Random Family: Love, Drugs, Trouble, and Coming of Age in the Bro (51 page)

Characteristically, Jessica protected the guilty couple, but the director interrogated the women individually, and one of the lovers caved in; Jessica could tell by the shamed look on the girl’s face as she left the director’s office following the interview. Jessica glared at her.

The confessor said, “You know, Jessica, I don’t like to fight.”

Instead of backing off, Jessica blew up. “I’m not asking you if you like to fight,” she said heatedly. “You just better be ready to protect yourself from the blows when they come.” Jessica had already received a strike for her role in the rendezvous, and another for keeping the secret to herself. “STRIKE,” the memo read. “Ms. Martinez received a strike today for enabling a physical relationship on the unit. It was her responsibility to come forward and she did not.” Now she had earned a third: threatening to assault. She was thrown out of the program. She had also forfeited the year off her prison term.

Jessica changed from the standard khakis into a bright orange jumpsuit. Her loyalty had earned her a three-week stint in SHU. The segregated housing unit denied inmates all privileges, including personal property. An officer locked Jessica in a bare cell. Jessica had snuck in two favorite photographs, glued back to back, which she kept in the plastic frame that held her prison ID. On one side were the twins in pink satin dresses. On the other was Serena, grinning broadly in Jessica’s lap. The photograph had been taken during the prison visit in Florida. Serena wore a red, white, and blue outfit, with her hair in a French braid. It was one of the few pictures of Serena in which her happiness outshone the worry. Between the two pictures, Jessica had tucked a four-leaf clover. The clover had been given to her by Tamika, her old girlfriend from Florida, who had plucked it from the prison yard at the beginning of her bid; Tamika had then passed it along to Jessica the night before she got out.

Jessica lay on the thin mattress. She flipped the photograph over and over, her daughters’ faces tumbling, like a puzzle she couldn’t crack. She comforted herself by telling herself stories about the life she longed for, rather than the one she had.

Jessica emerged from segregation with a reassignment to the general population and a stack of mail: she’d placed a personal ad in a newspaper and now had lots of pen pals from all over the country. One of her most interesting correspondents claimed to be an attorney, who lived in the same town as Cesar’s latest prison—Elmira, New York. There was also an eight-page letter from Cesar’s buddy, her ex-love, Tito; Tito had been transferred to Sing Sing, where he was serving twenty-five to life on the murder charge. She received a note from Big Daddy, her favorite stepfather, who reported that Lourdes had rejected his recent invitation to the Poconos. Jessica also received a letter from the locked-up son of a fellow
inmate, who’d been inspired to write because he’d been looking through his pictures and was reminded of how fine she looked. Her older brother, Robert, mailed a homemade computer-generated greeting, tucked in with another Jehovah’s Witness brochure. There were belated Valentine’s Day notes from her daughters, including one from Serena, with hand-drawn hearts and a computerized unicorn. Serena had gotten two F’s in school: “I couldn’t bleive it, But I am doing better now.”

Amazon, Jessica’s inmate friend who practiced Santeria, offered Jessica a free consultation in honor of her upcoming birthday. They met in Jessica’s unit after evening count. Amazon had visions of Serena: “She’s going to run away. You’re never gonna see her again.” She still saw Serena running even with Jessica free.

Jessica’s twenty-eighth birthday fell on a cold day in March. Her friends started her special day with a corsage made of Tootsie Pops. One pinned it onto her uniform, while another handed her a bouquet snatched from the desk of a guard. During her shift in the kitchen, Jessica spotted her friends sneaking out contraband—tomatoes in pockets, peppers behind books, onions tucked into waistbands. They prepared her favorite chilikida—crushed Doritos, cheese, peppers, onions, tomatoes, and chilies together, mixed with water, zapped in the microwave. They baked a cake.

But Jessica could not shake Amazon’s prophecy, and she tracked the older woman down for a follow-up. Jessica believed in Amazon’s visionary powers. Before she’d fallen in love with Torres, Amazon had predicted that Jessica would give birth to two children fathered by a man in a uniform. This time, Amazon saw another man. This new one would be tall and strong. “He would complete me,” Jessica said in the same dreamy voice she used whenever she described the early days with Boy George. Amazon told Jessica that this new man would make her feel love as she had never known it, and Amazon envisioned Jessica’s belly growing again.

Jessica was back in therapy. Throughout the spring, the doctor noted her progress:

 . . . Ms. Martinez presents as angry and seems to deal with frustration by acting out those feelings. She reports cursing people out as well as having frequently beaten people up while on the outside. She says it provides her with a sense of pleasure and satisfaction to see the person suffer as she feels they have made her suffer. Inmate reports a history of suicide attempts
(9 times) and says the only reason that she is alive today is because of her children particularly her ten-year-old daughter. Appears to have borderline features with a narcissistic bent.

Inmate . . . discussed the sexual abuse she received from her stepfather which occurred over a period of many years. She had a great deal of anger toward him and her mother who she felt did not protect her or provide her with the nurturance that she needed. She again repeated that the only time she feels alive is when she is feeling pain. . . . We agreed to meet again and begin work in the workbook
The Courage to Heal.

Presenting problem: Explosive rage reactions, long-term depression, unresolved issues of sexual abuse.

The doctor also noted a pattern: Jessica’s emotions were extreme at the beginning of the sessions, but visibly improved after even the briefest of talks.

Again and again, Jessica returned to her “lack of trust in others and a deep-seated fear of being hurt.” She spoke frequently of her daughters. In May, the doctor noted:

She . . . brought in pictures of her children that she received yesterday. Ms. Martinez proudly shared pictures stating that it was the children that were helping her to stay focused and not lose control. . . . Especially her ten-year-old daughter.

What Jessica imagined of Serena she extracted mostly from memories of herself at Serena’s age. Besides Serena’s letters, and the odd update from Coco, Jessica had little information about what was really going on in her daughter’s life. Jessica mined her own adolescence for clues. She’d cut herself to relieve anguish, scratching the thin flesh of her underarms and comb marks on her inner thighs. As a woman, Jessica preferred somebody else’s blood. “I’m getting so fucking fed up, I don’t care who has to pay, and whoever has anything to do with this is gonna pay, every tear I shed,” she said. “I try to tell myself, ‘Forgive, forgive, forgive,’ but my heart’s filling up with revenge. But revenge—that’s the only satisfaction I’m gonna get.” She wondered if her fierce attachment to men like Torres and George was due more to hatred than to love.

That August 1996, Torres showed up late for his sentencing at the federal courthouse in New Haven. He wore a navy uniform from the boiler company where he now worked. He looked like Boy George as he rose
to stand before the judge—except for the short ponytail and his obvious nervousness.

Torres had agreed to plead guilty to a misdemeanor charge when confronted with the positive results from the twin boys’ DNA saliva swabs—which an FBI agent had traveled to Troy to obtain. Jessica wasn’t allowed to attend the sentencing, but she asked her attorney to request three things on her behalf: first, that Torres acknowledge paternity of the twins; second, that the children bear his last name; third, she wanted him to help support the boys financially, or, at the very least, provide bus fare so that Milagros could bring them to Danbury.

The judge dismissed all three requests—they were civil court matters—although he told Torres that losing his wife and job was punishment enough for the criminal charge. He gave Torres probation for violating Title 18, U.S.C., Section 2243 (b) of the Federal Criminal Code—Sexual Abuse of a Ward.

R
amapo Anchorage Camp, in Rhinebeck, New York, sponsored a special program called Mild Month. Mild Month was a supplemental program for children having social and educational difficulties, which ran in May, during the school year. Mild Month aimed to provide children with consistent structure, close attention, safety, and fun within routine. The young counselors were college students studying education, social work, and psychology. The counselor-to-camper ratio was one-to-one; if attention was the problem, the staffing fulfilled the need. Ramapo’s philosophy was that if the campers felt secure, they could master the life skills necessary for school. Children were rewarded not for accomplishment but for effort and attitude.

Coco had signed up Mercedes and Nikki for camp during the winter, and when May finally rolled around, she bravely stuck to her decision. It was a bold, unprecedented move—to willingly place her children in the hands of strangers—which incurred the disapproval and scorn of her family and friends. In her community, good mothering was premised on keeping one’s children away from authorities. Coco had been trying to deflect the criticism and begrudging comments and ill will for weeks. “You gotta take risks in this world,” she said.

On the day of departure, Milagros sternly received Mercedes’s and Nikki’s good-bye kisses, standing on her slab of porch. She wore a large T-shirt and Lycra leggings. One of Jessica’s twin boys lay on his stomach on the dry dirt before her bare feet. He seemed content, intermittently fanning his legs. Milagros certainly doubted Coco’s wisdom. What kind of camp had male counselors for little girls?

All week, Coco had quizzed her daughters about good-touch and bad-touch, which the children had learned from an abuse-prevention coloring book. Milagros dictated from her step as the girls kissed their cousins: “No mens going to touch you. There ain’t no reason for no mens to touch you, you remember that?” Coco reminded them to wear shirts beneath their tank tops.

“I love you, Mommy, I love you, Frankie, love ya’aw,” Nikki blandly repeated to everyone.

“She been saying it for days,” Coco said, scrutinizing Nikki. Frankie
wasn’t even outside. Coco told the girls to go inside and say good-bye to him. He brooded on the couch, listening to his Walkman while watching sports. He accepted their kisses, but didn’t say anything. Frankie didn’t like good-byes. Coco didn’t either, but she still had a few more hours with her daughters.

When they arrived at Ramapo, Nikki led Coco and Mercedes down a wooded path covered in pine needles. The camp sat on its own freshwater lake on 240 acres of wooded hills, fields, and streams. They heard singing in the distance. Coco carried Nautica; Mercedes gripped Coco’s free hand. The singing got louder nearer the drop-off point. Counselors poured over the sloping hillsides, skipping and clapping. They greeted their charges and helped carry their bags. Most of the campers, who lived in New York City, had come by bus. Mercedes clutched her mother’s leg. Coco was swept up in the excitement.

“Hei-di hei-di hei-di ho!” some of the counselors shouted.

“Rickety-rackety rickety-rackety row!” others called back.

Coco joined right in. “I like that. That they ain’t worried about making a fool of themself. That they want the kids to laugh,” Coco said. She wondered how people got jobs like this.

Nikki’s bunk counselor, a dark-haired college freshman named Sarah, reached down and shook Nikki’s hand. Nikki held her white teddy bear beneath her other arm like a briefcase, turned to Coco, and said, “Bye, Mommy.”

“Ain’t you gonna give me a hug and a kiss?” Coco asked.

Nikki quickly kissed and hugged her mother and sister. Then Nikki retrieved Sarah’s hand and walked away. Nautica called after, “Can I go with you?”

Sarah walked back over to Nautica, knelt down, and looked her in the eye. “I’ll make a deal,” Sarah said. “How about this? See that dirt at the end of the grass? You can walk us up to there.” To Coco’s surprise, Nautica let Nikki go at the boundary and watched her sister disappear into the rowdy crowd. Mercedes, however, refused to move.

Mercedes’s counselor, Beth, suggested that Coco escort her to the bunk. Beth was a Ramapo veteran. She led the way through a wooded path to a brown cabin. Name tags decorated the beds. Welcome notes lined the wooden walls. Beth invited Mercedes to find her nametag. Mercedes turned her head shyly into Coco’s belly. “It’s in green,” Beth suggested. Mercedes bit her finger.

“Think, Mercedes, concentrate! You getting nervous. You looking at the names too fast!” Coco said.

“You have a good bed. It’s right by the table where there are books,” Beth hinted. She confided to Mercedes that each night after they brushed their teeth, the bunk mates selected a story and she read it aloud.