The Marriage Pact

by Michelle Richmond

  “After the shit you just put me through, I don’t trust your definition of unscathed.”

  “Trust me. That was nothing.”

  “Is this normal?”

  “Is what normal?”

  “I thought The Pact was supposed to be about fostering successful, healthy, long-lasting marriages. Where do interrogation and torture fit into a healthy marriage?”

  Gordon sighs. “Here’s where we’re at. I’ve been asked to solve the problem with JoAnne. Usually, in most cases, I confront the adulterer, she pleads guilty, faces the judge, takes her medicine. The couple moves on. Simple. A marriage is a remarkably resilient thing. I’ve seen marriages withstand horrible, devastating blows, and somehow they bounce back. It’s uncanny. Most of the marriages turn out to be even stronger once the ordeal is over. Do you know why that is?”

  I refuse to answer.

  “When the offending partner accepts the consequences of his or her actions, Jake, it returns balance to the relationship. It brings back stasis. It eliminates the noise, resolves the problem, and starts the relationship anew. Balance is the key. Balance is the fuel that powers a successful marriage.”

  While it sounds like a rehearsed speech, it does have a ring of truth. I remember saying something quite similar to my patients.

  “Most couples can’t bring balance back to their relationship on their own. That’s what I’m here for.”

  “So,” I ask, “what is it exactly you need?”

  “Because JoAnne has refused to fully confess, this is one of those extremely rare instances where I have been forced to intervene.”

  “Have you ever considered the possibility that there is simply nothing to confess?”

  Gordon sighs again. “The first day my team ran surveillance on JoAnne, she lied to Neil. She snuck out of the house and met you in the food court. For years, I worked for a foreign intelligence service. My subjects were professionals; they knew how to cover their tracks. That was difficult. This is not.”

  “Have you considered the possibility that JoAnne isn’t cheating on Neil? That she was meeting me just as a friend?”

  “In situations like this, I’ve found that the suspected spouse is always cheating. That will be the outcome here as well. It is simply a matter of how we get to that inevitable outcome.”

  “I can’t lead you there. Because it didn’t happen.”

  In an era of Big Data and plentiful information, it’s always possible to find evidence to support any point of view, whether it is right or wrong. I think of the run-up to the war in Iraq, yellowcake uranium in Africa, atrocities in Kurdistan—the tidal wave of evidence, both true and false, that leads nations to the decision to go to war.

  Gordon gives me a pained smile. “Here’s my suggestion. You testify that JoAnne made some sort of overt act or statement that indicated she was interested in pursuing a sexual relationship with you. You don’t have to say anything more. You don’t have to incriminate yourself. We can just leave it at that. You can plead to some unrelated, minor offense, accept the judgment, and move on with your life. Quite simple. Won’t you at least do it for Alice?”

  When I don’t answer, he scowls. “Look, I’m doing everything I can to help you, Jake. I’m out on a limb here, and you don’t seem to appreciate it. You probably don’t know that there is an auxiliary handbook that addresses The Pact’s implementation requirements. It’s not for members but for enforcement personnel like myself, and it guides me in carrying out my responsibilities. This is an unusual circumstance, however, in that it involves an executive’s wife. In the interests of expediency, Neil arranged for us to have an expanded array of techniques. Each time we implement a new technique, we need an order from the judge. I’ve already obtained that authority. I can’t share with you the specific set of techniques that have been authorized, but I can tell you that they’re something you don’t really want to experience.” His face is turning red. “If this is all about some sort of misguided altruism, I assure you that JoAnne won’t want to experience them either.”

  “You’re saying that the only way for me to save myself and JoAnne is to lie. But if I do lie and give you what you want, how do I know that the punishment for JoAnne won’t be even worse?”

  “I guess you’ll just have to trust me.”

  I look up at Maurie, hoping for some sort of guidance, but he’s studying the floor.

  “One of the hard-and-fast rules, Jake, is that you can only be held here for six days without being charged. Once you are charged, we get a week to prepare for the hearing. You can request more time, but I cannot. Do you understand why I’m telling you these things?”

  “No.”

  “It means we must come to an understanding during the next three or four days. I will need to escalate things quickly, which I don’t like—and I know you won’t. In my previous work, I could take my time, hold someone for weeks on end. I could get to know them, mete out punishments slowly, and ensure that when we reached an understanding it was firm and truthful.”

  “Look, I have not had a relationship with JoAnne Charles in many years. No matter how many times you ask me the question, the facts won’t change. I’m not an adulterer.”

  We glare at each other. Clearly, we’ve reached an impasse. I can’t see a way out. “Can I call my wife?”

  “Yes, maybe that would be a good idea.”

  Gordon pulls a phone out of his back pocket. I recite Alice’s cell number and he enters it. He puts me on speakerphone.

  I don’t know where she will be; I realize I don’t actually know what day or time it is.

  “Hello?”

  Alice’s voice, after everything that’s happened over these past few hours, is almost more than I can take.

  “Jake? Is that you?”

  “Alice.”

  I can hear office sounds in the background, then a door shutting and quiet. “Jake, are you hurt? Where are you? Can I come to get you?”

  “I’m still at Fernley. I’m not with my lawyer right now, and I’m not alone. I’m in an interrogation.”

  I hear her frightened intake of breath. “What did the judge say?”

  “I haven’t seen a judge yet. They just keep asking me questions. They want me to say things. Things that aren’t true.”

  A long silence. More doors shutting, elevator, then street noise. Finally, Alice says, “Just tell them whatever they want to hear.”

  “But what they want to hear is a lie, Alice.”

  “Jake, for me, for our marriage, please give them what they want.”

  With that, Gordon clicks the speaker off. Maurie leaves the room and the door slams behind him.

  “Are you ready to have that conversation now?”

  “I need to think.”

  “Wrong answer,” he says, standing so fast his chair topples over. “Time’s up.” He stalks out. The light goes off. I’m in the dark, confused, uncertain, and I feel like I can still hear Alice’s voice echoing off of the walls.

  Minutes pass before the lights come on. A mustached man in a black uniform walks in. He looks like a cross between a plumber and an accountant. “Looks like you’re our first guinea pig for this one.” He’s holding a black canvas bag. “I apologize in advance. I would say, ‘Let me know if this hurts,’ but I’m fairly certain it will.”

  The plumber clicks two metal bracelets around my wrists. Then he leans down, pulls my pant leg up and clicks two on my ankles. I’m relieved when he stands to go, but then I sense him behind me. He pushes a rubber ball into my mouth, securing it in place with a strap. “Nice to meet you, Jake,” he says, then leaves the room.

  By the time Gordon returns with a laptop, my mouth is dry, my jaw aching. “This is four on the escalation levels,” he informs me. “I’m sorry it had to get to this.” He taps a few buttons on his computer, then looks up. “These things around your wrists and ankles, as I think you might have guessed, are electrodes.”

  I hadn’t guessed.

  “I’ve set the
program for one hour. Every four minutes, one of your limbs will receive a shock. The program is random, so you won’t know which one until it happens. Okay?”

  No. Not okay. Drool dribbles around the rubber ball and down my chin.

  “Sorry about the headgear. It’s to protect your teeth and gums. Anyway, it’s set to start in four minutes. I can’t stop it now, even if you wanted to talk.”

  I shake my head and try to speak through the bit, but my tongue is useless.

  “See you in an hour,” Gordon says. “We’ll have a chance to talk before we get to level five.”

  “Please.” It’s what I’m thinking, and I try to say it, but the word is mangled, unintelligible.

  The lights go out. For a few minutes, nothing happens. Maybe it’s all an empty threat. Maybe Gordon doesn’t know how to work the damn program. Then out of nowhere, an electrical shock zings my right ankle. The pain buzzes straight up my leg and spreads through my body. I smell the stench of burning hair. It hurts so much, I scream, or try to. Slobber drools down my face. I taste rubber. I’m breathing heavier. I don’t know if the buzzing in my brain is from the shock or from fear of the next one.

  I’m sweating profusely when the second shock hits my other ankle. More burning hair, more screaming. I’ve never felt anything this painful. I’ve never even imagined this much pain. My jumpsuit is drenched in sweat and piss, I have nearly bitten through the rubber in my mouth. Thirteen to go.

  After shock number six, I black out. I come to in horror as the next shock bolts through my body. The room is filled with the stink of burning flesh, urine, and shit. My head is on the table, my brain empty of anything except the searing knowledge of this pain.

  When Gordon finally returns, I’m ashamed by how relieved I am to see him.

  Maurie enters the room after Gordon. This time, his eyes meet mine. I see something there—is it horror or pity? Or disgust?

  Gordon casually pulls out a chair and sits down. He sniffs the room and grimaces. “Don’t be embarrassed, Jake, by your loss of control over bodily functions. Just a natural reaction, I assure you. Should we move on to level five?”

  I realize he has done this before. I imagine that it always ends the same.

  I shake my head as hard as I can, but I can’t be sure it’s moving at all. “Nnnnnnn,” I mumble, gagging on a foul mixture of spit and rubber.

  “What?”

  “No!”

  He smiles, genuinely delighted. “Okay, then. Good choice.”

  Maurie opens the door a crack and mutters something to someone I can’t see. Seconds later, the plumber is back, and he removes the headgear. He starts to unlatch my wrists, but Gordon stops him. “Let’s hold off on that for now.”

  The plumber doesn’t respond. Instead he just packs up his things noisily and leaves.

  Gordon takes out his iPhone and sets it almost tenderly on the table between us. He takes a clean white towel and wipes the sweat off of my face. “Better?” he asks.

  I lick my lips. I taste metal, rubber, and blood.

  “You probably want to go clean up,” he says.

  I barely manage a nod. My body is still shaking. My bladder has been emptied. I am mortified and miserable, sitting in my own piss and shit.

  “Soon,” Gordon says soothingly. “I promise.”

  Even though I know it’s all some sick game to him, something in me responds to the kind note in his voice. I want desperately to believe that it’s real.

  He sets a legal pad beside the phone. “Just answer yes or no,” he says, tapping the record button on the phone. He reads from the legal pad. “Did you have a previous sexual relationship with JoAnne Charles?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see her at a Pact party approximately two months ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see her again a week later?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you conspire to meet with her secretly at the Hillsdale mall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you meet her at the Hillsdale mall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you buy her lunch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she make sexual advances to you?”

  “Yes,” I mumble.

  “What?”

  “Yes,” I say more clearly.

  “Did you have sex with her?”

  “Recently?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “Yes, I have had sex with JoAnne Charles.”

  “Please repeat that.” Gordon pushes the phone closer.

  “Yes, I have had sex with JoAnne Charles.”

  “Did you have sex with JoAnne Charles at a hotel in Burlingame, California, on March seventeenth?”

  I look into his eyes, trying to voice the words he wants to hear. Level five. What does that mean? My mind races. Is this just another trick? If I confess, will they use my confession as the rationale for sending me wherever they sent Eliot and Aileen? Worse, will they play the confession for Alice? Will they turn my precious wife against me? What is more dangerous? A false confession, or the truth?

  I know one thing for certain: I cannot lose Alice.

  Finally, I say, “No.”

  Anger flares in his eyes. He turns to the computer and hits a few quick keys. He hands me the towel he used to wipe my face. “You may want to bite down on this.”

  “Please, don’t,” I plead.

  He looks at me and grins. “Thirty seconds,” he says. “Did you sleep with JoAnne Charles at the Burlingame Hyatt?”

  I’m sweating; my mind is blank. Before I can answer, I feel the electricity sizzling through my body. I topple off my chair, moaning, and hit the floor. The cuffs dig into my wrists.

  “Thirty seconds,” Gordon says.

  I lie here, not even sure if I’m still alive.

  “Fifteen.”

  My brain is on fire.

  “Ten.”

  I’m staring at something on the floor. A shoe. Gordon’s shoe.

  As the current shoots through my left leg, up to my chest, I flop around on the floor. I smell my skin burning. I look up at Maurie, begging him with my eyes but unable to utter a single world. He winces and looks away.

  I’m under the table now, blood streaming down my arms from the cuts in my wrists. I notice for the first time that the wall behind me is mirrored. Who’s watching?

  The current shuts down. Someone uncuffs my hands. I lie in my own fluids, motionless, stunned. I want to die. The thought shocks me. I would rather die than suffer through that again.

  “Help me,” I whisper.

  74

  How long have I been lying here? An hour? A day? The door opens.

  “Enough,” Neil says.

  “Not now,” Gordon says. “We’re so close.”

  “Come with me,” Neil says. I think he means me. I try to move, but I can’t. But then Gordon follows him out of the room. “Help,” I say once more.

  “You’re going to have to help yourself,” Maurie says. He walks out the door, closing it softly behind him. I understand now, with a sinking certainty, that Maurie will do nothing for me. No one here will do anything for me. They will only stand by and follow orders.

  For the longest time, I hear nothing.

  Finally, the door opens again. Elizabeth Watson seems harried. Then she sees me on the floor and exclaims, “My God, what have they done to you?”

  She helps me up, grimacing. I’m embarrassed by the stench in the room, the stains on my clothes. She reaches into her bag and hands me a bottle of water. I’m insanely thirsty, but I can barely get my hands around the bottle. I struggle to get the top off, and Elizabeth takes it from me gently and unscrews the lid, holds the bottle to my lips. After I’ve drunk the entire thing, water dribbling down my chin, she hands me a new jumpsuit, a pair of white underwear folded neatly on top. “I’m so sorry, Jake. You can get cleaned up now. Follow me.”

  I stumble down the hallway, no doubt leaving a trail of filth behind
me. She stops in front of a door marked SHOWERS. I go in and stand under the warm water. I stay under the water for a long time, until it turns cold. I put on the clean clothes.

  Outside the bathroom, Elizabeth stands waiting. She pulls a packet of peanut butter M&M’s out of her bag and pours a few into my palm. I’m so hungry, but when I bite down on the candy, my whole face aches. She doesn’t say a word until we are in her office and the door is closed.

  “Relax,” she says, pointing to the chair.

  I collapse into the chair and close my eyes. I hear Elizabeth pull the blinds down, lock the door, turn on some music. Tears for Fears is singing “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.” I will never hear this song the same way again.

  When she turns the volume up and pulls her chair over to me, I realize the music is to drown out her voice, to counteract any microphones.

  “You were hard to find.” She’s whispering. “They wouldn’t tell me where they’d taken you. I started looking around, making phone calls. Finally, I had to file a paper with the judge requesting an injunction. When they kept stalling, I knew it had to be bad, whatever they were doing to you.”

  I give her a look to say You have no idea.

  “The judge unsealed their brief requesting enhanced techniques. I read what they’d been given permission to do.” She squeezes my hand. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “Can I please go home?” My voice sounds like a stranger’s.

  “Sorry to say we’re not there yet. They have painted you in a very negative light. Because of some irregularities in their request, however, we may have some openings.”

  I’m still trying to figure out Elizabeth Watson. She is dowdy and impossibly thin. Her confidence tells me she has been a real lawyer for a long time.

  “Do you work here?” My jaw hurts. My whole body hurts.

  She gives me an odd look. “No.”

  “Are you a member of The Pact?”

  “Yes. Eight years. My partner and I live in San Diego.”

  She moves in closer, her mouth only inches from my ear. “We’re not supposed to talk about this. I’m here for a Trust Infraction—because I didn’t have the proper level of trust in my partner.”