Misdemeanors

Author's note: this is a sci-fi horror story with elements of med-fet, corporal punishment, non-consensual bondage, and the inhumanity of modern justice systems. It is an expansion on the ideas expressed in my other story VIOLATIONS if you want a shorter read. Sensitive readers may want to look away.

-

Hey Prof, I tracked down that woman in AZ who said she got caned for a speeding ticket. She wouldn't talk much over the phone, just confirmed that it happened and that she was happy to go on the record and provide receipts.

So, yeah, this is a real thing then, not just some Breitbart power fantasy. I have been chatting with a few other people, all women, all railroaded into corporal punishment for a speeding ticket and the like. Why isn't the Times or Post covering this? Wouldn't it be huge news? Why is Fox getting to control the narrative on this?

I convinced my friends to drive out there for a long weekend getaway in a couple of weeks.

I'm posting RK from AZ's contact info in Slack now and my notes will be in the usual place.

Wish me luck!

M

-

Hey Prof, her story is even wilder than I imagined. I'm going to try to clarify the notes over Xmas break, work up some kind of narrative. I already reached out to the other two women, one is in Kentucky, and the other is in Ohio. If I can get the Ohio story to agree, I'm going to try to interview her in person while I'm visiting my folks.

Also, real quick, I had an IT friend of mine (not someone who fixes printers or people's Wi-Fi but an information specialist) help me find social media stories that confirm what RK from AZ said. He had an app or something that was able to capture a couple of dozen posts across the usual suspect platforms that were almost immediately taken down. Cover-up much?

Anyway, catch you later on Slack.

Happy Holidays!

M

-

Hey Prof, IT HAPPENED TO ME! I can't believe it still, but it happened, and I don't know what to do other than what I always do. I'm going to write it out, in my own words, how I was accused of shoplifting, summarily judged guilty, and had a sentence of corporal punishment carried out, all within 24 hours.

My Dad has retained a lawyer on my behalf, some hotshot from Cleveland, but who knows how that will go. They forced me to sign an NDA, but what can they do to me here in Cali?

Help me get the word out about this, ok?

M

-

The following is an account how I, Morgan Forrestal, was subjected to cruel and unusual corporal punishment and other civil rights violations by the justice system for a minor offence:

Morgan left Ohio to escape her stepmother. She'd told everyone, her family, friends, school counsellor, and her favorite teacher, that attending Stanford had been her dream for years, but deep down she knew the real reason.

She loved her father and older sister and got along well enough with her stepbrother, who was the same age. There had been friction from the start between Delia and Morgan and it never smoothed out, no matter how much her father tried.

According to Morgan, she didn't appreciate how Delia talked to her father and sister like they were slow. An upstate New York transplant, her attitude toward Ohio in general could best be described as testy. Morgan also didn't like how the woman nitpicked everything, but especially about how Morgan and her sister dressed.

Delia couldn't be reached for comment but would undoubtedly describe her own behavior towards her husband and his children as constructive criticism. She'd said time and again that Morgan and her sister were cute girls that have grown into very pretty women. It would be nice to see them in something other than jeans, sweats, and tennis shoes.

Morgan had been determined to go to college since she discovered her interest in writing. She'd never been that great about creating stories like her father could out of thin air, but she loved learning about other people's stories and telling them in a way that helped fill in a bigger picture about how the world worked. When it came time to apply, Morgan lied about applying local and focused her efforts on colleges on the West Coast.

Morgan's grades and SATs were stellar, and she'd always been active in clubs and the community and had scored many bylines in the local paper. She liked to think of herself as more inclusive and forward thinking than the town she grew up in. When she got accepted to Stanford, she decided that Fairfax, Ohio was simply too small for her big dreams.

Stanford was great but also incredibly competitive. She thought she was a good student until she met the godlike machines that sat in the lecture halls next to her. She made a few good friends who were closer to her style of school/life balance and made it through the first two years with decent grades and some fun memories. Morgan only went home for a couple of days over the holidays both years and it was fine, but she was reminded every day about how poorly she and her stepmother got along and felt the urge to get back to school.

This year would be different, but not in the way Morgan expected. She would be turning 21 soon, and she was halfway through her third year. She was a grown up, and it was time to let the water pass under the bridge for good.

Sitting in a cell a few days after Christmas, alone and cut off from everything she knew and everyone she loved, Morgan would soon realize Delia would prove once and for all that no bridge could ever be built between them.

-

Walmart in the Midwest was different from Walmart in California. At some point in the modern era, Walmart had taken over as the town square for a huge swath of the country. Californians, on the other hand, have an overabundance of choices to shop at, and when Morgan suggested that the friend group go there to shop for study time snacks, they laughed. They said Target was worlds better than Walmart, and It didn't take long for Morgan to agree. She felt like it was a huge milestone to leave the slightly shoddy comfort of Sam Walton's home away from home behind forever.

A few days after Christmas when Morgan volunteered herself for a supply run, she was pleased to see that there was Target nearby, but it was a town over which might as well be a million miles away in Ohio's winter weather. Add that she was out of practice driving, well, anywhere really, but especially in the snow, Fairfax's Walmart would have to do.

At least the self-checkout line was empty. She hadn't seen much of her old hometown on this visit, but she did notice that the stores were starting to catch up with the tech that had been in use for years on the left coast. There wasn't a mask in sight though. Morgan had one in her hoodie pocket, but she'd only worn it once and that was on the Uber ride home.

Morgan's dad had given her a credit card to use for personal expenses in addition to giving her an allowance and paying her tuition. The family had never been wealthy, but he was incredibly wise with money so when she showed her father the loan options he laughed and told her it was taken care of.

She'd repaid him the only way she could; she'd stayed out of trouble, only used the card in emergencies, and focused on her studies.

Morgan texted him while pushing her cart through the oddly empty aisles. "Hey dad, I'm getting stuff for the house and my trip back. I'm going to use the card, ok?"

"Aye aye, Captain!" Morgan's dad texted her back.

It wasn't just Walmart, the whole town seemed too quiet. It took her a little while to remember that most people were at work while she was off from school, her father and sister being two of those people.

Delia was at home, but Morgan didn't know where. Home was a sprawling 4000-foot two-story house with a large basement and two huge yards that her father had inherited when his parents died. She knew that her stepbrother was in the basement. He'd talked her into going down there for some Halo and weed (she'd passed on vaping the weed and kicked his ass in Halo) a couple of times but ultimately found basement life mildly depressing and was loath to return, so she'd left without a word to either of them.

While she was scanning her items, Morgan noticed that the self-checkout attendant was hovering behind her, poised to help. It made her feel self-conscious, like she was maybe doing something wrong. Surely there was a reason that the dozen or so people who were stacked up in lines for real cashiers to scan their stuff, but Morgan couldn't figure out why.

She piled all the stuff in the cart rather than use the plastic bags. She'd forgotten her canvas bags in the trunk of her family's ancient Accord, but seeing that no one else was using them, maybe that was a good thing? It was all very confusing. Surely two-and-a-half years in California hadn't changed her that much.

Halfway to the car Morgan realized that she had forgotten to scan the case of Red Pop! that hid under a bunch of stuff on the bottom rack of the cart. She turned around and was met at the door by a Walmart employee that was at least five years younger than her and a Fairfax police officer. The Walmart employee was pointing at her while the officer spoke into the radio mic on his shoulder.

"Oh my gosh, oh my goodness! I'm so sorry! I'll go in right now and scan the pop. I can't believe I forgot!"

"Hang on," the officer said, barely looking at her. Morgan stopped her cart just inside the concrete bollards, trying to stay out of traffic.

"We've got her on video," the Walmart employee said. She was the same self-checkout attendant that had hovered so helpfully while Morgan checked out. "The manager is coming down with the tablet to show you now."

"I just forgot! I'll go in and scan it, okay? I paid for the rest with my credit card."

"Hang on," the officer repeated. His radio squawked something unintelligible. The cop was beefy, made to seem even larger because of the bright yellow safety coveralls on top of his uniform and body armor. Morgan knew if she saw him in street clothes, he would have full-color sleeves going up both arms and wear a t-shirt with a gun manufacturer's logo. His nose was a bright red beacon in the middle of his snowbank of a face.

"Please, I just forgot. I came back, see?"

The two seemed intent on ignoring her. The Walmart employee fished her ringing phone from her back pocket and answered it.

"Hey, she came back. Yes. Yes, the cop's still here from the last one. Ok, I'll tell him."

"Hang on," the officer said again. Morgan wondered if the man was capable of saying anything else.

"Manager's just inside. He can't be out in the cold."

Without another word, the Walmart employee took the cart, the officer seized Morgan's arm and they went inside.

-

It was the Stanford hoodie. It had to be. Morgan had layered up like a good midwestern girl should with a parka over her most comfortable college hoodie and even switched her trainers out for hiking boots, but she still felt frozen. She'd unzipped the parka and pocketed her gloves when she first entered Walmart and hadn't bothered to zip back up when she'd headed out.

The moment Morgan saw the store manager, she could feel his eyes boring into her chest. Since there wasn't much to see because of the layers, Morgan quickly came to believe that the man's attention was locked on the hoodie itself. He was the older than the cop but cut from the same tatted Ohio-good-ol'-boy cloth and the Walmart blue polo and beige khakis were unflattering on him.

The manager led them all into an empty employee breakroom where there was a tablet propped up against a two-liter bottle of pop on one of the tables.

"Can I see your ID and mobile device, please?" the officer asked. Morgan handed over her phone and dug in her messenger bag to find her wallet.

"Here you go," she answered.

"California."

"Yes, I'm home for the holidays," Morgan said as cheerfully as she could. This was not going well.

"You got the video?"

The self-checkout attendant, manager, and officer clustered around the table to watch. Morgan hung back. She already knew what it would show and if they would just listen for a moment, she could take care of everything and be on her way.

"I came back to scan it, I just forgot. Mistake, right? I've got my credit card right here," she said to their backs.

"Same statement as earlier?" the officer asked.

"Yes, I'll send you the PDF and video clip."

"She's out of state."

"Oh, I know. Doesn't matter," the manager insisted, pointing towards a big red sign on the breakroom wall detailing the management's policy regarding shoplifting. Prosecution with no exceptions.

"I'm not a shoplifter! I meant to pay for it. I still want to pay for it."

"Out-of-towners get special treatment; you know that right?"

"Oh yes. Special treatment," the manager said with glee.

"Alright Miss," the officer paused to read her ID. "Forrester. You are being arrested for shoplifting."

"Wait. No way. No, no way."

"Stop resisting," the officer said, a small amount of fire peeking through the smoke of boredom.

"What? I'm not resisting."

The cop reached for his taser. Morgan threw her hands up, tears springing to her eyes.

"Don't shoot! Please! I just want to pay for the pop and go home."

The manager dismissed the self-checkout employee with a nod and crossed his arms, the most contemptable smirk infecting his face.

"Turn around, and interlace your fingers behind your head now, and I won't add resisting to the charge."

Morgan's chest started heaving, her face twisted into a mask of confusion and fear. She had the sense enough to turn around, though.

She didn't know it yet, but unquestioning compliance would be something she would have to quickly get used to doing.

"Can I call my daddy?" Morgan could hear herself falling to pieces, knew helpless begging wasn't far off. Just hearing his voice would make it all better. "Can I at least call my dad?"

"Quiet."

Morgan did her best to keep still while the officer did a quick pat down.

"We'll see what the judge says. I'm going to cuff you now."

Morgan started bawling uncontrollably as the officer put one wrist and then the other in the cold steel cuffs, locking them behind her back.

-

Morgan knew that of all the experiences she'd had in her life so far and all that she expected yet to come, there was something so singularly alien and disconnected from reality about being perp-walked through a Walmart and its parking lot to a waiting patrol car.

The drive went by in smear of tears and snot that ran freely down her face and the front of her hoodie. No matter what she did, she couldn't stop herself from shifting around in the caged back seat, either. The tight cuffs allowed not even a moment of comfort where she might collect her thoughts.

"Where am I being taken?"

"Special facility for folks from out of town."

"Okay, but where is that?"

The officer didn't answer. A distant red light started flashing in her mind, a railroad crossing a mile ahead down a dark road of thought. Maybe she should just cry herself out, save the questions for someone who wasn't so heavily armed and beaked up on Monster.

The special facility turned out to be the lone finished building in a half-built office park. The only sign was a street marquee that listed the Fairfax police department as the single occupant.

This wasn't the first warning sign of what might be in store for her, but their arrival at an office building police station got Morgan thinking about RK from AZ's story. This wasn't right at all, but it fit the pattern that she had been trying to figure out for a couple of months now.

"What's happening? What's going to happen to me?"

"You've been arrested for shoplifting. Haven't you been paying attention?"

"I mean, here, at this place. This isn't the regular police station."

"Nope."

"Why won't you tell me?"

"Listen, you seem like a good little girl and all, and I would have just let you go, but Walmart is super strict about what you did, and..."

"And?"

"It's better if you just don't talk anymore."

His insistence on her silence finally turned the spigot off. Misdemeanor infractions didn't usually rate reading Miranda rights, but it was all falling into place.

"Officer," Morgan wagered. "When did Fairfax start its corporal punishment program?"

"Seriously, little girl, you should stop talking now."

"It was last year, right?"

"Miss Forrester? Take the hint, 'kay?"

Morgan could feel bile rising among the heat, a chemical fire of disgust and shame.

There was a handful of other cars in the lot next to the building's front door, only one other with the Fairfax PD paintjob and logos. The officer parked in the handicapped spot, spoke what sounded like a random assortment of sounds meant to imitate English into the dash radio, and got out.

The back door opened with a rush of frozen air that stung Morgan's tear-stained face. She tried scooting over, but the officer motioned her to stop.

"You going to give me any trouble walking you in there?"

"No," Morgan responded. "No, sir."

The officer nodded and reached in to guide her out of the back seat and onto her feet.

Morgan took a breath and looked around. The commercial office park crouched, forlorn and deserted, under a sky that had been threatening to snow all day.

The officer took hold of Morgan's arm and hurried them inside.

-

The reception area was new but plain, the grayest of gray-box commercial real estate. A single uniformed officer sat behind the reception/security desk.

"The judge here?" the cop asked the front desk officer.

"Out to lunch till 130 or so."

"How about the prosecutor?"

"Yes."

"Gonna send 'er through processing while I give 'er my report. Can you let 'er know I'm coming?"

"Sure."

There were three double glass doors in the lobby, the one on the left marked Inmate Processing, the middle behind the reception desk marked Justice Officials Only, and the one on the right marked Public Entrance with the phrase 'Please check in at the front desk before entering. No Exceptions' underneath.

The cop steered Morgan left, pausing just long enough for a magnetic lock to be released and the door to slide silently open.

The next room was an empty gray box with concrete floors and a camera over a heavy metal door.

"Doocy, five-two-three, with single suspect for processing," the cop said to the camera.

Officer Doocy pulled the door open an instant after a loud buzz invited them in.

Morgan had decided to heed the officer's advice and save her questions for later, opting to merely observe instead. This was a (hopefully) once in a lifetime opportunity to experience a new and terrifying aspect of the American judicial system firsthand and she wasn't going to waste it.

The chamber she found herself in had three airport scanners installed in a glass wall that divided the room in two. Morgan could see multiple cameras high up on the ceiling.

"Gonna leave you here now. Make sure you listen carefully and don't ask too many questions."

Morgan looked straight ahead, mistrusting her ability to answer without starting to blubber uncontrollably again.

"Look, I know this is hard for you, but just, I don't know, don't take it so personally? Nod if you understand and I leave you to it."

Morgan nodded. The cop uncuffed her and left without another word.

"Hi, can you hear me?" as disembodied male voice said.

"Yes?"

"Good, can you state your name and date of birth for the record?"

"Morgan Forrester, (birthdate redacted)"

"Middle initial?"

"K."

"Okay, Miss Forrester, the inmate processing, um, process as it were, is almost completely automated. All you have to do is comply. I'll let you have as long as you need in each room, there's this one and two more, but the sooner you are finished, the sooner you can be seen by the judge."