The clang of the closing steel door vibrated to my bones. My heart stopped. I looked around at the grim surroundings. Talk about a chilling effect. I was on the other side of justice. Me, the former gung-ho New York prosecutor, was behind bars. A prisoner. Talk about a reversal of fortune.
After the body search with my La Perlas on the cold cement floor, I experience a moment of reprieve, compassion from the rubber-gloved guard about to do a cavity search. She looked around, made sure no one could see, motioned that I dress quickly, my cavities unexplored. Our secret, sealed with a wary smile.
Another guard escorts me to the holding pens, a maelstrom of noise, activity, chaos dominated by a woman "singing," à la Eddie Murphy's "Roxanne." Well, the movie got that right. Kudos for authenticity. The guard avoided that cell. I breathed a sigh of relief. No room with a view, but I was alone and grateful.
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