Life In Jail Narrative

I was facing up to ten years in prison now, instead of twenty-five years. More depositions, another conference, another trip to my lawyer’s office, one day it looked good, and the next day it looked bad. It appeared the judge had made up his mind that I would serve time in jail. Dennis agreed with my assessment. I saw the possibility of going to prison as not only losing my freedom but also the worst humiliation possible. My father was already a wreck over all of this, so I was sick with worry about what would happen to him if I was convicted and sent away? I knew I had to finish my book before I went to prison. I had to tell the world about Mistress Carla. All of the players in this court battle were men, except for Jean and me, of course. I felt they all thought that I hate men and I get my jollies by beating and

It was infested with cops. All my property was brought out and displayed in front of me. The arresting detectives fingered through it, laughing, joking and making fun of the leather hoods and the dildos from my bedroom which did not belong in their evidence. All of this was for naught since the October 3rd court date was continued.

I had been in and out of court so often, my head stayed in a state of traumatic limbo. On November 16, 1983, the judge had suggested that if I could get an analysis from a psychiatrist who said I needed psychiatric care, he would probably give me probation as long as I sought help until my illness was cured. Off to a shrink, I went. I got a letter from him, which recommended to the Court that I have therapy. When my lawyer approached the judge with my shrink’s recommendations at the next hearing, the judge had changed his mind.

“Nanna! Nanna!” I screamed at the top of my lungs in the wee hours of the morning. “Can you hear me, please, Nanna? I need you. Where are