The transfer from state custody to federal prison kept me waiting at the county jail for several hellish weeks in maximum-security lockdown.  I was constantly being moved from one county jail to the next "for my security".  I wasn't allowed knowing where I would be moved to next or even when.  So, I spent many anxiety filled nights wondering if tonight would be the night I would get the dreaded 3:30 a.m. wake-up call to "pack it up".


There was not much to pack up living the transient life that I had grown accustomed to. I carried with me only the standard issue hygiene pack that consisted of one small bottle of generic clear shampoo (no conditioner), one travel-size toothpaste and toothbrush combo, one pocket-size black comb, and a gel deodorant with no antiperspirant.  My little Ziploc pack also came with one small pencil - the kind you get at the lottery kiosk, or at miniature golf - a stamped envelope, and a mini note pad.  This is what is referred to as the "indigent pack" of which they bill you an automatic $5 for.


Emergency Exit is Behind You

During this time in transit, I kept myself busy by sleeping as much as possible, reading the same handful of books that made their rounds in the cell block, and by socializing a bit with the other inmates. 

I had, by then, given up on trying to convince the girls that I was not the flight attendant caught running drugs for the Cartel.  Both of our criminal cases were making headline news at the same time, and with my prior airline industry training and particular "look", it was easier for them to believe that I was the crooked flight attendant, as opposed to the crooked lawyer.

Having my specially color coded federal inmate identification card prominently displayed didn't help me much in convincing them otherwise.  But it did help solidify my street credibility with them.  It was the "go hard or go home" mentality of these women that caused them to at once both envy my federal status, and hold me in reverence regardless of whatever crimes were charged against me.  It didn't much matter if I was "going fed" for drug trafficking, money laundering or murder.  What mattered was that I "went fed" and that I "did it big".  That was enough to earn their respect.

All Carry Ons Must Fit (Stuffed in Your Brassiere)

The 3:30 a.m. wake-up call to pack it up came with a light tap to my metal bunk.  The correctional officers had been very kind and respectful toward me all the way through to the time for me to leave.  They were getting paid handsomely to keep me safe and comfortable.  At one point, one of the officers was trying to regain control of our exceptionally loud pod by calling out at random inmates in order to assign them extra clean up duties.  When she looked at me, she said..."Except for you, Ms. Costa. I can't touch you. You're Feds."

I looked behind me to make sure it wasn't someone else she was talking to.  There was no one standing behind me, and she did call out MY name, and I was Feds...hmmmm...I think I'm on to something here, I thought.  Can't touch me. Because I'm Feds. I didn't know that. My chest puffed out a little... not unlike a chicken. Or perhaps a rooster. But a girl one. A chicken-rooster.

That early morning, I packed my scant jailhouse belongings along with a sheet of paper with a few contact numbers scribbled onto it.  It did me absolutely no good to go through all that effort. Once I was packed out, I was told that I couldn't take anything with me. I was getting used to not being allowed any of my possessions by then. I knew enough to have memorized a few of those key contacts, and stuff any essentials into the cups of my bra.  After picking through my bologna sandwich and juice box breakfast, I was anxious, but ready to go.

Roller Girl

At checkout from the county jail, there as an issue with my attire which caused a minor hold up in my leaving.  I had checked in wearing a stylish, skirted business suit that was waiting for me to change into on my way out. Unfortunately, the Feds didn't allow ladies in skirts to fly on Con Air.   The jailers quickly produced for me a white V-neck t-shirt, a pair of bright orange and white piping cotton runner's shorts, and a knee high pair of tube socks.

The shorts looked straight out of a 1970's roller derby movie.  The only shoes I had to wear out were the four-inch stilettos that I had walked in on.  I pleaded with the jailers to allow me to wear my knee-length skirt, but they insisted on the shorts because of the in-flight dress code restrictions. 

So, with that, I went into the dressing area with much bravado, pulled on my short and sexy little roller derby shorts, the white tee, tube socks and high heels.  I came out with such impudence - rocking a head full of long frizzy bleached blonde hair, strutting proudly. This time shaking my tail feathers just a little.  Conversations stopped, jaws dropped, and I was promptly escorted right back into the dressing room where I was handed my nice, conservative, knee-length skirt to change into.  One very small victory for me.

Until I stepped aboard Con Air, that is!

Departure Slightly Delayed
The setting this time was straight out of an action movie starring Bruce Willis or whomever the latest hero du jour was at the time.

It was freezing cold outside as I stepped off the nondescript white passenger van I was transported in.  Still wearing full prison regalia consisting of handcuffs, shackles and chains - I shimmied my way in my heels past a dozen or so vans, prison buses, and armored vehicles; past U.S. Marshals patrolling on foot with shotguns in hand ready at the aim; underneath the watchful eye of the police helicopter hovering overhead; and past the glare of a hundred or so male inmates waiting to disembark the buses and board our flight to who knows where.

The scene was surreal.  I felt like a Hollywood villainess - a captured fugitive. Armed and dangerous. Still scared, but now a bit more empowered.

Out in the middle of an open field with a single runway, hidden behind the commercial airport, was the executive airport which also served as the prison transport terminal.  However, there was no actual building, no passenger gates, and no tarmac.  We had our own special kind of security, and a rolling stairway leading us straight to hell.

I watched as the jet made its approach and landing. No stranger to air travel, I couldn't wait to board the flight and just go.  I still didn't know where I was headed, but I no longer cared.  I just wanted to feel the freedom of being airborne.  The airliner was a full sized commercial type jet put into private use by the U.S. Government.  It was shiny and new in its all white exterior - save for its identifying number in bold blue lettering on its tail.  It looked similar to Air Force One on the outside as it taxied up the runway.

Welcome to Con Air

On the inside, however, that's where the real shocker and snap back to reality came in!

The flight was situated as one entire plane full of coach-class seating with no in-flight services typical of commercial air travel.  Save for the meager meal of sandwiches, cookies, chips and juice that were fed to us mid-flight.

The first five rows were reserved for female passengers on either side.  The remaining 26 or so rows were either filled with or awaiting male prisoners.  I have never before been so scared in my life. Row upon row of shaved-head men filled the seats.  It looked like an airplane full of extras for the movie "Con Air".  But in real life, these men looked meaner, tougher, and deadlier than any of their Hollywood counterparts.  They were covered in tattoos from the tops of their heads, down their faces, necks, arms, and who knows where else.  I was so scared that I nearly peed my pants.  Then I remembered - I wasn't WEARING any pants!!!  Now the "no ladies in skirts" policy made much more sense to me.  I could have died right then and there!  (ok... maybe that's a bit overly dramatic of me.)  I didn't want to die, but I also didn't want all those hungry eyes looking at me like what a meat bone must look like to a starving dog. Help!!! Me!!! Please!!!

As the male passengers started boarding the plane one by one, they read off their names and serial numbers for the marshals to check off their passenger manifest.  They made their way to the back of the plane - all gold-toothed smiles, chain tattoos as side burns, dollar signs for eyebrows, and with the manners of well-bred Southern gentlemen.  I let out a deep breath that I hadn't been aware of holding in.

Five take-offs and landings later, we finally arrived somewhere in the arid West. Still in handcuffs, shackles, and chains. Still a prisoner.  Still alive.  Ready for the next go-round.

Thank you for flying Con Air.