“The lawyer said I would get out in a year, and when the trial came, I was a year in jail already, so he said, ‘They’re going to sentence you to one year and let you go because you already served it.’ But they sentenced me to ten years for less than an ounce.
“When I was sentenced to so long, I saw my man, my kids’ father. The way he looked, I think he lost hope. I guess he heard ‘ten years’ like I did. ‘Ten years,’ I thought. ‘Ten years to live in that prison. I’m never going to get out. I’m going to be so much older then.’
“If you get sentenced here for ten years, you have to be in prison at least for six years and eight months. I thought I would get sentenced to a year and they sentenced me to ten years. I was very angry for that, and more angry because the guy who got caught, the one that helped the police set up the drummer and me, they told me he was free. Then I felt like the world fell on me.
“In prison you lose your freedom and you feel impotent, and they always remind you where you are and who you are. You’re a prisoner, and they treat you all the same, the really bad people and the better ones — except, if you have money, you can get what you want. If you don’t have money, you’re nothing.
“Where they put me, there were bunks, one on top of the other, six bunks, so 12 women in the room. And you need somebody to give you food. If people don’t have anybody — no family — the Christians come and feed them, but only once a week, and they give out clothes and shoes.
“My youngest daughter was there with me. She lived in prison with me starting when she was almost four years old. Not in that room with all the women. They sent us to the men’s section, to a building like a hotel. It has small rooms they call carracas. I was there with another girl, and Cristina was there with me.
“When I wanted to watch TV or sleep or hear the radio, I used to hate the Christians because they would be outside singing and praising God, and I used to get really mad because I couldn’t hear the TV or whatever. They tried to get me into another religion — not Catholic, I mean — but I never felt like going. Not because I was Catholic. I wasn’t ever a good Catholic. I never practiced my religion, never went to church since I was little. My mother was Catholic, but she was married by the church and then separated from my father, and she used to tell me that she wasn’t allowed to go into the church because she was separated from my father.
“When people aren’t instructed in God’s things, they make a lot of excuses; they use anything as an excuse not to go to church and hear things that they don’t want to hear. If they hear something bad about a priest or whatever…that was what happened to me; I used those things as an excuse not to go to church.
“A woman comes into the prison — it’s her ministry — she goes there and preaches and makes prayer groups, and she was starting one. Already she had two leaders, and they invited me. But I never went. Because I didn’t want to hear. I used to spend all my time crying and reading my future with tarot cards. And I would be on the phone all the time asking my kids’ father for money, and when he came we had big fights and I wanted to kill him.
“I used to say, ‘When I go out, I’m going to sell big. I’m not going to use anymore, but I’m going to go to an espiritista,’ an occultist, one of these people that do things to take the bad luck from you. It seems like a good thing, but it’s bad, like a Satanic thing. But that’s what I used to say. ‘When I get out, I’m going to go to the espiritista and let them do a limpia, a cleansing, and I’m going to sell big and make big money and make up for all the time they made me waste in here.’ For revenge. Because they put me in there for ten years, so long.
“You know, at the prison they allow conjugal visits. And when the Christians in the prison talked to me about the commandment ‘Don’t commit adultery,’ I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t think of my relationship with my kids’ father as adultery.
“In the prison, Father Vitorio, he was from the Misioneras de la Caridad, the order of Mother Teresa. When I met him he was just ordained and he came to the prison and did the masses on Sundays, and I would go to him and confess. Every month I would have to tell Father Vitorio, ‘I sinned again.’ And after a while, he told me, ‘I can’t absolve you, because you have to make a decision.’
“He said I had to get married or quit my adultery. And I thought, ‘How am I going to eat in here?’ How was I going to do without what my kids’ father did for me? He used to give me, like, a hundred dollars a week. He was selling drugs, that’s why he had the money. When I told him that I went to confession, he asked, ‘What happened?’ So I told him I wanted to get married and he said, ‘Oh, don’t worry, we’ll just go on like we’re doing and when you get out we’ll get married.’ Just lies.
“And then when he came for another conjugal visit, I had all these images on the walls of my room and I could feel them watching me. And I couldn’t do it.” Ginny laughed. “I wanted to get married, because when I started doing God’s things, I wanted to get married by the church. I didn’t want to sin anymore. I wanted to start over, being good. But he said, ‘No, when you get out, we’ll get married on the outside,’ and I said, ‘No. Here.’ And he didn’t want to. Now I’m glad he didn’t.