Turning the Tables: From Housewife to Inmate and Back Again (15 page)

I got dressed and was getting some things together when I heard a car pull into the driveway. I knew it was Jim and Mike, the retired FBI agent he brought with him for protection. I thought,
Here we go . . .
They rang the doorbell, and Joe let them in and invited them into the kitchen, where they sat around the kitchen table, waiting for me to come downstairs. Joe had a glass and a bottle of his homemade red wine in front of him on the table. He got up and handed Jim and Mike each a glass. I heard Jim say he couldn’t drink because he had to drive. Jim told me later that Joe shot him a look like, “Pal, you are gonna need this.”

Joe sat back down at the kitchen table, wiping his eyes, with tears still running down his cheeks. Almost as though he was talking to no one in particular, Joe looked up at the ceiling and said, “I can’t believe this is happening.

“Teresa saying goodbye to the girls is just gut-wrenching,” Joe said.

Gut-wrenching doesn’t even begin to cover it. What had happened in the last six hours was probably the most painful, most excruciating time of my entire life.

After I finished getting ready, I knew I had to leave. I went back to each of the girls’ rooms. Audriana looked like a little angel sleeping. I kissed her and said a prayer over her and did the sign of the cross. When I turned to leave the room, that’s when everything hit me. I had wondered and worried about this moment for months and now it was here. I couldn’t help but cry, but I didn’t lose it. I wouldn’t allow myself to go to that deep, dark place. All I could think of was my four girls and being strong for them. I vowed to myself that I would come back stronger and better from this than before, God willing. I had to stay positive. I had no choice.

I pulled myself together and went to check on Gabriella, giving her a kiss and saying one last prayer for her, before I went back to Gia’s room. Milania was in there, snuggled up to Gia in her bed. I lay down with them one more time and we said more prayers. We talked a little bit more and cried. I gave them one more hug and kiss and said good night. When I left, I saw Gia cradling Milania in her arms, and I couldn’t help but cry again. I turned and walked toward my bedroom. I didn’t want them to see the tears rolling down my face.

W
hen I walked into the kitchen, I asked Jim, Joe, and Mike, “Do you need anything? Are you OK?”

Jim told me later that he and Mike looked at each other like, “She’s getting ready to go to prison and she’s asking us if
we
need anything!”

While Joe was talking to Jim and Mike, I started wiping down the kitchen counters as I had done so many times before, in happier times. I wanted to leave my house spotless. Nobody cleans my house as well as I do.

I had spent the last few months I had left organizing the whole house—especially the girls’ closets and all their things, so that everything would be in order for them, like I was still there. I reminded Joe about the year’s worth of tomato sauce the two of us had made and stored in the garage for him and the girls.

My mom is a great cook and so is Joe’s mom. Our moms were going to be cooking a lot for Joe and the kids while I was gone. But since my kids love everything I make, I wanted them to have my sauce anytime they wanted it. I didn’t want them to have to go without even that.

I took off my jewelry and decided to leave my wedding band at home, even though we were allowed to wear one. I didn’t want to lose it. I didn’t need to prove to anyone that I’m married because I figured everyone knew that already.

I handed Jim an envelope with a piece of paper in it for him to give to the prison officials. On it were the handwritten phone numbers, email addresses, and mailing addresses of the people I wanted to put on my phone, email, and mail lists for approval. I also put two hundred dollars in cash in there to start an account so I could buy phone time, toiletries, and other things I would need in there. What was missing in that envelope was photographs. I wasn’t allowed to bring pictures with me. People would have to mail them to me.

I told Jim I had taken my extensions out, which he had told me to do, since they weren’t allowed in prison.

“I didn’t even notice,” he said. “It doesn’t look any different.”

Such a typical man, I thought, laughing to myself, knowing that all my girlfriends would have noticed.

“What were you expecting?” I asked.

“I thought your hair would look like Joe’s!” he said.

I made a face at him and we laughed.

That’s when he stood up and gave me a rosary and two medals: one of St. Christopher and one of St. Teresa, my patron saint. I tried not to cry as he clasped them around my neck.

A
s the time to leave drew near, I saw Jim nod to Mike, like, “Let’s leave them alone.”

“Teresa,” Jim called to me as he was walking toward the front door. “We’ll be outside. Whenever you’re ready . . .”

Joe and I stood in the kitchen, looking into each other’s eyes. We didn’t need to say anything at all. We had said everything that needed to be said, before this moment.

“I love you, Tre,” he said, hugging me tight.

“I love you, too, honey.”

I kissed him and walked through the foyer. As I was about to leave, Milania and Gia came downstairs. I hugged and kissed them and walked through the door, making sure I had a smile on my face to show them I was being positive about everything happening to us in that moment, even though I wanted to throw up. I felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest, but I didn’t want to let them know that.

I turned back to Joe and the girls and said, “I’ll call you as soon as I can. And I’ll see you all soon.”

This was the last time I saw them before I became Inmate Number 65703-050.

W
e got to Danbury an hour earlier than expected, so Jim suggested we stop at a local diner he had seen on the way, to kill time. The place was pretty empty since it was about 2 a.m. I slid into a booth next to Mike and ordered coffee. I didn’t want to eat anything, because it was so late and I was trying to be healthy, but Jim said, “Oh, come on . . .” so I ended up ordering a greasy bacon and egg sandwich. When the waitress put it down in front of me, I smiled and said to Jim and Mike, “I’m not going to be eating anything like this for a long time . . .”

Ten minutes or so later, a group of people sat down in the booth across from us. I was nervous that they would recognize me. But they were talking in Spanish and never even looked in our direction, which was good. The next morning, though, Jim learned that they had somehow taken pictures of me eating—and sold them to the media, which ran the pictures hours later. Absolutely unbelievable . . . though looking back, that photo was like a
Real Housewives
version of
The Last Supper
.

When we were finished eating, the three of us headed back to the Denali. When I slid into the backseat, I asked Jim if I could smoke in his wife’s car. I don’t smoke, but I’d brought an electronic cigarette with me, to calm my nerves.

We got to the prison and Jim parked the Denali. As we walked toward the building, he put his arm around me and said, “You’re going to be fine. Don’t be nervous.” I looked at him and tried not to cry. “It’s not me I’m worried about,” I said. “It’s my girls.”

After I said goodbye to Jim and Mike, I turned to the guards and said, “I’m ready.”

And I was. I was as ready as I would ever be.

B
y the time I got to bed that first night, it was four-thirty in the morning. I needed about ten hours of sleep or more after being up for so long, but I was woken up two hours later when some of my new roommates got up to get ready for their jobs. I wouldn’t be getting my job assignment for a week or two, so I could do what I wanted at this point. I was exhausted and wanted to sleep more, but I got up and said hi to the girls in my room. There were three bunks crammed in there, so I had five roommates. They were really nice and all said hi back, introduced themselves to me, and welcomed me to “the camp.”

“You’re going to do just fine in here, Mami,” said Heaven, a pretty Dominican in her early thirties who was in there for drugs.

“Yeah—you be OK,” said a tall woman with long dreadlocks and a thick Jamaican accent, who was also in there for drugs. “We heard you were coming.”

Heaven handed me a long, detailed printed list of what I could buy at the commissary, the prison store where I could pick up the things I needed that the prison didn’t provide us. They only gave you toilet paper and maxi pads, which might not sound like much, but I later learned that other prisons don’t give you any of that stuff, so we really were lucky in the grand scheme of things.

They actually call the commissary “Walmart” at Danbury. You could buy Suave, Infusium, or Pantene shampoo and conditioner, toothpaste, soap, deodorant, soda, makeup, tweezers, nail clippers, Noxema, Oil of Olay, ChapStick, food and snacks like rice cakes or raw almonds, aspirin, Tums, reading glasses, a book light, notebooks, air fresheners, alarm clocks, fans, earbuds, towels, washcloths, radios, and even scissors, which surprised me. You could also buy sunglasses for just $5.20! Such a far cry from the glam $350 Tom Ford shades I used to wear before I went away. I didn’t see Chanel or Lancôme on the list, but hey—at least I could get some things I would need in my new home away from home.

We weren’t allowed to carry cash, so I set up an account with the two hundred dollars I brought from home. Since I got there on a Monday and commissary day was on Tuesday, I had to wait to get the things I needed for those first couple days. Thankfully, a sweet woman named Nikki, who was in there for financial stuff, brought me a bag of things I would need until I could get to the commissary. Nikki looked like a slightly older version of Jennifer Garner. She had all-American good looks: shoulder-length, chestnut-brown hair, which she swept up into a neat ponytail; pretty brown eyes made even more beautiful with a little mascara and navy blue eyeliner, and pale pink lipstick. She was in great shape and I could understand why: she told me she worked out every day. What I liked most about her was her upbeat attitude. She was really friendly and reminded me of some of the girls back home who were there for me when I needed them. I thanked her for being so nice. She got me everything I would need for the first two days: Pantene shampoo and conditioner, Tone soap, Colgate toothpaste, St. Ives body lotion, shower shoes, body wash, a razor, deodorant—everything except food and clothes. I was really touched and relieved because I had heard horror stories about the way new inmates are treated. So Nikki made me feel a little better by welcoming me in (kind of like my real-life Morello from the Netflix adaptation of
Orange Is the New Black
).

She also gave me Vaseline so I could take my makeup off . . . and told me to use a maxi pad to remove it.
What?!
Here I was, used to Lancôme makeup remover, and now I was wiping off my face with a feminine hygiene product. When I went into the bathroom to take it off, I said to no one in particular, “I can’t believe I’m taking my makeup off with a friggin’ maxi pad.” When Heaven heard me complaining, she said, “Hon, we use maxi pads for everything in here . . .” Once I got over the initial shock of using a sanitary napkin to take my makeup off, I realized that it actually worked really well. Who knew? But oh,
Madonna mia . . .

I would come to find that everyday items could be used for so many things. Take the humble maxi pad, for instance, which I was already using to remove makeup. As time went on, I learned that you could use the pads as slippers and shower shoes, shoe cushions, pedicure shoes, soothing eye pads, face masks to prevent you from getting sick, a sponge to wash plastic containers if you were using the microwave in the common areas to make food, facial hair remover (you use the adhesive on the other side to pull the hair out), and cleaning rags. Who knew they were just as good as a Swiffer Sweeper? I laughed the first time I wiped down the floor and then my locker with a maxi pad. I couldn’t help but think,
If only everyone could see me now . . .

D
espite what some people think, Danbury is
not
a country club, though sometimes I led my husband and children to believe it was like one. Better for them to think I was in a posh prison, rather than suffering. But the reality of it was that being there was like being in hell. I felt like I was buried alive. I felt like so much was happening on the outside and I wasn’t a part of anything. I felt trapped—like I’d lost all my freedom and there was nothing I could do about it. While I met a lot of great women in prison, it’s still full of depressed, frustrated, bitter, and toxic people who like to start trouble just for fun. (Sound familiar?)

I felt helpless in there when my friends and family needed me. I couldn’t do anything for them except call them or email them because I was totally cut off from everything. I hated being away from my daughters. Prison felt like a mental institution, an old people’s home, and a military base all rolled into one. The guards are in charge of literally everything you do. The hardest thing is being away from your family and not being able to talk to them whenever you want and for as long as you want. They only give you three hundred minutes a month to talk on the phone, which was not enough time for me, since I had to talk to five people—my husband and the four girls—and only got a few minutes with each one. Fifteen minutes flies by faster than I ever realized. All I wanted was to spend time with my family. Friends and family could only visit us twice a week, which was not enough time, either. During visiting hours, I couldn’t always hold Joe’s hand or touch him. I could only kiss him when he came and when he left. But I was grateful that I did get to see them, even if it wasn’t for the amount of time I would have liked.

I am a very positive person and tried to stay strong in front of my family when I spoke to them on the phone or saw them at visitation. As strong as I am, I had many moments when I just broke down. I have never cried so much in my life. Even at the end of my stay there, I was still crying all the time because I missed my family so much and just wanted to be home with them. During the first few months there, I would wake up pretty much every morning and think to myself,
Am I really here, in prison? Why, God, am I even here?
As the months went on, I got used to being in there, but I would still wake up once in a while and wonder if I was just having a bad dream. I wasn’t. This was now my life. While I wanted to be home with my family so bad, I also thought to myself,
I can do this.
I took Jim’s words and ran with them: I was a fighter. A warrior. I had to remind myself of that every single day.