Electronic Gags
Page 9
“Let’s discuss the logistics of the tournament to eliminate the rebels in our prisons,” Brandon said.
“Tournament,” Christopher laughed. “What an interesting choice of words. Yes, let’s discuss the tournament. I think we must release two pairs of prisoners at a time. We give the prisoners a two-hour head start before we set the police after them with orders to kill. If my prisoners last longer than yours, I win the game and vice versa.”
“Every game needs rules, Christopher,” the supreme leader said.
“That’s when you come in, Brandon. You are better than anyone else when it comes to making rules.”
“Rule number one… stay alive,” Ward said. “Rule number two… the cops we set after the prisoners cannot call for reinforcements.”
“Are we going to allow the fugitives to kill cops?”
“Yes,” said Brandon Ward. “The fugitives will be fighting for their lives. If the cops are foolish enough to be killed by unarmed fugitives wearing trackers let them get killed.”
“How shall we select the players?” Christopher Ward asked.
“Prisoners have prison numbers, don’t they? We put the prison numbers in a hat and you pick your pair and I pick mine. We have more than fifty rebels and that means at least twelve games for us.”
“That will be plenty of betting,” Christopher said. “Get ready for some walloping, big brother.”
“I’m going to put an end to your winning streak, Christopher. You will see.”
“Time will tell,” Christopher said cockily. “But I have a feeling that the tournament will make me rich.”
“Just because you won two consecutive football bets on Cassandra’s birthday you now think you are invincible.”
* * * * *
The prisoners in cell 13 held their breaths when a guard unlocked the door and shoved in a protesting Freddie.
“You killed my friends you sons of bitches!” Freddie shouted. “You and your president are just a gang of murderers.”
At first, Michael was happy to see Freddie. His friend hadn’t betrayed him! The joy vanished when he realized that Freddie had joined him on death row. Michael’s hut sank when he saw that Freddie’s nose was caked with blood.
“Why don’t you just kill the whole country, you cannibals?” Freddie shouted again.
If the other prisoners had airtime, they would have told Freddie to shut up. He was endangering them by insulting the Ward regime.
“You kill people at the whims of the madman you call your supreme leader!” Freddie yelled. “Your mothers must be ashamed of you. Brandon Ward is a―”
When he couldn’t take it anymore, Michael put a finger on Freddie’s lips.
“What?” Freddie protested. “Let me speak to these murderers.” He leaned forward, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. “Michael! Is that really you?” Freddie happily hugged his friend. “Is everyone else alive?”
Michael nodded.
“Can’t you speak?”
Michael pointed at his electronic gag.
“Oh God! You have no airtime.”
Freddie shook hands with everyone in the cell. “I was drunk last night and started insulting the supreme leader for killing you. I thought you were all dead. The CIB came for me in the morning. Michael, your mother accused me of―” an electric shock wrapped Freddie’s neck, making him tremble. “What?” The shock returned. “But I have airtime,” he protested, giving himself the longest electric shock of his life.
Unknown to Freddie, one of the guards had gone to the prison warden to complain about Freddie’s behavior.
“He has airtime on his NAST,” the warden said. “Leave him to me.”
The warden promptly phoned the CIB and asked them to slash Freddie’s NASP credit to zero.
* * * * *
Chief Inspector Victor Coleman was a happy man. As he smoked a cigarette in his office, he counted his blessings. When he was growing up in District Eight’s rural Subdistrict Three, he never thought that one day his life would be so good. Victor never knew his father and his mother was a drug addict who couldn’t think beyond her next narcotic shot. When Victor Coleman finished high school, he joined the police because he couldn’t afford to go to college.
And now, seventeen years later, he was a chief inspector. He owned a big house in District One’s posh Subdistrict Two, his two sons went to Brandon Ward High School, one of the best schools in the Ten Districts, and he didn’t wear an electronic gag like his subordinates. Yes, Coleman’s life was good. He had no worries. He was a loyal policeman and no one could harm him and his family. The Ten Districts protected all its loyal officers.
The phone rang and he languidly picked it. “Chief Inspector Coleman, Subdistrict Two Central Police Station,” he said with authority.
“Coleman, this is Commissioner Hunt. I want you in my office at eleven.”
“Yes sir,” the chief inspector said anxiously. “I will be there sir,” he added, but the commissioner had hung up.
What does the commissioner want? This was the first time the commissioner had summoned him to his office. Coleman only saw the commissioner at police seminars and state ceremonies and had never exchanged word with him. What does he want? Coleman asked himself again. The commissioner rarely dealt directly with such low-ranking officers as chief inspectors. This could mean only two things. Promotion or demotion. As far as he knew, he had done nothing to deserve punishment but one couldn’t be sure in the Ten Districts of America.
Chief Inspector Coleman looked at his watch. Fourteen minutes past nine. Although he had plenty of time to drive to the Ten Districts Police Headquarters, a thirty-minute drive away, the chief inspector decided to go now. He couldn’t risk arriving late for his meeting with the commissioner.
He got into his car and finished his cigarette before he started the engine. Traffic was light after the rush hours of early morning. He arrived at the police headquarters at 9:53, parked his car in the staff parking area and nervously chain-smoked, trying to answer the vexing question. Why did the commissioner want to see him?
At 10:45 he got out of his car and entered the reception.
“What can I do for you sir,” said one of the five constables manning the receptionist desk.
“I have an appointment with the commissioner.”
“Go to the first floor, suit number one, sir.”
Coleman took an elevator to the first floor, his heartbeat rising as he rose towards the commissioner’s office.
“Can I help you, sir?” the commissioner’s secretary asked.
“I have an appointment with the commissioner,” he said, admiring her looks, telling himself that if he had such a beautiful secretary he would have plenty of uses for her.
She looked at her notebook. “Are you Chief Inspector Coleman?”
“Yes.”
“Go and sit there in the waiting room, sir.”
Coleman calmed down when he saw his colleague, Chief Inspector Martinez, in the waiting room. Martinez worked two subdistricts away from Coleman’s subdistrict.
“Martinez, I take it you also have an appointment with the commissioner.”
“Yes,” Martinez said, relieved to see someone of his own rank.
At exactly eleven, the secretary ushered them into the commissioner’s office. They hesitantly entered, saluted the commissioner and stood at attention.
“Sit down,” the commissioner said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“The supreme leader wants our cops to carry out some drills. There are fifty-two prisoners on death row and the supreme leader shall order the release of at least four prisoners every week.” The commissioner sighed. He thought that this whole drill was silly but he couldn’t question the supreme leader’s orders. “He will release the first four prisoners on Wednesday. We will give the prisoners a head start of two hours before we set policemen after them with orders to kill. Each one of you will select a squad of fifteen cops from your subdistricts.” He pointed at Col
eman. “Your cops will chase two of the fugitives.” He pointed at Martinez. “And your cops will chase the other pair. The cops will monitor the location of the fugitives using NASP. This is a drill and the cops you choose won’t have any help from other police units or other security agencies. A reporter and videographer will accompany each squad during the chase. Any questions?”
“Will the drill appear on TV?” Martinez asked.
“No. Only the supreme leader will receive a live stream of the drill on Skype.”
“Will the fugitives be armed?” Coleman asked.
“They won’t be armed but they might acquire some weapons during their two-hour head start, so your men must shoot them on sight. The supreme leader thought it best to use the death row prisoners in drills to familiarize our cops with NASP tracking. It’s game on Wednesday.” The commissioner was worried about making a bad impression after the Jennifer Rodriguez debacle. “The supreme leader will be watching the drill live, so you must select your best men. The fugitives who survive for a week will get amnesty. The fugitives will be fighting for their lives and they will embarrass us if you underestimate them. We must show the supreme leader that we are a capable police force. Next week cops from other subdistricts will take part in the drill. This drill is very important. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir!” Coleman and Martinez chorused.
“The supreme leader said the CIB will also take part in the drill.” The commissioner clenched his fists. “The CIB think they are the best security agency in the country and we must show them we are better than them.” He pursed his lips and creased his forehead, recalling how the CIB director-general betrayed him. “Kill the fugitives as quickly as possible. I don’t want the CIB to do better than us! Is that clear?”
“Yes sir,” the two chief inspectors chorused.
* * * * *
The prisoners in cell 13 tensed when they heard the lock of the door turning. The door’s hinges creaked.
“Everyone out!” a hoarse voice ordered.
Freddie and Michael looked at each other. This is it, they thought. We are facing the firing squad.
“I said everyone out!” the hoarse voice repeated.
The prisoners hugged each other goodbye.
“I won’t say this again,” the prison guard shouted. “Get the fuck out of that cell.”
The inmates wobbled out of the cell. Since their arrest, they had only got out of the cell when the CIB took them out for interrogation. Although they hated the stinky, flea-infested cell, they dreaded leaving it. Either torture or death awaited them outside the cell.
The guard herded them into a hall and ordered them to sit on the floor. Other guards brought prisoners from other cells and for the first time since their arrest, the men from cell 13 met the other members of their group. All death row prisoners belonged to the rebel group except Jennifer Rodriguez, the ex-member of the Police Special Branch.
“The prison warden wants to address you,” a guard announced. “He will be here in a moment.
A minute later, the prison warden, a big hairy man of Polish descent, entered.
“The supreme leader ordered me to release four prisoners every week,” he announced.
The prisoners sighed with relief.
“Don’t get carried away,” the warden said. “The prisoners will only get a two-hour head start before the police go after them with orders to kill. The fugitives will work in pairs. A squad of fifteen policemen will chase each pair. The fugitives who survive for a week will get amnesty.” He was as excited as a sports commentator previewing a big match. He and his colleagues would enjoy betting on the death games. “We shall start releasing the first four prisoners on Wednesday. You must fully charge the batteries of your NASTs if you don’t want to be on the run with a flat battery. I wish you the best of luck.”
The guards headed the prisoners back to their cells. No prisoner wanted to be released first. The prison no longer felt like jail; it now felt like a wall of protection from the death games.
Nine minutes after the prisoners returned to their cells, a guard came to cell 13.
“Is prisoner D5574 in this cell?” the guard asked.
Freddie raised a hand.
“Are you D5574?” the guard demanded.
Freddie nodded.
“I don’t understand sign language,” snapped the guard. “Are you D5574?”
“Yes,” Freddie said and gritted his teeth when the electronic gag shocked him.
“That’s better,” the guard said as he unlocked the gate. “You have a visitor.”
Freddie reluctantly followed the guard. He knew it was his mother and he didn’t want her to see him like this. The guard took Freddie to a room where his mother was sitting.
Melissa sighed with relief when she saw Freddie. But the relief at seeing him alive only lasted for a second. Freddie was a sorry sight. He was so dirty and so wretched that she wept. Although he was still overweight, he had lost a lot of weight, which would have been desirable in other circumstances.
“I learnt about your arrest yesterday. What did you do?”
Freddie said nothing.
“Talk to me, Freddie.”
He pointed at his electronic gag.
“Can I buy you airtime?”
Freddie shook his head. Visitors were forbidden to buy airtime for death row prisoners.
“Oh that’s horrible.” She took out a pen and a piece of paper from her handbag. “Write your answers here. Will they take you to trial?”
Freddie scribbled on the paper. Mom, I love you. Promise me you will go on with your life no matter what happens to me. He pushed the paper back to her.
Her tears drenched the paper as she read the note. “Freddie do they want to kill you?” she asked, pushing the paper back to him.
He pushed the paper back to her.
“How can you tell me to go on with my life? You are my life, Freddie. If you die I will die too.”
“Please, mom.” The electric shock shook his head like a vibrator. “Promise me that…” He squinted with pain. “…you will live for Kyle.”
Melissa couldn’t bear seeing him in so much pain. “You have said enough, Freddie. I promise I won’t kill myself if something happens to you.” She pushed the paper back to him. “Are they going to take you to trial?”
Freddie’s head was now aching and he was feeling dizzy. He waited for the dizziness to ebb away before he scribbled his reply on the paper. I’m sorry mom. They are going to kill us. They will kill four of us every week, starting with Wednesday.
“Time up!” the guard said, dragging Freddie by the collar.
Melissa wept as she saw her son going back to the cells. She wept even more when she read the note. She put the note in her handbag and walked out of the room.
“Show me the note!” a guard ordered.
Melissa gave him the note, which he read with a frown and tossed back at her. She neatly folded the note and put it back in her handbag. The note probably contained Freddie’s last words to her.
Melissa got into her battered Ferrari and wept for more than five minutes before she drove out of the maximum security prison. She had only driven for seven minutes when all cars in front of her stopped. A look at her watch told her it was time for the national anthem. She got out of her car, stood at attention and weeping, she sang the song she hated most, God Bless the Ten Districts of America. It hurt her to sing praises about a government that wanted to kill her son.
At four minutes past twelve, Melissa started her car and in twenty-five minutes, she was driving through the streets of her neighborhood. She stopped the car when she saw Danielle Wright walking by the roadside. She jumped out of the car and charged at Danielle Wright.
“You must be happy now that my son joined your son on death row,” she said.
“What are you talking about?”
“The CIB arrested Freddie last week. My son wouldn’t be in trouble if he was more careful in his choice of friends.”
“No, you are not. You were unhappy that Freddie escaped jail and now you got your wish. I’m on my way from the prison. Freddie said they will start killing them tomorrow, four prisoners every week.”
Danielle couldn’t look Melissa in the face. “I feel bad. I had no right accusing Freddie. Sometimes when things go bad it feels good to blame someone. Please forgive me, Melissa.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “Michael is all I have. I don’t know what I will do if they kill him.” She wiped tears from her face, messing her make-up. “I haven’t visited Michael for more than two weeks. I can’t stand the sight of him in that dreadful place.”
“At least it was Michael’s idea to enter politics,” Melissa said, walking back to her car. “My son was only caught in the crossfire. He had just come here on a short leave from the wildlife refuge.”
“I’m sorry for what happened to Freddie.”
“Thanks for your sympathy,” Melissa snapped before she drove away.
* * * * *
“You are the older brother,” Christopher Ward said. “Pick first.”
Brandon Ward put his hand in the tin on the table, took a piece of paper and handed it to his young brother.
“You picked prisoner number D5573,” Christopher said. “Take your second pick.”
Brandon took another piece of paper from the tin and gave it to Christopher.
“D5574,” Christopher said with a laugh. “Is this a sign? You picked the last two prisoners on death row.”
“It’s your turn now, little brother,” Brandon said. “Take your pick.”
Christopher picked prisoners D5561 and D5525.
“It’s game on!” the supreme leader said with boyish delight. “Make arrangements for the release of the four prisoners.”
“Okay Brandon.” Christopher promptly phoned Retired Colonel Carter, the head of the prison services. “Patriot Carter, I want you to make arrangements for the release of prisoners D5525, D5561, D5573 and D5574. It’s an order from the supreme leader himself.”
“This will be an exciting game,” Brandon Ward said, rubbing his hands.
“I hope the prisoners will last for a day or two and prolong the fun. How much shall we bet, big brother?”