The Punishment Club

by D. A. Maddox

  “Introvert?” Buddy answered helplessly. “Fringe dweller? Shadow monster?”

  Emma Jo turned again and almost smiled to see Peter nearly forcing Buddy’s approach. There were, after all, hundreds of places to sit here. But Buddy stopped resisting when he and Emma Jo made eye contact. He came forward on his own, then offered a decidedly abashed wave which she returned.

  Cassidy smiled down at her tray when Peter came around the table and, with perfect nonchalance, took the space right next to her. Buddy remained standing alongside Emma Jo.

  “Hey, you,” she said. “Grab some plastic with that ass. Starting to think you think I have cooties or something.”

  Buddy sat. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t think that. Not at all.”

  She leaned a playful shoulder into his, then returned to finger-dissecting her pancakes.

  “Right,” Peter announced, holding his plastic cutlery like swords, ready for battle, “for twenty minutes, we’re all going to pretend that we haven’t been paraded naked in front of each other for two hours and have ourselves a nice, friendly breakfast.”

  Emma Jo raised her fruit smoothie as a toast. “Agreed,” she said.

  They all did. But now that they had that out of the way, once they had (more or less) eased into conversation and gotten down to the business of settling their appetites, Buddy asked an interesting and fair question:

  “Why are they letting us do this? Isn’t this kind of thing, like, not what prisons let people do?”

  Men and women prisoners, sitting together, Emma Jo thought. Co-ed, if you will.

  But, “Just roll with it,” she said. Then, a bit awkwardly, “Um—so, what’s your major?”

  ****

  Outside the prison was all the answer Buddy would ever have needed to his question. Those who hadn’t gone to enter the raffle but had chosen instead to remain at the projection screen were riveted by all of this. It was new. There was chemistry here.

  And, thanks to the tiny, hidden mics inside the jail-issued jumpsuits, the audience got to hear every word they said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Applicants

  “Welcome,” Paige Lavallee said with genuine warmth, waving him into her office with a low, broad sweep of her hand. “So glad to see you. And, my—you were quick about it, weren’t you? Have a seat. Let me just finish setting things up. I had no idea you’d be here this early.”

  The man who stepped inside was sharply dressed, for a teacher. It wasn’t all silk and linen, but he had at least bothered to put on a dress shirt, slacks, and a tie. Not that it mattered. Wardrobe would take care of him if she picked him in the end, but it was good for a first impression. He took this seriously.

  “Thank you for thinking of me, Ms. Lavallee,” he said. “On my end, this is all surreal. I knew as soon as I got the e-mail that I had to be here, especially since it’s happening on a weekend.”

  Andrew Hadley was twenty-six years old, clean shaven, tall, sturdy—like a rock climber would be, as Paige now recalled before keying open her slim briefcase and powering on the laptop inside. Normally, she would have told Mrs. Talbot to have him wait, let him stew a bit, but in this case, Paige didn’t want to risk the man having second thoughts. For now, as far as she could tell, he fit the suggested humiliator role the show had in mind perfectly. She’d let him in right away, and so she still had to get all of his information in front of her for quick reference.

  “Surreal,” she echoed, letting the machine boot up, easing herself into the chair behind her desk, not looking at him.

  “Well, yes,” he said, leaning forward, enthusiastic. “The show’s been on since the year after I finished my undergrad. Never missed an episode. So it was really surprising to hear from you.”

  “Especially with regard to your former student,” she prodded, still speaking slowly. She checked his subscription status. It was just as he’d said. He told the truth.

  “I couldn’t believe it,” he said. “She wasn’t officially a student of mine. I mean, she was for all practical purposes, but full disclosure: It was the first semester of her senior year. I was finishing grad school and interning under the real physics teacher, Dr. Fairchild.”

  “Student-teacher, then,” Ms. Lavallee said, already seeing it in front of her. She’d sent the e-mail to several teachers, of course, after the interview results had come in. Bit of a scramble, in her case, trying to throw this together.

  “They’re called ‘cooperating’ teachers now, but yes.”

  Paige sat back. “How do feel about participating in her discipline, given your former position?”

  He smiled. It was a good smile. He looked like a nice guy.

  She pressed, “And how do you feel about what she did to end up in this situation?”

  “I’m disappointed in her, Ms. Lavallee. Very disappointed. I’d come to expect better from her.”

  Paige smiled back at him. “If I were to offer this volunteer job to you, Mr. Hadley, how would you feel about going straight from here to show prep—being ready by, say, three in the afternoon?”

  “I’d feel great about it,” he assured her. “I have nowhere else to be today. Nothing else to do. And, apparently, I’ve got one more lesson to teach my ‘former student’.”

  Technically, Emma Jo wouldn’t be the student in this case. They had others in mind for that role. But never mind. This guy was ready to fucking go.

  “Tell me something interesting, Andrew Hadley. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Well,” he said, drawing out the word, “she never said anything, but sometimes you just know these things…”

  “Mm, hm?”

  “Emma Jo Swanson was … smitten with me.”

  Paige leaned back farther in her chair and let a delighted laugh escape her, which she directed at the ceiling. “You don’t say,” she said, tempted to actually spin a full 360 in her giddiness. “How awkward for you.”

  “You have no idea, Ms. Lavallee.”

  ****

  Others had been in place days before the prisoners had ever gone to court, but they weren’t supposed to show up until today. They arrived in unmarked police cars, then entered the building accompanied by escorts pretending to be their parents, or older siblings, or friends. They used the visitor’s entrance, hiding in plain sight and flashing “family” passes to the gate guards after worming their way slowly through the gathered crowds. People would buy the ruse. Saturday was a scheduled visiting day for post-transitional prisoners, partly because the show (prior to now) never ran on weekends.

  Vince Caster made damn sure to photograph every one of them, just in case. He had a large identity database with photo-based recognition built into the camera, hijacked from his own government without their knowledge. But he didn’t expect this to get him all that much in the way of information for his current job. It was something to do, really, while his auto-dialer fed password after password into the university firewall.

  The thing was unholy-fast and also entirely illegal for the ordinary civilian citizen to possess. The university’s systems wouldn’t stand up long to it. They weren’t government. They were required to be vulnerable to government, which was allowed to take any information it wanted, unannounced and in secret, for any reason and with devices just like the one he was now using.

  He raised his camera, took another shot, this one of a cute little blonde. He turned the camera down to check the digital tag on the bottom: Iris Call, age 19. Same hometown as Buddy Ray Zimmer. Interesting, but inconsequential—just as Henrietta Morrison, waitress at the Stand Up and Shout where Peter Gravis played in a jazz band, had been inconsequential before her.

  Nevertheless, he entered her name into the cross-reference program he had on the laptop on the passenger seat. What he needed was someone who could have been both part of the initial sabotage and connected to the show in some way. Everything else was just extra.

  Nothing. Just as he’d expected.

  But then, the victory bell.
Or, at least, Vince Caster hoped so. He didn’t dare smoke out here in the open in a goddamned prison parking lot, and he was in dire need of a cigarette. He picked up the palm com, scrolled through the readout: nearly ten thousand names, equal to the posted number of students enrolled at the Maryland Chapter of the university. Paydirt.

  Probably.

  He jacked the palm com to the laptop, ran the cross-reference again. He waited ten seconds. Twenty. Twenty-five. Again, the victory bell.

  Student, Sierra Lavallee, age 20, literature major / Counselor Paige Lavallee, age 43, Recruiting Agent for the Office of Behavior Reformation, 3 yrs.

  “Fucking jackpot,” he said, then turned the key in the ignition.

  The ball was back on Tamara Gibson’s side of the proverbial court (as opposed to the legal one). The endgame, from here, was simple: If she still had access to the so-called “Dare Dungeon” video stream, basic facial recognition would nail that half of the team right away.

  If she didn’t, now that the case was over and past the point of appeal—Tamara wasn’t officially connected to the ongoing investigation of the pranksters themselves—well, Vince would volunteer his services. Pro bono, this time.

  The kids in that jail had been done dirty. Wasn’t fair.

  You’re going soft in your old age, he said to himself, weaving through human traffic, beeping his horn every now and again. You don’t care about shit like this.

  Fuck off, he answered himself. God, he needed a smoke.

  ****

  It was 9:30. Class had started half an hour ago. Kevin Carter didn’t care.

  You have to see this, he’d texted. You will NOT fucking believe this.

  The link Sierra had given him terminated after two uses. He still had most of one (with the two “sessions” still on schedule that day) and all of a second, which he could use to re-air what he had seen as sort of a repeat. But just once.

  That was why he had sent the link to Gavin, Percy, Don, and even the man-pussy’s roommate, Ernie. All against every instruction, order, and warning he’d gotten from that silly-ass sophomore, of course. But what did she know? Sierra was a duplicitous little bitch. No one would trust her, so she couldn’t trust anyone.

  Kevin’s friends, on the other hand, were loyal. They’d never betray him.

  The answers started rolling in right away. He’d show it to them around 11:30, he guessed, when Sierra would be just walking into her Making the Transition class and would have no possible way of seeing him.

  He answered them, hurried back to Delta Epsilon. He hoped he’d have his dorm to himself for a bit. He’d never needed to jerk off so badly in his life.

  ****

  Toni DiFiore checked herself in the vanity mirror of the small but hotel-like suite she’d been assigned until tomorrow morning. Her outfit consisted of a pressed, button-up, sleeveless blue vest with a Volunteer Humiliator badge. The buttons, however, only made it halfway up her cleavage. The skirt was black leather, high above the knees. Just as well, because the damned leather boots went right up to those knees.

  “No accessories for you, kitten,” Paige had said. “Like I promised. You won’t have to do anything rough.”

  She was truly torn about whether or not to put the visor cap on. She liked it just fine, especially for these purposes: all black, the sun visor polished to plastic reflection. But she’d already done her hair, and it was perfect.

  Behind her, she noted in the mirror, Veronica Cruz wore a nearly identical getup—only her hat was more like a ballcap and her badge bore her actual name, along with the words Consequences Intern.

  Also, she did have a pretty fearsome three-pronged leather hand whip strapped to her belt and hanging over the curve of her ass. Best not to forget that.

  It’s like some kind of weird, forbidden cosplay, the gamer inside of her thought.

  “I’ll be there the whole time,” Veronica said with a sly smile. “You have nothing to worry about, girl. She’ll do what you tell her to do.”

  “I’m … not sure I know what that is yet, Veronica.”

  Toni had no intention of calling her “Miss Cruz,” as she’d been introduced. Only a year separated them, and she wasn’t the one in trouble.

  Veronica didn’t seem to mind. “Oh, yeah, you do. But for argument’s sake, let’s practice.”

  Toni turned around. “You mean, like, role play?”

  “Exactly. All non-contact, if you insist,” Veronica said, closing distance, stopping an inch from being nose-to-nose with her, tilting her head, looking at her with upturned eyes. “But I’ll go as far as you want, my precious little volunteer, if it helps you get ready. If it helps you to be convincing when the time comes. Do you know Cassidy well enough to play her part?”

  Toni scrunched her eyebrows at that, confused, but she didn’t object or retreat when Veronica trailed a finger up her arm, raising gooseflesh. How would it help her if she played Cassidy? But she recalled Cassidy’s trepidation, her wild panic at having to undress in front of her—her pleas that Toni not watch when she ran outside.

  “I think I can play her close enough, for the things that matter. And you’ll—?”

  “I’ll be you, silly,” Veronica said, going up both arms now, her fingers coming up to the shoulders. “You said you wanted to be nice, but you need her to follow orders. Fine. Go ahead, Toni. Be my Cassidy. Be Cass for me. Now.”

  Veronica’s breath was on her lips. Her eyes thinned to slits.

  My breath on Cass’s lips. She’d say… She says…

  “Please, Toni. I’m scared. I’m not sure if I want to—”

  Veronica, as Toni, answered her, taking on just a lilt of the New York accent to make it more authentic. “You can, Cass. You will. You have to. You gotta. I’ll be nice to you… So nice…”

  “D-don’t … call me Cass. Hey…”

  Hands on her hips, on her back, soothing her. A quick kiss. “I’ll call you whatever makes me happy, Cass. You’re mine for an hour. I’ll do whatever I want to you. There’s nothing you can do. If you understand, nod your head for me.”

  Toni, as Cassidy, nodded. That dampness in her crotch, that was no cosplay.

  Then Veronica, as Toni, gave the first real order.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Raffle

  Release statements, consent to filming and use of likeness, volunteer participation forms—done. Seven men and five women gathered outside the intake entrance like golden ticket winners about to be led into a candy factory.

  Buck parked the Consequences, Live! media van on the other side, close enough to be easily seen. They were off-air for a time while technicians aired the Punishment Club’s college application videos on a loop, and while its unfortunate members were presumably being prepped for session one. Outside, the twelve winners cheered the appearance of the van. Buck guessed that for some of them this would be their first brush with celebrity. Not that they could see through the tinted glass. The van itself was famous.

  Behind him, their crew flung open the back door and began unloading gear. Next to him, in the passenger seat, Gloria said, “There it is again. That face. What is it this time?”

  Buck huffed. It wasn’t like she didn’t know. “Are you serious? I am not looking forward to the fucking board meeting on Monday, Gloria.”

  The formal complaint had been filed by fucking Helena Reyes-Garcia herself, but by now Buck didn’t doubt that the Zimmer family—and a ton of sympathetic viewers—would follow suit. In revealing Buddy’s confidential online identity to their audience, they had crossed a line. They had “interfered with a private enterprise, potentially damaging future prospects with said enterprise.” One of the core principles and operating safeguards of the show was that their well-disciplined transitionals would be returned to the world with their prospects intact. Neither law enforcement nor the show had ever stepped over that boundary before.

  It was arguable. It was only a damned book club. A hobby, like waterskiing or playing the sax. But it was a
wildly popular book club with the potential for ad revenue. It could, possibly, be monetized one day. And they—the show’s anchors, with secret identities of their own, jealously guarded—had torpedoed that.

  “Buddy mentioned it himself,” Gloria reminded him. “To Peter.”

  “That was after lights-out,” Buck countered, “when hardly anyone’s watching. Editors may have beat the delay and cut it, Gloria. They watch close for that kind of thing.”

  “Oh, please,” Gloria said, impatient and dismissive at once. “Do you have any idea how many complaints Helena’s had these past three years? Let it go, Buck. Focus on ratings. We’re at over eight million viewers right now and we’re not even live.”

  Ratings, Gloria liked to say, cured all.

  He took the key from the ignition. Pulled his mask on as Gloria donned her reflective sunglasses. Tried to clear his head. It was showtime. All they had to do was get the guests in through the door. The police escort would take it from there, and that was more than fine with him.

  Helena Reyes-Garcia scared the shit out of him.

  ****

  When they were returned to the intake hall, past the metal detector and within sight of the door back to the real world, Peter was nonplussed to find Officer Davies at his post behind the first processing table. On it, in four baskets, were the possessions they had surrendered here. A quick glance to his right revealed that Cassidy was just as confused, as were Buddy and Emma Jo when he looked left.

  The thought of his belongings being returned to him, much less an early release, never occurred to him. Officer Gillis had been clear there was no way out other than through. They had to complete the program. Also, it was noon—the appointed time for their first official session of “controlled judicial humiliations.” That could not be coincidence.

  Officer Davies, standing behind that table just as he had yesterday, had his hands behind his back at parade rest. In front of the table and off to the side, Officer Thompson held a fistful of long leather cords, or belts, of unknown purpose. The other junior punishment wardens, Kersey and Grant, leaned on their rolling cameras, currently locked in place, looking equally bored. Kersey checked her watch and then shook her wrist, as if doing so would make the time go by faster.