I WAS DOING MY exercises in the living room at my condo. I remember because I had a Jane Fonda video on, and we were just at the inner thigh portion of the workout. There’s a knock at the door. I go to answer it—I’m wearing my leotard mind you. Weights strapped to my ankles. I must’ve been a sight.
There’s a television camera staring me in the face. That and a couple of policemen. “Suzanne Maretto,” one of them says, “I’m placing you under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder. You have the right to remain silent,” etcetera etcetera. Just like on some police show, only this was real life.
Still I couldn’t believe it. “This is some joke, right?” I said. “I’m a widow. I just buried my husband six weeks ago, and now you’re telling me you want to put me in jail?” Even a strong person has her limits.
My parents were down at the station within minutes of course. I knew once my father talked to them he’d get things straightened out. I could just picture him, taking down people’s names, making phone calls. I mean, my dad probably sold half these people their car. No way was he going to let me rot in this sickening jail with a bunch of losers on drugs and who knows what diseases going around.
So the real shock came later, when they let my folks in to see me, and my dad had to break it to me that I’d have to stay here until the bail hearing. Ten days before we’d get this mess cleaned up.
I won’t pretend I wasn’t upset. But then I just switched gears. OK, I told myself. I’m going to benefit from this experience. I’ll keep a journal. I’ll do exercises. Cut back on my calories—which believe me, once you’ve taken a look at what they serve here, is not that hard to do. I decided to view my time in the correctional facility kind of like I was at a spa. Well, not a spa exactly. Maybe a religious retreat or a prisoner-of-war camp. Something to broaden my experience. And when it was all over, I’d have some dynamite material to market.