The Greatest Lie
by Alexandra Rios
The booked me as Alex Rios and handed me an orange jump suit and slip-on boots. I changed in a tiny curtained alcove and relinquished my clothes, shoes and purse, and became Inmate 265743.
The booking clerk ignored my pleading eyes, so I begged.
"You can't put me into a male population. Isn't it obvious that I am female?"
I giggled my bra-less boobs. He looked away from me.
"We just go by what the booking information says, and it says you're male. If the medical staff decides otherwise, they can order you moved to the female detention. Or you run into problems with the male inmates, the warden could send you to the Special Attention section. My impression is that most trannies adapt, and even make some new friends."
My captor laughed cynically. He knew what I would endure in the interval before the jail's medical staff examined, processed and reassigned me to the women's detention center.
Most American prisons inflict a special form of cruel and unusual punishment on their transgendered inmates: the custodial authorities force T-Girls to live amongst violent men, in the rampantly brutal sexual culture that pervades our jails and penitentiaries.
The guards use transsexuals to bait and reward the dominant male inmates, with the result that almost all transgendered prisoners suffer repeated sexual assaults. Needless to say, the psychological and physical wounds thus inflicted on a population that already suffers from high levels of mental and physical health disabilities are devastating—but that simply reflects what America routinely does to its weakest and most vulnerable citizens in the world "outside."
In my case, the overworked medical staff would eventually ascertain my post operative status and transfer me. My persecution would be brief. In most states and throughout the federal systems, pre op transsexuals are kept in the male population for the duration of their sentences, and endure years of coerced sex, rape and degradation with the acquiescence, and in many cases, the active participation of disdainful, hostile guards. Even consensual sex relationships between a trannie and her cellmate may be dangerous in the context of a prison, where there is no escape from a quarrel, or a broken relationship.
If a transsexual complains about her cell mates' unwanted sexual attentions, they are transferred to psychiatric facilities, where they are housed with the real crazies who may be even more dangerous than a sexually abusive cellmate. As I absorbed the guard's cold, disdainful gaze, I felt sure he was enjoying my predicament, and only wished that he could somehow prolong my suffering.
A graffiti-scarred elevator lurched us upward to the Federal lock-up, where I would await arraignment. The door opened to a rank reception area bounded by blank walls and metal doors. The marshal muttered into a phone, a buzzer sounded, and the door opened. An owlish prison guard appeared, wordlessly ushered me in, and escorted me to my cell. My arrival was greeted by catcalls and whistles celebrating the delivery of a fresh fish. I wished I had not splashed on quite so much of my Chanel perfume, because the inmates sensed all to clearly my femininity.
"Give her to me." "I've got room in my bed." "I smell shemale, I smell shemale, I smell shemale." "Come suck this, ho." "Cut the freak's throat." "Not until I'm done fucking her, punk." Taunts, come-ons and threats came from every cell.
"You can't leave me with them. Give me my own cell or put me in isolation. They'll tear me apart."
"We're overcrowded, and I can't put you in isolation. I've done my best to protect you." We stopped, and the guard opened the cell door. The cell was occupied by a lone man, a thick-bodied Latino whose arms were covered with gang tattoos. I drew back, but the guard pushed me in and slammed the door. The man looked up and I gasped.
It was El Lobo, also known as Miguel. He gave me a cruel smile.
"Make yourself comfortable, maricone."
He pointed to the bunk opposite him. I sat on the thin mattress and slipped the pony tail holder out of my hair, trying to affect self-confidence.
"With a welcome like that, who wouldn't be comfortable? Plus, it's good to see an old friend in a strange, new place."
He stood before me and circled his hands around my neck and squeezed it. He was much larger than I remembered him, and his face had taken on a brooding, bitter mien. I looked up and smiled.
"Before you kill me, perhaps you should sample the new me."
"Why should I kill you? The sin that you and Marta committed against me has already been avenged." He put his hands on either side of my head and tilted it back.
"Sins are forgiven, not avenged. Do you forgive me?"
"Suck me off, and let me fuck you again. Then, I'll decide."
"Do I have a choice?"
"Don't mess with me. I am just as powerful inside as out. How else would you find yourself in my cell so soon? I own the street, and I own this pen."
His arrogant smile had turned aggressive. Like most bullies, Miguel was a coward who substituted threats for courage, and cunning for understanding. But his words aroused my interest. How had he known that I was about to be jailed? It had come as a complete surprise to me.
"How could you be so sure…" His faced had turned defensive, as though he recognized his blunder. I decided not to confront him directly. "That I don't want to have sex with you?"
His face relaxed. "You liked the way I did you before?"
I nodded. "You were a little bit too rough the first time, but now, I think about you every time I cum. And that's a lot."
I stood up, and did a little strip tease. The too-big prison overalls slipped off my slender frame with a few pops of buttons and a couple of wriggles of my hips. I turn around and let him see my butt as I dropped ludicrous boxers, which were too big for my waist and legs, and too tight for my hips. I turned around to show myself in full frontal nudity. He let a low whistle.
"That's a fine looking pussy you got there. Nice tits, too."
"Made by the finest surgeons in Phuket, Thailand, and Brussels, Belgium."
"If you say fuck it, I will."
I pulled his cock out of the prison issue boxers. Like everything, else in this dungeon, it smelled dank and mildewed. It had shrunken since our last encounter, so I easily deep throated it. But Miguel wasn't satisfied with my submissive pose. To demonstrate his dominance, he stopped me, slapped my cheek, and seized my head and forced it down his shaft.
"That's how I like to be sucked."
The real Miguel paled beside the fantasy rapist from Prom night whom I had so often conjured. It was the moment, and not the man, that had made cherish that memory. Now, his body had weirdly huge, bulging muscles, his brows and head grotesquely enlarged, and his cock shrunken. He had totally juiced himself on steroids or whatever else the jailbirds inject to get their fake muscles.
I closed my eyes, and tried to recreate Prom night. I threw all of my whore-honed artifices into Miguel's blow job. I relaxed my throat to a pillowy tunnel as he plunged in, and constricted my muscles and tugged back as he exited, imparting gentle friction of my lips and cheeks on his momentarily departing penis, as though expressing longing for him.
I let my eyes drift into dreamy langor, and then meet his, focus, and express adulation. I sighed with every breath. I licked him, tip to taint, when his cock slipped out of me. I wanted him to come in my mouth, so I could swallow his evil seeds and excrete them as pee or poop, rather than have him pollute my pussy or ass with his poisonous semen.
But like my own body, Miguel's cock had been changed by the relentless flood of hormones. The steroids that he had taken to harden his muscles, had enervated his penis. It was all that I could do to keep it rigid.
He pushed my head away, "No more sucking. I have to fuck to cum, and I want to try your new cunt."
I got onto the narrow little bunk, folded and shoved the skinny pillow under my pelvis and presented my pussy.
He stroked the outlines of my external labia, and the probed with his finger. It snagged on my inner labia.
"It looks the same as a real one. What happened to your bush."
"I had it removed. Don't you like it that way?"
"Yeah, it's like a little girl's pussy. I love to fuck the young ones." He probed me with two fingers, but I was dry, and they entered only to his first knuckle.
I looked back at him. He kneeled behind, grunting me like a rutting pig. I covered my pussy with my hand. "Do you have any lube or condoms? They confiscated mine"
"They don't provide rubbers or lube in here, you dumb cunt. And I'm not worried, you look like you're clean. And as for me, I always say, it's better to give than receive."
I knelt, elbows and knees on the stiff sheets. The air conditioner clanked, billowing dank moldy zephyrs into the gloom. Miguel laughed, spit on my labia, dampened his cock with the spatter of saliva, and forced his cock into me.
Despite the theatrical blow job, I had not truly become aroused by blowing Miguel, and my bad day had left me tense and anxious. His cock wouldn't enter me.
I spit on my own fingers, drizzled on my labia and pulled them aside.
He rammed me to the hilt in three strokes. My pussy flesh rippled open, and although synapses protested the abrupt intrusion, my will overcame my body's outrage. My life depended on my performance, so I forced myself into full method acting mode.
I gazed back over my shoulder and let my face flicker with a montage of emotions. Fear, hopelessness, subjugation, hope, joy, anguish, adulation, abjection. I flung my body back against his thrust. My vagina yielded when he lunged inward, and clung to him as he withdrew. He fucked me like a barbarian. I fucked back like a porn star. But mine was a photo-shoot performance. Moans and groans are not part of prison sex.
Endurance is not valued either. He finished his act in less than a minute. A dozen hot squirts of semen suffused my inner spaces. I sighed and collapsed to the mattress, trying to fight my fear of infection and my growing paranoia.
"That's a nice tight cunt they installed in you. I'd fuck you again, but they are going to take you away, and by the time you get out you're going to be an ugly old lady."
I pondered his meaning as I put on my prison garb. What did Miguel know? And how did he know so much about my prison itinerary?
"What do you mean? I'm innocent. It's a case of mistaken identity."
"Who would think that the femmy little maricone would turn stone cold killa after she got her cunt."
"I don't understand. What are you talking about?" Miguel was looking at me.
"C'mon, baby, getting your pussy installed wasn't all that went down in Thailand."
"You're right, I went to school there too."
"Yeah, and studied drugs and murder."
"I don't know what you are talking about."
The door knocked. "Inmate 265743, you are to report to the medical ward."
"Well, maricone, it was nice."
"Yes, Miguel, it was nice to see you again."
The medical staff confirmed the obvious and observed that I had had recent intercourse. They asked me I had been raped. I didn't want launch an inquiry concerning the circumstances and validity of my consent to Miguel's attentions, especially one that would be presided over by the very same prison officials whose actions made it possible, so I said that we were old friends, and I had consented.
The orderly noted the occurrence of a sexual contact and ordered me transferred to the women's facility immediately. I was shackled and taken to a transport van.
The barred interior was occupied by a young Mexican. His head was shaved, and his arms bulky and tattooed, like Miguel's. He didn't look up until the doors closed, and then he lunged at me. His shackles had been attached to the seat of the van. The chains lurched him to his knees. I shrank away, inches from his grasp
"You don't even know me, but you attack me? Why?"
"You are the he/she whore of that pig they call El Lobo."
"You mean the snitch they call El Lobo."
"You are the one who fucks him. Don't think we didn't hear you when you serviced him in his cell." He spit at me.
I flinched away and avoided his spittle. "It's true, I knew him from before. But back there in the cell, he forced me. The guards gave me to him like a trophy as a reward for all of his snitching. I think that he snitched me in there."
"I have suspected him. He lives too well. But how do you know ?"
"By his own careless boasts. He knew in advance that I was going to be arrested. He arranged to have me to be brought to him. He knows what I am accused of, even though it occurred halfway around the world. How would he know these things unless the Feds told him? And why would they tell him, unless he was informing for them?"
The Mexican kid looked at me with cold, merciless eyes. "If you are we, we will do what we must."
The van ground to a halt, and they led the young Mexican away. I wondered if I had planted the seeds of Miguel's destruction. Part of me hoped, for my sake and Alyssa's, that I had.
The phone booth had glass walls. I could see the other inmates going though stages of emotional breakdown as they talked to loved ones from behind prison walls. The black woman next to me seemed not to be talking at all. She only wept inarticulately, ceaselessly. I wondered what tragedy was unfolding over that phone line, and what trifling offense had put her here. One out of every hundred Americans is in jail. Horrible as it was, mine was a common plight.
"Hi Mom, it's me."
"Oh my God, I've been a wreck worry over you. You haven't been answering your email or phone. Where are you?"
"Do you want the good news or the bad news first?"
"Oh dear, just tell me."
"OK, I am in LA, but I am in the women's Federal Detention Center at the corner of Temple and San Pedro."
"Why are you in jail? Oh, darling, what have you done?"
"Ah, my lawyer wouldn't be very happy if I told you the details over the house phone. Why don't you come down and bail me out and we can talk about it over a Starbucks? You'll need $10,000 cash and to sign for another $90,000."
"I don't know, dear. It's a lot of money. I don't have much, you know. I mainly live on the kindness of strangers." She sighed for dramatic affect.
"You are going to let me rot in jail over a lousy 10k? I am not going to go fugitive. I came back voluntarily. I want to get custody of Alyssa before something terrible happens to her, as happened to her mother."
That was an indirect reference to my mother's wanton negligence when she made Marta move out of her home, thus forcing Marta into the circumstances in which she had been murdered.
The memory made her burst into tears. Implying fault to my mother was a risky tactic—with my Mom, guilty feelings can lead either to capitulation or obstinacy.
She sobbed for a few more minutes, as the guard looked at me balefully and tapped her watch.
"OK, tell me where to go, and what to do."
"Get a pen. I need to give you some phone numbers."
Marcia met me in her box- and file-cluttered office, instead of the conference center.
"The TMZ story got everyone here all agitated about you. I don't want people peering at us in those fishbowl conference rooms upstairs."
"I'd like to sue them for invasion of privacy. They must have climbed onto my balcony to get that."
"And get what, a judgment against some sleazy paparazzi?"
"I got fired. It's really terrible what happens to the bit players in these celebrity lives when the story gets out."
"Write a book. That's the best revenge."
"Maybe I will."
"You'll have fun writing this chapter."
"Living it has not been a great joy. Tell me what I missed."
"Well, after you got arrested, I filed an emergency motion requesting to examine Pajon's Blackberry. The bailiff still had it. The other side went crazy about that being a violation of attorney work-product confidentiality. But the judge was pissed off at him, especially after I told her that you had been arrested on the courthouse steps as a result of Pajon's email subterfuge. She decided that his sending the email in court waived work-product confidentiality for that email and every other email that related to you, all three hundred or so of them."
She handed me a thick binder of documents.
"Here's your copy. I haven't had time to read all of them, but it looks like there was a plot between the FBI, this gang kid named Miguel Carranza, and Spartan, LLC, the big condom manufacturer, to set you up for arrest and extradition to Thailand for some intellectual property piracy and an alleged terrorist act. And that, Alexandra, brings us to a bit of a problem. We can't represent you anymore."
"Why? It seems like we are doing great. I can prove that I was doing nothing wrong in Thailand, just a school research project."
"This Spartan LLC is one of our firm's clients. They are adverse to you, and we can't represent someone, like you, who is adverse to a client."
"Aren't I a client too? Or is it that Spartan pays your firm a lot of money, and I am pro bono?"
"I told you that our representation of you was conditioned on your disclosing adverse parties and clearing conflicts. You failed to disclose Spartan."
"I didn't think it was relevant."
"Spartan seems pretty relevant now. Give your new lawyer these emails and get an opinion. All I know is that I have been ordered to resign from your file, and with great regret, I am."
"Can I use your phone? I want to call JC."
"Oh, thanks for reminding me. He asked me to give you this."
I opened it. It was a typed memo to me, from him, regarding "Termination of Our Relationship". I read it and started crying.
Marcia handed me a tissue. "That so JC, to dump someone with a memo."
"He didn't care I was a whore. He is dumping me because I'm a sex-change. Listen to this crap.
I held the memo at arm's length, as though the venom on the page might otherwise poison me.
'I just can't go on knowing that I was the victim of a complete deception. This makes me question everything, and the answers that I hear from my conscience are no, no and no. You make keep all of the gifts, but I want the keys to the condo at the end of next month.'
I set it down on top of the binder of emails.
"What am I supposed to do now? I am broke, unemployed, dumped, homeless, in horrible legal troubles, and my lawyer just fired me."
"Girl, I feel terrible to be part of it, but from what I've seen, I've got every confidence in you. Consider it an opportunity. Pajon's emails are the kind of evidence that a good plaintiff's lawyer will salivate over. And don't quote me, but JC didn't deserve you. You're too young, too cute, too smart and too hot for a jerk like him."
I hugged her. "Thanks. You were a great lawyer. It's my fault. I didn't see that Alyssa, Miguel, and Spartan could all be connected. I guess everything is."
"That's right. Do one thing over here, and everything over there can come tumbling down."
"Maybe that's the key to how I can get out of this mess."
"I have faith that you will. Good luck."
I left Marcia's office staggering under a load of legal files.
My new lawyer, Dan Charleston, was a former student of one of my University of Minnesota professors, Martin Epstein. He flipped through his notes and made further notations as Federal District Judge Abner Carlson worked through his court calendar.
The Federal Court's marble-clad floor, dark-paneled walls, high ceilings, and altar-like judge's bench, surmounted by a gilded Great Seal, bespoke its higher prestige and greater power than the tawdry State Court where I would do battle over Alyssa's fate. The lawyers were better dressed, more eloquent, and more deferential to the power of this judge. He was well-prepared, asked sharp questions, and made decisive rulings.
He had saved my case for last. When the clerk called "In the Matter of the Extradition of Alex Rios," Dan patted my hand, stood, and from the podium, announced his appearance and that "Alex is now known as Alexandra," and that I was present in court. The judge gazed out at me, poker-faced.
A long procession of lawyers for the other counsel table introduced themselves: United States attorney, a lawyer for the Thai Consulate, and two lawyers for Spartan, LLC. Dan was seriously outnumbered.
The judge cleared his throat. "I've read the petition for extradition, the various declarations, and Mr., ah, Ms. Rios's opposition, and I must tell you, counsel, that I am more impressed with the weight of the papers," he lifted and dropped the file with an amplified thud, "than I am with the weight of the arguments. If Ms. Rios is such a threat to Thai national security, why do they want her back in their country so badly?"
The government lawyer looked shocked, and conferred with the Thai consulate lawyer.
"The Thai security police believe that she might be able to provide evidence or other information that they could use in pursuing further investigations, I hasten to add, your Honor, that the Thai government has been a loyal and valuable ally in our own war on terror, accounting for, among many others, the arrest of Hambali, who planned many terrorist outrages, such as the Bali resort bombings. So really, this is a matter of our own security as much as for the Thais."
The judge invited Dan to respond.
"Your Honor, I would be surprised by the government's suggestion that we subordinate due process to unsavory alliances of convenience, but for the consistency of that policy with the conspiracy against Ms. Rios which has brought us here today. The string of emails attached to our forensic declaration show that the FBI colluded with the Thai Judicial Police, representatives of Spartan LLC and an incarcerated gang member, Miguel Carranza, to arrange for Ms. Rios's arrest. The taint of that conspiracy taints the legitimacy of this proceeding, and is itself cause to deny the petition for extradition into the hands of one of the conspirators."
The prosecutor jumped to his feet. "That's outrageous. Counsel is accusing the government of illegal alliances."
The judge waved him down. "I believe it was you who raised the importance of our cooperation with the Thai Security Forces. So let Mr. Charleston finish."
"These emails show that money, as well as promises of leniency and other jailhouse advantages, changed hands between the government, Spartan and Mr. Carranza. And now, the government, having been exposed in its artifices, proposes to hand Ms. Rios over to the Thai police, whose recourse to torture as an expedient of interrogation is all-too well known. In effect, Ms Rios is the victim of an unconstitutional extraordinary rendition conducted on the streets, and in the Courts, of her own country. "
The judge nodded and tapped his pen. "What of that? The government, and the rest of the parties here, do not come here with entirely clean hands."
The prosecutor affected unconcern. "Your honor, when investigating criminals, we sometimes rely on confidential informants like Mr. Carranza, who may themselves be criminals. I would note that Mr. Carranza has never been convicted of a crime, nor will he be, since he was murdered while in custody last week."
The prosecutor shot me an accusatory look. My surprise must have shown, because his expression turned disappointed, and returned his gaze to the judge.
"Perhaps Ms. Rios has been targeted. But what's wrong with targeting her if she's a criminal? That's what we do. She stole confidential data from this Spartan. When Thai authorities attempted to apprehend her, she absconded, evading Thai immigration by fleeing to a lawless border region. There, she allied herself with a terrorist band. At the conclusion of an affray between her group and an elite Thai force, she executed a Thai military officer. Look, your Honor, at our Exhibit D."
It was a fuzzy cell phone picture of me and Tran, holding semi automatics over the prone bodies of the Wa Army commandants Rap and Gurp, whom we had just shot. The light was bad, and we were out of range of the cell's primitive lens.
The judge turned to Dan. "What do you have to say about Exhibit D."
"These could be pictures of anyone. I don't think the Court could make any finding on the strength of this alone, much less a finding such as one for extradition, that would put Ms. Rios in jeopardy, not to mention also outside this court's jurisdiction."
The judge held the pictures up, and put on his reading glasses, flipped them up, and looked at me. The remodeled and madeover Alexandra must not have resembled the ragamuffin in the photo.
"I agree, neither of these girls looks like this young lady."
The lawyer from the Thai consulate beckoned the hapless prosecutor over and whispered a consultation, and the prosecutor returned to the podium.
"The government refers you to the affidavit of Colonel Makaratad, of the Third Thai Army, who captured and interrogated several terrorists who witnessed the cruelties committed by this defendant."
The judge shuffled through his papers.
"What about that, Mr. Charleston."
"If these alleged terrorists were here in Court to testify, the Court could hear them in their own words, and not through the filter of Colonel Makaratad. And presumably, they would be speaking Karen, and not Thai, like the Colonel's declaration. So we object to the Makaratad Declaration as hearsay."
The judge nodded toward Dan and waved dismissively as the prosecutor started to speak.
"I agree, the Makaratad affidavit is inadmissible. It's rank hearsay, and of the worst sort, since I, like Mr. Charleston, have no illusions about the interrogation methods used by the Thai Third Army. I also have some doubts about the neutrality of the Thai Third Army in this matter, since it seems to have some connections to Spartan. But that's neither here nor there in this proceeding."
Dan rose again, but the judge waved him to sit down.
"Quit while you're ahead, counsel. The government's petition to extradite Ms. Rios to the Kingdom of Thailand is denied."
He banged the gavel resoundingly, and left.
Dan and I lingered outs the courtroom while our adversaries packed up their boxes. The prosecutor grimaced at me and snarled at Dan.
"This isn't over, you know. We have charges of our own we can bring."
Dan smiled and handed the lawyers from the Thai Consulate and Spartan his business card.
"We didn't stay behind for chit chat. I just want to exchange contact information, and I didn't get these gentlemen's cards. May I?"
They took out their cards and Dan quickly examined them. He reached into his briefcase and handed a thick package to one of the Spartan lawyers.
"I see that you are in-house counsel. That being the case, Spartan is hereby served with Alexandra Rios's complaint for Civil Harassment, Invasion of Privacy, and Conspiracy to Violate Civil Rights. We'll be asking the clerk to assign it back to this Court as a related matter, so, I look forward to seeing you back here real soon."
As we entered the elevator I looked back at them, huddled on bench outside the Courtroom, reading my complaint against them.
Dan shook my hand. I gripped it, but then I hugged him.
"You were brilliant."
He gently removed my arms from his waist.
"I wouldn't be very brilliant if I returned that hug. As long as we are attorney and client, we are strictly off-limits to one another."
"I know, but I just couldn't help myself."
"Alexandra, I have to tell you, I couldn't have done it without you. Your background work made my part so easy. You are every bit as brilliant as Martin boasted. And we are going to need it all, to vanquish Sparta and plunder its treasures."
As we left the courthouse, my heart throbbed with anxiety at the prospect of another legal ambush. None came. We were on the attack now. I felt a surge of energy and hope.
Dan Charleston's office overlooks the Third Street Promenade, a sunny slice of Santa Monica where shopping moms and the homeless mingle in a stream made for consumer commerce. I used to come here often, a skinny boy in tight jeans, looking for something, or someone, to make myself complete, and never finding it. The Barnes and Noble at the corner of Wilshire and Third didn't carry the books I needed to understand myself. I had needed to search, and travel the world to discover, and remake myself.
Dan wasn't classically handsome. His face was a little more gentle, and piscine, than the movie studios, or I, prefer in men. He was more a poet than a cowboy. But he was tall, fit, and he had big hazel eyes that exuded empathy and understanding.
"Alexandra, I would really like to handle all of your legal matters for you, but you have too many for a small shop like ours. We are going to have to figure out a referral for the custody matter."
"Why not? The case is in great shape. There's just one more hearing."
"The only time I have ever been in family court is for my own divorce, and if the result there is any indication, you don't want me as your custody lawyer. My ex's lawyer ate my lunch."
"I'm sorry. I mean, about your divorce."
"Don't be. I'm a happily divorced man. But there is something else. The District Attorney asked to interview you about the Carranza kid."
"Can I talk to you about that?"
"Yeah, that relates to the other matters. And what you tell me is privileged."
"I figured out that Miguel must have been cooperating with the prosecutors from what he told me about my own case. He knew everything, and delivered me to him as if I were a package from home. After he had assaulted me, when I was being transported to the women's detention, I told another inmate about my suspicions."
"That's it? No other communications?"
"The inmate had just accused me of being Miguel's whore and attacked me. I was trying to divert his anger. So I told him I though Miguel had snitched me in to jail. I thought they might rough him up, and I'd get some revenge. I didn't think they'd kill him on my say so. Trannies don't exactly rule the yard, you know."
I tried to look distraught. Dan wasn't buying it.
"Look, you may be glad he's out of the way, but it would have been good to have interviewed him before he got shanked. In litigation, it's good to have the witnesses stay alive. So while I'm on your team, no more extrajudicial remedies, OK? Let's leave the dirty tricks to the bad guys."
"I'm sorry. I was scared, and angry."
"That's why you didn't report it as a rape to the medical staff, I suppose?"
"I don't know. If you've never been raped, I suppose it's hard to understand the feelings afterwards."
My eyes were welling with tears. I had caused another death in my circle. Miguel had mistreated me, and I feared for Alyssa, but he was gone now, beyond redemption, just another dead body floating in my wake.
Dan must have noticed my emotional turmoil. "Just as well that you didn't complain, I suppose. It takes your motive out of their inquiry."
"Should I send flowers to his funeral?"
"It's too late. There's already been a revenge killing in his honor. Just stay out of it. Focus on nailing Spartan's coffin shut. Focus on Alyssa."
"I don't know what to do. Family law lawyers are expensive, and I'm so broke I moved in on my mom. How pathetic am I?"
"It's great. It makes you look like you have a stable, loving home."
"Ugh, if you knew what it was like, living with the Queen of Dysfunction."
"She won't pay for a lawyer?"
"I don't think she wants me to have a baby. She's so selfish."
"Here's a print of the home page of the William's Institute at UCLA. http://www.law.ucla.edu/WilliamsInstitute/home.html. It's mainly an academic program but they can put you in touch with legal aid lawyers who specialize in transgender rights. I think they can help you with a referral, that is, if you can convince them that you're actually transsexual.
I blushed. "Thanks, I guess that's meant as a compliment."
"I was only stating the obvious, Ms. Rios."
"Well, thank you for making yourself clear."
We exchanged a glance that was privileged in every sense of the word. I tingled all of the way home.
The daffodils rippled like a golden ocean in the afternoon marine breeze. The garden at my Mom and her boyfriend Cole's place overlooks a brushy canyon beyond their neatly trimmed boxwood hedge. Alyssa pranced down a gravel path, stopped, and sniffed one of the trumpet shaped blooms.
"Flora," she said.
"La flora es hermosa, Or you could say, 'The flower is pretty.'" I said.
She pointed at me. "You are pretty, mama."
I swept her into my arms and hugged her.
"And you are beautiful, my little sweet."
The court-appointed family therapist took some notes as Alyssa ran to the hedge and peered over.
My mom's voice rang out from a distant window. "Don't let her go so close to the edge."
My mother had insisted that she needed to make dinner, but she was watching over this, my eleventh custodial evaluation visit, just as she had overseen all of the others. She never joined in my and Alyssa's games or play, but she offered plenty of advice.
The therapist took another note.
I am not sure who my Mom resented the most: me, Alyssa, or Elaine Marcus, the therapist charged with reporting to the Court on my suitability.
I had scraped together the therapist's retainer out of the remnants of the $9,999 that I had brought back to the US from Europe. This was the final evaluation session before she wrote her report. She had handed me a bill for $5,000 as the session began. I struggled to fight back my anxiety over how to pay her.
Alyssa threw daisy petals into the Koi pond. She squealed with delight when I produced breadcrumbs, and the large-lipped orange beasts surfaced and efficiently gulped them.
"Pescadoras, fish." She curled back her lips and made fish faces at me, which I returned, and then we collapsed in laughter in one another's arms. Her plump arms and tiny fists clung to me.
"I love you, mama."
I felt overwhelmed. I choked back the rush of emotion, which threatened leave me helplessly in tears. I had heard a score of smitten, post-orgasmic lovers declare their love for me. In some cases, I even believed them. All of their proclamations had the weight of a feather compared to these words from the lips of my child. And for the first time, I answered them.
"Yo amo, Alyssa."
The therapist scratched at her notepad. I tried not to let her distract me from the perfection of the moment.
"I am sorry to interrupt this beautiful moment, but your hour is up. Come Alyssa, it's time for us to go." She took her hand. "Kiss your mama adios now."
Alyssa kissed me, and I her, but as the therapist led her away, she looked at first confused, and then angry. She started screaming, and broke away toward me, bawling.
The therapist scooped her up and carried her away. I stood frozen, overcome with feelings as Alyssa's cries turned into hysteria, and then a fist pounding, shrieking tantrum.
"No, I want my mama, I want my mama."
The therapist looked back at me helplessly. "Please cooperate with me, and help me put her in the car. It's obvious that she has a bond with you, but you need to help me here if you are going to get my help. I have obligations to take her to her grandparents. If I don't bring her home on time, we both will have consequences to face."
I approached, and she quieted. I stroked Alyssa's hair. She gripped my finger in her tiny little fist.
"Don't worry, baby, you can come back soon. And next time, maybe you can stay a long time."
The therapist got her into the car seat as Alyssa clung to my finger. I gave her final kiss, and slipped my finger from her grasp.
"No, mama, I want my mama."
I endured her screams as the therapist's car wound down the canyon. They resounded in my head for the rest of the night.
Take Southwest from LAX to Las Vegas on any Friday evening and you will find a cabin packed with pretty young things. A larger proportion of them are going there to work the weekend as strippers, hookers, or both. You'll see the same girls returning on the early morning flights on Sunday. In the harsh morning light, they are pensive, tired, and trying to make the psychological transition from sex object to their desperate lives as students, single mother's slinging coffee at a donut shop, or underpaid office workers. This is the reality of the service economy for the poor, undereducated and underprivileged. And on this Friday afternoon, I was part of that migratory flock of gaudy birds.
I checked into a non-smoking hotel room with two queen beds. According to Eros.com, Audrey, may latest nom de boudoir, was visiting from Paris, France, for a short time only. Perhaps it was this international flavor of my promotion, or maybe it was the weak dollar, but my visitors bore powerful witness to the profound effects of globalization.
I had a Russian oligarch, a German banker, a French financier, a British lawyer, an Italian investor, and even a Thai real-estate tycoon. I had just said, "tsia tsia nii" to my third Chinese billionaire when my cell phone chirped again, with a 213 area code, which denotes Los Angeles.
"Hi, this is Audrey. How may I help you?" I affected a slight French accent.
"I saw your ad on Eros and I would like to get together with you. How much do charge? The ad didn't say."
"I don't talk money over the phone."
"Well, how am I going to know how much you cost before I come over?"
I was suspicious. This sounded like LE. But in Vegas? It's not legal to hook there, but the police usually wink at female prostitution if the whores conduct themselves discreetly. LVPD reserves most of its harassment for the openly transsexual trade. The hookers are part of the fun "that stays in Vegas". We're for attracting the high rollers and the convention business.
This creep didn't sound like a high roller, But I was about a thousand short, after expenses, of paying the fees for my custody battle. I decided to take a chance.
"OK, bring me a bouquet of three dozen red roses."
"I understand. Three hundred."
"Red roses. Call me from the lobby of TI and I'll give you my room number."
"That's where I am now. Can I come right up."
"Give me ten minutes, and then come up. I'll give you the room number now, but don't repeat it."
"OK, I'll call you from there. I like oral, followed by doggy style, OK?"
"I don't talk about anything we do together over the phone."
"OK, but should I still come up."
"I'll see you in ten minutes."
I straightened the sheets and jumped into the shower. The Chinese billionaire had cum on my boobs, and his tiny little cock had produced an extraordinary volume of semen. I felt too dirty even for this creep. I glossed my lips, put on my teddy and heels, and then the phone rang with the 213 area code again.
"It's me, I'm right outside. Sorry I'm late, but there was a line at the ATM."
"Please stop talking about money." My blood throbbed with paranoia, but it was too late to withdraw. The creep was outside my hotel room. If he was LE, I needed to get rid of him from inside, not through the door. I selected voice record on my cell phone, pushed start, and set it on the bedside table Then I let him in.
He was a non-descript, well-dressed Caucasian. Without a word of greeting, he handed me a fold of bills.
"Is that money? Don't give it to me."
"I am putting it on your table. I'll leave it there after we have intercourse."
Wise whores and legitimate tricks never talk explicitly about what either party expects from a transaction. They should agree, through mutual gestures and non verbal communication, what the soup du jour will be. His obtuseness made me suspect that he was a decoy, I was his prey, and that he was wired.
I shrugged my shoulders and affected innocence. "Oh, I didn't understand you. The noise from the lobby was too great. What do you think I am?"
"I know what you are. Let's do it."
"You are mistaken. Please leave, and take your filthy money with you, you cochon."
He pushed me toward the bed. I ducked away and reached for the room phone. "I am calling security to remove you, if you don't go voluntarily."
"Don't bother, you little bitch, I already got your number."
He slammed the door and left. I dialed the bell captain, dressed, and swiftly packed. I got the last night flight back to LA. I spent a sleepless night alone in my bedroom in Bel Air.
Now hear this, you Las Vegas players. Your happy endings may stay in Vegas. But for the those poor girls who work the street corners, the bars, the hotels, and the strip clubs, what happens in Vegas, comes home with them to haunt their dreams.
I was eating a bowl of oatmeal and sipping coffee when my Mom came into the kitchen.
"Oh dear, I didn't expect you so soon. Did you have a bad night at the slots?"
"Terrible, and the weather was awful. I hate Vegas,"
"Help me make breakfast for Cole. He wants bacon and eggs again. That man's appetite, and diet, are going to be the end of him."
I cracked three eggs in a bowl and started stirring them. "Mom, I need to ask you a favor."
"Yes darling, but you are getting to an age where you should look to your own resources. You're almost twenty one."
"Mom, I haven't asked you or my dad for much, but I really need you and Cole to back me in this custody hearing."
"Of course, we'll be there for you."
"I also need you to say that Alyssa and I can live here, for as long as we need a place, while I finish my degree at UCLA."
"I thought you got a scholarship."
"Yes, I got another scholarship, but I can't eat my tuition, and I can't sleep under my books."
"I can ask Cole, after all, it's his house."
"I already did. He said it's OK with him, and to check with you."
"But will that mean those people, you know, Alyssa's relatives, will be coming here to see her? I wouldn't want that."
"Mom, it's whatever the Court orders, and we can't predict that now. But would you want them to be prevented from seeing their granddaughter? Whatever you think of them, she is much a part of them, and of their dead daughter, as she is of you and me."
Shame at her role in Marta's death again overwhelmed her persnickety sense of order. She nodded assent.
"You are going to have to put that in writing. My lawyer is putting an affidavit together for you and Cole."
She nodded again.
"And one more thing, Mom. Can you promise me that you will love her as if she were your own?"
"Darling, I'll try, but it's been so hard for me, to absorb all of the changes that you've been through. Sometimes, it's just too much for me."
"Alyssa is the only child I will ever have. She is the only grandchild that you will ever have. Can you learn to love her more than you have ever loved anything else? Because if something happens to me, she will need you "
"I know. And I will try."
I looked down at the coagulating eggs and felt sick. One who must try to love a child, or a grandchild, is probably incapable of unconditionally loving them. If I managed to win my battle for Alyssa, I realized that my stay in Bel Air would have to be temporary.
I needed to find someone to share my life with, to care for Alyssa in case something happened to me. I felt, for the first time, that I needed a permanent relationship to fill the empty place that my parents' loveless home had left in my heart. But for now, I still needed my Mom, if only as a prop for my court appearance.
"Thanks Mom, I love you too."
I finished Cole's eggs an put them in a covered dish. She put them on a tray with his bacon, waffles and orange juice and took them to their bedroom suite.
"Thanks for your help, honey."
"Don't mention it, Mom."
The only matter on calendar Courtroom 55A was the Matter of Alyssa G, Rios vs. Gonzalez-Lopez. Arturo Pajon and my new lawyer, Debra Scholler, were arguing heatedly in the corridor. I was getting nervous watching them go at it through the slit window in the courtroom door. But it was much better than looking at the evil eye that Mrs. Gonzalez was giving me.
Debra's a post-op like me, except she had her surgery in her forties. She had the voice modification surgery which makes her sound like she's got laryngitis. Other than that, she looks pretty good. She probably would have been pretty hot if she had transitioned earlier in life.
She told me that she envied me for enjoying my youth and beauty as a transsexual, whereas she had transitioned at an age when most GG women have trouble getting laid. But she had been intimidated by the specter of parental disapproval, and waited until they were gone, and she was old. Now she's trying to make up for a lifetime of missed opportunities by hanging out at Peanuts, advertising on craigslist and fucking every guy who will have her.
I certainly don't envy her the male, middle class pretenses she lived into her middle years. But neither do I envy the lives of kids in places like Thailand who start hormones at ten or eleven, and get to experience adolescence in their natural gender. Thai transsexuals grow up to look, and sound, completely feminine, even prettier that the Thai GGs. Thai schoolboys don't barbarize or butcher their katoey classmates like American kids murder transgender students in the classroom. Instead, the Thai boys just fuck them bareback and then pimp them to fat Australian guys. Thai transsexuals are tolerated, but they are cultivated to become sex toys for the farang tourist trade. So you see, each in its own way, all cultures stigmatize, and ultimately victimize transsexuals.
The courtroom buzzer sounded and the bailiff asked me to summon the lawyers. I knocked on the window and beckoned them, and they came in, still hissing at one another. The bailiff called our case as the judge took her seat on the bench and the lawyers took theirs at the two tables facing her.
"Mr. Pajon, you left the courtroom last time promising to produce evidence that would show that Ms. Rios's status somehow rendered her unfit for custody despite the Court-appointed evaluator's emphatic opinion to the contrary, as set forth in her report which I have read and entirely agree with. So even though this is Ms. Rios's petition, I would like you to begin."
"Your Honor, we submitted the declaration of Eric Larson, our investigator, which reveals a lifetime of crime, pornography, and prostitution."
I heard my mother gasp, and Cole clear his throat. I was afraid to look at them.
Debra jumped to her feet and nudged Pajon from the podium. "I object and move to strike. Mr. Larson dredged up some movie graphics and personal ads of women who may faintly resemble my client, but no evidence that connects Ms. Rios to the actresses in the films or the advertisers on the internet."
Pajon swung the microphone away from Debra.
"I would be able to provide that testimony if Mr. Rios had answered my questions at the deposition. Ms. Scholler objected to my questions and Mr. Rios refused either refused to answer or was evasive. I'd like to put him on the stand right now, and ask about his role in "Transsexual Prostitutes."
The judge looked at me, and then back at Pajon.
"Why didn't you ask the producers, or the stars of these films."
"They had disappeared, or refused to identify their actors by anything other than their screen names. And her co-star in Transsexual Prostitutes, Mr. Carranza, is deceased."
The judge frowned. "Yes, I recall that. I denied your motion to admit his affidavit since he was unavailable for cross examination. Ms. Scholler, I am afraid I am going to have to give Mr. Pajon a little bit of leeway here. Ms. Rios, please take the stand. And Mr. Pajon, you will refer to the witness with feminine pronouns or I will immediately terminate your examination."
The clerk swore me in, and I took my seat in the witness box, an enclosed platform by the judge's side. I avoided my mom's teary eyes, and Cole cast his eyes to some distant corner of the courtroom.
Pajon gave me smirk, and produced voice recorder from his briefcase.
"Before I ask you about your filmography, I would like to play a voice recording and ask you to identify the voices."
The tinny speaker began replaying our phone conversation from last weekend. The background noise of casino gaiety contrasted starkly with the grim, tense mood in the courtroom.
"Hi, this is Audrey. How may I help you?"
Pajon clicked the pause button.
"Ms Rios, is that your voice?"
"Yes, it sounds like me."
He clicked play again, and the nightmarish conversation from the past weekend repeated.
"I saw your ad on Eros and I would like to get together with you. How much do charge? The ad didn't say."
Pajon's grin turned snarky. "Do you recognize that voice?"
"Yes, it's someone who called my hotel room in Las Vegas."
"Your Honor, I would like to play the rest of this conversation uninterrupted."
"You may proceed."
All eyes focused on me as the judge and the spectators strained to hear Eric Larson's cunning deceits and my cautious, but self-incriminating words.
"I don't talk about things like that over the phone."
"Well, how am I going to know how much before I come over?"
"OK, bring me a bouquet of three dozen red roses."
"I understand. Three hundred."
"Three dozen red roses. Call me from the lobby of TI and I'll give you my room number."
"That's where I am now. Can I come right up."
"Give me ten minutes, and then come up. I'll give you the room number now, but don't repeat it."
"OK, I'll call you from there. I like oral, followed by doggy style, OK?"
"I don't talk about anything we do together over the phone."
"OK, but should I still come up."
"I'll see you in ten minutes."
I was quivering with anxiety and rage. My mother held her face in her hands, and rose to leave. Cole put his arms around her, restraining her, but avoided looking at me. Debra stormed to her feet.
"Your Honor, I object. This is a complete sandbagging. And I would also point out that we didn't hear any informed consent by Ms. Rios to be recorded, making this an illegal wiretap."
The judge had a pained look on her face as she turned to Pajon. "What about that?"
"I'll ask Ms. Rios a follow up question to establish why it's a legal wiretap." The judge nodded, and he turned to me.
"In what state were you and the caller both located during that call?"
"Nevada."
Pajon thanked me, and turned to the judge. "Unlike California, which requires the consent of both parties, Nevada only requires the consent of one party. Obviously, Mr. Larson, as the person who recorded the call, consented."
The judge sighed. "All right then, the voice recording is admitted."
Debra settled in her seat, looking defeated.
Pajon gave me a scornful gaze, "Ms, Rios, do you deny that this conversation constitutes an agreement between you and Mr. Larson to have sexual intercourse in exchange for his payment of money to you?"
"Yes, I deny that." My mom and Cole were slumping in their seats.
"You realize that you are under oath, and that giving false testimony under oath is, like prostitution, crime?"
"Yes, I know that."
"If it's not an agreement for paid sex, what is that conversation?"
"A misunderstanding."
"I think everyone in this courtroom except you has a perfect and clear understanding of what you and Mr. Larson were talking about, so how do you explain this misunderstanding?"
"Because the recording is incomplete."
"It's sounds like it reached it's logical, if regrettable conclusion."
"There was more, Would you like to hear it?"
"I think we would all like to hear it."
I took my cell phone from my purse and asked the judge "Is it OK if I turn this on?"
"Any objection, Mr. Pajon?"
He shook his head. I selected voice recordings, and pressed play.
"Is that money? Don't give it to me."
"I am putting it on your table. I'll leave it there after we have intercourse."
"Oh, I didn't understand you. The noise from the lobby was too great. What do you think I am?"
"I know what you are. Let's do it."
"You are mistaken. Please leave, and take your filthy money with you, you cochon."
There was a pause, and a shuffling of feet.
"I am calling security to remove you, if you don't go voluntarily."
"Don't bother, you little bitch, I already got your number."
Pajon stood frozen, at a loss for words. I supplied the coda. I let loose the sob that had been forming in my chest.
"Now you see what troubles a girl like me has finding someone to love. And yet you want to prevent me from being a mother to the one person in the world who really loves me."
Pajon stammered, "I have nothing further for this witness."
Debra flashed me a smile and addressed the judge. "I think the witness's testimony is complete. Nothing further."
The judge looked down at the pile of papers and composed herself.
"Mr. Pajon, notwithstanding your efforts at entrapment and character assassination of the petitioner, Ms. Rios, I find nothing in your evidence that gives me any hesitation in following the Court-appointed evaluator's recommendation and to award full custody of Alyssa to Ms. Rios. Ms. Rios and the Gonzalez's will meet and discuss their visitation rights, and if you can't work something out, I'll reserve jurisdiction."
She banged the gavel and left the courtroom. Pajon had a swift conversation with the Gonzalez's and departed without a word to me or Debra. I approached Mr. and Mrs. Gonzalez.
"I am so sorry that it had to come to this. I want you both to be part of Alyssa's life."
Mr. Gonzalez muttered "Maricone," and walked away. She shrugged her shoulders.
"He doesn't care. Now that El Lobo, and the company that hired the lawyer for us won't pay us any more, he is happy to be rid of her. But I will miss my little angel."
I was stunned, and angry. I wanted to tell Mrs. Gonzalez's what horrible people she and her husband were for keeping a parent and child apart, and in an unloving home, just to collect money. But I bit my tongue, as the implications of this information settled in.
"Would you mind putting that in writing?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"If it means that I can see her again, of course I will."
"Mrs. Gonzalez, I want nothing more than to make sure that we both remain part of Alyssa's lives, for as long as we live."
She looked at me, and down the hall. Her husband was nowhere in sight. She hugged me, and said "Gracias, El Domingo."
My mom and Cole gave me a ride home. We barely exchanged a word. My victory over the Gonzalez's had come at a terrible cost, for my mother and Cole had now seen a part of my life which they could never have imagined.
A pair of seagulls larked above a swaying palm outside the window of Dan Charleston's conference room. I was on my third cup of bad office coffee and getting more nervous with each passing moment. What was taking them so long?
Dan burst in bearing a sheaf of documents and looking weary and disheveled.
"It took all night, but we have a signed settlement document. Here's the final deal. Three million for you, five hundred thousand for Nancee and Tran, and two million to establish a foundation for the care and compensation of the families and the girls infected in the N-9 study. On that last piece, I am going to get my partners to waive our contingency fee. You, Nancee and Tran, and Spartan execute mutual releases, and Spartan agrees to never pursue any civil or criminal charges against you or them. You agree not to publish the study."
"No, I can't do that. It's important that the world know the harms, and the risks of N-9."
"I got that covered. Spartan will commission an independent research institute to complete your N-9 study at its expense, and when it's published, to credit you, Nancee and Tran as the original researchers. You get to nominate the researcher."
"Will Spartan agree to offer the role to my dad's institute in Lucerne?"
He tapped an email on his Blackberry. Seconds later, it buzzed as the response arrived.
"That's acceptable to Spartan, but they were surprised by your choice. They were under the impression that you and Dr. Rios were estranged from one another."
"We are. I am hoping that if my father sees the legitimacy of my study and the good faith and high standards with which I conducted it, he may come to see it, and me, as valid."
"So if Dr. Rios accepts, he will be validating not only the research, but the researcher. Brilliant."
"Yes. Tran, Nancee and I nearly killed ourselves on that study. I am willing to stake my reputation on it."
"One more thing. As soon as you sign, and the wires clear, I'm not your lawyer anymore."
"Are you so eager to get rid of me? I thought we made a great team."
"Not at all. But if I am not your lawyer, I can invite you and Alyssa to come on a celebratory vacation with me to Fiji."
"In that case, may I borrow your pen?"
As I signed the settlement agreement, he walked around the table, pulled me to my feet, and we kissed. We rocked back and forth, letting our bodies mold to one another's and our breaths conjoin into a single flow.
I tried to prevent myself from imagining a life together with Dan and Alyssa, from building another dream to be crushed and destroyed by my past and my own self destructive impulses, but I could not. I let my soul float into that dream, and decided to devote my life to making it a reality.
When Alyssa, Dan and I returned from Fiji, we discovered a large box had been delivered to his condo. It was a large, Swiss-made doll house. When Dan had finished assembling it, Alyssa squealed with delight. She and I spent a long, jet-lagged night playing with the filigreed screens, lacy curtains, and the hand painted wooden dolls, whose blond hair and fair faces resembled our own.
Alyssa refused to go to her own bed. She fell asleep next to the dollhouse, clasping the mommy and baby dolls in her little hands. I curled up next to her, holding in my hand the gift card. I repeated to myself the words inscribed on the card as I drifted off to sleep:
"To my daughter and granddaughter, with love, from Eduardo Rios, PhD."
The End
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