Violations

Rachel didn't remember that her town had instituted corporal punishment for minor offences at the beginning of the year. So, it was quite a shock when she heard the deputy that had pulled her over for speeding order her to appear at the sheriff's station tomorrow at 8 am sharp for correction.

"What?"

"Report to the sheriff's station tomorrow at 8 am," the officer repeated, clearly out of patience, "for sentencing and correction."

"Sentencing? I can fight this, right?"

"You could if it was a summons, but we got rid of those months ago. As I said before you signed the document," the deputy said with mounting impatience, "you have pled guilty to the traffic violations listed above. You have also agreed to report to the sheriff's station tomorrow at 8 am."

Rachel looked up at the deputy with her biggest doe eyes, pleading. It hadn't worked before on the bored middle-aged personification of generic vanilla frosting with a badge, and it failed to work again.

"What does correction mean?"

"Unless you have some sort of underlying medical condition, it means you will be getting your ass whipped tomorrow morning."

Rachel's jaw dropped, aghast. Her memory flashed to a brief period when the scandals and controversies that were happening everywhere else in the world paused while her town contributed to the cacophony with its own for a couple of days. She even recalled competing news stories on CNN and Fox, with one side loving the town's bold move while the other condemned it. She couldn't remember which, just that there was a lot of yelling.

"You are being serious right now."

He gave her the goldenrod copy of the ticket, pointing to the short paragraph above her signature.

"Yes, mam."

"What happens if I don't show up?"

"We come and get you."

"You arrest me?"

"Yes, mam."

"Oh my god."

"Drive safe, mam," the deputy said as he tipped his broad brimmed hat. Even though it was almost midnight, Rachel noted that he never once took off his mirrored aviators.

Rachel rolled the window up and watched the deputy get back into his cruiser.

"Where do they get these guys?" she muttered safely to herself.

She hadn't gotten a traffic ticket since her wild teenage years, and even then, she was never certain when it was safe for her to drive off.

She didn't have to wait long; the deputy peeled off, lights still blazing, the sound of the cruiser's siren stretching back towards her in the dark desert night.

-

She didn't get much sleep that night, so when she pulled into the public parking lot across from the town hall, sheriff's department, and fire station, she felt rough. Among the many choices she had to make that morning was exactly how well she should be dressed for her appearance. She'd landed on slacks and a sweater, sensible shoes and her biggest, darkest sunglasses to hide the bags under her eyes.

Makeup was also a quandary. She didn't like going anywhere without makeup except the Sunbucks for her first of many coffees of any given day. She had decided on just enough makeup to avoid the endless but well-meaning comments about how tired or sick she seemed without it.

Long, strange diversions were Rachel's brain's way of coping with stress, and sitting in her car, knee set to the sewing machine's highest setting, she regretted not taking the time to grab some breakfast before heading into whatever doom awaited her.

Sunbucks or Starbucks for sure after this...whatever it is, Rachel thought.

Starbuck's once had four locations in her tiny town, now it only had one and indie coffee shops had taken over their spaces. She'd gotten addicted to Starbucks coffee and missed it, but Sunbucks had better pastries and music. It would only take her a few minutes to get there, a few minutes to get a little something to sip and eat, and another few minutes back, just in time to report for correction or punishment or however the deputy put it.

Her car didn't move but she did; tapping the screen of her phone every few minutes was just one of the many nervous ticks making an appearance that morning.

Googling her town's corporal punishment procedures last night hadn't helped her at all. Since getting the ticket, Rachel struggled as much with the thought of trying to Google more concrete answers about what was going to happen as the feeling that she should just run away and never look back.

"Seven fifty-five am, time to go, lady. One way or the other."

Rachel sighed and got out of the car. She knew that she would never run away from something like this but was uncertain why she knew that about herself.

The sky above the desert town's civic center was stormy, making for a dramatic backdrop. Months and months (and months) of blue skies and unrelenting sunshine and now this.

"Ugh," Rachel said aloud to herself as she waited patiently for the walk signal at an empty intersection. There was no way she would allow herself to get a jaywalking ticket now. "No one around here knows how to drive in the rain."

Being a Sunday, most of the population was at one of two rival mega churches on opposite sides of the outskirts of town.

"How is this happening on a Sunday?" Rachel asked no one, finally free to use the crosswalk. She remembered the answer, and it was extra weird. Rachel had heard from a friend that the laws had only recently changed to allow businesses to be open on Sunday at all. Blue Laws, they were called.

The façade of the sheriff's station had a single public entrance and a tiny lobby. Just enough space for one person to sit while another used the parking permit vendor. It was thankfully empty, a blind drawn behind the thick security glass of the front desk. There were a bunch faded community notices taped up all over and fresh stack of the Epoch Times sitting atop the single plastic courtesy chair. Rachel pressed the call button on the intercom.

"Hello?" a crackly, distant voice asked.

"Hi," Rachel began, clearing her throat. "I'm Rachel Kim, I got a traffic ticket last night and I was told to report for punishment. Correction?"

"Hang on, I'll be right there," the static said, barely human.

The blind slid up, revealing a diminutive older Latina wearing a tan and brown civilian uniform that was at least two sizes too big. Her brass nameplate showed only the woman's last name, Martinez.

"Do you have the copy of your plea?"

"The ticket, you mean?"

"Yes," the desk operator said with a sigh.

Rachel pulled it out, smoothed it out on the counter, and fed it through the small slot under the safety glass. Martinez grabbed a clipboard from somewhere out of sight and started flipping through it.

"Oh, yeah, I got you right here," Martinez said. "Okay, I'm marking you down as present and right on time at 8 am. You are going to go back outside, turn right, and head towards the new corrections center."

"Corrections center, like a jail?"

"Oh no, Sheriff Holcombe closed the jails months ago. You remember the old Pizza Hut? Been, like, what? A dentist's office, then an eBay store, then it was empty for a few years."

"I know it, yeah. If there's no jails, where do the criminals go? I mean, people in more trouble than me, I guess."

"State takes 'em now, after all those botched executions on the electric chair."

"What?" Rachel felt the blood drain from her face while her insides turned to stone.

"Just kidding, damn. Look at you," Martinez scoffed, "thinking I was serious. None of you people can take a joke."

Rachel shook her head, unable to wrap her mind around the woman's callousness and implied racism.

"Look, Ms. Kim. You'll be fine. I'll call ahead now while you are walking over. You'll be fine, correction is never as bad as people fear."

-

The corrections center had indeed once been a large Pizza Hut, the now dark brown roof giving it away. There was no sign that it was anything other than a converted office building now, except for some gold sheriff's star and lettering on its glass front door.

The lobby of the corrections center was an archetypal waiting room complete with Muzak and actual, wildly out of date magazines crinkled beyond recognition from generations of waiting hands and bored eyes. The pair of ancient boxy TVs that were mounted high out of reach were each tuned to different feeds of the megachurches' sweaty, pasty white, loud-mouthed pastors. Rachel was glad they were muted. What ever happened to having on a good-old, boring-ass golf game or a weather feed?

Like the sheriff's station and the rest of the civic center, the corrections center seemed just as empty, save herself and a couple of people that she could see through the interior glass wall silently working at their desks.

"Ms. Kim?"

"Yes," Rachel said, looking up from an ancient People magazine. Her phone's reception had disappeared sometime on her walk over.

"I'm Deputy Marie Marceau. I'll be handling the execution of your sentence this morning."

"Oh my god."

"Yeah, I'm sorry. I'm supposed to say everything a certain way. It really won't be that bad, you'll be fine, and it'll be over before you know it."

Rachel found herself paralyzed, unable to speak or move or even breathe.

"Seriously, mam. It's just a traffic violation, no biggie. It won't even appear on your record or effect your insurance. Just a sore butt that heal up in a jiffy."

Deputy Marceau seemed roughly the same age as Rachel, same build even, but where Rachel's features were soft and round and her hair jet black, the deputy's face was a lesson in hard angles and sharp lines framed by blonde hair pulled back into a severe bun. The deputy's out-of-place smile seemed to pervade her whole body and mannerisms.

To Rachel, the woman was far too cheery on this deserted, stormy Sunday morning. There was something about her, though, that made it a little easier to set the magazine aside, stand up, and walk the short distance to the processing room.

"You brought ID, right? The station is pretty old school, but we're all computerized here, so all I need is to scan your ID and have you sit in front of the camera here."

"Mug shot?"

"Oh, no. Facial recognition to make sure we aren't executing sentence on the wrong person."

"Does that happen?"

"People try. Plenty of people in town willing to take one for their friends for family it seems."

"Are you going to tell me what's going to happen? I couldn't find much at all on the town's website."

"I can't yet, sorry. One step at a time, okay?"

Rachel nodded and sat down on a badly scuffed wood chair.

The deputy's institutional desk was topped with a cheap institutional desktop computer and an old ball webcam. Marceau sat down on her institutional desk chair and tapped out a few things on the waiting intake screen.

"ID, please."

Rachel reached into her purse and pulled it out without looking. Her ID went into a small, flat scanner for a moment and was returned. The deputy pulled the ball webcam off its base and pointed it at Rachel's face.

"Look here, please."

The cam was replaced, and the deputy went back to pecking at her keyboard. Rachel couldn't find the energy to be curious about what might be on the screen at all. Instead, she looked down at her sensible flats while she twisted her fingers in her lap.

"Okay, it seems like you've been denied the option to pay a fine."

"That was an option?"

"Not for you, it seems."

"The computer decided that?"

"No, a judge reviewed your guilty plea and sentenced you, it looks like...around 1 am last night. A little after you got it."

"Oh."

"I'm going to take you into the nurse's office now. You are going to change into the garment provided and have your vitals taken. After that, once all the paperwork is cleared, I'll take you in the chamber for execution of your sentence."

"Why do you have to keep saying that? Ex...exe...execution."

"I told you. I'm told to say these things. Sorry, okay? I've got my job; you've got your civic duty."

"How is this not a serious, serious violation of my civil rights?" asked Rachel. She hadn't been able to put words to the thought until the deputy brought up the idea of civic responsibility.

"I don't know, Ms. Kim. Maybe take it up with the Supreme Court after, okay?"

-

The nurse's office was small. Little more than a counter, a few cabinets, a couple of folding chairs, a medical scale, a one-legged rolling thingy with devices for temperature, blood pressure, and heart rate all in one complicated cluster, and a gray plastic bin for her personal belongings.

"Take off everything. Underwear, socks, jewelry, everything. Put this on and have a seat. The nurse will be in to see you shortly." The deputy handed Rachel a single, folded orange garment.

There was no mirror in the nurse's office but looking down at her situation just made unease deepen. The garment had once been a skirt, but the elastic that would have bunched it around her waist had long given up so the whole thing hung on her body like a nightshirt. This was starting to get distressing.

As she sat to wait, she pulled nervously at the hem, wishing the poor excuse for a dress were longer or that she could at least have left her panties on.

The nurse was male and utterly forgettable, saying little as he poked, prodded, applied an alligator clip to her middle finger, put the blood pressure cuff through an automated cycle, and tapped notes into a small laptop that he'd brought with him. He only started asking questions while tapping the sliders on the scale.

"Any heart conditions, high blood pressure, cancer, diabetes?"

"No."

"Any religious objection to being crucified?"

"What the fu...hell?" she exclaimed. Rachel was loathe to curse in social situations. "Are you kidding?"

"No. There are four devices that sentences are executed on here. Three of them place a person's body in a position similar to crucifixion."

"Holy shit!"

"Yeah, that's about right."

"I'm not, I guess I mean, I'm not religious."

"Noted."

"What if I had a moral objection? Ethical?"

"Won't matter. It doesn't matter for people who claim to have a religious exemption, either."

"Why even ask, then?"

"I've got a script," the nurse breathed. "I take vitals, I read the script. I get a paycheck."

He left without another word.

-

Deputy Marceau arrived a minute after the nurse left.

"There's one more waiting room, then I'll take you in. All we need to go forward now is the judge's final sign-off."

Rachel stood, unable to stop tugging at the hem of the sad orange skirt.

"I'm permitted to give you some assistance getting to the execution chamber if necessary."

Rachel barely winced at the deputy's scary language this time. All that remained of her normally busy mind was a buzz that seemed to throb with every movement. They stepped out into the hallway, passed through a door marked "Authorized Personnel Only" and came to a stop at crossroads.

"If you need to use the restroom, now would be the time."

"What?"

To her left were doors for two unisex restrooms. To her right was small space split by a portable office cubicle divider with two folding chairs on each side. In front of her was a hallway with four doors each marked only with a number.

The whole building had that cheap, unnatural fluorescent lighting that washed out every color. Because the building had only white walls and short gray carpet throughout, Rachel felt like a ghost barely tethered to the living world.

"Save yourself some embarrassment later."

"No," Rachel shook her head. "No, I'm fine."

"Suit yourself. Have a seat. Or stand, or whatever. I recommend you pee while you still have control over your bladder. Hold tight, I'll be right back."

Rachel drifted over to the last waiting room before her doom. If it wasn't going to be that bad and this was all some kind of psychological trick to deter future wrongdoing, it was working.

It could have just been a minute or maybe a whole hour before Deputy Marceau returned, however long it had been, Rachel's state had not improved, but it hadn't gotten any worse either, so that was something.

"Ok, Miss Kim, sign here."

Deputy Marceau held a clipboard with a single sheet of printed paper on it. The pen was attached to it by a tape and rubber band combo that screamed the desperation of whoever kept having to replace it. Rachel could tell there were words on the sheet that she recognized, but none of it made sense, so she scrawled a shaky R and K on the signature line.

"I'll be taking you into room three for execution of your sentence, 30 lashes with a leather strap. You will be restrained, but I'll be making sure you are well enough to walk out of here on your own power every step of the way. Okay, Ms. Kim?"

All Rachel could do was nod.

"Did the nurse give you a bit?"

"A what?"

"A mouthguard, you know, to protect your teeth and jaw."

"Are you going to be hitting my face?"

"What?" the deputy said, shocked. "No! The lashes will be on your bare buttocks."

"Oh," Rachel sighed. "No. I didn't get one of those."

"Hang on, I'll get you one."

The deputy seemed to disappear and reappear in the space of two blinks. She handed Rachel a small clear bag with a horseshoe shaped bit of soft plastic in it.

"Everyone's got different pain tolerances. Some enjoy it, I mean really, really get off on it, while some nearly break their teeth after the third or fourth impact, especially when they are sentenced to the paddle or cane."

"I don't even..."

Deputy Marceau nodded wistfully. "Most people don't. But you'll be ok. When I first saw you come in, I knew that you'll be a tough cookie, and easy to work with. It's the men who, you know, do the worst."

At some point, Rachel had thoughtlessly pulled open the bag and fit the mouthguard up over her top teeth. It felt big and foreign in her mouth, but at least some moisture had returned there. With nowhere to put the trash, she balled the little bag up in her fist.

"Not going to lie, this will be the hardest part," Deputy Marceau said as she touched Rachel's shoulder with one hand and pointed toward the long hallway with the other.

Rachel took a step, then another. And in another unconscious blink, she was standing in front of door number three with the deputy still at her side.

"I've got the door," the deputy said, grasping the knob and giving it a push open. "Step in then go off to the side here so I can close the door."

The lights came on by themselves, the same sickly fluorescent lighting as the rest of the building flickering to life thanks to a motion sensor.

The room was smaller than she had anticipated. A thin blue hospital curtain hung in a U shape, hiding something white and flat that stood waist height off the floor. The walls were finished and painted white drywall, the floor cold white tile with black grout.

"Deputy Harrison here will be helping me get you restrained. Everything will be happening quickly. You don't have to do anything, but you also don't have to worry about any noise you make. You can fight the restraints all you want, just don't fight us while we are getting you on there."

Deputy Harrison turned out to be a burly man with a walrus mustache and a huge gut. The deputy sheriff's brown and tan uniforms were unflattering on everybody, but it seemed to suit that bear of a man well enough.

"Yeh, I don't want to have to get out the stun gun, little lady."

Rachel suddenly regretted not trying to relive herself. She didn't say anything. It was easier to bite down on the bit and try to be somewhere else mentally.

Deputy Harrison closed the door behind him while Deputy Marceau drew the curtain around the bend, leaving it flush against the far wall.

"No cuffs or head bag for this one? You're slipping, Marie."

Deputy Marceau rolled her eyes. "Jeez, Harrison. Can't you see she's terrified? Have a little empathy."