Misdemeanors

"Take it up with the Supreme Court. Or don't. You don't want to know what the police do to people who break the NDA you'll be forced to sign."

The hour flew by and all she was left with was more questions and flop sweat from the overheated windowless room. Officer Timothy arrived with another knock, cuffs dangling from his hand.

"When do I get a phone call?" Morgan asked both men. "I have to call my father. He needs to know where I am, what is happening to me."

"Oh, your family has already been notified," Officer Timothy informed.

"What?"

"Judge has ordered no direct contact between inmates and family until release," the officer followed up, as if that was good enough.

Morgan scoffed. "This is unbelievable." She stood, turned, and allowed herself to be cuffed and lead off to another part of the building.

-

The judge's chamber was a large conference room with a table that took up most of the space. There was a wall of books on one side and a bank of floor to ceiling windows on the other. The window blinds were closed.

Officer Timothy re-cuffed her arms to the front and helped her sit in one of the many large black leather executive chairs. The judge was already sitting across from her, a stern looking white lady with salt and pepper hair wearing a black robe. The woman's demeanor was on the level of a helicopter mom hearing the news she'd won the elections for HOA chairman, PTA president, and Women's Prayer Club leader simultaneously.

Officer Timothy stood near a large flat screen behind the head of the table, his hands clasped behind him in parade rest.

Another woman entered, a short Black lady that shared the judges air of bemused institutional arrogance. Her pants suit was tan and trim, and she wore preposterously tall stiletto heels. Apparently, this was the prosecutor.

Morgan couldn't help but take it all in. This would make an award-winning story sometime soon, and without a notebook or her phone to remember all the details, she had to continue paying the closest of attention.

"So, this is Miss Morgan K. Forrester, age 20, case number (redacted)," the judge began.

The prosecutor stood at the head of the table, manilla folder with a few sheafs of loose paper open before her.

"Yes, the people vs. Morgan K. Forrester, charged with misdemeanor theft from the Fairfax Walmart."

The prosecutor handed the judge a sheet with her ID paperclipped to it.

"Hmm," the judge said. "California."

Morgan didn't know if she was supposed to answer. This wasn't going like her advocate had predicted.

"Could you please state your full name and date of birth for the record?"

Morgan complied, hoping that they couldn't hear the shakiness in her voice.

"Do you go to school?" The judge was looking down at the sheet. Morgan could swear that no one had yet looked at her directly.

"Yes," she answered. "Yes, mam. Stanford. I'm heading back there in a couple of days."

"Stanford. Must be nice."

"I, uh..." Morgan stammered.

"You don't have to answer that. What does the state have to say?"

The prosecutor went through the facts of her case with more detail than Morgan thought possible. She brought up the Walmart surveillance video evidence on the big screen and let it play on a loop. Morgan wondered why the video didn't show her stopping in the parking lot and turning around on her own accord.

The prosecutor then droned on for a few minutes more, and despite her best efforts, Morgan had lost track of what was going on. Another loop of video was shown, this time it was body cam footage of Morgan's plea to pay for the case of pop and leave.

Morgan couldn't help but notice that the police department produced all this video evidence with uncharacteristic haste. She had tested the City of Fairfax's FIOA process back when she was writing for the local paper in high school. The City refused to even answer for nearly a year and had issued a denial of request a couple of days after she'd graduated.

"Miss Forrester?" the judge asked. Morgan sensed she had missed something.

"Yes? Yes, mam?"

"I said, how do you plead?"

"Innocent."

"You confessed to Officer Doocy. We have you on video."

"Yes, but..."

"Think carefully about what you are going to say next, little girl."

That stung worse than anything that had happened so far. Why did everyone insist on infantilizing her?

"I also said that it was a mistake, I intended to pay, but I just forgot."

The judge and prosecutor looked at each other.

"I'm about to pass summary judgement. You can change your plea now, reduce your sentence."

"I...wait, wait," Morgan pleaded. She couldn't gather her thoughts fast enough to keep up. "Why haven't I been allowed to call my father? Why am I not allowed representation? I haven't even been sworn in."

"Guilty as charged," the judge said, barely raising her voice. "What do you recommend?" she asked the prosecutor. Still no direct eye contact. Morgan felt tears welling up again.

"707," the prosecutor pronounced, "with a 667 enhancement."

Ominous.

"First offence," the judge stated, incredulous. "First offence, right?"

Morgan started to answer, but the prosecutor cut her off. Morgan could see Officer Timothy wince and try to wave her off out of the corner of her eye.

"The state law is clear about this, especially with regards to out-of-towners."

"Agreed. Alright, 707 with a 667 enhancement. To be carried out at 745 pm tonight. Officer Timothy, take her to her cell."

"Wait!" Morgan protested. "Wait, please. How is this okay? How can you do this?"

"Officer Timothy, shock motivation and gag are authorized."

"Yes, your honor," the officer replied. He moved quickly to Morgan's side and bent down to speak. "You have to come with me now, okay? Best if you don't speak. There will be paperwork soon and I can get you something to eat."

"One more thing, little girl," the judge pointed at Morgan, finally looking her in the eye. "Sign every bit of that paperwork or you'll be held in contempt and moved to county jail. Without bail. Got me?"

Morgan nodded, defeated.

"Got me?" the judge raised her voice.

"Yes, mam, I understand."

-

Morgan spent the afternoon on a carnival pirate ship of emotions, swinging from fear to anger and back again until it left her exhausted.

Her cell was somewhere on the third floor. Officer Timothy said she was near the execution chamber and that it would be a short walk.

There were no windows or clocks anywhere and the corridors were the same plain liminal office space as the second floor. Even her cell was a small, converted office space with a plain wood door. The main difference from the lower level was the addition of deadbolts above the door handles and a plastic slot big enough for an 8 1/2 x 11 sheet of paper. Someone had already placed Morgan's sheet with her mugshot and other details there. The color pic of her was terribly unflattering.

Officer Timothy uncuffed her and showed her around her cell, a much more reserved version of whatever personality he had on during her intake. Morgan had a silent debate about whether she should ask why but didn't need to; Officer Timothy told her.

"I'll be handling the execution of your sentence tonight."

"Oh," Morgan replied. "Are you instructed to call it that, 'execution of sentence'?"

"Yes," the officer blushed. "It hasn't bothered me before. I mean, I've been the technician a bunch of times now, cuz I'm also a certified EMT. You just seem like such and nice gir...person."

"Stop, please," Morgan begged. "Just, stop."

Officer Timothy held her gaze, cheeks flushed, long enough for the self-awareness to really sink in.

"You must think I'm a monster."

Morgan clenched her jaw, refusing to answer. She'd had conversations like these with boys who'd shown interest in her (though the circumstances were worlds apart) and they had a tendency to be opportunities for young men to confirm her suspicions.

"Anyway," the officer deflected. "It's pretty bare in here, but there is a shower in the back and a toilet, both behind translucent privacy screens to give you some, um, privacy from the cameras."

"How thoughtful," Morgan ventured.

"Bed is comfy enough. We're allowed to take short naps in the cells on long shifts."

Morgan looked up at the flatscreen that was built into the wall.

"Yeah, I can turn it on for you, but you don't seem like the Fox News type."

"Good guess."

"Your advocate will be coming up soon, and I'll bring you water and a snack. No allergies, right?"

"No."

"There's magazines and books I can bring up," he offered.

"I'm fine."

"Anything else I can help you with?"

"Can you let me go?"

Officer Timothy's face fell even further, so much so that he looked like he was on the verge of tears.

"No," Morgan answered for him. "Of course not."

-

Morgan's advocate was full of information but equally bereft of actual help. The stack of paper he brought to sign was formidable. Morgan used her study skills to glean as much as she could and was dismayed by what she found.

"How can this be?" Morgan had said it so often that she considered it to be a good tagline for her forthcoming story.

"You know, you aren't like most people who come through here. Everyone always asks, 'why is this happening to me?" Mr. Singh related. "You are the first that I've met that seems to understand what an injustice this is."

"I do, and I'm dead serious; how are they able to get away with this?"

"The legal landscape has become more complicated than anyone could have imagined even five years ago."

Morgan finished initializing and signing the last page, an informed consent form cribbed from a doctor's office about the 'execution' of her 'sentence'.

"What else do I need to know?"

"I got the judge to expunge this from your record upon release."

"So, the only people who will even know that it happened are me, you, and a handful of justice officials who are already on board with torturing people for minor offences."

"Your family knows, too."

"But no records."

"My understanding is, the city will hold onto the records for five years, but your conviction won't appear on any search."

Morgan sighed. "Thanks, I guess."

"Don't you want to know what it is?"

"What?"

"Your sentence?"

"Yeah, I guess so." Morgan felt exhausted.

"707 is a micro-electric simulation of a whipping to your legs, buttocks, and back. I'm told it feels like a five or six on the pain scale."

"Oh my god."

"The 667 enhancement is suspension."

"What? Suspension?"

"Yes. I haven't seen any of the chambers that are in use here, but normally the procedures are carried out on a bed or chair. You will be suspended from your wrists."

"This is fucking barbaric."

"Yes," her advocate nodded, sadly.

They talked for a while longer but little of their conversation stuck in Morgan's memory. She got the sense that her advocate really wanted to help prepare her better but was either forbidden from observing the punishments directly or had stayed away on his own accord.

In the end, she was left alone. She barely registered the return of Officer Timothy, sack lunch in hand, the apparent weight of self-awareness dragging his face to the floor.

She munched on a hard-boiled egg, a bag of animal crackers, and sipped on lukewarm water, thinking about everything and nothing. Spun the featureless metal monitoring band around her wrist about a million times. Took a shower and a nap. Her dreams were filled with tall shadows and shiny, impossibly complicated handcuffs. She kept trying to call for her dad, but no noise ever came out.

She left the American cheese and bologna sandwich untouched.

-

Morgan was awake and on edge when a heavy knock rapped against the door.

Officer Timothy stood framed in the doorway, grim.

"I have to put you in four-point restraints. There's nowhere to go, but they don't want you running off and getting hurt. Standard policy."

"You don't want me to get hurt while you are taking me to be tortured?"

Officer Timothy's face hardened but he had no answer. Morgan answered for him by turning around, lacing her fingers behind her head, and spreading her stance.

When he was done, she knew that she would remember the sound of being hobbled for the rest of her life: his hard breathing, the jingle of light metal chains, the clacking of the cuffs ratcheting into place. The slam of the door as it shut behind her as he guided them down the corridor towards her fate.

She was done crying. Trembling was her new thing.

The walk was short, too short. The thin commercial carpet felt rough on her bare feet. There seemed to be no other prisoners on her level, no inmate information displayed on any of the doors. There were more than a few fluorescent lights that needed changing out. The whole place smelled of pine air freshener, possibly someone's horribly misguided attempt to add some holiday cheer to the atmosphere.

"Some of your family are here to observe," Officer Timothy said as they stood in front of a door marked 'Execution Chamber'.

"What? No! You can't do this. This is inhumane! I'm a person! I'm alive and I have feelings!" It all came out in a roar of rage causing her to stumble forward, nearly falling face first. Officer Timothy caught and stood her back up.

"Woah, there, woah. Calm down, I'm only trying to help!"

"That's the fucking problem, Officer Timothy."

They glared at each other. Morgan had never felt so dangerously close to her own mortality.

"When the door opens, stand in the middle of the room. I'll remove the cuffs. I'll give you exactly three minutes to take off your pants and shirt, then I will come to get you. I suggest you take that time get your shit together."

"I'm going to be naked!" Morgan laughed. "Of-fucking-course!"

-

Officer Timothy left through the door they came in, four-point restraints jingling merrily. Morgan fumed as she stripped and folded her clothes into a pile on the room's only feature, a low metal bench that was bolted to the hard concrete floor. She tried her best not to look through the sliding glass door into the next room.

Three minutes went by in a blink that was long enough for Morgan to relive all the bad choices she'd ever made in life.

The chamber door slid open, and Officer Timothy guided her by the arm to the middle of the cursed space. Morgan swore to herself that she'd never let anyone hold her that way ever again.

The chamber itself was a disappointment. She didn't know what she was expecting, but it wasn't a room covered in white shower tiles, a drain in the in the floor, a rolling computer cabinet plugged into the wall, and a heavy chain on a winch hanging from the ceiling. The only other thing was a blue hospital divider curtain drawn across one wall. And the cameras, one in each corner to capture every angle of the action.

Officer Timothy released her and went over to the computer cabinet. "Stand over the drain, hands at your sides, feet apart."

"I don't know what I was expecting," Morgan said, aloud this time. She sounded stronger to her than she felt. All the color, light, air, and blood seemed to drain out of her, each going in different directions. The tremble that began in her cell a lifetime and a half ago turned into a magnitude 8 earthquake, yet somehow, she managed to walk the few feet to her mark on her own.

"What, a big wood chair? The gallows?" Officer Timothy said. "I'm going to turn on the audio feed in a minute and draw the blinds. You'll have one minute to talk to your family."

Morgan shook her head. 'How can this be?' echoed in her head, unanswered.

He returned with a pair of leather manacles that looked like they were purchased from a sex shop. He didn't look up once at her while he put them on her wrists.

"You can grab the strap here, keep some of the pressure off."

Officer Timothy reached up, pulled the chain down, and locked it to the shackles with a carabiner. Morgan could only stare off into the distance. The chain retracted up towards the ceiling, lifting her hands up near her face.

She could feel something happening around her ankles but didn't look down until it was clear that she could no longer bring her legs together. It was a steel spreader bar with leather cuffs, something she'd learned about doing the research for a rejected article about college students experimenting with BDSM.

"Microphone is on," Officer Timothy stated as he pulled the blinds.

At first, Morgan was confused, shocked even, but after only a moment or two of reflection, she knew it had to be them that showed up to witness her shame.

"Delia," she spit. "Where's dad?"

"Out in the car, the coward."

"What are you doing here, (redacted)?" Morgan asked her stepbrother.

"He's here for the same reason as me, you silly brat. I can't believe it, but all your nonsense has finally caught up to you AND we get to watch."

"No, mom, that's not true. About me. I mean, come on. Someone's got to be here to support her. This has got to be awful for you, sis."

Morgan's face blazed as she yanked against her restraints, writhing in a futile attempt to cover her nudity.

"Oh, my god, get out of here!"

"Not a chance. This is just the best thing ever! You came back from Stanford, all full of yourself, but look at you now, trussed up like a hussy. You're probably loving this!"

"Jeez, mom, can't you just be nice for once?"

"Don't give me that, (redacted). I see how you look at her, how you hug her. Your little pee-pee is probably hard right now, isn't it."

Morgan's stepbrother crossed his legs and blushed furiously.

"Time's up. Chamber mic's going off, unless you have something else to say," Officer Timothy intervened.

"Fuck both of you right to hell."

Officer Timothy must have turned the observation room mic off too because both of her so-called family member's silent protestations thankfully went unheard. That hit home even better than she had hoped.

"Sorry, that did not go well," Officer Timothy offered, some of his old solicitousness returning. "I'm allowed to explain what's happening as we go here, like inmate processing earlier."

Morgan could see herself in the window between rooms. She looked small and pathetic to herself, especially next to the tall and trim corrections officer.

"Fuck you."

"Alright." Officer Timothy pressed something on the console, raising her arms above her head.

"I'm going to apply the electrodes now, to the backs of your calves, thighs, buttocks, mid-back, and shoulders. They're kind of like what you get if e-stim is part of injury rehab."

Morgan watched him work rather than look at the two observers. He was fast yet careful. Morgan had turned a little to the side as he was moving back and forth between her and the console to get a look at her back. All the electrode wires were being plugged into a thicker cable that ran up the chain.

"Ok, we have a few minutes. We're going to wait until exactly 745 to flip the switch, in case the judge changed her mind."

Morgan's heart thumped and she could hear herself hyperventilating but her mind was clear.

"Gag is going in now. You'll need it for the, you know, pain."

Officer Timothy held up a large, cherry-red ball gag. All Morgan could do was laugh mirthlessly. Who knew her introduction to kink would be non-consensual?

Her empty mind filled with questions once the gag was in place. It strained her jaw and instantly made her whole mouth and chin feel moist.

"The sentence is time based. You will spend the next fifteen minutes suspended while the simulation plays out. Feel free to move or scream as much as you need to, the observers can't hear you, and I don't care."

The chain pulled her closer to the ceiling, putting all her weight onto her arms, the balls of her feet barely making contact with the cold tiles below. Her body swung around in a lazy circle, completely beyond her power to stop it.