“And this was your sentence? Representing me in their kangaroo court?”
“Yes, first offense, I pled out and agreed to do twelve days. Normally, I do trial work for a defense firm in Century City. You’re in very good hands. I’m very, very expensive,” she says; then, smiling, “but free for you.”
Elizabeth Watson smells like hazelnut shampoo. The aroma is comforting. With all my heart, I want to put my head in her lap and sleep.
“My wife is an attorney too,” I say.
I imagine Alice in our home, dressed in her flannel pajamas. She is drinking coffee, reading, sitting at the table, watching the door, waiting for me. I don’t regret marrying her. Even now, even today, even with the buzz bouncing around my body, the pain in my head. For better, for worse. Definitely worse. I don’t regret it.
I close my eyes again. Alice. I dream of Alice.
I dream of our honeymoon. I dream of the wedding. I dream of the trip to sell her father’s house, the ring I carried around in my pocket. When it first arrived, it seemed like just a glorified rock on a metal band, a simple object—pretty, I guess, but insanely overpriced. On the flight, though, and during the days afterward, the ring seemed to take on a kind of magic. I thought about the power it held, the spell I could cast by slipping it on her finger.
I saw the ring as the talisman that would make Alice mine. It seemed so simple. Now I see my plan for what it was: naïve and somewhat devious.
When I open my eyes, Elizabeth is back at her desk, making notes on her legal pad. She catches me watching her and smiles. “These twelve days were supposed to be easy. And the first ten were. Everyone pled, everything was straightforward. I got them all the best deal I could, and for the most part, they were all very thankful.” She taps the pen on her pad. “And now this.”
“Sorry. Can I call my wife?”
She scribbles something on the legal pad and holds it up for me to read. Bad idea! She crumples the paper, then touches her ears. Someone is listening.
The music is still on. Now it’s Spandau Ballet.
She comes to sit by me again, and leans in to speak quietly. “This judge is a shithead. He’s from the bench of the Second Circuit. I can’t imagine what the fuck he did to wind up here. I’ve read his decisions. He likes compromise, he likes people who are trying to work things out. We really need to plead to something.”
“Anything to get me out of here.”
“In your marriage, Jake,” she says, “what have you done wrong?”
I think for a minute. “Where should I start?”
75
The week before I met Alice, I rented a house at Sea Ranch, a coastal enclave three hours north of San Francisco. It was a gift to myself for finishing my final internship, a grueling year at the clinic. Online, I’d selected a tiny cottage up in the hills—no bedrooms, just a loft with a galley kitchen.
On the drive up, I stopped at the bookstore in Petaluma, the pie shop in Sebastopol, bought groceries in Guerneville, then made my way up the twisting coastal highway, going faster than I should where it hugged the cliffs high over the Pacific. I was supposed to pick up the keys and sign the papers at a rental place next to a biker bar in Gualala. When I arrived at the office, though, it was empty. I sat there, reading real estate magazines, until a pale-skinned young woman finally showed up. It was a Tuesday in winter, and it seemed as if they hadn’t rented a house in months.
As the rain started to come down, she began searching for my keys. After twenty minutes and several apologies, she confessed there had been a mix-up. The cottage I had reserved had been fumigated the day before. She gave me the keys to a place called Two Rock, provided directions, then sent me on my way. As I was walking out the door, she said, “I have a hunch you might like this place.”
Five miles down a highway lit only by the full moon and a crisp array of stars, I turned down a dark road, shadowed by eucalyptus trees. The road turned into a driveway, and the driveway turned into a compound. A grand house right on the ocean was flanked on each side by guesthouses. Just inside the gate, there was a bocce court, and around the side there was a luxurious hot tub and a sauna house that smelled of cedar.
It should have been a glorious celebration of my recent success to have seven thousand square feet all to myself. But it was cold and empty, and it made me feel, for the first time in my life, entirely alone.
The living room, facing the ocean, had a massive wall of windows. A telescope sat in the middle, and a bookshelf held a stack of books on the migration routes of whales. I spent the next morning staring through the lens, waiting to see the telltale sign, a blowhole moving slowly up the coast. I did not.
The hollow sound of that rented house, the huge television echoing down the empty hallways, the endless waves crashing on the rocks, kept rattling around my brain throughout the beginning of my relationship with Alice. The memory of the empty house at Sea Ranch made me want her more. It made me want to have her there when I got home from work. It made me want to have her there to do things with on the weekends. It made me want her in my bed. It made me want her more than I had ever wanted anyone.
76
Elizabeth is shaking my shoulders. “It’s two minutes to six, Jake.”
“Morning or evening?”
“Evening.”
“We have a court date for tomorrow at nine A.M.,” she tells me. There are papers all over the desk behind her. “They’re going to take you back to your cell now. They’ll return you two hours before court.”
There is a knock at the door. Elizabeth watches as two guys in gray uniforms pass chains through my belt loops, then connect them to restraints around my arms and legs.
“Don’t worry, Jake,” Elizabeth says, noting my embarrassment. “We’ve all been there.”
Back in my original cell, the lights appear brighter, and I notice that the heat has been turned up. Inside, there’s still only the flimsy sheet and the worn copy of The Manual. The heat is like a sauna. In an hour, my new jumpsuit is drenched. Eventually, a tray appears through the slot in my door. A bowl of macaroni and cheese and two bottles of Icelandic water. Truffle mac and cheese. My jaw still hurts, but I can tell from the tiny portion that the chef must work in a very fancy restaurant. It’s delicious.
The following morning, I wait for what seems like hours until my door opens, and a guard leads me to Elizabeth’s office. She has another clean jumpsuit—this one yellow—and a bottle of water waiting for me. As I stand in the corner, changing out of my clothes, she keeps reading her computer screen and typing.
I sit in the chair and wait. After a while, she looks up. “We may finally have a deal, Jake. Hungry?”
“Starving.”
She makes a call, and minutes later a woman in uniform shows up with a tray of toast, juice, yogurt, bacon, and scrambled eggs. Obviously not the same chef as last night. I take my time with the food, savoring it.
Downstairs, the courtroom is just like the real thing—a jury box, a place for a stenographer, a prosecutor on one side, Elizabeth and me on the other, a few observers chatting in the pews. As we take our seats, the chatter subsides. Then a female bailiff announces, “All rise, court is now in session.”
The judge emerges from a side door. He has silver hair and thick glasses and is wearing the traditional black robe. He looks like an actor playing a judge on TV. He takes his place in front of the courtroom without speaking. His clerk hands him a file.
As he reads the paperwork, we sit in silence. I tug at the neck of the yellow jumpsuit. It’s cut the same as the red ones, but the fabric is different. Scratchy. I wonder if it’s been specially engineered to make defendants uncomfortable in court. While we wait, the prosecutor, a stern guy in a business suit, keeps glancing down at his cellphone.
Finally, the judge looks at me. He takes a minute to size me up. “Hello, Friend,” he says.
I nod in response.
“Morning, counselors,” he says. “I understand that we have come to an agreement, a plea to two count
s.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” the prosecutor says.
The judge picks up the file and drops it back down on his desk dramatically. “This is an alarmingly thick file,” he observes.
The size of my file. What could possibly be in it? Alice and I have only been married for six months. Have I really been such a terrible husband? Is my list of crimes so vast?
“Yes, Your Honor,” the prosecutor agrees. “There were some issues that needed to be sorted out.”
“Given the seriousness of the file,” the judge says, “a plea to two counts, albeit a Felony Three, seems surprising, no?”
“Well…” The prosecutor squirms.
“I would expect a plea to at least a few more charges. Did our defendant’s counselor get the best of you? I must say, I’m surprised.”
I glance over at Elizabeth. Her expression remains unreadable.
“Your Honor,” the prosecutor says, “in this highly unusual case, I believe that the plea is fitting.”
The judge doesn’t speak. He flips through the file again. Except for the shuffling of papers, it is hushed in the courtroom. I get the feeling everyone is terrified of the judge. And I realize that, despite his robe and the bailiff and all the usual trappings of the justice system, this court is far from ordinary. Even the attorneys are afraid. At any moment, they might find themselves sitting right where I’m sitting, defending themselves against false allegations, answering for crimes they may or may not have committed.
Finally, the judge tucks the papers back in the folder. He takes off his reading glasses and looks down at me. “Jake, you’re a lucky man.”
Why don’t I feel like a lucky man?
“Last week, our defense attorney was an ambulance chaser from Reseda. I doubt he would have been able to orchestrate the same outcome for you that Ms. Watson has.” The judge seems slightly frustrated but resolved. Then he says, “Please stand.”
I stand, and beside me Elizabeth stands too.
“Jake, you have been charged with one felony count of Possessiveness, section nine, unit four, paragraphs one through six, and one misdemeanor count of Seeking Anti-Pact Propaganda, section nine, unit seven, paragraph two. You have the right to a jury trial among your peers. How do you plead?”
I glance at Elizabeth. She whispers in my ear.
“Guilty, Your Honor,” I say. “On both counts.”
“Do you understand that with this plea you do not have the opportunity to appeal should you have a change of heart following the sentencing?”
“Yes. I understand.”
“Are you familiar with The Manual’s teachings relating to possessiveness?”
“Yes.”
“How would you define possessiveness?”
“Manifesting a desire to control your partner.”
“Would you agree that appropriately describes your behavior?”
“Yes, Your Honor. One of my original intentions when I proposed marriage may have been rooted in this desire.”
“You are aware, also, that seeking information online to vilify or otherwise cast aspersions upon The Pact is a crime that we cannot tolerate, for the health of The Pact and for the good of your marriage?”
“I understand, sir.”
“Okay, Jake. I will accept your plea. You have been found guilty of one count of Possessiveness, as defined in nine, four, one through six. As you know, that is a Felony Three. You have also been found guilty of one count of Seeking Anti-Pact Propaganda, as defined in nine, seven, two. Misdemeanor Four. Both are serious crimes. In mitigation, this is your first offense; you have willingly acknowledged and pleaded guilty to the offenses. Your sentence is as follows: six months of weekly consultations with a certified Pact mentor selected by your regional coordinator, one year availability for participation in our long-distance counseling program, the customary hundred-dollar fine, a three-month moratorium on Internet use with the exception of email, and four days at Fernley as time served.”
Time served. That means I’m getting out. Relief makes my knees buckle.
But then he continues: “Because I’m uncomfortable with the size of your file and the accusations contained within, and because something in my gut tells me you are at risk to become a repeat offender, I am also going to order the following suspended sentence: one year home monitoring, one year mobile incarceration level one, and thirty days at Fernley, to be served consecutively. Although I have suspended this sentence for now, let it stand as motivation each day to follow the correct path. If at any time it comes to my attention that you have begun questioning The Pact, if I discover that you’ve been pursuing further conversations or conducting similar inappropriate research into past or present enemies of The Pact, you’ll find yourself right back here. And I assure you, Jake, the punishments to which you’ve been subjected will seem, in hindsight, like child’s play.”
I look straight ahead, trying not to show my fear. Inside, my heart is sinking. Will I never be free?
“Jake,” the judge continues, “I don’t know the truth regarding the accusations contained in your file, and I’m not going to ask you. To be blunt, your attitude disturbs me. The Pact and your marriage are one and the same. Without respect and submission, there will be no success. You have been a member for only a short time, so I have shown lenience. But as you can see, my leniency has a limit. The Pact exists above us, with no man rising higher. Make your peace with The Pact. Do it now—not five years from now, not ten years from now—for your own good. We’re not going anywhere. Look around you. The walls of this institution are strong; the influence of its people are stronger. The Pact casts a shadow wider than you know. Most of all, we have a complete and unwavering belief in the rightness of our mission. Find your position within The Pact, find your position within your marriage, and you will find your own daily reward.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
The judge whacks his gavel, stands, and departs.
Elizabeth and I collect our things and wait for the courtroom to clear. When the stenographer has finally packed up her machine and departed, I turn to Elizabeth. “What is ‘mobile incarceration level one’?”
“That’s something I’m going to have to find out.” She looks grave and deeply concerned. “I don’t know what you did, or who you pissed off, but you need to make it right. If you wind up back here, I don’t think anyone will be able to help you.”
I find myself standing alone with Elizabeth in the hallway in front of the courtroom. One wall is lined with black-and-white photographs of Orla. She poses above a rugged coastline, in front of a cottage obscured by fog. The other wall is lined with black-and-white photos of couples on their wedding day. Important people. Surely, none of these people knew, when these photos were taken, what they were getting into.
Elizabeth’s phone vibrates. She looks at a text message. “Your plane is ready,” she says, leading me toward yet another door.
The light of the outer room blinds me for a few seconds, and then I realize we are at the very place where I entered this nightmare. Fernley suddenly reminds me of the rides I loved when the carnival came to the fairgrounds: part tunnel of love, part funhouse, all terrifying. A guard hands me a sealed plastic bag containing my meager possessions.
“This is where we part,” Elizabeth says.
I sense she wants to give me a hug. Instead, she takes a step back. “Safe travels, Friend.”
I step inside the men’s room, quickly shed my jumpsuit, and put on my street clothes. On my way out, I pass a mirror. The view is startling. I glance behind me, half-expecting to see a bald stranger, but then I realize that the alien in the reflection is me.
I walk out of the bathroom, still not completely convinced they’re going to just let me go. But the double front doors open for me. I head down the long hallway toward the runway. I’m tempted to run, but I don’t want to give the impression that they’ve made a mistake. When I get to the final gate, I can see a Cessna—my plane, I hope—sitting on the runway.
A larger plane touches down on the runway and comes to a stop near the Cessna. The noise of the plane engine dies down, and a door slowly opens. A van rounds the corner and pulls up next to it. The van door slides open, and two young women in matching navy dresses step out. Not women, really. They don’t look a day older than seventeen. Their uniforms are tighter and shorter than the ones everyone else wears. I sense they’re some kind of special welcoming party.
I see a golf cart on the horizon, moving toward us. The driver is female, and the passenger is a man in a suit. A foot in a prison slipper emerges from the van. The hem on the red jumpsuit gets caught on the door and slides up, revealing a bare ankle. I’m not sure how, but I know it is JoAnne.
Two thin arms emerge, shackled at the wrists. Then a head, covered in a black hood. The two young women take her by the arms and guide her toward the larger plane. As JoAnne hobbles across the tarmac, the black hood swivels in my direction. Can she see me? I am horrified, mesmerized, watching her shuffle toward the awaiting plane. Did I do this to her?
She struggles up the ramp and disappears into the plane.
The golf cart comes to a stop just beyond the gate. The man gets out and stands, his back to me, just a foot away. Expensively tailored suit, Italian shoes. For a minute, no one moves.
Finally, the man in the suit turns. Neil.
“Hello, Jake,” he says, pulling a key ring out of his pocket. “Did you enjoy your stay?” The ring holds a single key.
“Not entirely.”
“Next time, Jake, we won’t be quite so hospitable.”
The key glints in the sun, sending splinters of light across his suit. The fabric has an unpleasant sheen. His forehead has clearly been injected with Botox many times. I can’t imagine what JoAnne ever saw in him.
He looks directly into my eyes. “When a rule is broken,” Neil says, “the price must be paid. It is only then that balance is restored, equality returns, and the Pact, like a marriage, can move on.” He puts the key in the slot but doesn’t turn it. “Things are seriously out of balance, thanks to you. You and Alice are out of balance, JoAnne and I are out of balance, and more important, The Pact is out of balance.”
The Marriage Pact Page 31
