Message-ID: <20616eli$9903170434@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year99/20616.txt> From: MichaelD38@aol.com Subject: RP: {MichaelD} "The Subtleties of Justice" (nc, bd, viol, caution) (1/4) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit Content-type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Original-Message-ID: <707499a4.36eeca83@aol.com> 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 those protected by fee-based age validation methods (such as Adultcheck and Adultsights). However, exception is specifically made for web sites (such as DejaNews) that provide archiving and access to all Usenet posts in a particular group without editing or selection for content. No modifications may be made to this story without express permission from the author. Any questions regarding use of this work 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. ************************************************* -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | <http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/>----<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/faq.html>