The Greatest Lie Part 19

If a transsexual complains about her cell mates' unwanted sexual attentions, they are transferred to psychiatric facilities, where they are housed with the real crazies who may be even more dangerous than a sexually abusive cellmate. As I absorbed the guard's cold, disdainful gaze, I felt sure he was enjoying my predicament, and only wished that he could somehow prolong my suffering.

A graffiti-scarred elevator lurched us upward to the Federal lock-up, where I would await arraignment. The door opened to a rank reception area bounded by blank walls and metal doors. The marshal muttered into a phone, a buzzer sounded, and the door opened. An owlish prison guard appeared, wordlessly ushered me in, and escorted me to my cell. My arrival was greeted by catcalls and whistles celebrating the delivery of a fresh fish. I wished I had not splashed on quite so much of my Chanel perfume, because the inmates sensed all to clearly my femininity.

"Give her to me." "I've got room in my bed." "I smell shemale, I smell shemale, I smell shemale." "Come suck this, ho." "Cut the freak's throat." "Not until I'm done fucking her, punk." Taunts, come-ons and threats came from every cell.

"You can't leave me with them. Give me my own cell or put me in isolation. They'll tear me apart."

"We're overcrowded, and I can't put you in isolation. I've done my best to protect you." We stopped, and the guard opened the cell door. The cell was occupied by a lone man, a thick-bodied Latino whose arms were covered with gang tattoos. I drew back, but the guard pushed me in and slammed the door. The man looked up and I gasped.

It was El Lobo, also known as Miguel. He gave me a cruel smile.

"Make yourself comfortable, maricone."

He pointed to the bunk opposite him. I sat on the thin mattress and slipped the pony tail holder out of my hair, trying to affect self-confidence.

"With a welcome like that, who wouldn't be comfortable? Plus, it's good to see an old friend in a strange, new place."