Chapter Thirty-NineLOS ANGELES HALL OF JUSTICE, WOMEN’S CELL BLOCK, BOOKING AREA,
November 7, 1930
At booking, a grim-faced guard took my fingerprints and confiscated everything I had on me—my pocketbook with a dollar and thirty-seven cents, a receipt from the Owl drugstore, a claim check from Wong Fu dry cleaners, a comb, a Tangee lipstick, a face powder compact, and a pack of Tutti-Frutti gum.
“Turn to your right,” the photographer said. “Hold the numbers up where I can see ’em.”
They made me shower with nasty lye soap, and then I moved onto the clothing area.
“Size?”
“Large,” I said to the attendant handing out uniforms. She handed me a shapeless chambray smock with pockets on the front. I took it.
Sullivan gave me a nudge into a dressing area. “No monkey business,” she said.
Wh
