Why Don't You Love Me?

This is the loaded question I've been asking the LOML (aka love of my life) for the past five years of knowing him. All because I had temporarily forgotten my true worth when it came to loving him. Now that I am over the self-pity I allowed myself to indulge in while in prison, I'm now asking myself why on earth did I ever love HIM?  He is extremely unavailable, inattentive, and aloof. Beyonce had it right when she said "There's nothing not to love about me. Maybe you're not the one. Or maybe you're just plain Dumb!"

You Don't Even Care to Care

The last few weeks I've spent cleaning out my prison approved contacts list - deleting a lot of my old contacts/friends/Plan B's, C's and D's. Getting ready for my new life just around the corner. I even deleted the LOML from the list. Twice. In the last week.  Only to end up adding him back in after much consideration. I wasn't just quite ready to delete him for good yet. Until today. After one last desperate failed attempt at making him love me.

I should have known it was never gonna happen from the moment he said to me that his career would always come first. I had never had a man tell me that before, so I didn't quite believe him when he said it. Neither did I know exactly how to process that bit of information. All the while I'm thinking, "Fine. No problem. Go work so you won't be up my butt 24/7."   I didn't ever stop to think that he MEANT it literally. I mean, it's not as if when I considered painting him green and calling him Benjamin so I would find him more exciting - I actually meant it in a LITERAL sense. Don't we all sometimes say things we don't mean from time to time?

Check My Credentials


His being a workaholic didn't bother me in the least bit.  I needed a man with his own life's ambitions, so that I could be free to pursue my own. So this is a quality that I actually placed on the "pro" side of the list on my assessment of him.  Not too many women I know look forward to their significant others spending more time at work than at home.  But for me, the less time I needed to spend entertaining him, the better. So, yeah...work is good. His living four states away? Even better!

It's not as if I was ever going to fit into anyone's happy homemaker role in this lifetime.  And that's when I finally realized that it's not him that's maybe not the one. Maybe I'M just not the one.  It's me that was trying so desperately to become the ideal woman I was picturing in my mind that he needed or wanted.  And then I realized that no matter how much I tried to change who I am, it was never going to work with this man, or any ordinary man, for that matter. I'm way too into doing my own thing, working into all hours of the night, doing whatever I want, whenever I want.  I have a trash mouth when I'm mad, a crass sense of humor, I get bored easily, I LIKE to be alone, travel alone, eat out alone - but I'm also a walking contradiction.  I like a man to dote on me, adore me, take care of me, buy me things, pay my bills, go places with me on long weekend getaways. But when I need him gone, he needs to know when to go. And when to come back without me having to ask. Is this too much for a woman to ask for? This is probably why I will be all alone for the rest of my life. At least it is according to my mother, my friends, my friends' mothers, and their mother's mothers.

I've Got Moves In Your Bedroom

Case in point... One of my Plan D's flew in to see me, and while out to dinner looking over the menu discussing this and trying to decide on what to order, he said, "Don't look at ME. I'm not on the menu!" And I just couldn't resist... out from my mouth came, "Well that's a good thing because I was thinking of just f*@#ing you, not marrying you." So NOT the right thing to say if you want a guy to ever call you again. Well, at the time, I thought it was pretty effing hilarious. Still laughing. I thought we were platonic! Sheesh!!! Guys can be so sensitive!

Or, this other Plan Z, who was annoying the heck out of me whining about me not wanting to go out with him on this particular evening. He said, "But I drove over 200 miles to come see you, Alexa." My response... "So! All my OTHER boyfriends cross the seven seas to come and see me!" Um... he never called me again either.  Did I mention he was Plan Z?  I thought that was a pretty clever comeback. Obviously, he didn't. Oh, well, that's why it's called "dating" and not "commitment." He can now save on his gas mileage for sure.  So, what is a girl like me to do?

Honey, You Better Sit Down and Look Around

I've been considering going for a nice Jewish guy. I met one once. Leaving a bagel shop in the Upper East Side a few years ago. He's a lawyer on Madison Avenue. I'm a lawyer, so immediately I thought "No WAY!!!". I know I'm reaching, but I've often wondered where my life would be now if I actually had called him instead of losing his business card somewhere in the bottom depths of my Gucci pocket book. Hmmmm....

Too bad we don't have Google/Facebook/Linkedin/Twitter/People Finder here in prison.  I'd be all over that by now.  Can you imagine a bored prison babe with too much free time on her hands having access to all these tools? Scary, isn't it?

Well, there's always M. Krause, the sexy German-Mexican guy I met once on holiday. He had offered to pay whatever it took for me to leave my old life and become his wife. I wonder how much he would pay for me NOW? Am I worth less for being locked away all these years, or am I worth MORE because of it? I think it all depends on who you ask.

Let's face it, I get to work out everyday to keep the booty right, and these lips haven't kissed a man who isn't my father, brother, uncle, cousin or nephew in the last couple of years. That's gotta be worth something on the single's market! I wonder if his Black AMEX card really comes without a limit... I will be saying "Si! Si! Si!" all the way to the Cartier storefront in Manhattan first stop out of here!

I Even Put Money in the Bank Account

Well, to give credit where it's due to the LOML, we did agree to date casually "until someone better came along." Five years, and countless Match.com dates later, no one better ever did come along, but I kept hoping.

So, why then, am I so obsessed with making this guy fall in love with me, when clearly it was never our intention for that to happen? I've said "no" a million times over to a million different men, and when I finally found someone I wanted to say "yes" to, this one was no longer asking.

Perhaps it's nothing more than the thrill of the chase? Mixed signals coming from his sweet kisses? The really wanting to, but being afraid of everything that comes heavily packed in my Louis Vuitton baggage?

It doesn't really matter now. I am this close to coming home and going right back to making my own way in this world - unattached and free to choose someone truly deserving of me.

And as Beyonce says.....

I've got Beauty.
I've got Class.
I've got Style, and
I've got A$$.

I wish there was a more polite way of saying that state prison sucks.
It does.
And I can't think of one.

Once you are sentenced at the state level, you are immediately whisked away to the local county jail where you will be processed in, and where you will wait for prison transport to come get you. This can take weeks, even months sometimes - so make yourself comfortable in your new surroundings as best you can.

Most likely, upon arrival, you will be classified as being "high risk," and will be housed in maximum-security lockdown while awaiting transfer. Don't worry. There's lots of nice girls (like you, I presume) housed in max. You'll be just fine.

Let's talk state prison now, along with some basic survival tips.

The jurisdiction where I was sentenced sent all new prison arrivals to the state's maximum-security prison for processing, classification, and a nine-week A&O (Admissions and Orientation) program. I was transported in a repurposed school bus from the 1980s, now painted a muted chalk-white, that made its' rounds to all the local jails picking up inmates for delivery to the state prison a few hours away.

Tip: Eat the F#@king Sausage

After the last pick-up, there were only about 30 of us women in all that were headed to max on that particular prison run.  While there were no bathroom breaks along the way (you just had to hold it), there was the obligatory stop at McDonald's for a sausage, egg, and cheese breakfast combo (to go), which, of course, repulsed me because I was into eating "clean", causing me to stupidly give it away.  Who would have thought that would be the last decent meal I would be offered in the weeks to come?  Days later, feeling filthy, famished and defeated - I was STILL dreaming about that f#@king sausage! Give me my sausage back, please!!!

Okay. Sorry. About prison, then...

We arrived at the heavily secured prison gates, where we were let through, minutes later, after a thorough inspection of the bus and its undercarriage. I couldn't quite see anyone wanting to sneak their way INTO prison, but, hey - stranger things have happened!

The bus pulled into a tall building through a "sally-port" adjacent to the admissions building, where the garage-type door was quickly lowered behind us.  Here, we were escorted off the bus one by one, checked off the roster, and stripped of our steel.  Finally, we were allowed to use the restroom! There were two stalls with half-walls (for "privacy") sitting side by side along the wall in the middle of this room/driveway/oversized carport. We took turns, and then hurried our way into the admissions building. Surprisingly, no one yelled, screamed or was rude to us. So far, much better than Navy boot camp 20 years ago!

Tip: Don't Volunteer the Hair Extensions

Almost immediately you will be inspected, showered, and disinfected.  Then you will be mug-shotted, with your mascara running (the one you didn't wash off in county jail), and your hair sopping wet.  Don't tell them about your hair extensions just yet. Let them first ask you if you're wearing any. At least this way, you will have a fighting chance at a decent photo. (I hope you remembered your Vaseline, and while no one is looking, pinch your cheeks for a little rosiness to liven you up a little.) Okay, now you're ready. You'll have to do the Tyra Banks' Smize (smile with your eyes), because you won't be allowed to smile in your mug shot. 

If you are exceptionally pretty, they will make sure you look like hell in your photo. So, smile on the inside - radiating it through your eyes. Practice this in front of the mirror a few times, and take a few practice mug-shot selfies at home before your sentencing. It will be worth it to come prepared.

After your initial processing, you will be made to sit and watch a video on PREA (the Prison Rape Elimination Act), and on how to avoid "sticky" situations in prison. Here are some of those tips for you now:

Tip #1 - Don't Run in Prison (The bullets are REAL.)

Tip #2 - Don't Accept any Honey buns (They're not called "Honey" buns for nothing.)

Tip #3 - Don't Borrow Anything. Don't Lend Anything. (Quickest way to accumulate prison enemies.)

Tip #4 - Don't Talk to Anyone About Your Case (Snitches barter info for time off.)

Tip #5 - Don't Compliment Anyone (Unless you're looking for a girlfriend.)

Tip #6 - Don't Acknowledge any Compliments (See above.)

Tip #7 - Buy Your Own Coffee, Cream and Sugar (If you don't have any money, do without.)

Tip #8 - Don't Ask Anyone For Food  (It's okay to go hungry. You won't die.)

Tip #9 - Don't Talk About Your Family (No one needs to know who they are, or where they live.)

Tip #10 - Don't Talk About Your Money (Always say you're on a budget. Limit your spending. Don't flaunt what you have.)

Tip #11 - Don't Flash Your Dazzling Smile (Your teeth will get knocked out.)

Tip #12 - Keep Your Hair Hidden in a Bun (You might risk getting it cut off while you sleep.)

Tip #13 - Don't Wear Too Much Make-up (Your face might get slashed if you're too pretty.)

Tip #14 - Sleep Against the Wall on the Top Bunk Whenever Possible (It's harder to reach you there.)

Tip #15 - Sleep With One Eye Open (See above.)

Tip #16 - Lock Your Sneakers up at Night (They will get stolen. No one will care.)

Tip #17 - Don't Let Anyone Know Your Boyfriend's Name/Address/Phone Number (Prison bitches will be calling, sending sexy photos, asking him for money.)

Tip #18 - Always Refer to Your Boyfriend as a Loser With No Money and a Short D@#K (See above.)

Tip #19 - Buy an MP3 Player 1st Thing (To help drown out the zoo around you.)

Tip #20 - Research How to Avoid Panic Attacks. Learn to Meditate. (Even if you've never had one before in your life. This will come in handy in prison.)

There are so many more ways to survive state prison...just use your common sense. No one is your true friend here. Just remember that, and you'll be okay.

When I first got to prison, I freaked out over being locked in for most of the day and night. I had to learn to take control of my anxiety and subsequent panic attacks. It was one of the toughest things for me to deal with while in prison. One evening, at the onset of one such attack, I asked the guard if I could go outside for a short walk to calm myself. He said, "You picked the wrong country club, ma'am." And, guess what? I HAD picked the wrong one! At the feds, there's no problem going out for a moonlit stroll for whatever reason! Ugh!!! That didn't help me any at the time, though. One day, I will tell you what bad girl things I was forced to do to survive those attacks. For now, suffice it to say that you can buy ANYTHING in prison.

After the nine-week A&O process, I was moved to a medium-security facility a few hours away from that one. There, it was much safer, the warden was super-great, and we had a lot of fun stuff to do that we'll talk about later.

Oh, some last thoughts and observations...

(1) There is no need to bribe the officials to get you out of that hell-hole that is maximum-security prison...or, maybe there is. The non-boyfriend considered it.. I didn't ask how that went for him.

(2) If anyone asks you over the prison telephone, "Do you need me to make a phone call, hon?"  Say, in a language that he will understand, "NO!!! But, thank you for asking."

Ummm....the calls are RECORDED!!! DUH!!!

There is a huge disparity between going to state prison versus federal prison.  If you can avoid the state, I highly recommend it. Oftentimes, the state will pick up the charges on violation of state statute, and then the Feds will come in and piggyback on those same charges by changing the nature and scope of the alleged crime to fit nicely into a federal indictment as well.

Ask your state defense lawyer to request that your state charges be dropped in favor of the federal indictment. Most of the time, the state prosecutor will agree to do this, unless your case generates a ton of publicity and is considered a "high profile" case.  If that's the case (no pun intended), you are pretty much screwed, because...Congratulations! You've just provided the state prosecutor with a career enhancing notch on his or her belt.

But, in any event, let's talk prison - the first day, to be exact.

(This photo is not prison- just a light joke referencing "camp cupcake" aka federal prison)

Federal prison arrivals are a lot classier than state prison's. You will either arrive by private car (in the case of self-surrenders), passenger van (your ride from the airport or the local county jails - if there are but a few of you arriving on the same day), or the prison bus (which looks like a European private charter bus with bars on the windows that you can spot if you look closely behind the tinted glass windows... the U.S. government license plates are also an obvious giveaway). By now, it doesn't really matter how you get there. The point being that you've been sentenced to prison, and you've got to get there one way or another.

I had the pleasure of arriving by passenger van directly from the airport two hours away.  I managed to take in the sights during that long ride without having to force idle conversation with anyone.  I distinctly remember the hustle and bustle of big city life outside the airport, the heavy work-a-day traffic congestion, the outdoor shopping centers, car dealerships, chain restaurants, the Hindu Worship Temple, and one beautiful Mosque. 

I kind of got really excited when the Mosque came into view! I was hoping to spot my future husband through the back window of the van where I was seated in the last row cushioned quite comfortably between the warm, soft, and fluffy lady seated next to me, and the carpeted arm-rest to the right of me.  I was hoping to catch a glimpse of an extraordinarily handsome man so I could fantasize about our future together as I sat in prison for the next five years.  But, alas (and woe is me)... it didn't happen. I saw no one going in or out of any of those places along the way.  That was disappointing. Bleh!

We arrived at the prison camp sooner than I had wanted.  I was quite enjoying my temporary sojourn from prison. First a plane ride, then a land tour! Not too shabby for my last day "outside the fence."

We were transported wearing shackles, cuffs and chains, as usual - in case we tried for a daring escape before arriving at our loosely secured prison camp where anyone can freely walk out without much effort. But, Dont' Try It!!! It's rumored to cost you an "escape" charge, with a five year, day-for-day penalty added to your current sentence! So not worth it - unless you were dying tomorrow, then MAYBE it would be worth some further contemplation. But you better get that prognosis in writing straight from God first, because you just might live a little longer, and the Feds will make every minute of your extended life a living hell if you do live to see another day.

In other words, for those of you who are s-l-o-w to figure that I'M KIDDING...don't even THINK about it!!! You are not El Chapo, your tunnel has not been pre-dug for you, and when you do make your way to the shower area, it will only be to wash your ass - not your pathway to freedom!

Okay, now that we got those thoughts out of your head, and me out of further hot water with the Feds... let's talk some more about first day federal prison blues.

Federal prison camp has an intake process a little bit like the state's intake process, only much better.  Upon arrival, you are delivered to an administration area called R&D (Receiving and Discharge), where you are welcomed, given a place to sit, a hot meal, a prison issue uniform, shoes, underwear, a hygiene pack (same indigent pack - nothing fancy from Bath and Body works), and a bed roll - two cotton blankets, two sheets, a pillow case, and towels.  Here is where you are processed in, fingerprinted, mug-shotted (yes, I made that word up - like it?) and assigned to your housing unit.

After a few hours of processing, you are then escorted into the prison compound where your first reaction will most undoubtedly be ... What?!?! THIS is prison?!?!

Yes. It is.

Welcome to federal prison camp where the grass really does grow greener, the flowers bloom more fragrant, and the sweet smell of freedom wafts through the air conditioned air.

At your housing unit, you will be greeted by the Big Sisters - a welcoming committee that assigns a big sister to you by race or ethnic makeup. A little unlike a sorority's methods of assigning big sisters to new pledges, but the overall concept is very much the same.

Your big sister will walk you to your room (usually the temporary "Bus Stop" of about ten beds per room), provide you with much needed essentials (like coffee, good soap, and shower shoes), and give you a brief orientation on how to place a phone call and/or send email to let your family know that you are okay - you've made it through your first day of prison.  You both can breathe easier now.

The next few days will be filled with getting acquainted with the different programs offered (both leisure and educational), orientation, a campus tour, shopping and the issuing of uniforms.  There are no safety issues or concerns at federal prison camp. Here, you are safe and well taken care of. Tell momma not to worry.

Next week, we will talk about the state admission process to maximum security prison.

If you have any questions about prison, just submit them through the comments section down below, and I will do my best to answer them for you from my own personal experience and available resources.

Okay...talk to you then!

I woke up in a fabulous mood this past Sunday morning! I slept in until 9 a.m., got up to fix myself a steaming cup of java juice, then I toted my cosmetics bag, curling iron, and MP3 player to the spa-like bathroom to make myself beautiful so I could start the day off right. I was meeting my friends for a pancake brunch at 11.  (Did I mention I'm in PRISON?)

I danced my butt off to some old school dirty south booty shaking music. The very first song that came on was "Lean Like a Cholo" by Down AKA Kilo, then Destiny's Child's "Soldier", followed by Bone's "Homegurl (He Gotta)" - of course, we only get access to the edited versions, but our memories and imaginations fill in the blanks just the same.

So, all this got me thinking about God's funny way of punishing people like myself - the forever optimistic.  (No, I don't really think God punishes people. Puh-lease spare yourself the effort of a lecture here.)

It took an entire lifetime to meet a man that made me say to myself,  "I would marry that man," the moment we locked eyes from across the room. (Have I mentioned I am marriage averse? So, this was a HUGE deal!)

He was everything I had ever wanted in a man (except the big bank account, I'm sure - but let this be my little prison fantasy) - tall, dark, handsome, nice, funny, educated, and super intelligent. As an added bonus, he looked Middle Eastern, but was Hispanic, like me, spoke perfectly fluent Spanish, with a super sexy accented English!  Out of my eyes popped big, red, fluffy cartoon hearts - I was in LOVE!!!!

Then reality slapped me right in my perfectly round ass.. "Your in prison, Bitch! Get over it!!! Move on!!! Just thank God for putting that man in your path so that you have something pleasant to look at while riding out your time." Sigh!!!  I was already planning the wedding in my head. From then on, he became my eye-taco - a tasty treat for the eyes, but completely off limits!

It was a definite torture seeing him every day. I ended up quitting my prison job because of it! Everyday I had to remind myself through the use of my computer log-in..."Don't forget Sunil."  I had to remind myself at least 10 times a day not to forget the guy who was supposed to be the "love of my life."  It was a constant, all day reminder - one that didn't quite work. When it didn't, I resorted to plopping the LOML's photos all over my desk at all different levels and angles, hoping his gaze would reel me in back to reality. But, no... that didn't work either. I had it BAD!!!

It was just too much for me to handle, so at the first opportunity to leave my job, I grabbed at it and ran as if my prison life depended on it!  I was killing myself with the constant torture of what was that man! Then, thankfully, I graduated from that prison, and saved myself from all of that.

In prison, inmate and staff love connections are strictly off limits. Not that it never happens (it happens quite often), but the penalties are super stiff, and the consequences super serious.

Prisons adhere to a zero tolerance policy, and have implemented what is known as PREA - the Prison Rape Elimination Act.  This act was enacted for the protection of the prisoner - to discourage, prevent and/or eliminate sexual violence towards prisoners from both staff and other inmates alike.

This act criminalizes any sexual physical contact between staff and inmates (or inmate to inmate), leaving no room for "consensual" relationships, regardless of any insistence of consent by either party.  Under PREA, there are no willing participants - period!  Any staff member found engaging in a prohibited relationship with an inmate, can and will be prosecuted under this law.

This places a very heavy burden on staff to be careful not to toe the line with any inmate, especially when working in a prison environment full of deprived women who may or may not have the best intentions, or the best of integrity.

Offering credible and verifiable testimony against a staff member may result in the loss of career, and a potential prison sentence for the staff member, and an opportunity for a sentence reduction for the inmate victim who is willing to testify against the accused. Under this current set-up, someone has to lose, and it's not always the staff member accused of wrongdoing who loses.

The first issue is the reliance on the accuracy and veracity of the accusation and the accuser. The other issue is then the reliance on prisoners to actually report these crimes.  The immediate consequence of reporting is a trip to the SHU (Special Housing Unit - or solitary confinement), where the inmate is segregated from the general population for her protection. This is followed by an investigation of the charges, and a possible transfer of the inmate to another prison facility during the time it takes to investigate the incident reported. This transfer almost always results in an inconvenience to the prisoner through the limitation of visitation, phone, email, and mail services while in the SHU or in transit.

While these consequences act as a deterrent to the making of false accusations, they also inadvertently act as a deterrent to reporting.  How, then, does a prison system's administration act to protect its charges, while at the same time offering those same protections to its staff from false accusations? I'm sure that it's a delicate balance between the two, albeit an imperfect one.

The current system, however, does appear to be working. Most women in prison never experience any physical violence towards them - of any kind. I am almost certain that it's a direct result of the enactment of PREA, and of everyone becoming more aware of a prisoner's rights to be free from unwanted sexual advancements.

So, ladies, don't worry too much about this issue if you are getting ready to turn yourself in. Prison is not a "Caged Heat" sexual free for all. It's not "Orange is the New Black" when it comes to sexual relationships with staff or other inmates.  No one will bother you to become their girlfriend, some of the staff will only pursue you if you let them, and you're not leaving here gay if you didn't already come in with those tendencies. If you did, you're most likely to become "gay for the stay" - meaning you'll find yourself a "girlfriend" to hang out with, who will cook and clean for you.  If you're not gay - you won't become gay, period!  Regardless of the length of your sentence.

So, may the powers above forgive me, but I will continue to fantasize about my delicious taquito, eye-candy, love of my prison life. And may he invade my dreams each and every night until I leave prison altogether, and find me a "real" boyfriend. I will never be the one to tell him what he did for me all those years.

To put you in a booty shaking Sunday Fun-Day kind of mood, may I suggest the following playlist:

Going Back to Cali by The Notorious B.I.G.
Hypnotize by The Notorious B.I.G.
Look Out Weekend by Debbie Deb
Spring Love by Stevie B
Stuntin' Like My Daddy by Birdman and Lil' Wayne
Together Forever by Lisette Melendez
Un Booty Nuevo by Jowell and Randy
When I Hear Music by Debbie Deb
Dance (A$$) REmix by Big Sean/Nicki Minaj
Homegurl (He Gotta) by Bone
I Got 5 on it by Luniz

"The Mexican in me came out". That's my standard go-to every time I blow a fuse and lose my temper.  This, depending on who you are, and whether you know how to push my buttons - could either be all the time, or rarely ever.

"Do you think you're hurting me with those tiny little fists of yours?" The non-boyfriend would often ask as I pounded them rapid-fire into his big barrel chest.

"No. But I WANT to," was my standard response.  Then we would both break out in hysterics, and go back to our usual business.  And that's how a typical day would go for us.

Sometimes I just like to pick a fight. Depending on just how bored I am.  Other times, it's because you really did f@#king piss me off, and I'm so effing mad at you, I could shoot you! But it's only because I care.  Otherwise, I just wouldn't. So, think about it, HP (honey pie)... which one would you rather have? ... What? You're buying me diamonds? To make me feel better? Oh, um...okay. Thank you. You're so sweet!

I get PAID to argue - dammit!!! It's what I was trained to do... It's what I KNOW...It's in my Blood!!!

I couldn't very well deal with opposing counsel in that same way. For one, he would NEVER have been invited into my bed.  For another, he probably couldn't afford to make me laugh and keep me in good, FORGIVING, humor.  So, I had to think fast about how I was going to win this case before it got to trial.  Trials were expensive, and they ate away at the bottom line faster than a fat bitch at a buffet!

At the last settlement meeting, it was my turn to grab my briefcase and run. We didn't end up taking it outside, even though opposing counsel responded to my invitation to do so with a resounding, "Let's go!"

I had lost my composure in front of my clients. That was a big misstep in the legal world, and I was a bit embarrassed.  However, it turned out that my clients were quite impressed with my "negotiating" prowess, and went on and told their friends about it, earning me an even greater reputation as a hardnosed lawyer - opening up my practice to a new type of clientele - the young, reckless, and accident prone.

Preparing for war was no easy task.  Co-counsel and I had to think deep, organize, strategize, come up with a battle plan, align the troops, and get ready to strike!  This wasn't going to be any kind of ordinary war.  We had to outmaneuver this man, and hit him where he least expected!

So, we did what any other savvy street lawyers would do... we went on Craigslist, and engaged the services of a Cuban Voodoo High Priestess as a "litigation consultant" for the remainder of our negotiations. 

At first, she seemed a bit sketchy.  She showed up at near midnight to the little cottage I was renting, smelling of patchouli and nag champa incense, and wearing full ritual regalia - a long flowing skirt reaching to her ankles, a breezy purple, black and gold high priestess blouse, a turban wrapped around her head, many layers of necklaces, bracelets, anklets, big hoop earrings and a nose piercing. From underneath her turban poked out the ends of her dreadlocks here and there.  She LOOKED legitimate enough. She SMELLED like she knew what she was doing. So, sure...why not? We hired her on the spot!

On our first night, we got straight down to business. We went over the Wiccan Rede, and the Law of Three... why? I'm not really sure...she was supposed to be doing Voodoo on this dude, not the goody-goody Good Witch Wiccan stuff. We could have done that all by ourselves - if that's what we had wanted to do. But we went along with it anyway. No strangers to Wiccan witchery here.

After she nearly smoked us out of the place with her burning sage and a million tea-lights, the Priestess went for the biggest soup pot I had in the kitchen.  She boiled us up a sinister ritual wash made of dried herbs, scented oils, some sugar, honey and bad little puppy dog tails.

Next came some tantric moves practiced to the sound of her chanting along to the rhythm of beating drums emanating from her iTunes hooked up to the Bose - (we did the best with what we had, don't judge).

I'll leave out the part here dealing with the few droplets of menstrual blood, and fast forward to how I was able to obtain an energy sample - the Voodoo equivalent of an FBI DNA sample - from opposing counsel. It was easy enough.  I just asked to borrow his pen at one of our meetings, praised him on what a lovely pen it was, and then asked him (in front of everyone) if I could have it.  It was a lot of "ah, um, well... sure, why not?"... before he gave it up.  I was a bit discomfited having to ask for it (as if I couldn't afford my own fancy pen), but it was all for a greater cause. Worth it!

With pen in hand, we got down to some serious work. The Voodoo Queen would schedule her meetings with us always late at night - "when sexual energies were at their peak" - and worked until one or two in the morning transferring those energies back and forth until she could almost guarantee our sweet success.

By the time we ended our nightly rituals, we were fully empowered and ready to take on this twerp!  He had another thing coming!

The next settlement meeting turned out to be our last.  It started out with a much more pleasant exchange of courtesies, was highlighted by the flirtatious exchange of risque text messages as we sat across one another at the negotiating table, and ended with a nice settlement offer where all parties involved were more than satisfied.  This was followed by an invitation to a gourmet pancake breakfast the next morning at his "favorite romantic little restaurant" tucked away in a "quaint little town" nearby "where he sometimes likes to take his wife."  Wha...?

My co-counsel, the now accepted for who she is, non-lesbian (just looks like one, anyone could have easily made that same mistake - surely you can understand that, right?) was not invited.  And, I politely declined his pathetic (and not so subtle) little attempt at buttering my biscuit at breakfast. Uh... no, thanks. Here's your pen back.

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.