The Innocence Treatment

by Ari Goelman

  I was lying on top of her, the clean soapy smell of her mingling with the smell of old sweat and rubber coming off the mat, and I could clearly imagine the sound of the crack, the sound of her scream. I cranked her elbow another millimeter or two, and she gasped. At that last moment, I let her go. Rolled off her, and helped her to her feet. Massaged her elbow a little bit to make sure it was okay.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Why?” She looked puzzled. “You didn’t hurt me.”

  “Oh. Good.” I forced a smile so fake it hurt my cheeks.

  “You’ve gotten really good, Lauren. Have you been practicing?”

  “A little,” I said. “Yeah.”

  “You want to go again?” she said. “I won’t go so easy on you this time!”

  I shook my head, smile still plastered on my face. “I think I’ll sit down for a few minutes.”

  I waited until Nora was sparring with someone else and then I found one of the teaching assistants free. A big, hulking guy called Lukas who always hits a little too hard, who I probably couldn’t hurt even if I tried. And for a few blessed minutes I fought with him and didn’t think about anything at all.

  So there’s all this anger simmering inside me. That would make me feel crazy enough. But there’s also the nice, old-Lauren side of me. The person who apologized to Nora. The one who let Jimmy run off and made herself stop glaring after him. The one who’s back to being good friends with Riley and Gabriella. Just a regular girl at Allegheny High School.

  Aside from Evelyn not wanting to have anything to do with me (my dad had to drive me to Benitez’s class last night, as Evelyn refused to go), there’s almost no sign of how different I am. I’m at the same school, with the same locker I’ve had for the last two and a half years, hanging out with the same friends I’ve had for a decade. Everything in my life (aside from the back of my head) looks pretty much the same as it did last year. But I’m walking around feeling like I’m a tourist in my own life. How can I feel nostalgic for a life that I’m still living?

  If I thought you could answer that, Dr. Corbin, I’d be much more likely to call you back. Speaking of which, Sasha keeps telling me I need to stay in touch with you. He thinks if I keep writing fake journal entries and agreeing to come in for regular checkups, you won’t feel the need to pull me in.18

  But honestly, Dr. Corbin, you and I both know you’re not going to leave me alone. I saw the way you looked at me last time I came in; I heard the tone of your voice on my voice mail today and yesterday and the day before yesterday. There’s no way you’re going to let me walk away.

  So screw you. Leave all the messages you want. If you want me, you’re going to have to convince the Department to arrest a sixteen-year-old girl with a mental disability who’s never said a word against the Department. I’m sure you can do it. I just hope it’s a real pain in the ass.

  CASE NOTES OF DR. FINLAY BRECHEL

  December 11, 2031

  Transcribed from interview:

  What’s wrong, Dr. Brechel?

  Nothing’s wrong. How are you feeling this morning?

  Disturbed by my therapist. You’re fidgeting much more than you usually do, and I’ve never seen you so distracted by the surveillance cameras. Has Paxeon threatened you?

  No one’s threatened me.

  So why are you so upset?

  I’m not so upset.

  (long silence)

  Lauren. Part of being in a therapeutic relationship is that the therapist doesn’t—can’t—share everything with their patient. It wouldn’t be good for you, and it would make it very difficult for me to maintain the appropriate distance. So while there may be something bothering me, perhaps the better question for us to explore is, why should that matter to you?

  Dr. Brechel, you’re the one person I see all day who’s not an orderly putting me in handcuffs or delivering food. So of course it matters to me.

  (pause)

  They didn’t threaten you, but there’s definitely something … Have they extended the Emergency Act? It’s something about the Emergency Act, isn’t it? Dr. Brechel, did they extend it or not?

  Not yet. They—I—Lauren, I have to insist. This therapy is about you, not about me. Not about the United States’ government.

  Dr. Brechel, I don’t need therapy. I need to get out of here.

  Let’s talk about that feeling, that sense of being here against your will. You’ve mentioned that many times in our sessions and yet I’ve seen the documents you signed when you came in. You voluntarily committed yourself.

  I guess. I mean, in the sense that everything is voluntary in some way. Like you working for Paxeon, right? You might not like it, but you’d rather eat than not eat. You’d rather wear that nice watch than not wear that nice watch.

  Are you saying they paid you to commit yourself to Paxeon’s custody?

  In a way, I guess they did. You should really just download my journal.

  Right. (voice rising) I should download files from a website classified as “terrorist.” I’m working in a goddamn Paxeon facility, using the network provided to Paxeon by the goddamn Dep—

  Dr. Brechel!

  (hoarse breathing)

  You should calm down. You almost said something you would have regretted.

  I’m sorry, Lauren. I … I’m … This is a stressful time for me. Let me ask again: why did you commit yourself to Paxeon’s custody? Please don’t tell me to download your—

  The Department arrested Evelyn.

  What?

  You heard me. The Department arrested Evelyn. I made a deal with Dr. Corbin to get her out. Guess what it was.

  JOURNAL OF LAUREN C. FIELDING

  Sunday, November 9, 2031

  Dear Dr. Corbin,

  I’m editing this from the car as my parents drive me to the airport. I have about an hour left of freedom, maybe in my whole life. I wonder what my parents think I’m writing. One more journal entry to the benevolent Dr. Corbin? Ha. That would be a good title if I turned my journal entries into a book. The Benevolent Dr. Corbin. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?

  As soon as I finish writing this entry I’m going to upload it … upload all my real journal entries to a few of the pirate websites and schedule them to go live on December 4—one month before the Emergency Act expires. Hopefully people will read them. Hopefully it will make a difference.

  The Department arrested Evelyn on Friday.

  I walked into the lunchroom and Gabriella ran up to me. “I’m so sorry, Lauren!”

  “For what?” I said. But I already knew. Something in the way she said it, the way that the people around were watching me. The fact that I couldn’t see Evelyn anywhere, and if there was something for Gabriella to be sorry about, Evelyn should have been right there, being sorry, too, no matter how furious she was with me.

  “I just heard,” Gabriella said. “Vince Alvarez was at his locker when the police went past. They took Evelyn out of AP Calculus in handcuffs.”

  “In handcuffs?” I said. I felt cold all over, super-aware, like the moment before Jimmy Porten had lunged at me. They’d taken Evelyn out of school in handcuffs. That meant no quick release where she could deny ever having been arrested. They might never release her, and even if they did, her life in the United States was ruined.

  I scanned the lunchroom. There. I ran toward Sasha. His smile quickly disappeared when he saw the look on my face. “What?” he said. “What is it?”

  I snatched the glasses from his face and flicked them as hard as I could across the room. “Who paid you to delete those files they had on me?” I hissed.

  He licked his lips and shook his head. “It’s not safe for me to tell you.”

  “This from the guy who helped me break into the Department’s network? Was that safe?” I kept my voice low, but Sasha shifted nervously.

  “What is it?” he said. “What happened?”

  “They publicly arrested Evelyn.”

  “Oh shit. I’m so sorry.�
�

  I’d swear he was genuinely sorry, not that it really mattered.

  “You know they just arrested her to get you.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know. Well, it worked. I’m going to call Corbin right now.”

  “Don’t do it. They’ll just arrest Evelyn again whenever they feel like it.”

  “I’ll make sure she’s out of the country before I go in.”

  “Before you go in and what? Sign yourself over to Paxeon?”

  “Whatever they want.” I hesitated. I still didn’t know what Corbin wanted with me. Something to do with her research, but what? “Commit myself to their custody, I’m guessing. Let Corbin run whatever experiment she wants on me.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t do it,” he said again. “They’ll never let you go.”

  “Maybe. Which would make this your last chance to tell me: who paid you to delete my files?”

  He shook his head again. “I can’t, Lauren … There’s drugs they’ll give you—the Department has these drugs—you won’t be able to keep secrets no matter how hard you try.”

  “You’d know, wouldn’t you?” I said.

  He met my eyes. “Yeah. I would.”

  We stared at each other for a few more seconds. I swear I don’t understand myself. Even then, my world falling apart around me, I simultaneously wanted him dead and just … wanted him. That can’t be normal.

  “I’m posting my journals,” I told him. “The real journals.”

  His eyes widened. “Your real journals? Lauren, if the Department finds out that I helped you break into their system—”

  “I’ll set it to go live in December,” I said. “December 4. That gives you almost four weeks to figure something out.” He started to say something, and I interrupted. “I’m not keeping Paxeon’s secrets for them, Sasha, and if I don’t post it now, I won’t get another chance.” I made myself meet his eyes. “Goodbye.”

  “Lauren—” His voice faltered.

  I waited for the handful of seconds it took him to realize there was nothing else to say. Then I turned and left. He didn’t call after me.

  By the way, if you’re reading this, Sasha—and I hope you do read this someday—I picture you downloading and reading it while you eat your macaroni and cheese dinner in whatever empty house they have you living in next and … my God, now I’m feeling sorry for you. I’m still such an idiot.

  Anyway.

  If you’re reading this, Sasha, I really wish you could tell me: did we ever have anything real?

  Doesn’t seem likely, does it? You having the chance to tell me anything, I mean. My parents and I just passed the first sign for the airport. Thirty-one miles to go.

  Dr. Corbin, you made a mistake when you had Evelyn arrested. Once you showed me that I couldn’t protect my family, well … I have nothing to lose. I don’t mean that in a melodramatic way. Just purely factual. There’s no reason for me to keep your secrets if keeping them isn’t going to protect the people I love.

  On the contrary. If I’m in Paxeon’s custody, and if everyone knows about the Innocence Treatment, the Department will have no reason to come after my family. My family won’t know anything more than anyone else. I’m guessing the Department will dismiss my posts as the ravings of a crazy person (though I presume they’ll have some fancier way of saying “crazy,”)19 and they won’t want to bring anyone else’s attention to them by, say, detaining my whole family. Shoot—if the Emergency Act doesn’t get reauthorized, they might actually have to start giving reasons before they can detain people.

  Point is, after I said goodbye to Sasha I walked out of the cafeteria and called you. There was no point in wasting time. Not with Evelyn on her way to prison.

  A receptionist picked up. “Good morning! Paxeon,” she said sweetly. “How may I direct your call?”

  “Could you connect me to Dr. Patricia Corbin, please?”

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Lauren Fielding.”

  “Is she expecting your call?”

  I surprised myself by laughing. A sense of humor has got to be my favorite part of my postoperation brain. “Definitely. Yes she is.”

  “One moment please, Ms. Fielding.”

  An instant of elevator music, and then I heard your voice, silky and serene. “Hello?”

  “Let her go, and I’ll come in,” I said.

  Credit where credit’s due, Dr. Corbin. You didn’t pretend to misunderstand me. “Lauren,” you said. “Nice to hear from you, dear. I heard about your sister’s arrest and I believe I could get her free. Of course, I’ll have to ask that you commit yourself to our care first.”

  I laughed again. This time the laughter hurt my throat, clenched tight with tension. “And I’ll have to ask that you go fuck yourself. Get her out first. If I don’t turn myself in, you can always get her arrested again.”

  “I don’t think that would work for us, dear. How about you come in at the same time that the Department releases Evelyn? The Department has some experience in prisoner swaps. Not that you’ll be a prisoner of the Department, you understand, but we could use that synchronous framework to assuage both of our concerns.”

  “I’ll come in the day after Evelyn is released. I want to say goodbye to Evelyn and put my family on a flight out of the country. Then I’ll come in.”

  “Do you think they’ll go without you, dear?” You sounded genuinely curious. “They seem very attached. In any case, I can’t give you an entire day. What if you change your mind? What if you decide to put yourself on that same airplane out of the country?”

  “Fine. Let’s do the exchange at the airport,” I said. “When my family is all on the plane, I’ll walk off and hand myself over. If I don’t, you can have us all pulled off the flight and arrested.”

  “I don’t want to have you arrested,” you said, a little less gently. “For God’s sake, I’ve been bending over backward to avoid placing you in the Department’s custody.”

  You paused, and I could hear your breath slow, could imagine you counting down from ten as you calmed yourself. When you spoke again, your voice was composed. “But I take your point. An airport exchange should be fine. That said, are you sure you want your family out of the country? Don’t you want them close by where they can visit you? Where they can pick you up when we release you in a few weeks? I don’t think your treatment will take all that long.”

  I sighed. The hardest lies to catch are the ones that you want to believe. But I wasn’t a sucker anymore. “Just have the tickets and Evelyn waiting at the airport. Text me the flight information, and we’ll be there. Once I see their flight take off—and I want tickets on a commercial airline, nothing military or Department controlled—once I see their flight take off, I’ll come quietly.” I hung up.

  I stared at my phone for a few seconds, not believing how easy it had been to bargain away my freedom. Not believing I was actually going to do it. Except of course I am. What choice do I have?

  I’m going to upload all of this now. I don’t know if anyone will ever read it. If they do, I don’t know if it will do any good. I’d like to believe it will shift things enough that Congress won’t dare to renew the Emergency Act. But I’d like to believe in unicorns, too, and they don’t seem too damn likely.

  I should probably try to end on a more uplifting, inspirational note, but my dad just took the airport exit. If I don’t upload this now, I never will.

  Sincerely yours,

  Lauren Cathleen Fielding

  EDITOR’S NOTE: INTERLUDE

  Reluctant as I am to insert my own perspective into Lauren’s narrative, there are some gaps here in Lauren’s journal entries that I feel obliged to fill.

  It may be hard to remember how terrifying the Innocence Treatment was when it emerged a decade ago. People’s last refuge—their own thoughts and beliefs—were suddenly not their own.

  The terror of that is what made Lauren so famous—along with the related gratitude. Bad as it was to learn ab
out the Innocence Treatment, it would have been far worse if we hadn’t known about it. Friends would have betrayed friends … spouses would have betrayed spouses … and no one would have understood why. Not the betrayed, and not the betrayer. Imagine sleeping with another man, and not knowing why you had betrayed your husband. Trying to explain to your husband—and yourself—that you had loved the other man so much at that moment, that it had seemed impossible to say no.

  For me, the memory of the period immediately following Lauren’s revelations is tangled up with my own personal terror after spending two days in the Department’s “administrative detention.” I’m not sure what made those two days so frightening. No one tortured me. No one even questioned me. They locked me in a windowless cell with a woman who had been there for three months without seeing a lawyer, without having a visit from her family. Without seeing anyone at all, except for the guards who brought her food.

  Three months may not seem like a long time, but it had been more than long enough to drive that poor woman around the bend. She had a few lucid moments, but mostly she lay on her bed and cried. Sometimes a low, moaning sob, sometimes full-scale weeping. I never found out what she was in for. I’m not sure she even knew.

  After two days and two nights, a guard came to fetch me. “Good news,” she told me cheerily, ignoring my sobbing cell mate. “You’re being released.”

  She handcuffed me and led me down the hall. I didn’t look back at my cell mate. To be honest, I didn’t think of her again for weeks. That’s how selfless I turned out to be. Not much of an idealist when my own safety was on the line.

  Blinking in the bright winter sunlight, I found one of the Department’s infamous black vans waiting for me at the prison entrance.

  “Don’t worry,” the guard who had collected me said. “We’re just taking you to the airport. Someone very important has taken an interest in you.” She loaded me into the back of the van, still handcuffed, and got in the front seat with the driver. The bench seats in back were hard plastic and smelled strongly of bleach with a slight undertone of vomit. I sat in the back, alone, staring at the blank walls of the van, wondering where they were really taking me.