Read Ebook: A prison make by Stuart William W Finlay Virgil Illustrator

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Ebook has 133 lines and 9960 words, and 3 pages

"And now," the voice seemed to take on the faintest note of enthusiastic interest, "you, as a custodial ward of the State will need a clear understanding of how we live here at Kembel State Home One-One-Seven. A clear understanding of the rules and policies applicable to custodial wards of the State will enable you to avoid difficulties and misunderstandings during your institutional life. Please listen carefully."

He didn't, however, listen very carefully.

"Code One," said the voice, relapsing into a sing-song drone, "Section A, 1, : Internal, closed circuit broadcast of instruction and entertainment. Broadcast is continuous, daily from 0500 through 2300. Music and entertainment material, 1800 through 2300. Custodial wards are urged to listen to instructional material provided by the State for their benefit. Failure to listen to a minimum of seventy-two hours of said material weekly shall result in penalty, four credits for each hour of short-fall. Code One, section A, 1, : Care of home-room facilities...."

The voice droned on. The hell with that noise. The man got up and pushed irritably at the button under the speaker. It faded out in a faint, protesting whine. A lawyer. The damned voice had said a lawyer would come on Sunday afternoon. And this was Sunday. This afternoon then. He should be out by dinner time. He ... he was thirsty again. He got his cup from the foot of the bunk and drained the cool water with luxurious satisfaction. Plenty more where that ... never mind that. He closed a door of his mind with determination. Then he used the toilet hurriedly and flushed it three times. The lawyer, his lawyer would come. He lay back down on the bunk. Nothing to do but wait.

"Say! Say there, boy. Up, up! Nothing to do but sleep? Eh? Up, up. My time is valuable." The voice was harsh, rasping, but with an unsubtle touch of educated superiority in it.

The man in the cell sat up at the second "say," and was at the front of the cell clinging to the bars before the voice paused.

"What?" he asked, "What, what, what?"

What? It was still daylight. Still jail, too, no doubt about that. This must be the lawyer then. He blinked and stared through the bars; it was hard for a moment to focus in the grey light. The figure outside the cell looked something like ... what? A wheel chair? A man in a wheel chair? A ... now what in hell kind of a so-called lawyer was this? There was no man in the more or less wheel chair out there; only hardware, piled and assembled in a very roughly human shape. At the top were two lenses, eye-like except for being in a vertical line, mounted in a rounded, metallic container with a speaker and, presumably, sound receivers. Under that was a big, square, torso-sized, faintly humming black box. This rested on a--uh--conveyance, not unlike a wheel chair. Under the box was an electric motor and a reel of black wire. Attached to one side of the main box section was a single metal arm, a sort of skeletal framework of steel rods, jointed and with an arrangement of tiny wheels, pulleys and belts.

"Now what, for God's sake...?"

"Whup! Excuse me a moment, my boy," rasped the speaker. "Almost forgot my cord. Mustn't run down my battery here, and with two more clients after you." The motor under the black box whined. The wheels turned and the rig backed away from the cell. It rolled some ten paces back up the corridor; stopped; the metal arm reached, caught a plug at the end of the wire on the reel and plugged it into a socket in the far wall of the building. Then the thing rolled back to the cell, the wire unrolling from the reel to trail behind it.

"There!" said the speaker with a note of satisfaction. "Now, the case ... let's see ... oh yes. J7-OP-7243-R. Arrested on suspicion, vice and homicide squad random selection, brought in for subjective interrogation at 2200, night of the 14th last."

The prisoner's mouth opened and closed again. He had a few things to say to this mess of machinery. But this information concerned him. He would listen first.

"On the basis of clear data extracted, recorded and interpreted, charged with larceny; grand larceny; extortion; felonious assault; lewd and lascivious conduct; assault with intent to rape; rape...."

"No, no." The man gripped the bars. "No!"

"... and murder in the first."

"No! I didn't. I didn't do any of those things. I know I didn't."

"Ah?" inquired the speaker, "Splendid. It might make an interesting defense. How do you know you didn't?"

"I-uh-hell, I just know, that's all. Murder? Ridiculous. Rape? I mean actually using force, real force to ... no. I never dreamed of such a thing, of any of them."

"Never dreamed of such things? Oh come now."

"Of course I never...." Of course he had never done any of those things. Of course ... well. Dreams, hell, a man could have all kinds of crazy dreams. That didn't mean anything. A man couldn't control dreams. They didn't mean anything.

"Fact is, boy, you must have done those things or dreamed them. Where do you suppose they got your charges?"

"What?"

"They put you through shock, electric and drug, and went through your mind. Amazing technical advances have been made recently. They extract virtually everything now. The process may have left your own circuits somewhat blurred--did you notice that?--but the accuracy of information obtained is complete; legal evidence, my boy. And these things with which you have been charged were all taken right from your own mind."

"But a dream doesn't mean anything. I never did any of those things."

"Of course the dividing line between fact and fantasy is indeterminate and the law does recognize a distinction, when it can be proven, although the trend is decidedly toward equating the intent with the act. Eliminates confusion, as you can see. Well, never mind boy. We shall make a fine case of this, legal history. You are in good hands."

"We ... you.... Now look here, damnit, you're nothing but a confounded robot."

"Computer, Pinnacle, Legal Model X 27, working title, Mr. Boswell. Boy, you are extremely fortunate. You couldn't get a finer legal mind anyplace. Programmed through the State Supreme Court library, shades of interpretation, judgment and emotional factors drawn from the minds of Mr. Hollingsworth and Judge Schintz, both very compassionate men. Circuits overhauled only last month."

"I want a real lawyer."

"I am your lawyer, boy, by law. Fortunate thing too, for you. I can see your case through. Mr. Hollingsworth--wonderful gentleman, of course--but even now he is, well, not as young as he used to be. Bad thing, to change lawyers in mid-case, eh? You are lucky, boy. You know the human mind is fallible."

"You almost forgot to plug in that silly extension cord."

"Service men are not what they should be. Some of those back motor circuits of mine, not properly rewired at all. But those are minor areas, non-legal. Why is your cell speaker cut off, boy?"

"That thing? It got on my nerves so I cut it off, that's why. So?"

"Turn it on at once. You can't afford to lose credits, boy."

"Credits?"

"Boy ... m-mph. Your circuits are in bad shape, aren't they? You are going to want things, boy. Cigarettes--here's a pack for now, by the way. Books. Other-ah-little extras from the trustees from the women's division. With that mind of yours, from the charge sheets ... you buy things here with your credits and you are going to need them."

"How do I get...?"

"Do your work. Follow the rules. You earn credits. Turn on your speaker."

He turned it on. "You talk like I'd be here forever."

"Eh? Oh no. It will be less than that, eh? Eh, eh. Don't worry, boy. I'll be taking care of you. So. This is all the time my programming permits me to give you now. Till Thursday, eh? Good night, boy."

The wheel chair rig backed off, unwinking eye-lenses still peering at the man in the cell. The arm pulled the plug, the wire rolled back onto the reel.

"Mind the rules," the voice rasped, "earn your credits, eh? Be a credit to the firm. Good night, J 7." The machine rolled silently off. The prisoner stood clinging to the bars of the door. He was thirsty again.

Time serving, time served. Time.

J--or Jay--7, the man in the cell, wiped his mess gear with a denim rag, a nice match for his shapeless prison pants and the number-stencilled jacket he wore over a grey-white T-shirt. He belched sourly and made a face. Damn. Wednesday. The rice had been passable enough, but the stew was even more sour than usual. Thank goodness for the bottle of ketchup, resting now with an assortment of items on the unpainted wooden shelf hung neatly over his bunk with two strips of denim rag from his busily sounding off speaker box. Two credits, that ketchup. He belched again. Well, he could never have downed that stew without it. It did pay to build up those credits. Mr. Boswell, hardware or not, knew his business. And now at least he, Jay 7, knew his, the prisoner's business well enough. Well enough to get by.

As Mr. Boswell had said--and said--"we have to go by the rules of the game we are in, boy." Trying to beat them was beating on a stone wall. Three days in solitary that time he had stuffed his blanket in the toilet and tried to flood the place had taught him. Now his head was unbloody and bowed to the extent that seemed necessary. As Mr. Boswell had said, with soft harshness, on his third day, a Thursday, in solitary, peering down through the tiny grill with unwinking lenses, "If you think, my boy, that you are the one with a head that will prove harder than these concrete and steel walls you may try if you can bruise them; but this will not help your case."

The hard way, but only once. He learned the lesson. Now his cell--home-room--squawker stayed on straight through 0500 through 2300 every day. That brought four bonus credits per week. His cell was neat and clean; the toilet bowl gleamed, pure, sparkling white. Four more credits. And he did his work, in his cell, adding endless columns of surely meaningless figures, writing out political letters to constituents in a neat hand for all levels of elective officials of the State. Tedious work? Well ... in a sense; but it was a challenge, too, all those figures without an error, making the letters neat and appealing, and balancing properly on the page. It wasn't so easy. He earned his credits; made his quota, too, every day. Mr. Boswell was pleased with him. So.

He looked around him at his home-room with a certain clear satisfaction, if not pride. Now he kept his own mess kit, clean and shining. He had the shelf with ketchup, mustard; soap and shaving gear; tobacco and cigarette papers; a nice white enamel basin. And something more, too. Set into his water pipe, above the toilet bowl was a real luxury item--a faucet. Not many custodials earned that privilege but he had had it now for ... how long? Hard to say, to keep track. Quite a while now, anyway, but the pleasure in having it, in not having to use the bowl of the toilet for ... everything, hadn't worn off. He put his mess kit on his shelf, took his cup and went to draw a cup of water, for the joy in being able to do it, mostly. He drank luxuriously; carelessly spilled a half-cup of water into the bowl.

There was a tapping on the wall, left side, across from his bunk. He frowned and ignored it. That tapping from other cells never amounted to anything, never seemed to make any sense. He'd tried it himself, at first. For some reason, a vibration barrier, it wasn't possible to talk and distinguish words from one cell to the next. But tapping? It made no sense either. It was an annoyance and the hell with it. Except....

Jay 7 reached up over his head and brought down his mess gear; put it on his bunk in front of him; picked up his blunt knife and spoon. Overhead, the squawk box wound up a stirring speech on something by the governor and launched into the 1800 review of the rules. The sing-song voice started. Jay 7 began to rap a rhythm, simple at first, building into more intricate patterns, following the flow of the speaker. "Code One--tap, tap--Section A, 1 --tap-tappety tap--." His head nodded. That was the only tapping that meant anything, a beat with a lift that a man could put himself into. His head nodded and he listened, absorbed, to his pattern of rhythm. He felt pretty good. Later he would feel better.

Sure. Sure he would. This was Wednesday, a Rec. night. Tonight, after supper, Belle and her Three Graces would make a night round. "Personal service"--if you had the credits. He had the credits. He'd take a fall--hell, a couple, why not--out of old Belle herself. Not that Belle looked any better than the others, but at least she put a little life into it. A couple of hours with Belle, twelve credits; a bottle, four more. All right, he had them. Tonight he was really going to make a night of it. Yeah.

Yeah?

Yeah. And the next day, Thursday, all day ... yeah! His head ached, stomach churned; that burning back of the eye-balls; the awful, tight-drawn humming of nerves. And on just one bottle? God, that acid-burn gin. No, old Belle had been in rare form and he got two bottles instead of one. But even so ... must be that stew the night before. Oh death!

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