In the Room Beyond the Rose Garden

By TBD

What follows after In the Room Beyond the Rose Garden is its sequel, The Circuit. Never has any author or madam written about the Circuit before. My insight into the workings of this infamous prostitution ring was gained as I lived it, through my relationships with the other madams and the girls. There are no tales naming clients. Rather, the pr

• Language: English
• Publisher: Agar Publishing
• Release date: Mar 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781956096095

TBD

Patsy Stanley is an artist, illustrator and author and a mother, grandmother and great grandmother. She has authored both nonfiction and fiction books including novels, children's books, energy books, art books, and more. She can reached at:[e-mail] for questions and comments.

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by Libbe Leah Siskind

ISBN:    Paperback       978-1-956096-08-8

              eBook            978-1-956096-09-5

              LCCN           2022903948

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

For my mother, Rose, who is the biggest and brightest star in the sky and my guardian angel. To my loving son, R. Lee, whose understanding and belief in me have seen me through the months and years of piecing my life together. For David, who loved us both and passed away far too soon; he will remain in our hearts forever. For my daughter, whose recent entrance into my life has brought me great joy. To the son I’ve never met, who occupies a special place in my heart as well—may he someday meet his brother and sister. To the loving memory of my son R. Lee’s father, Jimmy. To J.R.F., who I’ve been with since 1997; we made it through some rough times but what we share is strong, a solid connection. And to Allyson, who has been steadfast and patient during our creative working relationship. To all of my friends over the years. In memory of my close friends Ruthie and Eric.

Contents

Foreword

Preface

Introduction

Chapter 1: Busted (April 6, 2002)

Chapter 2: A Curly-Haired Girl

Chapter 3: Haunting Memories

Chapter 4: Haircut

Chapter 5: Surprise!

Chapter 6: Anita, Anita, Anita

Chapter 7: After Camp, Back to School

Chapter 8: Florida

Chapter 9: Back to Boston

Chapter 10: Dad Loses His Temper

Chapter 11: Foster Home in Sharon

Chapter 12: Leaving Sharon

Chapter 13: Mattapan

Chapter 14: Friends

Chapter 15: The Wedding

Chapter 16: City to Suburb

Chapter 17: Secret

Chapter 18: To the Brink of Murder

Chapter 19: Freddy

Chapter 20: Stolen Car

Chapter 21: The Girls’ Detention Center

Chapter 22: The Mysterious Woman

Chapter 23: Rambler

Chapter 24: Baby Girl

Chapter 25: Broken Promise

Chapter 26: Runaway

Chapter 27: A Big Shock

Chapter 28: Meeting W.D.

Chapter 29: Taken Away

Chapter 30: Turned Out

Chapter 31: The Road Takes a Turn

Chapter 32: The Rules

Chapter 33: Busted

Chapter 34: Choosing a Pimp

Chapter 35: More Choices

Chapter 36: The Essex Hotel

Chapter 37: Rio

Chapter 38: On the Streets

Chapter 39: Who Wants to Die for Eighty Dollars?

Chapter 40: Finally Eighteen

Chapter 41: The 1200 Beacon Street Hotel

Chapter 42: Freaked

Chapter 43: A Cold Winter’s Rape

Chapter 44: Woodstock

Chapter 45: Disappointment

Chapter 46: Busted on Morton Street

Chapter 47: Winter Hill

Chapter 48: Mr. Seafood

Chapter 49: Kidnapped

Chapter 50: At Home

Chapter 51: A Shocking Crime on Tennis Road

Chapter 52: Bay State Road

Chapter 53: A Trip to See Dad in Florida

Chapter 54: Breakdown at Home

Chapter 55: Safe in Inglewood, California

Chapter 56: Oatmeal Man

Chapter 57: Frozen

Chapter 58: Trip to Beth Israel Hospital and the Escape

Chapter 59: Another Father Figure

Chapter 60: Looking for Mr. Goodbar

Chapter 61: A True Tragedy

Chapter 62: The Wedding

Chapter 63: Damsel in Distress

Chapter 64: The Blizzard of ’78 and a New Beginning

Chapter 65: Decisions

Chapter 66: Police Chase

Chapter 67: Hospital Discharge

Chapter 68: Challenges Ahead

Chapter 69: Overdose

Chapter 70: Construction and Changes

Chapter 71: Coma

Chapter 72: Store Open

Chapter 73: Israel, Egypt, Greece, and Rome

Chapter 74: My Son, My Home, and My Soul Mate

Chapter 75: Long Overdue Meeting

Chapter 76: Store Changes

Chapter 77: New Girlfriends and Boyfriends

Chapter 78: Trouble Brewing

Chapter 79: Doom and Gloom

Chapter 80: Mt. Auburn Hospital Phone Call

Chapter 81: March 13, 1995, Wake-Up Call

Chapter 82: Admitted to Tufts Medical Center

Chapter 83: Autumn and Winter

Chapter 84: New Year’s Eve

Chapter 85: Funeral

Chapter 86: Sleazy Bar in Framingham

Chapter 87: A Disturbing Phone Call

Chapter 88: April 18, 2002

Chapter 89: Looking Ahead

Author’s Note

Foreword

A

foreword is usually written by a well-known person, but I have found that ethicists are seldom at the forefront of literary or social discourse. Why? Because in addition to speaking truth to power, we speak logic to societal naiveté—and this is not appreciated. I want to express my profound admiration for what the author has courageously presented to the world in this compelling memoir.

The boundaries we set as a society are restrictive and unforgiving. In the name of morals and religious constraints we create the so-called deviant, whose behaviors we isolate and excoriate—no matter if they are helpless children or powerless young girls. What this book will do is open the minds as well as the hearts of readers to an understanding that the cards we are dealt are not evenly or fairly distributed, but how we play them is based on inner forces developed as we evolve as individuals.

The trajectory is uneven and the path circuitous when we are guided more by our innate character than by good fortune. This is the story of a woman brutalized as a child, taken advantage of as an adolescent, and objectified as an adult, who rose above the abuse of systems and individuals and created a life of integrity and standards seldom met by those who have not faced true adversity.

Pope Francis wisely said in 2013, when queried about people outside the margins, Who am I to judge? But we do judge, all of us. Libbe Leah Siskind is determined to present to us a world we have never really seen to bring to light the urgent need to save the children and young women who are brutalized and enslaved to this day, this hour, this moment.

We have free will and need to examine our place in the world and fight, as Ms. Siskind would have us do, to end the exploitation that still exists. Read her story and ask yourself—could I have withstood all that? Then ask this: what can I do, how can I help affect change, make the world safer for the deviants set aside by the self-serving boundaries of society? Holocaust survivor, Nobel Laureate, and educator Elie Wiesel said, The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. Be it a child tied to a bed or a girl sold on the streets, do not judge or behave with indifference—take action.

Allyson T. Woolf

Preface

If you pick at scars, the wound will never heal. But if you leave them alone and forget they are there, they will go away. If I fed on all the bad things that have happened to me, there would be no food left for the good things—none. I filled those small, unscarred areas that were left with as much positive impact as possible so that there was little left over for the ravenous darkness of my mind and body. I never forget, but I put it all aside as memories, not living and breathing entities. We all want to live and learn, but so many cannot get past one awful thing that happens to them. It’s like watching a bad program on TV; you must teach yourself how to change those channels and make everything work for you in a positive way. Move on!

The phrase in the room comes out of the world of streetwalkers and in-house prostitution. How a girl performs in the room, what happens in the room, is the measure of her ability and the site of her job description. If a madam describes you as being great in the room it means you can handle a client well; you are a performer on the mattress who uses the theatrical veil in a creative way. In the room that houses my spirit, I have always been the loved child of my adoptive mother. I am strong and unshakeable today because I remember my mother, Rose.

My best memories come from my experiences as a young child in Rose’s care. I have collected letters from adoption agencies, foster care workers, psychologists, and the Department of Social Services that describe me from the earliest times in my life. One letter describes me at thirty-five weeks old: She is a pretty baby with large, dark brown eyes and curly brown hair. Libbe has high social qualities and is very responsive, lively, and playful. […] Libbe shows security and contentment in this home. Mrs. Siskind has given her excellent care and she is like their own child, accepted by the family circle. […] Libbe is very active. She can pull to her own feet on the sofa and stand holding on. In block play, she seems to prefer the left hand, is alert in manipulating and grasping.

Now imagine me as a grown woman, a woman who is wheeling her bicycle and sits down next to you on the banks of the Charles River. She is friendly, bright, and articulate. You like her. What if you knew she had been a street whore? A woman who so violates the status quo that she has been legislated against and condemned by every generation in history, whether politics and society are in a morals and ethics phase or totally decadent. Whores are women who have forsaken their rights. Do you stand and apologetically leave, saying that you can’t possibly be friends? What’s in the heart of a whore? If you got to know me, perhaps you’d use different labels—like mother, caretaker, lover of dogs, author of novels and children’s books, faithful friend, and a fan of Elizabeth Taylor, old movies, and cartoons. My heart is the same heart that beats in all of us. I was that vibrant thirty-five-week-old child described in my papers, like any other healthy young child of the same age.

The phrase in the room also refers to the boiler room in the house where I grew up, where my adoptive father’s new wife, Anita, locked me up and tortured me. When my mother Rose was alive, the basement was my favorite place, a room where I took refuge and played—a space reserved for fantasy. My dad, Fred, built the basement out of knotty pine, with velvet-padded benches for sitting and storage, a tile floor, a bar, and a bathroom. Both doors in the boiler room and bar could be locked from the outside with those old slide locks made of brass, but they couldn’t be opened from the inside.

Fred crafted the boiler room in his careful way, and it could be a scary place if he wasn’t there working with his tools and labeled jars of screws and nails. With Fred, it was warm, and the sound of the boiler flue whispering in the little room was soothing. Once Anita became my evil stepmother and jailer, the dark, locked room became my cell, and the concrete floor my bed in the bad room.

In the room is also the safe place I created far away from Anita. I had a bold persona on the streets when I ran away from my adopted family, foster homes, pimps, and abusers. I picked myself up from being a street whore to establish my own business in the high ranks of in-house party girls and call girls; someone who was, by far, sober and clean throughout sixteen years on the streets in Boston’s Combat Zone, only taking small hits of cocaine and an occasional drink with my men. Finally, I had my dream house—my attempt to build a childhood I never had after my mother died, to protect me from the bad memories of the past. How did I end up here? Odds say I should be among the detritus, the wasted sisterhood of streetwalkers, whores, and hustlers whose bodies and souls have been beaten down, polluted, and sometimes stamped out. Whatever is left of them—if anything is left—shivers and shakes, pulls on itself in hurt and agony, and hungrily grabs for any chemical or substance to soften and dull the constant pain. I became a person of many interests and talents. I did not want pain and death. Untouchable. No one knew that I was there, only a couple of people knew what I did. I had a son to be proud of and who was proud of me, and a home for us both. What follows is the introduction to my story.

Introduction

To begin…I was an abused and mistreated child, a prostitute, and a madam. But even more importantly, I am a woman and a human being. My story is often happy, brutal, and unnerving. It is also one of subtle and clear triumph. It is ultimately hopeful.

My book describes much of the terrible reality of adoption, foster care, prostitution, and the system. It goes in depth into an existence that should have killed me prior to reaching the age of twenty. What I endured and overcame seems remarkable to other people. I never viewed my life that way as I was living it. To me, it was my daily life. Today, in my seventies, I am known as a compassionate, industrious, and warm woman—and this defies the odds.

Everyone who has heard even a partial account of my story finds it very intriguing. I began my life being given up for private adoption by a birth mother who was married to a man other than my biological father. I was only seven when stomach cancer took my mother from me: the mother who had adopted me and whom I loved. I sustained myself beyond the wicked stepmother and being molested by the gardener. I made it through the foster homes to which I was sent and my pregnancy at sixteen—giving birth to a healthy girl given up for adoption in 1967. In 1970, I gave birth to a baby boy who was also given up for adoption for reasons that will be explained further on. I never forgot them—it has taken over forty years of searching, letters, phone calls, lawyers, and working with the bureaucracy and agencies. One child I have met and connected with, the other did not want to meet with me at that point in time. I lived through torture, child rape, and gang rape. I stuck it out and dealt with sadistic and controlling pimps, and a decade of selling myself on the streets of Boston and cities with truck stops in the Northeast. These were men I pleasured for money. There were more rapes! In 1969, I gave birth to my son R. Lee, whom I adore, always supporting him and never abandoning him no matter what occurred in my life on the streets.

I stayed alive as my sisters on the hoe stroll died and disappeared. Kara was butchered and carved up in an apartment in the Back Bay. Marcie, a madam and close friend who owned an old brownstone in Back Bay, Boston, couldn’t stay away from alcohol and freebasing. She overdosed and her heart froze. Katie shot up junk with her lover, caught AIDS, and ended up as dead as Kara and Marcie. And although I didn’t know them personally, there was Melodie Stankiewicz, Holly Davidson, and Kathy Williams—all found murdered north of Boston within a year. So many other street sisters. Gone. Dead. Most were never mentioned in the newspaper because they were prostitutes—a sub-human species—unlike other women.

Then there was Ruthie, a few years younger than me, my tightest friend in the sisterhood of prostitutes. She was, like me, a Jewish girl from the Boston suburbs who had a dysfunctional parent. Ruthie was not like me in that she did not grow to trust her own opinions and perspective. She was fickle and insecure. Ruthie, known as Robin, danced in the Zone and did tricks as well. She constantly longed for a true feeling of belonging to something. You will read her story and learn her destiny.

I moved on and then, if not in the estimation of polite society, I started to take control. I figured out and acted on my transition away from the enslavement of pimps in Boston’s Combat Zone to establish myself as a madam, an operator of my own enterprise. I felt as though I was respectable. I built a business that provided quality companionship, and whose ladies of the evening had to be twenty-one years or older, alcohol and drug free, pretty, well-kept, and could at least affect a semblance of sophistication—in fact, many had a college education.

Later on, in 1978, I met David, my soul mate and the second love of my life. He didn’t like what I did, but he had to learn to deal with it. Soon after, I left doing tricks behind and was exclusively a madam. My business grew, and it was not long before I became a leading madam on the decades-old national high-end sex network called The Circuit. We were a clique of highly successful, authentic madams; none connected in any way except to trade our girls with each other.

Even as I lived an underground existence, I ensured that my son had faith and a spiritual background. I enrolled R. Lee in Hebrew school and impressed upon him the importance and value of Judaism. After I had a near-death experience, I made plans to take R. Lee to Jerusalem so that his bar mitzvah ceremony could be at the Wailing Wall.

I bought a rundown Victorian house in 1982, and commenced the twenty-year-plus rehabilitation and restoration of the home into a gorgeous painted lady—my Pink House. I leveraged the equity in the Pink House and invested in other properties; a passion of mine that continues to this day.

With the credit backing of a wealthy client, I opened up several small retail stores. The businesses were profitable, as was my in-call enterprise. Not enough time in a day, but the money rolled in. I started to think, Could I? Could I leave the life of a madam one day and operate totally on the right side of the law? This was something I wished for every day. I made the choice to go for it, to go for the life of a square. David was happy. I, on the other hand, was not! My plan was to sell off the businesses (no more shoe stores) and open one store in the high-rent section of Boston, which I did.

I cut off my telephone number. I tossed the black book with my clients’ phone numbers. To me, it was like losing a part of myself. It was my lifeline. I launched an accessory boutique. I even had a small florist shop adjacent to the boutique. Things went well; the businesses made money. I did not have to be a madam. But my business partner was going bankrupt. All the money I had saved went to my partner to buy out his interest so that I did not lose my home.

I returned to what I knew. I returned to the life. Applying my business sense, I quickly regained my standing by using ads selling myself in the edgy section of the Phoenix. Later, I opened and ran a small collectibles and jewelry store that specialized in antique dolls—this time without partners. I loved both my enterprises. I ended up, as I always did, back on my feet. I vowed never to give up my client books again. David wasn’t pleased.

I continued as a madam and store owner, compartmentalizing each business in my mind. Answering the phones to schedule the girls restricted my participation in social causes that first year. Somehow, someway, despite the abuses I underwent—or maybe because of them—my constitution has been one of empathy, laughter, smiles, and devoid of self-pity.

None of my fine and affluent friends could ever guess what goes on in the room. No one knew I was running a high-class brothel, part of a soon-to-be infamous nationwide network known as The Circuit. To them, I was simply Libbe, the woman who owned a raspberry-colored Victorian in Brookline, an affluent town next to Boston, Massachusetts.

And yes, I got caught up in the circus of the federal sting to take down madams. It made the papers, magazines, and TV news across the country. FBI agents were monitoring madams’ phone calls while Osama bin Laden and the Islamic terrorists of Al Qaeda were plotting to make their attack on September 11, 2001. Some calls were made on that fatal day in our history that were apparently of great interest to the feds and received prime attention—what could be as important to national security as prostitution?

My highly visible 2002 FBI arrest was traumatic, and I will never forget it—since then, I have no secrets. The Boston Herald headlines on April 6th and 7th, 2002, were Fed brothel bust ID’s Brookline woman as alleged Hub madam, (written by Jose Martinez) and Neighbors shocked at charge of catting under hot pink roof (written by Doug Hanchett). Ironically, hanging on a wall under the hot pink roof was an original poster from the movie Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, starring Elizabeth Taylor. The article on April 6th identified me by name as an indicted madam living in Brookline, making a point that my house was a pink Victorian brothel. How dare they! It said that I was part of a prostitution state-to-state Circuit bust and would have to face a grand jury in Louisiana on a count of prostitution conspiracy. Further, it stated that I had not yet been arraigned on the potential five-year imprisonment charge and that no one had been able to reach me for a comment on the situation.

I pleaded out, and the judge handed down a relatively light sentence as I stood in federal court in New Orleans. I guess he realized that being a madam was not the only thing I did and that they wanted to shut the case down for everyone involved, and for other reasons due to political involvement. I returned to the Boston area and the Pink House, and my collectibles and jewelry store. I was about to begin another chapter in my multi-faceted life.

Above and beyond what others may have expected of me, I have had to prove my worthiness to myself. Fires burned inside me to stay alive and succeed. I pushed myself every inch of the way from the beginning. Now that I’m older, I continue striving in order to leave something of true value to my son—the legacy of my story, which I hope will be of help to others, a special part of myself for him to treasure not derived from my past but from what the future holds. I will always have a plan; what is life without one? Giving up—never!

As I wrote this book, I could feel the past like a knife piercing through my chest. The pain of recounting my life was more excruciating than I imagined, but I approached it step by step in an effort to write my entire story, looking at my life the way an outsider would. As difficult as examining the truth of my existence has been, I have the satisfaction of completing my own story after years of others attempting to write it for me. I see myself quite clearly. I am thankful I did not get caught up in a trap of substance abuse or succumb to demonic people who would have destroyed me. I hope my former life does not affect my loved ones or friends; the scars I bear are mine alone, not theirs.

Chapter One

Busted (April 6, 2002)

Oh no, the day I hoped would never come is here…in a room—all white, cement walls surrounding me like hands squeezing my throat. My god, I dreaded this day and now it’s happened.

**********

I owned a big Victorian, colonial-type, two-family home near the trolley that runs to Boston and Cleveland Circle in prestigious Brookline, Massachusetts. In 1980, I made an offer to an attorney at an estate sale. The house was a dump no one had been in for years, destitute except for the bats that inhabited every corner of the eaves. It had belonged to two sisters. One died in the first-floor unit on the couch; a neighbor who would bring food to her became worried and called for help. They found her body. The other sister was in a nursing home. Their nephew put the house on a private estate sale for one hundred fifty thousand dollars, as is. It should have been condemned, but I thought it was beautiful. I knew it was worth saving—an ugly duckling with the potential to grow into a swan—and I attached my heart and soul to it. I too was an ugly duckling! I had some cash stashed away from the flea markets I went to on weekends that were strictly cash exchanges. My client/sugar daddy (friend and partner-to-be) suggested that he’d sign and I could give him the money and the deed would go in both names. I believed he was trustworthy, and I agreed. The neighbors were happy to get the eyesore on their street cleaned up, and I was ecstatic to own a home.

Years went by. The house was beautiful, but there were still so many things to do. My store was closing, and I was going to get a larger location to sell more collectibles. I bought investment property in Boston’s South End with my partner. I bought and sold stores to make money to put back into my home, travel, and for my son’s education. There were many good things between the difficult years. And just when things were going well…

One of the girls who worked for me said she got busted in New Orleans, and the madam there left her in jail. Close your apartments and put your stuff up, just in case, she warned, panicked. When I heard the name, I became uneasy and rightly so: the New Orleans mini-madam, as it turned out, was my epic mistake.

I was supposed to go to the house I bought in Florida in April for two to three weeks with Russ, the man I was dating. We were packing and had lots of stuff to take. I was stressed because I had gone ahead and taken in a Circuit girl turned mini-madam. I said yes because I do understand how it is to be in a rut. I should have listened to the sound advice of Russ, but, more importantly, I should have listened to that inner voice that was money in the bank for me for so long, that inner street voice that told me something wasn’t quite right. In fact, nothing was right. Miss New Orleans was straight-up, low-down, bare-bones bad news. I was about to learn just how bad—it was a set-up.

When Nana called me from Manhattan in October 2000, it was to ask me for a favor: to help out Ginny, a mini-madam from New Orleans who I knew had recently been a working girl. Nana was a big-time madam. She had no trouble funneling a steady flow of high-class clients who would provide serious money for the services of this woman in addition to her other girls. Nana said she was recommending Ginny, who was hot for an older girl and good in the room but was in a serious cash crunch. Stating that she was too old for her place, Nana persuasively noted, But you like ‘mature’ there, and I like ‘the babies’ for my clients. I should have said, No way. To myself, I was thinking if Ginny needs to make money and she can’t do it out of her home base it means she has a big problem down in the bayou, and owes serious money to probably more than one person. I asked myself what else the issue might be. I was told that Ginny had a track record of getting into trouble. I told Nana, I have a few problems with taking her in. But Madam Nana managed to talk me into it, reminding me of how many girls she had referred to me. Guilt trip time! I fell for it.

Why is she in such a rush to get out of New Orleans to make the cash? I’m a smart businesswoman, but I do have a good heart, a quality I usually channeled in a way that helped my bottom line. I took good care of my girls, my most valuable resource. I helped out lots of madams, even wrote a newsletter for them to read for their amusement. In the case involving Ginny, I did not practice smart business, and my good heart torpedoed my better judgment. I kicked myself in the ass because of it for years afterward. A little down the road, she sure as hell became a problem. I should have known better about Nana after watching her rip off her own girls, always looking out for herself before anyone else. During the Canal Street case, she let a man take the blame for her, and she had just sold him the business!

According to an article in Newsweek by Arian Campo-Flores (Newsweek, 9/02/2002, Vol.140, Issue 10, 59), A Crackdown on Call Girls: The Feds Bust a Prostitution Ring with a Franchise Near You, the Circuit was nationwide. The article explains how the Circuit worked, that it eliminated the need for pimps by having madams keep their base brothels, shifting the prostitutes from place to place across the United States. Ginny, a madam, testified that in 1996, she was accepted into the Circuit, and it was one of her clients who tipped off the feds, allowing them to gain information that they had been unable to access previously. There were many indictments, Ginny’s being one of twenty-four in numerous cities around the country. The article states that among those thirteen cities were New York, Chicago, Miami, and New Orleans, and further, that due to the numbers—the extent of how many brothels were involved—many had not been discovered, were still in operation, and likely to remain so, but no thanks to a newcomer who took down what we all worked for, our privacy. Although it is mentioned that there were rivalries between the madams and problematic issues relative to both the madams and the prostitutes, it is also emphasized that the prosecutors were impressed by the system that the Circuit madams had set up and acknowledged the skill and ingenuity of the enterprise.

Everyone kept working until the last minute. Madam C. (in her sixties in Chicago) got a visit from the feds and locals early one morning, and they left after questioning her. She called everyone with a sigh of relief, and we figured that’s all—they just want to ask questions. That’s all? I wondered and continued to pack for Florida with a pit in my stomach. I needed to get away. In the old movies, they would drink a glass of milk for stress: I needed gallons! Okay. I can take a breath. Or should I? We are going to Florida in a couple of days. But being away from Boston would not change this picture.

I felt no real urgency. I was not shaking and trembling with worry or concern like I did at first when I had closed up shop. Then, early in the morning, about a week after Madam C. had visitors, the situation was clear. The sons and daughters of J. Edgar Hoover came calling in New York, Atlanta, Miami, Pittsburgh, Chicago, Houston, Biloxi, Grand Rapids, and Brookline—my home. Yes, they came to my house. They rang the bell. We were caught unaware, unprepared, all of us, some more than others. When they busted her in Chicago, Madam C. was already up, having coffee, ready to take on the day. But all the rest of us were in bed, none of us alone. No one likes to get woken abruptly and certainly not to get arrested! By the local police—and the FBI, no less.

The madam in Pittsburgh had it the worst. She was home recovering from plastic surgery, in a deep snooze aided by the anti-inflammatories and painkillers, with her face all bandaged up when it happened. No self-respecting madam likes to get caught without her makeup on, never mind getting dragged out of bed, handcuffed, with gauze stuck to her forehead, cheeks, and chin!

At six o’clock on the morning of April 6th, 2002, from my bedroom on the third floor, Russ and I could hear the dogs yapping and loud pounding at the inside hallway door. This was unusual, but I wasn’t terribly alarmed yet. My downstairs tenants were in their twenties, and were already up, and answered the outer door where the bells are located.

My cocker spaniel barked like crazy. Russ got up and looked outside. And my dachshund followed, yipping.

It’s the police.

The police? I freaked.

I was in shock; it was so early, then the knock. FBI. Open up. My heart sank as I froze for a minute or two. This is not good at all. I’m not getting a wakeup call by the FBI just to have a talk, or am I? This is bad—very bad. And the worst of it was not what was going to happen to me, but how much hurt would be dumped on my son, and Russ too. I thought to myself, My son is the only family I have, stomping on myself is forgivable, injuring him is not.

I went down to confront the day wearing my pajamas, my heart in my stomach! We never walk in shoes in my home, and everyone takes theirs off before they enter. Not this morning. There were four FBI agents, one was a woman who was assisting, and two Brookline police officers, both men. These were the authorities. The feds wore those navy blue windbreakers with the oversized FBI logo on the back and one on the right breast. Russ was up on the third floor stair landing, off to the side, where I told him to stay. I knew it would be a big no-no: black man, white girl. Yeah, my auto thought was that he’d be classified by white men as a pimp of the house. A broad-shouldered FBI agent, about six-one, with a full head of brown hair, stepped in front of me and asked, Are you Libbe Siskind?

Yes, I am. What’s going on?

You are under arrest for conspiracy to travel in interstate commerce in aid of a prostitution enterprise out of New Orleans.

Conspiracy? Prostitution? New Orleans? Me?

Conspiracy? I said. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never conspired against anyone.

The agent was unsmiling.

Do you know anyone in New Orleans?

I know lots of people in a lot of different places. But I don’t know anything about a conspiracy there. Conspiracy? In New Orleans? At that moment, I had totally forgotten about Ginny and drew a blank.

Well, you are under arrest and we have to take you in for questioning.

Something’s all messed up, I pleaded. This is a big mistake. No, ’fraid not. We’re looking for you. You are under arrest, Ms. Siskind. We have to take you in.

As I looked up at Russ, his scowl hardened into pain and concern. Within those few seconds, I understood that I was being arrested, and I was going to be taking a ride downtown, or wherever the authorities had decided to settle this matter. The good thing was that they didn’t harass Russ; he said he had a job and was unaware of all this. Had the arrest taken place outside of Brookline or a number of years ago on the streets, that would be the first thing they would have done. I was shaking inside. Then again, getting arrested was not exactly a novel experience for me, considering where I came from. I knew cops, and Miranda, and cuffs, and the back seats of cruisers well. But I was never used to it—and not at my age now. That was so long ago, and this was the FBI, not the local police. Standing in my dining room, I felt so invaded.

You’re not going to take me out of here in my pajamas, the voice that was still Libbe, and a proud woman, said. Please, let me get changed.

Yes, that will not be a problem, answered one of the FBI agents. Our female agent will have to accompany you, though, he said and nodded to the woman.

The female agent stepped forward. Ms. Siskind, this is procedure and protocol. We have to follow it.

Okay, I reluctantly answered.

It was clear by the expression on my face that I was embarrassed and distressed. The idea of being watched brought back memories of my evil stepmother Anita insisting on being my witness every single time I went to the bathroom as a little girl. Imagine not even having the dignity of privacy for that most personal of matters. I turned around and headed for the stairs, to go up, Ms. Federal Agent on my heels to make sure that I wasn’t going to escape. Ha ha…to where?

In my closet, my head swimming, I rummaged through my drawers for a pair of panties, jeans, and a sweatshirt. The agent stood in the doorway watching, an attractive young woman with porcelain skin and brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She kept her eye on me as I yanked off my pajamas and pulled on my clothes. She knew I was no threat and not about to try anything. I could tell she liked my closet by the way she looked at it, and she said with a smile that it was like a store, with so many things everywhere.

After brushing my teeth—under the supervision of the government—I took my inhaler (my weezer), just in case nerves jump-started my occasional asthma. The agent and I went back down to the second-floor landing where everyone was still in place—Russ, who had been questioned, still stood on the stairway.

Eyes scanning the rooms around him, and not looking at me, one of the Brookline cops said, You have a nice place here.

Thanks, I said with a nod.

I don’t know what they expected, but I was thinking they were probably surprised by my stately and well-maintained home. Even in the cold, the gardens in front were beautifully manicured. The interior boasted fine custom woodwork, nice rugs, and extensive framed movie memorabilia on the walls from the downstairs hall to all the upstairs floors. There were custom-made pink velvet Austrian shades on all the windows and a floral tapestry couch with tassels in the living room.

This place is so clean, said the other officer.

Yes, I like to keep a clean home.

Mr. FBI pursed his lips, nodded, and said, Ms. Siskind, I have to put the cuffs on now.

I looked around my house, all pretty pinks and soft greens, velvet Australian shades on the windows, and the thought that my house could be misconstrued as a bordello flashed across my mind. It had that rich Victorian flair. All Victorians look just like bordellos. If and when I get the chance, I decided, I will rip it all down.

One of the officers noted that there were no mattresses around on the floor. Funny! Good joke! At first, I thought that was a crazy thing to say, then I realized why he said it. Yes, you’re right, sir. This is my home, where I live. I told them they could look around, that I had nothing to hide, but they didn’t have a warrant to search so they briefly toured the house. They were in shock to see a spotless house, all in order. And I was happy that the outside of the house had just been painted a couple of years ago so that it looked perfect. At least if I go down I won’t be known as a lowlife, a person living in a messy house with an unkempt exterior—I have a great deal of pride. Believe me, they would have talked about it even more if it hadn’t been so orderly.

The handcuffs went on as Mr. FBI said, Please turn around.

I had a really bad feeling, a sick-to-my-stomach feeling. Do I have to have these on? I won’t run, please, I don’t want my neighbors to see me like this, please. Uncle Sam was not about to budge. My stomach churned as I glanced over at Russ, who was obviously feeling fear. I felt like throwing up.

From all my years on the streets, I knew the cuffing drill well; you never forget, even if the most recent time was twenty years ago. Now here I am again, at age fifty-one, turning my back to the man and putting my arms behind me. The cold press of metal on my wrists, then click, and the sound of a watch being wound as the bracelets constrict. I felt horrible!

Libbe Siskind, you have the right to remain silent… He began reciting my rights—the Miranda.

The cuffs were on so tight I felt like I had just been put under a death sentence, lightheaded, couldn’t think straight, in total shock. And the questions that ran through my head were, why me, why me, what did I do that was so bad? I am not trafficking or conspiring. My girls don’t have pimps. They’re not underage, they don’t do drugs. Okay, calm down, Lib. What do they have on me? Who had I talked to? How did they know? I thought I was so careful!

Russ’s face was frozen. This man is just my roommate, I told them. He has no part in this. I don’t want him in any trouble. He has no role in my affairs. As I was being ushered away, I told Russ, Call Alan, my attorney. His number is in my phonebook by the desk.

Libbe, sure, I’ll get hold of him, Russ said. Everything is going to be fine.

Look after Oscar and Perrii. Don’t forget the dogs! Yes, of course, Libbe.

Please call my son. His number is in my phonebook too.

Walking down the stairs, I could feel the rhythm of my heart beating in my neck very fast, trying to catch up with my breath. Oh my god! I was really worried; I sensed bad, really bad things were about to happen!

The agents helped me out and put my jacket over my shoulders, hiding my cuffed wrists. With an agent on my left and the other on my right, each grasping one of my arms through the coat, we stepped out my front door into the early spring. The sun was warming up, no more than a cloud or two in the sky, temperature approximately fifty degrees, birds conversing with song, and the fragrant promise of moist and fertile earth. It was a beautiful day to be alive and a shitty day to be me and arrested. I was overwhelmed by a sense of doom that washed over me, the fear of never returning home.

So now I was out the front door and scared to death about who was going to see me. How could they not notice me with this big, puffy jacket over my shoulders, without my hands sticking through the sleeves, being escorted (no pun intended) by these men with FBI written on their jackets as large as the sun coming up? I know someone is bound to see me…shit!

As I walked across the street to their car, I glanced up to see if any neighbors were watching. The folks who lived on my street, a side street with an eclectic architectural mix of high-priced homes on small parcels of land with only twenty to thirty feet between them, were still sleeping or readying themselves for the day. I figured that with the neighborhood laid out the way it was, a resident or two must have taken in the curious, yet not unrecognizable, sight of a bust going down. With the Brookline cops trailing behind us, I was put in the FBI car, a dark blue sedan parked on the street. Yup, I thought, it’s like a Hollywood movie, except it’s my life.

I could not spot any neighbors at all peering out of a door or window, which brought a bit of relief. But later, I found out that they did see Mr. FBI push my head down and into the back of the vehicle.

The cuffs were cutting off the circulation to my hands.

Can’t you loosen these cuffs? They hurt. Please?

Just don’t move or they’ll pinch, said the agent.

If I start having trouble breathing, am I going to be able to use my inhaler?

The pretty young woman turned to me with something approaching sympathy, and as her face softened, she said, That won’t be a problem. Just tell me if you need it.

Before we drove away, the agent in the driver’s seat gazed up at my house, turned to me, and said, That’s some house. What’s it worth?

He looked away, back toward the house, and rephrased the question. What did you have to pay for this, a million dollars?

I was silent for a moment, looked at him, and said, No, not at all. I could never afford a million-dollar home, money down, and payments. I paid eighty-five thousand dollars, which I could afford to pay.

He laughed and said, Eighty-five thousand dollars, yeah, right.

Yes! I bought it in the 1980’s. It was rundown and condemned. I fixed it up with my boyfriend. He was a contractor.

So what’s it worth today?

Conservatively, almost seven hundred thousand dollars or maybe eight hundred thousand.

I thought that would end it. Perhaps they couldn’t get over what I’d told them or they thought I was lying. There are people in this world who envy what I have and probably think I don’t deserve it. Guess what? I’ve earned every bit of it, and not the easy way either. I deserve it; yes, I do. Not only from the street and my business as a madam, but I worked hard in my legitimate businesses as well. Coming from nothing with no one to help me, if anyone deserved a home, I did. And I wished for many others to have one too. My son had a home as well, a place he would inherit at some point in the future—that was my goal. I needed to know he was safe.

It was a mostly quiet, twenty-five-minute drive from Brookline across the town line into Boston, and then through the city to the seaport south of Boston, where the federal courthouse is located. The driver again asked if I knew Ginny, and again I told him that I knew lots of people. He asked me if I had ever been to New Orleans, and I said, no, never. I had enough personal experience and had seen enough TV shows to know I should talk with my lawyer before being too generous with information. I felt smaller and smaller the closer we got to the courthouse.

A guard cleared us at a security booth about seventy-five yards from the front entrance, then we passed through to a driveway that connected to an underground garage. Suddenly, it reminded me of a visit I made in 1996 with David just before he died to a network of brothels in Panama, where you entered the motel by car, through a parking garage that had a similarly whitewashed interior and exterior. And the doors shut automatically behind the cars there, just like here. The agents walked me out of the garage and down a long hallway, then into an elevator that climbed a couple of floors.

I was a wreck, though I maintained a calm front.

And then, I met the real bad men.

U.S. Marshals, finger printers, bad cop, good cop—just like the shows on TV.

I wondered if they smiled when they left their jobs.

At this point, I took on the hard-edged demeanor of my younger self, brash and strong. Hold tight, I told myself, don’t say a word.

The female agent directed me into the booking room. There were just the two of us in there. She fingerprinted me and took my picture; a horrible one, of course, worse than a driver’s license one. Another agent entered and left as abruptly as he came in. She administered a strip search. The fact that she had watched me dress at the Pink House should have made it clear that there were no concealed guns, knives, grenades, drugs, or missile launchers, but procedure must be followed. Lady FBI was a little cool about it, just had me take my clothes off, then she quickly looked me up and down, front and back, and okayed me to get dressed again—again. Embarrassed but not blushing.

Then I was in a new confined space: a room with no windows. It had a rectangular table and a chair, and across from that seat were two more chairs.

Please, take a seat, Ms. Siskind, the lady said, pointing to the chair that stood alone on one side of the table. I sat.

The agent sat across from me and placed a blue folder on the table. The female agent opened the folder and began to separate and study a stack of typewritten pages.

After watching this for fifteen seconds, I asked, Is that all about me?

Most of it.

My records. What a surprise! A long time ago I had paid good money to have my records sealed. Guess what? They weren’t. Another one of those incidents where the man tells you, I will take care of it; you know how much I really like you, and, of course, all he wants to do is to go to bed with you any chance he can. A Boston cop, no less. And I paid him, too! He swore my record was sealed, said he checked several times, and even gave me an old mugshot I still have. All those people from my past needed to be closed out of my life for good, the same way I did with all my so-called friends after Dave died. I believe in life we have to close lots of doors and open new ones with not so much baggage. Set goals for what is important. Set them real high. If you don’t reach the top one, it’s okay to achieve smaller ones along the way.

I asked, May I please make a phone call? When can I make it?

Any time you want.

Well, please, may I make it now?

I was escorted out of that room and across the hall to another room, dark and gloomy, where there was a phone. It was now barely eight in the morning. I hoped Russ had been able to get a hold of my attorney, but I needed to hear his voice myself. Lady FBI stood there, ever watchful, as the call was placed. The other lawyer in my attorney’s office, John, answered. When he learned who it was on the other end of the line, he started talking excitedly, saying he had already spoken to Russ, and The wheels are already rolling to have you released from custody. It may take some time, Libbe. Lots of paperwork. Please be patient. Patient…guess so. I can’t go anywhere—yeah, that’s a fucking joke.

That sounded good. What didn’t sound good was that my attorney and his wife were away on vacation, but John was going to take on the role of legal general for the day, and Alan would be leading remotely. John was handling a number of important cases in court that morning and afternoon, but he would be sure to be on it.

Don’t worry, he said, everything is being taken care of. Everything will be all right.

I was exploding inside. Everything is very definitely NOT all right! I knew that!

Don’t be difficult. Don’t provide any specific information other than basic personal facts. This was the attorney’s advice. I was so scared.

No problem, I said. Just get me out of here, please!

I put down the receiver and the agent brought me back across the hall where I was greeted by two standing men: the agent who had cuffed me, now with his jacket off, wearing a starched, white-collared shirt and a tie, and a new guy. He was tall, at least six-one or six-two, sharp-featured, square jaw tightly clenched, with unblinking eyes that fixed cold and penetrating pupils on me. His arms were crossed above his pumped-up chest, just under the shoulder holster that held a firearm down by his hip.

You can sit down, the marshal said. I resumed my spot in the seat I held earlier as two agents established positions across from me while one agent remained standing behind them. He loudly dragged air into his nostrils, and then asked, What do you do for a living, Ms. Siskind?

Until recently, I had a store where I sold collectibles, jewelry, and antiques. But I shut it down. I mostly buy and sell just jewelry and antiques now.

Do you own any vehicles?

Yes, a car.

What kind of car?

Ah, it’s a Volkswagen. I call it my puffer.

The agent frowns, half-incredulous, half-confused. A puffer?

That’s what I call her. She’s a Jetta, a 1987 Jetta GL.

Please, an explanation for ‘puffer’?

I said, It has smoke coming out of the tailpipe, that’s all.

Do you own any other vehicles?

No.

Are you sure you don’t own any other vehicles?

Yes.

I thought that perhaps this was a trick question, and I repeated myself. I don’t own any other vehicles.

The agent can’t leave it alone.

Do you transport people in your car?

Well, yeah, people go with me to places sometimes. Do you transport people across state lines?

No. The only things that go across state lines with me and my car are antiques.

The agent hardened his stare, narrowed his eyes, and furrowed his brow in disbelief.

"You transport antiques in a Jetta?"

Yes.

You can’t load much into a Jetta.

Oh, yes, I can. So I taught myself how to pack it in and tie things to the roof, whatever works. Time for me to shut up, I could tell. I didn’t want to piss off the people who had me there against my will and under arrest. As it was, they were finding it hard to believe me. The attorney told me to only answer basic questions.

I don’t wish to be difficult, but I really would like to speak with my attorney before I answer any more questions.

The agent said, That’s your right. It would be better for you if you cooperate with us.

It sounded as though this agent might be on my side. Yeah, right; I knew otherwise.

The agent said nothing, and instead of talking he made a stern face—then turned around and walked out of the room. Lady FBI stepped up, took me by the elbow, and walked me down the hall to my holding cell, one with some kind of shatterproof glass instead of the bars I was more familiar with from time done many years ago. The walls were white cement, and there was a toilet in the back corner with only a half-wall—exposed for everyone to see. Have a seat, Ms. Siskind. It’s going to take a while. As I was sitting there in the new room, hunched over, with my hands cupped over my eyes, I was thinking, What’s going to happen to me? Let me ride out this nightmare. I can’t allow myself to freak out! A shiver traveled down my spine as I recalled every moment in my childhood, teen, and adult life, all leading to the point where I was now—alone and locked inside a cold cell. Yet another instance of being in the room.

Chapter Two

A Curly-Haired Girl

"I was loved, me, a curly-haired girl who liked to sing and tap dance."—Libbe Leah Siskind

**********

Ms. Siskind, we will let you know when your lawyer calls. Time… All I have is time to sit and think. There’s no paper to write on, no pen to write with, so I’ll just sit here and think—even though I feel like my heart is going to explode, I can’t let my emotions show—go way back, back to the very beginning when my strong, inner core was just forming.

**********

I was born in Boston on November 10th, 1950, to an unmarried couple, Goldie P. and Joseph C. My mother, the daughter of Russian immigrants, and my Sicilian father put me up for adoption, and within several months, a private adoption was arranged. They both were married, but not to each other. Rose and Fred Siskind, a childless, Jewish couple, were older than conventional adoptive parents, and Rose, who suffered from diabetes and was eventually diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer, certainly wasn’t an ideal choice for motherhood by today’s standards. Although the adoption wasn’t entirely legal, it was pushed through by Rose’s cousin Sadie, who was a judge in Malden, Massachusetts. I was in a temp home until it all went through. The papers were drawn up and signed, and off I went to live with Fred and Rose in Stoneham, a small town fifteen miles north of Boston.

One of my earliest memories was when I was five years old. Rose was shaking me awake. I was having a terrible nightmare. It felt so real—the snake slowly constricting around my neck. It’s choking me—it’s choking me! I screamed, and I couldn’t pull it off my throat. I was saved by my mother waking me. I was shaking, chilled to the bone, and she patted my forehead and neck with a dampened towel. She held me tight to her bosom as she whispered, It was only a dream, nothing more. You have a little fever, Libbela…that’s all. I’m here. Rose was matronly and full of love. I felt safe as long as my mother was holding me in her arms. Mommy Rose would often console me when I was scared. She protected me, and I believed she would always be there for me. The dream stayed with me, though, and throughout my life, whenever I think about it, I have difficulty swallowing. The fear of dying while choking haunts me. Especially when I eat; several times I have choked on food.

I remember only the best things about my mother, Rose. Oh, how I miss her. She doted on me. I could cry just thinking about her now. She would sit for hours and lovingly, one by one, twist my long, auburn hair into banana curls. She loved to dress me up in taffeta dresses with velvet bows and my favorite Buster Brown patent leather shoes. To this day, I am fond of black patent leather shoes and handbags. Mommy Rose signed me up for dance lessons that were held in a studio in Malden, one of the next towns over. She didn’t drive, so she had a friend drive us. Because she knew how much I loved it, she made certain I had the opportunity to learn about dance and performing. When I sang, my heart poured out. Shirley Temple was my ideal performer. Mommy Rose told me I had a voice like an opera