ONE
CARA CAMPBELL
Can’t wait for the Housebitches of Chowchilla!
—@aREALNJhousewife14
Feeling as dull and dirty as the stucco sprawl of the Los Angeles she’d left behind forever, Cara Campbell stared through wire mesh and tinted glass as the van rolled past fields of strawberries and avocados, and hillsides covered with orange groves she’d never see again. She was handcuffed and shackled. The chain around her waist, which bound her wrists to her ankles, clanked against her metal bench seat with every bump and swerve.
She willed herself not to cry. If she started, she’d never stop.
“This drive is taking forever,” said LaDonna from in front of her. “I feel like I’m in the longest line to get on the worst roller coaster ever.”
One of two other transportees in the grubby, dated, ten-passenger California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation van, LaDonna was round-faced, plus-sized, and appeared to be in her early thirties.
Cara had to look at least fifty. A lifetime had passed in the two-and-a-half weeks since she’d been led out of the packed courtroom in handcuffs, strip-searched, and delivered to the California Institute for Women for processing. This morning she was issued a scratchy orange jumpsuit and matching fake Crocs that reeked of the previous owner’s feet. Their yeasty cheese odor was nothing compared to the ungodly stench of the crowded holding cell where she awaited transport to the Central California Women’s Facility.
To a fate sealed by the jury forewoman’s single, devastating word:Guilty.
As the CDCR officers piloted the van out of the northeast San Fernando Valley and onto I-5, LaDonna and the other front-row occupant, Eve—Latina and pretty despite the shooting star tattooed across her forehead—chatted about the highlights of the state prison menu (strawberry Pop-Tarts on special days and a surprisingly generous selection of hot sauce) and took turns trying to figure out who Cara was.
I definitely seen you around.
You ever do time in Orange County?
Seriously, you look familiar.
Cara shrugged and wished they’d move on to any other subject. If she’d learned anything during her horrifying odyssey, it was that she intended to live out the rest of herlife without possibility of paroleattracting as little attention as possible.
If only she could sink through the floor and let the prison van’s wheels roll over her. Cara suppressed a sob by coughing hard but fooled no one.
“Girlfriend’s got a bad case of the first-timer terrors,” LaDonna observed.
“I was in County with that actress who paid for her kid to get into college or whatever it was,” Eve said. “She was one scared little rabbit, even with all the special treatment she got.”
“Can’t imagine that went over well with gen pop.”
“She got all kinds of special treatment. We even did a thing where we all coughed and scratched whenever she was around. Actress Karen got so freaked out, thinking she picked up TBandscabies, that she got herself sent to medical and talked her way into an early release.”
“Figures,” LaDonna said, eyeing Cara’s hair, which she’d only been allowed to wash twice at Chino and hadn’t bothered to brush. “I’m sure they’ll bend rules for you, too. Maybe even let you keep them blond extensions for a while.”
“Already too janky,” Eve said with a grimace.
LaDonna shrugged. “Nothing a little body lotion mixed with a melted Jolly Rancher and warm water can’t fix.”
“Really?” Cara asked, despite herself. Her on-the-go makeup tutorial—“Five Minutes to Look Like a Million Bucks”—had been removed from all platforms as soon as she was arrested.
“Can’t get much in the way of real makeup from commissary, and what there is, is crazy expensive,” said LaDonna. “Crushed colored pencil and baby powder works almost as well as drugstore eye shadow.”
“So does a little bit of coffee mixed with face cream for foundation,” added Eve. “Although you’re pretty white. No offense.”
Prison cosmetics would suit Cara just fine. In the year since Karl’s death, she hadn’t cared enough about her appearance to bother touching up her Botox or fillers, even in her rapidly deflating lips. The only reason she’d fixed up her hair and had her nails manicured was her lawyer’s insistence that she look presentable in court.
It hadn’t made a difference.
As far as the jury of her “peers” was concerned, she was guilty as charged from the moment they saw her. Living her truth had only made everyone believe she was a liar.
The corrections officer in the passenger seat turned around. Cara glimpsed his name badge through the security grate but could only make out the first three letters. Voz-something.
