The Punishment Club

by D. A. Maddox

  Buddy’s breath picked up. What the hell was going on? Who was this? There was no name attached to the message, only the originating phone number, which wasn’t in Buddy’s contacts. That, and a university admin icon.

  This isn’t fair!

  He texted back, Yes, okay, but won’t I miss the meeting?

  He waited.

  Your presence at the meeting is not required. Thank you for your response, Buddy. Please be prompt.

  He texted back, Please, sir or ma’am, what’s happening?

  No answer.

  It was only a quarter until seven. What was he supposed to do until then? Sit by himself and panic?

  Actually, he thought, catching his breath, that sounds like an excellent idea.

  ****

  Peter had been on the phone the whole time, but he hadn’t checked the message. It could have been from anyone except for his parents, who spoke to him each in turn instead of together. The common room of Delta Kappa Epsilon was empty except for him. After the parade of departing seniors had come and gone, tumbleweeds would have suited the scene nicely.

  He’d made the confession first to his mother, explaining everything, sugarcoating nothing. He’d been only too happy to do it that way. Mathilda Gravis had always been the more understanding of the two, encouraging his interest in music and eventual teaching, letting him go his own way for the most part, make his own mistakes and learn from them. Peter Gravis I (aka, “Dad”), whose love was—perhaps—equal to hers, was something of a micromanager and disciplinarian. Definitely stricter, if not exactly harsh. He was a planner and a backup planner, a long-term planner, a contingency planner, and not exactly patient with his more whimsical progeny. “Your boy,” he’d sometimes say to Mom, exasperated, deferring to her whenever his only son did something he wasn’t equipped to understand.

  But this morning it was his mother who’d demanded of him, “What were you thinking?” not once but several times. She’d been distraught, real tears, but she wasn’t hysterical. She was furious. Terrified. It was like he’d run over someone with the family car.

  At one point in the conversation, they’d put him on hold to have a secret conference just to themselves. And when they let him back in on the meeting, Dad had taken over again.

  “Listen to me, son, and you listen good, got it?”

  That was when his phone buzzed with the text. Peter didn’t dare pull the phone from the side of his face to look. “Yes, sir,” he said instead, voice quavering. “I’m listening. Tell me what to do.”

  The intake of breath on the other end was audible. Then, like someone reluctantly pronouncing some impending doom or tragedy that could not be averted, only tempered, his father said, “Call the campus police. Tell them you need the real police. Turn yourself in now, soon as we’re off the phone. Get ahead of it. And be as contrite as you possibly can.”

  Peter took it in, forcing himself to remain calm and listen. There’d be something else. Had to be something else.

  “Better to be charged on a confession than to be caught, son, you got me?”

  Peter bobbed his head up and down, even though there was no one to see. “Yes, sir,” he said, “and then?”

  “We love you,” his father said. And disconnected.

  ****

  At eight thirty, Cassidy checked herself in the mirror one more time.

  She was alone. She had meditated herself to something like calm. Her eyes were dry. Her very light application of makeup was fresh.

  Neckerchief, straight. Hair parted neatly in the middle, twin curtains. No runs in the stockings—not that anyone was likely to notice with the skirt going halfway down her shins. Shoes, nice and shiny.

  Good enough to go downstairs and face whatever was coming. She’d be early, but with any luck Emma Jo would already be there. Surely, they’d summoned her as well—and the boys, too, on their side of the Tree of Knowledge. They’d all done it.

  She’d be able to talk with Emma Jo if she came down on time. They could fortify each other for whatever was coming. Would they have to report to Dean Turner herself? God, she hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  Maybe I should knock on Emma Jo’s door. Dorm 306. Yeah, that was it.

  Outside, twin electronic squawks. The hint of swirling lights against the glass of her window—red. An ambulance?

  She drew the curtains aside, looked down.

  Two police cruisers—one parked in front of Delta Kappa, one parked practically under her nose on the grass of Alpha Chi.

  ****

  A silent flash, practically in her face. Emma Jo took a step back, shielding her eyes. She was hardly outside her own door.

  “What the—? Watch that!”

  The phone belonged to a waif of a young woman, short and thin, with a bob-cut of straight, glossy black hair, short in the back but long enough up front to drape over her cheeks. Deep, Nordic-blue eyes studied the shot. “Oh,” she said, pleased with herself. “That’s a good one.”

  She turned the camera to show.

  In the pic, Emma Jo looked—quite appropriately, she couldn’t help but think—like she’d been ambushed. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded, never forgetting she didn’t actually have time for a conversation.

  The waif held out her hand. “Sierra. Sophomore. And you’re Emma Jo Swanson. From last night.”

  Emma Jo hurried past her. But, “You’re on the wrong floor,” she said without looking back.

  “You’re gonna be famous,” Sierra crooned after her. “Those cops outside are for you, you know.”

  Huh? What? Cops?

  Emma Jo picked up her pace and was just in time for Cassidy, who emerged at that exact moment from her own door. She wasn’t alone. Doors were opening everywhere.

  Not exactly a shocker. If there were cops outside, everyone still in the house—freshmen, sophomores, and juniors alike—would want to go down to the common room and see what was going on. They still had time before their Bright Box meeting.

  Cassidy took her hand. “Whatever happens…” she started, her voice breaking.

  Emma Jo nodded. “Together,” she agreed. “Not alone.”

  And, together, they went downstairs.

  ****

  By the time Buddy reached his own common room, it was standing room only in there. He’d taken the stairs again, finding a crowd waiting in front of the elevator and the light on “1.” Emerging from that stairwell was like coming into a sold-out concert from the back, the stage completely obstructed. Only, this concert had the sound turned off—all but one voice, deep but cold and unfeeling.

  “Mr. Gravis, you’re charged with one count of public indecency, which doubles as a count of sexual mischief, as well as one count of willful exposure before transitionals of the opposite sex—which also doubles as a count of sexual mischief.”

  And a voice cutting through, desperate and pleading. “I tried to call, to turn myself in. They said—”

  Just a touch more sympathy this time: “Too late, son. This ball was already rolling at three o’clock in the morning. Exercise that right I told you about. Be quiet. Wait and tell a lawyer.”

  A ratcheting of metal.

  Buddy pushed through. There, leaning forward at the waist with his forehead pressed flat against the wall and his feet spread, was Peter Gravis, quiet now. The muscles of his back rippled with shuddering breath, straining against a t-shirt he had on backward. He hadn’t even bothered to get dressed right.

  His hands were crossed behind him. He was cuffed.

  No, Buddy’s spirit quailed. God, please, no. We didn’t mean to break any—

  The cop noticed him. “Stay put, sport,” he said to Peter. “Just like that.”

  You knew what you were doing was illegal, Buddy heard in the vacuum. Was that his own mind, or was it God answering him?

  “Buddy Ray Zimmer,” the cop then said. His brass nameplate read F. Gillis. His words weren’t a question. He motioned Buddy to come over.

  Buddy stood para
lyzed in place, feeling every eye in the room on him. And there were a lot of eyes.

  “Better for you if I don’t have to come get you, kid,” Officer Gillis advised.

  Buddy came, already wishing he could have just had Hell Day after all.

  ****

  “What number?” the anonymous bald cop asked Officer Maynard, the federal cop who had brought in the girls. “I take it they’re for Huntington, since it’s you and Gillis that brought ’em in.”

  What in the world are they talking about? Cassidy wondered, shivering and sweating at the same time. After the cuffs had gone on, none of the cops had said anything to them, other than to give instructions during the fingerprinting, a procedure she thought both over the top and unnecessary. They’d taken the cuffs off for that, which had been a massive relief. Cassidy still had the impressions on her wrists, like bracelets.

  Officer Maynard nodded. “Consequences already put in for their interview and housing in the event of conviction. So, we’ll start with Two Hundred.”

  “Excuse me,” Cassidy started, her tone a bit whinier than she would have liked.

  Emma Jo put a hand over hers as though to shush her. Shh, Peter actually mouthed at her. Buddy only looked to the floor, his face pink, eyes unblinking.

  “Wow,” the bald cop said, again ignoring her completely. “Two hundred already? That is a biggie. Seems only yesterday Senator McNeal—”

  “Excuse me,” Cassidy said again, this time with more urgency, causing Peter to sit back with an exasperated, despairing huff. She pressed on, “Please, Officers, if I could just call—”

  Officer Maynard whirled on her. “What?” she said. “If you could ‘just call,’ then what, Miss Harper? You expect the nice cops to show up and drive you home if you got to do that? You’re a transitional adult, in case nobody told you yet, who’s in custody being booked on two criminal charges. Shut your fucking mouth.”

  Now all three of her fellow prisoners had their heads down, as if that could make them invisible, protect them somehow. But Cassidy could only look at her arresting officer, taking in what she had just said, because Officer Maynard wasn’t done yet.

  “It’s for your own good, you know. Your parents have already been contacted, and from what I’ve heard they’re arranging representation. After the lawyers get here, then you talk, got it? We’re going to do this right, Miss Harper. As for your precious call, that right doesn’t apply to transitionals.”

  “But” Cassidy insisted, “why not, Officer—”

  “God damn!” Officer Maynard exclaimed, slamming a hand down on Bald Cop’s desk. “Because you don’t have the fucking information you need to act in your own interests, so there’s a program in place for the state to fucking do it for you, okay?”

  “I’m sorry,” Cassidy said, not so fervently as before, wiping a cheek, wishing for tissues. “You don’t have to be so mean about it, though.”

  “Cassidy Harper,” Officer Maynard then said, seeming to summon calm, fishing for patience she did not appear to naturally possess, “take heed, young lady. And believe me when I tell you, if you say one more word without being spoken to directly, I’m going to have you gagged, and I’m going to put the cuffs back on you. Officer Harris, please confirm for this spoiled, entitled fucking princess that I can legally do that.”

  The bald cop, Harris, didn’t even look up from his logbook, or whatever he was typing notes into. “She can do that, princess. Best keep your trap shut. No one’s going to hurt you. You’ll be home soon enough.”

  Cassidy opened her mouth to protest, then wisely shut it. Wiped her face again.

  The logbook, Cassidy soon saw, linked to a sticker printer, which produced two black strips of adhesive with white lettering, one much longer than the other.

  “Who’s first?” Harris asked.

  And still, Cassidy remained quiet. She got the point. The question wasn’t for her.

  “Up you get, princess,” said Officer Maynard. “Time to immortalize your highness for the permanent record.”

  ****

  The permanent record, as the four of them learned together, was the mugshot. The two different number stickers were for “possible outcomes.”

  The first number, of which Cassidy’s was 200, would remain in the record if there was a conviction or confession, as well as an approval for a special program offered only to transitional offenders guilty of “sexual mischief.”

  The second, longer sticker included letters as well as numbers and would remain in the record in the event of a conviction or confession—and non-admittance to the unnamed program, whether by refusal or rejection.

  Cassidy did her best to set the example, tried to suck it up and keep a straight, tearless face for the camera flash. She managed it for both the straight shot and the profile. They all did.

  Their parents, meanwhile, pooled their resources so as to get the best possible attorney money could buy for the plea hearing and trial, both of which the magistrate scheduled for the following Friday. They’d miss the whole first week of school, a prospect that filled the collective lot of them with a shared hopelessness. Even if things did go right, they’d probably be playing catch up for the rest of the semester.

  Together—unanimously—and with the blessings of their parents and encouragement from their lawyer, they agreed that they were not guilty. They’d been pressured by forces bigger than themselves. They were victims, not perpetrators.

  Not guilty. Counsel thought they had a better than average chance of making that case. But they were also naturally curious as to what would happen if the court saw things differently. No one, not even their parents, would tell them. It was against the law to let them know.

  People didn’t break the law if they knew what was good for them.

  Chapter Three

  Judgment

  The call hadn’t gone out to Graham Dawson, who handled high-profile cases and had experience defending transitionals. Nor had they gotten in touch with Bridgette Tulane, a well-regarded advocate who specialized in plea deals for the wayward young. Instead, four sets of parents agreed that Tamara Gibson, a high-end criminal defense lawyer from DC—with a long resume of cases in federal court—was the best choice. They needed a verdict of not guilty by reason of coercion. More importantly, Gibson had absolutely nothing in the way of a track record with transitional defendants charged under the umbrella of sexual mischief. And that meant, unlike every veteran lawyer of such cases (or at least those who had dared to roll the dice on a not guilty plea before her), she had never lost such a case.

  “Okay,” she said, walking the length of the conference table back and forth. “Let’s practice. Mr. Zimmer: You had to run out on the quad, all the way to the ‘Tree of Knowledge’ and back. That’s halfway to the Alpha Chi sorority house. Do you seriously expect the court to believe you thought none of the young women would see you?”

  “I hoped not,” Buddy said, his gaze darting left to Emma Jo, then back right to Cassidy. “The girls in the challenge weren’t allowed to leave their computers if they didn’t get called, same as the guys. It was almost midnight. It was past curfew. Everyone was supposed to be asleep. And the tree was kind of … in the way. It was like being in a dream where you just suddenly realize you’re naked, and—”

  Ms. Gibson held out her hand, palm up, stopping him. But she winked. “Good. Stick to the first part. Not on you that they broke the rules, the ones who came outside. Don’t get creative.”

  Back and forth, back and forth. Ms. Gibson was, overall, pleased. Buddy had remembered to say girls, not women, and his argument was both true and fair. She stopped, whirling suddenly on Emma Jo. “Miss Swanson, you asked for volunteers. Having fun, were you?”

  “Hell, no!”

  An arched eyebrow.

  “No, ma’am,” Emma corrected herself, making her voice small. “No. No, Your Honor.”

  They’d asked for a judge. Juries were a bad idea, case like this. The defendants at this table were undeni
ably good looking, and any potential jurors might want to see the show. They needed a professional. Emma Jo was letting Ms. Gibson stand in for the judge, just as instructed.

  “I didn’t want to pick anyone,” Emma Jo went on. “It was awful. None of us wanted to do it. The whole thing was so embarrassing. You just didn’t say no to the house, not if you wanted to make it. I mean, no one told us what Hell Day was. It felt like a part of that, so we didn’t really have a choice.”

  Ms. Gibson gave her a thumbs-up. On to Cassidy. “Miss Harper,” she said, “watching the chat playback, almost looked like you took charge a couple of times. You kept the whole thing going, didn’t you? You expect the court to accept that you had no idea whatsoever who arranged all of this?”

  “That’s exactly what I expect, Your Honor,” Cassidy said, head high. “It’s the truth. None of us knew anyone. We’d only arrived on campus the day before. I hardly even knew Emma Jo, and I hadn’t met either of the boys. Everyone just kind of went with it, so I did, too. I wanted to make a good first impression. But I had no idea who was talking to us. Still don’t.”

  Nor would they, Ms. Gibson reflected to herself. Whoever had actually pulled this stunt used a high-end scrambler as well as a location triangulation blocker. The truth was, whoever was responsible for this at the bottom wasn’t a college kid, wasn’t a transitional. And that, with the first witness, would be part of her opening.

  She nodded approval to Cassidy, who smiled as though pleased with herself.

  Then Ms. Gibson frowned at her, causing her to resume the expression Ms. Gibson had prescribed for her: tortured innocence, passive defiance.

  Back and forth, back and forth. Peter looked ready. His turn, after all. “Mr. Gravis—”

  “Peter, please,” he said slyly. “Mr. Gravis sounds like my dad, Your Honor.”

  Peter didn’t think they were going down. He’d heard the arguments, believed in the system. And now he was being coy about it.

  “Are you stupid?” Ms. Gibson asked him. “Try again. And play it right or leave, Mr. Gravis. I don’t have time for you to be cute. Understand, even if you do this right—everything … just … right—you may still lose. Transitionals hardly ever win, so get your fucking game on, you got me?”