The other man looked down, ashamed to have been caught in the act. “I’m sorry,
s
ir,” he said going by work status rather than age to determine their hierarchy, assuming by George’s nice shoes that he was likely a member of the Corp Segregate.
“Just stay on your side of the cell,” George said in his most authoritative voice.
“I just thought that . . . I’ve been arrested for getting drunk a few times now, I thought they might go easy on me if I was wearing nicer shoes. What was your number, by the way?” He pulled a ticket from his pocket, making sure it was still there. On the ticket was a series of numbers, followed by the number sixty-three in bold letters.
George shrugged. “I don’t remember. Sorry.”
The man looked up, and then a glimmer of recognition lit up his face. “George?”
George studied the man’s face, unable to place it. “I’m sorry . . . do I know you?”
The man stood. “Edgar Lowe, from District 89147.”
George sat up at the edge of his seat, his face suddenly bringing to mind images of a dark haired little boy. “Edgar?” George and Edgar had been best friends in grade school, before Corporate America had taken over and the Segregates had become fully defined. The boys had used to play by the creek, catching frogs and various flying bugs, before the heavy rains had flooded over the river and turned the area into a disease-infested marshland. They had lost touch when Edgar’s family moved to District 89148. “Go figure,” George said, breathing a nostalgic sigh.
Back when George and Edgar were friends, adults were still allowed to drive fuel-efficient cars, public schools all taught the same curriculum, there w
ere
no such thing
s
as deviants. People were more relaxed, and the world seemed to have just a little more color to it. The weather could still be forecasted, even if it was already changing all over the globe.
George gave Edgar a weak smile. “How have you been?”
Edgar shrugged. “I think Police-Corp owns about half of my assets, and I’m about to be charged with a third offense, but other than that, life has been good and boring.”
George nodded, not wanting to know any further details. He felt bad, but Edgar just didn’t belong to his social group. Mart employees worked where they did because of their intelligence level and social standing. Like deviants, many of them didn’t go to church or even pay their tithing. They wore their clothes several times before washing them, and most couldn’t afford to clean their water recyclers more than once or twice a year. As a result, they often smelled less than desirable. George wondered if he was in any danger of catching some type of louse.
“I work for Law-Corp,” George said, hoping Edgar might get the hint.
“You and your wife should come over for dinner sometime,” Edgar said with a smile, misconstruing George’s message to be nothing more than a pretentious boast. “My wife makes the most amazing no-cook faux apple pie.”
George looked down. “My wife just died.”
“Oh . . . I’m sorry.”
George didn’t respond. He moved to the bars as two officers appeared from the far end of the corridor. “Number sixty-three,” one of them called.
Edgar perked up as if he had just won a raffle. “Right here!”
The officers unlocked the cell and escorted him away.
“Excuse me!” George called after them. “Is there any way anyone could check up on my case? George Irwin? I should have been processed by now, I think, and—”
“We’ll look into it,” one of the officers yelled back right before they disappeared into the brightly lit hall.
George began to pace, feeling impatient. He was glad to have the entire cell to himself, although Edgar’s absence did nothing for the nauseating smell of the place. After only a few minutes, George returned to the bars and looked as far as he could down the corridor. “Hello?” he called.
“What the hell are you trying to do?”
hissed
a young deviant in the cell across the way. “If you agitate them, they’ll only keep you here longer!”
“And you know this from personal experience?” George asked.
The deviant shrugged. “Whatever, man. Scream like an idiot and see where it gets you. We all could use the entertainment.”
A few others snickered as George retreated to the back of the cell, face flush
ed
, and he returned to his seat without another word. He knew there was a process that every case had to go through, and paperwork could only be pushed so fast through the many desks it had to clear. He wondered what his file looked like. There were likely statements from both William and Judith, as well as from any of the neighbors who might possibly have seen or heard something worth mentioning. There would be a printout of the pictures he was shown as well as his signed confession. He wondered what his computer questionnaire would look like, and he pictured it in his mind’s eye:
Did the Defendant confess to his/her crime(s)?
(Research associate #02007-841 said “Yes.”)
Click HERE to agree.
Click HERE to disagree.
Does the paperwork indicate that the Defendant showed remorse for said crime(s)?
(Research associate #02007-841 said “Yes.”)
Click HERE to agree.
Click HERE to disagree.
Does the paperwork indicate that the Defendant could have made a profit by committing said crime(s)?
(Research associate #00453-584 said “No.”)
Click HERE to agree.
Click HERE to disagree.
Has the Defendant ever been convicted of any previous crimes?
(Research associate #01002-388 said “No.”)
Click HERE to agree.
Click HERE to disagree.
Does the Defendant have anything to say in his/her defense, for having committed said crime(s)?
(Research associate #02007-841 said “
No
.”)
Click HERE to agree.
Click HERE to disagree.
George knew that his confession would ensure a guilty verdict, but also that his cooperation with the police associates would help to ensure that his fine didn’t eat up too much of his monthly income. The fact that his wife had just died, and that all of his actions occurred during a blackout, would be included in his report. Hopefully, no one with the means and desire to destroy George would end up with it moving across his desk.
He stood as a police manager stopped at George’s cell.
“George Irwin?” the manager asked.
“That’s me.”
The manager’s eyes shifted uncomfortably, and he cleared his throat before he spoke: “I’m sorry, but it seems your file has been misplaced, and we can’t release you until it turns up. If the managers at Law-Corp can’t process it by dusk, you’re going to have to stay the night.”
“What?” George felt as if a hot blast of wind was forcing him back, and he found the nearest seat. “Please tell me you’re joking.” He began to sweat, and he wiped his face with his shirtsleeve.
“I’m afraid I’m not,” the manager said. “If you’d like to speak to my
supervisor
about it, I’m sure I can find him.”
“What about my kids?” George asked, closing his eyes, his body feeling hot and fluid.
“Well, unless you have a relative in the district we can release them to, they’ll just have to stay the night at the Safe House.”
George strained to glance back over at the
p
olice manager. He shook his head, and then looked down. “I’m a manager for Law-Corp. How come I’ve never heard of anything like this happening before?”
The
p
olice manager shrugged. “I’ll be sure to ask my
supervisor
when I see him.” He walked off, ignoring George’s pleas to return.
VIRGINIA
rinsed her hair one last time, hoping the timer on the water recycler would not go off before she could get all of the soap out. She grabbed her towel and made way for another woman who stood, naked and shaking, waiting for her turn. There was a clean pair of hospital pajamas waiting for her on her bed, and she quickly got dressed with her body turned away from the rest of the room. The weekly ordeal they made of bathing the group was humiliating.
Virginia wrapped her hair in her towel, glad at least to have had a shower. The nozzles only worked when the medical associates turned them on, and the once a week that they did turn them on was just not often enough. By then, not one person was without a hefty odor and slick, oily hair. Virginia splashed herself off using the sink water when she got the chance, but cold water and powdered hand soap did little to keep the filth at bay. It was mortifying to be herded into the bathroom by the medical associates in such a way, but it was over with for now and at least for the moment she was clean.
Emily took her time walking over to Virginia, shaking the towel over her wet hair and adjusting the fit of her pajamas. Both of them turned around and faced the far wall as the associates instructed the men to remove their clothes and line up for their shower.
“When we get out of here, I will never take my privacy for granted ever again,” Emily said, resting her towel over her shoulders. “I bet this is how they treat prison inmates.”
Virginia nodded grimly. “At least the ones who happen to have the wrong eye color.”
Emily nodded her agreement. Her face went painfully sober as she suddenly questioned aloud, “I wonder if I’ll still be able to work as a cashier associate at my booth? Deviants don’t work as cashier associates.”
Virginia suddenly had to apply the same question to her own job. Had so much changed about her that she was now no longer qualified to handle one of Communications-Corp’s switchboards? She and Emily looked at one another as the same question hit them both at once: Would they be able to convince anyone, including their loved ones, that absolutely nothing about them had changed other than their eye color?