Monday, 14 June 2004
Well, I'm here. I hope everybody's happy. I hope everybody feels better about themselves; they've sent a 62-year-old woman to prison. Oh, you forgot that I was 62, did you? Don't let the blonde highlights fool you. Lots of women my age are playing gin rummy and bingo in parlors all over Florida.
I still can't believe I'm here. I mean, fine, so I got a little loose with the facts. (Which, may I remind you, is the ONLY thing I did. I'm in jail for supposedly lying about a crime that, um, nobody has been able to prove I was guilty of. Funny how that works.) And I understand that Waksal and I might have been a little too cozy. But you know what? Since arriving here, I couldn't help notice that, well, the people who sold the other 7 million shares of ImClone that day in December DON'T SEEM TO BE HERE AT ALL!
Anyway, this place is awful. I don't know where they got these guards. They are sloppy and pathetic. One guard was wearing black today. After Memorial Day! And where did they get the patterns for those uniforms anyway? Chairman Mao's cultural revolution?! Oh, for a shot of navy blue.
Tuesday, 15 June 2004
This place isn't so bad, actually. Right before “dinner,” I tried the prison's vile pruno recipe, which makes booze using oranges and ketchup. I immediately upgraded the ingredient list to include tangerines, which are fresh and in season, and honey, which will produce a milder flavor and more potent fermentation process.
Hey, this is funny: I just found out that the girls down in Cellblock C are accepting glossies of Doug Faneuil's modeling shoots in exchange for cigarettes. I don't smoke, of course — I might be in prison, but that doesn't mean I've gone white trash! — but currency's currency. The notion of bartering Baby (as he called himself in emails to friends) for something of value thaws my heart. Slightly.
As I said, this place isn't too awful. Sure, the color schemes are tired and drab, and I can't help noticing that the cobweb designs around the toilet are unimaginative and derivative. (I spruced them up a little bit with some imported Moroccan Christmas glitter.) I've also convinced the warden to let me bring my mobile phone in my cell. I've been having a jolly old time filling Bacanovic's voice mailbox with suggestions on how to best adjust his cellmate's “wrap accounts.”
Wednesday, 16 June 2004
I write this from solitary. I blame my bunkmate. After lunch, I noticed that she had left the cap off the toothpaste again, even though I'd already sent her a rather detailed memo explaining the possible ramifications of such abhorrence. I was forced to tie her down with sheets and beat her with a pillowcase filled with bars of Kiehl's grapefruit-scented, moisturizing soap. Some people just won't listen!
Thursday, 17 June 2004
After getting sprung from solitary, I hung in an Internet cluster, perusing Form 4s for major shareholders of Martha Stewart Omnimedia. I'm thinking I can lay some groundwork for a major shareholder revolt. I then mailed a cake in the shape of Mike Eisner's head to Roy Disney in an attempt to glean insight from the master.
Also heard back from my incompetent lawyer about our strategy for the appeal. He rejected my suggestion that we simply note: “It was, like, $50,000. Do you think I ever cared about that little money?” Not that I put any faith in his strategies anymore; I'd have been better off with Colin Ferguson.
Friday, 18 June 2004
We've actually formed our own capital market here. The ladies in Cellblock D have a game in which we bet on the next suicide attempt. All the deals go through Pauline, who's in for murder (on a plea deal that gives her a shorter sentence than mine. How's that for injustice!) Anyway, my friend next door told me that her cellmate has been depressed for weeks — something about missing her family. I just called Pauline; the trade is in.
Making money is so easy sometimes.
Will Leitch is a staff editor for Registered Rep. [email protected].