by Nathan Allen
Fraser Jaensch shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The cheap polyester prison jumpsuit was making him sweat. The handcuffs around his wrists were starting to pinch.
“I’ll do what I can,” his attorney told him from the other side of the partition. “But I have to warn you, Fraser. This doesn’t look promising.”
Fraser’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going to get me out of here, right?”
“I’m doing my best, but it’s not that simple.”
Fraser threw his head back and let out an exaggerated sigh.
“Look, I made a mistake, alright? I acknowledge that. We all make mistakes in life. I was drunk. She was drunk too, so she should take some of the responsibility for what happened. Maybe I took it a bit too far, but these things happen sometimes.”
The attorney opened his mouth to respond, but he held back.
Three days after her encounter with Fraser, the blonde girl had yet to emerge from her coma. The attorney had seen the photographs of her face, battered beyond all recognition. Her porcelain skin was now three different shades of purple. Both eyes were swollen shut, her nose at a forty-five degree angle to the rest of her face.
Fraser’s claim that he “took it a bit too far” was something of an understatement, and typical of his rampant narcissism.
“So what are my options here?” Fraser said. “Can we, I don’t know, make a deal or something? Put an end to it all before this drags on for too much longer?”
The attorney peered at Fraser over the top of his glasses. “A deal?”
“Yeah, a deal.”
“In exchange for what?”
“I don’t know, an early guilty plea or something. You’re the lawyer, you tell me.”
The attorney did his best to maintain a straight face. Despite numerous run-ins with the law over the course of his life, Fraser evidently had little idea about the legal process.
“Why would they need a guilty plea? They have your DNA. They have about twenty witnesses who saw you follow the girl into the alley. And if that wasn’t enough, the whole thing was captured on CCTV.”
The attorney removed his glasses. He used the tip of his tie to wipe a fingerprint smudge from the right lens.
“This case is about as open and shut as they come.”
The news hit Fraser like a bucket of ice water, and the enormity of his situation quickly became apparent. This was a feeling unfamiliar to him. He’d been able to worm his way out of most problems throughout the course of his life via a combination of charm, influence, and the contents of his parents’ bank account. But now he really was worried. He was starting to suspect that he’d used up his nine lives, and that this time the charges just might stick.
“Surely you can think of something,” he said, the rising panic audible in his voice. “That’s what I’m paying you for. I’m facing twenty years here!”
The attorney slid his glasses back on. He looked left and right to make sure none of the other visitors or guards were listening in.
He leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“There might be one other option,” he said.
“Great,” Fraser said, relieved that his attorney was finally earning his five hundred dollar an hour fee. “Let’s hear it.”
The attorney cleared his throat.
“For the past few years the Department of Corrections has been trialing this new program. It’s a type of experimental therapy for violent offenders. I’ve been able to get a couple of my previous clients onto it.”
“What sort of therapy?”
“I can’t tell you what’s involved.”
“Why not?”
“Well, because I don’t know what’s involved. The precise details of the program are top secret. Officially, it doesn’t even exist.”
Fraser’s blinked. “That all sounds a bit ... vague.”
“I know, but it’s effective. I’m told the rate for successful rehabilitation is close to one hundred percent. I can make a few calls. See if I can put you forward as a suitable candidate.”
Fraser shook his head. “Listen, if that means I’m gonna be stuck in a psych ward for the next ten years staring at Rorschach pictures and talking with some shrink about my relationship with my mother–”
“If you agree to take part, you’ll be free in six months.”
The surprise registered on Fraser’s face. “Six months?”
“That’s right,” the attorney nodded. “If they offer you a place in the program, I advise you to take it.”
Fraser felt a smile widening on his face. They had him worried there for a moment. But he shouldn’t have been. People like him didn’t belong in prison. The common folk did, but not him.
If you couldn’t buy your way out of trouble, what was the point of having money?
A six-month holiday in some kind of therapy center was nothing he couldn’t handle. He’d already completed a couple of stints in rehab, and they were more or less extended vacations. This would be a breeze in comparison. He’d go away for his little break, bluff his way through six months of “treatment”, then come back feeling refreshed and ready for more.
Like he always did, Fraser Jaensch got what he wanted.
Chapter 3
