The Other Prison Wives: Sentenced: My Life Without Parole for Crimes I Didn't Commit

By Mara Grace Latham and Eleanor June Latham

What would you do to protect the career of someone close to you? What if your life became so enmeshed in the work of another that you can no longer call your life your own? Until one day, you find yourself living literally at the workplace that never hired you, never wanted you, and could replace you in a heartbeat.

When life takes a turn, empty nester Beth Woodward, a quiet woman with hidden talents, follows her husband into a world she never could have imagined, where dangers abound, the rules of the game change from week to week, and innocent choices brand her a rebel.

If you want a book that accurately depicts prison life, this isn't it.

But if you want to, you can join us in an impossible enchantment. Welcome to the world of the OTHER prison wives.

Part "Anne of Green Gables," part "Astronaut Wives Club," a total surprise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mara and Eleanor Latham
• Release date: Apr 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215870105

Book preview

Chapter One—Welcome to Your New Home!

Prison Rule # 1

You never know who your real friends are until you go to prison.

My change in situation was not a complete surprise to me. For over a year, I’d been trying to outrun the trouble, but—don’t ya know?—trouble already has your address and will relentlessly hunt you down no matter what you do.

The powers that be made a firm decision not in my favor, and I had to go along with it. The politics of power. Either you have it, or you live with others’ decisions, often without recourse. For months, I lobbied against my situation. Raged against it. Prayed against it. I stood before a judge. For a traffic ticket. But no judge on earth wanted to hear my case or send me a favorable ruling. The die was cast, and it was time to straighten up and face a future that filled my heart with dread.

Chad, my long-suffering husband, resigned himself to the inevitable. Looking into my downcast face one more time, he announced, We knew this was coming. It’s unavoidable, and we may as well just try to cope. It won’t be as bad as you think.

Over the years, I often discovered that my fears of what might happen were actually mild compared to the sickening reality which followed. Whatever I thought about moving to prison, it would be worse than I imagined. I tossed and turned through sleepless nights, picked at my food, and counted every passing minute of my fading freedom as precious.

But there was no turning back.

My mother-in-law was, of course, totally horrified. How, she screeched, did you let this happen? What about your future? She said other things, too. Things I won’t repeat.

My parents reacted better. It’ll be all right, Honey, my daddy said. I’m sure things won’t be as bad as you think. After all, God goes with you wherever you go. You have a good Bible, right? A choking, weak chuckle broke through the phone lines. "It’s at least free housing! he said, trying to cheer me up. Free housing is, at least, you know, FREE!"

As if I hadn’t considered this.

Though I knew he didn’t expect me to look him in the eye, I found myself leaning away from the phone. But my dad wasn’t finished. You’ll get through this, Sweetheart!

Mama took down my new address, and before I even arrived, three short letters from her and Daddy were waiting. I tried to be thankful. I was in prison. But not forgotten. At least, not by my parents. They even promised to visit on Christmas and my birthday. Something to be thankful for.

But while parents are supposed to stick by their children, friends live by a different standard. I knew that. I knew some friends would no longer want to visit me. I knew because more than once, I’d been the friend who couldn’t be counted on. Who, in fact, didn’t want to be counted on. Of course, some of my friends would drop me and move on. That’s what busy people do. Keep busy. And move on.

Rhonda, Sheila, Lara, Anu, Lori, Angeline, and Shaniqua drifted off before I walked out my front door for the last time. We’ll write you! Lara promised. But she didn’t mean it. Even as she waited while I wrote down my new address, I didn’t expect her to follow through. Lara and her whole gang were shallow. Keeping up with a friend in prison didn’t interest them. I shed no tears for Lara.

Lexi, my daughter, was another story. Before she left for college, I thought we were fairly close for a mother and daughter too much alike in temperament and personality. I knew she was busy. Remembering my own college days—living in dorms, experiencing the freedom of finally being on my own, managing life with a minimum of parental interference—why should I have expected my sweet Lexi to be different?

She wasn’t.

Before my relocation, Lexi suddenly found a multitude of reasons to stay on campus, instead of coming to visit. She wouldn’t visit me in prison, either. It’s not that I don’t care, Mom, she sighed over the phone. But you know what a long drive that is. Plus having to go through security. They thoroughly search the cars. And mine is always cluttered. I wouldn’t make it past the front gate.

My payback for sleepless nights, doctor visits, camping trips, sleep overs, and financial sacrifices finally came to this: unexpected abandonment. I blinked back scalding tears, choking that I would send her my new address. In case she found time to write. Sure, Mom! she said.

My best friend Darla sobbed quietly into a stack of stiffly starched handkerchiefs as she told me her husband Clark’s latest pronouncement: she couldn’t visit me in prison. Not this year. Not next year. Nor the year after. It’s just too dangerous! he said.

I wondered what Chad would say if my position and Darla’s were reversed.

My sister Sarah, living on the East Coast with her husband and teenagers, seldom visited. Our occasional skype sessions sparsely punctuated themselves with the rare letter or phone call. Rita, who lived closer, had all but emotionally shut down. Even before she moved out of state, I didn’t bother asking her to visit. My brother Carl was a story for another time. Another no ask.

Having heard every imaginable excuse why friends and family couldn’t or wouldn’t see me in my new home, I expected the same from Kathy, my college mentor. If you can’t visit, I sniffled over the phone, I’ll understand. Truly I will. Everyone else is keeping as far away as possible. Leaning the mouthpiece away, I blotted rivers of tears, then quietly blew my nose.

I nearly dropped the phone when Kathy fairly shouted, Nonsense! Of course, I’ll come to see you in prison. What kind of friend would I be if I refused?

Indeed. I wanted to ask my other friends the same question.

Blinking back tears, I heard Kathy continue, I’ll be there at least once a month. Bringing whatever treats can be safely smuggled in. Treats from Kathy were always good news, especially treats from her oven. I felt my mouth watering.

You’d do that?

Every month, she replied. Perhaps there was reason for hope after all.

Shortly after hanging up with Kathy, instead of paring things down, I found myself walking to the old Presbyterian cemetery three miles from home. It was such a good, tangible escape from life’s daily sorrows.

If I found myself becoming too morbid, I could always run into the church proper, next door. In the middle of the day, they ran a coffee shop, where I could buy all the steaming black coffee I wanted. Most days, to save money I just grabbed a small sample of the day sipping slowly and enjoying welcome quiet before returning home.

Until last year, if I was lucky, I might run into Rita at the cemetery, sitting quietly on the black marble bench we bought together. We never spoke. Holding hands, we sat, immobile, wiping our eyes with homemade handkerchiefs. Before the tears started flowing, we hugged briefly, then sat still. Rita usually left first, leaving me time to explore on my own.

The gentle seclusion of the well-maintained grounds soothed me. I read in the headstones a promise from God that bad times wouldn’t last forever, at least not on Earth. Wandering among the graves, I wondered about the stories of those who had passed on. What might they have told me if we’d had the chance to visit? Though most headstones contained just a name and a couple of dates, a few teased visitors with a word or phrase: Beloved or Faithful to the End or Medal of Honor.

At times like these, I considered what I’d want for my headstone. Anything but Died Brokenhearted in Prison would probably be fine. Encapsulating a life in a few short words must be daunting. Up to now, I’d never needed to do it. Something else to be thankful for, I realized, as I walked into the more thought-provoking interior. Slowly, I passed the baby graves, which often spurred tears, especially the little graves with their continually replenished offerings of toys and clothing.

Rita wasn’t here, and I didn’t wait for her.

Walking briskly, I breezed past the mausoleums, with their large statues and underground entrances. Until I finally reached my favorite place, if one were allowed a favorite place in the cemetery.

In school, we must have studied the flu epidemic of 1918 and 1919. But before my walks to the cemetery, the word epidemic held little meaning. My family kept up with immunizations, and we ate so many fruits and vegetables that germs never got a chance to do more than slow us down. I took these things for granted.

No more. Today, I found myself in the place I privately labeled The Flu Section. Dozens of families buried at least one member here. What riveted my attention were the seventeen large adjoining plots, belonging to about half a dozen members apiece from entire families, some of them departing this life just a few days apart. I prayed for the people who suffered so much so quickly, hoping their survivors found eventual peace and healing.

The cemetery visits impressed upon my often-complaining heart the brevity and preciousness of life. I felt my visits checked and improved my heavenly vision.

The promise of quiet meditation often allowed me to forget my cell phone at home. For a couple of hours or more, I could escape questions and criticisms about my future. During the last fading days of my former freedom, I found myself at the cemetery almost every afternoon, walking slowly, breathing deeply, and praying for the grace I’d need the moment I left home permanently. That cemetery was one of the things I’d miss most from my old life.

What good could come from my incarceration in a place I expected to hate on sight? Endless rules, regulations, and losses as regular as clockwork loomed closer by the day. Though I worked diligently not to burden Chad with my anxieties, every time our eyes met, I could tell he knew. Keeping busy, or at least keeping moving, seemed to help, if only a little.

Three weeks before the move, I found a book online about surviving in prison. Long after I forgot the title and the author, this one frightening sentence burned itself indelibly into my brain: You can be punished for breaking a rule you didn’t know existed. Not having even moved in, I prayed desperately for escape.

With friends and acquaintances fading into the background, my shaky acquaintances with Lila and Darcy morphed into lifelines. We wrote regularly for years. Then weekly once I told them my news. Lila understood better than most what was about to happen. For years she endured the, from what I could understand, unendurable. One thing she was known for, besides being a woman of her word, was her total acceptance of her friends. Lila would rather die than ask intrusive questions. She also wouldn’t hold out false hope. Darcy, still new to the system, would also be a friend during hard times. I’d need to keep these connections strong.

I don’t know what I would have done without my cell-mate, Ginger, a kindly brunette who didn’t say much. But at least she didn’t complain. Most of all, she never asked what I’d done to deserve this. Why wasn’t the world full of more people like Ginger?

It was what it was, and nothing I did would change things. What can’t be cured must be endured, right?

Ginger stretched up to peer through the west window by my bed. A fabulous sunset painted the sky. Over the years, I’d tried to capture natural beauty in watercolors, with limited success, but today that was out of the question. I sighed, telling myself to look for the good. Having already eaten, Ginger and I stood in companionable silence, staring out at a world we would never see the same.

I should be thankful.

Reaching for the gratitude journal my friend Sandi promised would soften the blow of multiple losses, I started writing. Sunsets here are incredibly beautiful. If I could, I’d paint them. Seeing so much beauty is a privilege, and a gift from God. Thank you, God, for my eyes, and for allowing me to see the sunset here in this place of isolation, in a way I was never able to see it in the concrete jungle of the city.

While Ginger watched me cautiously, I crawled into bed, exhausted. This was only the first evening of the first day. How would I survive?

Chapter Two—Locked Down in My Homesick

Prison Rule # 2

Pack light, and plan to stay a while.

Dwelling on my new place was just too much. Instead, I constantly revisited the last few golden days of my former freedom. How could I cry so many tears? Before I even left home?

In her last letter, Lila said to expect this. It’s all part of the process, she wrote. Try to accept what you can’t change. You’re already experiencing a series of losses you never expected. Go ahead and let yourself feel your pain. Grieve. But don’t stay in that low place forever. Reading her words, I told myself to breathe slow so I wouldn’t hyperventilate.

Besides Lila’s letters, other directives commanded attention. Lila asked permission to forward my address to her friend Ada, who promised to write.

Considering the many discouraging responses of my friends, I didn’t hold my breath for word from anyone new. So, I was surprised when Ada’s first letter arrived just days later. What an eye opener! In the first paragraph, Ada was already making plans to visit me in my new location.

The second paragraph listed Bible verses for the lonely and distressed, plus coping strategies to ease my transition. Then she detailed a number of friends who’d gone through this same process, and were surviving. According to her, there’d be a way for me to be fine in prison.

Unconvinced, I kept reading.

Flipping the page, I knocked the papers from the kitchen table to the floor then chased them, while the ceiling fan mercilessly blew them everywhere. With trembling hands, I put the five typed pages back into order.

Page two was entitled, Rules for Surviving in Prison. Right under the title, Ada had typed these words in bold: MEMORIZE AS MUCH AS YOU CAN RIGHT AWAY AND BURN THIS PAGE BEFORE YOU GO. WHATEVER YOU DO, DO NOT ALLOW IT TO FALL INTO THE HANDS OF THE WARDEN UNLESS YOU WANT YOUR LIFE TO BECOME A WHOLE LOT HARDER RIGHT AWAY.

Rules, rules, rules, and more rules. With no escape. I read Ada’s letter in its entirety, read the rules page twice before I burned it, and again prayed for grace. I wouldn’t be as alone as I feared. But I was losing freedoms right and left. Why couldn’t things just stay the same? Oh, if only there was a way for me to stay out of prison!

Since Ada’s letter would only depress Chad, I didn’t show it to him. Or mention it. He was under so much pressure. I wouldn’t add to it.

Avoiding prison was no longer possible. I’d known it for weeks. Moving to prison, you can’t take your old life with you. I thought I’d resigned myself to that. Ada’s latest letter showed me I hadn’t. An angry yowl began pulsing through my throat. When Ada was doing everything she knew to help. I should be thankful.

Perhaps, someday, deep thankfulness would come.

For now, I went through the motions of thanking God for what I had, thanking him for the joys of my earlier life, and thanking him in advance for what he was about to do. Then, huffing out a sigh, I turned my mind to tasks at hand. I needed to pare down my remaining possessions. Delay had overstayed its welcome. I was going to lose the house I loved, and my husband was moving miles away to be closer to his work. I kept moving. There was nothing else to do.

Most people probably don’t know what a friend they have in their living room piano. Until they have to leave it. Though I’d dreamed for years of owning a baby grand, and hinted at this to my parents, it never happened. In college I let the dream die. Or so I thought.

My husband Chad didn’t.

One year, for my birthday, he sent me to a luncheon with girlfriends from church while, he said, he was working on something important. I left in a huff, assuming he forgot what day it was and let friends—or worse, work— encroach on my special day, which fell on a Saturday and should have been a date day for just the two of us.

Over pasta and salad, I tried to let my friends cheer me, until the meal ended with a cake, a song, and thoughtful gifts I admonished