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From: MichaelD38@aol.com
Subject: RP: {MichaelD} "The Subtleties of Justice" (nc, bd, viol, caution) (1/4)
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                   IMPORTANT LEGAL INFORMATION
	If you have received this work in your e-mail box and do not know 
why, it is because your Internet service provider is forwarding posts 
from Usenet newsgroups to your account.  It has *NOT* been e-mailed to 
you by the author.  You must contact your ISP for help.
	This story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to real persons 
is unintentional and strictly coincidental.  This work contains 
explicit descriptions of sexual activity, and anyone offended by such 
things should read no further.  If reception of this work is illegal 
due to your age or other repressive local regulations, liability for 
downloading it is your problem, not mine.  This work is intended solely 
for the quiet and private enjoyment of adults, and any other use is a 
violation of the copyright.
	This work contains explicit descriptions of sexual activity, and 
anyone offended by such things should read no further.  If reception of 
this work is illegal due to your age or other repressive local 
regulations, liability for downloading it is your problem, not mine.  
This work is intended solely for the quiet and private enjoyment of 
adults, and any other use is a violation of the copyright.
	This work is Copyright 1998 by MichaelD38@aol.com and is 
protected by United States and other international copyright law.  
Reposting and archiving is permitted, except where a fee of any sort is 
required or earned for access, provided this disclaimer and note remain 
attached to the story.  All other rights, specifically rights of 
commercial use, are reserved.  Commercial use here is defined to 
include posting on membership web sites, banner-funded web sites, and 
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sites (such as DejaNews) that provide archiving and access to all 
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content.  No modifications may be made to this story without express 
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can be directed to the address above.  Failure to contact the author 
prior to use is presumptive evidence of bad faith and may expose you to 
significant criminal and civil liability.
                *AUTHOR'S NOTE -- PLEASE READ THIS*
	Some years ago, when I was still in law school, I spent a summer 
working for a prison law project in Los Angeles.  Among other things 
that summer, I went into federal prison several times to meet with our 
clients.  I came away from this experience with two things: an 
appreciation for the problems in our prison system and a desire to 
write something about it.
	As to the first, I had not begun with much idealism about the 
criminal justice system, and my experiences certainly did nothing to 
change that.  As to the second, I bounced ideas around for years 
without anything catching fire.  One day, though, something did.
	This story is a testament to the proposition that fiction writing 
is not entirely consensual.  There are parts of this work that I still 
cannot believe I actually wrote, but write them I did--because the idea 
refused to let go of me.  This is a sad, depressing story with an 
unhappy ending and no heroes.  It is vile, frightening, and 
occasionally revolting; it is also one of the best things I have ever 
written, and I don't think it's as far-fetched as it might appear.  
	If you clicked on the {MichaelD} without looking at the codes, 
let me repeat them so there are no misunderstandings: M/F, F/F, N/C, 
B/D, S/M, W/S, viol, rape, scat, tort, snuff.  I can't make it any 
plainer than that.  Proceed at your own risk.
	Intelligent comments and criticisms will receive appropriate 
responses.  Flames and juvenile slobbering go straight to the recycling 
bin.
	This might or might not be a work of fiction.  After all, it's 
set in the future--who knows what the next few years might bring?
 
                                 ***
                       THE SUBTLETIES OF JUSTICE
                  Copyright 1998 by MichaelD38@aol.com
                             Introduction.
2000:      America's twenty-year economic boom finally comes to an end.  
Pressures from weak foreign economies and government mismanagement 
bring about a depression to rival that of the 1930's.
2002:      The U.S. crime rate skyrockets as inner cities are flooded 
with unemployed and illegal aliens seeking refuge from the global 
depression.  Local police forces are soon overwhelmed.
2003:      A frightening new trend begins to rear its head.  For the 
first time in history, women--particularly those under 25--are 
committing crimes as often as men.
2004:      Privatization of government functions accelerates as 
bankrupt civil entities are forced to spin off functions to save money.  
Near the top of the list are prisons and penal institutions.
2005:      Over half of all incarcerated prisoners now reside in 
privately operated prisons.  A series of court decisions in response to 
prisoner lawsuits upholds the right of private penal corporations to 
manage their prisons as they see fit.
2006:      Much of the country is shocked by the discovery of a brutal 
gang of teenage girls--some as young as 13--operating in Los Angeles.  
Calling themselves the Black Widows, the gang has abducted and tortured 
to death over 30 tourists, illegal aliens, and random citizens.  The 
leaders are sentenced to death, and lesser members given life without 
parole, though several of the gang members evade capture.  This bloody 
incident provides the final impetus toward trying and punishing young 
felons as adults. 
2007:      Under pressure from certain large corporations, many of whom 
now hold most of the outstanding federal debt, Congress passes 
legislation removing the last restrictions on the operation of private 
penal institutions.  
2008:      Several wealthy individuals, operating in secret, fund the 
construction of a special women's prison in the Mojave Desert.  Through 
the use of bribes and covert influence, the worst female felons in 
California are routed to this facility.
2009:      The number of private prisons continues to increase.  Over 
three-quarters of American prisoners, and almost 90% of the worst 
felons, now reside in private institutions.
2010:      The present.
                                   I.
	It was hot.  Weasel had more important issues to concern herself 
with, but right now the heat was all she wanted to think about.  The 
thermometer had to be pushing 120, and the fucking bus she was on 
didn't have air conditioning.  The sweat dripped down her face, then 
her neck, into the channel formed by her collarbones.  From there, it 
ran in little rivulets between her breasts, finally settling into her 
navel.  When enough sweat collected to be irritating, she would shift 
forward, making it run down into her crotch.  Her undergarments were 
soaked, but her prison jumpsuit, except where it pressed against the 
vinyl seat, was dry.  The heat evaporated her sweat as it rose to the 
surface, leaving round patches of salt behind on the fabric.  
	She wanted to bitch at the guard at the front of the bus to get 
her some water but knew better.  A few of the other girls on the bus 
had tried, and he had simply laughed at them.  Besides, it would have 
meant asking for help, and Weasel wasn't a person who asked anyone for 
anything.  She took what she wanted, when she wanted it; that was how 
it was and would be.  Always and forever after, no matter what shithole 
they stuck her in.
	She looked up from her seat and tried to get a view out the front 
of the bus.  They had left the L.A. County Detention Center behind four 
hours ago.  Much further than this and they would be in Arizona.
	All she saw around her was desert, the raw and rocky moonscape of 
the Mojave.  She thought about the last time she had come out here with 
the Widows, a few years back, a two-night binge (or was it three? Who 
knew, or cared?) of booze, crank, and sex.  Someone had flagged down a 
passing car containing a revoltingly middle-class couple from Encino 
and their new baby.  Razor had bashed the baby's brains out on a rock, 
and the girls had spent a day and a night playing with the brat's 
parents.  She still remembered the wife's looks of abject horror as the 
Widows raped her husband, threatening to cut his nuts off if he came.  
Of course he had, and they had done it.  Then cooked them over the 
campfire and made his wife eat them. 
	Weasel couldn't remember how they had finally killed the two of 
them.  There had been so many during her two years with the Widows.  
Then the feds had busted them, though she had managed to get away.  
Until now.
	She felt the bus slowing and looked up.  The driver pulled off 
the Interstate onto a side road.  She saw a gate up ahead, manned by a 
pair of guards toting assault rifles.  They waved the bus through, and 
Weasel tried to flip them off as the bus passed.  She couldn't quite 
get her hands up high enough, being locked to the seat, but she thought 
the guard who looked up at her got the point.
	He laughed at her.
	The bus followed the road for several miles, and the Interstate 
disappeared into the desert behind them.  They passed through a clump 
of low hills, and finally she saw the prison up ahead.  Weasel had been 
in and out of jail almost since she could walk, but this was unlike any 
facility she had ever seen before.  She almost thought that it couldn't 
be their destination, except that the road led straight there.  All she 
could see were a small cluster of buildings, four or five at the most.  
No fence and no guard towers.
	The bus pulled into a broad parking lot in the center of the 
complex, finally stopping in front of the largest building, a 
windowless two-story structure.  The driver opened the side door and 
stepped out, followed by the two guards.  They met a group of men and 
women exiting the building, all dressed in khaki jumpsuits.  The group 
chatted for a moment before one man left the circle and climbed up into 
the bus.
	He wasn't particularly large, six feet at the most and on the 
lean side, but his grace and fluidity of movement bespoke considerable 
power.  He reminded Weasel of her friend Freeway, who had held a 
second-degree black belt in ninjitsu.  Freeway had since been put death 
by lethal injection in San Quentin.
	The man's brown hair was close-cropped, and he wore dark 
wraparound sunglasses, which he now removed.  The eerie pale blue of 
his eyes immediately washed away the heat that had plagued Weasel for 
the last few hours.  They were cold, utterly devoid of humanity.
	"Welcome to Richardson Mojave Women's Correctional Institute.  I 
am Assistant Warden Sandhurst.  In a few moments, my subordinates will 
unlock you and lead you into the Inprocessing Building.  There you will 
be prepared for your tenure here, however long or short it may be.
	"You may have noticed that there is no fence surrounding this 
facility.  That is because I do not care if you wish to run away from 
us today.  You are welcome to try, and doing so will save me and my men 
the work of having to take care of you.  All of you have been quite 
deliberately dehydrated during your trip here, and I can assure you 
that you will be lucky to get more than two or three miles across the 
desert in this heat."
	Sandhurst stepped out of the bus, and the other guards climbed 
aboard to unlock the prisoners.  Weasel glared at the guard who 
unlocked her, but he ignored her.  She would have spat at him except 
that her mouth was too dry and sticky.  When they were done, the guards 
led Weasel and the other prisoners out of the bus.  She glanced around 
them at the surrounding desert and thought about running.  The vast 
emptiness made gauging distances difficult, but she could see what 
Sandhurst had meant.  It didn't look as if there was any shade within 
five miles of the prison.
	The guards led the women into the building, and the temperature 
dropped a good forty degrees.  Weasel began to shiver, suddenly damp 
and cold in the air-conditioned building.
	They stood in a short hallway, bland and unadorned.  A guard 
sitting at a desk scanned the barcoded wristband locked to the first 
prisoner, and apparently satisfied, waved her on.  One by one, the 
guards led the prisoners through a heavy steel door, which shut with a 
dull thud behind the last woman.
	The next room was larger, and more guards waited at a pair of 
folding tables.  Beyond them appeared to be a communal shower.  
Something red flashed over Weasel's face, and she looked up to see a 
long catwalk where about a dozen guards stood pointing submachineguns 
at the prisoners.  One of the guns was pointed at her, and she saw the 
red light of the gun's lasersight shining at her.  She looked at the 
other prisoners, seeing red dots in every forehead.
	Weasel had never liked having guns pointed at her, and she didn't 
like it any better now, not that there was anything she could do.  The 
other prisoners stood nervously, not wanting to move, lest their 
potential executioner have a twitchy index finger.
	One of the guards at the table stood.
	"Ladies, and I use that term loosely, you will please now disrobe 
and place all of your garments on the tables in front of you.  Once you 
have done that, you will have two minutes to shower yourselves.  When 
the water stops, you will turn around and face the opposite wall."
	Weasel wanted to sling some disdainful remark at the guard, but 
the gun pointed at her kept her tongue in place.  She had never gone 
through an intake like this before, and she wasn't sure what 
provocation would be enough to make the guards on the catwalk start 
shooting.
	She stepped out of her jumpsuit and peeled off her sopping 
underwear.  She tossed her clothes on the table, trying to put on a 
demeanor of apathy.  The showers came on as she approached, and she 
stepped under one of the nozzles, drinking up a good quart of water 
before washing herself.
	"Bitch!  Keep your damn suds to yourself!"
	Weasel glanced over, seeing a black girl two nozzles down rubbing 
at her eyes.  She punched the white girl next to her in the arm, and 
the white girl responded by clawing at the black girl's face.
	The thunder of gunfire made Weasel leap backwards, and the heads 
of the two women exploded against the white tile of the shower.  The 
sudsy water in the drain gutter ran red with blood, and the blood 
flowed in long ribbons past Weasel's feet.  She wanted to pull herself 
out of the macabre mess, but didn't dare move.  She closed her eyes, 
waiting for something to happen.
	"Ladies, you have another thirty seconds.  Someone else will 
clean up this mess when you are finished."
	Weasel forced herself to move, and rinsed the last of the suds 
off her body.  She glanced once at the two dead girls, trying not to 
think too hard about what had happened.
	The water abruptly shut off, and Weasel turned around to face the 
guards.  One of them tossed towels to the prisoners.  Weasel dried 
herself, then handed the towel back to the guard when he returned.  She 
was still adjusting to the cool air inside the building, and felt her 
nipples stiffening.  She saw one of the guards glancing at her breasts 
and glared at him.
	The lead guard stepped out in front of them
	"Turn to your left, and follow Mr. Wilson into the next room."
	The girls turned, and Weasel walked with the rest of them through 
the door in the far wall.  She found herself in an antiseptic white 
room set out with rows of narrow reclining chairs, crafted of shiny 
sheet steel and lined with foam rubber.
	"Please have a seat, and wait for the next phase."
	Weasel sat down, laying back in the chair.  A wave of dizziness 
washed over her, and she felt progressively weaker.  I've been drugged, 
she thought.  Somehow, they drugged us.  A few moments later, she fell 
asleep.
                                  II.
Santa Monica, California
November, 2008
	Money.  Serious money.  That had been his first thought when he 
walked into the office suite.  Rough white marble tiles covered the 
floor, and white glove leather furniture filled the waiting area.  The 
walls were just a shade away from stark white, a vaguely lithic tone 
that made him think of Greece, or Sicily.  The lighting was recessed 
and concealed, filling the room with diffuse luminescence.  Across from 
him, on the wall opposite the plush chair in which he now sat hung a 
huge abstract painting, a chaotic jumble of white tones and thick 
textures.  It looked as if the artist had soaked a variety of coarse 
fabrics in white plaster, then draped them over the canvas to dry.
	"Sir?"
	He looked over to the reception desk, a heavy slab of green glass 
set on chunks of rough limestone.  Even the receptionist wore a white 
suit, doing nothing to warm the icy tones of her blonde beauty.
	"Mr. Richardson will see you now.  Follow that hallway to the 
end.  His office is in the corner."
	He stood up, following the woman's directions.  His steps were 
soundless, muffled by thick white carpet.  He found the door to 
Richardson's office open, and leaned in.  Richardson sat at his desk, 
waiting.
	"Come in.  Please."
	The towering, unobstructed view from Richardson's corner office 
made him pause a moment.  He looked out across Santa Monica, across the 
beach at the bottom of the cliff, curving up past Pacific Palisades 
toward Malibu.  Beyond that were the cliffs of Point Dume, but as high 
up as he was, he could see Zuma Beach beyond it, the sand stretching 
far off into the distance.  The day was cold, the Santa Anas were 
blowing hard, and he thought he could see for fifty miles.  
	"Have a seat."
	He sat and looked across the desk.  He saw now that Richardson 
was younger than he expected, mid-forties at most.  He wore an 
expensive Italian suit, his white shirt crispy starched and French-
cuffed.  He wore a heavy gold watch on one arm, and his hair was 
slicked back.
 	Richardson picked up his resume, studying it for a moment.
	"No problem finding us?"
	"No, sir."
	He looked around the room again.  The decor in the outer office 
was apparently Richardson's idea; sterile white tones dominated his 
office as well.  Faint strains of some Italian opera drifted through 
the air.  On Richardson's desk, another big plate of green glass like 
the receptionist's, he saw a rectangular wooden tray, about six by ten 
inches and maybe an inch thick, filled with sand.  The sand was grooved 
with long parallel lines, swooping around a pair of rocks in the 
middle.  A tiny bamboo rake lay along one edge.
	Behind him, above a white leather couch, he saw a large oil 
painting.  Like the rest of the office, white tones dominated.  It was 
a fuzzy rendition of some farm scene.  Two large haystacks, coated with 
snow, took up most of the foreground, and more haystacks dotted the 
background.  It seemed to be morning, and though he knew little about 
serious art, he thought the artist's treatment of the lighting to be 
quite skillful.
	Richardson finally spoke up.  
	"Your qualifications are certainly impressive.  Most definitely 
we're looking for people with your background and experience.  People 
who understand the criminal mind and how it works.  Why do you want to 
come to work for us?"
	He saw the girl in his mind again, saw her for the ten thousandth 
time since that horrible morning two years before.
	"I feel like I need to make a difference in the world.  I don't 
feel like I'm doing that now.  Not what really needs to be done."
	"And you think you can do that with us?"
	"If I understand correctly what it is you want to do."
	"Yes.  Well.  My associates and I have worked very hard on this 
concept, and we need people who are not afraid of doing the things that 
need to be done, no matter how extreme they might seem to some people.  
And they will be extreme.  We have in mind something very different 
from a conventional correctional institution."
	"I understand that."
	"And you will be called upon to perform certain activities you 
may well find distasteful."
	"After the things I've seen, I'm not sure I'm capable of being 
shocked anymore."
	"Indeed.  I suppose not.  I've reviewed your record and 
psychological evaluations.  I'm pleased to say that our company 
physicians pronounced you mentally fit for this position.  In fact, 
they gave you the highest marks of anyone we tested."
	He nodded.
	"So I'm happy to say that if you still want the position, it's 
yours."
	"Thank you, sir.  You won't be disappointed."
*************************************************
The Subtleties of Justice
Copyright 1998 by MichaelD38@aol.com
Free redistribution permitted;
no commericial use without authorization.
*************************************************
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