by D. A. Maddox
Both of Veronica’s hands went to her mouth. She whirled, away from the conference room, back toward the hall—but her mother caught her by the shoulders and turned her back around, straightening her arms by her sides. For a second, Veronica’s heart felt like it had stopped.
“If you’re going to cry,” her mother whispered, “do it here. Get it out of your system, while there aren’t any cameras.”
****
“Please, come in,” said Officer Garcia, with an inward wave directed only to Veronica’s mother. “Have a seat. See that your daughter has a seat. This will not take long. The real work has already been done.”
Mother gently urged her into the room, pulled out a chair for her opposite Professor Krantz, and pointed to it. Veronica sat, fidgeting.
Looking down the length of the table, strangers on either side and with Krantz at the end of it, was like staring down a well. No crying, she said to herself with a sidelong glance at the anonymous cops, who were still standing. The peasantry does not see Veronica Cruz cry.
But then Professor Krantz said, “You have something for me, Jada?”
Without answering, Mother crossed the room to him, rummaged in her purse, and produced the skull. When Professor Krantz extended his hand for it, she dropped it into his palm without touching him. Then she returned to Veronica.
When she took a seat next to the woman with the briefcase—not next to her daughter at the table’s end—Veronica nearly lost the battle against tears right away.
She’s not going to get me out of this. She arranged this. She set this up for me.
“For the record,” Krantz said, pocketing the skull on the inside of his jacket, “I think we’re letting her off easy.”
Veronica’s lips trembled. She hardened them to a thin line. Letting her off easy? Why wouldn’t anyone talk to her?
“That’s why I’m here,” said the woman with the briefcase. “If it were up to you, no doubt you’d have my client executed. The document is in order. Shall we proceed?”
Okay, not a faculty friend of the family—a lawyer. Veronica blinked, then quickly palmed her eyes.
When Krantz shoved a box of tissues her way, making it slide all the way to stop right in front of her, she lost it. Completely. She crossed her arms in front of her and buried her face in them.
No one said anything to comfort her. Mom didn’t come over and rub her back. Everyone waited.
So, after a time, Veronica sat herself straight. Plucked a couple of tissues, blew a strand of hair from the corner of her lip. She took care of herself and put her hands in her lap, suddenly acutely conscious of her ordinary attire—the plain, white, short-sleeved blouse and blue jeans, the lack of expensive jewelry to set her apart from—or above—these people. She might as well have been a pig-slut leaving the Fete.
“I take it you recognize me from somewhere?” said Officer Garcia, seated in the middle of the right-hand side of the table, with the other cops behind him. “You may answer, Miss Cruz.”
Veronica studied her hands. “You were on TV last week,” she said, her voice still unsteady. “Professor Krantz showed a … segment to my MTT class.”
“The Schulsky introductory discipline session,” he supplied. “Ah, yes. What a rascal he had been. Perhaps it would comfort you to know that he is back at school, now. He accepted his punishment and is much improved for it. He is fine.”
Her eyes flitted back to Lawyer Lady, who it seemed had some kind of a keyboard or computer in the open briefcase. Her fingers tapped keys. She nodded to Professor Krantz, then spoke to Veronica:
“Veronica, my name is Bridgette Tulane. I’m an attorney who specializes in—”
“Cutting deals,” said Professor Krantz.
“Emile,” Veronica’s mother seethed, “desist.”
“In cases with transitional defendants,” Tulane continued. “But you are not one of those, nor do you need to be. Under the terms of the plea agreement I’ve arranged with your mother and…” Here she waved dismissively in Krantz’s general direction, “him, there will be no trial. But to avoid that, we have to invoke the Special Penitent’s Clause, which requires a confession before the filing of charges. Questions so far?”
“I’m sorry,” Veronica said, still a little breathless. “What’s that?”
“You’ve broken certain rules under various articles of the Behavior Reformation Laws,” she said, calm and professional. “To wit, the violation of the privacy of fellow transitionals, the abuse of power as a student of standing at your university, and the use of age-restricted paraphernalia for the purposes of sexual mischief. None of these amount to serious crimes, Veronica. Not in the grand scheme of things.”
And although the words had, ostensibly, been directed at her, she cast Professor Krantz a contentious glare as she said them.
Krantz was unmoved. Finally, he addressed Veronica. “We will not speak of anything that isn’t directly related to the offenses listed on the consent form. You will keep those secrets you are sworn to keep. For better or worse, you’re still Bridgemont. Yes?”
“Yes,” Veronica said. She was so close to graduation. She couldn’t lose that.
“Yes, what?”
Veronica took a breath. “Yes, sir.”
“I think it best you grow accustomed to using the words ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’ for the duration of these proceedings. When you are spoken to by anyone in this room, you are speaking to a person in authority. Got me, Veronica?”
She studied the table. “Yes, sir.”
“It’s my job,” Tulane said, “to make sure that you are treated fairly under the law and not over-disciplined for making dumb kid mistakes. So, here’s what we’ve come up with and agreed upon.”
Behind Professor Krantz, the wall screen lit with what Veronica took to be the “consent” document. The header read: ADMISSION OF GUILT AND ASSENT TO JUDICIAL CORRECTION, SPECIAL PENITENT’S CLAUSE 12a, SECTION 1.
Veronica stared at it, took it in. She went for another tissue.
From the briefcase, Tulane took out a hard copy of the document and slid it to her. It was three pages long. “Read the whole thing. Take your time. If you prefer to read it in the hall—”
“No, ma’am,” Veronica quickly said. There were students out there—students who had already seen her go in, which was bad enough. “I’ll read it here, please.”
Had she just used the word “please”? For free?
She studied the first page of the three-page document—but before she could get very far, Officer Garcia cut in.
“Mrs. Cruz, we are going to have to ask you to leave at this point.”
Veronica’s mother narrowed her eyes at him.
Mom, no. Don’t go. Not now. I’m … I’m fucking scared, Mom.
“Your daughter needs to make this decision on her own. If she cannot make this deal independently of your influence, she is not right for our alternative program anyway, and we really would prefer to avoid an unpleasant scene. If she has any questions, Ms. Tulane is here.”
“It is my intention to drive her, Officer Garcia.”
“I am sorry. That cannot happen.”
“The facility is two hours away.”
“That,” said one of the cops behind him, “is why we are here.”
God, no, Veronica thought, running a hand through her hair, going for more tissue. God, just help me control myself.
Mother was looking at her now, fissures forming along the edges of her own outer cool. “I … wish to have some time with my daughter, Officer Garcia. You would not understand.”
“It would do more harm than good,” said Officer Garcia, unfazed by the condescension. “Your wishes and intentions are irrelevant. The negotiations are over. The deal is made. It is up to your daughter to consent or not to consent. Leave, please.”
Ms. Tulane said nothing. Apparently, fucked up as this whole thing was, it was all in legal order.
Veronica’s mother stood out of her chair. Veronica started to
rise—
“You remain seated, Miss Cruz.”
She sat hard, hitching an angry sob.
Her mother kissed her on the top of the head—then stormed from the conference room, slamming the door behind her, leaving Veronica, crying and alone, in a room full of strangers and enemies.
“Read the consent form,” Ms. Tulane said.
“Thoroughly,” Officer Garcia added, “but do not take more time than is necessary. It really is a long drive to Huntington.”
****
“But … this is horrible!” Veronica blurted, pushing the three-page consent form away from her like it was a venomous snake. “This can’t even be real. I can’t do that! You can’t do that!”
The stipulations called for:
An admission of full culpability and responsibility for her misconduct;
Three days’ incarceration in the standard prison uniform;
A release of her privacy rights for the term of her incarceration;
Two days of unspecified Controlled Judicial Humiliations to take place over four sessions;
Consent to unspecified corporal punishment for any disrespect, recalcitrance, or failure to comply.
All sessions would run on live, age-restricted, paid cable television. Old people would get to watch. Her teachers would be allowed to watch—including Krantz, who Veronica was sure wouldn’t want to miss an instant of it. If she had Michael Schulsky’s luck, for all she knew, they might even run a segment for seniors in Making the Transition class.
“I’ll make a formal apology,” she said. Addressing Officer Garcia, “to everyone, sir.” Then to her lawyer, “I’ll make it good, ma’am, I promise.”
“I think that is an excellent idea,” said Officer Garcia, “but that will be for later. Do you have any questions as they may pertain to the consent form? The plea negotiations are over, Miss Cruz.”
“But … this is all about me, and I didn’t get any say in them.”
“No. You did not.”
Krantz, meanwhile, stood at the window looking down over the parking lot. “That’s it,” he abruptly said. “Jada Forsythe has left the grounds. You can take Veronica into custody any time, Officer Garcia, without having Mommy Dearest adding to the drama.”
Veronica shook her head, terrified, lost. “I don’t think I can do this,” she said. It was almost a wail. “Sir—ma’am, please, there has to be another way.”
“Veronica,” Tulane said patiently, soothingly, “it happens all the time. You will not be seriously harmed. There will be no lasting or permanent scarring or injury. You’ll be in the hands of professionals who execute these sentences for a living. In some ways, it’ll be safer than … certain things you are used to. It will be unpleasant, but—”
“It is a punishment program, after all,” Officer Garcia chipped in. “By the sound of things, you are overdue for correction.”
“It will be unpleasant,” Tulane repeated, annoyed, “but you’ll have a future on the other side of it.”
“Let me tell you how good that deal is,” Krantz said, advancing on her. “You get to stay in school. You’ll have no criminal record. You might even get to stay in our … inner circle—and because most of the principals involved here agree on this as fair payment for your outrageous and irresponsible acts, there’s even a chance that—if you comport yourself well—you get some of your friends back. You’re done in two days, three if you count processing and interview. This deal is so good you might not even qualify for it—so I suggest total honesty in the interrogation, Veronica. Because the alternative isn’t a ceremony at Night Owls. It’s expulsion from Bridgemont on the grounds of criminal hazing and assault—which will result in real charges, to boot. We’re talking a court date. Real jail. So, thank your lawyer and fucking sign it.”
She could imagine it. Court. The videos. A guilty verdict. Locked up with hardened criminals.
Officer Garcia leaned over to the table and slowly slid the consent form back to her.
The tissue box was empty. “Can I … have a drink of water?” she asked, using the collar of her shirt to dry her cheeks. Couldn’t they see she was fucking distraught?
Officer Garcia folded the document back to its third page and passed her his fancy metal pocket pen, which had the words Consequences, Live! emblazoned on its side. “I can see you understand everything, Miss Cruz,” he said. “The time has come for a decision. I know it is not easy, but it must be done.”
She surveyed the room. Everyone wanted her to do it. Her mother, were she here, would want her to do it.
Oh, but it would be satisfying to tear that packet of papers into shreds, throw them into the air, shout something triumphant and defiant and richly profane—and just go the fuck down in a blaze of glory.
Instead, helpless in despair, she whispered, “Please don’t do this to me.”
“Please do not do this to me, what?” Officer Garcia prompted.
“Please don’t do this to me … sir.”
“You will not be disciplined beyond what you deserve. I will not exceed my powers under law at any time. You will be safe, Miss Cruz.”
Sniffling, shaking her head in disbelief, Veronica signed the form.
****
“This is Officer Kersey,” Officer Garcia said, indicating one of his two fellow cops. She had dark hair, cut short, and olive skin. From a canvas bag at her feet, she drew out a scanner, which she set on the table.
“Hello,” Veronica said—careful to do so without an attitude.
“Don’t fucking talk to me,” Kersey said, scanning the document and returning the scanner to the bag. She then drew out a small still photography camera, which she strung about her neck. “I have zero interest in anything you have to say.”
Veronica’s mouth dropped open in indignation. Her eyes shot to Officer Garcia, then to Ms. Tulane, and finally to Professor Krantz. None of them seemed the slightest bit discomfited by the petty little pig’s rudeness to her, after all she’d already been through.
Veronica bit down on her retort, though. She wasn’t stupid.
Krantz left without a backward glance, without a word. Tulane waited for Kersey to scan all three pages of the consent form, afterwards putting the original in her briefcase. Then she got up to leave as well.
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” Veronica asked her.
“We’ve done it,” she said. “This could have been worse. You’re on your own, Veronica.”
Then she was gone.
“And this,” Officer Garcia said, “is Officer Thompson. Both are junior punishment wardens in the Protective Custody Wing at Huntington. They more typically work with male inmates—and with my wife, whom you shall meet in a few hours. You are a special case, Veronica. We feel that your punishment will be most effective if meted out by wardens of both sexes. We may adjust as we go along.”
Officer Thompson was light of hair, her eyes a compassionate light blue. But she was sturdily built. She was strong.
“Stand up, sweetie,” she said. “Cross your hands behind your back, please.”
Veronica gasped, but she stood up. “You don’t need to do that. I won’t resist. I promise.”
“Oh, sweetie. Now you’ve refused an order. That will be one punishment straight after processing and interview. Cross your hands behind your back, please.”
This time, Veronica obeyed. She hoped against all reason that not too many people would see her led to the car out front in manacles. Then Officer Thompson stepped behind her. Veronica heard the cuffs being unclipped from her belt. She’d never been in handcuffs before, even though she personally owned three pairs of them. Handcuffs were for subs—for assholes who thrived on their own humiliation.
Thompson cinched them, and Veronica gasped again.
“That’s … very tight. My circulation.”
Her hands, moving independently from her brain—which knew better—struggled against the cuffs. Maybe if she screamed, if she begged…
At the Fete, wh
en people did that, they often got sent home. Students sometimes showed other students mercy.
“You’ll be okay,” Officer Thompson said, taking her right arm just above the elbow.
This wasn’t college, wasn’t a club. It was far beyond any secret society. This was the law, and these people did not give a fuck.
Before Veronica could look away or down, Kersey snapped a picture of her—being arrested, restrained, held against her will by a fellow human being. Her soul burned with the indignity of it.
“Turn around please,” Officer Thompson said, ever so politely. “Time for your ride.”
Officer Garcia reopened the doors into the hall of the first and main floor of the Bridgemont University Administration Building.
There, lined up on either side of that hall, were dozens if not hundreds of students who had gathered to witness her downfall. They were clapping, cheering on her destruction. Some of them looked grimly satisfied with the business, such as Malcolm, who was up front and closest to her. Others were overtly celebratory, such as Tabitha, who cackled like a madwoman when Officer Kersey came up from behind her and put a hat like a baseball cap on her head.
Consequences, Live! they chanted, although most of them had no way of knowing what that even was. But Veronica knew. And she deduced the show’s title was easily read on the front of the cap.
Consequences, Live! Consequences, Live!
Officer Garcia led the four of them forward, followed by Officer Kersey—who now had the canvas bag strapped over a shoulder and tracked Veronica’s tearful progress down the hall with a handheld video cam.
There was Huey, laughing and pointing at her. And Ritchie. And Rusty and Zeke … even the fem-subs, all dressed in their nice school clothes: Missy, Courtney, Melody.
My ruin is a holiday, Veronica thought. Why do they hate me so much? They don’t hate Malcolm.
“Come on, Veronica,” Officer Thompson urged her, squeezing her arm a little. “Poor thing—you’re only making it take longer.”
Veronica picked up her pace.
