Savannah's Chance

by D. A. Maddox

  Straight through the mob they passed, and down the hall, then out of the building, where outside there was a police cruiser waiting just for her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two:

  Transfer

  The van for the camera crew had been plain white—or so it had appeared until the front doors of the administration building parted. At Veronica’s exit, its sliding door opened, and the couple who emerged from the inside of that van peeled a hull-length strip of magnetic rubber casing away, revealing the logo for the show Consequences, Live! underneath.

  Channel 382. Anything over 99 was age-restricted. That demanded almost as much attention as the mystery of Veronica’s arrest and the strange nature of the people who came out of the van. It was an invasion into their transitional bubble, emissaries from the forbidden world.

  “What’s that mean?” Savannah asked, pointing to the logo.

  They’d both gotten an identical email from an anonymous sender with an untraceable address: You don’t have to do anything. You’re free. But something big will happen at 3 at Uni Admin. Come and see.

  Scott’s eyes followed only Veronica. Savannah understood. Veronica had hurt him, badly enough that Savannah had cleaned and applied salve to his wound both Saturday and Sunday. You just couldn’t be too careful. And the weal had gone down; most of the skin had returned to its natural color—most of it.

  “I have no idea,” he said. “But I think you were right when you said the others weren’t happy with her. They sent the email. They knew she was going down. Someone set her up. That whole thing is a nest of fucking vipers.”

  The camera crew, already outside, converged first on the couple who had emerged from the van.

  “Serves her right?” Savannah tentatively asked.

  “Probably. We just don’t know. We don’t know anything until—”

  “Until we’re out of here,” Savannah finished for him. “Until we graduate.”

  The couple, a man and a woman, wore positively outlandish garb—the man with studded black vambraces and bright white pants and no shirt, brandishing a microphone; the woman in a one-piece pink leather swimsuit with black fairy wings on its back, her hair in sprayed lavender spikes. They were obscene, although clothed. They belonged to another reality, a waiting reality, to which Savannah wasn’t sure she wanted an invitation.

  The woman shouted questions at Veronica, while the man shoved the mic three inches from her face. Veronica was helpless against the intrusion, her hands cuffed behind her, her head lowered, the peak of a ballcap shielding half of her face. There was a cop leading her, and a cop at her arm, and a cop filming her. And there were students trailing after, mostly Select, as the police forced her towards a waiting police cruiser.

  “There’s still time before that,” Scott said. “We’re still here. Life still makes sense.”

  “Except when it doesn’t,” Savannah answered, troubled.

  He drew her in. “We make sense,” he said. “And I am going to take you to miniature golf, right now, and we’ll laugh and have fun and we won’t care who wins.”

  The cop leading Veronica ducked her into the cruiser and shut the door on her.

  “And later,” Savannah said, running a hand along his arm, “after that, we’ll go to that ‘safe’ place you mentioned but won’t tell me about.”

  The car drove off. Inside, Veronica’s head was actually up, watching the Student Council Select wave her goodbye.

  “Safe for me, my love,” he said. “But if you show up, you do so at your own risk.”

  Savannah kissed him.

  “Miniature golf first,” he said.

  ****

  It took two hours and forty-five minutes to get there. Traffic.

  Neither Officer Garcia, nor Officers Thompson and Kersey, accompanied her on the ride. They’d gone to the other cruiser. Veronica heard something from Kersey about “making it to the helipad on time” and “hoping setup is ready”.

  Her driver, a man, hardly spoke to her, no matter how many times she attempted to get his attention. She tried to get his name. She asked if her cuffs could come off long enough for her to put on her seatbelt. Her wrists had sleep needles. Within twenty minutes, her back hurt.

  How could they treat her this way? Bitterly, in the back of the car, she wept, and she could not even wipe her nose. She’d already been humiliated beyond endurance. She couldn’t shake the image from her mind: the joy in her downfall, the jeering, the happiness of The Select as she’d been paraded before them on her way to fucking jail.

  Only three days, she reminded herself as her driver spoke into the car radio, reporting his location, complaining about the timing. Explaining the likely delay to a person she could not hear through the glass and metal mesh that separated her from her captor.

  They passed a road-stop sign. There would be a gas station there. Restaurants.

  “Miss Cruz,” he finally said, “do you need to use the bathroom? We still have a ways to go.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. It was true. And then, because he had at last said something, hoping for more, against her own will, “Officer, I’m … frightened.”

  He sighed and didn’t answer. He pulled over at the rest stop, escorting her in front of ordinary people—travelers, truckers, families, mobs of people who’d probably never even been to college—in cuffs. And they stared. People didn’t see this kind of thing in person every day.

  He led her to the bathroom of a Roy Rogers and took off her handcuffs. She rubbed her wrists, feeling the relief and the blood flow like an injection of liquid manna.

  “I’m told you’re not stupid,” he said, “in spite of whatever stupid, cruel thing you had to have done to put yourself in this situation. I’ve dealt with worse. So do your business, miss, and if you come back to me with no trouble, it’s cuffs up front for the rest of the drive. Fucking hate this.”

  “Thank—”

  “Don’t bother. I’m a soft son of a bitch. No need to rub it in. Go.”

  She did. And she never entertained any notion of running or being difficult. She knew it would have been insane. Also—

  He doesn’t even know me, and he’s being kind to me when he doesn’t have to. Even though he knows it’ll make the drive take longer.

  She pushed the thought aside. She used the bathroom, washed her face. As per his instructions, she didn’t talk to him, coming back out. When he cuffed her up front, almost but not quite as tightly as before, she didn’t protest. It was a lot better than being cuffed at the back.

  She took note of the nameplate: F. Gillis.

  She’d probably never see him again, and wondered why she even cared.

  ****

  Savannah checked her watch: 5:30. She still had two hours before she needed to be at the Colby building for the mysterious rendezvous with Scott. Time enough to get a little work done.

  Taking brisk strides—keeping in mind she needed fifteen minutes after she was done for the walk to Colby, hoping there wasn’t a line at the media archives—Savannah crossed the second-floor glass sky tunnel that linked the library’s general checkout building to its content-specific wing. This time of day, the whole complex was abuzz with students, and Savannah had to nudge a few shoulders, muttering quick apologies to complete strangers along the way, just to maintain her pace.

  Fortunately, after she spent thirty minutes pulling the files she needed, she caught a moment when there was no line at the holo-reader and headphones checkout. She’d have a little more than an hour. The weight of her backpack suggested she’d need a table, not a cubby—and she got lucky on that score as well.

  But she’d hardly set her things down when a total stranger pulled up a chair at the same table and sat down opposite her.

  “Hello,” Savannah politely said, using her library volume, wondering why this person hadn’t chosen an empty table of her own—Savannah could see another of exactly the same size—and continuing to sort her potential reference notes on looted Egyptian tombs, which she’d s
crawled out in advance.

  The stranger smiled at her and set a briefcase with a small steel keylock on the table. “I’m Paige Lavallee,” she replied pleasantly, matching Savannah’s volume. She wore a beige pantsuit and a tie. She set a badge next to the briefcase. “I’m a counselor with the Federal Bureau of Behavior Reformation for Transitionals—but don’t worry. I come in peace. You’re Savannah Miles?”

  “Yes,” Savannah slowly said, her mind already racing. The chances that this did not have to do with the Origins Fete, by her estimation, were roughly zero, particularly after what she and Scott had witnessed at the Admin Building.

  “Oh, lord, she’s scared,” Lavallee said, as though to herself. “Savannah, you’re not in trouble. But I expect you are aware that Veronica Cruz is.”

  “So I gather,” Savannah said. “I don’t really know anything.”

  To her, it was the truth. As far as whatever law Veronica was charged with breaking, she was utterly clueless. There were, of course, any number of possibilities.

  “What I’m about to tell you is absolutely secret—”

  “I’ll just go, then,” Savannah said, and began packing up on the spot. “Since I’m not in trouble.”

  “Savannah, stop. Just listen to me.”

  “Half of everything anyone’s said to me in the past five days has been ‘absolutely secret,’ Counselor Lavallee,” she retorted, rising. “I’m sick of it. If you’re not doing anything wrong, you shouldn’t worry so much.”

  “Young lady, I’m from the government—and I am telling you to put your ass back in that chair right now. You will hear me out. Whether it happens right here and now on your turf, or three hours from now on mine, that’s up to you.”

  Savannah froze, processing. She set her backpack at her feet and, without unpacking it, eased herself back into the chair.

  “Veronica has put herself forward to be punished over the course of the next few days on some relatively minor mischief charges. Over the weekend, I interviewed several people who know her well. Better than you do, in fact. But your name, along with a certain Mr. Scott Lachance, did come up. There is a consensus among a number of students, most of whom you are casually acquainted with, that you and Scott might welcome the opportunity to participate in her discipline. As volunteers.”

  Savannah listened, waited for more. She had no idea what to say in the long pause that followed. This was beyond ominous.

  But it was also undeniably interesting.

  “Here’s the secret part. And you will be arrested if you divulge any part of what I say to anyone—other than fellow volunteers, should you opt in.”

  “Go ahead,” Savannah replied. What choice did she have?

  “Certain misbehaving transitionals—those whose offenses fit the categories just right and pass an interview process—enter what is known as the Controlled Judicial Humiliations program. It’s all harmless, really, and you’d be coached up for your part. Veronica will not be injured in any way. But she’s incarcerated in the protective wing of our facility at Huntington, and while in our care, she’ll receive discipline that will ‘fit the crime’, as the saying goes. It is my understanding that she hurt you and humiliated you in some way—although I’m not fresh on the details. What would you say if I told you that you could have a little payback? Personally.”

  “I’d ask you if you talked with Scott already. She hurt him more than me.”

  “He wasn’t at his dorm. I sent him a message. I must admit I wanted to talk to him first, but you were easier to track down.”

  He’s at the Colby building, Savannah thought, then asked, “Did he answer your message?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” Lavallee answered with a sigh. “Under law, for you to be taken on as a Volunteer Humiliator, you have to sign up without consultation with other potential volunteers. We don’t want group-think. You have to want this.”

  “I don’t want this,” Savannah said firmly. “I mean—I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t think she should be punished, but…”

  “But what? There’s nothing wrong with it, Savannah. This is justice, codified under law.”

  “I’m sorry,” Savannah insisted. “You don’t want me for this. I’d be a disaster. Trust me. I don’t hit people. And even though she probably needs to get what’s coming to her, I’m already worried for her, just listening to you. Weird as that is. Isn’t there anyone else?”

  “I understand your ambivalence. It’s normal. There will be others. You wouldn’t be alone.”

  “You’re all set then, Counselor Lavallee. Please. I couldn’t do it—not to Veronica, not to anyone.”

  She thought of Melody. Of the joy Melody felt in her submission. She thought of herself and Scott together under the twin auto-whippers. In the hands of the law, there was a chance—albeit small—that Veronica was actually in for the time of her life and didn’t even know it yet. It depended on how she was deep down, under the façade, her secret self … if she had one.

  “Well, Miss Miles, I can’t say I’m not disappointed. I took a plane to be here.”

  You can take a plane back, Savannah thought, but restrained herself.

  “I can see that you are, in truth, a very self-aware woman—beyond your years in that regard. You’ve heard me out, and that’s all I have the power to compel you to do. We’ve had ‘disasters’ before in our selections, so I appreciate you sparing us that.”

  The briefcase had never been opened. Savannah had never even seen the key. But Paige Lavallee was already on her feet. “Just—give me something. If you do, there’ll be a reward in your email.”

  Okay, that’s cryptic as fuck.

  “Something like what?”

  “Guidance. There’s a lot we don’t know in this case. Your university works hard to keep its dirty little secrets. They bury that shit deep. Give me something that will aid us in Veronica’s … rehabilitation. Her lesson in empathy.”

  Savannah considered it, then said, “Do you know what a tawse is, Counselor Lavallee?”

  “I do indeed, Miss Miles.”

  “Well, so does Veronica,” Savannah said, surprised at herself. “But … she only knows one end of it.”

  Lavallee smiled. “That can be remedied,” she said. “Thank you. I believe we’re done, Savannah. I hope I haven’t taken up too much of your time.”

  ****

  Huntington Regional Adult Detention Center. The words were engraved on a black metal faceplate atop a slab of concrete in the facility’s front lawn, facing the road. Officer Gillis and Veronica drove past it, though—and past the front entrance and the visitors’ parking lot as well. Intake to the protective custody wing was around the side of the complex. It was a whole different building, although each of the green-roofed, red-bricked housing structures was linked by thin, brick hallways that collectively formed an open ring.

  “This can’t be happening to me,” Veronica said. It wasn’t like she was a fucking bank robber. And even at twenty-two years old, as an undergrad, she wasn’t a full-blown adult. Not under law, anyway. How could she be going into an “adult” detention center?

  “It can be, and it is,” Officer Gillis said, making a slow, wide right toward a closed gate of metal fencing with razor wire at the top. But there was a hint of sadness in his voice. “You’re going to need to drop all of that privileged crap at the door, got me? It’ll be easier for you if you do. Your life goes back to normal Thursday morning. Until then, everything that happens to you is up to other people. You get zero input. You remember what I told you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Veronica said as the car slowed, pulling up to the sentry post. When they were still half an hour out from arrival, Officer Gillis had dutifully recited her prisoner’s rights to her, which included reasonable housing, assurances of personal safety while under duress, three healthy meals a day, and two counseling sessions with her choice of a female or a male prison psychiatrist. That list had been followed by a more extensive list of personal rights that w
ere under “suspension” until her release.

  At an intellectual level, Veronica understood all of it with perfect clarity—but she needed time. She wasn’t ready. “I’m not a criminal,” she said, feeling on the verge of losing it again.

  “No,” Officer Gillis agreed, lowering the driver’s side window. “That’s one reason why you’re going into protective custody. But you are a transitional penitent with a plea deal. Whether you like it or not, the government owns your ass for three days. Get used to it, Miss Cruz. It starts as soon as you’re inside.”

  Then he flashed a card to the sentry, who opened the gate with a push of a button and nodded them through without a word.

  The side entrance with the word “Intake” over the door posts was small, a single door opening first into a hall before leading to the larger building.

  “Could be worse, I guess,” Officer Gillis said, closing the gap between the gate and the start of her incarceration far more quickly than Veronica would have liked. “We’ve had some high-profile cases—two in the last several months—where the subjects were dogged by media all through their trials and right up to their rides going in. We’ve had to deal with concert-sized crowds of onlookers in the parking lot. You should avoid most of that—if you don’t throw a fit and bring too much attention on yourself. The audience loves a meltdown, loves confrontation. Be boring, and you’ll be forgotten in no time. You’re pretty normal, as far as cases like this go.”

  But there had been cameras already, as Veronica now recalled. The two freaks who had accosted her on the way from the admin building to the police cruiser had had a camera crew. And they themselves had looked like Doms from The Select—or what Doms from The Select might look like at age thirty or so. They’d been so damned happy to get right up in her face, even though it had been obvious that she’d been crying and was in distress.

  Still, she was grateful there wasn’t any crowd here, waiting for her.

  Gillis stopped the car and got out. He came to her, opening the door for her. It would have seemed gentlemanly, even courtly, had there been a handle on the inside she could have used to let herself out.