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 everypart 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.
When the last of the prisoners had showered, they were marched to a large supply room where there were shelves of clothes guarded by a Latino inmate who sized up each prisoner and handed out gray uniforms. Tracy and the others were issued two uniform dresses, two pairs of panties, two brassieres, two pairs of shoes, two nightgowns, a sanitary belt, a hairbrush, and a laundry bag. The matrons stood watching while the prisoners dressed. When they had finished, they were herded to a room where a trusty operated a large portrait camera set on a tripod.
“Stand over there against the wall.”
Tracy moved over to the wall.
“Full face.”
She stared into the camera. Click.
“Turn your head to the right.
She obeyed. Click.
“Left.” Click. “Over to the table.”
The table had fingerprint equipment on it. Tracy’s fingers were rolled across an inky pad, then pressed onto a white card.
“Left hand. Right hand. Wipe your hands with that rag. You’re finished.”
She’s right , Tracy thought numbly. I’m finished. I’m a number. Nameless, faceless.
A guard pointed to Tracy. “Whitney? Warden wants to see you. Follow me.”
Tracy’s heart suddenly soared. Charles had done something after all! Of course he had not abandoned her, any more than she ever could have abandoned him. It was the sudden shock that had made him behave the way he had. He had had timeto think it over now and to realize he still loved her. He had talked to the warden and explained the terrible mistake that had been made. She was going to be set free.
She was marched down a different corridor, through two sets of heavily barred doors manned by male and female guards. As Tracy was admitted through the second door, she was almost knocked down by a prisoner. She was a giant, the biggest woman Tracy had ever seen—well over six feet tall, she must have weighed three hundred pounds. She had a flat, pockmarked face, with feral yellow eyes. She grabbed Tracy s arm to steady her and pressed her arm against Tracy’s breasts.
“Hey!” the woman said to the guard. “We got a new fish. How ‘bout you put her in with me?” She had a heavy Swedish accent.
“Sorry. She’s already
“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 everypart 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.
When the last of the prisoners had showered, they were marched to a large supply room where there were shelves of clothes guarded by a Latino inmate who sized up each prisoner and handed out gray uniforms. Tracy and the others were issued two uniform dresses, two pairs of panties, two brassieres, two pairs of shoes, two nightgowns, a sanitary belt, a hairbrush, and a laundry bag. The matrons stood watching while the prisoners dressed. When they had finished, they were herded to a room where a trusty operated a large portrait camera set on a tripod.
“Stand over there against the wall.”
Tracy moved over to the wall.
“Full face.”
She stared into the camera. Click.
“Turn your head to the right.
She obeyed. Click.
“Left.” Click. “Over to the table.”
The table had fingerprint equipment on it. Tracy’s fingers were rolled across an inky pad, then pressed onto a white card.
“Left hand. Right hand. Wipe your hands with that rag. You’re finished.”
She’s right , Tracy thought numbly. I’m finished. I’m a number. Nameless, faceless.
A guard pointed to Tracy. “Whitney? Warden wants to see you. Follow me.”
Tracy’s heart suddenly soared. Charles had done something after all! Of course he had not abandoned her, any more than she ever could have abandoned him. It was the sudden shock that had made him behave the way he had. He had had timeto think it over now and to realize he still loved her. He had talked to the warden and explained the terrible mistake that had been made. She was going to be set free.
She was marched down a different corridor, through two sets of heavily barred doors manned by male and female guards. As Tracy was admitted through the second door, she was almost knocked down by a prisoner. She was a giant, the biggest woman Tracy had ever seen—well over six feet tall, she must have weighed three hundred pounds. She had a flat, pockmarked face, with feral yellow eyes. She grabbed Tracy s arm to steady her and pressed her arm against Tracy’s breasts.
“Hey!” the woman said to the guard. “We got a new fish. How ‘bout you put her in with me?” She had a heavy Swedish accent.
“Sorry. She’s already
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