by D. A. Maddox
Then Officer Gillis was coming into their half of the van, and he passed straight by Buddy and Peter. He ignored Emma Jo at first, too. He was coming for her.
“Wait,” she protested as he got right up into her space to key open her seatbelt. “Why me? Can’t we go togeth—”
“Not how it works,” he said, leading her to her feet by the arm. “Your number’s up. You’re on screen. You’re expected.”
“Can’t we talk about—”
“No. I’m sorry. Shut up.”
Cassidy shut up, fought down her emotions. She remembered: punishments.
Not me. No way. I have to be strong. Do what I’m told.
Endure it.
She allowed herself to be led to the door and down from it onto asphalt. She blinked under the low-burning sun. She saw the screen Officer Gillis had mentioned. It was massive, a one-wall building unto itself. Saw, literally, hundreds of people around the bend of the building, fenced off in a parking lot, alternating between watching the screen and trying to get a better look at her. One guy was halfway up a lamppost, with a pair of binoculars. And over there was a quartet of middle-aged women holding up a banner placard with the numbers 200-203 in big, colorful bubble letters. One of them blew her a kiss.
There were no kids out here, nor any transitional-age adults. Everyone she could see was older than her. She saw her mugshot on the screen, her shame made public. She was being doxed, ruined by the state.
She wrenched her hands free of Officer Gillis and let them hang, along with her head, sobbing.
I’m not this bad. What I did wasn’t this bad. This is too much, too much. Why was I so stupid?
Officer Gillis shook his head and went back into the van, presumably for #201. For Peter.
Again from the crowd:
“What’d you do, Cassidy?”
“You’ll be okay, Cassidy!”
“Cass-i-dee!”
But she didn’t have time to see for sure if Peter was next. Off to her right, from a small, brick annex to the main complex that was shaped like a mini barn, another officer appeared. He came straightaway to collect her.
Just get through, she told herself.
It was easier said than done.
****
Officer Davies, by his badge, was an intake cop, not a punishment warden. He had a receding hairline, a pencil-thin mustache, and pervy little eyes. He had a key on a ring that fit her cuffs, which he relieved her of as soon as she was inside and the door shut behind her. After it closed, there was an additional hiss and click that Cassidy’s mind automatically associated with damnation, the loss of all hope.
This is it. I’m in jail. And God only knows what these people will do to me.
But she kept quiet. She refused to be stupid. She couldn’t afford to be stupid now. This guy would take advantage if she did anything dumb. She was sure of it.
He pointed to a strip of red tape on the floor. She stepped up to it and stood behind it. Gave him a questioning look that she hoped conveyed the question. Behind the line or on it?
“Step onto the line, Two Hundred. Dumb slut.”
She opened her mouth to protest—who did this guy think he was, anyway?—then shut it.
Instead, she wiped her face, took a deep breath, and stood quietly on the line. In front of her was a long table, upon which Officer Davies drummed his fingers, tilting his head this way and that, appraising her. “You’d be a big hit with the schoolgirl fetish crowd,” he remarked, lazily indicating the wall cameras, which were all trained on her. “Too bad you can’t keep any of it. No personal possessions go to the inside with you—only what we give you. So, for starters, lose the kerchief, the shoes, and your stockings. Anything metal goes, too. You get it all back on release.” He tapped a small wicker basket.
Cassidy’s breathing picked up. He couldn’t be serious. This wasn’t a… Was it?
“No, dummy,” he said, the nasal quality to his voice amplifying with irritation. “You don’t get a strip search here. Fucking do what I tell you so we can bring in the next fuck stick. Fucking long-ass day enough for me as it is, and all ’cause your spoiled ass don’t know how to behave itself. Do not fucking test me.”
Much as part of her, again, was inclined to defend herself, Cassidy instead exhaled in relief, unlaced the kerchief from around her neck, and leaned forward to set it on the table without crossing the red line. She put her shoes up next, then—finding this rather more difficult—her stockings. She stood with her hands crossed over her chest, unable to keep herself from glaring, anger and indignation on full display. The rudeness, the crassness—the downright foulness—of this prison guard was quite outside her experience. She didn’t know people like this. She was…
Used to being in control of her life. Now she was powerless.
“You have to use the shitter?”
Cassidy shook her head, trying to make the situation real in her mind. Survivable.
“Any feminine products going full-absorption mode at present?”
Holy cow, Cassidy thought. What a lucky wife you must have. Nah, bet you’re unmarried.
She shook her head again.
Davies pointed farther into the hall. Cassidy turned.
A metal detector, like a doorframe with no wall.
“You beep when you go through that, bitch, and you’re in for a world of trouble.”
Beyond it, a tiled hall that led to a bathroom.
“Instructions on the wall between partitions. One on the right is for bitches. The one on the left for sons of bitches. Comprende?”
Suddenly, however, Cassidy felt a bit … slow. Was she really supposed to shower in the same stall as Emma Jo? In the same bathroom as the guys?
“You see that bag? That’s for your shit—all of it, including your under-shit. Inside the stall, there’s a uniform with your inmate tag and another with that other bitch’s inmate tag. Hats for both of you, too. You can change with the curtain drawn if you’re bashful, but I wouldn’t bother. None of that bullshit’s gonna last. If you come out without the hat on, if you deviate from any instructions, that’s punishments. If you understand, say, ‘I understand, sir’.”
The cameras autofocused. Loudly.
“I understand, sir.”
“Say, ‘I will be an obedient fuck stick’.”
That made her jaw drop. This was over the line. Cassidy didn’t swear. She never swore. Fresh tears. God.
“Oh, fine. Say,” and here he put up finger quotes and adopted a singsong tone of voice, “‘I will be an obedient little inmate, because I know I’ve been bad’.”
Okay, okay. Let’s go with that.
She said it.
“Go,” Officer Davies said, pointing. “Clean your shit up and come out the way I told you. Jesus, kids these days.”
Was that a hint of guilt in his voice? Good.
And Cassidy obediently went. By the time she drew the curtain around, having read the long and horribly specific list of instructions—which included one cleaning ritual she never would have imagined on her own—the door to the outside was opening again.
****
Naked, and even with the water on, she heard Davies put Peter through the same verbal abuse—equivalent, if not identical. She heard his approach over the tiled hallway floor, which brought on an inexplicable moment of panic. Cassidy heard him stop at the “men’s” set of instructions, just as she worked furiously fast to see to her own most intimate cleaning before the inevitable arrival of Emma Jo.
Hair can wait. Arms, legs—that can wait.
There it was, right where the instructions promised, a pink plastic bottle barely big enough for the palm of her hand: antibacterial non-toxic interior anal soap.
Ten feet away, she could hear Peter let out a breath, small sounds of undressing.
The intake door opening. Emma Jo.
I can’t skip this, she thought. The instructions indicated there’d be a “verification of cleanliness by a nurse during the personal search.
”
Holding on to the curtain rod with one hand, Cassidy bent over and did what she had to do.
****
“Sorry,” Emma Jo said, coming in and at once turning from her to the second showerhead, working quickly to unbutton her shirt.
Cassidy was finishing up. She just couldn’t manage to get it all done before the intrusion, which she knew perfectly well wasn’t Emma Jo’s fault. It was that stupid cop who couldn’t be bothered another five minutes to spare two scared-half-to-death young women this moment of supreme awkwardness.
“It’s okay,” Cassidy said, still crying a little—not from this moment in particular but from general emotional and sensory overload. “Sorry I wasn’t faster. I’ll be out in a sec.”
But, wow, as drop-dead movie star gorgeous as Peter was, Emma Jo Swanson was really just about the cutest young woman Cassidy had ever laid eyes on. It wasn’t the kind of thing she should have been thinking about, that exact moment—toweling water first from her upper body, then down her legs and with a quick final finish across her sex—but she just was. And now, as Emma Jo slid off her panties, they were naked together.
Cassidy was fairly sure Emma had caught another quick glimpse of her while she was toweling herself dry.
Then Cassidy was completely sure, because when she reached for the jail-issued halter top and undies—both white polyester that looked decidedly uncomfortable—she found that they were facing each other. There she was, wet and naked, taking her braids out. Cassidy hadn’t even seen her without her glasses before this. She was a natural, effortless beauty, her dark blonde pubic thatch curling protectively over her sex, her breasts ample but not huge, their dark, quarter-sized nipples just as lovely as could be.
“What?” Cassidy asked, feigning nonchalance.
Emma Jo shrugged. Gave her a half smile. “You’re just so goddamned pretty,” she said, then turned from her again. “Sorry if that’s weird. Hard not to notice.”
Cassidy zipped up the jumpsuit, then cradled in her hands the stupid red ballcap with the words Consequences, Live! on its front. Resigned, understanding that this was part of her “humiliations,” she put it on—a modern-day dunce cap.
“So are you, you know,” Cassidy said. “Should give yourself some credit.”
She left the stall to face whatever was coming next.
Chapter Five
Honesty
As soon as Peter was gone, Buddy pressed his forehead to the tiles under the showerhead and closed his eyes tight. Twice, he slapped an open palm against the wall and swore under his breath. He knew the others could hear him. They were right out there. He’d heard Officer Davies command them to form a line and wait.
Peter had been so damned unruffled by it, just standing there out in the open like it was no big deal. To most guys, in the presence only of other guys, Buddy knew it actually wasn’t. Guys didn’t give a shit about stuff like that and, in as many cases as not, suspected those who did. Slowly, he steadied his breathing. Unlike Peter, he’d done all he was supposed to do, uncomfortable as parts of it had been.
“Just pour a little of it out,” Peter had whispered to him before leaving. He’d been fully dressed by then, and Buddy had been holding the bottle dubiously in one hand, naked, his other hand over his privates. “Dude, they cannot make you put your own finger up your ass. Totally out of bounds. Unless you’re actually dirty down there, who’s gonna know? They’ll check the bottle, see some of it’s gone, and probably laugh at us on TV for being dumb enough to do it. So, don’t. Joke’s on them.”
TV, Buddy remembered. He’d been trying to block that detail from his mind. This is a nightmare.
But it was a reasonable point. Buddy was quite fastidious when it came to his own personal care. Minus the impending embarrassment—which he felt sure would be not only deliberate but profound—he wasn’t worried about a nurse’s “verification.” Yet Buddy hadn’t forgotten the interview they were all going to have to pass. All they had to do was ask about it. Buddy wasn’t especially good at lying—and these were cops.
He pulled on the plain white briefs, wishing for his boxers, then the plain white socks. He looked through the plastic bag for shoes and didn’t find any. He slipped into the black tank and stepped into the dull green jumpsuit. He pushed the mop of his hair back and put on the hat.
I did it, Peter, he thought, stepping out to join the others. Hope that makes me sorry later and not you.
****
Another click, another hiss. Another opening door.
The intake hall ended at a T-section where the bathroom was. Going left from that point took one past the interview room, then into the protective custody annex for men, and farther on into the general population complex. Going to the right took one to the smaller protective custody wing for women. It was all on little black arrow signs affixed to the wall, so Buddy was not in the least surprised to see it was a young woman who emerged, in uniform, from the right.
But she did seem very young to Buddy, mid-twenties at the outside, probably younger than that. Also, every federal Buddy had seen to this point wore a black uniform, top to bottom, but her shirt was blue. Her belt had a mace canister but no gun. As she drew close, unspeaking, boots clacking, Buddy noted the severity of her blue-green eyes, her glossy black hair shoulder length and untied, her bangs a straight line under a black hat.
She had no badge, only a thin brass ID tag over her pocket that read V. Cruz. Intern.
Odder still was that a man emerged from that wing as well—not more than an inch taller than “V. Cruz,” but with arms like a lumberjack that strained mightily against the ends of his short sleeves. His hair was crew cut. He was deep of complexion, dark-eyed, all business. And he did have a badge.
A. Garcia, Punishment Warden.
Why had he come from the women’s side?
Both Cassidy and Emma Jo had their heads down, which Buddy didn’t understand until he realized that Officer A. Garcia was looking only at them, the female prisoners in their bright red jumpsuits, V-cut up front with the halter top underneath showing and with the sleeves cut high on the arms, almost to the shoulder.
It wasn’t a predatory look. There was nothing salacious about it. It was the look a parent might give to a child’s bedroom to see that it had been cleaned correctly.
V. Cruz put a finger under Cassidy’s chin. “Up, up,” she said. She almost sounded encouraging.
Cassidy looked up, her blue eyes glassy with trepidation.
V. Cruz reached around to her back pocket, drew out a phone, thumbed around it for a bit. Then she shouldered her way to stand alongside her, nudging Buddy half a foot to the right, ignoring him completely. She held her phone out, as though for a Cassidy-Cruz selfie, and brightly said, “Good afternoon, America! Remember me? Hi again. Little old Veronica here, come to give you the inside skinny every step of the way. This, as you know by now, is Cassidy.” Here she turned her head to peck Cassidy on the cheek, nearly dislodging both hats in the process. “Or I suppose Inmate Two Hundred, if we’re being all formal.” She stepped back, then focused the camera only on Cassidy. “You’re about to be interviewed, girl! Tell us how you feel in one word. Remember, the word for the day is ‘honesty,’ so tell the truth.”
Cassidy’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. Her shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug. She was completely blindsided, instantly put on the spot.
“Tell us how you fucking feel!”
Cassidy put her hand over her mouth, but through her fingers she said, “S-scared.”
Veronica patted her cheek, thumbed a tear away, and cooed, “Understandable,” into her ear. “Auntie Ronnie understands. Don’t be so upset.”
Buddy looked to Officer Garcia, truly expecting him to do something.
And he did. He crossed his arms over his chest.
From farther off, down the intake hall, Officer Davies chuckled.
Veronica moved on to Peter, stood next to him for another video selfie, introduced him much as she
had Cassidy. Buddy was afraid Peter would be a smartass, would say something stupid or sarcastic, but when Veronica asked him how he felt, he simply looked straight ahead and echoed the truth Cassidy had spoken before him.
Veronica flicked his ear, causing him to wince.
“No,” Veronica scolded, ever so gently. “That word’s been used, Peter. Don’t be such a copycat. You don’t want to use a used word, do you? Give us something original. How do you feel, Peter?”
He nodded understanding, eyes blinking fast. “Um, ah. Humbled?”
Veronica nodded. “You have no idea,” she said with slow, smiling relish, winking at him. She moved on to Emma Jo, wrapping an arm around her for the continuing live stream. “And aren’t you the most helpless-looking thing ever?” She giggled.
Oh, Buddy thought, you don’t know our Emma Jo, do you?
Camera out, arm’s length. “And how do you feel today, little streaker?”
At that, Officer A. Garcia spoke up, his voice soft and severe at once. “Ronnie—”
“Whoops!” Veronica said. Then, directly to her phone screen, “Minor spoiler. More details in the background highlight reels just before session tomorrow. Sorry, boss!” She held the phone at a distance again. “Emma Jo? How do you feel?”
Emma Jo’s expression never changed. “Railroaded.”
Veronica cackled. “Oh, you!” she hooted, evidently delighted. “Girl, I know the feeling.”
Then she came for Buddy.
Again, the phone held at arm’s length, she approached—but she went behind him instead of to his side, arm stretched past him, elbow resting on his shoulder. She leaned into his other side. Buddy felt her nose on the jumpsuit collar, the exhalation of her breath making the little hairs on his back stand up as she quietly said, “Scared?” into his ear.
“Yes,” he answered with perfect honesty.
Her free hand traced down his arm, then back up his hip to his rib cage. “Humbled?”
“Y-yes,” he said, his breath catching, feeling the edges of her nails even through the jumpsuit and tank top. Her thumb made circles on his lower back. He shuddered.
