I couldn't tell you the time, date or location with any immediate certainty; however, what I could tell you is that we weren't in for much of a pleasant layover.  Our final stop yielded us as what we would later find out to be the Oklahoma Federal Transfer Center, in Oklahoma City.

By the time we arrived at the facility, almost all of the women had managed to find new boyfriends from among the male prisoners aboard the flight.  The long flight time also proved to be ample opportunity for consummation of these noncommittal relationships - lending a slightly different take to the traditional induction into the Mile High Club.

Ordinarily, the airplane would have made its taxi directly up to the gangway leading straight into the seemingly innocuous high-rise building in front of us.  Except, of course, on this particular frigid November day where we were made to deplane onto the runway and then marched single file up the tarmac, and onto a steep set of stairs leading straight into a new kind of Hell.

Once again, surreal is how I could best describe my surroundings.  We all made our way into the building at a snails pace - lots of shuffling and metal clanking - eyes darting nervously in every direction as we did our best to take in this new place that was unlike anything I could ever have imagined.

We stepped into a long and narrow corridor.  There, we found ourselves lined up shoulder to shoulder atop a long metal elevated runway where a small army of U.S. Marshals stripped us of our steel.  Everything in there was the color of prison. Grey. More grey. And then some charcoal - for added contrast.  This is where I last parted with my beloved shoes. It would be another long five years of missed fashion seasons, latest trends and fabulous footwear.  Five long years of khakis, chains, and combat boots. Five long years of my life all set to be gone.

The men and women were by now separated into two groups.  There were about thirty of us women, and approximately four times as many men.  We were taken into closed off dressing areas where we were stripped, inspected, and outfitted in khaki scrubs, a white t-shirt, blue cotton slip ons, socks and prison issue undergarments.  Some of us women were issued used panties smelling of antiseptic institutional detergent. 

From here, we boarded elevators - up or down - I couldn't tell you.  We discharged into a dungeon-like area whose walls were dark, damp, and lined with steel in a stamped diamond pattern similar to an auto mechanic's garage. The men went off to the right into a long narrow cell with large barred windows facing inward.  The women were led into a small and cramped cage of a room across the hall. It was already at capacity with women filling every inch of floor space.  They either stood, crouched or sat shoulder to shoulder, and heel to foot on the damp and filthy floor. The room smelled of body odor, urine, sweat and menstruation.

We all shared the one cold and discolored steel toilet that sat near the open glass window across from the men's holding cell.  Every time one of us had to go, we took turns forming a human curtain facing outward to give some privacy from the men's glares or from the occasional Marshal doing his rounds. We struggled to keep toilet paper supplied, and we could forget about asking for tampons or other hygiene products.  We were no longer women, we were now inmates. The scum of all society.  Not worthy of even a single sanitary pad.

Some of the women had been waiting there for days for word on their immigration status.  They hadn't bathed. They hadn't been given a bed to sleep on. They hadn't been afforded the same protections under the Constitution as the rest of us. No one had yet to explain to anyone of us where we were, or how long we were expected to be there.  I didn't know if this was a stop-over for the night, for a few weeks, or forever.

Many hours later, all the Con Air passengers were gathered and escorted up to another floor where we were processed in yet again.  It was not until we were photographed, fingerprinted, and DNA'd here that we were given information as to where we were, how long we were expected to remain, and where we would be headed to next.

This holding area was bright, clean and spacious in comparison to where we had just been.  A very welcoming contrast to the hell hole we left behind.  Here, we were able to relax a bit - we were American citizens, after all.  Armed now with a fresh set of clothes, new underwear, a hygiene pack, and clean bedding, we made our way to our new temporary sleeping quarters. The cells were very clean and comfortable. We even had thick comfy mattresses to sleep on.  Not your ordinary jailhouse cots. It was unfortunate that my roommate found it necessary to twiddle more than her thumbs all night long with her long bone-skinny arthritic fingers, while our neighbors played phone tag with the men located one floor above us.  The men would flush the toilets to drain them so that they could send down Ziploc baggies full of coffee, creamer and extra creamy goo for their enjoyment.  The women, in turn, would fish string their panties up to the men as a reward for the goodies passed on to them.  This went on every night for weeks.  I couldn't wait to get out of this crazy place!  Even maximum security state prison was tamer compared to this hot mess!

By the end of a few weeks, some of the women would find themselves impregnated by these faceless men.  Their children destined to know their fathers only by their inmate numbers for the first few years of their young lives. When I asked what would compel a woman to do this - the answer was always the same. It was their last chance at motherhood before being locked away during their best reproductive years. So, as it turns out, they were using the men as a means to a much desired end.  And the men ... well, the men, I'm sure, weren't thinking that far ahead.

Thank you for the coffee, cream and sugar, Sugar.  Please come again.