Chapter 1: Diamond in the Rough

“You have the right to remain silent. Everything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

The officer stood outside the window of my stolen 1997 Toyota Camry, where a cross of silver duct tape held up a hanging sheet of hunter green metal. He proceeded to mechanically read my Miranda Rights off of a white square of cardboard, the words my true self never thought I would hear. Adrenaline coursed through my veins as he opened his leather book, and scribbled in it with a chewed pencil, raising his eyebrows contemplatively, the smell of strong coffee fresh on his breath.

“I’m lettin’ you know now, I didn’t do nothin’ sir,” I muttered through my teeth, biting the butt of a Marlboro, “I didn’t do nothin’.” I sighed, blowing a cloud of smoke into his emotionless face.

“Both of your tail lights are blown, miss. So please exit your vehicle, and walk around to the back with your hands up where I can see them.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me about my license and registration, officer?”

“That won’t be necessary, miss. We both know that neither of them exists,” he sneered, “Now exit your vehicle with your hands raised.”

I stared squarely into his menacing eyes, and dramatically stood up, my eyes now level with his. Only a foot wide curtain of pungent smoke hung between us as I tossed my hands up nonchalantly.

“Is this good enough, sir?” I spat.

He shoved my body against the back door of my car, and yanked at my forearms, his sweaty palms fumbling with a pair of handcuffs. I was locked in. There was no turning back now.

I squeezed my hands together, trying to squirm out of the cuffs as the officer pushed my  stomach harder onto the scalding glass and metal of my car. I instantly regretted wearing a stained, ribbed white tank top and tattered denim shorts from Goodwill as my skin singed and tingled until it was unbearably cold. I shrieked in agony, flecks of ash showering down onto my disheveled reflection, just barely visible through the dust and muck that mottled the car. He pulled the cigarette from between my teeth and stomped it out with his shiny patent leather boots on the steaming asphalt of the New Jersey Turnpike. He slowly opened the door of his grimy off-white squad car and thrust me onto the black leather seat. A gust of air swept back the sweaty flyaways that had escaped my tangled bun as he slammed the door in my face. He picked up his belt, a taser and a shotgun visible in their holsters, and wiped his hands on his pockets.

An angry tear spilled out of my eye, and slowly trickled down my hot cheeks. I tried to wipe it away, but my wrists were bound behind me. This was really happening. I felt the corners of my mouth lift into a satisfied grin. I had done it. In the eyes of society, I had become a cliché.

Mission accomplished.

But I’m not troubled. I truly did nothing wrong. Those things they’re going to read to me in court—that they’re going to force me to confess to—were not my crimes. Those things were done by people who are not me.

***
I don’t believe we’ve formally met. My name is Eden Miller. I’m sixteen years old and the chief operations officer of a top-secret government agency of these United States of America, a subsection of the FBI Division of Human Resources known as Operation Wonder Woman. Well, obviously it’s not so secret anymore because I’m blatantly revealing it to you, but we’ll get to that part later. When I was twelve, I realized that I was quite the actress. I landed the leading role in all of my local productions, and my name was thrown around a few times with small directors, but that wasn’t enough to please me. I was fascinated with doing more, with being more, and besides, acting is an unstable profession—there was no promise that I would make the Hollywood cut.

As my uncertainty about pursuing a career in the arts rose, a new obsession arose in the form of government conspiracy, especially in the judicial system. Corruption, lies, bribery, murder, all in a single organization.

It was striking.

I had an insatiable thirst to experience it firsthand, to uncover the truth single-handedly and showcase it to the American public, to the world. And for it, I hoped I would gain recognition, which I had hypothesized would shed light on my pristine acting and top-notch improvisational skills. This could then potentially attract the interest of a big-time agent, who would sign me and perhaps issue the production of a biographical movie with me as the starring role. But I couldn’t achieve those ends with my keratin-straightened platinum blond hair and my goody-two-shoes, reserved, good Christian girl persona.

I was notorious for spending my Friday nights in the Pacific House homeless shelter in Stamford, laying blankets out on cots to prepare for the weekend influx of battered families, rather than sneaking out to party or smoke pot with some boys I had just met in the parking lot of a dumpy convenience store. But there was a hungering in me to be something no one else expected.

The inspiration came to me during Financial Literacy, the most useless and boring class for the daughter of Mr. Hedge Fund, Mark Miller. I scrolled through Twitter and Instagram on my laptop, just reading about rebellious girls whose goals in life were to defy stereotypes and be an individual with unique ideas and style.

Though something concerned me about them.

They tried to escape the “boxes” of society, yet simply superglued themselves into a whole new one. They created their own clichés, in activism, body acceptance, or an unwavering sense of pride in their womanhood. So, instead of desperately attempting an escape from my own stereotype, I merely set out to embody another one.

So one late Sunday night in the middle of December, shortly after my school called a snow day, I penned a letter to the president. Nothing much, just an in-depth analysis of the mistreatment of women across America, especially in the legal system. I threw in a few personal anecdotes from when my aunt was sent to prison for a year for tax fraud, just for a little added ethos, and proposed a solution to the problem: the formation of an FBI division in which women of all races, ages, and sizes would go undercover as jurors, prison wardens, or even felons to investigate their handling in jail and in court. About a month later, I got a letter back, accepting my offer. I spent the rest of the day laughing uncontrollably. The United States Government had put in the hands of a fourteen-year-old rich girl from Greenwich, Connecticut, a defining status for women. If I did my job correctly, I could both uncover the secrets of the justice system and potentially sow the seeds for gender equality under the law. It’s a lot of pressure, but obviously, I’m still alive and well today. For the most part.
 

So, do you feel like you know me now?
Yes? Good.
Now throw it all out the window.
 

I’m not Eden Miller anymore. I’m on my defining mission as Diamond Bailey, a “troubled” girl from the rugged slums of Philadelphia. You’ve already met her. She’s the one sobbing in the backseat of a police car, taking a one-way ticket to her downfall. My backstory—well, I should say—her backstory is cliché, naturally: daddy’s six feet under, mommy’s hit the bottle, and their precious little Diamond isn’t so perfect anymore. Messing around with older men, getting high in the rat-trodden alleys with total strangers, smoking her eyes with charcoal for her late-night shoplifting endeavors, inching her way down to dear old dad in a depressed downward disaster. Typical. And nothing like Eden Miller. It was perfect.

***

I jolted forward as the car stopped, my head slamming into the glass-encased cage in front of me, realizing too late that the officer had never buckled me in. 

Violation of a prisoner’s safety, check.

He sighed as he opened the door and scooched his beer belly out of the driver’s seat, the car reverberating the loss of about 250 pounds as he rose to his feet. My face was red with anger, and I was ready to fight. One of the acting coaches and the FBI chief himself had instructed me to be as disobedient as possible. I needed to own Diamond, to be her in every way. He opened my door, signaling two other officers to help him escort me inside.

Wow. I was high risk.

I kicked and screamed, struggling to escape as they led me through the metal doors of the cinderblock prison. They looped their arms into mine and hoisted me up as I elbowed the guy on my left in the nose, and kicked the other in the groin. The cop who arrested me was the only one left, and I shriveled up in fear as he rose over me, removing his nightstick from his belt.

“You asked for it, sweetheart,” he grumbled as he slammed me over the head with the plastic club.

Everything faded to black.