By Request: My first writing assignment

Inmate Number J450341
Brooksville Women's Correctional Facility
Brooksville, OH 46874

Mrs. Miranda Caraway
1471 Cottonwood Lane
Marysville, OH 47584


Dear Mrs. Caraway,

Pursuant to the terms of my recent plea bargain agreement, this letter is to stand as my official apology to you as well as my admission of guilt and remorse. I have been strongly advised by my attorney (a man whose advice I listen to despite the fact that he wears the same brown shoes every single time we meet) that my plea bargain was a "gift" and that I should thank my lucky stars and that six to nine months is "no time at all" for a chronic thief like me. He says that a nicely written letter might facilitate my early release. I certainly hope so. Orange does not flatter my skin tone.

I do want you to know that I have a great deal of remorse for the events of October 13th, 2005. Sometimes, late at night when Theresa my flat mate (sounds so much nicer than cell mate, don't you agree?) is exuberantly snoring and sleep eludes me, I find my thoughts returning to that pivotal moment in the feminine hygiene aisle of the Kroger when our paths crossed. I distinctly remember the first moment I saw you. You were wearing a velour tracksuit in a shade of purple best left to eggplants. I'm not sure if I noticed your white tennis shoes next or your permed hair. I am certain that both upset me greatly. It was, after all, after Labor Day and no longer 1986. You had a cart full of disgusting food: corn dogs, frozen pizzas, ice milk and several Lean Cuisine frozen entrees that, judging by your rather ample figure, must have been for someone else. I noticed your cart because it was parked directly in the center of the aisle, left unattended while you struggled with an economy size box of generic tampons (in super absorbent size, which I found a bit unseemly I must say).

It took me only a moment though to notice the thing that upset me most: your purse. There it sat in the front seat- a perfect purse. A Hermes Birkin bag in black. It had the stunning gold hardware, the gorgeous leather, the clasped opening. It was just as I remembered it from the September Vogue where it was featured as the fall "must have item." I remember drawing a breath, simultaneously awed by its loveliness and stunned by its presence in your cart. I felt sure there was some sort of cosmic error. You, a woman who no doubt reads Women's Day or Ladies Home Journal not Vogue or even Elle, carrying a Birkin. It just didn't make sense. You clearly have children (four, I would later learn during your deposition). Who would allow a child to live in the same house as a Birkin? Children have such sticky, dirty fingers.

I knew, instinctively, the way one just knows not to wear sequins before nightfall or spandex unless you are racing through the hills of France on a bicycle, that the universe had meant for me to be at that Kroger at that exact moment. I knew that I was the one meant to liberate that Birkin.

As you no doubt remember from my recent deposition, yours was not the first expensive handbag I have liberated from an undeserving owner. There was a Chanel in the floral department at Target, a Fendi left on the changing room floor at Macy's and even a Prada from a restroom at Applebee's. All of them rightfully removed into my protective custody, all of them finally achieving their true potential upon my very thin, very fashionable arm, but none of them cried out for me the way that your Birkin did. I didn't hesitate. I didn't need to. I grabbed it and quickly, but gracefully made my away out of the Kroger and toward freedom.

I was, of course, stunned when the police arrived at my apartment a few hours later. Who would have thought that our humble Kroger had such a high tech security system? Who would have thought they could trace me from my frequent shopper card? I knew I should have just paid full price for my magazines and salad fixings. I must always remember that it never pays to be cheap.

The hours after my arrest were a bit of a blur. The search warrant, the amazement of the officers as they found my climate controlled walk-in closet filled with purses and shoes, their delight when they found the Birkin with your wallet and identification still inside-- all of it seemed to happen so fast. I didn't even have time to say goodbye to my new camel colored leather boots before they took me away.

The next few hours were upsetting, as you can imagine, and it was obvious to everyone involved that I would be found guilty of grand theft, owing to the high price of all of the liberated (or "stolen" if you must be technical about it) purses. I felt sadness as I sat in that first cell but I also felt certain of the moral justness of what I had done. I was just drifting off to sleep when I heard something so terrible, so horrible that it haunts me still.

"Hey, are you the lady that stole that knock-off purse?"

"Me? No. I took the black Hermes Birkin."

"Yeah, the fake black leather purse. Get up. Your lawyer is here."

The young officer seemed impatient with me as I struggled to form words. A knock-off? A fake? Everything seemed to happen in slow motion as I tried stand. I couldn't breath. The room started to spin. It couldn't possibly have been a fake. I thought I heard myself screaming as the room went black.

Later, after the brief stay in the infirmary and the unfortunate outburst at the prison chaplain and then the lovely calming pills, my lawyer explained to me that your purse was not a real Birkin and was, instead, a souvenir from your recent anniversary trip to New York City. It was a Canal Street knock off. I was going to prison for a knock-off. I felt in that moment such shame and such disappointment in myself. I should have known. I should have checked for the serial number, for the tiny Hermes logo inside. I should have sniffed the leather a bit more intensely. I will have to come to terms with being fooled by a fake for the rest of my life.

Now, as I begin my stay here at Brooksville, I want you to know that I am sorry. You did, in fact, deserve to have that purse. You should also know that I feel real remorse that I got caught. I plan to read as many fashion magazines as the guards will allow my mother to send me...I will certainly never make this mistake again.

Please tell the district attorney that you received this letter. You should probably mention to her that I used real linen stationary. I am making an effort here.


Yours truly,

Blythe Fulton-Kennsington
Inmate J450341