Turning the Tables: From Housewife to Inmate and Back Again (18 page)

It was laundry day, so at 7 a.m., I brought a small pile of dirty clothes to the laundry room. I didn’t have much at this point, but I wanted as many clean clothes as I could get. Now, this was interesting to me because I used to do
all
our laundry at home. With four girls in so many different activities and a husband in construction, there was
a lot
to wash. So I loved that they did your laundry for you! You did have to fold it when you got back to your room, which was no problem for me, because I like to do that. I found out later that you could pay someone to fold it for you, if you wanted. Some people even paid to get their clothes ironed. I didn’t need to do that, though, with T-shirts, sweats, and shorts. My clothes looked fine after I folded them. But sometimes when I went to pick my things up, the laundry lady had already folded everything for me, because she and I had become friends. Again, just so nice and not what I had expected when I first got here, at all. Later on, I would be accused of getting “special treatment,” when all my friend wanted to do was give me a hand.
Whatever
, I thought. I was used to people thinking things about me that weren’t true at all. (In fact, while I was in there, I felt like I was watched even more closely than others because of who I am.)

While I waited for my approvals, I walked right out the front door of the camp and headed over to the commissary, a boxy, glass-fronted building that was a hop, skip, and jump from where we lived. When I first got to the prison, I thought the commissary was the visitors’ center because it was so close to the building where inmates were housed (of course, there wasn’t even a true visitors’ center). I couldn’t believe we were allowed to go outside like that, but since this was a minimum-security camp, we were allowed outside the main building. I’m sure more than a few inmates before me had thought of escaping, but you had to walk—or run—a really long way, on 348 acres of open land, before you hit the street. After seeing the guards standing on the hill near the commissary and riding around the grounds in small white pickup trucks all day long, crisscrossing the property, I couldn’t imagine anyone would even try. If you did and were caught? You would most likely be immediately shipped out of the camp to the Federal Metropolitan Detention Center in Brooklyn. From what I heard about the MDC, it was a much rougher place, with all different kinds of inmates who were in there for serious offenses—so you definitely did not want to get sent that way.

I walked through the doors and waited in yet another line. I went to one of the windows, pressed my thumbprint on the electronic pad, and handed the clerk behind the counter the list of items I had checked off on the commissary list. I peeked in there while she went to get my order. The commissary was small but carried a lot of things. I couldn’t believe how much they packed into one little room. I bought Pantene shampoo and conditioner, a bar of Tone soap, Colgate toothpaste and a toothbrush, sweats, a T-shirt, hair ties, Queen Helene hair gel, and St. Ives body lotion. I bought some of the same things Nikki had given me so I could give them back to her.

The only kind of makeup they sold was Wet n Wild—the super-cheap stuff you get at the drugstore. I bought eyeliner, lip gloss, foundation, and mascara (but no false eyelashes . . . they definitely didn’t carry those, and who knows if they would have gotten ripped out, anyway . . .). What a blast from the past. I used to buy Wet n Wild lip liner in fuchsia when I first started wearing makeup in high school.
What a small world
, I thought. Everything had come full circle.

The commissary had pretty much everything I needed, except for Clairol Nice’n Easy hair color—and raisins. They were out of the hair dye and wouldn’t be able to get it for me for a couple weeks. I was OK with not being able to do my roots for that time, but the one thing I cannot live without? My raisins. I eat them with my oatmeal. I can’t eat oatmeal without them.

When I was walking back from the commissary, I asked one of the guards, “Why don’t they sell raisins?”

“Raisins are considered contraband,” she said.

I looked at her like she was crazy.

“Raisins?! Why?!”

She explained that a lot of the ladies hoarded them, fermented them, and turned them into prison-style moonshine! You would need a lot of raisins to do that, but somehow, some of the women managed to make raisin-flavored alcohol, which they call hooch. This was definitely a new one for me. Joe likes to make homemade wine. Maybe I should let him know about this one . . .

A few hours later, I was in my room organizing my locker, when this petite Hispanic woman with a huge bun on her head and tattoos all over her neck came up to me from behind and shoved two boxes of the exact hair color I needed—medium brown—and a paper bag full of raisins into my hands.

“Here! Take this,” she whispered. “Hurry up and put it in your locker, before anyone sees.”

I wasn’t quite sure what to say, since I had been warned not to take anything from anyone.

“Come see me if you need anything else.”

Then she was gone. After she hightailed it out of my room, Dreadlocks came walking in. “Oh, I see you met Magic. She is a literal magician who can get you anything you want. And I mean
anything
 . . .”

(I loved the names they had for each other in there. I found out later on in my stay that some of the ladies called me Hollywood . . . Hey, I could get used to that.)

She told me Magic was considered the camp’s contraband queen. There were others, of course, who sold illicit items, but she was one of the best. If you wanted something? She either had it or could get it. I don’t know how she did it. She sold everything from loosies—loose cigarettes—to Nair hair removal cream, which I guess was in high demand there. So were diet pills because everyone wanted to lose weight
fast
. But Magic sold everything at a huge markup.
Huge.
One cigarette cost ten dollars and a pack cost one hundred and forty.

That’s when I started getting nervous. I thought,
Oh,
Madonna mia
. Now I’m gonna owe her for the hair color and the raisins. What is she gonna want in return? Shit.
Another problem I didn’t need that just fell into my lap. I couldn’t get her out of my head that whole night because I’m such a worrier. So when I saw her by the phones the next day, I went up to her, thanked her, and said, “That was really nice of you, but what do I owe you?”

“Don’t worry about that,” she said, leaning up against the wall. “That was a gift. What you can do for me is watch my back in here and I’ll watch yours. Deal?”

She put her hand out. We shook on it and she left. It was so bizarre. I felt like I was a character on
The Sopranos
, doing some secret underworld deal, where I swore omertè, even though all I was getting was hair color and friggin’ raisins. But thanks to Magic, from that day on, there wasn’t a day that went by when I didn’t have my oatmeal with raisins . . . my Magic raisins . . . (but not enough to make moonshine!).

N
ow I had to deal with my new wardrobe. When I first got there, they gave me six pairs of white cotton granny panties, three uncomfortable sports bras that didn’t fit me well at all, six pairs of socks, four T-shirts, four uniforms (the olive-green shirts and matching pants), and a pair of steel-toed boots. The olive-colored T-shirts they gave me were all size large. They only give out size large and up, so the shirts were swimming on me. When I got to the commissary, I was able to buy some comfy gray sweats and some gray T-shirts in size small, which made me happy. I was definitely learning that it
is
the little things in life that are important, especially somewhere like prison.

I bought some dark-gray-and-black Adidas sneakers, too, but they had to order them for me, so it took a few weeks to get those. Nikki let me borrow a pair of her sneakers until I got mine. Thank God for her because I started working out the first day I got there.

I have to say, I met a lot of generous people when I first got to Danbury. That first night, I slept in that green top and pants they had given me because I got to my bunk so late. That’s the same top I wore in my ID photo. Since I wasn’t able to get to the commissary on that first day, Heaven gave me prison-style pajamas to sleep in for that second night—a T-shirt and sweatpants. It really was nice of her. That’s what women did in there. When someone was new, the other women tried to offer support by giving her the stuff she needed until she could get to the commissary. So if you got there on a Wednesday? You were screwed unless someone helped you out, since you couldn’t go to the commissary until the following Tuesday. I was lucky I got there on a Monday—and that my two hundred dollars went right into my account. Some of the inmates told me they’d had to wait a week or two before they could buy anything.

Before I got to prison, I would never even think of wearing anyone else’s clothes, let alone their shoes. But once you’re locked up, things are different. When you’re in there, you don’t discount your blessings—even if, in your previous life, you would have done so. You’re just grateful for what people give you, and you do what you have to do to survive. And of course, the other women would make sure the clothes were washed and that the shoes were clean before they gave them to you. Again, not what I’d expected at all.

I learned to pay it forward in there, too. I was so grateful for all the people who helped me that I wanted to help the newbies out, as well. When people finally got out of there, they usually left stuff behind that other people could use. A woman I became friendly with gave me her boat shoes when she left. I loved them because they were different—they were a little piece of the outside world. To me, they were like Louboutins. I wore them when my daughters came to visit because I didn’t want them to see me in the black boots. So way before I left, I told this other girl that they would be hers when I bid goodbye to that place. I had to. She’s a Jersey girl, too, and God knows we watch out for each other!

After my prison shopping spree, I went back to my room, put my new things away, and attempted to clean. I washed the floor and dusted the fan and the windowsill. And the best part: I cleaned off all of the gunk and grime from the huge window, so finally, some light shone through. I definitely counted that big window as a blessing. I had a bird’s-eye view of the prison grounds from my top bunk. The prison sits high up on a hill, on acres of empty land—pretty, rolling hills, with greenery that turned to gorgeous red, orange, and yellow hues come fall. I liked to look out the window whenever I could. At least I could
see
the outside world, even if I wasn’t in it.

F
inally, the officers told me I could call home! I raced to the phone bank and waited impatiently in line. Earlier, when I was setting up my phone privileges, I had stated my name for the recording that came on when our friends and family got calls from us, telling them this was Teresa Giudice and that they were getting a call from a federal prison. Again, just surreal.

I also came to learn that you had to yell out to the crowd waiting there, “Who’s last in line?!” when you got there, because everyone stood all over the place. I hated that. When I finally got a phone, I was so happy I started tearing up. I was even shaking a little bit. What if they weren’t home? When I heard Joe come on the line, I broke down. It was so comforting to hear his voice. He asked how I was doing, and I barely squeaked out an “OK.” I got a grip on myself and told him I was doing fine. That it wasn’t so bad in here and that I was settling in. He said he started crying because he couldn’t believe I had really gone to prison and wasn’t coming back for a long time. I lost it and hoped no one was watching me sob into the phone. I calmed down but started crying again when each of the girls came on the line. Oh God, how I missed them already. I loved hearing their sweet voices. I told them what I had done so far and that I missed them so very much. They told me what they were up to that day and said they missed me, too. We exchanged “I love you’s.” I could have listened to them all day long. Milania had started telling me about school, when the call ended. At first I thought something had gone wrong. Did I not pay for my minutes after all? Were the phones down? Did Milania hang up? One of the inmates next to me filled me in: when you reach the fifteen-minute limit, the phone shuts off and you have to wait a half hour before you could call them back. I could have talked to them for hours. All that waiting . . . for fifteen minutes. But at least I got to talk to them, which was a victory in and of itself.

I was happy. Floating-on-air happy. I tried to call my mom and dad, but realized that in my sleep-deprived state I hadn’t added their phone number to my list. I raced back to the computer room to add them to the list and then, yes, wait for approval. I emailed my honey and told him I loved him and then finally got to talk to my parents. I was lucky a phone was free. I cried when I talked to them, too.

When I went back to my room, Nikki stopped by again with another amazing salad! I thanked her and chatted with her a bit before she had to leave. I was throwing the last of the salad away when an officer stopped me.

“You can’t eat that in your room. You can only eat it in the lunchroom.”

He said he wouldn’t tell the lieutenant—this time—because I was new and didn’t know the rules yet. Thank God. I didn’t want to be punished on my first day there.

“I had no idea you couldn’t eat in your room,” I replied, trying not to shake. “I’ll never do it again.”

“OK,” he said, turning on his heel and walking back down the hallway.

This was the first of many lessons—big and small—I would learn about the official and unofficial rules in there.

L
ater that day, I met this really great woman named Tonya, who was in there for financial stuff, too. She had long brown hair, gorgeous hazel eyes and, like me, was a total girly and glamour girl, so I was immediately drawn to her. She had lived a nice life before she was sent to Danbury, so we seemed to have a lot in common.