Gwen had kept a daily journal from the first day she began at Jennings. She kept it carefully locked in the bottom left drawer of her desk – where she also kept a bottle of gin, a glass, and a jar of olives.
Most often by the time Gwen finished her journal entry for the day it was deep into the evening. She’d write and sip, sip and read. Night after night she told herself that she found both solace and inspiration in recording her thoughts and observations, but in her heart she knew that it was really the gin that kept her at the office a little later each evening. The gin and the emptiness of her house. So far, she had sternly refused to drink at home. But with her mother dead, her beloved Yorkie gone almost two years, and her husband gone for far longer than that, there was little reason for Gwendolyn Harding to rush home at night.
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,