here to take you to A Tower,” the nurse told me on my way out.

Then Rule told me to wait a minute while she pulled Armstrong aside in the hallway. I couldn’t hear what they said, but by the way Armstrong glanced at me a few times, I assumed they were talking about me. When they finished, Armstrong went in the opposite direction, and Rule turned toward me. In a conspiratorial tone, she informed me there was another option.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Ad-Seg.”

“Ad-Seg?”

“Administrative Segregation. It’s like protective custody. You’ll still be locked down twenty-three hours a day, but this way, you’ll only have up to two cellmates, and you’ll be able to keep your privileges like visitation and commissary rights.”

“Oh, that’d be nice. I’d hate to not be able to see my husband over this.”

“We’ll have you fill out a form, but you have to be very careful about how you word it. You have to tell them you fear for your safety. Use the smoking to your advantage. Tell them you snitched because of your asthma.”

We returned to the tents, where I filled out the Ad-Seg form. Then she took me back to my tent to retrieve my few precious belongings before escorting me to A Tower.

A Tower held one hundred and thirty inmates. There were four pods surrounding the tower. Two of the pods were general population, one housed the chain gang, and the other was for both desegregation and Ad-Seg inmates because both were only allowed out of their cells for one hour a day.

Each pod had fifteen cells. The pod I was in was the only one with an extra set of bunk beds in its cells. They put up to three people in these cells. The cells were about eight by twelve, with nothing more than a small metal table bolted to the wall, a small metal stool bolted to the floor, and a toilet. The back wall had a narrow strip of a window near the ceiling.

In the dayroom, there were tables, two shower stalls, and some payphones. A camera sat high on the wall, aimed at the main section of the room.

Although the DOs walked through each pod every fifteen minutes, inmates got most of the things they needed, like soap and toilet paper, through the trustees on their hour out.

A Tower had plenty of mice, and I’d drop little pieces of bread for them late at night. Tom found it kind of funny when I told him that a mouse once ate a corner of a candy bar I had stashed at the head of my bunk. I had just been about to nod off to sleep when I heard papers rustling by my head. I fumbled through my stuff but never did see the mouse responsible. The next day, I discovered the nibbled candy. I simply broke off where the mouse had chewed, then split the rest with my celly.

M Dorm, where I spent most of my sentence, was much smaller, cleaner, and quieter. No mice there, unfortunately, since I loved the little cuties. M Dorm had an open area for drug offenders that held about thirty inmates, much smaller than the other dorms. The dorm also had two identical pods. One was for juveniles, the other for Ad-Seg. These pods only had five windowless cells. Two held four people, and three held two. I hated the big cells—not just because of the extra cellmates, but because of how exposed I felt in them. Bars were a thing of the past. Everything was now concrete, steel, and tempered glass. The big cells had glass doors and two glass windows, making me feel like I was in a giant display case with no privacy whatsoever. Being in a big cell also meant having to use the toilet in front of more people. The toilet could be seen perfectly from the tower. The small cells had just two strips of glass in their doors. All cells had metal desks with shelves and movable chairs on hinges.

The dorm, commonly referred to as “the princess dorm,” also had a dayroom in its pods with tables, payphones, and a shower room, though the pods were much smaller.

While I was in A Tower, I met with a therapist a few times. Her name was Kara. She was very supportive and encouraging, though like the others, she couldn’t do much to help me.

Somehow, I managed to sleep through most of the noise and commotion around me, though not very well. My usual sleeping hours were from around 2 a.m. to 10 a.m., but not without many interruptions in between. I usually slept in spurts and spent a lot of time being tired. Eventually, it caused me to catch my first cold in four years, another thing I could thank my abusers for. Breakfast came as early as 5 a.m., and then other things would wake me throughout the morning—uniform exchange, sheet exchange, underwear and towel exchange, hour outs, etc. Some cellies were harder to sleep with than others. Those who were up when I was asleep and weren’t very quiet or considerate made it harder to sleep.

When you’re told to “roll up,” it means you’re to gather your things to be moved to wherever they’re going to put you. One of the hardest things about being in jail was all the moving around they made us do. Just when I’d get comfortable with one celly (or two), I’d be moved to a new cell with new cellies. On top of missing Tom and home, being forced to interact with people constantly was the hardest thing. Having to interact with coworkers was one thing, but living with strangers was another. I felt so smothered, and not having any space or privacy sucked, even though I spent about two out of the six months I was there alone.

Another thing that was hard was having to use the toilet in front of others, and how so many of my cellmates would constantly beg for things. When it got out of hand, I wouldn’t hesitate to remind them they weren’t my responsibility. Although most of the inmates were just regular people like anyone else, there were also a lot of crazies in there. Sometimes, I felt more like I was in a mental hospital than a jail.

The showers were usually either ice cold or scalding hot.

During my hour out, I’d usually shower, sweep and mop my cell, get pencils sharpened, stock up on soap and other essentials, and call Tom, depending on the time of day. He was working day shifts at the time, so I couldn’t call him during the weekdays.

Since I was in Ad-Seg, I had closed-contact visits with Tom twice a week for half an hour to an hour, depending on how much time he signed up for. We had a total of an hour and a half each week. We sat in little rooms, not much bigger than phone booths, with a bulletproof window between us. It was hard not being able to hug him.

Helen, the therapist I had started seeing before my sentencing, stuck by me throughout everything. She sent cards and letters, even visiting me once. I received a few letters from Paula and a Chanukah card from Tom’s mom and sister. I wrote to them once or twice a month.

Luckily, I wasn’t on any life-saving medication, because if I had been, I’d be dead for sure. It took two weeks just to see a doctor. I was still using inhalers at the time and needed them for three to four years after quitting smoking. Sometimes, I’d get my inhalers on time, but more often, I had to fight for them.

We could request items through “tank” orders, medical tanks, and grievances. Tank orders were for things like library books, legal information, or Bibles. Medical tanks were for medical and psychological requests. Grievances, though, were mostly a waste of time. While inmates had the right to complain about the living conditions or the conduct of the DOs, a sergeant would always back the DOs. You could say a DO slapped you, threatened to kill you, or harassed you in any way, but they’d stand by them. Only after numerous complaints from multiple sources would anything possibly be done.

About a month into my sentence, I found out I was eligible for work furlough. I declined for several reasons. First, I didn’t have a job to go to in the city. Second, any money made went to the jail, and there was no way I was going to work for them. Third, I could barely sleep inside the jail, let alone in the tents, and I was too run down to work. Lastly, I knew it’d be too tempting to run if I was let out, and honestly, I would’ve done just that.

As I sat on my bunk, somewhere in the middle of my sentence, I thought back to the day I was sentenced. It felt like an eternity ago, as each month in jail seemed to drag on and be double in time.

Ratsy had died two days before my sentencing. He was two and a half years old, old for a rat. Our only remaining rat was Houdini, and rats need companionship. Rats loved to play together, just like kittens. So, the plan had been to stop and get a new rat and mouse on our way home from court, even though I had a bad feeling that day. But instead of going home with new pets, Tom went home with an empty passenger seat and two empty cages, thanks to the twisted events that followed.

Four months into my sentence, Tomasewski came to tell me that The Arizona Republic wanted to do an interview with me, but I quickly declined. I wasn’t about to be made a fool of again. They could say whatever they wanted about me. They could even call me a mass murderer, and I wouldn’t care, but I wasn’t going to assist them in making a spectacle out of me.

Tom regularly sent letters and pictures of himself and the animals. I avoided looking at them too much because they only made me break down in tears.

One day, I found myself wondering how Kim and Bob were doing. I hadn’t talked to them since we left Phoenix. I also wondered if any of my jailhouse experiences were similar to Bob’s time in prison.

I thought about Andy and how he once suggested I write novels in addition to journals.

“But what would I write about?” I had asked.

“I don’t know. A mystery, a romance, whatever. Maybe even a lesbian love story.”

So, we talked about me writing a story about a woman who gets framed and thrown into jail or prison, only to fall for a female guard who returns her feelings. At the time, I had no idea that the fantasy we concocted and that I put into print was about to become a reality. I never would’ve believed it if someone had told me this would happen!

My first cellmate was a 21-year-old named Kim, a proud member of the Aryan Brotherhood. However, she didn’t have an issue with Jews because she saw Judaism as a religion, not a race. Despite prioritizing drugs and gun-running over her own kids, Kim was surprisingly smart for someone her age.

When Kim told me most of the inmates were bisexual, I thought she was exaggerating. But as it turned out, all but a few of the 25 cellmates I had celled with had been with women at least once in their lives.

“Not bad for a hate symbol,” Kim once joked while I jogged in place.

I glanced at the Nazi symbol tattooed on her middle toe and said, “I wish I had my little mister to cool me down.”

“Oh, those misters are amazing! Definitely a gift from God, don’t you think?” she replied.

“Actually, mine was a gift from my husband,” I said with a grin.

About a week later, 24-year-old Jessica, who was naïve and a bit flaky, joined us. She’d ended up in jail for leaving her one-year-old son in a shopping cart at a grocery store. She and Kim eventually got into a fight, and Jessica was moved out.

“Has the fact that it was Black people who put you here changed how you feel about them?” Kim asked me one day.

Had it? Did this whole ordeal make me racist? I thought about it for a moment and replied, “Well, what they did certainly didn’t help. What they did is not a good way to get people to like and accept you. But I also know there’s good and bad in every group. It’s just going to take some time for my mind to focus on the logical side of things and not the angry side.”

And it would indeed be a while, and to be honest, I don’t think I could ever forgive those involved in jailing me, including the very white DA and judge. Even if I’d been totally guilty, no one deserves such a ludicrous sentence.

I constantly tried to remind myself that everyone deserved the benefit of the doubt. I wouldn’t want to be blamed or automatically hated for something another Jew or white person did. But being “fair” proved difficult at times, and I couldn’t help but worry about other Black people deciding to hate me for some reason and then crying racism against me, especially in a state and time when it was all too easy to do so. It was unsettling to know they would almost certainly be believed no matter what I said. Still, I hoped that the tactics being used then wouldn’t work forever, and eventually, the race card would lose its power as it became overused.

Next came 35-year-old “Agent Tara,” who claimed she had worked for the FBI since she was a baby, after being created in a laboratory. She said she knew the government killed her children when her breasts suddenly appeared smaller. That was before they stole her ovaries to make pies with.

This is what drugs did to her mind. Any questions?

In just a few days, the “agent” was gone, replaced by 40-year-old Bible-thumping Gretchen. She was in for drugs, and her way of coping with jail was to recite 400 Hail Marys three times a day, even when I was trying to sleep.

Although Gretchen was half-Black, Kim tolerated her until she was moved.

Then came 31-year-old loudmouth Lora, also in for drugs. According to her, she was once a CO in a prison, and that’s why she was in Ad-Seg.

Kim and Lora were moved to M Dorm one night, leaving me alone for a day or two until I was moved there too. Kim and I had been there once before, in a small cell, but we were sent back to A Tower when a closed-custody hermaphrodite named Alex needed our cell.

This was when I got my first taste of how miserable it was to be in a big cell. Besides dealing with Lora again, I was now with 21-year-old pregnant Madoline and 34-year-old Deanna, both in for drugs.

Although Madoline could be just as obnoxious as Lora, I preferred her. We even developed a little evening ritual where we’d argue in a fun and playful way.

Deanna snored worse than my husband and mother combined, but for some reason, it didn’t bother me, even though it drove everyone else crazy. I guess it was the consistency of the sound that helped; it was the unexpected noises that usually bothered me when I was trying to sleep.

On the morning of my 35th birthday, Deanna and I staged a fight to get me out of there, knowing how much I hated big cells. At first, I thought she was genuinely mad at me for yelling at her earlier about some annoying moaning sounds she was making, but then I realized it was all part of the plan.

A month and a half later, Deanna and I ended up as cellmates again in a two-man cell, but it didn’t work out. She wouldn’t sit still when I needed to sleep. We tried staging another fight, but the DO on duty wasn’t stupid. Fortunately, we managed to get separated after a few days. I wasn’t happy with her either, as she, like so many others, used race as an excuse to get us separated when it wasn’t the issue. Our incompatibility was the problem.

Once I was in a small cell by myself, my craziest cellmate yet joined me—33-year-old schizophrenic Melinda, in for drug and littering charges. She was not only delusional but also the loudest, most hyperactive person I had encountered. She’d climb around the cell like a monkey, tear up magazines, and yell out the door. I could only sleep when she was asleep.

After warning a DO about what I might do to her if one of us wasn’t moved, I was sent to Alex’s cell while Melinda was in court and Alex was in D2, the psych ward.

Then Alex returned. Not wanting to go back to the psycho, I was thrown into a four-man cell again. A week later, Deanna and I staged another fight to get me out, and I ended up back in A Tower because no other beds were available in that dorm.

For about a week, I was alone in A Tower, then I was moved in with 43-year-old Tina, who was also in for the usual thing…drugs. If it wasn’t that it was prostitution. Tina and I argued a lot but eventually got along. She just drove me crazy at times with her constant chatter!

A few days later, 21-year-old Rosa joined us. She became my favorite cellmate. Rosa didn’t speak English, so I was grateful that I spoke Spanish, and Rosa appreciated it too. I’d often translate for Tina.

I was shocked when I saw Rosa’s papers, which stated she was in for child abuse and second-degree murder. I thought, This girl? A baby killer? My gut told me she was innocent, just as much as Myra over in M Dorm was guilty of child abuse and molestation.

Rosa told me that her 1-year-old daughter died after falling and hitting her head while she had left the bathroom for a moment. Her husband, who visited her regularly, wasn’t charged with anything. She had also recently found out she was pregnant with her second child.

In Spanish, I told Rosa not to show anyone her papers. Meanwhile, she took my mind off my situation, making the days pass faster. She was cheerful and easy-going and would console me with a hug when I felt homesick. We’d even play jokes on Tina while she slept, doing silly things like pretending to blow our noses into toilet tissue and then putting it in her open mouth while she snored. We’d try hard not to laugh loud enough to wake her.

After a couple of weeks, I was moved from Rosa and Tina into a cell with 42-year-old Ruby, who was in for drugs. Supposedly, I was placed there to “babysit” her because she was epileptic. At the time, I had no idea that Officer Palma, the hot DO who moved me, was attracted to me (though I didn’t always care for her personality), and that she was jealous of my friendship with Rosa.

Although Ruby didn’t believe much in showers and therefore didn’t smell great, she was an okay cellmate. She slept a lot, and when she was awake, she loved to chat.

A few days later, I was moved again, this time in with 39-year-old Carolyn Peterson and 43-year-old Marian, both in for drugs. Monday was also in for prostitution.

I didn’t enjoy my week with them. They’d chat while I was trying to sleep, and Carolyn wouldn’t stop talking about God when I was awake. This drove me nuts.

“If God’s so wonderful, why is the world in shambles?” I asked her one day. “Little kids are kidnapped, raped, and murdered. How can we call that ‘God’s will’ and still worship Him? It just doesn’t make sense to me. How can we say God has justified reasons for letting such things happen? You say He doesn’t want bad people in His “house”—well, I’d be more than happy to stay out of His house if He’d have let me stay in mine.”

On New Year’s Day, I was moved to M Dorm for the last time. That was the day I met Mary. As soon as we met, I knew we’d be friends after getting out, though she was still inside at the time of this writing. We write regularly, and I’ve helped her with her book by typing up some drafts. She was the one who informed me that “Teddy Bear” was transferred to Madison St. jail six months after my release for flirting with too many inmates.

Mary didn’t seem like a typical inmate. She was slim, pretty, and always wore a friendly smile. The 23-year-old brunette had the ends of her hair dyed bright red, and it looked great on her.

We were very compatible as cellmates. Both of us were night owls, and we had a lot of good talks, laughs, and even tears as we poured our hearts out to each other.

I felt bad for her. She didn’t deserve to be in jail any more than I did, though for a very different reason. Her ex killed her one-year-old daughter, but she was charged with neglect. I suppose they felt she should have left him before it happened, and I know she regrets not doing so.

After nine days of being cellmates, one of my least favorite DOs swapped her with Deanna because of a fight in the big cell next door. Neither Mary nor I was happy about it.