Orange is the New Black: A New Life Chapter 12
Alex
Diaz, her friend Melanie Montoya, and several others file out onto the plane. Diaz, Montoya, and I share a row. Since they are shorter, they quickly switch around and make sure that I have the aisle. Diaz takes the window and Montoya, who is a nice lady with walnut eyes and a slim physique, sits between us. She smiles easily and has a gentle laugh. She is an excellent counterpoint to Diaz's more aggressive personality. They sit talking quietly, mostly in Spanish. Born in Puerto Rico, she grew up in Queens. When her mother died of cancer, she dropped out of school to work full time in the family's restaurant with her older brother and sister. When her brother left the business to open a restaurant in Cleveland where his wife had found a job as a nurse, she took over the business end of the business, while her sister remained in the kitchen cooking the family's traditional recipes. Montoya also hired any needed staff. The problem, for the first several years, she didn't understand about payroll taxes and had done them incorrectly. As a result, she had been convicted of tax fraud and the restaurant had been forced to close down. Her sister had gone to work with her girlfriend at Coney Island and Montoya's son had gone to live with his uncle. That was why she was going to Cleveland.
A counselor had called Diaz in while we were at Oklahoma City FTC. Litchfield had processed her paperwork improperly and no one could figure out her final destination. She had simply been transferred out. Finally, word came that she was going to Cleveland, too. She was not happy and told everyone who could hear her complaints. "Cleveland? Fucking Cleveland. My kids are in New York. I gotta get to New York and be near my kids." Her new friends consoled her. She finally decided to deal. Montoya was headed to Cleveland and so was I. She'd have one friend and someone she had decided to take under her wing. In a way, as this trip progressed, I had become a surrogate daughter.
Diaz reaches across Montoya and pokes my arm,"Where we at?" she asks softly.
I open my eyes, bend forward and look. We have been flying for a couple of hours. Large mountains loom ahead and desert below. "I'm not sure. Maybe Utah?"
"Utah. Where's that?"
"Es donde viven los mormones," answers Montoya.
"The ones with a dozen wives and a pack of kids?"
"Si, ese" Montoya says.
"Religion made by a man who wants to fuck a lot and not commit adultery."
I add, "More to help clean house, cook, take care of the kids." I shrug.
"Hey, maybe that come in handy," Diaz snorts. "But I don't like sharing, except when in prison. Men can't help themselves." Diaz translates the conversation for Melanie.
A marshal interrupts. "Keep it down."
"We jus' talkin' 'bout the Mormons. They live in Utah," tutors Diaz.
"Yes, ma'am. I know. Just keep it down."
The mountains appear below, "Ellos son tan grandes." Montoya agrees with Diaz.
"Parece frío con toda esa nieve.."
Diaz agrees.
Their eyes stay glued to the window. I peek now and then, but mostly stare ahead with my eyes closed
I wish I'd called Piper back. What if she had answered the phone and Diaz's friends had heard her saying "yes"? I mull this thought over and over. I should'a, could'a, should'a again and again. I wish, but wishing won't make anything come true.
We are in and out of airports throughout the desert. Two flights after sundown, we land. I am groggy, having been woken. The lead marshal calls for three women and five men. All of the women are from my row, those of us going to Cleveland. We exit the plane into the chill of winter. The sky is obscured by heavy clouds. The air is freezing and crisp. No snow yet. I look at the clouds as I shuffle along. I have a jacket now, thanks to Oklahoma City FTC so I don't feel the cold as much.
A bus picks us up. Diaz, Montoya, and I ride in front. The men go into the cage in the back. It leaves the airport and drives in silence for a long time. It's late, I'm tired. I doze. My head rests against the window. Every now and then a jolt slams it into the glass and I'm jared awake. I try to sit upright, but my head slides back against the window until the next awakening. We roll up to a facility out in the middle of nowhere. The marshals herd the men out first. About a half an hour later, it is our turn.
The marshals turn us over and leave. "Three days?"
"I think so," says the leader. "I think we're taking one of yours to Florence on Friday."
"Don't know. Don't have the orders yet."
"Could be wrong. Just rumors. We won't know until we start that day or even after."
Our hosts, all men, take us into a dingy, beaten down room with faded, peeling paint, broken ceiling tiles, flickering, dim naked fluorescent lights, and a smell that might be toxic.
For the four hundred thousandth time since leaving Litchfield, the millionth since entering the system, we strip and go through the degrading song and dance of proving that we have not acquired any contraband while in federal custody. "You can't search us. You men," Diaz tries to protest, but is knocked silly by the thrust of a nasty bludgeon. Her wind vacates her airways. I grab her as she tumbles uncontrollably and headlong towards the floor then the same guard savagely beats with my ribs .
I cry out. The baton has found the same ribs McCullough broke in her anger. The sharp bitter pain brings stars and tears to my eyes. Immediately, I feel woozy. I can't help myself as I lean over my knees and exhale bile from my empty stomach. The violence of this action intensifies the pain in my side. It radiates out. My entire body convulses. I land on my knees and as my hair falls over my face my gut reacts again and again. It doesn't take long for the stomach to empty, but I can't stop my body from contracting. The heaving doesn't escape. My insides want to escape.
"Shit!" responds the guard who had been inspecting my naked breasts. Some of my bile spots his shoes. "Stewart! You can't beat these women. They belong to the feds."
Someone grabs my upper arm and yanks me up from the floor.
"Let's get them dressed. Take the sick one to solitary."
"Hey, she only sick because you hit her." A younger guard grabs her.
"Diaz, shut up," I don't want her getting more punishment.
He sticks his face in hers. "Yeah, or you'll join her down the hall. Not very nice. Get dressed."
Covering my nakedness the best I can and trying to breath without any additional agony, I take my clothes and put them on. "Can I get something to wipe off my legs and feet?" I ask.
"Your hair," Diaz points.
Oh, God, "My hair," I add. I will myself to hold back the tears pooling in my eyes. I cannot let them break me.
I am thrown an old dirty rag. It smells almost as bad as the filth on my legs, feet, and hair. I clean myself as best I can then dress. While I do this, an inmate, obviously woken from sleep, is brought in to clean up after me.
"I'm sorry."
The man is Mexican or perhaps Native American, I'm not sure. He is short and emaciated in the chest. His hair is long, down to his back, and dirty. His skin is weathered. He looks worn, like Red when Piscatella refused to let her sleep. He looks at us. I don't know if his gaze is empathy or apathy.
"I'm sorry," I say under my breath.
Now the man knows whose fault it is. He can blame me for ruining his sleep.
"Let's go," the guard who hit us grabs my arm and yanks me to him. I can't help gasping. My ribs protest and I can't stand up straight.
Now the cleaner's large brown eyes turn to pity.
"Stewart, be good. Remember, the feds are going to claim her in a couple of days."
"Sure," he says. He smiles at me. "Let's go, darlin'." His breath smells of chewing tobacco, beer, and unbrushed yellow-brown stained teeth. I hold back a gagging reflex. I don't want to poke this brute any further. Who knows what else he might do?
The guard keeps a firm hold of my arm. He towers over me and the bulge of his biceps and muscular chest tells me that he works out. His face is round, lean, smooth, with a slight ruddy complexion. His hair is light brown, but marine corp sharp. He smiles when he looks at me. "You would be fun. Maybe when the boss ain't here. Would you like that? Be my whore. Bet you a whore. Or some man killer?"
I don't answer. I'm having a hard enough time staying upright. I feel my guts ready to explode while fire races along my side.
We enter a dingy hallway with four dark green metal doors. I hear male voices. One pleads to be let out. He says he's going insane and needs to eat.
"Hey guys. Anyone want a girl." He laughs and unlocks the third door. "She's gotta sick, sick mouth." He shoves me in. I stumble and fall knee onto my knees. The door slams.
I pull my wet, foul smelling hair back from my face and push up from the floor. I stand. I look around at my surroundings: A gray concrete floor slopes a degree to a rusted drain in the middle of the floor, a gray rusty flaked metal bed with a thin mattress, no blanket, and a gray rusty metal toilet that smells with a small metal sink attached to the back. The floor around the toilet is stained yellow. A smooth ceiling of thick concrete houses a light bulb encased behind a thick mesh of rust wires. The light emits a dim white glow. I stagger a step towards the bed, but pause. The mattress casing is torn; the edges look sharp. It is dirty with hair and some kind of grime I do not want to explore. The metal beneath is filthier. My body convulses. I stagger. I find a clean spot on the floor opposite the bed. I slide down the wall and hug myself. "Welcome to solitary," I chide myself.
"Hey!" I wake up to find myself curled up on the floor. "Dinner!" A tray slides through a narrow slot in the door. I knuckle my eyes and place a hand against my aching ribs. "Eat! Or not." Footsteps and a creaky cart fade as they go down the hall.
I press my good hand against the floor and hoist myself into a sitting position. I stare at the tray and blow at the hair falling in front of my face. I take a breath and press against the floor. My legs shake as I stand. My side and now my back scream bloody murder. I want to cry out, but don't. One Frankenstein, two Frankenstein steps, a third half lurch, I reach the door. I lean against it and look down at the tray. It has a sandwich, two pieces of dry Wonderfaux Bread and some kind of mystery meat. That's it. My mouth does not water and the nausea returns.
I think I am hungry. Hard to tell from the bile taste in my mouth and the pain. I take the tray and stagger back to the bed. It has to be better than the floor. I'll do what I can to clean it. Before that, I go to the toilet and pee. It flushes, just barely. A trickle comes from the tap. The tap barely protrudes over the basin. I do my best to clean my hands. Then I try to get some for my mouth. I catch only a little, before the water flows out of my palm. I race to draw the hand up to my lips. I slurp. The water has a heavy metallic taste. I swish it around and spit. What I wouldn't give for some mouthwash. I do this several times. The last couple of times I swallow. No towel, so I dry my hands on my pants.
I go to the bed and sit. I pick at the sandwich, testing the bread with a finger. I open the top layer. The meat is a thin slice of bologna. I don't like bologna to begin with. Not my thing. Give me a salami sandwich and I am happy. Better yet, a burger, but this; it looks so unappetizing. I tear off a small bit and put it in my mouth. "Yuck!" I spit it out into my hand. No. I won't eat that. I take the top layer of Wonderfaux. I take a small bite. The texture is drier than the Sahara yet, paradoxically, saliva turns it into mushy goo. A hint of the bologna taste is the only flavor. I have to eat something. I only hope that it has some nutrients and stays down.
I return the tray to the open door slot and return to the bed. I take the mattress and shake it out onto the floor. With great effort, careful of my ribs, I push the bed over onto its side. I pause. I breathe and hold my side. Ready, I heft the bed so it is upside down. I shake it and reverse the process. Once the bed is back against the wall, I lay the mattress back on the bed. I lay down and after a while, I fall asleep.
The morning bill of fare is a serving of scrambled eggs. They are cold and rubbery. Lunch is a bologna sandwich. Dinner is a bologna sandwich. I sit and think. I lay down and think. In between, I sleep. The same routine makes up my second day and the third. On the fourth, CO Stewart comes in after dinner.
Good. I slide off the bed.
"Where do you think you are going?"
"The marshals are here?" I answer.
"Nope." He blurps his lips.
I sit down.
With his thumbs in his belt loops, he smiles.
I give him my don't-fuck-with-me stare.
"I've been thinking about you," he steps closer. "I watched when Andy felt you up during the search." He closes his eyes, "Ah," His eyes open and he moistens his lips. "What I would have given him. You are dee-licious, he always gets to have the fun, bein' he's in charge." He stands above me and grins. "Now, you and me are going to have a little fun." He reaches for me.
I kick and push him away. He grabs my hair and drags me from the bed. I lash out. "Leave me alone!" Feet, hands, knees. "Let me go!" He backhands me. I fly back against the wall and hit my head. I slump to the floor.
"Bitch!" He picks me up.
I lash out. He throws me to the ground and kicks.
"Help!"
"Dan!"
My assailant stops. He twists towards the door where an older, taller, slimmer version stands.
"I need–"
"Wrong one. Go get the spics. The feds are outside."
"Fuck!"
"I know, bro." He pats my assailant's back. He walks over to me. He looks down. I see his name. It's also Stewart. He stares for a minute and leaves, closing the door.
Washing my face and touching the bruises and tattered lip, I start when I hear keys unlocking my door. I push my back into the farthest corner. I bring my hands up, ready to fight. A young pudgy guard in his twenties enters. "You're leaving." He grabs my sleeve and pulls. "Come on," he says. "You're leaving." I am led out and back to holding where I am reunited with my traveling companions, who are being shackled as I enter.
"Chica," concern colors Montoya's cheeks when she sees me. Diaz says nothing. Her expression is hard as she looks between me and the guards. As ordered, I strip. The guard who brought me up, searches me while my assailant and two other guards ogle at my nakedness. Doesn't this county, or wherever I am, have any female guards? I haven't seen any. They stop when a female marshal walks in. I am naked, squatting, a guard looking.
The marshal immediately sees the situation. "You need female guards to do that," she speaks with authority.
"We only got one and she works days," is the reply.
The marshal writes on a clipboard. "I am going to report this to the bureau."
"They don't care. Not many like us out here with the room to handle your layovers, especially women." The older Stewart enters the room.
"They beat us," says Diaz and nods my way, "Look at Vause's ribs and face.
"Turn around," she orders me.
I do so.
She writes on her clipboard, takes out a camera and takes pictures of my side and face. "This," she shows her camera, "will accompany my report. Come on, let's get you dressed," she hands me an orange jumpsuit. She nods for an officer standing behind her to take Diaz and Montoya. She nods at me when I have my shoes on and hands me a jacket, "Let's get you out of this hell-hole." She leads me to the bus. The bus is almost full, mostly men. There are eight other women, two white and six who look Latina, but considering where we might be I think they might be Native American. They seat Montoya and I next to each other, me on the aisle, one row ahead of the cage with the men. Diaz is placed up front behind the two female marshals. The male guard sits behind us. I sink into the seat and close my eyes.
"Chica?" I look at Montoya through slitted eyes. "You okay?" she asks, her accent thick.
I nod in the affirmative. Though her hands are chained, she reaches and pats my arm. The bus engine roars to life and we roll. "You're a good girl."
"You don't know me very well," I scoff and close my eyes.
Piper
My life has fallen into a distinctive pattern, a routine of sorts. On Mondays and Wednesdays through Thursdays I start work at 6. Every day I have contract law at one, legal writing at two, legislative process at four, and civil procedure at five, home by six-thirty. I eat something, usually a bagged salad, study, and try to get to sleep before midnight. On Tuesdays, I have no work, so I sleep in until seven and spend the rest of the morning reading, writing, and studying. On Fridays and Saturdays, I work and study. Sundays I have off. I do chores, run errands, and study. On the weekends, I let myself unwind and read something unrelated to my classes, usually books on psychology, sociology, and prisons. I want to commit all of the regulations I can find on the Bureau of Prisons' website to memory. When my brain says enough, I watch a little television on my laptop, usually Netflix or I go to the fitness center and work out. I also have three study groups which meet periodically to review material and quiz one another, especially before exams. I think most would find my life rather dull, but I don't. I am devouring every kernel of knowledge sent in my direction. I have a purpose and when I look up Alex on the Find an Inmate webpage and see NOT IN BOP CUSTODY again and again and again and again and again for two weeks my anger at the system, which was high to begin with, explodes and my determination is cemented even deeper.
"Hi, Piper," Margot greets me as I walk into the shop, leaving a trio of early birds outside as they wait for Margot to finish unlocking the door.
"Hi."
I walk in back and stow my coat and backpack. I return with my apron, which I tie around me. Margot is at the cash register taking orders and filling the bakery portions of the requests. Kurt is working on the first order of the day. He hands me the second order and I get to work. "Beat you this morning."
"You beat me every morning," I give him a smile. He lives in an apartment across the street with his girlfriend. She's cute with rounded cheeks and beaded-hair that hangs to her shoulder.
"I finished my script," he says.
"That's great." I wait for the milk I am heating to come to temperature. When it is done, I pour it into the venti cup, add the required amount of chocolate and hazelnut syrup. "How 'bout Octavia?" They are taking the same classes.
"Finishing the last act when I came over."
"Venti hot chocolate hazelnut no whip for Ernie." A skinny kid with a satchell strapped across his jacket grabs the drink with gloved hands and walks away.
There isn't enough time to chat further, the line extends almost to the door. The morning marathon doesn't let up until after ten when Kurt takes his break. Octavia has come over and they are sitting at a table. Kurt is reading the completed draft of her script as she drinks the dirty chai tea latte Kurt put together when he saw her at the door. Ben has replaced him and Jewel has replaced Margot who is in back with Nancy working on orders and next week's shift schedule. It's Wednesday after all.
"Hey, Piper," it's Kurt. He hands me his cup. "Top off?"
"Sure." I take his cup and add a fresh shot of espresso. "Off to class? Hi Octavia," I greet his shorter partner.
"Piper," she hands me her cup.
I call out the name of a newly completed order. A woman bundled in a knee-length yellow cloth coat grabs the drink while never taking her eyes from her phone. "How's the script?" I ask Octavia.
"Good, I think. I just hope the professor thinks so, too."
I finish Octavia's order and Kurt's refresh. Kurt's is a perk of his employment. Octavia pays for hers when Jewel finishes with her current customer.
Margot comes out from the back. "Piper, get your break. Ben can handle it."
"Oh, yeah," Ben gestures out at the tables, a significantly rare example of no one in line.
"I guess you can handle it." I pat Ben's shoulder. I grab a cup and fill it with a simple Caffè Americano. Going in back I take off my apron and grab a textbook. I go out into the store and find an empty table. It is a mess. I see more empty tables in need of cleaning so I do that. I remove the trash, find the cleaner and rags. The entire job only takes a few minutes and then I am free to review the cases assigned for today and the cases located in the footnotes of those cases and their footnotes. Before I do that I use the shortcut I put on my phone to Find an Inmate and type in Alex's name.
I feel a blast of icy air when the door opens.
Tears sting my eyes and I find myself crying.
"Are you okay?"
I look up and see Nancy.
"Yeah."
"Your wife?"
"She's back, Oklahoma City Transfer Center."
"I thought she was there a couple of weeks ago."
"She was, but then she disappeared again."
"How long?"
I look up and am surprised to see two women looking at me. My contracts professor, Monique Jackson. She is dressed in a dark coat; it could be blue or black, a scarf, dark leather boots. She is folding an umbrella. Next to her is a taller, athletically built woman with long reddish blonde hair pulled back into a clip. She wears a similarly styled coat as Professor Jackson, low-heeled boots, and an imposing briefcase. She is the one who has spoken.
"Pardon?" I ask. I wipe my face.
"Excuse us," Professor Jackson says. "We just came in for something to warm us up. This is my wife, Meredith Überman. I just wanted to introduce her to you."
"You said that your wife's back in Federal at the Transfer Center," says Jackson's wife.
"Yes."
"We didn't mean to eavesdrop," Jackson apologizes.
"How long?" Überman ignores her wife.
"Merry!"
"How long?" repeats Überman.
I want to ask what business she has to interrupt, but I don't. Professor Jackson's wife teaches criminal law and the federal courthouse is only a couple of blocks away. "This time ten days," I say. "So far."
"Last time? Her previous transfer?"
"No, this is the same transfer. Alex. My wife. I'm okay, Margot."
"Sure?"
"Yeah. Thanks." She nods and walks back over to the counter area.
I look up as Überman pulls out a chair opposite me. "Monique, you know my order."
"Merry." Jackson's voice warns.
"I'm going to behave, I promise."
Dr. Jackson leaves us and goes to the counter to put in their order.
"I specialize in criminal law," says Überman.
"Professor Jackson recommended that I take your class."
"And she has told me about you. You've really impressed her, a feat no one should take lightly. Now, tell me about your wife."
"I can't afford–."
"Tell me about your wife," she says sternly.
"Okay," I take a sip of my coffee, "Alex left Litchfield Max for Cleveland almost two months ago."
"And that's why you're in Cleveland."
I nod, "Yeah," I draw a breath.
"Go on."
"After six weeks she finally showed up at the transfer center then ten, eleven days ago she disappeared. Find an Inmate," I open the link on my phone, "is a constant. I must check it a hundred times a day, especially since I found out that one of the guards at Max beat her the day she left and stole her wedding ring. I need to see that she's okay and let her know that I have herring." I pause thinking that the lawyer might want to know more, but she waits, a clear indication that she wants me to continue. "I checked when I sat here for my break. It's the first thing I do. Alex isn't NOT IN BOP custody any more. She's back in Oklahoma. Although it could have been sooner. She wasn't in the system when I put my backpack in the back when I started my shift. I've been worried sick."
"You certainly hide it well," comments Jackson. She hands her wife a coffee, pulls a chair from another table, and sits.
"My wife. My business," I say. "We're private people."
"Ex con yourself?" asks Überman.
I am surprised that she knows. Only Nancy and Margot know the truth. "Yeah."
"Reason for your passion for the law." Jackson says. "This is for your wife?"
"And others," I say.
"Others?"
"I am interested in getting real justice for the accused, especially women and mentally ill."
"Oh," She and Überman exchange glances.
Überman removes a small notebook and pen from the outer pocket of her brief case. "Give me your wife's info and I'll look into it for you."
"Look, we don't have enough to afford anyone like you."
"Ms. Chapman," interrupts Jackson. "Give Merry what she wants. This is what she does. I earn the money for the practice. Merry's the crusader."
"I'm busy starting a major trial this week. Today, I start jury selection, but the trial should be done by May. You take my class this summer and I'll think of a way for you to pay back your debt."
"I was going to do that. I mean take your class."
"Good," Überman smiles. "Easy sale. Now give me the particulars. You said your wife's name is Alex?"
"Yes. Vause. Alex Vause. V-A-U-S-E."
"Reg number?"
"1975-0425. Thank you. Thank you, Professor Überman. Professor Jackson."
"Hogwash. Outside of class, and you're old enough, I'm Merry and Monique is–"
"Don't you dare," threatens Jackson.
"Monique. Now give me your contact information. I'll let you know what's happening. "
I stand. "Thank you. Yes. Piper Chapman." I give her my phone number and email. "I need to tell you, Alex and I, we're not legally married. A friend of ours married us," I show the keychain loop I wear on my left hand, "and just before she left she broke up with me," I wipe a tear, "but–"
"Happens more than you think," Überman reaches out and takes my hand.
"I want to make it legal as soon as we can, that's if she'll."
"Your relationship is yours to fix, but I'll kick the hornet's nest that is the BOP."
"That's not going to make Alex a mark?" Panic grabs hold.
"No. I'm sure that she is not the only one in this shell game." Überman checks her watch. She removes a phone from her coat pocket. She shakes my hand and stands. "Now, to court. Need to meet with my client before this afternoon's jury selection."
I thank Jackson when she shakes my hand. "And, I'll see you in class in an hour or so. I guess we took most of your study time."
"Just a little review."
"Well, I will see you in a little while."
"Hey Carly," Überman speaks into her phone as she grabs her briefcase. "Litchfield FDC. I need a list of inmate transfers that took place two months ago." She and Jackson walk back out into the cold.
I sit back down and open the screen on my computer. I stare at Alex's name. For the first time in forever, I feel hopeful.
(This is a work of fanfiction based on the Netflix series Orange is the New Black. The story begins at the point the series ended. I do not intend to make any money from this endeavor. If you make any comments, please do so. I enjoy relevant feedback and critiques. I apologize for any mistakes in any foreign language, especially my Spanish. Please let me know of the proper usage. I hope you enjoy the story. I plan to upload updates at least every week.)