23 Hours: A Vengeful Vampire Tale(8)

“Turn around,” the big CO said when that was done. “Lean over the table. Now spread your buttocks. Wider.”

Caxton gritted her teeth. Harelip squatted down to get a good look.

“Stand up. Turn around again. Spread your vagina.”

Caxton squeezed her eyes shut in shame. But she did it. She knew they had the legal right to handcuff her and do it to her if she refused. When she opened her eyes again she saw Harelip staring up at her from between her legs.

“You like this, lesbo? You having a good time?” Harelip whispered.

Caxton said nothing.

“Clear,” the big CO said. “Alright, prisoner. You can put your underwear back on.” She picked up Caxton’s jumpsuit and balled it up under her arm. “This gets searched separately.” She left the room. Harelip went over to the door and stood next to it, her boots slightly spread, her hands clasped behind her.

Caxton pulled her bra and panties back on. Then she just stood there, waiting for whatever came next. There was no place to sit down except on the edge of the bathtub, and it looked very cold. She made a point of staring at the floor, thinking the last thing she wanted to do was antagonize Harelip by looking at her.

Eventually there was a knock on the door and another woman came in. She was older than most of the COs Caxton had seen, maybe fifty-five or even sixty. She was wearing a conservative jacket and mid-length skirt, with a stab-proof vest over the top. She was carrying a metal folding chair and a BlackBerry, which she worked with one thumb even as she set up her chair and took a seat.

For a while longer nothing happened. The newcomer didn’t speak, and Caxton didn’t think she ought to try to start up a conversation. The older woman used her thumbs to type something on her BlackBerry, which held her whole attention.

Finally, without looking up, she said, “I think we have a problem here.”

Caxton scratched her nose. Harelip leaned forward, her eyes very hard.

“I don’t like it when you girls don’t get along,” the older woman said. “It makes it difficult for all of us. I need to find a way to restore the peace, you see. So we’re moving you to Special Housing. Effective immediately.”

Caxton looked up. That was very bad news. “What? But I—”

“We have a zero-tolerance policy for stabbing in this institution.” The older woman was still playing with her handheld device. She smiled at something on her screen.

“I only acted in self-defense,” Caxton said. “It wasn’t even my shank.”

“Hmm? I have three inmates in the infirmary right now. One has second-degree burns on her face and chest. One has a broken nose that’s going to have to be rebroken if she wants it to set right. The third might lose an eye.” She glanced up at Caxton. “You have a bruise on your wrist.” She looked back down at her email. “You tell me who should be put in confinement, hmm? There are two kinds of women in this place. There are the ones who just want to get along, work off their time, and go home. Then there are the ones who will stab somebody because they got bored. It’s my job to separate these two groups. Today you volunteered for group number two, and I don’t care who started it. Beyond that, you’re a high-risk prisoner, so you ought to be in protective custody anyway. It’s all been decided. You’ll be in administrative segregation for the rest of your sentence. Do you have a problem with that?”

Caxton bit her lip and thought about how to respond.

Prisoners who complained about the conditions in Marcy always regretted it. If you complained, that meant you weren’t cooperating with the staff. That meant you weren’t demonstrating “good behavior,” and that meant you spent even longer inside, longer until you could go before the parole board, until you could walk free again. Inmates at Marcy did not, on the whole, complain.

On the other hand—AdSeg was the worst part of the prison. It was where the truly violent women were housed, along with those so crazy they couldn’t be allowed to roam free and those who were at such a risk of getting killed by their fellow inmates that they had to be watched around the clock. AdSeg was more than maximum security. It meant no privileges, no privacy, and not even the slightest illusion of freedom.

If Caxton had to spend the next five years in an AdSeg cell she would probably go crazy. She had to say something, anything, to avoid that fate.

“I want to talk to a manager or supervisor about this,” she said. “I want to appeal your decision.”