I can still remember when my sister was the little girl who pinched her thumb and forefinger together and held them up high for a cup of tea. With her blue-eyed doll cradled in the elbow of her arm, she was for one moment in time, a young mother and my neighbor visiting me. I, too, cradled a peachfaced baby doll and invited her into my house through the invisible door as we mimicked grownups. Mama’s canned foods stacked in a crate in the patio became my kitchen cupboards, but I only offered the tasteless, odorless, imaginary cup of tea and she sipped it so sophisticated. Her long brown hair fell all around her soft pale face and shoulders. With no color in her cheeks, it made those predominantly brown eyes illuminate.

The tea parties were a smash, but when Rocky found us he sent Natalie screaming out through the backyard gate.

“Run!” she screamed. “It’s the monster!”

Rocky barked and chased us all the way to the school yard, a block and a half up Bell harbor Avenue. Past the monkey bars was the fireman pole and we climbed the steel stairway to the top of the Castle where the monster could not get us. We would scream for help as Rocky yipped and wagged his tail. Sliding down the cold steel pole, we ran for our lives back to our house where Rocky could be heard behind us in chase.

Through the front door exhausted, we would collapse on the living room carpet and our monster would lick our faces as he waved his tail with victory. I still feel a sense of disbelief when I think of her in prison now. In reality, she just could not out run all the monsters in her life.

Behind prison walls at CIW, my sister has remained pale, and her features have become a bit more washed out. Her eye brows faded to an almost unnoticeable shadow giving her large almond eyes a deep set appearance. The most colorful thing about her appearance are the tattoos she had donned since she turned a rebellious fourteen. The large red rose centered on her right hand, surrounded with leaves of two shades of green, is not just an emblem of beauty, but a deliberate cover up of an ugly memory by the name “Mike” that lies beneath. On her back, was a professional tat of a sword with a ribbon that once read “Sworn to fun—Loyal to none” until another bad memory, Ricky G., came along and had a flower inked on the letter “N.” Now it reads “Sworn to fun—Loyal to one.” Clever bastard. It is he that I’d like to blame for her incarceration in the California State Prison, but he did not have anything to do with this charge. Not this time.

At seventeen she met Rick G., a carpenter by trade. We wore his thick wavy brown hair in a ponytail that came just past his shoulders. I envied his hazel eyes that popped out brightly and were outlined with thick brown eyelashes. The rest of his features were hid under his full “ZZ Top” style beard. Sporting a black Harley Davidson T-shirt with large brown wings outlined in orange, I realized what they had in common besides the multitude of tats up and down his arms.

Just as I had suspected, his stereotyped bad boy image was indeed a warning. He was trouble and when they married for better or worse, it was for the worst. They racked up some serious felonies that I will not list to protect the innocent—and the not so innocent. As a result, she turned eighteen in jail and went to CIW for the first time. There were no “Three Strikes” back then in 1979-80. The charges were serious. I won’t play that down, but she did her time and to throw it in her face twenty years later with the new Three Strikes law was like sending a twenty year old to bed early for what she did when she was ten. With so many years, come many changes—changes that the law has no eyes to see.

In 2002, everyone who knew Natalie knew she was transforming into a functional citizen as well as a loving mother and she attended church. Going in and out of jails and prison was now years behind her, and she settled into a somewhat domestic lifestyle. Still far from perfect, my little tea partner was a far, far away story. Now forty, a medium-build woman in tight jeans and spaghetti straps was quick to tell anyone where to go, an anytime, for any reason and more interested in coffee than tea. We mirrored a strong resemblance and even fooled people on the phone as our voice sounded so much alike down to the boisterous laughter, but our similarities ended there. We argued a lot about our differences, but we were sisters and counted on love to perform as a super glue to keep our dysfunctional family together.

I lived in Fresno, an hour drive, to where I could find her under her car on a Saturday afternoon lathered in motor oil with the scent of gasoline. But on any other day she could have been found with her hair feathered back, the plum-red lipstick shimmering on her perfectly shaped lips, and wearing a matching satin mid-drift halter top. She never wore rouge to blush her cheeks as if she had discovered her colorless beauty. We would greet each other with a hug, and sometimes I would detect a faint hint of the White Diamonds perfume that I bought her for her birthday. But usually, her perfume collection consisted of incense oils that reminded me of my favorite scented candle section in a Hallmark store.

Within three years of living in Los Banos, she was accepted into the program “Habitat for Humanity.” Memories of the neighborhood children in her rented house visiting her children, Kevin 13 and Angel 15, entered my mind. I recall many times Natalie cooked dinner for her own, but if a parent didn’t call a child home for dinner, she set an extra plate. As she opened her heart and home to others, I thought it appropriate that she would now have her own. As the community of volunteers began to build her house, Natalie, Kevin and Angel helped hammer and frame the new home that they would never know.

Kevin looked like his dad as his bright yellow curls popped out from under his baseball cap that he wore religiously to shade his fair skin from the sun. His blue eyes lit up from under the bill of the cap, and although handsome, his coloring did not match his mother, or his sister Angel’s. Angel was Natalie’s Mini- Me and now closely resembles the rebellious teen I once knew, although I never saw Angel hold a doll ever—she was more the stuffed animal type. Her brown, animated, fawn-like eyes frightened me as I wondered how much she could be like her mother. For now, the young girl hung her whole weight on my arm and pulled me like a tug boat to her room when I visited. I would get another tour of her domain as if it were the first time. Indeed, the smell of crayons and Play Dough was replaced with a makeup gallery, and her walls displayed posters of Brittney Spears and other pop idols.

Video movies were a traditional way to end a long visit before heading back to Fresno. We watched Erin Brockovich as Natalie snuggled on the floor with her children like mother cat with a litter of her kittens. She seemed more like a tiger to me, but watching her at that moment from the couch, she was tender as a kitten finger stroking their hair. If I knew what I know now, I would have laid down there on the floor and joined them. I would hold my sister, but I didn’t—I did tell her that I loved her as I always did before I entered my car to leave. A week before Mother’s Day, my cell phone rang and I received a prank call. A young voice said, “My name is Adriane, and you need to come get Angela and Kevin because Natalie’s in jail.”

“Very funny!” I hung up on the pranksters.

My caller ID showed the area code “209” and I couldn’t believe Natalie’s kids would play a joke on me like that. It’s out of character, I thought, and the phone rang again. I saw the same area code but before I could lecture, I was interrupted.

“My name is Adriane; I’m twenty-seven, and my little brother is Angel’s boyfriend. This is not a prank call!”

The only muscle in my body that moved now was my heart, and I was sure that had stopped. My caller remained silent long enough for my mind to fast forward a file of the miner charges that could possibly have caught up with Natalie—like that six foot round swimming pool she stole from Wal-Mart in her backyard. Adriane’s voice brought me back as she gave me a brief of last night’s events.

In summary, Natalie had a few drinks at the annual May Day Fair in Los Banos. Her medication, Paxil, labeled with a warning to “avoid alcohol.” Believing that the warning meant the meds would just intensify the alcohol, she drank. It would become the last thing she remembered, but later at home, she went for more alcohol. According to Kevin, “My mom got really messed up and was leaving to go to the store to get more alcohol. One of Angel’s friends said something to my mom and she got mad at Angel and started throwing things around. Although she did not aim—one of the objects hit me in the face while I was outside in a friend’s van. It went passed my friends head and hit me. When the cops came they took her to jail.”

Natalie remained in jail for more than a year fighting her felony charges as the Three Strikes law now demanded a 25 to life sentence. As her hearing date drew near, Kevin and I drove to Merced county to deliver a newly purchased dress, black lowheeled shoes and make-up to her attorney. I walked into Marty Garza’s office, but he was out to lunch and Kevin waited for me in the car. As Garza drove into the parking lot, he stepped ou of his car holding a bag from Burger King. (Somehow, I pictured him in a fancy restaurant). Walking toward me, Kevin witnessed a conversation that escalated to yelling.

“There’s not gonna be a trial!” said Garza loudly. “It’s a sentencing! She’s doing 25 to life!” He walked towards his office and I followed.

“But 25 to life is not fair for a black-out!” I said as if pleading to a judge. “I’m sure you have drunk and have had black-outs when you were a law student in your college years.”

Garza’s tone became more ominous as he spun around and answered, “Yeah! But I didn’t go around beating people up!”

There was silence in the parking lot as it sank into me that Natalie was sunk. Slowly my eyes moved towards my car where Kevin sat staring silently at what and who was supposed to defend his mother. Garza turned to look and for the first time he noticed there was someone there.

“I knew my mom was screwed right then,” said Kevin, as he shook his head and finger combed his hair out of his eyes. “He was supposed to defend my mom, and he sounded like a prosecutor.”

Kevin and I drove to Los Banos and told Natalie’s circle what happened. Friends and family urgently wrote letters to the Judge to give enlightenment of the current situation and detailed who Natalie is today.

At home, I waited for the collect call from county jail, but when Natalie finally called, it was too late. When I told her about the dress and preparations for trial, she realized her own attorney betrayed her.

“My gawd, Shirley! He told me my family didn’t want to go through a trial!”

“He’s a fuckin’ liar, man!” I was pumped. “You should’a heard him when we dropped off the dress. Kev heard it all, too.” “Shirley, he slammed a fourteen year deal and told me that’s the best offer I’m gonna get and I signed it!”

“Fourteen years! That’s a deal?”

“Shirley, call the bar for me and have the forms sent here fast. I’ll find out what to do in here; you make calls out there.”

“Your friends and everyone’s writing letters to the Judge,” I assured her. “I’ll fax them so that for sure the judge will get them immediately.”

I couldn’t help but call Garza as soon as we hung up. His secretary insisted he wasn’t there every time I called and I deliberately became a past. Even when I blocked my number, only an answer machine would pick up my calls anymore.

Three carloads of Natalie’s friends and family went to court and took the last two rows on the right of the surprisingly small Merced County courtroom. There were many cases to be heard that day according to the filled seats that surrounded us. Garza was caught in the hallway and looked surprised when he saw us. When questioned, he denied any knowledge of the letters. Natalie did not terminate him due to the prosecution’s threat to recommend 25 to life again if she started over with another lawyer. It made fourteen years sound good. She was already judged and sentenced, and we all knew it. This sentencing was just a formality and we, her supporters, were ready to proceed in prayer.

Separating our seats from the judge’s platform was a three foot wooden divider. It was just a visual of division in the room separating us from what resembles a wooden polished throne where the judge would sit. The large round seal of Merced County hung on the wall behind the judge’s seat. When the judge sat down it hung above his head giving an allusion of a self-proclaimed halo. To the right, four rows of empty seats lined vertically to face the judge. The courtroom hushed as a back door opened and chains jingled on the ankles of the prisoners now taking those empty seats. More chains wrapped around their wrists and waists securely. They did not speak as their eyes scanned the courtroom for relatives and supporters. Some smiled in recognition when they spotted a loved one; others didn’t bother to look. Sitting closest to the door was Natalie. Her eyes bounced from one face to the other in our group and gave us her best but nervous smile.

When her case was called, we were granted permission to speak before the judge. Each person spoke of the qualities Natalie had acquired over the years. “One bad night should not reflect her transformation,” argued Marilee, one of the pillars of Los Banos. She was a school nurse, owned one of the gas stations off Highway 152 and an elder of the church Natalie went to. The tall woman with gray hair pinned neatly on top of her head told the judge how Natalie had taken an interest in canning and baking and about the hours they spent together in her kitchen as Natalie eagerly became her pupil. She spoke for a time and concluded, “She never had a mother to teach her these things and I kinda became her mother figure.”

“Thank-you,” said the judge with an unchanged face. Then, he looked at the rest of until the next person stood up. Each person urged him to recognize that her criminal record was now decades old, in particular was her friend, Terry. Terry gave an account of the camping trips Natalie took her kids on without a father, how she taught her son to fish, and took them to church and how she never saw Natalie discipline her children with any excessive roughness. She pleaded for the court to send her to a program if they believe she has a drinking program or send her to a parenting class if the court finds her an unfit parent, but to have mercy on the fourteen years. The judge looked bored.

When it was my turn, I was a bit intimidated, but found within me a dim glow of hope for justice. I asked the judge if he had received the letters I faxed him, just for reassurance, but he said, “No.”

I spoke faster explaining how I faxed the letters to make very sure he received them on her behalf. He again denied ever seeing any letters for this case. I verbally gave my version of the contents of my letter. When I was finished he just looked at me, and I took my seat.

Kevin, now fourteen, took his turn to speak before the Judge. He wore creased black slacks and a tucked in crispy white buttoned- up shirt that buttoned tightly at his wrists giving the sleeves a ballooned effect. Without his usual baseball cap, the lights above were caught in the waves of his bright yellow hair. When he began to speak, only the howl and cries of his soul filled the courtroom. Unable to express a single word himself, I quickly went to him and held him in my right arm and spoke on his behalf as he looked down to the floor. I explained to the judge how much these children’s lives will be devastated without their mother who never had a complaint or a CPS case. Looking at Kevin and back at the judge, I reminded him that in fourteen years this child (still choking and sobbing) would be twenty-four upon her release. The judge looked as if he waited for me to get to the point.

I looked at my sister helplessly and out of ammunition. She was now crying too, but it was for her son. Her arms could not hold him even if those chains dropped to the floor. She was chained to at least thirty other prisoners, both men and women. Rows of jumpsuits and tee-shirts made them all look alike except for their hair and features. I saw through the jumpsuits as their hardened faces softened with compassion, yet the judge remained unmoved. I gave one long glance at the judge knowing I could not crack his icy glare that reminded me of the glaze that rolls over a lizard’s eyes when it sleeps, but appears to be awake.

The judge sentenced Natalie to the fourteen year deal. Then staggered many in the courtroom with a restraint order from her children to visit her until they reached the age of eighteen referring to them as victims! Shock jolted the family, and I heard her friend, Terry cry. The others just wanted out the door quickly and to catch Garza outside. We could hear the people that surrounded us murmuring on Natalie’s behalf. Outside, the tall, slim nurse cornered Garza in private. Her stern square jaw line was firm as her eyebrows bundled tightly together, and I was sure she was giving him a good tongue lashing.

Kevin didn’t feel the necessity to be protected and complained about the restraining order.

“They weren’t protecting us! They didn’t know anything about us... ya know? They never did any kind of follow-up or asked us what happened. I visited mom while she was in jail every Wednesday for a year! It was more of another way to her than it was to protect us.

Kevin and Angel mourned their mother who filed a Habeas Corpus her first year in prison and was denied. It is against the constitution for a lawyer to hold animosity against his or her own client. Her lawyer also lied to her to persuade her from going to trial. Also, it was much later learned that judges do not receive faxed letters. They must be sealed and sent through the mail for legal reasons. If the judge’s secretary cared enough to call and inform us of the legalities perhaps it may have made a difference. Perhaps not.

Although he could not visit, Kevin wrote frequently to his mother. Angel picked family and friends to foster her, but they coveted her and eventually would not accept collect calls fro Natalie. When Angel ran away, she stayed with her school friends. Kevin stayed with friends and family until he was sent to a foster home due to the slow process of the county’s red tape. Uncle Rick was jumping through hoops, fingerprinting, and playing phone tag with the foster care social worker. Before the process was complete, Kevin ran away from his foster home in Atwater and returned to Los Banos to be with his sister and friends. The house was now built and lived in by another family in the Habitat for Humanity program. The community and family members kept these “now fugitives” from the system at their own risk It was difficult for the kids to remain in contact with their mother under these conditions. This is the sentence of the innocent.

When Kevin turned eighteen in 2006 he and long-time girlfriend, Courtney, went to CIW for the first time to visit his mom. When they returned home, they brought back photos of the visit. I eagerly reached for the photos, but my smile faded. How small my sister had become. As Kevin grew taller, we were accustomed to imagine she was still bigger than him. He was barely passed her shoulder when she went to jail in 2002. Kevin now towered his mother, now forty-five, and his arms looked so large around her as her head now reached his shoulder. The photograph became a yardstick that measured time. The time they spent separated from one another, as well as the time she must remain incarcerated.