Free From the Chrysalis by Karen E. Black

Besides, the first part had been easy. The rest might be too.  
An armed guard waved them through like it was no concern of his how such ratty-looking women chose to waste their lives. He was a small man with a crossed eye, and he carried a large revolver strapped to his right side. Mute evidence of the weaponry used to guard men in a federal jail.  
She shuffled in a queue behind everyone else. It looked like the federal penitentiary, but who knew? There were so many prisons in and around Maitland. Dace was in the worst one, though. For months there had been rumblings about discontent—more than usual—from the Pen. Dace made it sound like he was living in a volcano rather than a prison, and he ought to know.  
The line picked up speed. She followed the other women until they were intercepted by two uniformed guards standing behind a formidable wooden counter. A sign stated visiting privileges could be suspended at the penitentiary’s discretion, but they were open for business today.  
Neither penal representative asked, “How are you?” Neither guard nor prospective visitor said, “Good day”.  
Everybody opened their bags. Most of the female crowd, who she assumed were repeat visitors, were allowed behind the counter to pass through a metal detector.  
The first guard ran his stubby finger down his clipboard and mumbled, “Roberto Belissimo? He’s in the Hole today.” Irma went as limp as a greasy french fry. Turning, and nearly flattening the woman behind her, she stumbled away.
When it was Liza’s turn, she squeaked, “I’m here to see my cousin, D’Arcy Devereux. He’s arranged to put me on his visitors list.” Shut up, she told herself. Less was usually best. It was that way with the Guardai in Dublin, anyway.  
The younger guard stuck his face in hers. “Who?”
“D’Arcy Devereux,” she said, keeping her voice as steady as she could.  
He had been listening, though. He was only playing with her. Cat and mouse. “So how do we know you’re that one’s cousin?” he said with a smirk. That one’s? Fumbling in the bag he had just pawed through, she slid her newly minted student I.D. across the counter and waited. The guard’s eyes travelled from the scalloped edge of her embroidered peasant blouse to her flared denim skirt and up to her chest again. A razor cut on his chin caught her eye. He couldn’t have been shaving long. What was he going to say?
“You look like one of them hippies to me.”
Them hippies all bought the farm, she nearly snapped, her cheeks reddening. This was 1971, for Chrissakes. A whole new decade. A fact apparently lost on this backwater jerk.  
“I’m on his visitor’s list,” she repeated, hoping her almost Irish accent would sound superior to her regular Canadian pronunciation. She wanted him to feel resentful, but suitably impressed.
The young guard might have been impressed, but he was stubborn, too. “Well now, I don’t know.” He peered at his clipboard an eternity longer, fishing around in his snout-like nose with a rubber-tipped pencil. When he lifted his eyes, she stared him down. She had to, or he would play with her all day. He was so transparent she knew when he had made up his mind, she just didn’t know which way. As the walls of her stomach cleaved together, a thought surfaced out of nowhere, like a gas bubble. How I despise being under your dirty thumb, you …  
“Let her go,” the other guard said. “The little cock-teaser.” He turned back to his work. “Betcha five bucks it’s a complete lockdown by next Wednesday,” he added in a stage whisper.
… filthy pigs, Liza almost blurted, but she forced herself to remember they were under educated, poorly paid and barely smart enough to be afraid.  
Dace, she thought, drifting through metal detectors into another world. Where are you?  
The smell reminded her of damp locker rooms at public swimming pools. Sweating, fear, chlorine came to mind as she tried to keep her footing,