Only the Moon Watching

Chapter 5: Cavity Search

"State your full name."

"Josephina Estelle San Mateo."

"And this is the first time you've been arrested on felony charges, correct?"
"It's the first time I've been arrested." Garda Girdle glares at me. "Yes."

She's moved me from the holding room into booking.

"I'm going to need to take some DNA. You'll give fingerprints and do a mouth swab, stand over here for me."

I place my hand on the computer screen, like a spy in a movie. Girdle shoves my fingers into place, pressing hard on them while my prints are captured. Then she tells me to open my mouth wide and pokes a cotton swab into my cheek.

"Ow," I say, not because it hurt but because the force of her jabs startled me.

"Don't complain," she warns, "You're going to be much more uncomfortable than that. Come on, you have to get dressed."

There's a pair of footprints painted on the floor in the next room. As I take off my clothes, I stare at them: the second toe is longer than the first, and the pinkies are askew, as if they'd been broken. Who chose to paint these toes? Couldn't they have found a better stock photo?

"Bend over – feet apart – spread your legs – reach back and spread yourself – that's not wide enough." Girdle barks orders from outside the room. "Put your fingers closer to your vagina and spread yourself – still not wide enough – pretend like it's Harry Styles asking – and cough hard three times –"

Satisfied that I don't have any contraband shoved inside myself, she throws a bundle of orange clothing onto the floor of the room.

"Where do these go?" Girdle tosses me a pair of dented, mildewed crocs.

"On my feet?" I guess.

"That's right, keep them on at all times when you're in common areas. Where do these go?" She holds up her hands.

I'm confused.

"Hands are considered weapons in this facility, Josephina. Tuck them into the waistband of your pants whenever you're around guards, or walking between common areas. Any show of hands is a sign of aggression. If you have to scratch your nose, hold it until you're in your room. If you have to sneeze, chin to your chest like this," She demonstrates, "Sneeze on yourself. Don't get smart and direct it at a guard, we don't care that you couldn't use your hands to cover yourself. There's no excuse for hands being out in my facility, do I make myself clear?"

I suddenly have the nervous urge to tuck my hair behind my ear or scratch my cheek or bite my thumb, just to cover my face in some way so she can't stare daggers into me. But I catch myself and say, "Yes Gar – I mean, Sergeant Gordon."

I can't remember if the order was to keep my hands tucked into my pants or into my pants and underwear, so I do both, resting my cold fingers against my stomach as Garda Girdle leads me through the halls.

I feel like a show dog. There's a line on the floor for me to follow, and one for Girdle. She matches my pace exactly, flicking her eyes to me nervously every few feet to check how I'm performing. I'm trying my best to be obedient, but I'm not sure I've been told all the rules.

When we come to a fork in the hallway, I look at her and she snaps, "Keep your eyes to yourself!" I don't know if it's a requirement with every guard or if she just really doesn't like me.

"Only 10% of our population here is women," Garda Girdle explains huffily. "You might see men in the hallways. You will see men in the kitchens and cleaning the hallways in front of your cells. You are not to talk to them. They will not talk to you at the risk of losing their jobs, is that understood?

"If you have a problem with another inmate you tuck your hands in your pants and you come find one of us. You don't handle matters yourself. You don't ask a friend to handle matters for you. Are you a fighter?"

"No ma'am."

"If you were supposed to call me ma'am you would have been instructed to do it."

"No, Sergeant Gordon."

"That's good. This cell's you."

Garda Girdle locks me in, alone. The room is only marginally smaller than a college dorm: two beds, twin extra longs; a desk under a frosted window; the blankets are grey wool, scratchy. The toilet is in the middle of the room between the beds – the pièce de résistance.

I suddenly have to pee. Badly.

At least I don't have a roommate. Both beds are stiffly made and there aren't any personal items or commissary snacks on the table. There also isn't any toilet paper, yet. Shit! Do I have to buy that, or did Garda Girdle just forget to stock it?

Just the thought of toilet paper makes my bladder feel like it's going to rupture. I don't have time to call a guard back and ask how to use my commissary. I'm just going to have to shake it.

Now too desperate to feel embarrassed, I dance out of my pants and sit on the cold steel seat, focusing on my ugly foam shoes while I pee. Just as I'm finishing, the call door is yanked open and a blur of red flies at me.

"What the fuck?" asks Shiv, just as I stand and yank my pants up my hips.