The Valley

by Rick Jones

“Do you even remember me? Remember what you said you were going to do?”

  “Of course--of course. You’ve got nothing to worry about—” He quickly checked the name on the file. “Ben.”

  Ben could almost feel his heart misfire in his chest. This was not going to work out well, he could tell.

  When the judge entered the courtroom wearing his robe, the bailiff shouted, “All rise!”

  Everyone did.

  “Please be seated.”

  When the judge asked the court clerk for the next case, she informed him of the case number, the defendant’s name, the charge, and representing attorney. The case folder was given to His Honor, who examined it quickly, nodded, then said, “Proceed Counselor Savile.”

  Savile got to his feet. “Your Honor, I’d like to open by requesting that the confession attained against my client in this case be dismissed due to having been signed under duress.”

  “And you have proof that this confession was signed under duress.”

  Savile appeared uncomfortable as he cleared his throat. “Well, no, Your Honor. But everyone knows that confessions are attained today under duress.”

  “Counselor,” the judge sounded angry and on edge, “What everyone ‘knows’ is not proof in a court of law. I need facts. Not assumptions. And nothing that may be recognized as a part of today’s culture, as you indicate, regarding confessions obtained by coercion. Get on with the defense.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  In less than an hour Savile presented his case, in less than fifteen minutes the prosecutor presented his with a slew of damning photos and time stamps, something Savile couldn’t counter with any measure of truth, but with bizarre and desperate explanations with his accounts of what went down hardly accepted by the jurors, the explanations just too peculiar to believe.

  And because of Savile’s wild justifications, it took less than five minutes for the jury to deliberate the matter.

  When the jury returned to the courtroom, the judge ordered the defendant to stand.

  Then to the jury, the judge asked, “And how do you find the defendant, Ben Peyton?”

  The Chief Juror stood. “The jury, Your Honor, finds the defendant, Ben Peyton, guilty of Providing Welfare in the First Degree.”

  Peyton’s head began to spin, the world going dizzy. When his knees buckled, he fell back into his seat.

  “Mr. Peyton,” the judge addressed him. “With the power invested in me by the County and city of York, you will now stand for sentencing.”

  When Savile leaned over to aid Ben to his feet by grabbing his elbow, Peyton pulled it away. Don’t touch me!

  “Mr. Peyton, as you stand before me, you have been judged by your peers and found guilty of Providing Welfare in the First Degree, a felony. Therefore, sentencing can and will be passed down justly given the nature of your crime. Do you have anything to say before you’re sentenced?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” said Peyton. “Actually, I have a question or two. How can compassion be considered a crime? Where has our humanity gone? And yes, I gave food away to help a good man in need. A man with children. Hungry . . . children. And the government seems to take no interest in helping their cause. Or the cause of those who live under such horrible and oppressive conditions.”

  “Are you through, Mr. Peyton?” asked the judge. “Are you done standing on your soap box?”

  Peyton nodded.

  “Good,” said the judge. “Now let me get on mine.” He pointed an accusing finger at Ben. “This country was nearly leveled because of welfare. Able-bodied people decided that it was better to receive than to give. People became lazy. Entitled. Expecting society to take care of them rather than them taking care of society. If people want to better themselves, then they have to work for it. But if bleeding-hearts like you continue to give offerings in the form of welfare, human nature eventually takes over and those you aid will expect it all the time, will feel entitled to it. And those who do not give to society take away from it.” The judge leaned back, his face slowly going from crimson to a natural flesh-tone hue. “Are you ready for sentencing, Mr. Ben Peyton?”

  Peyton refused to acknowledge the judge, so the judge took it upon himself to press ahead.

  “With the power invested in me by the County and city of York, I sentence you, Ben Peyton,” the judge paused for a moment, fixing his eyes to Ben and pinning him. “I sentence you, Mr. Ben Peyton . . . to Prime Time.”

  There were gasps in the audience, some so loud it prompted the judge to hammer his gavel several times against the wooden block. “Silence!”

  Ben fell to his seat looking dazed as he mouthed the words ‘Prime Time.’ Then more loudly but to no one in particular, he said, “I’m a dead man.”

  When the audience settled down, Savile got to his feet. “Your Honor, this is absolutely outrageous. You’re condemning a man to certain death because of his sense of humanity? Are you serious?”

  “One hundred percent, Counselor.”

  “I’ll appeal this!”

  “You can appeal it all you want, Counselor. But in the meantime, Mr. Peyton is to be remanded to court authorities and transported to the ADOC immediately.”

  “Your Honor—”

  “That’s enough, Counselor. Your client has been judged by his peers and found guilty. Case is adjourned.”

  When the court cleared for the next case, Peyton was cuffed by the bailiff.

  “You said I had nothing to worry about,” Peyton told him. “You said you could negotiate with the judge.”

  Savile started to look nervous, the man obviously looking for an excuse.

  “Save it,” said Peyton. “There’s nothing you can say to me to make this right. Nothing at all… I could have had three years in Yorkville. But no. You said you could do better. You said I could get less than half that. At least in Yorkville I would’ve had a chance. But in Prime Time?” He shook his head. “I have no chance at all.”

  The bailiff pulled him away so that he could undress and pass the mantle of the suit to the next defendant, who also happened to be represented by Savile.

  Chapter Six

  En route to the ADOC

  Two Days after the Trial of Ben Peyton

  While being transported to Argentina, Ben found himself in a layover station in Dallas, then on to Mexico City before his final leg of his journey to the destination of Argentina.

  He was traveling on a shuttle flying at an altitude of 1000 feet, with the cab filled with hardcore convicts from all walks of life: murderers, thieves, drug pushers and human traffickers. Ben Peyton’s crime: maintaining hope that humanity still existed.

  Realizing that the final stop was in Argentina, which included a slim hope of surviving, the convicts remained silent, Ben thought, perhaps they were each considering their fate.

  Ben looked around.

  There were too many for The Valley, he considered. Unless the network was changing matters to increase ratings.

  Then the man beside him nudged him, a big guy with beefy arms, gym arms, arms that had lifted weights over long periods of time. “What are you in for?” he asked.

  Ben lied. “Attempted murder.”

  The big man harrumphed, sounding impressed.

  But nothing more was said between them, which was fine with Ben.

  After two hours the shuttle began its descent, the nose tipping downward. Ben closed his eyes and swallowed a sour lump that was cropping up at the base of his throat.

  When the shuttle landed and docked, a guard holding a shotgun stood. A huge key ring jangled from one of the belt loops in his pants. “Listen up, people. When you exit the shuttle, you will move accordingly to your left until you reach the overhang. Once there, you will be directed to divide into rows of three with a five-foot space between you and the person in front of you, the person behind you, and the person beside you. Silence is mandatory. And for those who refuse to comply.” He racked his weapon to emphasize his point. “Believe me when I say tha
t compliance is your best friend. Any questions?”

  No one said or did anything.

  “Good,” said the guard. Then to the pilot: “Open the gateway.”

  The gateway door leading into the convict’s bay began to open, allowing a dry heat into the cab, one that sucked the cool AC air within moments.

  When they exited the shuttle, they were greeted by Special Forces. Their helmets, the stock of their assault weapons and the color of the barrels, their faceplates, helmets, everything was black.

  As they made their way to the overhang, a man smiling in welcome was waiting for them with his hands clasped together behind the small of his back. He was wearing a leisure suit that appeared to be more of a uniform than personal attire, with letters stenciled on the pocket of his shirt: ADOC.

  When the rows of inmates were assembled, the man walked back and forth in appraisal smiling wryly. Then after a moment, he said, “A fine bunch we have here. A fine bunch indeed.” Then he began to pace once more. “I’m Warden Grady Harp. And there’s two things you need to know. First there’s God, and then there’s me. Everything else you will learn as time moves on.” Harp stopped pacing and extended his arms in invitation. “And please, let me be the first to welcome you all to the ADOC.”

  His smile flourished.

  #

  That night, Ben lay on his cot with his hands behind his head and his eyes staring at the ceiling. On the surrounding walls were the scrawls of epitaphs, such as ‘Good-bye, cruel world,’ ‘Life is too short,’ and other notations with underlining meanings that their particular writings would be their last, ever.

  He shared a cell with three others, all bruisers by the looks of them: big bullet-shaped heads, thick folds of flesh on the backs of their necks, ADOC jumpsuits that appeared too small against huge and muscular frames, and telltale tattoos that memorialized the fact that the ADOC was not their first prison stint.

  It was just a matter of time, he thought, before they passed him around as the bitch since by the standards of those he roomed with, and he was also the smallest. He dreaded the mere thought of it. Even prayed for divine intervention.

  But his cellmates were quiet, as if in mourning, with everyone sitting or lying on their bunks with thousand-mile stares.

  At the far end of the hallway, metal doors could be heard sliding back on their rollers, the clanking of steel smashing against steel, and the ensuing footfalls of heavy boots marching down the corridor.

  Three guards wearing riot gear and armed with electrically-charged batons whose tips snapped and crackled bolts of charges at the push of a button stopped at his cell, the one standing at the fore called him out. “Peyton!”

  Ben raised his head.

  “Which one of you is Peyton?”

  The other convicts looked directly at Peyton, their actions equal to pointing a finger.

  The guard stepped back from the door. “Let’s go,” he said. Then: “Open door six-seven-one!”

  The locking mechanisms connecting the door to the wall began to whine and whir into motion, the door opening on its track.

  “Let’s go,” the guard repeated.

  Ben sighed through his nostrils, got to his feet, and exited the door.

  “Close six-seven-one!” The door rumbled shut behind them.

  “Where are you taking me?” Peyton asked.

  One of the guards, Peyton wasn’t sure which, pressed a button at the handle of his baton and sent off a charge of electricity, filling the air with a very distinct smell, as the answer: Shut up and keep moving!

  They wended down concrete-sided corridors, and navigated through a series of twists and turns until they finally reached the warden’s office.

  Harp was dressed in his uniform attire, neatly pressed, and wore his hair in a pompadour that was an odd color, that of orange-purple. “Please, Mr. Peyton, do have a seat.” He pointed to one of the two high-backs in front of the ornamental desk.

  The guards remained close.

  “Are you comfortable?” Harp asked him. To Peyton, the warden seemed overly congenial and carried a smile that was obviously artificial.

  “You mean in this chair or in my cell?”

  “Both,” the warden answered.

  “Um, yeah. Fine, I guess.”

  “Good. That’s what I want to hear. I want all my inmates to feel like family,” he said.

  Peyton narrowed his eyes: Is this guy for real?

  “I’m happy to tell you that your orders just came in,” Harp said.

  Ben cocked his head forward. “My orders?”

  “Yes.” He held up a sheet of paper. “Your orders.”

  “For?”

  “For your transportation to Prime Time.”

  Ben let out this noise, an odd sound, like a sudden punch to the gut.

  “Now-now, Mr. Peyton. Or Ben. Can I call you Ben? Using last names is so formal. I simply hate it.”

  Peyton didn’t answer. He knew Harp was toying with him with malicious aim.

  “I’ll call you Ben,” Harp finally said. “It appears that the production of The Valley is ahead of schedule, and filming begins next week. Apparently you need to be on set the day after tomorrow for orientation along with the rest of the cast members. Tonight you’ll be sequestered away from those you holed yourself up with.”

  “I didn’t hole up with anybody. You assigned me to that cell.”

  Harp held him with a stare of indifference a moment before speaking. “The bottom line, Ben, is that you got the call. That entitles you to a decent meal.”

  My last meal? It’s like I’m on Death Row working my way up to the eleventh hour.

  “You should be excited,” the warden told him. “To receive such global recognition, I mean. What you’re about to be a part of.”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  The warden’s smile vanished. “Excuse me?”

  “I said, are you out of your mind? I’ve been slated to appear on a TV show that has a mortality rate of one hundred percent. One . . . hundred . . . percent. And you expect me to be happy about that? Seriously?”

  “You don’t think it’s an honor to appear on The Valley?”

  Ben fell back into his chair with an incredulous look. You’re sending me to my death.

  Then to the guards, the warden said, “Please see that he’s made comfortable and provided with a meal of his choice.” Then to Ben, and speaking with a ring of malicious amusement, Harp added, “Personally, I’m partial to the Chicken Florentine.”

  As much as Ben hated violence, he wanted to rake Harp’s eyes out.

  “Good luck to you,” the warden said evenly. “Maybe you’ll be the first to make it to the Gates of Freedom. But if I was a betting man, I’d lay my odds against.”

  Peyton stood and inclined his chin toward the exit door, telling the guards that he wanted out.

  “Take care, Ben,” the warden called after him. “And good luck out there.”

  Ben simply ignored him.

  Chapter Seven

  Prime Time Studio

  Two Days Later

  When Ben Peyton arrived at the set of Prime Time’s The Valley, he was surprised to see other cast members, male and female, who appeared slender and agile as he was, and more athletic than the bearish-looking brutes at the ADOC.

  This was when he was informed that the larger convicts weren’t slated for The Valley at all, but for a new television pilot that required the cast of characters to be more aggressive in appearance, more gladiatorial, and those who could carry thirty-pound shields and heavy swords for a certain length of time.

  People like Ben were cast because they needed to be able to run and jump and move with incredible speed and quickness, they needed to have the agility of monkeys in a jungle terrain if they were to have a chance to reach the Gates of Freedom.

  The moment the team of twelve, seven men and five women, reached a huge dining hall, they had their chains removed. Standing along the second tier, however, maintaining watc
h with deadly-looking assault weapons, stood studio guards dressed as Special Forces.

  Since the group had not had a chance to bond and get to know each other, most of them sat alone inside the hall waiting for Peter Haynes to give his Orientation speech, which was slated to begin in three minutes, the top of the hour.

  Promptly, Haynes took to the stage the overlooked the dining area, the man smiling in warm invitation, then waved as he took center stage. “Welcome to Prime Time,” he told them. “Welcome, all of you.”

  The hall was absolutely quiet.

  “My name, as you all know, is Peter Haynes. I am the creator and executive producer of The Valley, and the upcoming new reality series, Wheel of Torture, which begins filming in just a few weeks.” He started to pace back and forth along the stage with his hands behind the small of his back, looking at his audience of twelve. “Right now,” he began, “at this very moment, you’re all strangers to one another with no one caring who sits to your left or right. But believe me--that will all change within the next day or two. You’ll be brothers and sisters, lovers and friends, you will gravitate to one another because your lives will depend on it.

  Haynes stopped, smiled lasciviously, then placed his hands in front of him and began to rub them together. “Each and every one of you should feel honored to be a part of Prime Time’s premier show, The Valley. You’ll become saints from sinners. The masses will love you. And everyone will know who you are and what your name is.”

  “I don’t care about that,” said a female sitting in the back. “It doesn’t matter if I’m not around to appreciate it anyway. I’d rather live and have no one know my name at all.”

  Haynes recognized the woman from her photo and dossier. “You’re Pamela Scholl,” he said. “Am I correct on that account?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, let me tell you something, Pam. When you reach the Gates of Freedom, when all of you reach the Gates of Freedom, there will be no greater rewards waiting for you. Not only will you win your freedom, but also riches far too great to imagine. You’ll get phenomenal royalties from rebroadcasts, checks that’ll make your head spin; there’ll be opportunities to sit in the booth as a commentator, which is even more money; and you’ll travel worldwide as a spokesperson for the studio to promote future shows. In other words . . . you’ll become a god.”