Embezzlement, betrayal, and federal prison

Today I'm sharing a story from Suzette Smith, who spent 15 months in a federal prison. This is chapter one of her memoir.

Hi Friends,

This week, I’m highlighting another talented writer, Suzette Smith. I know her as Zette. I met her in my memoir writing class and was totally captivated by her story. She’s writing a memoir about her time in a West Virginia federal prison.

I’ll never forget the first time I heard her essay in class. My jaw dropped. Zette doesn’t exactly look like someone who’s served time. (I know, I have to stop this notion of what the stereotypical incarcerated person looks like.) 

As I got to know her better through class, I felt like Zette and I could be friends IRL. She’s charismatic, funny, and smart. I wanted to know more about what happened. How’d she land in prison? What’s her background? 

Outside of class, Zette and I met on Zoom to discuss her memoir structure, and I provided feedback on a chapter she wrote. Maybe she wanted my help because I’m passionate about all things prison from Stories About My Bro and my work with Prison Journalism Project. 😬

OK, enough backstory.

In 2019, Zette served a 15-month prison sentence for wire fraud at Alderson Federal Prison Camp in West Virginia. This is her first chapter. 

Let me know what you think, your feedback and comments are welcomed. It always helps to hear what others think of your writing. And of course, your likes and shares are too. 🥰

Chapter 1

“Did you talk to your family?” Maeve asked.

“Last night,” I replied. “And Mom texted this morning.”

It was still dark outside at 5:30 on this somber morning. My friend, tall and red-headed, was serving breakfast in her large, refurbished kitchen; just one light on, over the island. 

It was fruit and cereal, just for us two. We were dressed but cheerless as we ate.

“Have you heard anything from the women at CF Literacy?”

My eyes met hers before I replied. I could see her compassion and my own pain reflected back at me.

“Nothing,” I said.

We slowly chewed our cereal.  It tasted like cardboard to me.  I was leaving for prison in less than an hour. The next 15 months laid out like a blank slate before me.  

Nothingness.  No friends, family, phone, or anything familiar. 

“I do not expect to hear from them,” I continued, “They said what they needed to say in court.”  I was defeated.

The women at CF Literacy had been my closest friends. I thought we would work this out together. I never believed I would actually go to prison.  I’d never known anyone who had ever gone to prison.  

I was afraid to go to prison, ashamed of what I had done. I served as the Treasurer of CF Literacy for over five years. I was a welcomed guest in their homes, sharing meals and swapping stories. I knew their birthdays, their quirks, and the names of all their children. I loved them and the work we did together. 

Then, I had betrayed them all, embezzling over $100,000. 

“I haven’t talked to any of them in over a year,” I said, “And I don’t think ...”  I swallowed the lump in my throat. Today was not a day for crying.  

Maeve changed the subject. “Did Tara get home OK?”

“Yeah. She landed in Salt Lake yesterday afternoon.”

Tara was one of my closest and oldest friends and flew from Utah to be with me these last two days. She held my hands and then my face while we talked about all that had happened.  

“You are the bravest person I know,” she told me.  

I cried and she held me tighter. 

“I’ve never loved you more.” 

She offered to pay for my storage, so we moved all my stuff into a 10’ x 10’ and I had been living with Maeve ever since.  

The clock ticked. Maeve and I knew that Cherlyn would arrive soon to drive me to West Virginia.

With nothing more to say, we wrapped ourselves in our own thoughts until the knock came at the door. I stood up at my full height, 5’8”, squared my shoulders, and opened it. Cherlyn dressed casually, like me, with no makeup. Her slim hands and long fingers reached out to me as she wrapped me in a hug. She had witnessed all the hard stuff up these past months: FBI, the lawyers, case documents, plea agreements, fingerprinting, and the sentencing: 15 months of incarceration. And now was the day of self-surrender. 

I left everything behind - my clothes packed neatly in the closet, my computer and list of passwords, and my phone, silenced and shut off, as I walked down the steps and climbed into the car.

The familiar road signs of Northern VA flew past. We merged onto Hwy 66 and headed west.  “What should we listen to?” Cherlyn asked.

“County,” I said. 

Blake Shelton’s voice sang out from Pandora. 

I wondered if there was a radio in prison as I laid back, closed my eyes, and listened to the music. 

Country music reminded me of home: acres of crops, long dusty roads, and the big sunsets of rural Idaho.  Even now, I could smell the alfalfa and hear the tik-tik of the huge sprinklers out in the fields.  

I grew up in a big house in a small town. My mother ran a tight ship in the home and my father brought home the paycheck. My six younger sisters and I ate family meals at the table and asked “to be excused” when our meal was done.  

Our Mormon faith was taken seriously: attending church for three hours every Sunday and studying scriptures together at home. I was a dutiful daughter for the most part, with good grades and participation in church youth groups.  

Today felt a long way from my childhood home in Idaho. My thoughts drifted to how it all went wrong – my family’s enmeshment, the church, addicted behaviors, job lay-offs – all played a role in my missteps. But it was still me who had stolen the money. I lied to my family to keep up appearances – and I took money from them under false pretenses. The whole situation was still shocking to all of us.  

Cherlyn’s voice brought me back to the day and the car ride.  

“How are you feeling?” she asked. 

The sun was up, and we had crossed the border into West Virginia.

I felt all the emotions.  I was scared.  I was curious and uncertain and resigned. There was nothing I could do but step forward into the unknown and try to be brave about it.

After driving for hours, we rolled into Alderson, a small West Virginia town, just a blip on the map. We found a cheerless diner near the Greenbrier River to eat a last meal – burgers and fries.  

I hugged my friend before we got back into the car for the final drive to the prison.  I told her that I did not plan to wave or cry when we got there - I would just walk straight forward into the prison and not look back.  I learned from “The Shawshank Redemption” that crying is not a good thing in prison. 

We arrived at the gate and I saw the phone box labeled “self-surrendered.” I picked up the receiver and waited. When a male voice came on the other end, I gave my name and was told to wait. Someone would come out to meet me. 

I got back into the car and sat rigid in the back seat, sealed off from all emotion, while Cherlyn looked at me with compassion. 

Eventually, a large UPS-style truck came out and a guard called my name. She patted me down. And looked critically at the purse that held my medications, prescriptions, and telephone/email list. 

“You can’t bring any of those things,” she said.  

I tossed my items back into the car and climbed into the high seat of the truck and we drove in through the prison gate. 

I did not look back and I did not cry. 

I was silent as we drove to the Admin Building, but I took everything in.  There were a lot of trees, planted in rows on either side of us. Colonial-style brick buildings lined up behind them. They looked solid but empty. I wondered who lived or worked in these buildings. 

I saw a few inmates walking on sidewalks. Who were they? Where were they going? They were dressed in khaki-colored shirts, buttoned and tucked into khaki slacks, belted at the waist. I read that inmates wore steel-toed boots, so I looked at their feet and this appeared to be true. As we approached the largest building at the end of the street, I felt some dread and some curiosity.  

The first thing the guard said was, “Do you want us to throw away your clothes or mail them home?” 

I was required to strip naked, ensuring that my physical state felt as vulnerable as my emotional state. The female guard snapped orders, “Spread your legs and hold your arms out.” I did. 

“Lift your right breast. And now your left.” 

I swallowed and lifted each breast in turn. 

“Turn. Bend over. Spread your butt cheeks.”

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and reached up from my bent-over position to pull my butt cheeks apart.

“Squat down and cough.”  I did. 

“Stand and lift up each foot.” 

Relieved to be standing again, I lifted my feet, one at a time.   

The guard ran gloved hands through my hair and over my skin.  With no barrier of protection around my dignity or my skin, I drew inward to find shelter - as my therapist, Kathleen, had taught me. I came into my safe place, my heart center, and drew breath and calm from the warm fire I imagined burning there. Without that centering place, I would have cried big tears onto the cold cement floor.

I was given white granny underwear, a khaki v-neck top, and elastic waist bottoms - then left alone in the room to dress. I heard the lock turn in the door and stood looking at this odd pile of clothing, the color of bile vomit. I pulled on the underwear and stepped into my pants. 

These were bland clothes made from rough fabric, crafted crudely with the intention of making everyone look the same. Would I find a way to hold on to my uniqueness?  My personhood?  

When I pulled on the boxy shirt, it was obvious that these clothes were made for men. My breasts pressed hard against the fabric, straining the seams and my hips felt awkward in the pants. Anger replaced my vulnerability with this assault on my femininity.  

Now outfitted, I stood against the height chart and had my photo taken. The fuzzy picture of my unsmiling face was pressed onto an orange prison ID badge along with my Federal ID number. This card was clipped to a lanyard and handed to me. 

“You must wear this around your neck at all times.” 

As I was escorted back into the main processing area, I could see there was trouble. 

Two young black women in prison clothes sat on a bench with blood on their faces.  One was silent with a deep scowl; the other was talking loudly with both voice and hands, proclaiming innocence.  Three guards were gathered around trying to calm the situation and look at the injuries.  

It was clear that there had been some sort of fight.  Was fighting common here? That thought made me anxious.  

While I waited for that situation to be sorted out, I opened the prison handbook, which was just a stack of 50 Xeroxed pages stapled three times to form the spine. There were a lot of rules.  And a lot of punishments.  Pages of them. 

How am I ever going to remember all of this and keep it all straight? I wondered

An hour passed before the guards engaged me again.  I was given a dirty, stained mesh bag holding my brown linens, a flat pillow, a toothbrush, a comb, and a small deodorant. I was also handed a winter coat that would not be needed for many months and led outside. 

The guard pointed up a hill and said, “Go up there and find your housing unit – A4.”  The door closed behind me, and I was alone.

Am I supposed to be alone? How will I find this A4 building?  

As I reached the top of the hill, an unexpected scene met me: a lot of women looking happy.  Dozens of women spread out across the yard, chatting, walking in pairs, laughing, braiding each other’s hair, and playing volleyball. 

Except for the matching gray clothing they all wore, I would have guessed this was a small women’s college campus. 

Some of the women called out to me, recognizing the new inmate clothes: “Hello” and “Welcome to prison.” Two large unit buildings sat on either side of the cement track, one was labeled A4.  

I walked in that direction. 

About Suzette

Suzette Smith is a project manager working in the metro D.C. Area. On the side, she is a professional organizer with White Space Organizing. She loves dancing, Ren Faire, beach time, and single life. Pictures of her adventures can be found on Facebook and Instagram.   

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