The Valley

by Rick Jones

  Ben reached out and patted his friend on the shoulder, then gave it a rub of compassion. “It’s all right, Kane. I’ve got your back.” Ben wheeled the cart over and pulled everything out with the exception of the loaves of bread, and placed the meats and dairy items on the table. “One guy can only eat so much,” he said.

  “Ben, you can’t just live on bread for two weeks. What will you drink?”

  “Water.”

  “It’s tainted,” said Kane. “The bacteria will make you sick.”

  “I think my system can handle it. It’s not like I haven’t been drinking the water. I have.”

  Kane traced a fingertip over the trail of marbled fat along the clear-packaged meat. “A prime cut,” he said. “It’s meat like I’ve never seen before.”

  “Enjoy it, Kane. Celebrate with your family. Feed your children.” He smiled gingerly.

  And Kane smiled back, showing rows of fine teeth when he did so, as tears began to well in his eyes from gratitude. “Thank you, Ben. No one could ask for a better friend than the one I have in you. I’m blessed.”

  “You know that you and the kids are family to me.”

  “I know.”

  Ben picked up the concern in Kane’s voice. “But?”

  Kane looked at him with worry, then pointed to the bounty of food on the table. “If you should ever get caught—”

  Ben held up a hand to cut him off. “Stop,” he said. “Kane, no one’s going to find out. The authorities will never know.”

  “Ben, you know as well as I do that they have their ways. People offering welfare is not a unique situation here.”

  Ben sighed and looked at the food on the table. Then flatly, he said, “I’m willing to take the risk.”

  Kane nodded in appreciation. “Thank you,” he said.

  “Feed your kids and make’m fat,” he said, smiling. “Nothing would make me happier.”

  “I will.”

  When Ben got to his feet, so did Kane, who ushered Ben to the door, clapped him on the back, and allowed Ben to leave, the locks clicking in place behind him.

  When Ben got to his apartment approximately a mile from Kane’s residence, he went through the same process of opening several locks, entered his study, placed the bread on the table, sat down, and stared at the loaves, thinking that life didn’t get any better than this.

  Three loaves of bread was all he had to show for two weeks of work, more than one hundred hours of labor in a sweat shop.

  Three loaves of bread.

  He then went to the kitchen and grabbed a glass from the counter, filled it with water, and returned to the table where he placed the glass by the bread.

  He sat.

  And he studied the contents within the glass, noting that the water wasn’t clear at all, but somewhat chalky with white residue floating within.

  Ben Peyton sighed.

  Then after prayer, he began his dinner meal consisting of stale bread and foul water.

  Chapter Three

  York City

  Late Night

  There was no television for the people of Ben Peyton’s caste, that of the poverty level, which made up the majority of the population of those living in the Burroughs of York.

  Light came by way of lantern. Cooking by camping stoves that were run by gas canisters. Baths were often taken in cold tubs of water. And the only true escapism was through books.

  Lying on a futon with a book in his hand, Ben rubbed at the mounting fatigue building in his eyes with his thumb and forefinger before setting the book aside. Just as he was about to turn off the dial to the lantern, the doorjamb to his apartment exploded inward, the locks blowing and taking flight as smoke billowed into the studio from the hallway.

  Ben folded his arms across his face in self-preservation as York’s SWAT team quickly entered the room with the points of their weapons raised and their heads on a swivel.

  “Down! Down! Down!” the Team Leader shouted.

  They were dressed in black commando fatigues with gadgetry running along and to the back of their helmets.

  “Down! Down! Down!”

  Ben immediately got into the prone position, hands out. “I’m down!”

  Then he felt the tip of a weapon press against the soft tissue of his temple.

  “Don’t move,” said Team Leader. “Not one inch.”

  Ben didn’t.

  #

  Inside the York County Detention Center, the YCDC

  The York County Detention Center was a twenty-story facility in the center of York. And on this night, like most nights in York, there was no shortage of criminal processing. There were lines for fingerprinting, for photo taking, for the breathalyzer, blood taking, cursory examinations by on-staff nurses, or the occasional out-of-hand inmate who was beaten by the blunt end of an officer’s baton.

  It had taken most of the night and well into the next day until Ben was finally processed. And as required by law since he was a citizen of York, a court-appointed attorney was waiting for him inside the Interrogation Room, along with the case officers.

  Ben was ushered into the room in belly chains and locked to the table beside his attorney, who reached out a hand to introduce himself as Steven Savile, who informed him that everything was going ‘to be just fine.’

  Ben could only smirk, however.

  Because nothing was ‘just fine’ in York.

  There were two case officers, both in white shirt and ties, professional looking—bad cop, good cop scenario, something still practiced after more than a century, but apparently effective.

  One of the officers was doughy and overweight with a flabby double chin. The other was thin and slender with black eyes and a hatchet face, the features of ‘bad cop.’

  Ben smiled inwardly.

  “Mister . . . Ben . . . Peyton,” the flabby one announced without looking at him. Instead, he was looking at the booking sheet. “You’re in a lot of trouble.” He held up the sheet for all to see. “Providing Welfare in the First Degree is a very serious charge.”

  “May I remind you, Officer Cheznit, that my client is innocent until proven guilty?” said Savile.

  Cheznit chortled. “Yeah, right,” he said. “Whatever.”

  “The charge at this point is alleged,” said Savile. “Nothing more.”

  “Well, his alleged charge,” interrupted the other officer, “has some serious evidence to back up the claim.” The officer peeled back the cover of a manila folder, grabbed several reports and photos, and then spread them across the tabletop. The first was a signed confession from Kane Gilmour, stating that Ben had been aiding his family with welfare by proffering food for the past six weeks, or three paychecks, the length of time Kane’s wife had been dead and needed help.

  But Ben couldn’t blame Kane, knowing that confessions were written under duress, the confessor, and probably in Kane’s case, was most likely threatened by having his children taken to an orphanage, a modern-day Gulag, never to be seen again.

  “Come on,” said Savile. “Seriously? Everyone knows that all confessions are coerced. It’ll be tossed faster than you can tell the court your name when I get you on the stand and tear you apart.”

  “Is that a threat, Counselor?”

  “It’s a fact. Signed confessions are as worthless as the paper they’re printed on. Even judges know how corrupt the system has become.”

  “Can you explain how your client’s earned goods ended up in Mr. Gilmour’s residence?”

  “I can’t speak for how Mr. Gilmour attained those items.”

  “Well, we can,” said the hatchet-faced officer. “We received word six weeks ago that a man by the name of Ben Peyton, your client, was involved in providing welfare to a Mister Kane Gilmour. Surveillance was set up and your client, Counselor, had been surveyed.” The hatchet-faced officer spread photos across the table in chronological order, then stabbed a finger hard against the first photo, and left it there. “This was taken four weeks ago,” he said. “Two weeks af
ter the report. Your client exits the commissary with a basket filled with goods: meat, cheese, potatoes and milk.” Points to the second photo. “Same day. He enters Mr. Gilmour’s residence with a full basket, but leaves four minutes later with a small bag of potatoes. How do you explain that, Counselor? Better yet, how does your client explain that?”

  “We’re talking about the York police here. Maybe the photos were doctored.”

  “We can prove that they weren’t.” The hatchet-faced officer then went to the next batch. “And these were taken yesterday,” he said. “Right after he left the commissary.” There were additional photos spread out for them to view. “He enters Mr. Gilmour’s residence with a basket full of goods, then walks out a few minutes later with three loaves of bread.”

  The officer with the double chin leaned forward to punch home his point. “We’ve confiscated the goods, Counselor. They’re marked with your client’s seal, the same seal that’s stamped on his pay stub. That unique mark is then stamped on all the packages to identify that the goods have been paid out accordingly to the correct employee, which is Ben Peyton.”

  The hatchet-faced officer piped in. “And those marked goods were found in Mr. Gilmour’s home.”

  “So you set my client up?”

  “No, Counselor. Your client broke the law. He did this all on his own . . . And he did so of his own free will knowing the consequences. We were simply following surveillance protocol. And there isn’t a judge sitting on the bench in York who will see it otherwise.” The fat officer leaned back into his seat. Then: “Why waste the court’s time?” he said more congenially. “The best thing for your client to do is to admit his guilt. He goes to jail, does his time, gets out, goes back to work, and life goes on.”

  “It’s never that simple, Cheznit. You know that,” Savile said irritably. “These so-called prisons are worse than Hell.”

  “Well, you know what they say, Counselor,” said the hatchet-faced officer. “In order to get to Heaven, you have to go through Hell.” He smiled.

  “Is that supposed to be funny?” asked Savile.

  “It’s reality.”

  “I’ll take this to trial, if I have to, to plead for a lesser charge.”

  “Very few judges negotiate deals on Providing Welfare in the First Degree. If your client is found guilty, he’ll do time in the worst of the worst.” Fat Man pushed a sheet of paper toward Ben. “Your best bet is to sign off and do three years flat time in Yorkshire.”

  Savile swept the paper aside. “I’d rather take my chances and negotiate time for half that, should my client be found guilty.”

  Fat Man nodded. “And he will be, Counselor.”

  “Then we’ve nothing more to say.”

  “You do understand, Counselor, that there is no bail set for this particular charge.”

  Steven Savile got to his feet, smoothed out the front of his suit with a swipe of his hand, and turned to Peyton. Then he placed a hand on his shoulder. “I need to look over the evidence,” he told him. “Then I’ll file with the courts to waive the hold and ask for bail.”

  “Which will be denied,” stated the hatchet-faced officer.

  “I’m talking to my client,” he said sternly, finding the interruption unacceptable.

  The hatchet-faced officer raised his hands in submission. Sorry.

  Then back to Ben Peyton, Savile said, “Don’t worry about anything, Ben. I’ll get on this right away. You’ve nothing to worry about.” Then he turned to Fat Man. “If this officer believes for one minute that you’ll be spending three years in a place like Yorkshire, then I’m afraid he’s sadly mistaken.”

  “I just want to get back to work,” Ben commented.

  “And that you shall,” said Savile. “That you shall.”

  Savile, grabbing his briefcase, tipped his head, a gesture of good-bye, and allowed the guard to open the door to the Interrogation Room, which Savile quickly exited after commenting that he had other clients to see.

  The Fat Man turned to Ben, then said, “Don’t count on it.”

  “Don’t count on what?”

  “On getting back to work any time too soon.”

  Fat Man and the hatchet-faced officer then escorted Ben to his cell, a small room shared by several others with one toilet, a single roll of toilet paper, and a lot of hot tempers.

  Once inside the cell and seeing what the future may hold for him, he prayed that Savile would work his magic.

  But in York, and with client lists too large for attorneys to defend those who couldn’t afford a lawyer effectively, he was sure that Savile had already forgotten about him the moment he stepped out of the Interrogation Room to meet his next client.

  But Ben hoped that this wasn’t the case.

  Chapter Four

  Prime Time Command Center

  Argentina

  Peter Haynes was sitting inside the screening room with TV executives gearing up to watch the pilot screening of the new reality show, the Wheel of Torture.

  As soon as the lights dimmed, the curtains parted, and the show began.

  It started with an off-screen MC announcement of the program; “Welcome to the Wheel . . . of . . . Tortuuuuuuuuure . . .”

  Then the music cued up and an image of the Wheel of Fortune showed up on the screen, with the wheel spinning until the pointer at the top slowed down to a full stop to reveal all of the scenarios that the convicted felons could get involved with to win their freedom by performing certain situations as the wheel dictated. Examples of situations could be "Christian Arena," which meant that a felon would find himself in an arena filled with half-starved lions and tigers, a throwback to Christian and Roman times, with or without weapons, depending on subsequent spins of the wheel to win armaments in order to better their odds.

  There were other scenarios as well, those of historical value, such as “Normandy Day,” a replaying of the storming of the beach in France with the convicts under a constant barrage of fire, the bullets ripping and tearing, the slaughter repeated and very real.

  There were other historical times as well, such as the Medieval and the Spanish Inquisition, and episodes that touched on Vlad the Impaler and his appreciation of the technique to impale his victims, and the strange abuses handed down by the Marquis De Sade.

  There was never a shortage of giving the audience entertainment value.

  Sponsors would love it, Peter Haynes was sure.

  And they did.

  By the end of the day, they had greenlighted his newest project. The show would be good to go within the year, Haynes told them. Which brought a smile to their faces and dollar signs to their eyes.

  Peter Haynes was now one of the most influential executive producers and creators alive.

  Now with the network execs gone, Haynes returned to The Valley studio, where workers were setting the stage for the next season, which was about to start in three months.

  New cameras were being installed inside the valley to provide the best picture quality in high-definition. Audio mics to pick up every spoken word. And for this season, a helicopter with high-tech cameras straddled underneath for that quality overhead shot and zoom lens capability.

  “Excellent,” said Haynes to his producer. “I love it. I love it.”

  “And we acquired one of the best pilots available,” the producer returned. “We’ll get the best shots ever.”

  “That’s what I want to hear,” said Haynes. Then: “What about the cast?”

  “We’re working on it,” he said. “Fortunately for us, there’s never a shortage.”

  “Excellent,” said Haynes, patting his producer on the shoulder. “Excellent. Now I want everything in place by the end of the month. I want us on the air by the end of two months.”

  The producer turned to him. “We’ve been slated to air in three.”

  “If all we need is a cast, then we could be in production in two.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep working on it.” Haynes retreated
to his office, where stills from The Valley hung in production homage along the walls in polished-brass frames. He sat down, kicked his legs up on his desk, interlocked his fingers behind the back of his head, and admired his work, thinking: I’ll be smiling all the way to the bank.

  His smile widened.

  Chapter Five

  The York Court House

  Six Weeks Later

  In times of social distress, especially in places like York, a quick and speedy trial was the norm to control dockets overburdened with cases.

  Ben Peyton sat at the defendant’s table wearing a generic suit, one that had been worn by many before him, one that didn’t fit because it hung like drapery.

  Savile walked into the courtroom with several thick files. The man looked flustered. And then he dropped them on the table with a resounding thud. Then he looked at Ben. “How are you doing this morning, young man? You ready for this?”

  Young man? “Yeah. As ready as I’ll ever be . . . You?” asked Ben.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.” Then: “What’s your name again?”

  “My name. Are you kidding me? You don’t know who I am?”

  “I’ve got you right here, son.” He point to the stack of files. “What’s your name again?”

  “Ben Peyton.”

  “All right,” he said softly, searching through the pile. Then he found it and opened the cover. “Ah, yes,” he said. “You’re my Welfare case. First Degree.”