"No further questions," the prosecutor snarled.
II
You're as good as they say you are," the defense attorney told me, shaking my hand in his paneled office. "Nobody knows those people like you do."
I nodded, waiting patiently
"It's just amazing…the way you predicted everything the prosecution would do. Hell, I thought we were dead in the water on this one. Told Wilson he could expect to do about five years in the pen. And here the judge hands him probation on a platter."
"Psychiatric probation," I reminded him.
"Yeah, I know. He has to stay in treatment with you for the full term or he goes inside. But so what? It's a better deal than he would have gotten in the joint."
"I kept my word?" watching him carefully.
"You surely did, my friend. And don't think I've forgotten about our arrangement, either. Here you are, just like I promised."
The check was drawn on his escrow account. Fifteen hundred dollars. I put it in my attaché case along with the ten thousand in cash lying next to it on his teakwood desk. As agreed.
III
Wilson sat across from me in my private office, his face a study in eager anticipation.
"This won't be easy," I told him. "We have to remake you, start from the beginning. And we begin with honesty, all right?"
"Yes, that's what I want. Honesty. I didn't see much of it during my trial."
"Tell me about that."
"Well, the boys lied. I don't mean about…what we did. But about how they felt about it. You know what I'm saying? I didn't force them…any of them. It was love. A special love. All I wanted to do was be something special to them. A loving, special friend. That D.A., he turned it into something ugly. The jury never heard my side of it."
"How did it start?"
"With that boy Wesley…the first one to testify. When I first met him, he was eight years old. And you never met a more seductive little boy, always wanting to be cuddled. He doesn't have a father, you know. I mean, it's natural for a boy to seek love."
"I know."
"And I loved him. Why should that be a crime? I never used force, never hurt him even once."
"How do you feel…about being prosecuted?"
"I feel like I'm the victim. I did nothing wrong—it's the laws that are wrong. And, someday, you'll see, the laws will change. I mean, kids have rights too, don't they? What good is the right to say 'no' if they don't have the right to say 'yes'?"
"The law says they're too young to consent to sex."
"That's a lot of crap. Kids know what they want. You know how willful they can get, how demanding. I've been around kids all my life. That's the way they are."
"Okay, look. Your problem is a simple one, isn't it?"
"What do you mean?"
"You got caught."
"But…"
"That's your problem, Mr. Wilson. You got caught. And our treatment here, it's to guarantee it doesn't happen again."
Suspicion glazed his eyes. "How could you do that?"
"First of all, we set the stage. You'll get therapy for a while, learn how to talk the talk. Then, eventually, you'll be relocated. You'll never be able to live around here after what happened. Never get a job working around kids. But, after a while, you'll be able to move to a new town. And start over."
"Is this a trick?"
"No trick. I know my business. And I'm smart enough to know it's all a matter of packaging. This is America. Whatever we call things, that's what they become. And what they're going to call you is 'cured,' understand?"
He nodded, dry–washing his hands, still apprehensive. "You said something in court…about drugs…"
"Don't worry about it. Sometimes a court insists on DepoProvera…so–called 'chemical castration.' But that's not a problem here. And even if it were, we could give you one of the androgen group, reverse it almost instantly."
"My lawyer said it would be real expensive."
"Oh yes. We're the only clinic in the country that provides this range of services, but look what you're getting for your money…no victim confrontation, no shock treatments, no encounter groups, no drugs. Just preparation for how you're going to…successfully…live the rest of your life. And you don't spend a day in jail. Pretty good, isn't it?"
"How did you…?"
"Get into this? It's easy enough to understand. While I was still in medical school, I realized that pedophile treatment is the growth industry of the nineties. The money's great, the malpractice premiums are low, and there are other benefits too."
"Like being paid in cash," he said, smiling the sociopath's smile.
"Like that," I said, holding out my hand for the money.
IV
Okay, Mr. Wilson, you're about ready for discharge. Our records will show you've completed intensive individual psychotherapy, participated in group, undergone aversive conditioning. All satisfactory. I can truthfully say you're ready to live without probation supervision. Have you made plans?"
"I sure have. In fact, I've been corresponding with a few boys in an orphanage in Florida. You know, counseling them about their problems. I've been offered a job down there, and I'll be leaving as soon as my lawyer gets me released from probation."
"Good. There's just one more thing. You've never really apologized to the boys, and most therapists think that's a key element in treatment."
"I don't want to…"
"No, of course you won't have to see them. What would really help persuade the court is a letter from you to the boys…just telling them you understand what you did, how you take full responsibility. Like we taught you, remembers Urge them to go on with their lives, and promise they'll never see you again, okay''
"You think it'll work?"
"I'm sure it will work. I know these people. Write me out a couple of drafts, and I'll stop by tonight when I'm done with the last group and look them over. Then we'll pick the best one."
"Thanks, doc. You saved my life again."
V
Wilson lived in a modern highrise right near the city line. I rang his bell around 11:30. He buzzed me in. The lobby was deserted—the place is mostly a retirement community. I insisted he move from his old address to a place where there were few children around. To reduce the temptation.
I took the steps to the twenty–sixth floor, not even breathing hard. I don't get to work out at the dojo anymore, but I like to stay in shape.
Wilson had a half–dozen samples ready for me, all in his educated handwriting on personalized light blue stationery. He stepped out onto the balcony to smoke a cigarette while I read them through. Finally, I found one that was suitable.
I'm sorry for everything I did. I know now that no excuse, no rationalization will ever make things right. I've been learning about myself, and now I know the truth. You are the victims, not me. I know why I did what I did, and I'm sorry for all the pain I caused. It's better this way. You will never see me again. I hope you grow up to be good citizens, and always stay true to yourselves. Goodbye.
His signature was strong, self–assured. I left the letter I selected on his desk. Then I went outside to join him on the balcony.
The night was warm, velvety dark. City lights winked below, quiet and peaceful.
"Was that what you wanted, doc?" he asked.
"Perfect," I said, patting him gently on the back. "Look out there, Mr. Wilson…see your future."
He leaned over the balcony. I knife–edged my right–hand, swept it into a perfect power–arc to the back of his neck, followed through with the blow, spinning on my right foot and sweeping him over the side with my left hand.
He didn't scream on the way down.
I stepped back inside, dialed 911, told them he had jumped. While I waited, I tore the other letters into small bits and flushed them down the toilet.
Treatment works.
UNDERGROUND
Bum's Rush
It all started when one of them spilled wine on Rajah. We were all togeth
er when it happened—Game Boys, out on the stalk. We all had our ID jackets, blue and white Celex. Every jacket cost more than two months' tokens, but we wear only the very finest. You can't be a Game Boy unless you can style. Rajah is the leader. He was then, anyway.
We were coming from the Arcade, where we play. Game Boys play video games. Every crew plays something. You are what you do. The Scooter Boys all ride. The Magic Girls do potions. I even heard about a crew out in Brooklyn, the Cricket Boys. West Indians, I think they are.
Anyway, this bum was staggering down the platform. We were waiting on the Uptown Conveyor—we saw him coming. Just a bum. In a long, floppy coat. Burns have no style. We spread out in a fan, the way we do with outsiders. The bum had to walk real close to the tracks to get past us. Rajah was the closest. The bum turned kind of sideways to get past. His hands were shaking. He had a bottle in a paper bag. Some of the wine bubbled out. Red wine. It splattered on Rajah's jacket, right on the white sleeve with the four Tron–marks branded in blue.
Everybody went quiet then. Nobody can touch our jackets, Rajah just looked at the bum with his mouth open. Like it couldn't be happening.
I took out my blaster. It's really just a pistol, a little .25 caliber automatic. Chrome, with a pearl handle. From the old days. We all have them. You have to have one to be a Game Boy. We call them blasters, like in the video games.
I never shot it before. The Conveyor was coming. I pointed it at the bum and pulled the trigger. It didn't make much noise, like a little pop, but the bum grabbed his chest like he'd been stabbed. I kept pulling the trigger, thinking "Zap!" in my head, like I was wasting a whole army of Trons. I felt the rush you get from wasting, running right through me. A perfect score means a free game.
The bum fell down. Rajah kicked him until he went over the side, onto the tracks.
We walked away, smooth. Game Boys don't run.
The next day, it was on the Info–Board in every station. The bum who got done. The sensors light up in the Sanitation Tunnel, and the Squad goes out, finds the dead ones. They had the bum's number on the Info–Board. A low number—he must have been a real old one.
Merlin gave me the idea for the mark. Like we do for Trons. Rajah had four. On his sleeve, where you wear them. You get a Tron–mark for a perfect game. Rajah had four—it was the most of any of us, so he was the leader. Anyway, Merlin said I should have a mark…for blasting the bum.
Rajah said that was bogus. Only Trons counted. Merlin said a bum was like a Tron, only harder, maybe. Some of the Game Boys went with Rajah, some went with me. It was a true dispute.
We went to the Arcade to settle it. Game Boys don't fight each other, it's the rules. None of the crews fight each other. I heard they used to, years ago, before the Terror. Before everybody lived underground.
The thing about burns, they don't have crews.
If they catch you fighting now, they put you on the Hydro–Farm for a year. A whole year, and you don't get any tokens for it.
If you kill someone in a crew, they put you Outside. The crews never fight each other anymore.
In the Arcade, Rajah always wins. He's sharper than me. Faster, with better eyes. But that night I was better. I beat him right at the end, when I fired a laser–combo into the Tron breeding center.
So I got to wear the mark.
For a couple of weeks, I was the only one.
Then Turbo came to the Arcade and said he got one too. A bum. Turbo said he shot him in the back near a Feeding Station.
It was on the Info–Board, but the Dead Score never says how they die—they just put the number up. So we didn't know, not for sure. Some of the Game Boys didn't believe him, but Turbo wanted a mark anyway.
He had to play me for the mark, and I beat him, so he didn't get one.
Merlin said we had to have new Rules. My mark was okay, because all the Game Boys saw me earn it. We have to have Rules, like the game, so everyone has the same chance.
When we went out on the stalk, everybody knew what Turbo would do. He blasted a bum right in front of us. He got his mark.
After a while, Rajah got one too. Then he got another one. He was the leader again.
The next time we were in a fan and we saw a bum, four Game Boys blasted him at the same time.
Merlin said we had to have new Rules again.
The burns started to hide, deeper in the tunnels.
We got off the Conveyor and walked right into a fan of Music Boys. They all had their boom boxes. The leader, Mohawk, he had his on his shoulder. He had three yellow X's on it. Rajah asked him what they meant. He pointed to Rajah's sleeve. Same thing, he said.
That's how we knew. Everybody was doing it.
In the Sex Tunnel, we saw the leader of the Dancing Girls, Charm. She had four red slashes on the thigh of her shiny black Dorban pants. It looked like lipstick, but we knew by then.
The Dancing Girls all carry razors. The one I got that night told me they don't have to blast burns in front of the others. They use their razors, take a piece of the bum back to show the score.
I told Merlin, and we changed the Rules again.
We didn't video so much after a while. In the Sex Tunnels, it wasn't so much how you styled anymore—it was your marks. The crews split up. People worked alone. It was easier that way…the burns would run if they saw a crew coming.
I was the leader. Not just the Game Boys' leader, everyone. I had the most marks.
They all hunted burns. The Deaf Boys, the Muscle Boys, even the Love Boys…the ones who sell in the Sex Tunnels.
Everyone wanted to know my secret. I didn't tell them. But what I did, I just went deeper into the tunnels. At first, the Medical Tunnel was the best. All the burns have to go there, sooner or later. I used to take fingers, they were the easiest. But Merlin said it was too easy…you could take more than one finger from a bum, and we wouldn't be able to tell…it wasn't easy to keep count, like with the Arcade.
Ears were the easiest.
Sometimes we hunted in packs. "There's one of them," the scout would whisper, and we'd get close and do him. But when we started to have arguments over the ears, everyone decided to work alone.
Like the burns.
Soon the burns would run if they saw a crew jacket. That made some of the Game Boys feel good, but I saw they were dumb.
The burns couldn't go into the Safety Tunnels where most of the old ones stay. You have to have tokens to stay there. Burns don't have tokens—they can't get them. They can't even sell their blood.
I went deeper into the open tunnels. And I left my jacket at home.
After a while, I could tell when a bum was close, even without looking.
Sometimes I went in so deep, I didn't come out for a week.
But I always had the ears, I was always the leader. The Book Boys kept score. They write on the walls. Every day, something new. With spray cans, they tell the story. That's how we would know if someone got put Outside—it would be on the walls.
When I went deep, I looked like a bum now. Smelled like one. I always carried a paper bag with a bottle of wine in it. And my blaster. And a knife, for taking trophies.
One time, I heard footsteps. People coming. The Cricket Boys, running toward me, holding their bats high over their heads. If I had my jacket, they wouldn't bother me. I could have told them the truth—they wouldn't hurt a Game Boy. But I didn't want them to know my secret, so I ran.
I ran hard, them chasing me, screaming. I heard a whisper–hiss: "In here!" I ducked into a side tunnel. A bum was hiding there. He pushed me down, under a pile of garbage. The Cricket Boys ran on by.
"They're everywhere now," the bum said. "They're trying to kill us all." He looked like a bum all right, but he didn't have any wine. I offered him some of mine.
"Thanks," I told him.
He took a drink. "We have to stick together," he said.
I took his ears.
I pretty much live in the tunnels now. But when I come back, I am the leader. It's on t
he walls. In the Sex Tunnels, I have my pick. They all know me.
Everybody hunts now. I get spotted a lot by different crews, but they can never catch me. I know the deep tunnels better than anyone.
I used to pop Zoners when I went out, but now I don't need them. Rush–rush–rush. More marks. I'm the best of them all now. I don't need Zoners.
I was lying down with my back against the wall, having a cigarette, when I heard someone call out, "There's one of them!"
It didn't even make me nervous. I got up slow, peeked around the corner to see who was coming. I could always slip away.
They came closer. I couldn't make out their jackets.
Time to run for the deep tunnels. They were real close, charging at me hard.
I took one more look.
It was a crew of burns.
Tunnel of Love
Before the Terror, there used to be what they called Agencies. I only know part of this—it was a long time ago. I know about it from the Book Boys—what they write on the walls. The Book Boys are the only ones who know where to find the Sages. The Sages are so old that they were born Outside. Born before the Terror. There aren't many of them left. The Book Boys, they used to write what the Sages told them. That was when there were a lot of the Sages, but there aren't so many now.
This is complicated. I know it is complicated. But I have to make a record, so I will try. These Agencies, they were part of the Rulers. Not like the Rulers down here. Outside, before the Terror, the Rulers went back and forth. I mean, the Rulers changed—different ones all the time. Not like down here. Outside, the Rulers had many, many smaller Rulers. Little Rulers. They were called Agencies.
One Agency would be for health. It would rule everything about health. Another Agency would be for war. It would rule the wars.
Born Bad Page 23
