The man in the smock said, “I’m Dr. Glasco, ladies. Strip!”
The women turned to look at one another, uncertainly. One of them said, “How far should we—?”
“Don’t you know what the hell strip means? Get your clothes off—all of them.”
Slowly, the women began to undress. Some of them were self-conscious, some outraged, some indifferent. On Tracy’s left was a woman in her late forties, shivering violently, and on Tracy’s right was a pathetically thin girl who looked to be no more than seventeen years old. Her skin was covered with acne.
The doctor gestured to the first woman in line. “Lie down on the table and put your feet in the stirrups.”
The woman hesitated.
“Come on. You’re holding up the line.”
She did as she was told. The doctor inserted a speculum into her vagina. As he probed, he asked, “Do you have a venereal disease?”
“No.”
“We’ll soon find out about that.”
The next woman replaced her on the table. As the doctor started to insert the same speculum into her, Tracy cried out, “Wait a minute!”
The doctor stopped and looked up in surprise. “What?”
Everyone was staring at Tracy. She said, “I…you didn’t sterilize that instrument.”
Dr. Glasco gave Tracy a slow, cold smile. “Well! We have a gynecologist in the house. You’re worried about germs, are you? Move down to the end of the line.”
“What?”
“Don’t you understand English? Move down.”
Tracy, not understanding why, took her place at the end of the line.
“Now, if you don’t mind,” the doctor said, “we’ll continue.” He inserted the speculum into the woman on the table, and Tracy suddenly realized why she was the last in line. He was going to examine all of them with the same unsterilized speculum, and she would be the last one on whom he used it. She could feel an anger boiling up inside her. He could have examined them separately, instead of deliberately stripping away their dignity. And they were letting him get away with it. If they all protested— It was her turn.
“On the table, Ms. Doctor.”
Tracy hesitated, but she had no choice. She climbed up on the table and closed her eyes. She could feel him spread her legs apart, and then the cold speculum was inside her, probing and pushing and hurting. Deliberately hurting. She gritted her teeth.
“You got syphilis or gonorrhea?” the doctor asked.
“No.” She was not going to tell him about the baby. Not this monster. She would discuss that with the warden.
She felt the speculum being roughly pulled out of her. Dr. Glasco was putting on a pair of rubber gloves. “All right,” he said. “Line up and bend over. We’re going to check your pretty little asses.”
Before she could stop herself, Tracy said, “Why are you doing this?”
Dr. Glasco stared at her. “I’ll tell you why, Doctor. Because assholes are great hiding places. I have a whole collection of marijuana and cocaine that I got from ladies like you. Now bend over.” And he went down the line, plunging his fingers into anus after anus. Tracy was sickened. She could feel the hot bile rise in her throat and she began to gag.
“You vomit in here, and I’ll rub your face in it.” He turned to the guards. “Get them to the showers. They stink.”
Carrying their clothes, the naked prisoners were marched down another corridor to a large concrete room with a dozen open shower stalls.
“Lay your clothes in the corner,” a matron ordered. “And get into the showers. Use the disinfectant soap. Wash every part of your body from head to foot, and shampoo your hair.”
Tracy stepped from the rough cement floor into the shower. The spray of water was cold. She scrubbed herself hard, thinking, I’ll never be clean again. What kind of people are these? How can they treat other human beings this way? I can’t stand fifteen years of this.
A guard called out to her, “Hey, you! Time’s up. Get out.”
Tracy stepped out of the shower, and another prisoner took her place. Tracy was handed a thin, worn towel and half dried her body.