She could feel their eyes on her.

She could smell their contempt, even though she could not hear their thoughts.

The taunts and cat calls that greeted Cindy Summer that first week in the Las

Kalina's Women's Detention Center in San Diego were unrelenting.

Everybody knew who I was. I was very high profile.

In a lockup full of accused criminals, Cindy Summer was not just a new fish.

She was a celebrity, a husband killer, the arsenic assassin.

Even like the homeless girls that came in from the street knew who I was.

All the deputies knew who I was.

And her notoriety was far and wide.

Every week brought a new stack of mail, letters from strangers.

Some offering encouragement, others, condemnation.

Yeah, and getting letters from around the country, hate letters.

Watching TV and your story comes on, you know, the news four times a day.

It was February 19th, 2002 prosecutors say Summer was living with her husband, a 23-year-old

U.S. Marine.

No doubt there were times during those spring days of 2006 when Cindy Summer felt like

screaming, venting, crying even, she did not.

The advice she had received from that deputy back in Florida had taken hold.

Do not engage. Do not cry. Keep a stiff upper lip.

Never let them see you sweat.

If I compartmentalized before, oh, I really could now.

...