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away.’
    â€˜Where is she taking my things?’ Jennifer asked, but she didn’t get an answer from either Camry or the intake officer. Jennifer looked down at the jumpsuit she was wearing. Well, if that Cher person stole her clothes, she’d just have to ask Tom to bring something else for her to wear when he came tomorrow to take her home. She could trust Tom to select something appropriate. He had great taste in clothes and sometimes looked better in his Prada suits than Jennifer did in hers!
    â€˜All right then, let’s get started,’ the intake officer said in the deep voice that gave Jennifer chills.
    The rest of the processing was like some kind of surreal out-of-body experience. It was almost as if Jennifer wasn’t there. She became just another woman in a prison uniform,and this disassociation actually made it all a little easier to take. She was weighed, measured, and photographed. When the officer fingerprinted her she calmly watched as her fingers were rolled in the ink and then onto the paper. As her prints were being made, Jennifer asked, ‘Do you have any suggestions on how to get this ink off your fingers? It’s almost impossible to wash it off with just plain soap and water.’
    â€˜Well, Spencer,’ the officer opined, ‘maybe you might try Estée Lauder’s Youth Dew.’
    The sarcasm wasn’t pointed or funny enough for Jennifer to laugh, but she did respond. ‘I just thought that, since you worked with the stuff all the time, you might know. I’ll make a note to tell our clients at Chesebrough-Ponds to develop some sort of cleansing cream for fingerprint ink.’
    The intake officer threw back her head and roared with laughter. ‘Yeah,’ she chortled, ‘you can call it Out Damn Spot! Now get up on the table.’
    Reluctantly Jennifer climbed onto the stainless steel bench. As soon as this monster was done poking and prodding, she would call Tom. He was probably already well on his way to getting her out of this place. Jennifer knew that everything was going to be all right. And then the officer told her to stand up.
    â€˜Bend over and open your jumpsuit,’ she said matter-of-factly. She picked up a thin latex rubber glove and began to slowly and deliberately pull it over her hand. When she snapped it against her wrist, the sound sent a shiver down Jennifer’s spine. ‘Cavity check,’ the intake officer said, and Jennifer felt her stomach start to rise.
    â€˜Why?’ Jennifer whispered. This was too much. Shecertainly didn’t have a prostate to examine. ‘Why do I need a cavity check?’ she demanded more loudly. ‘I’m not in here for drugs or on a weapons charge.’
    â€˜C’mon,’ the officer sighed, ‘it’ll be over before you know it. It’s a lot worse when we have to hold you down.’

4
Movita Watson
Rich women have the Betty Ford clinic; poor women have prison.
    A prison commentator. Kathryn Watterson, Women in Prison
    I declared that until I said different, this candy – a name on the Inside for a new inmate – would be known to my crew as Number 71036. ‘She’s just another piece of snotty white meat,’ I told ‘em. ‘It’s not like we all have to sit up and take notice just because she dragged her sorry ass into this joint. She don’t mean nothin’ to us.’ I’m queen bee at Jennings. And while I know that might not mean much on the Outside, when you’re on the Inside it’s important to stay on top. Nobody wants to be on the bottom. Not the bottom bunk, not the bottom of the crew, not the bottom of nothing in a prison. I’ve always been on top, and I plan on staying there.
    Cher’s the funniest, smartest, and baddest in our sisterhood, and she said to me, ‘Well let me tell you, that Number 71036’s sorry ass was dressed in the best damn silk underwear I’ve ever