Soul Deep out in audiobook! — Jack West, widower, rancher and former Army Ranger, gets his own love story in this special I-Team novella, which was picked by readers at Grave Tells as the Best Contemporary Romance of 2015. It will be out in audiobook any day now.
Seduction Game is out in paperback, (I-Team #7) — Holly and Nick’s story is out in all formats — ebook, audiobook, and paperback. Look for it in Wal-Mart, the Kroger chain of stores, Barnes & Noble, and your local bookseller.
Dead By Midnight: An I-Team Christmas is out! — The grand finale of the I-Team series finds all the couples you love brought together when terrorists attack holiday festivities at a historica hotel in downtown Denver. It’s bad news for the terrorists. They have no clue what they’ve done when they take Marc Hunter and his friends hostage. Featuring cameos by the men of New York Times bestselling author Kaylea Cross’s Hostage Rescue Team series. Available in ebook and paperback.
- Pamela Clare
- I grew up in Colorado at the foot of the Rocky Mountains, then lived in Denmark and traveled throughout Europe before coming back to Colorado. I have two adult sons, whom I cherish. I started my writing career as a columnist and investigative reporter and eventually became the first woman editor of two different papers. Along the way, my team and I won numerous state and several national awards, including the National Journalism Award for Public Service. In 2011, I was awarded the Keeper of the Flame Lifetime Achievement Award for Journalism. Now I write historical romance and contemporary romantic suspense.
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“You’re in 17.” The guard points to my cell.
And then the guard is gone.
The door closes with a heavy, steel sound somewhere between a click and a clang. It’s an ominous sound, not a sound you’d associate with anything good.
I stand there in the entryway with my arms full of stuff. The first thing that hits me is the smell —air freshener pumped into air that is anything but fresh, only vaguely masking the odors of so many functioning bodies. Overhead, fluorescent bulbs make a mockery of the thin shaft of daylight coming from an almost opaque skylight, its view of the blue sky marred by bars.
I make my way across the crowded dayroom, a space smaller than the newsroom at my newspaper, to my cell. Inside the vault-like door — no bars — is a nine-by-nine space with a steel shelf that serves as a bed. Above it is a slit of a window about a foot wide and three inches tall that offers a tiny glimpse of the foothills if you’re tall enough to see outside.
Right in front of the door is the toilet, placed where women using it can be seen by any inmate or guard looking her way. I dread having to use it. Next to it is the sink. I drop my pile of stuff on the thin gray plastic pad that serves as a mattress.
My first order of business is getting a drink of water. I’ve had nothing to drink since I “self-reported” for arrest three hours ago and am very thirsty. I leave my cell in search of the drinking fountain. I ask a passing inmate, “Where is the drinking fountain?”
“Drinking fountain?” She laughs at me. “There isn’t one.”
I see two options: get water from the sink in my “room” or get water from the tap at the front of the dayroom. Feeling disoriented and not terribly social at the moment, I opt to avoid the dayroom and head back to my cell.
I push a button and a little trickle of water emerges to dribble down the side of the sink. I think of all the inmates who’ve used this sink, washing their hands, spitting out their toothpaste, and I decide to try the tap in the dayroom instead. Besides, I can’t hide in a cell all day.
In the dayroom, a handful of women are watching Dr. Quinn: Medicine Woman on the TV, which sits high above where anyone can get to it on a shelf. Another group sits around a table talking, their voices all but drowning out the TV. Still others sit talking in chairs on the upper level. So many voices in such a small space feels deafening.
I fill a little paper cup and sit down, thinking that I’ll observe and get my bearings that way. I don’t sit for long.
“Your fat ass is in my chair!” shouts a woman who is sitting in another chair — perhaps she lays claim to several — around the table.
She gets up and stomps over to me.
I sit for a minute just to prove to her that I’m not afraid, then slowly stand, shrug and step aside.
“Yes, this is me, and I’m not afraid of you,” I try to say with my body language.
I decide not to point out that her ass is far fatter than mine, and with no place else to sit, go to stand near the sofa, where women sit watching TV.
For a moment, they completely ignore me. Then one looks up and asks, “Why are you here?”
Why am I here? To learn about the experiences of women in jail. But I can’t really say that. So I tell the most unconvincing lie of my life.
“Murder,” I say.
Yeah, I bad. (Hey, if you’re going to do it, go all the way, right?)
Except that I’ve never done this before, and the word “murder” comes out like I’m telling her my astrological sign.
One of the woman’s eyebrows shoots upward in surprise, but her face stays cool. I don’t think she’s impressed.
No one else says anything.
Because that woman is still making eye contact, I pop my first question: “Does this place seem really crowded?”
This — not my murder confession — gets their attention.
They tell me it’s not too crowded today but that there are times when the module is so full that the dayroom is filled with “boats” — plastic beds used as sleeping places when cells are all full to capacity. When that happens, the guards consider placing the women on 23-hour lockdown just to keep order.
I try to imagine spending 23 hours locked with another woman in my cell with one hour a day to shower or walk around. That’s 23 hours of drinking water that dribbles down the side of a sink, of using the toilet with another adult only feet away, of smelling another person’s bodily smells, of mind-bending boredom.
Then a very young woman introduces herself as Marie and tells me that her boyfriend is in Intake, where the men are always on lockdown because there are so many of them. The two have a 5-month-old baby who was taken away by Social Services, she says. Then, fidgeting with her jail wristband, she tells me she is three months pregnant. She hopes to go home after a court hearing today, but she isn’t sure what will happen. The uncertainty is clearly making her very anxious.
She doesn’t tell me why she’s here, but I see that her wristband is yellow, signifying high-risk status. I glean from a few hints that she and her boyfriend beat up on some guy and his girlfriend and that this isn’t her first arrest. She can’t be much more than 20.
The women drift back to watching Dr. Quinn, while I think hard about a little problem I have. In my short conversations with two inmates, I’ve discovered that I stick out like a sore thumb. With most of a master’s degree and years of writing behind me, I have a very different vocabulary. Not only that, but I have all my teeth. I have all my hair. I have healthy skin that isn’t yellow from chronic alcoholism or pale from heroin addiction.
I can’t do anything about the hair or the skin or my teeth. But I can change the way I talk. I need to break the ice somehow, if only to make myself feel more at ease.
Dr. Quinn’s lover, Sully, takes up the screen, and the women give a little moan in unison.
It gets quiet, and I say, “I want to do that man!”
There is a flurry of giggles, and I sense a slight thaw.
Lunch arrives — it’s not yet noon — and women line up single-file to pick up closed meal trays. A cooler full of grape Kool-Aid is put next to the sink under the TV. There is no milk, no fresh ice water. I ask and am told milk is served only with breakfast and supper.
I follow the other women’s lead, giving the guard my name and cell number. My name is checked off a list. I take my tray to a table, sit down and open it. Immediately I lose my appetite. Peas, rice and beans float in brown sauce, looking more like vomit than food. Two slices of salami lie between two pieces of white bread. There are potato chips, a wrinkled apple, salt, pepper and mustard, but no mayo. Calories, but little nutrition.
“What do you think of the food?” asks the woman sitting next to me.
“I think I’ll stick with the potato chips,” I say.
I watch the women eat and trade food. In defiance of racial stereotypes associated with jail and prison, most are white. There are two American Indians, two Latinas and one black woman. Judging by their speech, most seem to have left high school before graduating. I wonder what role economics or lack of education might play in their situation.
“The food makes you fat,” says the woman beside me.
I focus on my potato chips.
[to be continued…]
For an excerpt from Unlawful Contact, the I-Team novel inspired by my years of prison reporting, search this blog or go to my website at www.pamelaclare.com/unlawful.htm.
Yikes, PC! Glad you are one smart woman. I could see that food and let's just say my stomach rolled. Is this the average type of food in that prison on any given day?
Can't wait to hear what goes on next and yes I could do Sully, too. Just the way he looks in that pic, just sit in front of him and take a long ride across the country and maybe through some woods;)
You know how when you are watching a really good show? You are totally into it and then the words "To Be Continued...." come across the screen...that is how I feel about today's segment. I am on the edge, sista!
Can't wait for the next one.
Hi, Debbie. I don't know that I am all that smart, but thanks. And, yes, sadly, that pretty much describes jail/prison food. It's largely made by inmates — remember how eager Marc is to eat real food that is made by someone whose experience from knives doesn't come from knife fights? — and it's awful.
I think they do all they can in the system to cut costs. It costs about $30,000 a year to keep an adult behind bars. But to serve food that ads to malnourishment and sickness just seems wrong to me. I have fantasies of starting a jail nutrition program one day.
Hi, SueZAY! I'm glad I'm keeping you interested. LOL! Have fun with PGB1.
Rodi, I'm in Boulder, Colorado, about 45 minutes west of Denver right up against the mountains. It's a pretty homogenous community, but with a strong Latino population in the eastern part of the county.
Geez I tell ya girl the conditions alone would already have me begging to get out of there. I would freak out totally! My OCD would have me paralyzed almost. That is awful in a lot of ways but if they make it to cushy, it wouldn't be to much of a determent for crime either or much of a punishment either. So I can see some of it but not others definitely not the mistreatment of prisoners in anyway, don't get me wrong. But the food and sparse conditions of the living space well that I can see more. So there are wristbands on the prisoners that show the level of their crimes then is that right? Or am I reading that wrong.
Very interesting series here dear and I am looking forward to the next installment.
Yes,the 'To be continued' makes me gnash my teeth a little as well,LOL!
I have to say,the woman yelling at you about the chair got my hackles up instantly.I would prolly have swung the chair at her & gotten a royal ass kicking from her & her cronies anyways.
I am a lousy liar,I cannot even imagine trying to tell someone you were in for murder.Big ones.HUGE.
LOL@ the Sully comment,he is rather tasty! Unlike the food.I am still going 'Blech!' at that.
Looking forward to the next part!
Beautifully done, I'll save any other comments for later
Hi, Jenn — YES, the inmates wear wristbands. Mine was green for "low-risk." (I don't know about that. We journalists are an unpredictable lot. Mess with the First Amendment and we go ape.) And, yeah, not a great place to be if microbes frighten you. Not only is the level of cleanliness not what you'd hope for, but the medical care is really very sub-standard, which from my point of view is a human-rights issue.
Hi, Bo! I can see you getting irked with that creepy woman. Her ass really WAS bigger than mine. I disliked her intensely, I must admit. I knew you'd like Sully. What's not to like about him.
Hi, KristieJ—I'm glad you're finding it interesting. It is a world that most people — thank God! — never see. But that's one reason that people villify criminals, I think. Some deserve to be villified, of course — rapists and child molesters are what comes to my mind. But they're still people.
Future posts will cover: Bible Betty, an elderly woman who does prison and jail ministry; the absurdity of jailhouse romance; what happens when two meth-heads decide they need to kick my butt; a night of endless screams; the conclusions I left with as I rejoined the free world.
Hopefully this won't be overkill. If it gets dull, tell me. LOL!
Pamela! So good to see you again. Thanks for the feedback. I'm looking forward to hearing your comments. Bless you!
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Favorite Writing Quotes
"I am tomorrow, or some future day, what I establish today. I am today what I established yesterday or some previous day."
"Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery."
"Writers are those for whom writing is more difficult that it is for others."
"When I write, I feel like an armless, legless man with a crayon in his mouth."
"The ability of writers to imagine what is not the self, to familiarize the strange and mystify the familiar is the test of their power."
"No tears in the author, no tears in the reader."
"I'm a writer. I give the truth scope."
—the character of Chaucer in A Knight's Tale