Free Crimwife by Tanya Levin Page A

reeling. It was no great shock that Mark smoked pot, but they both knew it was a massive risk for her to take.
    “No way,” she said. “I can’t believe you’re even asking me.”
    “I know you can do it,” he said. “It’s too easy. I just need a break from this stress. I’ve got to have some escape.”
    “I know that,” Kari said, “but if I got caught …”
    “You wouldn’t get caught,” Mark said, smiling. “You’re a smart girl.”
    “I’m never speaking with you about this,” said Kari. “I’m going to try to forget you even asked me.”
    “Well, it’s up to you,” he said. “It’s all good. Just think about it.”
    “No,” said Kari.
    “OK,” said Mark. “The end. The end.”
    But it wasn’t the end. Mark wrote letters apologising for asking, explaining why he’d asked: how hopeless and lonely it felt at times, how he just wanted a break, how he wished she would understand. Kari wrote back saying she understood, she did, but why didn’t he understand that she wasn’t willing to risk a criminal record?
    Mark had a friend in jail whose wife couldn’t visit him because she’d been caught bringing in drugs. She’d done it so often, she’d become complacent. When they found a packet of speed in her jeans pocket, she got a criminal record and a two-year visiting ban. She was also deregistered for life from practising psychology in her state. She told Kari later that her husband expected her to bring drugs on the first contact visit they had after the ban was over.
    Mark wasn’t that bad, was he?
    Kari would visit and each time he would ask her if she had changed her mind. She hadn’t. Mark would flick his eyes towards another inmate at visits and say, “He’s picking up a truckload today,” or “He’d better not come off visits empty-handed, there’s about twenty blokes waiting for him.”
    Kari found herself wondering who was there to deliver drugs and who was there for love, or whether in here being a drug mule was proof of affection and true devotion.
    “Do you owe someone something?” she asked Mark.
    “Nah,” he told her. “It’s not like that. I just want to relax. And I don’t want to spend the money you send me on drugs.”
    About two months after the first time he’d asked, Mark came to the visit very depressed. When they sat down, he started crying. It was a quiet sunny morning and there weren’t many people around, but he didn’t care. He told Kari he was cracking, and he didn’t know what to do. He was starting to self-harm, cutting himself with razors, and he wanted to burn himself.
    Kari was furious. By this time she knew his ways, and she says she waited, fuming while feigning sympathy, for Mark to get to the point.
    “Can you just do this thing for me, baby? Please, just help me.”
    “OK,” said Kari, furious, but worn down. “I will. I just hope one day I find someone who really loves me.”
    Mark looked at her confused, as if she were speaking a foreign language.
    “I love you so much,” he said, and started weeping again. “You’re all I’ve got, if you want the truth. I wish I didn’t have to ask you. I wish there was someone. I’m sorry.”
    “OK,” she said again, “so what do you want me to do?”
    Mark’s tears dried instantly, Kari says, as he looked up at her.
    “It’s so easy, babe,” he said and proceeded to describe how to wrap the drug bag in condoms. Very simply, he told her she was to insert the parcel into her vagina and act natural. As soon as they were able, the drugs would be passed over.
    Kari did as she was told. Mark called her with a phone number. Kari called the number and arranged to meet with the people on the other end of the phone. She picked up a bag, took it home, wrapped it up, as per instructions, and allowed her feelings of hatred for Mark to begin to work their poison.
    The first visit was easy. Actually, the first three were. There were no dogs or checks. Her visit was processed, her name was