Bio-Justice

by Scott Takemoto

  There were the obvious giveaways. The constant furtive looks stemming from an acute paranoia whispering in their ear that the process might not be over, that authorities were biding their time until the next phase could be conducted. A lost forlorn light flickering in their eyes speaking of a nightmare they would never awaken from. The arms covering their upper bodies in a defensive position. And the clothes hanging off of them as if, in denial, the subjects had purchased sizes that used to fit them.

  Nancy Collins, the director of the Manhattan shelter, had allowed Felice an unannounced visit as long as she didn’t cause any commotion by her presence. Representing herself as a doctor from the city public health department taking an informal survey, Felice had gained Nancy Collins’ trust. Walking slowly through the dining hall and by the rows of beds in the main dormitory, Felice was alarmed by the number of processees, having recognized several who had been delivered to the New Jersey facility only a few months earlier. One grizzled man with deep sunken eyes jerked his head up sharply as if he recognized her. Felice turned her head and quickly moved away from the man’s field of vision.

  “So, did you find what you were looking for?” Mrs. Collins, a tall, slightly stooping woman in her early forties, asked Felice.

  “Have you noticed an increase in a certain kind of needful person in the past few weeks?”

  “Like what?”

  “Intense, distrustful…haunted.”

  “Well, I don’t know if this is what you’re talking about, but ever since the prisons have been releasing Bio-Justice victims, I have noticed a sharp increase in persons who exactly fit that description.”

  “Why do you say victims?” Felice asked.

  “Just my politics, Dr. Bennett,” the director said. “I’ve seen the toll Bio-Justice has taken on these men. They look hollowed out, soulless—as if they were already dead.”

  Ray Van Houten noticed when he shook Steven Harrier’s hand, it had been indifferently received. They sat in Harrier’s lavish office on the forty-eighth floor of the Harrier Systems building on West 57th Street that captured stunning Manhattan views from Central Park to Union Square, with all the iconic spires lined up like gleaming soldiers under inspection.

  “I thought we had this thing under control,” Harrier said.

  Van Houten shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “A few episodes are occurring on the West Coast—Los Angeles, one in Portland, Oregon—but the majority of the incidents are happening on the East Coast, mostly in the New York area, one particularly awkward incident in Baltimore involving one of them collapsing in the middle of traffic.”

  “We hired your agency to put a public face on this,” Harrier said. “Where are the thirty second spots, the internet campaign?”

  “They’re ready to go, a week from Monday. National, wild spot, cable.”

  “A hell of a lot of good it does now.”

  “These are just a few news stories. We will roll out before they have a chance to grow into something.” Van Houten came off a bit more confident now that he was pitching.

  Harrier looked unimpressed. “It always starts off with just one or two news stories. Sensational stories during sweeps week about poor Bio-Justice victims starving on the streets. There is a narrative starting that needs to stop.”

  “But Steven—” Van Houten began.

  “It needs to stop!” Harrier exploded, hammering his desktop with his fist.

  “Yes, sir,” Van Houten said, speaking more tentatively now. “Let me see if we can buy some last minute air time no later than this Thursday. And we will get the video streaming on YouTube and Google by tomorrow night.”

  “Results—that’s all I care about.”

  “Harris, Boyce and Selden will not let you down, Steven.”

  “I consider that a promise,” Harrier said benignly, although it was nuanced to sound more like a threat. “Let’s see if we can change this narrative.”

  CHAPTER 17

  The bank teller counted out five one hundred dollar bills on the counter. “That’s one, two, three, four, five hundred dollars, sir.”

  Danny looked at the well-worn bills. Ben Franklin looked up at him behind multiple creases and stains. “Could you give me some new bills? I’m giving them as gifts.”

  The teller smiled and scooped up the currency. “I understand. I do the same for my nephews and nieces. Of course I don’t give them quite as much.” In her cash drawer, she searched through her hundreds and handpicked five crisp notes. “How’s that?”

  “Perfect,” Danny said, smiling. The woman teller smiled back warmly and for a moment it recalled the days when his youthful smile made women go out of their way to do him favors.

  Maggie sat on Danny’s sofa looking about the room as if wistfully imagining what she could do to it to make it a more attractive dwelling.

  “Maggie?”

  “Yes, Danny.”

  “I really appreciate you coming over and helping me out.”

  “I’m flattered you asked,” she said. “When are you going?”

  “Right away,” he said. “As soon as I’m sure I got everything right.”

  “You’re fine, Danny. Relax.”

  Danny retrieved an envelope from the top drawer of his dresser. He handed it to Maggie. “What do you think?”

  Maggie looked at the money inside and then handed it back to Danny.

  “That’s five hundred dollars. All in crisp new bills,” Danny said shrugging on his clean shirt.

  “She’ll be so impressed,” Maggie said.

  “You think so?” Danny looked uncertain but remained completely relaxed around Maggie. “What do you think—a tie?”

  “No, maybe that’s a little bit much. She knows who you are, Danny.”

  Danny looked disappointed by the misstep. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I just want to make the best possible impression. I thought anything might help.”

  Maggie frowned and then smiled quickly to hide it. “I changed my mind. I think maybe a tie is just the right thing.”

  Danny grinned. “Yeah? I thought so too.” He held up a red tie and a black patterned one. “Which one?”

  Maggie pointed to the black tie.

  “I was going to pick the black too,” Danny said cheerfully. “Man, we must have the same brain. Listen, Maggie. I want to thank you for being so encouraging to me.”

  Maggie shook her head a little too much. “It was nothing—really.” She saw Danny struggling with the knot and beckoned him over. “Come here,” she said.

  Danny walked over to the sofa and Maggie stood up, lifting his collars and redoing the knot in his tie. Their faces moved close as Maggie worked the tie and Danny wanted to thank her with a kiss but somehow he thought Maggie would not want that. After managing an impressive knot, she returned the collars, and pulled and shaped the tie until it was perfection.

  “There,” she said.

  Danny stepped away and took a look at himself in the bathroom mirror. He called out. “Where did you learn to do that?”

  “I tied James’ ties all the time. He could do them just fine but he liked when I did it for him.”

  Danny came out of the bathroom with a worried look on his face. He sat next to Maggie on the couch and spoke softly. “Maggie,” he said, “I’m going to find someone for you. Don’t laugh. Someone like you deserves someone special. I mean it—after I take care of this thing with Sonya—I’m going to dedicate my time to finding someone worthy of you.”

  Maggie blushed as her eyes welled up. “I’m fine,” she said.

  “I mean it, Maggie. We both deserve to be happy.”

  Danny had planned to see Sonya in the early evening, around seven o’clock. She would have eaten already, fed the baby, and would be settling in before going to bed. He had entertained the idea of buying her flowers or candy, but he didn’t want to frighten her with too many symbols that might cause her to back away. No, the money would be good enough, a pledge of maturity and responsibility that Sonya, as a young
mother facing an uncertain future, would appreciate enough to listen to his offer.

  As he drew nearer to Sonya’s building, Danny kept reassuring himself that while this mission was an all-or-nothing gamble, it was a chance well worth taking. He had needed a reason for working at his dismal job, an answer to why life had any kind of purpose after Bio-Justice had stolen away with his youth, and again and again, Sonya and the baby popped into his head, the obvious answer. It had become so automatic that it felt like his destiny, his struggles and dreams becoming a crucible defining his future, his only reason for being. Sonya had to love him. She couldn’t have forgotten; their son was the product of what they shared together. It wasn’t possible she could divide those two loyalties and let him go. She couldn’t.

  Danny scaled the steps with a loose jaunt meant to stave off any nerves, until he found himself at Sonya’s door. When a glimmer of doubt started to creep forward, he immediately raised his hand and rapped on the door crisply, decisively.

  The door opened and Sonya didn’t look surprised. She also didn’t look happy.

  “What are you doing here?” she said in a serious, joyless tone.

  Sonya held the door halfway closed but didn’t resist when Danny pushed it all the way open and came inside.

  “Sonya, I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Danny, I told you I didn’t want to see you anymore.”

  “I figured maybe you’d cool down and think about us more clearly.”

  “Danny, don’t make me hurt you. Please, you must leave.”

  Suddenly, Danny remembered the money and smiled as he pulled the small envelope from his pocket and held it out to her. “Here. Merry Christmas.”

  “Danny, I don’t want—”

  “Open it,” he insisted.

  Sonya slowly opened the flap of the envelope and removed the five crisp one hundred dollar bills. She stood silent for a brief moment and then returned the bills to the envelope. “Danny, I can’t take this.”

  “It’s for the baby. I just wanted to show you that I could make money and take care of you and Phillip if you just gave me the chance.”

  Sonya pushed the envelope back into his hand, shaking her head. “No, Danny. I’ve got enough money.”

  Suddenly, Danny was angry, for the rejection of his words and his money at the same time was too much for him to bear. “You don’t have the right to refuse it. It’s for my son.”

  “Danny, no. Just go.”

  “I just want to come back into your life,” he pleaded. “Remember, baby? Remember how it used to be?” This triggered tears from Sonya and perversely, Danny noted it as progress.

  Then, a third voice, a bold masculine one, asserted itself, surprising Danny. A tall, tightly muscled man with a shaved head entered from the bedroom behind Sonya. “How many different ways does she have to say no to you?”

  “Honey,” Sonya explained to her boyfriend, “this is Danny.”

  “I know who he is.”

  Danny knew the truth now. Seeing his replacement removed all doubt but he couldn’t help playing the injured party, the betrayed lover. “Thanks, Sonya. Thanks for remaining true.”

  Rage tore the soft anguish from Sonya’s face. “Look at you. Look at what you’ve done to yourself. And to me. I don’t feel sorry for you. Now go!”

  Danny was standing on ground that was crumbling beneath him.

  “What about my son?”

  Sonya eyed Danny coldly. “You’d better say goodbye to him because you’re never going to see him again.”

  Danny was shaken. Then he wasn’t thinking anymore. Blind rage consumed him and he rushed Sonya. The boyfriend was there to stop Danny, punching him down brutally until Danny staggered and fell to one knee.

  “Phil, stop!” Sonya cried.

  Danny’s mouth filled with blood as he looked up at Sonya accusingly. His son had been given the lover’s name.

  “Get out of here, you freak!” Phil spat out. “You have no future here.”

  Danny quietly rose to his feet and placed the envelope near Sonya on the coffee table. “Just use it to buy diapers or formula. Or flush it down the toilet…I really don’t care.” He turned and without looking back, finally left Sonya’s apartment.

  That evening, a commercial ran on the ABC network between eight fifty-eight and nine o’clock, prime ad time for any sponsor, purchased for a sixty second slot before Modern Family came on. The commercial was slick, costing over three million to produce including the fee for the director, a Hollywood A-lister. Harris, Boyce and Selden made sure the spot was placed for maximum exposure, a time when people watching would remember when they engaged in idle conversation at work the next day.

  The spot featured a non-threatening looking Latino man in his early fifties. He looked distinguished yet still boyish in the face, someone who could still make a woman stop and look. Dressed casually but conservatively so, the man had a radiant smile and no accent. He stood on an attractive corner in Brooklyn near his parked car, his arm holding a bag of groceries.

  “Hello, my name is Carlos Lopez. A year ago, I was sentenced to twenty-five years for armed home invasion and kidnapping. I was facing a wasted life of brutalization and conditions not fit for an animal. Six months ago, I was processed through Premium Sentencing and I now have a totally different take on life. I once hated the world and now, I love my fellow citizens, I cherish life, and want to make a truly meaningful contribution to society. I still have a lot of life left in me and I want to spend every day showing how sorry I am for once being so young and misguided. And I am grateful the money saved through Premium Sentencing, from our overburdened prison system, is now going to schools and hospitals and helping our elderly. Believe me, I will never get in trouble with the law again. (looks at a parking ticket on his windshield) Well, almost never. (laughs) Thanks, Premium Sentencing for giving me a second chance.”

  After the spot was over and Modern Family had begun its opening credits, Ray Van Houten got the call he had been anxiously waiting for as he sat nervously in his apartment overlooking Central Park West. His girlfriend was in the kitchen listening but knew not to disturb Van Houten now.

  “Good,” he said to the caller, pumping his fist excitedly. “I think it went well, too.”

  Danny slowly walked down the hallway past Maggie’s door, hoping she wouldn’t come out and see him, the incarnation of a self-deluded fool, all dressed up for a beating, by a man who now stood where he had imagined himself, next to his woman and raising his child. With his right hand, Danny unconsciously reached up and covered the blood-stained tie, now all twisted and ruined.

  Once inside his apartment, Danny flopped onto his bed and buried his face as deep as he could into the pillow and allowed himself to scream out like a wounded animal without holding back, the pillow acting as his silencer. When he could cry out no more, he sat up on his bed. Suddenly, his whole body felt weary and he walked over to his kitchen, reached for a bottle in the cabinet and poured himself a whiskey.

  He thought about going over to Maggie’s but he was too ashamed. There was something all too comical about it all. He had gushed to Maggie like a high school girl and that mental image caused him to shiver in disgust. He took another gulp of the whiskey and reveled in the burn. Reaching for his pack of cigarettes, he lit one and let the smoke drift up until it stung his eyes.

  CHAPTER 18

  Dr. Felice Bennett poured Dr. Conlan a cup of tea from the sterling silver tea pot she had purchased for these occasions and then brought it to rest on the silver serving tray. The cups and saucers were vintage Wedgwood pieces as were the creamer and sugar bowl. On lovely small plates they would place a fresh piece of pastry, and while she could not find a bakery that made satisfactory scones, she did find one which delivered fresh hot croissants and baked tarts. Conlan seemed to enjoy the nostalgic feel of these morning discussions over tea and Felice enjoyed them as well. In addition to putting Conlan at ease, she believed it encouraged him to be more receptive to contra
ry opinions.

  “This raspberry tart is wonderful,” Conlan said. “I would say these are as good as any my mother used to bake but then, we were poor and mother didn’t always have the best ingredients available to her.”

  “Dr. Conlan,” Felice started, “I wonder if we aren’t pressing the number of subjects through the process too quickly. Why, it almost seems as if we’re not devoting enough time to evaluating the readjustment phase, which I am convinced is the key to the whole program’s success. Don’t misunderstand me. Dr. Sarkis has been a workhorse. The numbers of processed subjects are triple what we had originally projected.”

  Conlan put his tea down and spoke to Felice soothingly, if not with a touch of condescension. “Now, Felice. I give Dr. Sarkis my complete confidence. He has been doing a superb job with helming this project, meeting the demands of American Correctional, and General Winfield’s team.”

  “It almost sounds as if we were manning a conveyor belt with Steven Harrier holding a stopwatch.”

  “Felice, it is very important the American people see a drastic decline in the number of hardened criminals that pose a danger to society. They don’t have the patience for incremental change and quite frankly, this is a business venture as well. It is imperative the populations of these prisons are thinned down. A lot is riding on us delivering those numbers. I know it sounds a little…well, it doesn’t seem like the research and science you and I were nurtured on but everything changes, even the way we view process and result.”

  “Dr. Conlan, I—”

  “Felice—” Conlan interrupted, “don’t worry so much.”

  “But what about the stories we’re hearing—of men cut off from their families and friends, living a surreal existence, suspended between memory and reality, a new kind of schizophrenia.”

  Dr. Conlan frowned. “Now look what you’ve done. I’ve dropped the last tart. Felice, I appreciate your concerns but there are always singular tragedies amidst massive success. The polio vaccine was only successful for ninety percent of the children. The failure of the vaccine for the other ten percent was a tragedy that broke many parents’ hearts. This is science, and because it is science we can accept the truth, harsh as it may be sometimes. Now, please Felice, I would hate to suspend our little teas. I do enjoy them…most of the time.”