“Evening.”
“We have a court date for tomorrow at nine A.M.,” she tells me. There are papers all over the desk behind her. “They’re going to take you back to your cell now. They’ll return you two hours before court.”
There is a knock at the door. Elizabeth watches as two guys in gray uniforms pass chains through my belt loops, then connect them to restraints around my arms and legs.
“Don’t worry, Jake,” Elizabeth says, noting my embarrassment. “We’ve all been there.”
Back in my original cell, the lights appear brighter, and I notice that the heat has been turned up. Inside, there’s still only the flimsy sheet and the worn copy of The Manual. The heat is like a sauna. In an hour, my new jumpsuit is drenched. Eventually, a tray appears through the slot in my door. A bowl of macaroni and cheese and two bottles of Icelandic water. Truffle mac and cheese. My jaw still hurts, but I can tell from the tiny portion that the chef must work in a very fancy restaurant. It’s delicious.
The following morning, I wait for what seems like hours until my door opens, and a guard leads me to Elizabeth’s office. She has another clean jumpsuit—this one yellow—and a bottle of water waiting for me. As I stand in the corner, changing out of my clothes, she keeps reading her computer screen and typing.
I sit in the chair and wait. After a while, she looks up. “We may finally have a deal, Jake. Hungry?”
“Starving.”
She makes a call, and minutes later a woman in uniform shows up with a tray of toast, juice, yogurt, bacon, and scrambled eggs. Obviously not the same chef as last night. I take my time with the food, savoring it.
Downstairs, the courtroom is just like the real thing—a jury box, a place for a stenographer, a prosecutor on one side, Elizabeth and me on the other, a few observers chatting in the pews. As we take our seats, the chatter subsides. Then a female bailiff announces, “All rise, court is now in session.”
The judge emerges from a side door. He has silver hair and thick glasses and is wearing the traditional black robe. He looks like an actor playing a judge on TV. He takes his place in front of the courtroom without speaking. His clerk hands him a file.
As he reads the paperwork, we sit in silence. I tug at the neck of the yellow jumpsuit. It’s cut the same as the red ones, but the fabric is different. Scratchy. I wonder if it’s been specially engineered to make defendants uncomfortable in court. While we wait, the prosecutor, a stern guy in a business suit, keeps glancing down at his cellphone.
Finally, the judge looks at me. He takes a minute to size me up. “Hello, Friend,” he says.
I nod in response.
“Morning, counselors,” he says. “I understand that we have come to an agreement, a plea to two counts.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” the prosecutor says.
The judge picks up the file and drops it back down on his desk dramatically. “This is an alarmingly thick file,” he observes.
The size of my file. What could possibly be in it? Alice and I have only been married for six months. Have I really been such a terrible husband? Is my list of crimes so vast?
“Yes, Your Honor,” the prosecutor agrees. “There were some issues that needed to be sorted out.”
“Given the seriousness of the file,” the judge says, “a plea to two counts, albeit a Felony Three, seems surprising, no?”
“Well…” The prosecutor squirms.
“I would expect a plea to at least a few more charges. Did our defendant’s counselor get the best of you? I must say, I’m surprised.”
I glance over at Elizabeth. Her expression remains unreadable.
“Your Honor,” the prosecutor says, “in this highly unusual case, I believe that the plea is fitting.”
The judge doesn’t speak. He flips through the file again. Except for the shuffling of papers, it is hushed in the courtroom. I get the feeling everyone is terrified of the judge. And I realize that, despite his robe and the bailiff and all the usual trappings of the justice system, this court is far from ordinary. Even the attorneys are afraid. At any moment, they might find themselves sitting right where I’m sitting, defending themselves against false allegations, answering for crimes they may or may not have committed.
Finally, the judge tucks the papers back in the folder. He takes off his reading glasses and looks down at me. “Jake, you’re a lucky man.”
Why don’t I feel like a lucky man?
“Last week, our defense attorney was an ambulance chaser from Reseda. I doubt he would have been able to orchestrate the same outcome for you that Ms. Watson has.” The judge seems slightly frustrated but resolved. Then he says, “Please stand.”
I stand, and beside me Elizabeth stands too.
“Jake, you have been charged with one felony count of Possessiveness, section nine, unit four, paragraphs one through six, and one misdemeanor count of Seeking Anti-Pact Propaganda, section nine, unit seven, paragraph two. You have the right to a jury trial among your peers. How do you plead?”
I glance at Elizabeth. She whispers in my ear.
“Guilty, Your Honor,” I say. “On both counts.”
“Do you understand that with this plea you do not have the opportunity to appeal should you have a change of heart following the sentencing?”
“Yes. I understand.”
“Are you familiar with The Manual’s teachings relating to possessiveness?”
“Yes.”
“How would you define possessiveness?”
“Manifesting a desire to control your partner.”
“Would you agree that appropriately describes your behavior?”
“Yes, Your Honor. One of my original intentions when I proposed marriage may have been rooted in this desire.”
“You are aware, also, that seeking information online to vilify or otherwise cast aspersions upon The Pact is a crime that we cannot tolerate, for the health of The Pact and for the good of your marriage?”
“I understand, sir.”
“Okay, Jake. I will accept your plea. You have been found guilty of one count of Possessiveness, as defined in nine, four, one through six. As you know, that is a Felony Three. You have also been found guilty of one count of Seeking Anti-Pact Propaganda, as defined in nine, seven, two. Misdemeanor Four. Both are serious crimes. In mitigation, this is your first offense; you have willingly acknowledged and pleaded guilty to the offenses. Your sentence is as follows: six months of weekly consultations with a certified Pact mentor selected by your regional coordinator, one year availability for participation in our long-distance counseling program, the customary hundred-dollar fine, a three-month moratorium on Internet use with the exception of email, and four days at Fernley as time served.”