A Bitch Is a Bitch Is a Bitch

By Dr. Doramae Brookshire

A Bitch Is a Bitch Is a Bitch is a rare glimpse into the world of incarceration of professional women. In the 1990’s a dentist from Georgia went to jail in Atlanta for Medicaid Fraud. A victim of a good-ole-boy order and a biased court system, she entered a world that she never dreamed existed. Her story is terrifying and outlandish, but at the same time often hilarious. Explore the world of jail as seen through the eyes of a convicted dentist. Meet unforgettable characters like Sgt. Dairy Queen, Mrs. Santa Claus, Hillbilly Erline, Big Charlotte, Bicycle, one-footed Angelica, and Pitiful Pearl. Climb aboard this jailhouse journey and your life will be forever changed, just as Dr. Brookshire's was.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664144446

Dr. Doramae Brookshire

Dr. Doramae Brookshire practiced dentistry in Georgia. She was a former elementary teacher. She also was the director of a local literacy organization. She taught GED to the female inmates at the local county jail. Later, she ran a small mom-and-pop mercantile in the wilds of Alaska with her family. She resides in her home state of Indiana.

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Copyright © 2020 by Doramae Brookshire.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture quotations marked KJV are from the Holy Bible, King James Version (Authorized Version). First published in 1611. Quoted from the KJV Classic Reference Bible, Copyright © 1983 by The Zondervan Corporation.

Rev. date: 12/15/2020

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CONTENTS

Author’s Note

Prologue

The Capture

Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop

Welcome To The Jungle

Yew Gonna Eat Dat?

Jailhouse Rock: Shower Time

The Apple Dumpling Gang

David and Goliath

Visits from Home

Missives to Ward off Madness

Santa and Satan

Beelzebub

Hoosier Roommate

The Exorcists

White Bread Picnic

Fruitcake Capital

Sergeant Dairy Queen

Bonnie Brookensheer

Dorm Rat, Dorm D

Mrs. Santa Claus

Quest for Zest

Amber’s Story

Strike While The Iron is Hot

Free at Last

My POs

Bushwhacked

Testimony School

Let’s Make a Deal

The Circus Begins

The State’s Puppets

Well Fiddle, Mr. Jack

Eyebrows in Outer Space

Missives of Moral Support

Flippin’ the Innocent

The Three Musketeers

A Tale of Two Tobys

Wide-Eyed Witnesses

Dr. Percy Judgmental

Rodeo Clown

Twenty Minutes

The Lights Went out in Georgia

Addendum A

AUTHOR’S NOTE

T HIS BOOK IS a memoir, and is taken from my personal experiences. All names of the people in the book, with a few exceptions of my family members, have been changed to protect their privacy.

In 1999, I was charged with Medicaid Fraud while practicing dentistry in South Georgia. During the entire process, I was given no chance to explain myself to the police, the GBI, the board of dentistry, or investigators of any kind. No questions were ever asked. I was not informed of the Grand Jury proceeding. I had no idea I was charged with anything until two GBI officers and a local deputy came bursting unannounced into our farmhouse one winter’s evening. The hunt had begun. This is my story.

There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice,

but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.

Elie Wiesel

To oppressed people everywhere, especially the children.

To women who are abused emotionally, physically, verbally, and spiritually.

To those who exist day to day in poverty and hopelessness.

To women who enter male-dominated professions and are made to feel inferior.

To women who suffer the gender wage gap. (Women in America in 2018 earn seventy-four cents for every dollar earned by a male worker for the same job.)

To women who end up in jail for petty crimes and taking the fall for their men and to the children they leave back home who receive substandard health and dental care, while judges’ and politicians’ children receive top-notch health care.

To the downtrodden, the forgotten, the persecuted, the exploited, the disheartened, the tyrannized, the tormented, and the wronged everywhere.

PROLOGUE

I PRACTICED DENTISTRY IN a small town in the South in the 1980s and 1990s. The climate back then was extremely volatile to female dentists. The town was a good ole boy locale, and the seven male dentists who already occupied the town were fiercely protective of their already claimed territory. Times have really changed (thank god), but back when I attended dental school in the early 1980s, female dentists were a real rarity, and I went through pretty much a living hell trying to measure up to the male students. My graduating class of fifty included ten females, the largest percentage of females in a graduating class in history up until then. The ten female students were told repeatedly by the dental school professors that we had most likely chosen the wrong profession, that dentistry was a male-dominated profession for a reason, and that we, as females, should have chosen something different. (Were we sure we didn’t want to be dental hygienists instead?) My nine other female colleagues and I were ostracized and singled out as inferior the entire four years of dental school, but that was nothing compared with what I faced from my fellow dentists (all male) in the heart of small-town Dixie.

I began to accept children on Medicaid as patients when I realized that the other dentists in town were refusing to accept Medicaid patients because Medicaid reimburses the dentist pennies on the dollar. According to them, it just wasn’t worth their time. But the need for dental services for young patients on Medicaid in the South in the 1980s was horrendous. I could not allow these young victims of dental neglect to sit by and suffer from lack of proper care, so I became the dentist who takes Medicaid kids. As a result of simple numbers and tremendous need, I also became extremely busy in my practice. This was not to say that I was raking in the dough as several of my fellow dentists were. (Remember, Medicaid pays pennies on the dollar.) But I was filling a niche that truly needed filling, and I felt good that I was helping the young patients with nursing bottle caries get out of pain and also helping their parents become educated on proper dental hygiene. I had been raised at home to truly care about others and to use any talents that I may have to reach out and do just that.

All that the male dentists in town perceived was my constantly full parking lot, and all they heard was much talk around town about how caring the new woman dentist was. The green-eyed monster reared its ugly head, and male politics ensued. Soon the male dentists in town were playing politics with their good buddies on the state dental board, and my practice was being closely scrutinized. Medicaid in the 1980s had very ambiguously written guidelines, and they could be interpreted just about any way the official interpreter wished.

There was an annual dental association meeting at the local country club. Of course, I was not invited, but I found out about it and decided to go anyway. After all, I was a local dentist and a paid member of the dental association, and there was probably information involving the local dental community that I needed to know. When I showed up to the meeting, all hell broke loose. I was shunned like an Amish girl who had come home drunk. The other dentists actually turned their backs on me and ignored me the entire evening.

Finally, I had had enough. I walked up to Dr. Boris Biget and said, I guess that I am never going to be acknowledged as a capable dentist in this town because I am a woman.

He lifted his quite inebriated head from the table where he was sitting and replied in slurred speech, "Now that’s just not true. A bitch is a bitch is a bitch."

THE CAPTURE

T HERE THEY WERE. Four stocky Southern deputies were approaching me, handcuffs in tow. In a group effort, they slapped the cold iron rings around my shaking wrists and led me out of the courtroom, no apologies to the stunned jury or to my horror-struck family. I wondered why it took four male lawmen to escort me out the door. Wouldn’t one have done just as nicely?

As soon as we were outside, only one of the four deputies remained as my chaperone to jail. The other three just kind of scattered like sheep fleeing from hungry wolves. The one who remained was a short, little stout guy with a clean face, a closely cut blond crew cut, and a tight, well-starched, and crisply ironed uniform. A revolver hung neatly at his hip. I wondered if this perfectly groomed arm of the law felt that he might find the need to shoot me on the way to jail. But he honestly did mind his manners; he was the perfect Southern gentleman.

This was nothing like my nightmarish experience back in February 1997, when the state bureau of investigation surrounded my home, forcefully handcuffed me against their unmarked car in my own driveway, and threw me in a squad car on my way to the county jail. They did not care that I cracked my head against the hard metal of the car on my way into the back seat. They cared even less that my handcuffs were so tight that they were cutting off my circulation. Looking back, I realized that their sole purpose on that frigid February night was simply to intimidate me into submission.

This guy was different though. As we approached one of the hundreds of squad cars in the enormous parking lot, he attempted to make some small talk. We’ll get there as soon as possible, OK?

I nodded, unable to speak.

We made it to the car that we apparently were going to use. He stopped and unlocked the driver’s door and then the back door on the passenger’s side. He motioned for me to follow him to the back door. Now watch your haid on the way in, ma’am, he said softly in a perfect Southern accent, and he reached down gently to help me in as he protected my head. He loosely fastened my seat belt.

You OK now, ma’am? he inquired.

Yeah, thanks, I mumbled. That would be the last words we would ever speak to each other. He got himself situated in the front seat, fastened his seat belt, and started the car.

As soon as we left the county courthouse parking lot, I noticed that we were driving through that same quaint, yuppie little neighborhood that Bob and I had driven through on our way to the courthouse seven days previously. I gazed out my window, still in a trancelike stupor. Rows and rows of identical little shops in English-Tudor-style passed by. They reminded me of pictures I had seen of old English villages. I began to read the names of the various shops. Ye Olde Candle Shoppe, I read. Flowers by Daphne, the Drapery Boutique, Parfumes de Francais, Tiffany’s Fine Gold Bijouterie, Madeline’s Mocha Manor: Gourmet Coffees and Espresso.

The names of the yuppie ville specialty shops zipped by my dazzled eyes. Saturday afternoon shoppers clutched their precious packages encased in pricey wrappings with silver and gold trimmings. Even their shopping bags looked expensive, sporting fancy decorations of grand magnolias and blooming honeysuckle. The shoppers were bedecked in all the latest fashions, the ladies stepping carefully in their stilettos so as to keep their balance and still appear sophisticated. Their hairstyles were all the trendiest new cuts and were immaculately maintained. Their makeup was expertly painted on their china doll faces with just enough thickness to conceal any signs of aging. Their hair was perfectly coiffed, their teeth were flawlessly white and perfectly straight, and their ivory skin was unwrinkled. Their svelte bodies strutted past one another down the brick sidewalk on the boulevard, noses in the air. An occasional social gathering could be seen when a couple of the shoppers stopped to gossip, but for the most part, the participants were much too involved with themselves to give anyone else a second thought.

The patrol car continued down the streets of the city on its way to the jail. Five minutes after passing through the English Tudor village, I looked out my back seat window and noticed that we were in quite a different type of neighborhood now. I began to read the names of the storefronts. Bobby Ray’s Butcher Shop was scrawled in black marker across a rotting piece of wood. It hung in front of a clouded glass door on a dirty, littered sidewalk. Kim’s Laundry was written in English and also in meticulous tiny Chinese symbols. Billows of thick steam poured out from the broken Laundromat window. GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! one worn neon sign declared. Showgirls from Vegas every night—No cover charge—Rated XXXX—We bare all!

The store next door had uneven blue letters painted on the storefront window that read, Blue’s Magazines, Books, and Videos—Find everything you need here! The grimy window had a display of seedy books and magazines revealing women’s naked bodies posed in every position imaginable. Big Al’s Liquor was a little dark bar leading to a narrow, garbage-filled pitch-black alley. There were run-down local bars and ratty strip joints on every corner.

The Saturday afternoon crowd was very different in this neck of the woods. Young Black men sat apathetically on broken tenement steps. They stared into space as if they had lost all hope of ever amounting to anything. Older men staggered down the filthy, trash-lined streets, their minds taken away years ago from alcoholism. Their nearly empty liquor bottles dangled from their crooked fingers. Several had decided to give up the fight and had passed out in the tiny doorways of the area businesses. Teenage mothers hurried down the cracked sidewalks, toting their unhappy offspring, who appeared to be born yearly. If you looked closely, you could see gatherings of young African American males behind giant dumpsters in the alleys, secretly exchanging rolled paper bills for little square packages.

I had lived in the South for twenty years now, but this type of contrast between geographically close neighborhoods still blew my mind. In the North, where I grew up, the affluent citizens resided on one side of town and the poverty-stricken residents on the opposite side, as many miles apart as physically possible. But in the South, anything could occur. I had seen countless tar paper shacks next to million-dollar plantations; in my hometown, folks in dilapidated shanties resided right next to mansions of great wealth. I thought of how this town was just one of many metropolitan suburbs and knew then that the rules of mixing the well-to-do with the down-and-out applied likewise in large Southern cities.

As I was still gathering my thoughts on the subject, the car began to slow down and turned into an endless parking lot. I looked up and saw the Coward County Jail (CCJ) looming in front of me. I had just been arrested for my current charge of Medicaid fraud and thrown into a holding cell three months earlier here, but the gigantic building seemed somewhat unfamiliar to me. It looked like a ten-story Cyclops, only instead of having one giant eye, it had three thousand tiny winking eyes, and they were all squinting at me, beckoning, Come inside, Dr. Brookshire. Come into the bowels of hell, and you will never be the same. Then I realized that the three thousand tiny winking eyes were, in reality, windows, the nature of which I had never seen before. They were closely spaced yet so narrow, such tiny slits of glass, that I wondered how any human being could begin to see out of them. Suddenly, the purpose for their shape and size became apparent to me. They were designed purposely to have these dimensions so none of the prisoners could escape through their cell windows.

About that time, the deputy’s car pulled up to a tall gate, and a voice boomed through an intercom. State your business.

The soft-spoken deputy declared, I have a prisoner to admit here. The long chain-link fence rolled open, and we pulled into what looked like a basement garage. The car came to a halt, and he climbed out of the door. He walked around the car, opened my door, took me gently by the arm, and helped me out of the back seat. He led me silently across the cement floor, through a heavy door, and then up to a uniformed officer waiting behind an elevated desk. He carefully removed my handcuffs.

What she bein’ booked for? the cold, unconcerned guard asked.

Medicaid fraud, the deputy replied.

OK den, the indifferent guard mumbled, and she glared at me.

Then the short, little deputy was gone, and it was just me and the apathetic prison guard. I gave her a good look. She was tall and thin with a headful of synthetic woven braids and huge dangling earrings. She was slowly writing something on a pink piece of paper and was having a hard time because her inch-long fake fingernails were getting in the way. Every few seconds, she glanced up to give me a piercing look. But when she started to talk, things weren’t quite as scary as I had imagined. Let see … one black pair of pants, one black jacket, one white shirt, one pair of … what you call them kinda shoe?

I guess they’re called open-toed high heels, I answered, choking on my own words.

Well, I just gonna call them black shoes, she announced and wrote that down.

As the guard compiled a list of my clothing, it suddenly struck me that I was wearing almost the exact same outfit that I had worn when I was first arrested in the same jail three months earlier. I wondered how in the world I had let that happen and vowed to get rid of my bad luck outfit as soon as I could.

While I was still thinking of clothes and outfits, a second guard appeared. She was very small in frame and sported the same hair and fingernails as the first guard. Empty your pockets and stand against this wall! she commanded in a loud voice.

I did as I was told. I glanced over my shoulder. She was having a struggle trying to pull a pair of surgical gloves over her long fingernails. She finally succeeded, although I was pretty sure that she perforated the gloves at the fingertips with her sharp nails.

Spread-eagle against the wall, I told you! she screamed.

I instantly assumed the position that I had seen on TV on all the cop shows. Then the ninety-pound ball of fire ran at me from behind and proceeded to frisk me with all the force of an army sergeant, running her sharp fingers up and down my torso, between my legs, and under my breasts. She clean, she finally announced to no one in particular. With that, she exited the room, leaving me spread eagle against the wall, not knowing what was coming next.

In a few minutes, a third guard arrived, walking lethargically into the frisking room. She had a stocky build, and her uniform was so tight across her belly that there were large gaps between the buttons. Come with me, she said.

I followed her down a long hallway and into a square room with many different colors of material draped against a tall wall. I looked down. Different lengths of tape were on the floor.

Suddenly, a fourth guard appeared, holding a dark camera. Let see, she said out loud to herself. You pretty light, so I think I’ll use the black background. And she motioned for me to stand in front of the black portion of the wall.

Place your feets on the red line, she commanded, and before I could get totally situated, she snapped my picture, blinding me for a second or two.

Now turn to the left, she said, and the blinding light went off again.

Turn to the right, she instructed before another bright flash.

That’s all, she said, and she walked away, clutching her camera.

The portly guard with the gaping buttons had watched as I got my mug shots taken, and now she was motioning for me to follow her again. This time, she dropped me off at a tiny room with a single plastic chair and what looked to be assorted medical supplies. A large woman in scrubs sporting surgical gloves appeared in the tiny doorway. Get on the scale, she said softly.

I obediently stepped on the scales. She slowly moved the set of weights across the top of the scales and adjusted them until the bar balanced. Then she stretched a measuring tape to the top of my head and measured my height. She turned toward her little desk and methodically wrote the numbers down.

Now sit down, she said, pointing to the single plastic chair.

I sat, wondering what would come next.

Put your arm on the desk, she mumbled.

I hesitantly obeyed. I found myself wishing that these state employees would be more verbal with me and at least try to explain what was going to happen to me next. My stomach was tied in knots; my mouth was dry as cotton. I looked at the nurse. She was built like a refrigerator with a head. Ripples of fat hung from her arms. Her legs rubbed together when she walked. She had three chins. She breathed heavily as though it was a big chore for her to inflate and deflate her immense chest. I thought of how she evidently did not take her career choice as a nurse very seriously to have allowed herself to have gotten in such awful shape.

While I was still hanging on to that thought, she roughly tied a strip of rubber around my upper arm. Before I had time to gather my thoughts, she jabbed me hard with a long needle and began to draw blood. I felt faint, and the room began to spin. But she wasn’t done yet. In the next few seconds, once the needle was pulled out of my arm and a Band-Aid positioned, she came at me with a second needle, aiming for my other arm.

"What is this for?" I asked her, thinking that she might stay there all evening, jabbing me in alternate arms if I didn’t at least ask.

TB test, she replied. Everyone gots to have it. And with that, the second needle was lunged into my other arm.

Next came her attempt at taking a medical history. You got anything wrong with you? she asked.

Like what? I inquired, quite confused.

Don’t get smart with me! Like asthma, diabetes, heart problems, AIDS, hepatitis, anything like that.

No, I answered. I thought back to my dental practice and how thorough and professional my staff and I were when it came to taking our patients’ health histories. It usually took me quite a while to obtain an extensive health history on each and every patient who walked through my door. My patient health history forms contained one full page of conditions and diseases that I asked them in detail about, one by one. It inquired about extended family health history, hospitalizations, recent illnesses, medications being taken, allergic reactions, and special patient concerns.

I couldn’t begin to comprehend how the state could even consider taking such an incomplete and sketchy health history from a person who was going to spend countless hours locked up away from any kind of medical care. What if I was on some sort of necessary, even lifesaving, medication? What if I had some rare but potentially deadly disease that was not included in her short list of five diseases? What if I was highly allergic to some foods or substances in the jail? I could go on forever with what-ifs. The whole point was that I was in total shock over the state employees’ apathetic overall approach to human safety and well-being.

As I was still comparing my dental practice with the state’s medical practices, the listless nurse passively took my blood pressure and pulse, stuck a Band-Aid over my TB test, and told the waiting guard, I done. With that, she disappeared around the corner.

I followed the next guard down another long hall, where she told me to sit in a bright orange plastic chair. Tables and tables of computers sat in front of me. Now sit right there, she muttered, and she turned the corner and left.

Hmmmm, I thought, this isn’t half bad. At least I’m having to go through so much red tape that maybe I’ll never have to go to a cell. And I began to observe the guards around me out of pure boredom.

The Coward County Booking Department, or whatever it was called, was the largest string of rooms I had ever seen. The guards’ desks went on for what seemed to be miles and miles. There had to be at least twenty or thirty guards just in the room I was in, and they were all engaged in their own special activities. A small group of female guards gathered around a large black boom box on one of the desks. Rap music exploded loudly from the box, and the guards danced wildly around the desk, giggling boisterously and bumping their generous behinds together. Seven or eight male guards gathered around a second desk, arguing loudly about last night’s game. Two guards were comparing their lottery tickets in the corner. One female guard sitting at a desk near me was shouting into a phone. It wasn’t long before I noticed several more guards engaged in personal conversations on the state phones.

My eyes continued to scan the room, not believing what I had seen so far. Most of the guards were sitting lethargically at their desks, faces staring straight ahead. None of them appeared to be working. A couple had given up the fight of boredom and had given in to sleep. Their heads had dropped down to their desktops, drool oozing out of the corners of their mouths.

Three large male guards were occupying their time by quietly harassing what appeared to be an older male inmate. The inmate was a slightly built light-skinned Black man who had begun to gray around the temples. He wore an orange jumpsuit and was permanently stooped over, pushing a large mop. Jamal, you better push that mop faster, boy, they teased, ’cuz when you done with that, we have something you need to do over here.

The biggest guard spat calmly on the floor in front of the prisoner. Hey, you missed a spot, he badgered, pointing to the spit. The elderly inmate obediently mopped up the sputum. One of the guards finally tired of tormenting the poor inmate and relocated Jamal and his mop to a safer zone, away from his two heckling buddies.

I began to mentally summarize what I had observed while sitting in the room. Let’s see, dancing to rap music, making personal calls on state phones, comparing lottery tickets, harassing the inmates, and best of all sleeping on the job. I recalled reading a newspaper article recently about how much the state’s prison system was costing the taxpayers. The article stated that thousands of prison guards were needed to keep the jails going. These guards were paid full benefits and adorned with vacation packages, medical coverage, the whole nine yards. I thought of how my own family had not had the luxury of benefits since I had lost my career that I had trained years and years to be able to do. If any of my family became ill, we would just have to suffer or die. Then another thought went through my mind.

Just a couple of hours ago, I had been forced to plead guilty to one count of Medicaid fraud. It amounted to admitting I took about $40. I wondered just exactly how many seconds of time it would take to pay all the foolish state employees in this room at the Coward County Jail to eat up that $40.

While I was still wondering about the answer to that question, I noticed two female guards arguing over something. They were standing by a desk close to me. "It’s your turn! I know it is! I fingerprinted the last one!" one of the guards argued.

"Wuh, you wrong there, retorted the smaller guard, ’cuz I did that stinky Mexican girl that jist come in!"

I ain’t doin’ this one. I need a break, said the first guard.

The second guard took a deep breath and mumbled under her breath, You is such a baby, girl. I’ll do this one then. She began to pull on a pair of surgical gloves and headed toward me. Just then, it struck me. They had been arguing over who was going to fingerprint me. She walked up to one of the computers and motioned for me to come over to where she was. I obeyed.

Sit down, she said curtly, pointing to the chair in front of the computer.

I wondered what she was going to do. I had never been near computers when they had booked me before.

Stick yer hands under here, she said lethargically, pointing to a small area under the computer screen.

I hesitantly placed my two hands in the position she had told me to, wondering what might become of them.

Now hold still, she commanded, and she pressed a series of buttons.

Suddenly, images began to appear on the computer screen in front of me. They were giant pictures of my own fingerprints. The guard played around with the focus contraption, and when she tired of that, she ordered, Now don’t move. Then she pushed something that froze the current image of my fingerprints. After that, she pushed a couple of buttons to make the gigantic fingerprints spew forth from a printer. Copies in hand, she seemed to be satisfied. I wondered why in the world, the other time I had endured the ordeal of fingerprinting, they could not have taken them this easy way, instead of smearing messy black ink all over my fingers and then leaving me to clean it all up.

But the guard didn’t seem to be quite done. She made sure my face was positioned squarely in front of the computer screen. Soon I could see an image of my face on the screen right in front of me. It too was larger than life. Now hold still, she commanded once again, and she pushed a series of buttons like before. Several more papers came out of a different printer, located across the room this time.

Now stay there! she barked as if I were a dog she was trying to train.

Quite a while later, she reappeared, holding something in her hand. Hold out your hand, she said.

I conceded, sticking out my right hand.

"No, not that one, the other one," she said with disgust.

I offered my left hand, and she snapped something bulky and plastic around my wrist. I glanced down at what this might be. It turned out to be a stiff plastic identification bracelet. It was at least two inches wide and had a miniature mug shot of me, my social security number, my height, my weight, my eye color, my hair color, and the county in which I resided. It had wide blue stripes and a series of letters and numbers that I didn’t recognize. This is kinda like having a very uncomfortable driver’s license strapped around my wrist, I thought.

The irritated guard finished off by roughly snapping a wide metal clip into place around the plastic bracelet. She cut off the excess strip of plastic.

Oh my god, I thought. Am I going to have to wear this horrible bulky thing the whole time I am here? How am I ever going to wash my left arm without moisture getting up under this contraption and causing a rash? How am I going to keep this huge metal clip from rubbing me raw?

But I didn’t have much time to react to my new plastic addition. The hefty guard was once again motioning me to follow her. I thought how all these guards could use a good lesson in communication skills.

Down another long hall we went, and when she came to one of the holding cells in the same section as the one I had been in last February, she pulled out her keys, opened the door, and told me to go in. I dutifully did as I was told. A loud click of the heavy door, and I was locked in the dark holding cell. The guard turned and listlessly walked back down the hall.

WAITING FOR THE OTHER

SHOE TO DROP

T HE CELL WAS so dark that I had to give my eyes time to adjust. I cautiously took inventory of my new surroundings. I scanned the tiny holding cell. There was a stainless steel toilet with no seat, a stainless steel sink that was so little that I doubted if I could get both my hands under the faucet at once, and two short stainless steel benches.

I noticed that a young Black girl had already claimed one of the benches and was sitting, patiently waiting. She was in street clothes, like me, but had no makeup, no earrings, and no nail polish. Her coarse dark hair was unstyled. Her fingernails were cut short. She had no body piercings and no tattoos. She wore simple, everyday clothing. She smelled and looked very clean compared with my ten-minute cellmate back in February. Her facial expression looked as if she was very used to waiting and had resigned herself to the fact that she would do what she had to do. She had a certain peace about her.

Suddenly, it all hit me like a ton of bricks. The trial, the cold, calculating judge, the prosecution team, the Amazon woman, my precious eighty-year-old mother, my brother’s face upon realizing that he could do nothing to save me, my heartbroken husband, and my precious kids—how in the world was I going to explain this to them? I collapsed onto the bench, put my face into my hands, and began to sob uncontrollably.

After what seemed to be an eternity of tears, I slumped down onto the bench and attempted to lie down, but the hard, cold bench was much too short to allow me to be in a reclining position. By this time, my emotions had totally taken over, and I knew that if I didn’t lie down, I was probably going to pass out; so I curled up into a fetal position, turned my back to my cellmate, and continued to weep into my hands.

Hey, lady, what’s a matter with you? the girl asked quietly. "Come on now, it can’t be that bad. Why you jist a-cryin’ and a-cryin’ over there?"

I totally ignored her. I had made a solemn pact with myself not to speak to any of the devils in this horribly horrendous place, and quite frankly, her compassionate, calm nature had me feeling very uncomfortable after hours of being treated like I had.

She made a second attempt. Don’t cry now, honey. You is makin’ me sad. Tell me what’s on your mind, and you’ll feel better, OK?

But I just continued to cry silently, my entire face buried deep in my hands.

She evidently resigned herself to the fact that I wasn’t going to talk no matter what, so she decided to take a different approach. "OK then, since you ain’t talkin’, let me tell you about what I is in for. Maybe then your case won’t seem so bad to you. About a year ago, I was goin’ to a party with three of my friends in the car my daddy had jist gave me. We was ridin’ high, jist rappin’ along with the radio and smokin’ some locoweed, when all of a sudden, I hit a big ole puddle or somethin’, and that’s the last thing I remember. I think I was goin’ too fast. When I woke up in the hospital, they all tells me that my best friend is dead, and the two girls that was in the back seat was hurt real bad. They say that I hit a tree, and my new car was smashed like a tin can. Before I can even believes all this, two policemans come and arrest me in my hospital bed and charge me with drivin’ too fast for conditions, DUI with marijuana, and vehicular manslaughter. And that’s what I is in for."

She waited to see if her story might bring me around, but it had no effect on me, except for the fact that I stopped bawling as loudly. She continued on, probably thinking that, since I hushed crying, maybe she at least had my attention now. "So my best friend, she gone. But my daddy, he goes and gets me the best lawyer around. His name be Johnny Ray Mims, and he wins every case he go after. He’s something else. Really, he is! Well, he come to see me in the hospital, and he say we gonna work it so I got to do very little time, and that is jist what he done too! He say that everybody have to do time in county jail before they can go to the boot camp but me. He done something to get me right into that boot camp without no jail time. I wake up one morning and get dressed, and off I go right to that boot camp. No jail! And I only has to be there for two months too."

She paused and sized me up again. "So I don’t know what you done, but I would recommend gettin’ this here lawyer ’cuz he can git you off anything. You should see where that man live, in a fancy big ole house that’s in the very best neighborhood. He drive a Ferrari too, a bright red one, so you can see him comin’."

She paused. My back was still turned to her, but I could feel her stare right through me. Turn over here and have a look at this. Come on now, I’s got somethin’ important to shows you.

I slowly rolled over and stopped crying long enough to see what she wanted to show me out of pure curiosity, if nothing else. She was sitting up on the metal bench directly across from me. She began to lean over and pull up her pant leg. I could see a large leg brace of some sort. She unbuckled the brace, and to my total dismay, she pulled the brace and a large cumbersome athletic shoe off, all in one piece, only the shoe was not empty. It was acting as a holding device for a prosthetic left foot. I gasped and looked down at the place where her left foot was supposed to be, but there was no foot, just an ankle and a rounded stump. My heart skipped a beat.

See what happened when I hits the tree? I cut my foot clean off, and the doctors, they couldn’t fix it ’cuz they couldn’t find it quick enough to sew it back on, so here I is, seventeen years old, an’ I only gots one foot for the rest of my life. See it? Come on over here and have a good look at it. It won’t bite you. It’s only a foot in a shoe.

I meandered slowly off my bench and cautiously toward the fake foot. I had never witnessed anything like this before in my entire life.

You can pick it up. Go on, it’s OK.

I never did pick it up, but I could see it closely enough to satisfy my curiosity. The blue and white tennis shoe looked like any athletic shoe I had ever seen, and it matched her right shoe perfectly. The artificial foot had a sock on it to match her right sock. A large shiny metal brace fit up under the sole of the left shoe and was designed to fit on her left knee somehow. I tried really hard to find something to say, but I just could not muster up any words to express my shock and horror and pity.

So you sees, lady, I’s only seventeen years old, and I gots only one foot, and I’m charged with killin’ my best friend in the world. So, lady, I don’t know what you done, but it can’t be no worser than this.

I stopped sniffing and seriously began to think. Maybe she does have a point. She is only seventeen, and her whole life is already in shambles. At least I had a wonderful childhood. My problems came later in life. I couldn’t imagine having to deal with being accused of killing my best friend during my vulnerable teenage years. Besides, I halfway admired her quiet, compassionate nature, no flashy fake anything. She was all out in the open, just an honest, down to earth, calm-natured human being.

Amazingly, something began to happen to me. I breathed a heavy sigh, and a wave of serenity swept over me. Suddenly, I found myself wanting to talk to this stranger, wanting to share my story with her. But when I opened my mouth to speak, I shocked even myself by the words that came out. Well, I’m kinda like you, only I’m charged with involuntary manslaughter of a child, I spurted out.

What was happening to me here? I was not even telling her about what I was really in for, Medicaid fraud. I was beginning to share my deepest, darkest, most intimate secret with a perfect stranger—and a jail inmate at that. What was making me bare my soul to this reject of society with just one foot? But it seemed I was unable to stop.

I continued on, "You see, I’m a dentist, or I was until they took my license. Four and a half years ago, a little girl died tragically in my dental chair. The state dental board, who was supposed to be there for my help and support, turned their backs on me and seized my dental license without even asking me one single question. The state bureau of investigation moved in, did what they called an investigation, and threatened my office staff with jail if they didn’t ‘cooperate’ and tell the ‘truth’ about the evil Dr. Brookshire. Then the bureau turned it over to the district attorney, and he immediately charged me with involuntary manslaughter. So here I sit, almost five years later, and my attorney can’t get the DA to even answer his phone or return calls, let alone go on with a trial. So that’s my story." I leaned back against the dirty cell wall with my hands folded decisively across my chest.

I could not believe what I had just said. I wondered where all this had even come from. I didn’t have to tell this outsider anything about me, let alone bare my innermost feelings to her. I should have just answered, I’m in for Medicaid fraud, and I didn’t do it. But then I realized something—something very wonderful. For some unknown reason, all of a sudden, I felt better, much, much better. I tried to analyze the situation, but before I could do it, she began to speak again.

Hey, where your office be at? she inquired.

In a place called Goat Valley, Georgia, I replied.

"Oh, I remembers readin’ about you in the newspaper, only you is supposed to look like a nasty big monster with red eyes or somethin’, not like no normal lady."

I smiled. Her dialect tickled me. Well, here I am, I replied.

And I ain’t no nasty big monster neither, I added, trying to sound a little like her.

Wuh, ah’ll be! I jist met a real-life celebrity. She pointed out. Then she stuck out her hand. My name’s Angelica. What’s yours?

Doramae, I answered. Good to meet you, Angelica. And I shook her hand.

Then before I knew it, we were conversing like old friends. She told me about her family and how they had come to visit her every visitation and how they were waiting for her to return home. She told me about her brother and how he was going to pick her up in his new car on the day she was released, how the family of her best friend had forgiven her, and how she had found Jesus. She told me about how she was going to go to school and make something of herself and start over again. At one point in the conversation, she asked me, Where you goin’ after this jail? I means, where they sendin’ you off to? When I answered that I was going to someplace called Nutter Women’s Detention Center or something, I thought she was going to have a fit.

Oh my goodness, child, you goin’ right where I’s been for a month now. I is only here at this jailhouse for two days ’cuz I gots a court date here. You gonna jist love it there, girl. It be sooooo nice there. It so clean, and the food is so good, and the beds is so soft and big—why, they so big I think they is a double bed or somethin’.

I opened my mouth to reply. I thought she was done, but she was just getting started.

And the guards there, well, they a little bit mean at first, but they jist bein’ that way so’s all the girls can learn to control theyselves. And they really do cares about if you get in trouble again ’cuz they don’t wants you to or nothin’. And they give you three smoke breaks a day. That be so nice and all. I didn’t even smoke before I went in, but now I does. It jist be so very nice to stand outside and puff and puff on that cigarette.

I couldn’t help but interject my opinion at this point. Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. You say you didn’t smoke until a month ago when you went to Nutter? Why in the world would you start a bad habit like that under terrible circumstances anyhow?

Oh, it ain’t gonna hurt nothin’, she said calmly. Ah’ll jist quit when I gets home.

Just when I was taking a deep breath to explain how harmful cigarette smoking was and how difficult it was to quit, I heard a key turn in the door lock. It startled me, and I lost my train of thought. A chunky jail guard was pushing a metal cart. She took something off the cart and handed it to Angelica. Then she handed the same three items to me. As soon as she did, she locked the cell door back and was gone without a word.

I examined the items. It was food of some sort. I opened the plastic wrap and discovered two stale pieces of bread with some kind of awful-looking lunch meat between them. I decided to smell the meat but soon was very sorry that I did. The meat was warm and had started to turn greenish around the edges. It smelled rancid. I loosely wrapped the sandwich back up and laid it on the bench beside me. I told myself that maybe whatever the other two items were, they might be worth eating. But it turned out I was wrong. One of the things was a small carton of some kind of cheap imitation juice; the other item was a generic brand of cookie wrapped in cellophane. I opened the carton of juice and took a whiff. It smelled like Kool-Aid that had been left outside the refrigerator for too long. I reasoned that the cookie had to be all right, but when I squeezed it gently, it was so hard and stale that I decided maybe I wasn’t that hungry after all. I laid the cookie and the carton of juice on the bench beside the spoiled sandwich.

Angelica immediately eyed the food. Ain’t ya gonna eat that? she asked.

I don’t think so, I said. I’m not too hungry right now.

Her eyes lit up. Can I have it then? she asked with excitement.

Sure, I replied, gently handing over the awful excuse for a dinner.

She gobbled both of the sandwiches greedily and washed them down with the two cartons of cheap juice. Then she tore into both cookies like she was starved to death. That was sooo good! she exclaimed, taking her first breath in seconds.

After our interesting dinner, we talked for a while, but soon I found myself beginning to get depressed once again. I curled up and lay back down on the hard metal bench, and my mind began to poison me with terrifying thoughts. What if all the food here is like that and I get food poisoning and die before anyone can help me? What if the outright filthiness of these cells gives me some awful disease and I suffer for months before any one of these guards finds me? What if the other inmates can sense how scared I am and they stab me with a pen or something sharp? What if my bed is full of fleas and cockroaches? What if I never see the light of day or breathe fresh air again?

And those were not even the truly painful what-ifs, which were much too agonizing to even think about. No, I could not even bear to go into those what-ifs. But sometimes our minds take us places we don’t want to go, and that was what was happening here. Try as I might, I just couldn’t stop the flood of the unbearable what-ifs. What if my husband gets tired of waiting for me and has an affair and falls in love with another woman? What if my children don’t love me anymore and become ashamed of me because of what the papers say? What if they begin to deny even knowing me, like Peter did to Jesus? What if my family crumbles apart like that dry, stale cookie and we can’t ever fix it? What if all my friends turn their backs on me because they believe that I’m a thief? What if people that I know look at me like I am a criminal and I am ostracized every time I go into Goat Valley to buy groceries? What if I lose my job and we can’t pay the bills and we lose our house and we have to live on the street?

The last one didn’t bother me hardly as bad as the family ones did. I believed that I could survive any physical hardship before I could even begin to survive losing everyone whom I loved. Feelings of despair and despondency swept over me. My spirit was agonized; it was in excruciating torment. I was exhausted—physically, mentally, and emotionally. I wondered what time it was. It seemed like midnight.

Just then, Angelica jumped up from the bench and limped over to the cell door. She peeked out the tiny window. They comin’! They comin’! she screamed excitedly.

Who’s coming? I asked softly.

Wuh, they fixin’ to take us upstairs now, she said.

"Upstairs where?" I asked nervously.

You silly girl, upstairs to our cells. You don’t wanna sleep on this little hard ole bench in this here holdin’ cell all night, does ya? Now let me see what’s the numbers on your band, she said, grabbing hold of my left wrist. She read them out loud. SPN no. X08115/4SE303.

Suddenly, she began to jump up and down, her heavy left foot permanently grounded. We’s in the same pod! she yelled. Look! And she held her band up for my inspection. We both got 4 SE!

Just as I was getting ready to ask her what a pod was, the heavy cell door clicked open. The same tall lean guard who had written down a list of my clothing earlier stood in our doorway. Come on, follow me, she slurred together.

We both followed her to a large warehouse full of orange suits and dirty mattresses. She asked Angelica what size she was. She replied that she was about a three-dot bottom and a four-dot top. The guard plopped an orange top and an orange bottom in her hands.

Then she turned to me and asked me what size I was.

I replied that I was about a size 14 or maybe a 16.

No, girl, not your skreet size, she said impatiently, "your jail size."

I looked at her blankly.

"You’re sure a stupid one, ain’t ya? You be about a six dot. And she threw an orange top and an orange bottom at me. Now go put it on in there, she said, pointing to a small wooden door. And be quick about it. I ain’t got all night."

I cautiously went into the door, not knowing what to expect. But to my surprise, it was a little fairly clean restroom with a porcelain toilet and sink. I took my time and used the toilet and then the sink, ecstatic to be able to use clean, familiar facilities. I changed into my six-dot jail suit, but it was far too large, hanging on me like a big orange circus tent. Looking into the mirror, I could now see why the suits were called by a certain number of dots. There were six large black dots going down the side of the left pant leg. I couldn’t see the dots on the top though. Curiosity struck me. I had to find those dots, so I quickly removed my orange top and began to examine it. It didn’t take me long to find them. The six dots on the top traveled across the back, spreading across the shoulder blades like a plague of huge black bugs. I reflected on what an interesting concept the Georgia prison system had put in place. Sizing prison clothes with golf-ball-sized black dots was pretty creative, I speculated.

My daydream over, I reminded myself that the guard had seemed to be in an awful hurry, so I put my six-dot top back on and stole another quick glance in the mirror. Staring back at me was one pathetic creature. She was haggard and worn. Worry lines spread across her forehead. Her color was pasty; dark circles hung from underneath her expressionless eyes. Her lips were pale, her cheeks colorless. The bright orange color of the huge top that hung off her shoulders unmistakably identified her as a prisoner. This isn’t even me, I thought as I dragged myself out of the bathroom door.

Where you been, girl? asked the irritated guard, and she grabbed my street clothes and stuffed them into a brown paper sack.

I think it’s too big, I said softly, pulling on the excess material to stress my point.

You can change the size the next time you git one. I ain’t got time for this, she grumbled.

I looked across the room, and there was Angelica, all dressed in orange, as excited as ever. Come try on your shower shoes, she said, pointing to the floor.

I looked down, and there were three pairs of dirty plastic shoes in a pile on the floor. I asked Angelica if we got any socks, not wanting to put former prisoners’ shoes on my bare feet.

"No, you gots to buy them," she replied.

The impatient guard jumped in. Jist put a pair of shoes on, girl! This ain’t no Holiday Inn!

I quickly tried on all three pairs of shower shoes, but they were all way too large. I looked to see if the guard might try to help by taking a couple of pairs that were closer to my size off the nearby shelves that contained pairs and pairs of dirty shoes. But she was not moving a muscle to help. I grabbed the least offensive pair of shoes and walked over to her barefoot.

Jesus Christ, put the damn shoes on your feets! You retarded or somethin’, girl?

I slipped the size 10 shoes on carefully, thinking that if I did it gently, maybe they wouldn’t touch my feet so much.

She reached up on the shelves and began to pull things down, acting like it was straining her to no end. She started throwing large bulky items on the floor, displaying much disgust while doing so. Two filthy, worn mattresses plopped onto the dingy floor, raising a puff of dust. Likewise, two stained, grimy blankets dropped to the floor. Next came two torn sheets that I think were supposed to be white. All the bedding was worn paper thin and appeared to have not seen a washing machine in ages. The last items she retrieved were two discolored towels and two raggedy old washcloths. The storage room smelled of mildew and sweat. I knew deep in my gut that I was not going to be able to sleep on one of those mattresses or dry my face with one of those towels.

Don’t jist stand there and look at that stuff! the guard screamed. Pick it up!

Angelica went into action. She rapidly scouted out the cleanest and least worn of all the items and grabbed them up. I dejectedly took the leftovers. I made a mental note to always act quickly from now on in this place. The angry guard shoved a small plastic bag into each of our left hands and then started to walk down the hall.

Come on, follow her, Angelica told me.

I was halfway glad to have Angelica there to tell me what to do, seeing that the guards never explained anything. We went down a long hall, dragging our bulky mattresses, bedding, and towels. The only way to carry them seemed to be to sling them over our shoulders and let them drag behind us. The mattresses were limp and bulky; they had no body to them whatsoever. Dirty cotton stuffing was erupting from holes in their surface material, and we were leaving little clumps of rotten bedding behind us down the hall. I don’t know why, but the story of Hansel and Gretel came to mind probably because I wanted so desperately to be able to trace my way back out of this hellhole someday soon.

After what seemed to be the longest hall I had ever gone down, we came on a big silver elevator. The guard stopped and pushed the up button. Good, I thought, we aren’t going to have to climb stairs with these things. Soon the elevator dinged, and the doors flew open.

Get on! the guard ordered.

We obeyed, dragging our bedding along inside. I stood still, facing the elevator door, waiting for it to close.

Turn and face the back wall! the tired guard hollered.

Angelica and I turned around and faced the back of the elevator. I felt like a naughty child who had been placed in the corner for punishment. We rode up what seemed to be several floors, and I remembered how many stories this place appeared to have from the parking lot. I would later learn that the Coward County Jail had three thousand inmates, give or take a few.

When we got off the elevator, we began to follow the guard around a curved hallway. The lights were dim, but I could see definite signs of life, even at that late hour. It seemed like several different rooms full of girls in orange were arranged in an almost circular pattern around a tall tower with tinted black glass. After my eyes adjusted to the darkness in the hallway, I could begin to see forms inside the tall black tower. Then I realized that the lurking observation tower was full of uniformed guards who were staring at all the girls as if they were