Lingerie For Felons (2 page)

‘Welcome home, Princess,' the driver said as we pulled up at the sixth.

I gave myself a mental Chinese burn. I had more important things to worry about.

Like what happens when you wear a red lace thong to a strip search.

***

Some things in life just don't count.

Like cookies'n'cream ice-cream eaten straight from the container at 2am.

High school proms where you wear Doc Martens instead of a frock.

Adolescence where your only boyfriend is your Math Quiz partner.

In a similar vein, my first arrest didn't really count because, in the end, I didn't actually get charged after all, just as Baby Cop had predicted.

And as it happened, the worst did not come to pass either.

Strip search was apparently reserved for people going to actual prison, and nerdy girls in dresses borrowed from strippers just get taken to the holding cells to cool down.

***

You know, jail's not at all like you imagine. You know how it goes, in your head. Long, hard benches. Steel bars running the length of one wall through which you look out at cops eating doughnuts and reading dirty magazines. Or strapping pistols to their groins while placing pins into maps of the city. In imaginary jail, the cell is occupied by three other inmates — maybe one scowling, ratty type wreathed in tattoos of skulls and dragons; one washed up looking prostitute; one (insert ethnic minority of choice) drug-dealer-looking type (hard to describe, but we all know what he's meant to be when we see him on CSI).

Too much TV, that's the problem.

The reality was different. Bit disappointing really. More like a dentist waiting room. I was alone and there was lots of white; a bed, a chair. My cell even had a little TV where I could watch cop shows explaining how prison is really supposed to look. And I was alone. No hookers, dealers or low-grade muscle.

No-one to distract you from the inevitable march of your thoughts.

***

‘How do you spell protest?' I could see Baby Cop, crunched over a desk.

The cop who'd been driving belched and I swear I could smell gingivitis.

‘Forget it, Linus. I'm not doing paperwork for this shee-yit.'

Baby Cop flicked his pencil. ‘Oh, that's awlright, Kevin. I've already started it now.'

‘Sorry Linus,' the Leprechaun belched again, ‘but that girly'll be dead before you get the charge sheet completed. Tell you what, she's gotta see the public defender before she goes, right? Let's call her folks. We'll scare the shit out of ‘em, they'll give her the third degree and we've done the city a service.'

Scare the shit out of my parents? I mentally clapped my hands as I settled back to wait.

An hour later, sudden noise alerted me as an ashen-faced Leprechaun ushered in my mother and father. His voice had completely changed. It was soft and oily.

‘Um, look we don't usually let visitors here in the cells, but I think in this case we can make an exception. She'll have a bit of a wait for the duty lawyer anyway.'

The Leprechaun motioned toward a room down the end of the corridor where I could see the back of a harassed looking young guy guiding a middle-aged black woman into a meeting room. He was incredibly blonde, like a Northern European, and she was screeching, ‘Was a fuckin' set-up! Fuckin' sting! Fuckin' assholes!'

I couldn't hear what the young lawyer was saying but I could see him lay a hand on her back and I swear I could see her shoulders lift a little as she turned towards him. Like the lawyer could feel me watching, he turned around, and smiled and shrugged. Like,
sorry about the bad language, I'll be with you soon.

He was tall with floppy hair. Sort of like a blond Hugh Grant before the whole blowjob-in-the-car thing made him look seedy and kind of corpulent.

Huh. Interesting. The Public Defender has a cute ass.

I dragged myself back to the moment, and the Leprechaun. What was he gibbering?

‘Erh, so, anyway, take your time. Like I said, we might have a bit of a wait.'

I was immediately suspicious. ‘What's happened?'

Mom pulled at a thread on Dad's sleeve. ‘What do you mean?'

‘I can tell you've upset the Leprechaun. What have you done?'

Dad sighed, rubbing my shoulder as he pulled out a chair. ‘Oh dear. Well, the...Leprechaun was playing bad cop, sweetheart. Suggesting they might be pressing charges. Your Mom may have sort of intimated we had…mob connections.'

Mom looked mutinous. ‘I did no such thing,' she dismissed with a sniff.

‘Yes honey, you did. And you were good. He was scared. Actually, I was too, a bit.'

‘Humph, well, no thanks to you. You wouldn't scare a flea.' But she smiled a small smile as she sat down in the chair Dad had pulled out. It was the first smile I'd seen on her since The Breakup
.
I looked at Mom and Dad sitting in my cell. Traitors. I'd tried to tell them all the bad things about him. What he did for a job. How he'd never been to a protest rally. How he thought Joni Mitchell sounded like a harp seal being battered to death. How he'd probably vote Republican if he had voting rights in the US. They just looked at me disbelievingly, like I'd said Clinton was a pro-lifer. And went right on loving him.

Right up until two weeks ago. The day I dumped him.

‘So, honey, how are you? How's the thesis coming along?' Math impresses Mom. Up to a point. A bit like thinking it's cool that someone's a forensic scientist but not wanting to know about when they sliced up some body last night.

‘Erh, fine thanks.'

‘How's Harry?' My thesis supervisor had taught Dad as well, back in the day.

I poked my glasses back up my nose. ‘What is this? A social visit? I'm in jail. Don't you want to know what happened?'

‘What do you mean?' Mom's hands flew to her throat.

‘With the arrest,' I bit out.

‘Oh, that.' Mom exhaled a great sigh and beamed. She flicked a quick glance at Dad and sighed again. ‘Oh God, Lolly, we were worried you were going to talk about Wayne. And really, even though we love you and totally respect your decisions, we really just can't bear to talk about it. Every time your Dad turns on the chess, he cries.'

Dad contributed a limp nod. ‘Absolutely, sweetheart. Couldn't agree more. A hundred per cent behind you. But let's not talk about it, eh? Breaks my heart. Let's talk about more cheerful things. Tell us about the arrest.'

Oh. My. God.
My parents were mourning him. My parents, who volunteer every spare minute at their local soup kitchen. My Mom, who teaches poor kids to read, and blockades and boycotts every other week. My Dad, who's so smart he could've been a nuclear scientist but teaches math because he thinks it makes kids better. Like a Whitney Houston ‘I believe the children are the future' thing. My parents, who told me since the day I was born that ‘everyone can make a difference and together we can change the world.'

These people were mourning Wayne.

Wayne, who gave his life to making rich people — and himself — richer. Wayne, who thought Doctors Without Borders was a pornographic film. Until I explained it to him.

I wanted to rail and scream at them. But I couldn't. Not because I was worried about hurting their feelings, but because, if I did, my own wellspring of loss and aching might bubble over and drown me. So I told them about the arrest.

Only in my family would discussing arrests be considered cheerful.

‘Well, you know about the big case they're hearing down at the Supreme Court? The death penalty thing…'

I told them about how carefully we'd organized it. About how we'd arranged camera crews to be there and how the plan had been to break in to the holding area and deliver care parcels of all-American treats to the plaintiffs who'd come up from down South.

Brownies and pecan pie and stuff.

At this, my Mom gasped. ‘Good God, I hope you didn't bake them. Poor souls don't need to be poisoned as well, they've got enough on their plates.'

I gritted my teeth. ‘That's hardly the moral of the story.'

Mom took a breath, and I talked quickly to avoid the ritual re-telling of the Thanksgiving Turkey Story. ‘Look, someone else made them, okay? Home science major.'

Dad started to look more interested. ‘Yeah? So what happened to the goodies after the cops came and interrupted the action?'

I smacked myself in the forehead. ‘Dad. Really. It's hardly the —'

‘Cops probably confiscated them. They're probably all sitting somewhere now with their snouts in the trough of our daughter's imagination and labor —' Mom was building to a crescendo and had to be stopped.

‘Look, I don't know where they are now. But, again, it's hardly the point. Even if they did confiscate them, just imagine the headlines: ‘Cops Eat Dying Men's Last Supper'. Et cetera. You want to hear what happened or not?'

They both nodded contritely. ‘Anyway, so we were scaling the fence —'

My mother's head whipped around at this. ‘In that?' she queried with her eyebrows knitted together in horror.

‘Huh?' My brain hurt, as it often did trying to keep up with her.

‘You scaled a razor wire fence
in that
?' She motioned to Monica's dress. It truly was a beautiful thing, made of some gossamer material, like some springtime spider had spun the world's most beautiful web.

I stroked the beautiful thing covetously, imagining for a moment I was the kind of girl who wore things like this. ‘Ahhhh…yeah. Well, not exactly, I was having a pretty hard time getting over. Then the cops arrived. But no-one made it over, actually. Some of the guys were almost at the top, the ones with the food baskets. A matter of seconds and we would have been over.'

Mom looked down at Monica's beautiful dress and a dark cloud of consternation descended on her handsome features. ‘Not you, my darling girl. You would not have been over the top in that. What are you doing in it, anyway? The movement was supposed to have liberated women from torturing themselves for men's ideas about female beauty.'

Oh God, no. Please not this sermon.

Dad patted my leg quickly and shot Mom a look. ‘A fantastic action, sweetheart. You always had a great imagination, even when you were doing that stuff at school.' He turned to Mom. ‘Darling, we should —'

‘Mm.' Mom picked up her bag.

‘Okay, darling. Well, call us when you get released and we'll come down and pick you up. Oh, and I almost forgot,' Mom gathered up her things, ‘Aunty Vera sends her love. She's in Paris with what's-his-name.'

We always call Vera's boyfriends what's-his-name. Not because we didn't know their names, but because they're generally so short-lived we all decided long ago there's no point wasting emotional energy on them. Names just get you attached.

But Mom hadn't finished. ‘I rang her as soon as you called, of course. I knew she'd want to know. Be so proud of you. She said
viva le revolution
. Must be the Parisian air going to her head.' I laughed and Mom clucked in disapproval and turned to go, pushing Dad in front of her. ‘Oh, dear, just one other thing. We called Wayne to let him know where you were. Love you. Bye.'

I'd never seen her move so fast.

She didn't even hear me as my stunned lips croaked out, ‘You did what?'

***

Like the predictable entry of a villain in a Disney film, there was a knock on the door.

I was on the attack before I wrenched it open.

‘Look, Wayne…'

But it wasn't him. And I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

It was a disgruntled-looking Leprechaun, with Heidi and Steve behind him.

Word sure travels fast.

‘Visitors, Ms Murphy. Like I said last time, not usually allowed in the cells but…'

‘But?' I challenged, pushing my glasses up my nose.

‘The meeting room's full,' he finished lamely.

Heidi was clutching flowers. ‘Your Mom called,' she explained unnecessarily, glancing quickly up and down Monica's dress.

I gave them a quick hug. ‘This whole visiting thing is weird,' I say. ‘And the flowers. I mean, they're beautiful, but I'm in jail, not the hospital.'

Steve weighed in. He was wearing the same blue jeans I'd seen him in almost every day since I'd known him, and a t-shirt with the Cookie Monster on it.

‘Well we couldn't miss it, Lolly. So apparently they aren't pressing charges, huh? I guess in that case we should go out tonight. Y'know, celebrate.'

Heidi, Steve and I shared an apartment. Monica the Stripper had only joined us recently. We got Steve from a billboard at the school, and I thought he was brilliant from the moment I clapped eyes on him. Heidi took longer to warm to him. She was like someone's grandma, inherently distrustful of anyone too clever, too good looking, too nice. And Steve had all that in spades. But he absolutely made up for these faults with the comedy he brought to our lives through the utter chaos of his.

‘Good,' Steve said. ‘So drinks after then?'

‘I'm not sure,' I sniffed. ‘You know bad things happen when I drink.'

Steve clapped a hand on my shoulder. ‘That is only because you don't do it enough, my little Einstein.' He looked at his wristwatch. ‘What do you reckon, Lol? Nine?'

I looked at my own watch. ‘Nine Steve time, or real time?'

Heidi looked at hers too. ‘Steve time I reckon.'

We all nodded.

Steve shot a little frown at us. ‘You know it's not my fault, don't you?'

We smiled back. ‘Of course, Steve,' Heidi said. ‘You're just a weird magnet.'

‘Exactly,' Steve nodded. ‘Like the thing with Little Steve.'

I patted his arm. ‘You can't just let a woman give birth in an alley alone.'

‘And that SWAT raid cockup,' Heidi contributed.

‘I still can't watch Law and Order,' Steve moaned.