Life First: (Dystopian series, book 1)

by RJ Crayton

  “It’s people like you that make this world a bad place. But, the joke’s on you, missy. You’re gonna help society, yet. They’re gonna make sure you help out the neediest of society and then they’re gonna take your carcass and burn it. It’ll burn just like your soul is gonna burn in Hell.”

  I stop humming, for the tune I was thinking of left my head. I am silent now. Fortunately, so is he. Pig Face turns his eyes back to the door, and away from me. I hope he is finished for today.

  I will not say another word, or utter another sound while he is here, I decide. I will lie here and wait for Luke to come back, or my father or his psychiatrist.

  I want to cry, but I will not, as this will give Pig Face satisfaction. As I lie here, trying to appear unaffected, I realize just how wrong I had been. Luke told me holding facilities were bad. I had thought it was all his colored view of things. I was wrong. I am wrong. It is not the nothingness, the white walls, the rubber floors, the bland, nutritious food that make this place such a nightmare. It is the staff. I had assumed them all moral and kind, like Luke’s father. But that assumption was wrong. They are not like that. I wonder if most are like this man.

  I pray they are not, but suspect I am wrong. I close my eyes and hope the day will pass quickly.

  * * *

  When the psychiatrists come, they kick Pig Face out. My father hired these doctors, and they are thorough, which leads me to believe they are good. They ask me a slew of questions. Not just about my reasons for not wanting to do the transplant, but about my childhood, my mother’s death, Susan, even my pregnancy — though I have known about it for less than a day now, so there isn’t much on that front. We spend much of the day talking. There is a break, during which Pig Face brings me lunch. I don’t eat it. I’m afraid he poisoned it. Or just spit in it. I know I need to eat for the baby, but I am scared to eat what he’s brought. He who wants me to burn in Hell.

  By the time my father comes at the end of the day, I am tired, famished and wish to talk to him privately. But he is not alone. Uncle Albert is with him. Technically, Albert Harrell is not my uncle. He is my godfather and a judge in the local circuit court.

  Uncle Albert takes a disapproving look at me, then brushes his hand over his own hair. “When you get out,” he says, “You should switch to a new stylist.”

  I laugh, my fatigue overshadowed by delight at his presence, and give him a hug. Uncle Albert is a roly-poly man with a gruff face, but the sweetest disposition you’ll ever find. He is on the shorter side for a man, the same height as me, but he has never seemed bothered by it. Uncle Albert always exudes self-confidence.

  “It’s nice of you to come,” I say as we pull free of the embrace.

  He scowls, waves his hand as if shoeing away my concern. “This isn’t nice, sweetie. It’s work.”

  I give him a puzzled glance, then look toward my father.

  “He’s your attorney,” Dad says.

  “Aren’t you a judge?” I ask, confused.

  “All judges are lawyers,” he says flatly, with a trace of his native Mississippi twang. “I retained my bar license, and I can practice in Maryland. Just because it’s highly unusual doesn’t mean it can’t be done, my dear.”

  I look at Daddy and wonder if this is a good idea. I love Uncle Albert, and I’ve been told he was a pretty good criminal defense attorney in his day. But he’s been a judge for more than 20 years now, and hasn’t tried a case in as much time. I retreat to my bed block, then look back at them both. It’s best not to pull any punches with Albert.

  “It’s been a long time since you’ve tried a case,” I say, looking him in the eye.

  He holds my gaze. “Your father surely didn’t raise a fool,” he laughs. “It’s wise to raise this point. I can assure you, I’m still quite qualified to try your case, dear. I wouldn’t have agreed to your father’s request ... Hell, he wouldn’t have asked me, if I weren’t able.”

  I nod. He’s right on both accounts. Well, perhaps I should ask the better question. “Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask. Part of me wants to look away, afraid of his answer. “I’m sort of a political albatross. I’ve probably killed my father’s shot at being governor.”

  He laughs. “Dear, if you think I care what strangers think, then I’ve done a piss-poor job of being a godfather.”

  I shake my head. “No, I know you don’t care,” I say. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t care what they think, sometimes.”

  “Well, I care what you think.” Albert's gaze says the rest of the world be damned. He turns to my father. “What about you, Lewis? Do you care what strangers think?”

  “Nope,” my father says firmly. “I care about getting Kelsey home safe.”

  “Thank you,” I say, looking first at Albert and then my dad. If someone were to say I could only have three people on my side, I have the good fortune of having the best three people in the entire world: Luke, my father and Albert.

  I pull my legs up onto my bed block, criss-cross applesauce, and Uncle Albert steps out and asks Pig Face to bring in chairs for him and daddy. As Pig Face returns to his post outside, they pull their chairs close to my bed block, and take a seat. Albert says my father may stay, only because he is an attorney, too, and my statements to him are privileged as well. Albert begins by reviewing the information he has so far.

  My statements are bad, he declares. And if they were to come before his court, he’d toss me in a holding facility and throw away the key. Not a good start. But, there are two good points, Albert asserts. First, I am pregnant.

  “This is good because you technically weren’t eligible for the transplant,” Albert says, giving my father a significant look.

  “Why does that matter?” I ask.

  “The statute specifically makes it a crime for an eligible donor to flee a marking,” he says in a rather subdued tone for such good news.

  “Why don’t you sound as happy as you should,” I ask, as his face looks like he’s eaten a rotten lemon.

  “Because this goes to interpreting the law,” my father interjects. “And judges at this level don’t like to do that.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “This sounds like it should be good news. I wasn’t eligible, right?”

  “Under the exact wording of the statute, yes,” my father says. “But people have tended to look at this as meaning eligible at the time you were marked. At the time you were marked, you were eligible. But, technically, the way the statute is written, it refers to eligibility at the time of the surgery. At that time, you weren’t eligible.”

  “Kelsey,” Albert says severely, “this is our most promising legal avenue, but don’t get your hopes up.”

  I wonder if I look like I’ve been chewing the same rotten lemon as Albert at this point. “But, it sounds like I should be set free.”

  My father sighs, leans in. “You should, according to the statute. But, like I said, lower court judges don’t like to set new precedents. They don’t like to interpret the law. They want appeals courts to do that. So, I’m not sure we’ll get a decision in our favor. Granted, there aren’t a lot of people fleeing donations, but given the recent upswing in this choice movement, I don’t think a lower-court judge is going to rock the boat. ”

  “Plus,” Albert adds. “There’s public opinion. Even if a judge doesn’t mind setting new precedent, I don’t think he will do it in such a public case. There are several reasons for this. One, judges are elected, and if it’s an unpopular decision, the judge won’t be re-elected. Second, the judge has to work with these prosecutors day in and day out. We judges don’t like to talk about it, like to pretend it’s not true, but these prosecutors are our colleagues, and sometimes it’s easier to punt on an issue than make a colleague look like a fool for bringing a case he legally shouldn’t. This is our best legal argument, Kelsey, but it may not work. If I were the judge in your case, I’d let you go.”

  I smile at that. “Why don’t you just stay on as a judge and hear my case?�
��

  He gives me a hard look. “That would be wrong, Kelsey,” he says, drawing out the word wrong for emphasis. “Even if I didn’t recuse myself on my own, I’m sure the prosecution would demand it.”

  I shake my head in exasperation. “My best hope is not an option.”

  Albert nods. “Let’s move on, Kelsey. I’ll write the motion, and then it’s out of our hands. What we can control is the defense at your hearing.”

  I nod. “What are our options?”

  “Susan,” Uncle Albert says succinctly.

  “You can’t do that to her,” I protest, slapping my hand down on my thigh for emphasis. “She’s already been through too much.”

  “And so have you,” Albert retorts. “Plus, what happened to her was wrong. If the panel could hear that, see what you’d been exposed to, they would understand why you went crazy.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Crazy?”

  “Pregnancy psychosis,” my father says.

  I look from him to Albert and back to my father again. I feel my face screw up in confusion as I ask, “Pregnancy what?!”

  “Psychosis,” Albert says. “It’s a rare pregnancy disorder that typically emerges in the third trimester and involves psychosis related to harming the baby. But the psychiatrist suspects you may have an extreme form of it. This psychosis, coupled with your knowledge of Susan’s situation, caused you to flee.”

  I let it sink in a minute. My stomach churns lightly. I look down at my feet and ask the question I am not sure I want an answer to. “You think I’m psychotic?”

  “Of course not,” my father says, leaving his chair, taking a step toward me. “It’s just a defense, sweetheart. Saying what you feel, taking a stand isn’t going to help at this point. What you need is a defense to get you out of here, and pregnancy psychosis may be all there is.”

  I raise my eyes to meet his. He is squatting so we are at eye level. His expression has a genuine quality about it that I can’t quite describe but know when I see. I feel relief now that others don’t think I’m bonkers. My father joins me on my block, sitting next to me, and wrapping his arm around my shoulder, offering a gentle squeeze of reassurance.

  I look at Albert. “So, do you think a panel will believe I have this pregnancy psychosis?”

  “It’s a long shot, dear,” he says, his Southern twang thickening, “but it’s all we got, so we’re gonna aim, and hope we hit the bulls-eye.”

  With that, Uncle Albert and Daddy begin saying their good-byes. I give Albert a hug, then ask my father to stay a moment longer, as Uncle Albert calls for the guard to release him. I wish I had such an easy way out.

  After Uncle Albert has trundled through the door, I take a step closer to my father and whisper. “Dad, is there any way to get another day-shift guard?”

  He furrows his brow. “What’s wrong?”

  I am not sure how far to go with this. In the end, I can ignore the fiend, but I don’t want him in the room with me anymore. It is hard enough being in here without someone telling you what a sick bastard you are. “It’s not a big deal,” I say, trying to sound casual. “But the guy today just said some unkind things to me, and if it’s not too hard, if you haven’t exhausted all your favors, maybe just a new guy, or maybe see if you can get him to stand outside during the day.”

  As the words tumble from my mouth, I realize how ridiculously whiny this is sounding. I am in a holding facility, not a spa. I feel like a spoiled child seeking just one more thing from my indulgent father, and it smarts to think it. “Just forget about it, Daddy. I’ll be fine. It’s not a big deal.”

  I hug him, and then go back to my block. I sit, and he stares at me. My stomach growls, then my father looks over at the tray of food on the floor in the corner. “Why didn’t you eat, honey?”

  I wish he hadn’t asked. Now he will think I’ve gone crazy. I momentarily debate not answering, then finally spill. “It was just... I just thought … the guard, he seemed kind of nasty...” I fidget with my hands and cast my eyes down, as I struggle with how to explain my concerns. “I thought maybe he’d tainted my food.”

  I glance up at my father. He’s got that I’m-dealing-with-a-crazy-person look on his face. “I’m just stressed in here,” I tell him, hoping he’ll stop giving me that fake smile he uses with ranters on the campaign trail. I could deal with just about any political face but that one. “I’ll be fine. Forget I asked about the change, OK?”

  I wait a moment, then look up to see he has his worried face on. And now I wonder if maybe I liked the I’m-dealing-with-a-crazy-person face better.

  “I’ll get you some food, Kelsey. I’ll bring it myself, OK,” he says, reassuringly. “And I’ll see what I can do about that other matter, too.”

  Even though what I asked for is more than I deserve, I feel complete euphoria that he said he’d try. “Thank you, Daddy.”

  Chapter 21: Perspective

  It is night, and Luke has replaced Pig Face, to my immense pleasure. Other than him giving me a significant look upon his arrival, he does not speak to me. The lights cut off, and to my surprise, he walks over immediately, beckons me to scoot over and slides in next to me on my bed block.

  Sitting at my side, Luke wraps an arm around me. I lay my head on his shoulder and wonder why he has chosen to show such little restraint. “Aren’t we living a little dangerously?”

  “Charlie’s monitoring the security room, tonight,” Luke says, planting a kiss on my neck. “Word has it, he never turns on the lights. He apparently likes to watch porn on a little portable image player.”

  I pull away slightly, raise an eyebrow, then remember he can’t see me. Trying not to sound too naive, I ask, “How does he get porn? Isn’t that illegal?”

  Luke laughs — a, “you’re joking, right?” laugh. One that shakes us both, as he’s still got his arm wrapped around me loosely. “Holding Facilities are different, Kelse. Let’s just say, he gets it.” He places his hand on my knee and gracefully begins sliding his fingers up my thigh. “And besides, that wasn’t the point. The point is I feel confident you and I are due some privacy.”

  His hand stops on my buttock, and he pulls me up onto his lap, and plants a kiss on me. His lips are soft and his mouth is warm, with his tongue passionately probes mine. It is hot and entrancing, and then I remember where we are, and pull my face from his. “Luke, what if Charlie gets bored and turns on the light.”

  “Then he’ll probably assume I’m having sex with you and watch a little,” he says as he kisses my neck.

  I whack him on the shoulder. “Be serious.”

  “I am serious,” he says, sighing. “Why do you think I got your father to get me in here, Kelsey? It’s not safe in here.”

  “And nobody cares if the guards break the rules?”

  His body bobs rhythmically and I can tell he is shaking his head, though I can’t see it. “Nobody cares, and half the prisoners are so insane they don’t know what’s being done to them.”

  I shudder.

  He gently strokes my neck. “I’ll be here with you every night,” he says. “I promise.”

  I scoot off his lap. Not as a result of his reassurance that he’ll be with me, but for the general realization that I have gotten myself into a real jam. While Luke always expressed disdain for holding facilities, I never quite understood why. I always thought it was more of an inherited distaste. His father hated holding facilities, so Luke, by virtue of growing up in that household, soaked up the hate and took it on as his own.

  I always assumed that because most people saw nothing wrong with holding facilities, those people were right. I had never heard complaints about the facilities or their treatment of inmates. So, I assumed society was right and Luke was just biased. But, being an inmate now, and hearing Luke talk, it is finally settling in just how desperate my situation is. I’d initially thought that a short-term wing would be different from the long-term ward, yet that is proving to be untrue. This place is awful, and no one cares but the people t
rapped inside.

  I feel Luke’s hand groping along in the dark as he pats his way down my arm and eventually finds my hand and takes it in his. “What’s wrong, Kelsey?”

  I am not sure how to put it, how to express what I am feeling. “I just wonder why nobody cares that holding facilities are so bad, why nobody talks about it.”

  He squeezes my hand. “I think nobody cares because it would force them to look at the hypocrisy of the situation. This isn’t Life First, Kelsey. At least for the people in here. Their lives are meaningless to the outside world. So no one talks about it. They just pretend it doesn’t exist. Not to mention, the population in here isn’t that vocal. Their family shuns them, writes them off as menaces to society. They’ve got no one.”

  I nod. “I don’t know how your father could stand working here for 30 days, let alone 30 years.”

  Luke breathes out, and leans back against the wall. I feel his body shift next to mine, and decide to lean back, too. “He compromised, Kelsey,” Luke says flatly. “He wasn’t proud of it, and I always thought he was wrong to do it. But, he had a family to support, to care for, to be there for. I mean, no one ever starves in FoSS. We’d have gotten government assistance if my father hadn’t been able to work. But, he didn’t want that, didn’t want the intrusion. Once you ask for help, the government comes in and starts telling you how to raise the children, and what values to instill and all those things. With my mother’s condition ….”