Read Online Insiders by Olivia Goldsmith - Free Book Online Page B

down somewhere – anywhere – in the dark and just sleep. If she couldn’t have fresh air, then at least give her unconsciousness. But the place she entered almost took her breath away. The room was a kind of office/reception area. It was hard to tell if the stench was more urine than ammonia, but the underscents of vomitand sweat were still strong. For a moment Jennifer thought again of Donald Michaels – this time of his penchant for his costly, custom-blended Floris aftershave and soaps – each bar close to a hundred dollars. She wondered bitterly if one of Donald’s scented Floris candles would cover this odor.
    All right, she told herself. Someday next week, she and Tom and Donald would laugh at this story. She imagined them at Fraunces Tavern or Delmonico’s. Donald would laugh and shake his leonine head and wipe the corner of his eyes the way he always did and order another bottle of Veuve Clicquot.
    But that would be later. Now she was steeped in this squalor and the noise would not let her mind wander. The sound of another correctional officer’s heavy steps, the gruesome static and squawking of his and Camry’s and Byrd’s walkie-talkies, and the harsh grinding of the gates as they closed behind her chilled her more than she wanted to admit. But the noise and stench weren’t the worst things. The light was so harsh it was merciless. Exhausted as she was, if she closed her eyes she could still feel the fluorescence burning through her eyelids. Sleep in this room would be impossible.
    There was a lot of paperwork in triplicate and some ribald talk between Byrd and the new officer, a huge black woman. Then she was taken, at last, to Observation.
    â€˜Spencer, here,’ the huge female officer told the big uniformed woman in a booth at the end of a long catwalk.
    â€˜Fourteen,’ was all she said in response.
    The fat woman nodded. ‘How’s the other freshman adjusting?’ she asked.
    â€˜Just about how you’d expect a withdrawing crack whore to adjust,’ the woman in the booth snapped. ‘But she’ll befine in another thirty hours or so.’ The woman officer motioned with her head, took Jennifer by her orange-plastic-coated shoulder, and turned her to the left into one of the cubicles.
    â€˜Let’s go,’ he said.
    The space was one of perhaps a dozen concrete cabinets. Jesus, she thought, wasn’t Hannibal Lecter confined to something like this? It was achingly bare. A blanket, a mattress, and a commode. Not that she could use the latter, since the entire outside wall of the cell was made of thick Plexiglas and she could be seen, not just from there but also from overhead. There was no ceiling to the cubicle, and as she looked up she could see an officer patrolling along the catwalk that allowed him to look down into each cell.
    â€˜Wait!’ Jennifer said, and it wasn’t a ploy or a power trip; she was truly terrified to be left here. ‘Can I please make a phone call?’
    The big woman officer laughed out loud, a guttural haw-haw. ‘Look, this is jail, girl, and you don’t have a quarter. You’re in prison now,’ she said. Then she softened. ‘Observation is tough, but it’s usually only for a day,’ she added almost apologetically to Jennifer. ‘After you get out of Observation you can make collect calls from your unit.’
    She had barely finished speaking, when someone – or some thing – began to screech in a subhuman wail. It was a noise of pure rage and despair. ‘I’m sorry about the noise,’ the officer said. ‘She’s going off. But you won’t be here long. Maybe twenty-four hours. So try to make the best of it.’
    â€˜Oh my God!’ Jennifer wailed, then fought and won control of herself. The officer handed her a black booklet to go with the yellow one she still clutched under her arm. ‘Maybe this will help,’ she said,