An Innocent Prisoner. 2,900

Pre-Incarceration in the near future. Adele must serve part of an ancestors sentence.

Adele Johnson was blessed by being born into a normal middle-class family. Although not a genius, she did well at school. Almost six-feet tall in that year of 2212 with a sun-darkened face framed by long platinum hair, she enjoyed popularity among many boyfriends. Then came her eighteenth birthday, when her life changed ... drastically.

The girl was wakened at five am by a circle of stern-faced police officers. She could see her mother standing in a corner of the bedroom, crying into her hands. Her father could be heard talking and arguing outside the room.

“You’d better get dressed, young lady,” a female officer told her, “and come with us.”

“I didn’t do anything. Why?”

“We’ll tell you at the station. Now, don’t get overly excited. We’re not here to hurt you but you have to come with us.”

The policewoman stayed in the room, insisting on checking over all her clothing before Adele could don it. Adele shook in fear until the officer poked a compressed-air hypodermic device against her arm, shooting a drug into soft flesh. Almost immediately, it took affect and the panic ebbed to a dull feeling of apprehension. A few moments later, even that faded.  

“Now isn’t that much better, honey?”

“It makes me feel silly.” Adele giggled as she slid into a pair of jeans.

“You’ll get used to it. The stuff eventually loses its effect.”

Dressed, Adele was allowed to pack a suitcase of approved items before being whisked into a hovercar and taken to the police station. She still hadn’t been told why, but didn’t really care much at that point, a strong depressant coursing through her brain.

***

After an hour sitting in one of twenty chairs lined up in an overcooled drafty hallway, Adele had her turn to see a police counselor. It was a kindly older woman in uniform.

“Adele Johnson,” the policewoman read off a paper in front of her. “I’m sorry to have to inform you that you’re under arrest for a triple murder your ancestor committed, back in ... let me see ... the year 2020. That woman was sentenced to three life terms plus ten years. You’re lucky, only the last ten being your responsibility.”

“No! It can’t be. I’m too youn--”

“But it is. You’re it. You must remember how, before graduating high school, you were treated to the standard mind scan?  The one that checked for and registered future aberrations? One purpose was to search for reincarnations. 

“Finding your mind harbors the persona of Sandra Michaels, who killed her parents and sister, we’re required to arrest her -- meaning you -- to finish her sentence.”

“I -- I -- I see.” Adele looked around the room. She knew she should be excited, but couldn’t seem to make the effort.

The other woman pressed a button on her intercom. “Joanne. Did you give Adele Johnson a jolt?

“I thought so.” She turned to the youngster. “I have to get your signature on this paper. It’s not an admission of guilt, but only that I’ve read it to you. First, though, you’ll have to come down from your jolt.

“Meanwhile, Joanne will show you to your new home.”

“A cell? Not a prison cell, please? And I want to see a lawyer, I think.”

The woman gave her a sympathetic smile. “No. Not one of those old-time cells with the nasty bars. Since Sandra’s record doesn’t mention ‘hard labor’, it will be a comfortable room with most amenities. 

“Except there are rules about communication and you, of course, can’t leave whenever you want.” She shook her head. “You may maintain a lawyer, but it’s not necessary. You’re not going to court and have no appeals. The fact is that you’re already convicted and sentenced.”

Not in a happy mood, nor a depressed one, Adele was led into an elevator, then into a trans-tube car and whisked somewhere or other. At the other end, she found herself in a large room with many red-uniformed police walking around, sitting, drinking coffee and other normal activities.

There were a few people in handcuffs, like her. She didn’t see any men, all women. There was also a sprinkling of women wearing orange shirts with name-tags, mostly behind a long counter talking to the police.

Adele was led to the counter, where a woman in orange smiled at her. 

“What’s your name, babe?”

“Uh. Adele. Hi.”

“Adele what?”

Policewoman Joanne interrupted. “Adele Johnson, 737290. She’s jolted, so you’ll have to talk to me. Give her a room in reception until it wears off. Since she’s already under the influence, it’s a good time for physical processing. Now move it.”

For Adele, the processing seemed like a whirlwind. She was holographed, given a complete physical examination, and the normal ID chip in her back was replaced by a prison model. It was pretty much like the one everyone wore with a built-in GPS, but this one contained a remote shocking circuit, complete with large battery. If needed, Adele could be shocked senseless or even given a fatal dose from a remote location. In her society, there was no such thing as a criminal on the run. At least not for their second offense. Unlike with its civilian counterpart, attempting to remove it brought death in the form of an electric shock to the heart.

Still in a reasonably good mood from the drug, she was led to what passed for a cell, more like a cheap hotel room of the period. It contained a holograph wall for recreation, a soft bed and a cooler filled with canned and bottled drinks and snacks. What it didn’t have was a real window, though the outside could be brought up on the holowall.  Her suitcase was already inside, waiting for her.

“I wouldn’t bother unpacking,” the guard told her. “You’ll be taken to your proper home tomorrow.”

“Oh. Nice. Where is that to be?” Adele asked. “Can’t I go home to my Mama?”

The guard only shook her head, then closed the door.

During the night, the drug wore off, Adele transitioning from a crying victim to a screaming banshee. 

She didn’t know it, but that was why she hadn’t been taken directly to her prison home. The staff at reception was used to her reaction and not surprised. They went through it almost every night. Hidden cameras kept an eye on her in case of a suicide attempt or other medical emergency, but they wanted her to be coherent, worn out, and tractable before continuing the process. That was a legal requirement.

The next morning, when the cameras found her cried-out and sprawled on the bed, the staff woke Adele and processed paperwork needed for her ten-year incarceration. Although Adele had known of people finishing another’s sentence, it was rare and she hadn’t thought it would ever happen to her. 

During a free period, she tried to call her folks, finding the new chip apparently didn’t include a built-in phone circuit. No matter how often she clicked that tooth, there was no dial tone.

That afternoon, she was loaded into a hoverbus, along with a dozen other women. Some were like her, confused but resolved to make the best of their plight -- others hardened criminals.

“How long you get?” a short dark-skinned girl about her own age asked.

“Ten years.”

The girl sighed. “I have life. Not only that, but with one more life sentence to go.”

“Can’t we ever see our parents?”

“I dunno, but hear they can visit once in a while. I don’t ever want to see mine. It’s their fault I’m in this s**t.”

“How you figure that?” Adele asked.

“Well, maybe not directly but someone in my family tree committed that crime, and I have to suffer for it. It’s just not f*****g fair, that’s all.”

“I know.”

“I’m Shika. Shika Chambers.”

“Adele Johnson.” She thought a moment. “I hope we can be friends, Shika.”

“If we’re even going to roost in the same place.” Shika laughed, all eyes turning to the unaccustomed sound. Even an armed guard, facing them behind a partition at the front of the vehicle smiled.

The hoverbus eventually arrived at a large imposing concrete building. Incongruously, it was painted bright pink. A small sign along the road identified it as, “Comfort Inn” and “Woman’s Penitentiary.” In smaller letters, below, “Do not lose hope, you who enter here.”

Inside the imposing entranceway, complete with Greek columns decorated with kindly-looking cartoon characters, Adele saw yet another long counter manned by women in pink pajamas. They were smiling with other women standing behind them wearing red police uniforms. Compared to the reception building, the prison itself seemed to have more women in red.

The new arrivals were hustled to spots along the counter, each attended by a woman wearing pink. Shika hurried to a position alongside Adele. One policewoman noticed and took a step forward, then stepped back as though it weren’t such a big offense.

The pink-uniformed woman asked Adele, “Your lover?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Shika was quick to confirm, patting Adele on the shoulder. “Could we room together?”

The pink-uniformed woman smiled. “Why not? I’ll fix you up ... but, remember, you owe me ... big.” She nodded downward at her name tag, puffing out her chest while doing so.

After filling out a form, Adele was told she would be called, later, to see a counselor. That a code in her file required it. Then the two were escorted through the building, into a large dayroom containing what must have been a hundred women, all wearing pink. Some, though, retained individuality with colored bows in their hair, pins, and other ornaments.

They were then shown into a room, number 256, on the second tier. It contained two single beds, dressers, a small couch, tables and other furniture normal to a bedroom cum living room. There were no bars on the windows, though they were far too narrow to squeeze through. One corner even held a small kitchen, including microwave oven and cooler. Behind an open curtain, they could see a small bathroom. There was even a landline telephone.

“The reefer’s empty. You’ll have a small credit account at several stores down in the dayroom, such as a foodstall, hair-dresser, sundries store and a few others. Relatives and friends may add to it later. You’re also authorized a cat, but there’s a long waiting list. Only ten are allowed in this dorm,” their guide told them. “My name’s Alice, and I’m assigned to pamper you for awhile. If you have questions or need me, I’ll either be in my room, number 220, or in the dayroom.”

Once alone, Adele turned on her new roommate. “Now, let’s get something straight, Shika. I am not, I repeat, NOT, gay. Don’t you ever pull anything on me.”

“Hey! Don’t worry, roomie. I’m not, either. I’d rather room with you than one of those old veterans out there. I think it’ll be safer, won’t it? I hear those dikes love young fluff like us.”

“Okay. Okay. I’m sorry.”

Adele immediately picked up the receiver, trying to remember how to work the ancient instrument. Finally trying the “0“ button, she was answered.

“Switchboard. Please give me your number?”

Adele gave it. There was a long pause.

“And your authorization code?”

“I don’t have one, I don’t think. I’m new here.”

“You need one to get an outside line. Do you have an inside number? I can put that through.” 

She hung up the phone.

While Shika went out to fill the cooler, Adele, tired from all that was happening, tried out her bed. She’d only been sleeping a few minutes before the telephone woke her.

“Go to door eight on the south side,” a voice told her, “to be taken to counselor Peters for an interview.”

***

Weaving past clusters of prisoners in the large dayroom, Adele easily found door eight. After all, the numeral over it was three-feet high and flashing in yellow.

An officer was waiting next to the door. “Adele Johnson?”

Adele nodded.

The policewoman used a key to expose a clean greenish corridor. It was an office area. Inmates and police could be seen working together inside the rooms they passed. Reaching a closed door, the officer knocked and was told to “come in.”

The woman inside wore civilian clothing, almost the first Adele had seen since entering the building. She was seated at a desk, a computer screen built into one corner of its surface.

The woman rose, a wild shock of gray hair bobbing in place, to shake Adele’s hand. The girl was motioned to sit.

“You must be confused,” the woman said. “The transition from freedom is shocking. I know. I spent six years here as a convict. I used that time to start a degree in Social Services, then ended up back here again as a paid councilor. 

“The system thinks my past experience is an asset. I think they’re correct.

“If you don’t fight the system, you’ll soon become used to the confinement. You haven’t been shown it yet, but there is a large outside area, even small hovercars to drive around. Unlike older prison systems, we don’t believe in treating our ‘guests’ to either punishment or rehabilitation -- although we do have many schooling projects. How you take your sentence is up to you ... entirely.  

“Since you’re not considered violent, you start at this level. According to your actions, you may go up or down in the system.

“We do have twenty-three hour confinement and isolation cells. At the other end of the spectrum, we also have individual, twin, and group cottages in a rural setting. 

“If you steal, fight, or otherwise get into trouble, your sentence becomes harder. Immediate obedience and a good attitude earns you credit for promotion. It’s that simple, and up to you. The bottom line is that you do have,” she said, pausing to look down at a paper, “ten years ... period. Get used to it. There are no appeals. Your ancestor used them up before she died.”

“It’s just not fair, the whole thing,” Adele burst out. “Why should I suffer for something I didn’t do, would never do? For Christ’s sake, I never heard of Sandra Michaels.”

“We have our reasons, time-tested reasons. You. You have no choice in the matter. Take her back, Sylvia.”

On the way to the dayroom, a different side of Adele slowly became apparent. All the way, she complained and bitched. “I don’t belong here. I’ll get out. You wait and see,” along with other threats to the staff and prisoners.

Released in the large room, she stormed back toward the stairs. On the way, Adele deliberately reached out and scattered the pieces on a 3D-Chess table. The three players stood, angry at the intrusion. Looking around, they forced smiles onto their faces, turned, and sat back down.

Not taking the hint, Adele continued to her cell, not noticing three large women wearing red converging near the stairs, then walking upward behind Adele in a tight little group. 

Back in the cell, Shika asked, worried, “What’s wrong, honey? What happened?”

“Those b*****s.” Adele paused to punch a couch, then began sobbing.

Shika went over to pull Adele to her chest, comforting her. As the other girl cried on her shoulder, Shika eased one hand under Adele’s loose orange shorts, even while kissing her on the ear.

Adele exploded, rearing back to grab her roommate by the throat. Both faces were flushed, Shika gasping for breath as the three police officers hurried inside, grabbed Adele and wrestled her to the ground.

***

Counselor Peters sat drinking Couffee, a mildly invigorating type of caffeine drink, in her office with a coworker.  “I see Sandra came through in the Johnson girl. I was hoping the statistics were wrong on that one. Her character seemed so strong.”

“Yes. And in only her first day here. Sometimes we’re lucky and sometimes not,” Counselor Jeffers replied. “It’s all so haphazard. Where is she, down in the basement?”

“Yes. Locked in 23/7 and under constant supervision. I hate that I’ll have to see her when the added term’s applied.”

“You expect the max, life?”

“Naturally. And since it was so soon, maybe two or three of them. Sandra’s personality is proving to be strong. Her two previous life sentences didn’t calm it. One more, this one, probably won’t help any. It may take several more lifetimes.”

“It’s the only way we know, Jill. One day, when it emerges, Sandra’s personality will be weak, the host body strong and moral enough to keep her evil in check. Until that time, her unwitting hosts will have to be contained and watched in order to preserve society.”

“The last time I saw Adele, she was harping on it not being fair. She’s right, but it is the fairest system we know. Although not for an individual, fairer for society at large.

“It’s the most viable solution. Sandra’s violence would have manifested itself sooner or later in Adele. Already, in the last four generations, a quarter of former DNA based violence has been bred out of humanity. A propensity for violence is no longer a vital survival trait.”

The End.
Charlie �" hvysmker.

Reviews

[roarke]

These days, your time line might happen sooner than later. One idea as I came to the end is maybe Shika knew that if she provoked Adele and got attacked, she/Shika would get time off her sentence. I dunno, for me, the end is never the end... lol. I liked how Adele's story kept spinning out of her control, both situationally and psychologically. Yeah, body chips... not on this boy...

[Christoph]

Cool idea. I don't feel much of a connection to the character, but I'm intrigued by the world.

I don't know that this sort of penal system feels realistic, exactly, but then again, it's almost 200 years in the future.

Here in 2019 Canada, violent criminals who show myriad red flags for reoffending are given every possible chance to reintegrate into society. I'm thinking of a specific case as I write this--Kayla Bourque.

Maybe if a few too many Kayla Bourque-like approaches went horribly wrong, the gate would swing hard in the other direction and we'd start punishing people for red flags in their DNA alone.

This is all probably beside the point. It's Sci-fi, so this society can do whatever it wants. It's a short story, so I would be asking way too much to expect a history that explains how they got to this point.

But the fact that you got me thinking about it means it's presented as at *least* a cool idea.