The Conviction

by Robert Dugoni

“Which is why it was even more important for us to be there in the courtroom with them,” Molia said. “And we would have been if one of your officers hadn’t pulled us over. If you got a complaint department point me in the direction because I have a list at the moment.” Molia said it with a smile.

  “Who pulled you over?”

  “The name was Wade, Carl Wade.”

  Barnes gave a small shake of the head and his face pinched, like he’d just smelled something distasteful. “Wade is an ass, and he’s not one of mine. Truluck has its own private police force. They have no jurisdiction outside the city limits.”

  “Yeah? Well, somebody might want to remind him because he pulled us over on the way to the courthouse,” Molia said, the situation becoming more clear.

  “What’s a private police force?” Sloane asked.

  Molia turned to explain. “Just what it sounds like. They’re hired, sometimes by a company, sometimes a private homeowners’ association. Other times it can be the citizens of an entire town.”

  “Security guards?” Sloane asked.

  “Not always,” Molia said. “They can be granted official police powers in the particular jurisdiction they serve and do things like patrol city streets, respond to 911 calls, and hand out parking and speeding tickets.”

  “So they’re police officers?” Sloane asked.

  “Hardly,” Molia said, looking to Barnes for confirmation. “My understanding is they don’t attend the academy.”

  Barnes chipped in. “They haven’t had any formal training, but inside the Truluck city limits, they’re empowered to enforce the laws. With California on the verge of bankruptcy and budget cuts in the police and fire departments I suspect we’re going to see more of this type of thing. Word out of Sacramento is that all of Winchester County is on the chopping block. They’re calling it a consolidation of resources, but what it means in practical terms is fewer police and firefighters covering a whole lot more territory. The alternative is private police forces and volunteer fire departments.”

  “Who pays for it if the state is bankrupt?” Sloane asked. “It’s got to cost money.”

  “It does. In this case it’s the citizens of Truluck through a business tax, though Victor Dillon subsidizes the expense,” Barnes said.

  “Who’s Victor Dillon?” Molia asked.

  “Sorry,” Barnes said. “I take some things for granted around here. Dillon owns the Gold Rush Brewery just outside Truluck. You might have seen signs for it driving in. He bought it about twenty years ago when it was failing and built it back up. Made a fortune. Since then he’s pretty much bought up all the land around it to grow his hops, including Truluck.”

  “He owns the whole town?” Sloane asked.

  “Every building.”

  “I thought it was a historical landmark?” Molia asked.

  “That was Dillon’s doing.” Barnes pointed to his temple. “You get the state to make the town a historical landmark, slap a coat of paint on the buildings, and it increases the tourists. More tourists means more business. Everyone in Truluck either leases space from or works directly for Victor Dillon, and they pay a tax to support a private police force.”

  Molia rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s why they didn’t make a phone call,” Molia said. “How T.J. and Jake could be brought before a judge so quickly. Wade and his pals don’t work for the citizens of the state, so those small things you mentioned like due process and civil rights don’t concern them like they do the rest of us.”

  “Technically they aren’t public servants,” Barnes added.

  “So constitutional safeguards just get tossed out the window?” Sloane asked.

  “Pretty much,” Molia said. “They can’t be sued for civil rights violations.” Another thought came to him and he turned his attention back to Barnes. “Why would a town like Truluck need its own police force? I can’t imagine it has much crime.”

  “Ordinarily, it doesn’t,” Barnes said. “Just makes everyone feel better, I guess. Dillon likes things run orderly.”

  “Sounds like a common trait around here,” Molia said.

  Barnes nodded. “Between us girls, I hear you. And I don’t much care for the way Judge Earl does things at times, but he’s the law in Winchester County, has been for seventeen years, and that’s not likely to end before I either put in my thirty and retire or the state goes through with their consolidation and puts me out to pasture. So we deal with it best we can.”

  “I intend to deal with it,” Sloane said, “as soon as I get out.”

  Barnes grimaced, as if the bad smell had returned. “Can I make a suggestion? Hold off a bit longer on that kind of talk. Judge Earl’s got a short fuse, but it tends to burn down just as quick. After he’s had a chance to simmer a while he calms and I can usually talk sense to him. If he thinks he’s getting pushed you’ll only relight his fuse. Let me have one of my deputies get you something to eat and drink and I’ll take a walk over and assess the situation, like I said. I’ll talk to Archibald Pike. He’s the county prosecutor and a reasonable enough fellow. I doubt seriously he wants to prosecute an officer of the law on a contempt charge, and between the two of us, I think we’ll be able to convince Judge Earl to let this one go.”

  Molia looked to Sloane, who gave a resigned shrug. Under the circumstances they didn’t have much choice.

  FRESH START YOUTH TRAINING FACILITY

  SIERRA NEVADA MOUNTAINS

  Jake’s head bounced against the window. He opened his eyes and sat up, fighting to stay awake. Officer Bradley ground the gears and the bus lurched as it slowed into another bend in the road. Coming out of the turn, Bradley shifted again, this time the engine revving as the bus ascended a steep grade, continuing to pitch and bounce up the mountain. Jake estimated the ride to have been forty-five minutes, maybe an hour, when Bradley came to a complete stop to make a hard left and the bus left the asphalt for dirt. The new road wasn’t nearly as steep, but the tires kicked up a cloud of reddish orange dust that penetrated the grates and left a fine layer of soot on the windows.

  Jake had fought to stay awake and to pay attention to the drive in case he needed to tell David where they’d been taken, but as uncomfortable as the ride had been, the suffocating heat made it near impossible to keep his eyes open. Perspiration dripped down his face and neck and beaded on his forearms until the droplets trickled off his skin. When he sat forward he felt his shirt peel away from the vinyl seat. The stale air held the bitter odor of perspiring bodies that had ridden the bus before them and was as thick as a sauna. Two seats in front of him, T.J.’s head pitched and rolled about his shoulders. Aaron had his head back, asleep. Atkins, however, sat ramrod straight in his front seat, like a mannequin anchored in place, impervious to the conditions.

  After what Jake estimated to be another ten minutes on the dirt road, the bus came to a complete stop. Through the dust-covered windows and diamond-shaped holes in the grate Jake read a bronze plaque mounted to a large boulder.

  FRESH START

  YOUTH TRAINING FACILITY

  2009

  A ten-foot-high chain-link fence rose above the boulder and extended as far as Jake could see down the road, barbed wire spiraling across the top. Behind it, in the distance, Jake saw a rectangular patch of dirt about the size of a football field and the metal roofs of buildings glinting in the sun. Bradley had the side window open, in conversation with a guard in a booth. After a moment the gate opened, Bradley ground the gearshift, and the bus lurched forward. The buildings became more distinct—squat, one-story cement block structures with green corrugated tin roofs along the southern perimeter of the dirt field. Some of the buildings were larger than others, likely to hold group activities. Jake had spent two weeks at a soccer camp in Washington State at what had been a former military base. The open field and barracks had been similarly situated, though the field had been green grass, and no fence caged them in. To the east he noted basketball hoops that looked reasonably new, chain nets hanging from o
range rims, and in the northeast corner sat a series of wooden walls, cargo nets and poles he quickly deduced to be an obstacle course of some kind. He’d been expecting the worst but now didn’t think the camp would be so bad, at least not so bad he couldn’t handle it until David got them out.

  When the bus came to a stop Atkins walked down the aisle, unlocking their chains and removing their handcuffs, issuing instructions. “When the doors open you will exit the bus single file. You will not speak. You will proceed to the front of the bus and await further orders.”

  Jake rubbed where the handcuffs had cut into his skin and flexed his wrists to encourage the flow of blood to his fingers. When he stood his legs felt weak. T.J. stumbled ahead of him. Stepping from the bus Jake lifted a hand to deflect the harsh glare of the sun. He did not see anyone else in the camp.

  “Eyes front.” Atkins stood with his hands behind his back, as if considering Jake and T.J. for the first time. Officer Bradley had disappeared inside the nearest building, taking Aaron with him.

  “Inside this gated facility you have no rights. You have forfeited your rights. The Constitution does not apply here. Every right, every privilege must be earned. You will adhere to a strict schedule. You will wake when you are told to wake, eat when you are told to eat, go to school when you are directed, exercise when you are told to exercise, and piss, shit, and shave when told to piss, shit, and shave. Am I making myself clear?”

  Jake and T.J. acknowledged him in unison. “Yes, Officer Atkins.”

  He cupped his ear and leaned in, waiting like some wannabe drill sergeant, but Jake told himself he’d play along. They repeated the mantra, only louder. “Yes, Officer Atkins.” Jake’s voice cracked, his throat raw and dry.

  Atkins straightened. “You will receive daily work assignments. Points will be earned when you complete your task on time. Demerits will be given when you fail. When you earn points you earn privileges. When you earn demerits you earn punishment. You own nothing, possess nothing, and have rights to nothing.” Atkins took two steps toward them. “Those clothes no longer belong to you. They are mine.” He waited, though for what Jake had no idea. T.J. turned and glanced at him, equally puzzled. Then Atkins rushed at them, yelling, “What are you doing wearing my clothes? Remove them! Get them off!”

  Jake and T.J. stumbled to remove their shoes and socks, hopping from leg to leg to remove their pants, Atkins yelling a stream of instructions at them. They pulled their shirts over their heads and tossed them also onto the dirt, standing in their underwear.

  Atkins shouted, “When an order is given you will follow it without hesitation or question. Plank.”

  Again, Jake had no idea what Atkins had just ordered him to do. Given that T.J. also remained standing he did not either.

  “I said ‘plank’! When I say ‘plank’ you will assume the push-up position. Now. Drop.”

  Jake and T.J. dropped.

  “Count them out.”

  Pebbles pressed into the flesh of Jake’s palms as his elbows bent and straightened. By ten his arms already felt weak from the lack of food and sleep. T.J. collapsed at fifteen. Atkins dropped to a plank, holding his body as rigid as a two-by-four, his face inches from the ground. “Do not quit. Do not quit!”

  T.J. groaned and attempted to lift his body from the dirt, but his arms would not straighten. By twenty Jake too was struggling. By thirty he had to pause at the top, butt raised, arms trembling. Atkins circled, continuing to scream. “Get your ass down. Why are you sticking your ass in the air? Am I your boyfriend, Inmate Carter? Do not bend your back.”

  During wrestling season Jake could do three sets of fifty, but that was with food and sleep and not being hung over. At thirty-seven, his arms felt like cooked spaghetti.

  “Well look what we have,” Atkins said. “A showboat.” He dropped to his hands, body again rigid, face parallel with Jake’s. “Are you a showboat, Carter? You trying to humiliate your friend?”

  “Thirty-nine,” Jake grunted. “Forty.” He paused at the top, elbows locked, snorting like a bull, spittle spewing between clenched teeth. “Forty-one.” The pauses became longer. Bile burned his throat. His shoulders ached, and he could no longer keep his back straight. His body looked like an inverted V.

  Atkins sprang to his feet and used the sole of his boot to shove him in the ass. Jake pitched forward, the side of his face impacting the ground.

  “On your feet. Get up. Get up.”

  Jake struggled to lift his chest from the ground and made it to his knees. He laced his fingers behind his head and sucked the searing, thin air into his lungs. Perspiration dripped down his chest.

  “I said, stand up!” Atkins ordered.

  Jake rose to his feet.

  “Now remove all of your clothes.”

  Jake and T.J. struggled to lift their legs but managed to remove their undershorts and discard them onto the piles. They stood naked as Atkins circled. “What do you own?” he asked.

  “Nothing, Officer Atkins.” T.J.’s voice croaked, tears streaming down his face.

  Atkins leaned between them, voice soft. “Then what are those clothes doing on my ground?” He yelled, “Get those clothes off my ground.”

  SEVEN

  WINCHESTER COUNTY

  OFFICE OF YOUTH SERVICES

  WINCHESTER, CALIFORNIA

  True to his word, Sherriff Matt Barnes fed them and somehow secured their release. After doing so, he arranged a consultation with a woman in the Winchester County Office of Youth Services at city hall, introducing Sloane and Molia to Lynne Buchman, who identified herself as a “parent liaison.” Barnes left them alone to talk.

  “You’re a parole officer?” Molia asked. He and Sloane sat in two chairs across from Buchman’s desk in a small, utilitarian office. Sloane estimated the woman to be midforties, but she wore a lot of makeup, making it difficult to be certain. From the two pictures on the shelves behind her desk, Buchman was married and had two sandy-headed boys. One apparently played high school football.

  “My job is to assist you during your child’s transition to the juvenile justice system and to answer any questions you may have.” Buchman’s smile and tone looked and sounded well rehearsed, like the employees for one of those companies that lures people to a no-strings-attached breakfast then tries to convince them to spend their life savings on a time-share in Cancun. She even had a series of brochures spread across her desk with pictures of teenage boys in red coveralls sitting at a picnic table, playing basketball, and listening attentively in a classroom.

  “Let’s call a spade a spade, shall we, Ms. Buchman,” Molia said. “Fresh Start is a boot camp in a pretty wrapper and you’re a parole officer.”

  Buchman’s tone turned condescending. “Fresh Start is not a boot camp. Physical and emotional punishment is strictly forbidden. The camp believes in a system of positive reinforcement through the use of a rewards-based incentive program.”

  The speech, like the smile, sounded rehearsed.

  “Fresh Start removes the juvenile from the negative environment that led to the inappropriate behavior and puts them in a positive environment with the focus on physical challenges and improving interpersonal skills. Studies have revealed the root of most juvenile offenses to be poor self-esteem that causes poor interpersonal skills.”

  “What types of physical challenges?” Sloane asked, not drinking the Kool-Aid but seeking as much information as he could get.

  “Individual and group challenges such as completing a hike, building a campfire without matches, or demonstrating an ability to complete a task on time. The system is designed to account for each juvenile’s physical conditioning so they can experience success. Studies show that physical fitness helps build self-esteem and confidence, and that translates into success in the classroom.”

  And Sloane bet she had another study to prove that as well. “You said ‘classroom.’ So they attend class?”

  “Five days a week.” She slid another piece of paper across the desk. Sl
oane studied it as Buchman continued.

  7:00–7:05 AM Wake-ups

  7:05–7:30 AM Morning calisthenics/exercise

  7:30–7:55 AM Showers/room & cleaning jobs/meds

  7:55–8:10 AM Room inspections/finish cleaning

  8:10–8:25 AM Breakfast meeting/hygiene inspection

  8:25–8:55 AM Breakfast

  8:55–9:10 AM Morning meeting

  9:10–2:15 PM School

  “Fresh Start adheres to a strict schedule to help the juvenile remain focused. Initially every minute of their day and night will be scheduled for them. As they move toward graduation from the program they earn free time, as well as the right to choose electives.”

  Sloane didn’t finish reading the afternoon schedule. “What kind of training do the people running this place have?”

  “The staff includes licensed educators, therapists, counselors, and military personnel, along with support staff—office managers, medical coordinators, kitchen staff, and persons such as myself.”

  “And what’s your background?” Sloane asked.

  She folded her hands on her calendar pad and tilted her head. “I have a PhD in child psychology and twenty years working with troubled youth.”

  “But you’re here,” Molia said. “Who ensures the safety of those kids at the facility?”

  “Fresh Start only accepts nonviolent offenders. If an attendee demonstrates any form of physical aggression toward another attendee or staff, he is immediately removed from the facility. Weapons of any kind are strictly prohibited. No weapons are maintained anywhere at the facility. And the facility is fully enclosed. Any excursions outside the gates are led by experienced personnel trained in both first aid and wilderness survival. Inside the facility state-of-the-art surveillance equipment provides security in every hallway, dorm, and common area twenty-four/seven. Bedroom checks are completed by staff members every half hour, seven days a week from lights out at ten to lights on at seven.”

  “Why do they need military personnel if it’s not a boot camp?” Sloane asked.