Self-Made Woman: A Memoir by Denise Chanterelle DuBois

Author:Denise Chanterelle DuBois [DuBois, Denise Chanterelle]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780299313982
Google: LYY4tAEACAAJ
Publisher: University of Wisconsin Press
Published: 2017-11-15T00:24:59.739524+00:00

Brian asked me to cooperate and tell him where the cocaine was. If I did, he said, things would go easier for me. I couldn’t believe that Al would have not told him about the safe. I just looked at Brian and said I had no idea what he was talking about and reiterated that since I was under arrest, I had nothing more to say and wanted an attorney. Meanwhile, the cops were still laughing at all my clothes, tossing them everyplace. Things soon quieted down until a uniformed officer came in with a drug-sniffing black lab, which made a beeline for the bedroom. The dog scratched at the closest wall and inadvertently tripped off the red blinking warning light. The cops went nuts, afraid the place might be booby-trapped. For a moment I thought about lying and saying it was, wagering they would panic and run, allowing me to escape to my car. Instead, I looked around at these macho pigs and said, “I thought you were all so tough and brave. Don’t you want to die for your big bust?” Then I laughed and put my foot over the pressure plate, which tuned off the red blinking light.

They took a hammer and smashed in my closet wall, and then pulled out the real cocaine. A test was run again. This time they exclaimed with joy at how pure, how good it was. Brian hadn’t forgotten about the fifty thousand Quaaludes, which the cops retrieved from the carport utility closet. Their haul also included three pounds of pot, cash, and a loaded shotgun. These wacko cops next tried pumping me and Tom for information, asking questions about where we got the kilo of cocaine, telling us things would go smoother if we cooperated. I repeated that I wanted a lawyer. Being the middleman in the deal, I was hopeful that would mean a lesser charge.

The NTF led Tom and me out to a regular squad car and shoved us inside. On the freeway I watched the city lights pass, fear eating away at me as prison loomed. One cop mentioned how lucky we were to be going to the Metropolitan Correctional Center, or MCC, a federal facility, and not the regular county jail. I tried to take solace in this, for I was desperate for any shred of hope. We were taken underneath the federal building and from there inside to be booked. I was told to put all my clothes in a bag and was left standing naked with my tattoos on full view. Next I was forced to bend over, open my mouth, tousle my hair. They gave me an orange jumpsuit to wear, as well as plastic sandals. I was fingerprinted, photographed, issued a federal inmate identification number, and interviewed by a nurse. “I want to kill myself as soon as possible,” I told the nurse in no uncertain terms. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen.” My ulterior motive was to be placed in solitary confinement—anything other than being placed in the general population.

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