The Innocence Treatment

by Ari Goelman

  “Anything else you want to talk about today?” Brechel asked, taking some kind of solace in sticking to his script.

  I shook my head, not trusting my voice.

  He hesitated, then put out his hand.

  I stood and took his hand. It was the first time I’d touched another person’s skin (in a nonviolent way) since I’d arrived. His hand was moist and trembling slightly.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

  “I hope not,” I said. “Get out of here. Keep your head down and go.”

  “Have a good night.” He turned away from me as he rang the bell, telling the orderlies to unlock the door. I think he was crying.

  I have a bad feeling that he didn’t listen to me. That he tried something stupid and dramatic. No one thinks straight when they’re scared.

  FROM THE PRISON JOURNAL OF LAUREN C. FIELDING

  December 13, 2031

  No meetings with Dr. Brechel today. Instead two security guards and two medical orderlies escorted me out of my cell. I recognized the medical orderlies—a Latino man and a Chinese woman. They’ve been in and out of my room since I came here: delivering meals, taking blood samples, and so on. The security guards were new, though. Big guys, crew cuts, arms the size of a normal person’s torso. On loan from the Department, I’m guessing. The walls closing in on me.

  All four of them—the guards and orderlies—were wearing Tasers. At first I thought they were guns. When I first saw them—the two big guys at my door, guns holstered at their hips—I figured they were here to kill me. I figured the game was up. The Department was tying up loose ends before the Emergency Act expired.

  I didn’t bother trying to run. I wasn’t cuffed yet, but they were between me and the door. I guess I could have made a break for my bathroom—made it a little harder for them, but I didn’t want to be shot in the back. I’m not sure why I cared. I just knew that I wanted to be looking at the person who killed me. I wanted them to see my face when I died. I wanted my blood to get all over them. (And yeah, I know that’s a grim little goal.)

  So I didn’t run. I stood my ground and stared up at them. Despite their thin-lipped glares, they were just a few years older than me. “Are you here to kill me?”

  The guy in front didn’t pretend to be shocked. He shook his head. “No. We’re here to lead you to a room for some tests.” He was telling the truth as far as he knew. He pulled the cuffs out of his belt and came toward me.

  “Oh come on.” I backed away. “There’s four of you. You seriously think you need handcuffs?”

  He glanced at the other military guy, a little uncomfortable. It struck me that they’d be more comfortable shooting me than wrestling handcuffs and ankle cuffs onto me.

  “Not about what I think, Ms. Fielding. We have orders to put you in handcuffs.” His tone was almost apologetic. “If you come quietly we can skip the ankle cuffs for now.”

  I shrugged and held my hands out in front of me. I’ve found that if I hold my hands out to be cuffed, they’ll almost always put the cuffs on in front of me. Otherwise they cuff my hands behind me, which is both less comfortable and more constraining.

  The guy who’d been talking came forward and briskly put my handcuffs on. “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Jeff,” he said, a little startled.

  “Last name?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You worried I’m going to tell on you, Jeff?” I said. “That maybe your family will find out that part of your job is handcuffing sixteen-year-old girls and leading them to be tortured?”

  “You’re not going to be tortured,” he said. He didn’t sound nearly as sure as I would have liked.

  They led me down two flights of stairs. This was my first time off the seventh floor since I’d committed myself to Paxeon custody. The lower floors weren’t secured like my floor—I didn’t see any barred windows or steel doors.

  A small bud of hope unfolded inside me. I studied the two new security guards carefully. Every few steps, their right hands casually brushed the handles of what I’d taken to be their guns. Around then I got a better look at their weapons and realized they weren’t guns. The handles were blockier and had some yellow zigzags on them. Tasers.

  They led me to a small boardroom. Gray December sunlight streamed through the windows (unbarred but we were still on the fifth floor). There was a table with comfortable chairs, and a big monitor at one end of the room.

  “Please sit down, Ms. Fielding.” Jeff directed me to one of the chairs facing the video monitor.

  I sat, saying nothing. The others all relaxed a little. The two medical orderlies took up places on either side of my chair. I noticed that the male orderly, standing to my left, had left the holster of his Taser unsnapped. Careless.

  Jeff walked around the table and sat in the chair directly across from me. He placed a small bag on the table, unzipped it, and removed an envelope. He looked up at the surveillance camera mounted in a corner of the ceiling. “Commencing experimental protocol five,” he said, slowly and clearly. I wondered what the first four experimental protocols had been. Things they’d already done to me? Or things they’d tried on other people?

  He turned to me and started reading from a paper attached to the back of the envelope. “Good afternoon, Ms. Fielding. Today you are going to watch some video clips. Your task is to select which individual is telling the truth.”

  I turned to the surveillance camera. “Seriously, Dr. Corbin? You know I’m not going to do this.”

  “If you fail,” Jeff continued to read, “you will be shocked with a Taser. We would like you to know that the Tasers we’re using are old police Tasers that allow only one five-second shot per cartridge. I have an identical one here for you.” He reached into the bag and tossed me a Taser. Behind him, the other security guy startled.

  I caught the Taser in my cuffed hands. It reminded me of a cartoon version of a handgun. The right shape, more or less, but bigger and blockier.

  Jeff tapped the bag. “We have additional cartridges for our Tasers, but whatever your responses to the questions, this experiment will not require us to deliver more than three shocks to you. I hereby assure you that even in the unfortunate event that you fail three times and conse”—he stumbled on the word—“consequently receive three shocks, they will cause no permanent damage to your body.”

  “Reassuring,” I said.

  “This experiment will thus simultaneously test your ability to assess another individual’s truthfulness, and your willingness to accept and inflict pain. At this point, we invite you to ask any questions you might have about this experimental protocol.” Jeff looked up from the paper he’d been reading from.

  “No questions,” I said, wrapping my hands around the barrel of the Taser. “Except … how do I fire this thing?”

  “It’s just like a gun,” Jeff told me. “You point the barrel.” He showed me the long end of the Taser. “And pull the trigger.”

  “So I could walk over and shoot him”—I waved at the other security guard with my Taser—“right now?”

  “You can do whatever you want with your Taser,” Jeff said. “But as I stated, each Taser has only one charge.”

  “Okay,” I said. “So I get to shoot one of you once and you get to shoot me three times? That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “No one has to shoot anyone. If you correctly identify the people who are telling the truth, no one gets Tasered.”

  I wondered if my Taser was even charged. Jeff and the other guard thought it was, that was clear to me, but Corbin had taken pains to not be in the room while the test was going on, and I was guessing that was in part so I couldn’t get any hints from her face. Of course, she also probably knew that, if she were in the room, I’d immediately shoot her, and then do my best to shove my Taser down her throat.

  I pictured Corbin watching me from her office, itching for me to shoot someone. I put the Taser down on the table and primly folded my hands in front of me.

>   Jeff turned back to his script. “We’re going to start by playing you three clips of senators saying they had no idea the Department was involved in the project with which you were so”—he hesitated at another unfamiliar word—“intimately connected. Tell us which senator is telling the truth.”

  After a moment, someone who was watching remotely—Dr. Corbin, or maybe some assistant mad scientist—started a video playing on the big monitor at the end of the room.

  Three old men came on the screen, one after the other, each proclaiming their outrage at the Innocence Treatment. The first two were obviously lying. The third, a white man with a quavery voice, was telling the truth about his ignorance, though possibly that was just because he was so old he’d forgotten being informed about the project.

  I looked straight at the camera. “Gosh, that’s tough,” I said. “I guess I’ll go with the first guy.”

  Jeff shook his head, listening to his earbud. “I’m sorry,” he told me. “That’s incorrect.”

  I bolted up, leaving my Taser on the table, and stepped toward the orderly with the unbuttoned holster. “What? No! Give me another chance.”

  The other security guy pulled his Taser from its holster. “Not so smug now, are you?”

  I ducked behind a chair, putting me even closer to the male orderly. “It’s not fair. You have to give me another chan—”

  The guard took a few steps to one side and shot me with his Taser.

  Let me tell you. Getting Tasered sucks. Two little barbs snake out from the Taser and puncture your skin. That stings. Then the Taser starts pumping electricity into you, and that hurts even more, like a combination of getting burned and having ants crawling all over your skin. The pain isn’t the worst part, though. The worst part is the loss of control. The electricity, or whatever, confuses your brain’s connection to your muscles, and you lose all control of your body. I did not like that feeling at all.

  I found myself on the floor, one orderly on either side of me. As they helped me up, my arms spasmed against the male orderly, lingering on the side of his belt. I collapsed back to the ground, hunching myself around the Taser I’d stolen from the orderly.

  “Get her back in her seat,” Jeff told them. The other security guard was scowling at the floor, and I had a vague memory of Jeff scolding him while I had been convulsing on the ground. Apparently, Jeff was supposed to give the order before I got shot.

  They helped me back to my seat, still curled into a ball.

  After a minute or two, Jeff said, “We’re going to play you another three clips. Same deal—tell us who’s lying.”

  This time it was Departmental officials. These were more interesting, seeing the way they were sweating, the genuine fear in their eyes. These were powerful people, two men and one woman who had spent much of the last ten years running the most powerful organization in the country, maybe in the world. And here they were, wriggling in front of the almost-unmuzzled press, bloggers and reporters sticking to the same respectful tones as usual, but their questions getting increasingly blunt.

  The small part of my brain not preoccupied with Tasers and the location and stance of each guard and orderly wondered why Dr. Corbin had wanted me to see all this. To scare me? To congratulate me? It wasn’t just random, that much was clear.

  The woman in the video was telling the truth, or something close to it, with vague generalizations about exploratory research projects, while the two men who stubbornly maintained that the Department had known nothing about the Innocence Treatment were obviously lying. I glanced over at the security guy who had shot me. “Have you ever been Tasered?” I asked him.

  “Ms. Fielding,” Jeff said. “Let’s stick to the matter at hand. Who was telling the truth this time?”

  I took a deep breath, closing my hand around the Taser’s grip, willing my hands to stop shaking. I knew that Corbin had given me the Taser, that I was probably doing exactly what she wanted. Still, I couldn’t resist.

  “Yes or no?” I asked the other security guy.

  He stared back at me, saying nothing.

  “If you don’t answer me,” Jeff said calmly, “I’ve been told to Taser you in ten seconds.”

  It would have been much easier if it wasn’t for the damn handcuffs. With the handcuffs on, I had to leave the stolen Taser in my lap, as I needed both hands to hold the one they’d given me.

  I pointed the Taser they’d given me at the other security guy.

  “You trying to scare me?” he said stoically. “Tasers don’t scare me.”

  “Ten,” Jeff said. “Nine. Eight. Seven. Six.” On six he drew his Taser, and I shot him. My Taser worked just fine. He fell back in his seat, shaking. I had five seconds to get to his Taser.

  Five. I dropped my Taser. The other security guard was in no hurry, casually taking his reloaded weapon from his holster.

  Four. I picked up the Taser I’d stolen from the medical orderly.

  Three. I shot the other security guard in the chest, peripherally noting the medical orderlies staring at me, the male orderly only now realizing I had his Taser, the woman orderly belatedly scrabbling at her own holstered weapon.

  Two. I gathered my uncuffed legs beneath me and skidded over the tabletop on my butt.

  One. The current coursing into Jeff cut off. I put my hands around Jeff’s shaking hands and pointed his weapon at the woman orderly just now bringing her Taser to bear. I shot her.

  Then, hopping off the table, I grabbed one of the heavy chairs. Bringing it over my head, I bashed it against the surveillance camera with all my strength. On the first hit, the little glass dome cracked. Two more hits, and I could see the camera beneath the dome. Another three hits and all that was left was wiring.

  Around then the door opened. Four more security guards poured into the room. I dropped the chair and held up my empty hands.

  Behind me, Jeff cursed softly. Then he said, “Would you care to take a guess now, Ms. Fielding? Which of those officials was telling the truth?”

  “The woman.” I walked back to the table. “And it’s not a guess, Jeff. You know what else?”

  The other security guard was just sitting up from where he’d toppled onto the ground. I pointed at him. “Your little friend is reporting everything that happens here to someone else. Probably the Department, but maybe some other corporation. He has spy written all over him.”

  Jeff turned to one of the guys who had just burst into the room. “My earbud is fried. Ask the boss what she wants us to do.”

  The security guard sitting on the floor—the guy I’d fingered as a corporate spy—said, “Hey, Jeff. You know she’s lying, right?”

  “Shut up,” Jeff said.

  And that was my afternoon. Honestly, it was a lot more fun than talking to poor Dr. Brechel.

  FROM THE PRISON JOURNAL OF LAUREN C. FIELDING

  December 16, 2031

  I don’t know how much time I have to write this. It could be less than an hour. It could be a day or two. No more, I’m sure. At some point soon the guards will unlock my door and escort me downstairs to where a Departmental van will whisk me off to … I don’t know where. One of their not-so-secret facilities where enemies of the state are detained. Or maybe just a landfill where they can dump my body. Yesterday Dr. Corbin told me the Departmental prison will make this place look like a country club, and in that, at least, I think she’s telling the truth.

  I’m writing this furiously in hopes that I’ll be able to hand this journal to someone in the detention center … on the off chance that they take me to a detention center rather than, say, a landfill. On the even tinier chance that someone will get it out and make it public. Probably a sign of my continuing naïveté that I’m even considering such a series of long shots. But at this point, hope is all I have. Maybe Dr. Brechel and I aren’t so different after all.

  Speaking of Dr. Brechel, it’s been four days since the last time I saw him. Three days since the fun with the Tasers. Assuming they’ve been turning on and
off the lights in a pattern that’s reasonably close to sunrise and sunset in the outside world. As I lie awake in the darkness, it’s occurred to me that Corbin could be messing with that, too. Maybe it’s actually two in the afternoon and that’s why I can’t fall asleep. Maybe the reason I didn’t feel like eating anything at dinner is that they’ve been bringing me my meals every two hours.

  I didn’t realize how much my meetings with Dr. Brechel helped me structure my days until I stopped meeting with him. The only thing keeping me sane now is exercise. Two days ago I managed to do ten handstand push-ups in a row for the first time.

  Yesterday morning I was in the midst of a set of regular push-ups when my door opened a crack and the big guard, Jeff, put a bag of clothes on the floor inside the room. “Good morning, Ms. Fielding. Dr. Corbin is ready to see you today. She thought you might appreciate some new clothes to wear.”

  Since I got here, I’ve been wearing a pair of those green cotton pajamas they give to hospital patients. I only had the one outfit with me when I came into Paxeon custody, and that got some blood on it during my reunion with Eric the orderly. Still, I wasn’t interested in dressing up for Corbin.

  I looked back at the floor and kept going with my push-ups. Fifty-four. Fifty-five.

  Jeff hesitated. “She also asked you to shower.”

  Fifty-six. Fity-seven. Fifty-eight.

  “I showered yesterday,” I said, pleased that I wasn’t short of breath. Fifty-nine. Sixty.

  “If you don’t take a shower and dress yourself,” Jeff said, “she’s told us to help the orderlies bathe you and get you dressed. By force, if we have to. None of us want to, but you understand we all need our jobs, right?”

  Sixty-one. Sixty-two.

  The door opened farther and he stepped inside. I eyed him out of my peripheral vision. He stood with his legs apart, one hand on his Taser’s handle. Even without his Taser, he easily had a hundred pounds on me, all of it muscle. And even if I could get past him, there was another big security guy a few steps behind him—not the same guy who’d been with him the other day, by the way.