Francesca did as she was told. While she waited, her eyes drifted to the screens on the long table.
Each displayed a video feed from a different part of the ward. Two were in passageways, she wasn’t sure which ones; one was in the recreation room, judging by the appearance of books and games; one was a view of what she assumed was their side of the catwalk around the Great Atrium; and the last showed the inside of a cell. In the cell, two inmates sat talking. A number in the corner read 24E52. She easily deciphered the designator—twenty-fourth floor, east ward, cell number fifty-two.
She was alone with her thoughts for the first time since she arrived at the Coppice. The Sacred Task was not something she expected to witness on her first night as an Apprentice. Thoughts of who it could be and why they were sent to the Coppice swirled in her mind like leaves in a storm.
She would need to witness a dozen before performing the Sacred Task herself, and each Member had total control over how many Tasks they performed and how often. There were no quotas; Members demonstrated their commitment to the Order and its purpose in their own way, on their own time.
Some Apprentices waited months to perform the Sacred Task on their own; others, and she had assumed she would fall in this group, waited mere weeks. Rudolfo’s reputation was one of diligence and efficiency. It was said he performed an above average number of Sacred Tasks because he took his role so seriously. But it was also said that he performed the Task only when he had to. Francesca took Rudolfo’s above average number of Tasks as a sign of his relentless commitment to his duties.
Rumors at the Pupil’s School held that several Apprentices in years past had performed the Sacred Task within days of arriving. She cringed at the thought of this; it cheapened and befouled the sanctity of the Task.
Rudolfo returned with a large, leather-bound book several inches thick, under his arm. He sat down across from her at the small table and opened the book. She heard its spine creak, watched him turn the yellow pages densely packed with tiny black writing.
He looked up and met her eyes. “This book contains a record of every inmate that has passed through my ward whilst I’ve served as a Member of the Order.”
He had opened the book to a small blank section of pages toward the end of the book, then worked his way back through handwritten ones in different states of completion. The pages were thick and heavy, each time one fell she felt a light puff of air. She watched his eyes search the pages, looking toward the top of each until he stopped.
Rudolfo spun the book around and slid it across the table. “Read my observations. Give me your assessment.” He pointed to the page on her left.
She scanned the page, absorbing the purpose of this book. Each page was an inmate’s life here at the Coppice. The top line of each page held a number. The page Rudolfo pointed to read 0882, followed by a brief description of the inmate—brown eyes, olive complexion, spiderweb tattoos on both elbows, left hand dominant.
The rest of the page was covered in miniscule script written in a close, looping style of hand. Each line stretched across the page from the outer edge to the junction of the spine, top to bottom—detailed descriptions of incidents and observations taken by Rudolfo. She bent close to read the tight scrawl.
Participated in fight with four other inmates on a working party—he was not the instigator, but easily goaded into violence by the others. Stole food in cafeteria. Watched during card game with other inmates, cheated, then lied. Actively trading protection for sexual favors. Not following through on protection after exchange. Physically intimidates newcomers—arranged beating of one who refused to pay for protection. Three shivs found in cell.
She read to the bottom of the page finding the same offenses repeated—violence, theft, thievery, instigation of violence.
The last line ended abruptly in the middle of a sentence. Confused, she looked to the next page only to find that it started with an entirely new inmate like every page did. She was about to ask if there was more when her left thumb grazed the edge of the page and the text moved, scrolling upward. She could now see new lines at the bottom of the page. Touching the edge of the page with her thumb again she swiped upward and the text scrolled to reveal more and more lines.
Francesca looked up in surprise at Rudolfo. This book was not made of paper, although it appeared strikingly similar. The pages were capacitive film, scrollable and editable like any tablet. The technology wasn’t new, having been invented two decades ago and becoming mainstream in many industries ten years later. To see it here used by this man was a juxtaposition that made her wonder what other surprises he may be hiding.
Rudolfo stared back at her. An almost imperceptible nod at the book told her to get back to her assignment.
Francesca scrolled and read until she reached the end of inmate 0882’s profile, which ended with his fate.
0882 selected for the Sacred Task.
She read this last line several times before looking up. When she did, Rudolfo spoke.
“Do you agree in my selecting 0882 for the Sacred Task?”
“What was his crime? Why was he sent here?” she asked.
“His crime is irrelevant.”
“His crime is what brought him here.”
Rudolfo raised his eyebrows at this. He seemed to be considering her for a moment before pulling the book back across the table. She assumed the lesson had ended, but he turned to another page, one much further back toward the beginning. Spinning the book around once more, he slid it to her.
“Read this,” he said pointing to a page on the right side of the book this time.
She read the page. It didn’t take her long as the incidents and observations barely covered half the page and many of them exhibited positive behavior on the inmate’s part.
Shared food with newcomer. Educated foreign born inmate to speak English. Sits quietly most days, avoiding the other inmates. Four inmates attempted to start violent confrontations with 9898, he resisted and was beaten as a result.
She read the last line before looking up.
Inmate 9898 selected for release.
“Do you agree with this assessment?” Rudolfo asked.
“I do. He is clearly not a threat to anyone.”
Rudolfo pointed at the table holding the four monitors. He gestured to the one on the far right.
“Go to that computer and look up inmate 9898. Tell me what his crime was that brought him here.”
She stood and walked to the computer he had indicated. She found the icon for the prison’s intranet, opened the app, and found a search function under a tab labeled “Inmate Records.” She keyed in 9898.
The profile was standard. A large picture appeared at the top followed by personal identifying information: name, prior address, identification number. Several rows down, below height, weight, eye color, tattoos and other markings, was the line for “Conviction.” She stared at what it read.
“Well?” said Rudolfo.
“Triple murder. Wife, her lover, and an innocent woman with the lover when 9898 caught up with him.”
“How did he kill them?”
“With a hammer,” she said with as much impassivity that she could muster. “How long was he here?”
“Now look up 0882.”
After a brief search, she said, “Drug trafficking and armed robbery.”
“Now, do you see?” he asked.
Francesca returned to her seat across from Rudolfo. She thought for a moment before responding. Each Member was bound to serve out the Sacred Task and none was given strict guidelines on how to deal it out, to whom to deal it, or how often. One of the most commonly held understandings among them, however, was that consideration of the inmate’s crime was paramount. Her Mentor was now telling her a charge’s crime was irrelevant.
“We are not to consider our charges’ crimes when assessing them?”
“No.”
“But we were taught that …”
“Yes, you were,” he said. “I’m a
sking you to think about it in a new way. Many do not agree with me, but each Member of the Order is free to choose their own methods of assessing and selecting.”
“How are we supposed to punish them, if …”
“Please do not use the word punishment when speaking of a Member’s duty.” He raised his voice and for the first time she saw real emotion in his eyes. His fist clenched tight on the table top. “Being separated from society and sent to this facility is punishment enough, in itself. We must have faith that the justice system sent them here for good reason after using wisdom and thorough science to convict them.” He took a deep breath. “Our duty is to decide the fate of the man or woman as they are now,” he jabbed a gloved finger into the table, “not as they were.”
“I’m sorry, Brother Rudolfo. I didn’t mean to question your philosophy.” She bowed her head. “I seek to understand. This is simply a different way to look at things than we were taught at the Pupil’s School.”
She sensed that this eased his temper.
“I showed you those two men for a reason, Francesca. One committed a horrendous crime, stayed here for ten years and over that time exhibited zero indications that he was, at heart, a violent person.” He waved a hand to each side of the table as he spoke as if the two inmates were standing next to them at that moment.
“The other committed what most would consider low-level crimes, but arrived here and began showing signs of duplicitousness, bloodlust, and murderous behavior if not murder itself. It was my assessment that 9898 could be released back into society posing almost no threat, while 0882 would almost certainly take a life if he was back out on the streets. Now do you see?”
“We judge who they are,” she said.
“Not who they were.” He finished her thought.
At the Pupil’s School of the Order, they were taught to look at all parts of a person, most especially their crimes. They’d also been taught to look up old criminal cases from the years before the Order had formed for comparison and precedent. These things were meant to give them a holistic view so as to be more fair in their assessments. She’d assumed, coming to the Coppice to start her Apprenticeship, that assessing and judging the inmates would be more transactional. If you did x number of bad things, you were bad. You got selected for the Task. What Rudolfo was doing required a philosophical approach. There was wisdom in it. Wisdom that she appreciated and wanted to learn more about.
They sat in silence for many minutes. She attempted to absorb the lesson. It was difficult to push aside much of what she was taught in the academy and Rudolfo’s ideas, on their face, seemed wrong, but they intrigued her.
A new door had opened in her mind and she wondered how many more doors Rudolfo would open for her. She also wondered how many other Members agreed with him.
“Can you show me who we’ll be performing the Sacred Task on tonight?” she asked, breaking the silence.
He nodded, turned the book so he could read it, and turned many pages toward the front of the book. Then, he returned it to her and pointed to the page on her right.
She read the list of incidents, offenses, and observations for inmate 0505. What she saw was an inmate who had lived at the prison for twenty-eight years and had committed a series of only minor violent offenses until the second to last line.
Murdered inmate 7423 in shower room. Inmate 0505 has been selected for the Sacred Task.
“I don’t understand. He didn’t seem to be murderous until very recently.”
“Until this morning.” Rudolfo scratched his chin. “This man is in his late seventies. He has never been well-behaved enough to be granted release, yet never violent enough for the Task. It is my belief that he has grown tired of life here and killed that poor man in the shower to seal his own fate. Maybe he couldn’t do the deed himself, so he chose suicide by Tapper, knowing the outcome for murder is a guarantee.”
Rudolfo’s use of the slang term for Members of the Order caught her off guard. It was taboo to use the word Tapper among Members, especially when referring directly to the Sacred Task.
“I see,” she said.
He nodded. “Yes, I think you do. The inmates will be back from work parties soon. It will be a good opportunity for you to observe them as they return.”
* * *
Hours passed while she observed the inmate population from various points in the ward. Her black cassock had the same effect as before.
In the mess hall, at evening meal time, she stood against a bulkhead watching the inmates queue up. Rows of tables sat in front of her, the food line on the other side of them. Hundreds of men passed, not one looking in her direction. She wondered if being a part and apart was made easier when the inmates refused to look at her. How many knew she was here at all? Had they grown so accustomed to blocking them out that it happened naturally?
Individuals who came near her diverted course as if an invisible bubble deflected them. Rudolfo, on the opposite wall, had the same effect. The overall mood seemed low. She’d expected chatter and laughing, lighthearted banter or vicious bullying. What she witnessed now could be described as robotic; men going through the motions of acquiring sustenance.
In the passageways and corridors, she experienced the same avoidance of gazes and physical space.
The afternoon and evening passed without incident. How was she supposed to observe inmate behavior if it was altered with their presence? She posed this question to Rudolfo as they walked one of the corridors.
“Most valuable observation is done via the camera feeds or eyewitness accounts from the guards.” He spread his arms wide. “Our physical presence here is more of a reminder. Although, I’ve witnessed plenty first-hand.”
The lights around them dimmed, leaving a dusk-like glow throughout the ward. They made their way back to passageway four and stopped outside her quarters.
“Wait here a moment,” he said.
When he returned, he handed her a thick book, identical to his own but not as worn.
“This is for you. Begin logging your observations and thoughts in here.” He clasped his hands behind his back and inclined his head. “You will get another one when you graduate to full Member. For now, use this as a journal of our lessons in addition to inmate assessments.”
She rubbed the smooth leather on the front cover and turned the book over in her hands. Opening it, she saw that it contained the same capacitive film pages as Rudolfo’s.
He gestured to her door. “Go. I will fetch you in a few hours for tonight’s Task.”
* * *
Francesca recorded the events of the day but could not bring herself to be more creative than scrawl a simple hour by hour description. Her thoughts were a bundle of twine, its beginning indistinguishable from its end.
In the academy, she’d attempted to absorb all they taught her. Philosophy, history, sociology, anthropology, chemistry, mathematics, legal studies. Her grasp of these subjects was why she was beginning her Apprenticeship now and not someone else; she had shown great promise. There was no age limit for a Pupil to end her or his studies and move on to be an Apprentice. One started an Apprenticeship when one was ready.
She’d especially excelled in legal studies and philosophy, proving to her instructors that she was capable of the complex comprehensive thought required to judge someone and sentence them to death.
Now, her Mentor forced her to question the very threads in the fabric of the Order. Those threads were tethered to the very crime that put an individual in prison. But he was asking her to judge a person for who they are and not who they were, to be agnostic of past deeds. She refused to believe the simplicity of it but also could not help but see the wisdom in it.
Was the Coppice’s purpose to punish in order to prevent future actions by the guilty or was it a device meant to separate civil society from those who’d disrupt it? Punish the deed, quarantine the person, or remove the unwanted? All three perhaps.
The hours passed and she scribbled away in her new ledge
r, describing all she had seen, heard, and learned that day. She attempted to add as much substance to as she could manage with what she felt was little success.
A knock at the door shook her. Slamming the cover shut on the thick book, she sprung to her feet and opened the door.
Looking more impassive than she thought possible, Rudolfo stood several feet from her door, his hands behind his back.
Without a word, he turned to his right and walked toward the central corridor. She followed him down the corridor and past passageway three. They turned into passageway two and down it to its center. The lights were dim, the tube lighting array at only one-third its usual brightness. In the empty passageway, Francesca could hear chatter from the cells up and down the passageway. No one, it seemed, was asleep. Nor did it sound like they were close to being so.
Rudolfo stopped in front of an empty space on the wall between cell doors. Francesca stood watching him with bated breath, wondering how he would perform the Task with so many lively inmates inside.
She knew how the Task was performed, how the poison was administered, the way it interacted with the nervous system extinguishing all life functions almost instantly. But the details of ensuring a sleeping recipient was something she had always been told she would learn from her Mentor.
She watched Rudolfo wave the back of his left hand in front of a plain brick in the wall. For a moment, she wondered if the poison he had administered so many times had found its way to his brain.
Rudolfo moved his hand up and down, then stepped back staring at the brick. Nothing happened for several seconds, then a soft clunk came from somewhere inside the wall. The brick disappeared into the wall, sucked back behind its neighbors.
Sensing from Rudolfo it was okay to do so, she stepped forward to see what was inside the small cavity.
A keypad and a round dial rested on an inclined shelf. Rudolfo reached in and typed a long series of numbers into the keypad. While he did so, a red light flashed above his hand then turned green and went out.
“There are necessarily a series of security barriers to this,” he said as he typed with his left hand, the same he’d used to open the brick. “A twelve-digit code and two scans of my implant. The first scan opens the control box, but only scans my implant to be sure I am me and that I am alive. The second scan is performed while I type the code.”
Executioner's Lament Page 9