Lawyers make money off of their clients. Plain and simple. Just how much money is out there to be made, no one teaches you in law school.  At least not the one I went to.  There are no classes to sign up for on how to get your hustle on when you're just starting out.

Maybe in the Ivy leagues they don't need to teach young lawyers on how to make their first millions, because they were born with their investment bankers at their side counting their money for them.  For the rest of us corporate and lowly street lawyers from B-schools, and without trust funds, we have to learn and earn as we go.

My daddy wasn't a lawyer. Neither was my granddaddy. Nor my Uncle Mike.  As a matter of fact, except for my aunt Gloria who graduated community college, I was the first to step foot at university.  I had to figure things out for myself every step of the way.  Which was okay.  I'm Latina. On one hand, I had my mother teaching me how to coordinate my handbags, shoes and underwear so that I could land me a husband. And on the other, I had my dad teaching me the virtues of hard work, entrepreneurship, and honesty. I never much cared for the husband part of that equation.

Almost all law students and practicing attorneys become familiar with the "Lodestar Method" of calculating legal fees.  It basically states that the more experience you have, and the more expertise you've developed, the more money you can bill your clients per hour.  So, in essence, a 30-year veteran should be able to bill more per hour than a young attorney with only 10-years of experience under his or her belt.  That's the way it works in theory.  Except for wrongful death and personal injury cases where any idiot can bill at a standard 33 1/3% of recovery (plus fees and expenses), if no suit is filed, and 40% the instant a lawsuit is commenced.  In most cases, "commencing a lawsuit" means filing a one-page document with the courts called a "Notice of Action," and Viola! You've just increased your fee by over 6%!

What I figured out very early on, is that some of the male attorneys practicing in the same ranks as I was, were sexist, lazy alcoholics that all belonged to the same good ole boys club as their daddies and granddaddies before them.  I had to work extra long hours to overcome the fact that I was a Latina woman with no previous professional ties to the community.  It was not long before I was jumping hurdles and running way ahead of them.  Maybe it wasn't because I was any smarter than they were, but because I took great pleasure in working night and day to crush them in the courtroom. That was my modus operandi as I worked to make a name for myself - Kill or be Killed!  But, of course, with a sweet smile and a smartly coordinated briefcase. It worked like a charm - most times.

Except for this one relentless slimy creep of an insurance defense attorney who wouldn't let up on his company's purse strings.  We negotiated for weeks that turned into months.  He wouldn't budge. I wouldn't budge.  We were spending thousands of dollars wrangling with this clown who protected the insurance company's money as if it was his own. Granted, he was probably being paid a handsome bonus dependent on how much money he saved the company.  But, dammit! I wanted to max out every bit of my 40%, with a sizable amount left to my client after fees and expenses.

I tried everything in my arsenal, but nothing worked against this squeaky little man. So, I enlisted the help of co-counsel.  Someone with much more experience than I had.  Surely she could wrest a large settlement off of this guy's insurance company.  But, no...he started taking pot-shots at her from day one - just shy of calling her a lesbian with an ugly hat, as he slapped her hat right off of her head sending it flying across the room.  He quickly grabbed his stuff and stormed out.

At our next settlement meeting, my co-counsel and I rode up to the 20th floor fuming mad, plotting our every move and preparing for war! He appeared out of nowhere opening the conference room doors for us and said...

"Ladies first." A thick sarcasm hanging onto each of his words.

"I'm not a lady. I'm a lawyer!" I said, glaring past him.

He broke down and laughed, easing the tension for a brief moment.  The negotiations went south very fast soon after. 

"You want to take this outside?" I asked, sizing him up.

Mentally taking in the location of either the nearest baseball bat or my gun.  I was ready to beat the crap out of this little f*#@er!  I was tired of his snide remarks and sideways glances at my friend and co-counsel.  He was being so politically incorrect, and she's not even gay!  But nonetheless, this meant war - and it was on!!!

Getting to the Dominican Republic was an adventure all in itself.  On our way to the airport, I realized my passport was 10 days expired!

Shit! Now what? Did I even NEED a passport to get into the D.R.?  Or just on the way out?

One quick Google search confirmed it was a definite need both on the way in and on the way out.  We had just a few hours before having to meet the UPS flight to claim the corpse.  Without a passport, that would be nearly impossible!  Without a doubt, I needed to be there when the cargo flight landed. Now it was just a matter of how I was gonna get there.

I had already promised the dead guy's family that I was coming.  Because I "cared" - unlike all those other shyster lawyers vying to land this case. (wink-wink) If I didn't keep my word, what would they be left thinking - especially with all the other empty promises yet to come?

Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!  What was I gonna do?

I looked over at the undertaker.  She looked back at me.  Both of us panic stricken.  (Leaders don't panic. They get concerned.)  The thought kept circling in my head.  Who the F#@K came up with that anyway?!?! Carnegie, Warren Bennis, Donald Trump? I'm REALLY effing concerned here!

"Okay. We got this," I said.  "We can catch a flight to Puerto Rico.  How long will it take to get us to the D.R. from there?"

"By plane?" asked the undertaker.

"By boat," I said. "How far is it between the two?  Do you think we can smuggle me in that way?"

"I don't know. Let me check."  She called her funeral director to ask him to do a bit of quick research for us.

"It will take a couple of days. But it's very dangerous. Trip Advisor doesn't advise," he replied a few minutes later.

"How dangerous?" I asked.

"A lot dangerous," he said.

"Ugh! Okay. Thanks." I disconnected and kept driving.  Shit! Now what?

"Don't worry. I got a plan." The undertaker got on the phone to our friend at the D.C. passport office.

"We've got an emergency," she said. "We need a passport renewal for A.C. - ASAP!  Like right now!"

"Okay.  No problem. Give me the number," said D.C.

"Got it," Undertaker said into the phone.  "Head South, A.C. We're going to Miami, trick."

"Woohoo!" We both screamed out, fists pumping through the now open sunroof of the Hummer.

Seven hours later, we boarded our flight to the D.R.  Fresh passport in hand. No illegal entry necessitated.  There was a faint skid mark across my smiling face from where the photo got run over as I dropped it in the street in front of the passport office.  But, eh... no one noticed much.

The SDQ airport was a roaring madhouse!  There was a loud cacophony of merengue music, laughter and chickens clucking.  We quickly made our way out to our waiting taxi that took us to the cargo shipping area.  An old, beat up hearse was stationed outside the morgue, awaiting us all - the body, the family, the undertaker, and the lawyer.  We had made it! Wooohooo!

The trip from the airport to the family village/ghetto of Christo Rey took approximately 2 hours and 45 minutes of driving through winding rural roads, hilly terrain, one pit stop at a convenience store so that the men in the hearse could stop and eat some fried chicken, another stop a few minutes later for some refreshments at a roadside stand where slain goats hung by their hind legs, and finally an unexpected stop when the hearse broke down in the middle of a small village.

The guys in the hears came over to our taxi, said something to the driver, and then they all left together.  They left us behind to fend for ourselves as another small gang of Haitians - kids, this time - swarmed both vehicles from all sides. By "small", I mean probably a million!

"Cierren los cristales y atranquen las puertas!" The taxi driver yelled out behind him.

"Wha...?" I tried to ask, unable to articulate.

And, just like that, they were gone - leaving behind that gem of advice to close all the windows and lock the doors.

Shit! Double Shit!! Shit! Well, on the bright side, we didn't have to pay the cab fare for that long ride to our certain death.

The decedent's brother was trailing behind in his rusty jalopy.  It was only a few short minutes before he pulled up behind us shooing the little kids away from the taxi, then from the hearse.  He said something to them that I couldn't understand, and the kids backed away with hands clasped in front of them, bowing slightly as they retreated.  They had big toothed grins spread across their little faces...awwww... they're so cute! Uh, yeah... not really... get us the eff out of here!!! What just happened?!?

It turns out that the hearse driver and his team of imbeciles thought that they had been cursed by the spirit of the dead guy for having left his body sitting in the sweltering heat while they enjoyed their lunch.  So, they couldn't think of anything more reasonable to do than to run away when the hearse gave out.  They may have grumbled something about the devil-woman with the yellow hair riding in the taxi - but, I'm not too sure about that.

It's funny how the mind erases entire time periods of our lives.  Dates, entire events, people, places and things.  And then, when we least expect it -  a sound, a smell, a simple conversation opens up a floodgate of regressed memories surfacing from somewhere deep within the body, mind and soul.

Sometimes, these memories reach way back into childhood - a most idyllic one it was.  Others, they go back to a time of young adulthood when first discovering the power of a bright mind coupled with youthful beauty.  But hardly ever to the near present.  Almost as if all these memories were recalled from another lifetime.  From somewhere deep within a long forgotten past.  Some of these are the memories which cause the greatest pain.  Those that would often rather be forgotten, since one can't go back in time to right certain wrongs.

And then the red bird sings...and flutters away past me. Momentarily breaking the reflective spell I had fallen under.  Still sitting there...on the concrete bench in the meditation garden.  Trying to make sense of my life.  Memories opening up old wounds.  Those that I no longer try and hide.  A heart teeming with both hatred and shame.  Neither one quite able to take much of a stronghold, but still competing.  Only, I don't quite recall this particular memory being all that real.  Just in my mind's eye, I see it very clearly.  Bach's Prelude providing the somber sound score to the film screening over and over inside my own head.  Maybe it's that I still don't allow myself to fully admit to it.

The first time that I realized that I hated myself for what I had become, was when I found myself standing next to the frozen cadaver whose cardboard casket was being ransacked by a small gang of Haitian men inside the makeshift morgue within the cargo hold area of the Santo Domingo airport in the Dominican Republic. SDQ.  I remember the unusual airport city-code well from my days working for the airlines. Now, forever etched into my memory.  An entirely new image conjured in lieu of the sandy beaches and balmy weather touted in the travel brochures.

Never would I have imagined myself years later trailing a dead body there - hovering over it with a proprietal smugness - while silently praying to God that the men desecrating it wouldn't turn their savage attentions toward me or my friend, the undertaker.  I could do nothing to stop it.  I did nothing to try to. So, I just stood there and watched.  Not feeling either particularly helpless, nor of wanting to.

Sometimes, in life, we wish we could get a do over.  This is one of those times for me. This particular wrongful death case I chased here to the Dominican Republic, would ultimately be one of those defining moments of my legal career before my eventual disbarment.  One having nothing to do with the other.  However, it's how I came to earn the reputation of being a shrewd lawyer, thus earning me a most appropriate moniker. One I would never be able to shake off.

While I was away, my staff took it upon themselves to reprint my legal stationery, business cards, and accolades hanging on the walls with "Ruth B. Costa, Esq. - Attorney and Counselor at Law."

"Who's Ruth B.?" I would ask, days later, walking into the office to the sound of sniggers all around.

"Uh. That's you, Bosslady," said the handsomest and bravest young attorney of the bunch, albeit a bit nervously.

"Ruth B.?" I asked, raising an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Yes, Boss. You're the baddest!" He blushed a bit.

"It means Ruthless Bitch!" Said the New Yorker paralegal, speaking out of turn and straight to the heart of the matter. 
"They says yous one bad bitch, following a dead body to the D.R. Uh-huh.  Not yous ordinaries ambulance chase-ah. Bitch'll chase a hearse to make a doll-ah."

"Ahhh...I see." I said.  "But, please, just call me Ruth." 

I turned and walked away into the privacy of my office to dictate the contractual terms for the wrongful death case I just landed while I was away.

There is a price to pay for everything we do in life... if you can believe that. I don't ever recall seeing things in terms of good or bad - just right and wrong.

Coming to SDQ chasing this lead was more wrong than anything I've ever done in my life.  The price I continue to pay is the guilt that has never left me for doing the wrong thing, while convincing myself of doing what was right.

In life, I have learned, we see only what we want to see.  And we perceive things how we want to perceive them.  Justifying our actions (or inactions, in some instances) by how we mold certain truths inside our own heads.  Do overs are not always possible - no matter how badly we wish for one.  Doing the right thing, the first time, is also not always possible.  Learning from our past mistakes builds character, as long as we don't keep making the same mistakes over and over again.  It's called growing.  And it's a part of life.

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.

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".

"Did you see Carmelita on the television news programa last night?"

"Si, Chica.  I couldn't believe it! I heard she shot that no good husband of hers finally!  Ya era tiempo...ese desgraciado, hijo de..."

"I know, right?  Did you see how pretty she looked-ed-it on the television?"

"Si, como no?  Her make-up looked so good, and that dress she had on made her look so skee-knee! I'm so proud of her.  She looked so pretty! Como una artista! Que belleza!"

"I know! I'm so jealous!!!"

In Latino American culture, it's not what you do, it's how good you look getting caught doing it that matters.  Most short-comings, or felonious conduct, for that matter, can be overlooked so long as you look beautiful, and you hold yourself together in front of the camera lens.

Latina women prize their beauty, and will go to great lengths to preserve what they've got, or to improve on their given lot.  We love everything that enhances both our beauty and femininity.  Most times, we won't leave out the door without our full make-up on, or "bien maquilladas", our beautiful form-fitting dresses, and our sky-high stilettos.  We also take great care to always smell really good so that when the chicos walk by, they instantly fall madly in love at our feet and begin to weep for our love and devotion.  That's how our mommas taught us, and that's exactly how we like it!

So, not unlike Carmelita, it's important to know the rules of scoring a fabulous mugshot before you head out to commit that felony.

First, know that you WILL get caught.  It might not be immediately after you commit the crime, but eventually you WILL be brought in to do the time.  So, always, and I do mean ALWAYS, be camera ready - even in the shower!  You just never know when the feds will be busting down your door.

The rule here is to always have your face full on and flawless. Even if it means adding on an extra layer or two of foundation and pressed powder.  If you use the good kind, you won't have to worry about clogging up your pores!

The next step is to apply your falsies with extra-strength, long wearing and WATERPROOF adhesive.  Or, better yet, go get them eyelashes professionally extended, chicas!!!  The application will last up to six weeks, and through several mugshots in the event you are transported from holding facility to holding facility.  Very well worth the small fortune.  (Just bill it to your ex who got you in this mess anyway.)

If you are a bit on the brave side, you might as well go for it all and get them eyebrows tattooed, as well as your lip and eye liner.  It will last for decades, and thus won't smear off at an inopportune time.  The tattoos might not be so appealing during your close-up, but they photograph spectacularly!  And having an attractive photo is what counts during the intake process, as this is the image that will define you throughout your incarceration. Just go to mugshots.com - you'll see what I mean.

When you're all done with hair and makeup, finish it all off with extra-hold aerosol hairspray to lock in your look.  Trust me, you'll end up with a beautifully shellacked mug that even those hot television camera spotlights won't be able to sweat off!

For some practical advice, always dab a thick coating of petroleum jelly right behind your ears so that you can reach for it to use on your lips right before the camera captures your image.  It will keep your lips from cracking, and will ensure a glossy lip and attractive smile at picture time.  This tip also works well for air travel on Con Air, especially being that the circulated cabin air has a very drying effect.

Now comes the hair... Ladies, if your hair is FRIZZY, go get yourself a weave, gurl!!!  Better yet, go get yourself some fusion micro-links so that they are more difficult to detect and you won't be made to ditch the wig when they process you in.  Fusion extensions are not easily detectable, and they can't be "detached" from your own hair without the proper chemicals.  So, chances are that you will be allowed to keep them on your head, even after you go through the "hair inspection" phase at intake.  Be warned, however, that there is a risk that your entire head of hair will be cut off where the extensions meet your real hair, leaving you with a very close crop. (Read... a man-ly cut... which is never good when your final destination is LA PINTA, and not LA QUINTA... in other words... MAXIMUM SECURITY PRISON!!!) 

Your best overall bet is voluntary- or self-surrender, if you can swing it with your judge at sentencing.  This will allow you to turn yourself in at your designated facility at a specific time and date for you to start serving your sentence.  This way, you can be prepared for the intake process and that dreaded mugshot!

There is no statutory provision for this practice of allowing you to turn yourself in at a later date and time, so be sure to discuss this option with your attorney so that your request can be presented to the judge at the time of your sentencing.  You may even get the opportunity to select at which facility to do your time in.

If allowed to self-surrender, your friends or family can drop you off at the front door of the facility (e.g. Prison).  You won't be in handcuffs, shackles or chains at your arrival. You'll avoid the weeks of travel between holding facilities and county jails en route to your final destination. Thus, you will look FRESH AND FABULOUS in your mugshot!  It will make your transition into prison life more bearable, and it will make your momma proud when her comadres (las chismosas) look you up online to find things about you to gossip about to everyone in the barrio.

Good luck, Chicas!!!

One of the highlights of prison life is what is known as Mail Call. Mail call occurs twice each evening - once at 6 p.m. and again at 9 p. m. Prison popularity is gauged in one respect by the amount and quality of mail a prisoner receives at mail call, or what is more commonly referred to as “male” call.

A recent prison arrival, or newbie, is almost always expected to receive the most mail during the first few weeks of incarceration. Those newest arrivals aren't factored in when determining who ranks highest in the hierarchy of mail call popularity. It is understood that a person new to prison still has most of their contacts from home intact, and they are sure to receive a large amount of mail from their friends and family at the beginning of their sentences. It is the long-timer who receives a steady stream of incoming mail from “the outside” who is most impressive, and thus, the most popular at mail call. During mail call, inmates gather at the common area (otherwise known as the day room) in front of the duty officer's desk. The ladies who gather for that first call take note of everyone whose name was called, the number of times called, the type of mail received, the size and color of the envelope, and the number of postage stamps on the face of the package. If an inmate receiving mail did not present for mail call, a compound-wide inmate alert is sent to notify that person that she has received mail, the number of pieces received, the size of the envelope or package, the title of the book or magazine received, or whether the mail piece was a letter, a package, a subscription renewal notice, a postcard, jail mail, or hate mail.

Jail mail is any piece of mail in the form of case status updates, notifications from staff, progress review forms, etc. generated from the prison staff to be forwarded to an inmate. It serves a purpose not unlike intradepartmental mail in a corporation. Jail mail is almost always welcome by an inmate, especially if it details news of a release date, travel plans or a sentence reduction.

Hate mail, on the other hand, is the most despised of all. Hate mail usually comes from the mail room staff alerting the inmate that her mail has been blocked, denied, or returned to sender for various reasons outlined in the hate mail form. One of the most common reasons mail is withheld or denied is because it was deemed to be three-way mail.

Three-way mail is communication that is censored, monitored or banned. Usually it is attempted communication between inmates at different prison facilities that has not been cleared (or approved) by prison staff. This type of mail usually passes through a "bounce house" where a friend or family member accepts mail from one prison inmate, and then repackages it and forwards it to another inmate at a different prison facility. This type of communication is the most dangerous. Severe penalties are handed to prisoners caught bouncing three-way mail. It presents a serious security breach because of the ability of inmates to gather or send information about a certain facility, its’ daily practices and procedures, its’ staff or other inmates and where they are housed. However, the most common use of bounce houses for three-way mail is to facilitate the exchange of mail from inmates at different facilities for friendship, romance and long-distance relationships. Typically an inmate's husband, boyfriend, or "co-defendant" who is also incarcerated will send a photo of himself and his “home boys" to his female prison contact. The “home boys" are usually those guys who are looking for a prison pen-pal. Their names, inmate numbers, and bounce house addresses are discreetly included in the letter containing the photo. The receiver's job is then to locate interested female inmates to exchange correspondence with one or all of the home boys.

Entertaining oneself with pen pals is a favorite inmate pastime, whether they are prison pen pals or otherwise. While most state prison systems allow direct communication with non-inmate pen pals through regular channels of communication such as the U.S. Postal Service, email, telephone, or in-person visitation, all states ban most inmate to inmate correspondence. Some states ban pen pal solicitation correspondence between business entities and inmates in what is known as the Pen Pal Solicitation Rule.

While this rule prohibits inmates from soliciting pen pals, it does not prohibit correspondence with non-inmate pen pals. The rule bans inmates in certain states from placing advertisements soliciting pen pals. Inmates found to be violating this rule, either by direct placement of ads, or through the assistance of third parties, face disciplinary action. The rule was enacted at the state level to prevent inmates from using pen pal solicitation services to defraud others. The one exception to this rule is Christian Pen Pals. This pen pal service is the only one allowed to solicit in certain states where this ban is in place, ostensibly because it limits solicitation to direct one to one matching, versus soliciting blindly en masse. The U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons does not adhere to this ruling and has no direct ban on communications with pen pals other than unauthorized inmate to inmate communication, and in-person visits which are subject to certain restrictions based on each individual facilities’ rules.

Some popular pen pal websites include Prison Pen Pals, Meet an Inmate, and Write a Prisoner.com. These services typically solicit pen pals for prisoners and non-prisoners alike, and the costs to subscribe range between twenty to forty dollars each per year.

In my experience, mail call evolved from my being the most popular girl in prison, to really wishing I had a pen pal, to finally getting one, and then becoming bored with him in less than a week's time.

The first go-round, when I was sentenced at the state level, my most ardent admirer would write to me religiously. He never failed to send to me at least one letter a day for months on end, along with large envelopes filled cards, love notes, poems, postage stamps, stationery, and news updates from home. And every quarter, as allowed, he would send me care packages with fresh contact lenses, clothes, shoes, intimate wear, and goodies to snack on. My commissary and telephone accounts were the constant recipients of his tokens of affection which afforded me to place up to twenty 15-minute phone calls to him each and every day, plus everything else a prison princess could ever want or need.

I truly was the envy of the compound when it came to male admiration. I felt so loved, protected and cherished until that one day when I went to make my usual phone call first thing in the morning, and there was no answer on the other end. Nor was there one at mid-day. Nor in the evening well past this particular physician's normal work hours. That was the first clue that something was amiss. When I then tried to call his momma, she declined my call. That was not only hurtful, but it also sent a very clear message that she no longer had the duty to make nice with me.

Finally the weekend visit didn't come as it usually did. This time there was an answer on the other end of the line. Only to inform me that his pet bunny had died that very morning, and funeral arrangements needed to be made. There would be no visit that day. I suggested putting the freakin bunny in the freezer until after his visit, but apparently the bunny was Muslim, and required a proper burial within 24 hours. The drive to see me was 7 1/2 hours each way, so the visit was a no-go.

 I stopped calling after that. I allowed myself two entire days to cry and get him out of my system. After that, I took all that extra time and energy and concentrated it on myself instead. I had no urge or impulse to pick up the phone to call him or to write to him as I was used to. I did, however, pick up the long-ignored fan mail received from random men who had followed my case in the media. I read it, and tossed it out in contempt - not realizing just how lonely my journey would become along the way, in the background still loomed the love of my life who I still held out hope for.

The fan mail quickly dissolved into a trickle. By then, I was released from state prison looking fit and beautiful. I emerged an emotionally stronger woman, and no longer felt needy when it came to having a man in my life. But still I held out for the one who barely paid me any attention, ignored me most of the time, and never came to see me.

In the interim, between state and federal prison sentences, I did try in vain to find a suitable replacement for both of these men. Although one was no longer a viable contender, the other still held my heart. I had eight solid weeks to replace him, so I did what any other single woman in her forties would do - I speed dated on Match.com. I accepted dates from only the most qualified of men to even remotely come close to replacing what I once had. I dated every type of physician, surgeon and specialist known to modern American medicine. I made a slew of new friends, but I didn't find someone who would steal my heart.

I came to federal prison still single as ever. Then the fan mail started up once again. And I ignored it as only I would do. Finally I decided to accept a pen pal request for friendship from a gentleman in the United Kingdom. After the fifth day of exchanging emails, I became bored beyond belief with him and his mundane life. I gracefully bowed out of that correspondence. From that singular experience, I realized that sometimes lonely is okay, and that what we might think we want isn't always the answer to what we need. I am still pining for that lost love, but I am also leaving myself open to meeting someone new, reminding myself that there are millions of men in this world - there's bound to be one out there that is perfect for me.