Miranda: Inside & Out

A Prisoner’s Quest to Meet Her Only Child

On an off-ramp of a Los Angeles highway, a gunman killed a driver in an SUV, causing the vehicle to flip over and land on its side.

As the number of possible suspects multiplied, the lead investigator, Lieutenant Scooter Nagley, focused on the victim's wife, Miranda Pilday, who had two motives, no alibi and who had refused to take a polygraph test. Also, Miranda had just been released from prison, and she knew people who could readily pull off a job like that.

On the other hand, Miranda had been a model prisoner who desperately wanted to meet her only child, a son who was taken from her at birth. Miranda would not jeopardize that meeting for anything.

Nagley knew a lot about ex-cons like Miranda, and Miranda knew a lot about shady interrogators like Nagley. When two strong and opposing egos collide, only one can prevail.

A SNEAK PEEK

How the Hell Am I Supposed to Soar Like an Eagle When I’m Surrounded by Stupid Turkeys?

The particular turkey that I’m speaking of weighed a hundred-and-sixty pounds and brought a gun inside our minimum-security prison for women, known as the Lighthouse.

Glendale, California, was a perfect place for our facility because it looked more like a well-kept dormitory than a prison.

I am among the few who are allowed to go off-campus in street clothes from time to time. The rest of the time, all thirty-seven of us were anxious to serve out our sentences and get out of that place, so we were usually on our best behavior, but I should have known that something had to go wrong. Sure enough, Turkey-Boy put it all in jeopardy.

As for me, a lot of people thought I shouldn’t be there in the first place, even though my original sentence required a minimum of forty-one years behind bars in the Bakersfield Penitentiary, ostensibly because I had played a role in three murders.

After serving ten years for those bogus crimes, I was able to prove my innocence by committing several misdemeanors. Once that was completed, the original sentence was waived, and I was moved to the Lighthouse for five additional years for the misdemeanors. Thankfully, I had served all but three months of that sentence and was scheduled to be released for good.

That’s when gobble-head inserted himself in everybody else’s business. That idiot’s behavior had the potential to derail both my appointment with freedom and the other thing I’d always wanted more than anything else – to meet my teenaged son for the very first time.

The chaos all started after dinner. Our very pregnant receptionist needed a paper from the kitchen area. Her given name was Kathy Pratt, but when she was a toddler, her father began calling her “Kandi.” A generation later, her hubby’s last name was Barr, making her “Kandi Barr.”

Anyway, it was chilly in the Lighthouse, and I wanted to change into my casual jeans, so I agreed to retrieve the paper that Kandi needed.

When I returned, I dropped said paper on her desk and noticed a familiar mustached visitor with a long black ponytail and a dingy red baseball cap coming toward the building. Unfortunately for me, Lenny Canosa was the husband of my cellmate, Neeva.

Lenny reached for the entry bell at the same time that I turned my back on the reception area. Then I heard the buzzer go off, indicating that guard Donna had authorized Kandi to let Lenny in, but before Donna could pat Lenny down, he stepped deeper into the main room, produced a huge gun, pulled the trigger, and shattered the window off to my side.

I wrapped my arms around my head and ducked down while others screamed and glass shards pinged off the table beside me.

Given that there was only one gunshot, and it shattered the window, I assumed that nobody was hit, but Kandi was at the greatest risk, partly because she had a baby to think about and partly because Lenny’s gun was just a few feet from her head.

“Except for Kandi,” Lenny said into the room, “I want all the rest of youse guys to lay on the floor, face down, hands behind your back so I can see them.”

The majority of us had already made a voluntary trip to the carpet, but the remainder of our group did what he said.

Lenny turned to Kandi and showed her his gun, presumably to intimidate her and to keep her under control. “Where is Neeva, honey?” he asked.

As I said, Neeva was my cellmate. She’d earned two years in the Lighthouse when she hit an obnoxious drunk over the head with a beer bottle, knocking him out and destroying some of his eyesight.

Nearly crying, Kandi pointed toward the center hall. “I think Neeva is back in the kitchen.”

“Alright then. I want you to stand by your desk so you don’t get hurt.”

With trembling fingers, Kandi nodded and wiped a tear from her eye.

While Lenny moved toward the center hall, one of the other inmates yelled at a guard. “Dammit, Brandon. Get your gun and take him out before he kills somebody.”

But instead, Lenny’s gun popped a second bullet into the far wall. “I told youse people to keep your hands behind your backs. If I see either of you guards going for a phone or gun, I won’t be so friendly.”

Everybody tightened up as Lenny turned his attention toward the hall. “Come on out, Neeva,” he yelled.

After a few seconds of shuffling, my thin Hispanic cellmate made her way up the hall. “I’m coming, Lenny,” she said in a highly irritated tone. “What are you doing?”

That was when I got a glimpse at Lenny’s shaking hands.

“Stop this, Lenny,” Neeva barked. “You’re scaring everybody.”

“Shut up. I know what I’m doing. Now get the guards’ guns, then join Kandi by her desk.”

Lenny turned to Kandi. “How you doing? Is your baby alright?”

The receptionist squared her glasses and wiped her cheeks. “I guess I’m okay.”

“Good.”

“Got ‘em,” Neeva said, referring to the guards’ guns.

“Bring ‘em to me.”

“Okay, okay, I will, but don’t shoot that gun no more. Okay?”

“I see Miranda by the window,” Lenny said, ignoring Neeva. “I want you to stand up and walk toward Kandi and the door.”

My stomach tightened. The last thing I needed was drama. On the other hand, this loon was trigger-happy, and when an angry person points his gun right at you, you take him seriously.

“Alright, alright,” I said, standing and revealing my hands.