Chapter 1
~ Sammie ~
The prison bus wheezes to a stop, stirring up a small dust storm with its ancient brakes. I choke back a cough and wipe my overlong bangs from my eyes, as new women inmates are herded down the steps to line up in front of the intake area.
“Get a load of the fresh meat.” An elderly prison guard chuckles while rifling through my backpack. “No Merry Christmas for them.”
“Have yourselves an effing Merry Christmas, make the Yuletide stink,” the other guard croons as if she’s an opera singer.
Her slate-gray eyes narrow with amusement as a newbie trips and lands flat on her face, unable to break her fall because of the handcuffs.
I wince, because three long years ago, I made that horrid trip on the prison bus, and I know exactly how lonely each of the women would be. On visiting day, the women’s side is eerily empty while the men, no matter what heinous crimes they committed, are flooded with wives, girlfriends, and children.
Christmas is the worst. The guards would allow us an extra cookie, and we could have a second helping of what passed for a holiday dinner—mushed turkey with gravy over reconstituted mashed potatoes and canned yams.
They’d show a silly Christmas movie, usually a stupid romantic comedy about a secret Santa and an unsuspecting young woman falling in love with him, only to find out in his day job he’s her boss or the mean professor who flunked her.
Can’t have any slasher Christmas movies with serial killer Santas or zombie reindeer scarfing up the elves, now, can we?
I try to pay attention while the older guard goes through the checklist of items taken from me when I was arrested. She counts the money, forty-two dollars and fifty-one cents, dangles the Ziplock bag of makeup, well past their expiration dates, a few vials of medication, definitely expired, and lets me check the contents of my wallet.
“It’s all here, I guess,” I reply to her questioning eyes.
“Don’t get into the opioids again.” She jabs a finger at the syringes and the bottles of antidote to prevent overdosing.
“They’re for a friend.” I feel lame explaining, because she gives me the side-eye with equal doses of mockery and pity.
She takes a pen tucked under her gray bun and slaps a form on the metal counter. “Sign here. All your belongings are accounted for. We can only take you as far as the Greyhound station. You got any relatives to call?”
Her tone is snide, because she knows that in my entire three years, I hardly had any visitors.
Be that as it is, it’s my release day.
Yay me!
I can’t wait a second to get away from this dump.
“I’ll need a ride back to San Francisco County,” I demand. “That’s where I was arrested.”
Both guards widen their eyes before belly laughing.
“You think we run a limo service here?” the Viking matron hoots.
“You don’t got enough cash for a bus ticket,” Geezer Guard wheezes. “Those credit cards in your wallet are all expired.”
“Fancy little hacker like you should have no trouble scoring money,” Brunhilda says, wiggling her stout fingers as if she’s in front of a keyboard. “Oops, I forgot. You haven’t been on the internet for years. Bet all that techie stuff leapfrogged you while you rotted in here.”
“Look how old her cell phone is,” the old witch cackles. “Still has a keypad.”
“Oh, wow, let me take a selfie with it, not!” Dirty-blond Helga snorts.
Ignoring them, I shove my stuff into the backpack and sign my name, Samantha Reed, on the form, pressing hard enough to get through all the triplicates.
Idiots.
Let them laugh.
My debt to society is paid in full. I’m nonviolent and pled guilty to a technicality. Unlike others who cut a deal for early release, I served my entire term and am free and clear without needing a parole officer.
