WARDEN JAMES MCINTOSH WAS INTRIGUED. LIKE everybody else in the country, he knew who Grace Brookstein was. She was the woman who’d helped her husband embezzle billions of dollars, then inexplicably shown up for her trial channeling Marie Antoinette, alienating the vengeance-crazed American public even further.
Warden McIntosh was a tired, disillusioned man in his early fifties with balding gray hair and a matching thin mustache. He was intelligent and not without compassion, although Grace Brookstein did little to inspire it. Most of the women who wound up at Bedford Hills had had lives straight out of a Dickens novel. Raped by their fathers, beaten by their husbands, forced into prostitution and drugs while still in their teens, many of them never stood a chance at living normal, civilized lives.
Grace Brookstein was different. Grace Brookstein had had it all, but she’d still wanted more. Warden McIntosh had no time for that sort of naked greed.
James Ian McIntosh joined the prison service because he genuinely believed that he could do good. That he could make a difference. What a joke! After eight years at Bedford Hills, his aims had grown more modest: to make it to retirement with his sanity and his pension intact.
James McIntosh did not want Grace Brookstein at Bedford Hills. He’d argued with his superiors about it.
“C’mon, Bill, give me a break. She’s white collar. Plus she’s a walking incitement to riot. Half of my prisoners have family members who lost their jobs after Quorum collapsed. And the other half hate her for being rich and white and wearing that goddamn mink coat to trial.”
But it was no use. It was because Grace was so hated that she was being sent to Bedford Hills. Nowhere else would she be protected.
Now, less than one full day into her sentence, she was already stirring up trouble, demanding to see him as if this were some sort of hotel and he were the manager. What’s the problem, Mrs. Brookstein? Sheets not soft enough for you? Complimentary champagne not quite chilled?
He gestured for Grace to sit down.
“You asked to see me?”
“Yes.” Grace exhaled, forcing the stress out of her body. It was nice to be sitting in an office, talking to an educated, civilized man. The warden had family photographs on his desk. It felt like a tiny, much-needed dose of reality. “Thank you for seeing me, Warden McIntosh. There seems to have been a mistake.”
The warden raised an eyebrow.
“Does there?”
“Well…yes. You see, this is a maximum-security facility.”
“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”
Grace swallowed. She felt nervous all of a sudden. Was he laughing with her, or at her?
This is my chance to explain. I mustn’t screw it up.
“My crime…the crime that I was convicted of…it wasn’t violent,” she began. “I mean, I’m innocent, Warden. I didn’t actually do what they said I did. But that’s not why I’m here.”
Warden McIntosh thought, Thank heaven for small mercies. If he had a dollar for every inmate who’d sat in front of him protesting her innocence, he’d have retired to Malibu Beach years ago. Grace was still talking.
“The thing is, even if I had done it, I don’t think…what I’m trying to say is, I don’t belong here.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
Grace’s heart soared. Thank God! He’s a reasonable man. He’ll sort this mess out, move me out of this cattle farm.
“Unfortunately my superiors feel differently. You see, they feel that it’s the state’s responsibility to see to it that you aren’t lynched. They’re concerned your fellow inmates might want to, oh, I don’t know…beat you to death with a crowbar. Or strangle you with bedsheets. Pour acid on your face while you sleep, perhaps? Something of that nature.”
Grace went white. She felt her insides liquefy with fear. Warden McIntosh went on.
“For some reason, my bosses believe you’re less likely to come to physical harm at Bedford than anywhere else. A misperception, in my opinion. But tell me, Grace, what do you suggest we do about it?”
Grace couldn’t speak.
“Perhaps if some harm actually did come to you here, they’d reconsider their decision? D’you think that’s possible?”
Warden McIntosh looked Grace in the eye. That’s when she knew for sure.
They’re going to try to kill me. And he doesn’t give a damn. He hates me as much as the rest of them.
“I’m moving you to a different wing. You’ll have to let me know whether your new cell is more to your liking. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
The guard led Grace away.
GRACE’S NEW CELL MATES WERE A two-hundred-pound black cocaine dealer named Cora Budds and a slim, pretty brunette in her early thirties. The brunette’s name was Karen Willis.
The guard told Grace that Karen had shot and killed her sister’s boyfriend. “They both got life. Like you. You’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other.” He smiled knowingly. Grace wondered if he was making a sexual innuendo, but was too frightened to ask. I mustn’t fight shadows. I’m sure it’s a myth that all women prisoners are lesbians.
Grace eyed Karen and Cora warily, climbing onto her bunk in silence.
Warden McIntosh sent me here as a punishment. These women may be violent. They might try to hurt me. I have to stay on my guard.
Cora Budds heaved her great bulk off of her own bunk and sat down next to Grace. “Whas yo’ name, honey?” She stank of bad breath and sweat. Grace instinctively recoiled.
“Grace. My name is Grace.”
For some reason, Cora Budds seemed to find this amusing. “Grace. Amazing Grace!” she cackled. “What you in for, Amazing Grace?”
“Um…fraud,” Grace whispered. It still felt strange and embarrassing saying the word. “But it’s a mistake. I’m innocent.”
Cora laughed even harder. “Fraud, huh? You hear that, Karen? We got us an innocent con artist. We comin’ up in the world!” Suddenly the smile died on Cora’s lips. “Hey, wait a minute. Wha’d you say yo’ name was again?”
“Grace.”
“Grace who?”
For a minute Grace hesitated. Grace who? It was a good question. This whole situation was so unreal, it was as if her identity had already slipped away from her. Who am I? I don’t know anymore. At last she said, “Brookstein. My name is Grace Brookstein. I—”
Grace didn’t even have time to flinch. Cora’s fist slammed into her face so hard, she heard her nose crack.
“Bitch!” Cora yelled. She hit Grace again. Blood gushed everywhere. Karen Willis continued reading her book as if nothing had happened.
“You the bitch that stole all that money!”
“No!” Grace spluttered. “I didn’t—”
“My brother lost his job because o’ you. All them old folks out on the streets while you and your old man were eatin’ caviar? You oughta be ashamed of yo’self. I’m gonna make you wish you wuz never born, Grace Brookstein.”
Grace clutched at her nose. Whimpering, she said, “Please. I didn’t steal any money.”
Cora Budds grabbed her by her orange prison shirt and yanked her to her feet. With one hand she slammed Grace’s back against the wall, lifting her as easily as she would a rag doll. “Don’t you speak! Don’t you fucking speak to me, you rich white bitch.” With each word, Cora banged Grace’s skull against the wall, driving her point home. Warm blood seeped into Grace’s newly short hair. She began to lose consciousness.
Karen Willis said in a bored voice, “Cool it, Cora. Denny’ll hear you.”
“You think I give a fuck?”
Sure enough, a few seconds later the cell door opened. Hannah Denzel, known to the inmates as “Denny” (among other things), was the most senior guard in A Wing. A short, dumpy white woman with beetle brows and an incipient mustache, she reveled in her authority and enjoyed making the prisoners’ lives as miserable and degrading as possible. She surveyed the scene in front of her. Grace Brookstein lay slumped on the floor in a pool of blood. Cora Budds stood over her like King Kong with Fay Wray, only without the ape’s tenderness. Grace was conscious but barely, mumbling something incoherent.
Denny said, “I want this mess cleaned up.”
Cora Budds shrugged. “Tell her. It ain’t my blood.”
“Fine. She can do it. But make sure she does. I’ll be back in an hour.”
THAT NIGHT, GRACE LAY AWAKE, RIGID with fear, waiting for Cora Budds to fall asleep.
Earlier, she had mopped up her own blood, sluicing the floor on her hands and knees while Cora watched and Karen read her book. After an hour Denny returned, nodded a curt approval, and left Grace to her fate. Grace cowered on her bunk, waiting for Cora to launch another attack, but nothing happened. In a way, she wished it would. Nothing was worse than the waiting, the gut-twisting terror of anticipation. Finally, twenty minutes before lights-out, the cell door opened and Grace was summoned to the prison doctor. After a perfunctory cleanup she was given six stitches for the gash to her head and an ineffectual Band-Aid to help set her broken nose, then sent right back to Cora.