Being Enslaved 1 Chapter 1

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The interrogation room smells of nervous sweat and cigarettes. Hands cuffed behind my back, I squirm in my seat, waiting for my lawyer to return.

My lawyer.

My gut turns at the phrase; I haven't had to think it in a long time, not since Mom and Dad… since the accident. What I wouldn't give to talk to them right now — they would know what to do. Instead, my fate is in the hands of an overworked public defender who barely looks older than me.

At least she seems to care.

It was self-defense. There shouldn't be a trial at all, her words echo in my mind. I'm going to recommend the charges be dropped.

It feels like an eternity I've been watching the clock in the corner of the room. When the door finally opens, I'm expecting my lawyer back with good news, but it's a man instead.

Old and pale, skin hangs loosely from his jaw. A sterile, hospital sanitation scent fills the room as he regards me with wide, sunken eyes. Dark red suspenders squeeze a pair of gray slacks and a white, b.u.t.ton-down shirt against his scrawny frame. He's short enough that if I stood up, I'd probably be taller — his thin, black briefcase looks comically large against his matchstick legs.

"What?" I say. "Where's Annie?"

The man straightens his yellow bow tie as he pulls out the empty chair facing me; its legs sc.r.a.pe loudly against the cement floor, raking my senses. His happy smile makes my hair stand on end.

Setting the briefcase down on the table, he snaps it open and pulls out a manila folder. "Quinn Harris," he says, reading from the file. His eyes light up as they move down the page. "Carnegie Mellon! A wonderful school. How are your grades?"

"I graduated summa c.u.m laude," I reply. "A month ago." That was when my life was supposed to start. I was all packed up, ready to leave Pittsburgh and move to Philly, where I had a job lined up. Instead, I've been here ever since that night. "Excuse me, but who are you? And where's my lawyer?"

He clears his throat. "Apologies. I'm Jonah Jefferson; I asked Annie if I could have a look at your file. She's got so many cases right now, and this one requires some extra care."

"Are you a public defender too?" I ask. He must be at least seventy — he seems too old to be on the bottom rung.

Jefferson must think so too, since he laughs, a mirthful sound, though it quickly dies in his throat. "A long, long time ago. I've been a lawyer for nearly fifty years — and a judge for half that."

A judge? Is this how things are supposed to work?

"I'm confused. Are you my lawyer or not?"

He shakes his head, then pulls out a few items from my file. He sets them in front of me so I can see them: there's crime scene photographs, a pair of witness statements, the 9-1-1 transcript… and the medical report, including the doctor's prognosis. "Ms. Harris, in my professional expertise, your case is not as simple as Annie believed. A jury might not buy it was self-defense, or an accident, as you've indicated."

My fists clench, long nails digging into my palms. "Why wouldn't they believe me?"

Jefferson sighs. "Lance Prescott is the son of-"

"I know who he is."

Always use the present tense when talking about Lance, Annie once told me. Always "is." Never "was." As far as the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania is concerned, he's still alive.

The judge nods. "Did you know who he was at the time?"

"No. I found out later." It's the truth. I'd like to think, even if I did know, that I wouldn't have done anything different. But maybe I would've — maybe I'd have been afraid to defend myself.

"In your opinion, is there anything else you could have done to avoid the situation from escalating?"

My blood ices and I glare at Judge Jonah Jefferson. A part of me believes he's only asking this as a professional a.s.sessing the situation, but the question is laden with accusation, and I've dealt with enough implication and conjecture. "Sure," I snarl. "I could have not attended a college graduation party at all and spent the night praying."

Jefferson clasps his hands together on the table in front of me. "Ms. Harris, you've just demonstrated why I'm here, in a nutsh.e.l.l. When I speak to you, I don't detect a strong sense of remorse for what you did. That's something a prosecutor will exploit, and turn a jury against you, should this go to trial."

I glower at the old man, though he's probably right. Annie picked up on that too.

"Does that matter? There shouldn't be any trial, because there shouldn't be any charges."

"That may be true, Quinn, but there's going to be. Believe me, I know how these things work. To say you've been very unlucky doesn't even begin to describe your situation. I hate to offer bad news, but you have to accept the reality that you will go to trial and there's a plausible chance you could be convicted. Any lawyer will tell you that cases are unpredictable — there's no guarantees that things will go your way, no matter the circ.u.mstances."

I swallow down a surge of acid and take a deep breath. "So what can I do? I'm not going to accept a plea for a crime I didn't commit."

Jefferson shakes his head quickly and gets up out of his seat. He pulls a pamphlet from his briefcase and opens it in front of me. Depicted on the page is a large building surrounded by forest, with a small, serene lake at its side. It would look like a nice place if not for the ma.s.sive walls topped with barbed wire separating the water and facility from everything else.

I turn away from the pamphlet, rolling my eyes. "I told you I'm not taking a plea."

"That's not what this is. The Walker Work Center is a pilot program to find creative new solutions to law enforcement. A place to evaluate people in a long-term setting to determine whether they should be charged with a crime or not. Residents — not inmates — partic.i.p.ate in work and enrichment activities, developing experience they can use long after their stay. Most are cleared of their charges, and then receive an early release."

Jefferson looks into my eyes, his face stern and determined, and says, "Ms. Harris, I think in your situation, this may be your best option. I know I don't have to tell you how many years you could face if convicted of manslaughter, or even murder."

No, he doesn't.

"How long would my stay at Walker be?"

"No more than a year," Jefferson replies. "I promise you that."

If my father was here, I know exactly what he'd say: Never do something easy if it isn't also right. But what would be right? Gambling with my future at a trial, putting my life in the hands of lawyers and jurors who don't know anything about me — or accepting the loss of a year of my life to make the problem go away?

"Where is it? Could I have visitors?"

The judge draws in a breath and gives a quick shake of his head. "It's a remote site. More than an hour northwest of Philadelphia. Visitations are rare, but… not necessarily impossible."

His tone gives me a spike of dread. I shouldn't do this. But, what if I get convicted and they send me to jail for a decade?

"I need to think about it," I say.

Jefferson opens his mouth to respond when someone outside knocks.

I recognize the man who pokes his head through the ajar door. Shutting it softly behind him, he stares down at me as he saunters closer. His cheeks lift in an excited grin, but his steely, sky blue eyes glimmer with menace. Graying but thick, his short, dark hair is styled in a cla.s.sic cut with a part going down the side, and his suit looks custom tailored, likely costing more than my decade-old Chevy.

"Mr. Prescott," says Jefferson. His face pales even further, and his voice quavers. "I'm not sure you should be here. I was just discussing Walker with Ms. Harris-"

"Get out," the man snaps at the judge. "I need to speak with Quinn alone."

Jefferson merely nods, quickly grabbing his things before going. I watch his every step, my heart racing on the hope that he might turn around, but he doesn't. He leaves me alone with Congressman Darren Prescott.

"Please," I say. "It was an accident. I never meant-"

He shushes me, shaking his head as he bores in with his gaze. "Save it, I don't want to hear it. And calm down — I'm not here to hurt you."

I strain against the handcuffs a little more, now wishing more than ever to get free. "What do you want?"

"f.u.c.k, you're a pretty one," he says, licking his lips. "You look so sweet and wholesome in your online profile photos, but you're a lot prettier in person, right now, with fear drawn all over your face. I'm sure you drove Lance crazy."

"I didn't. I-"

"He's not going to wake up," Prescott cuts in. "It's been weeks — it's clear now he's in a persistent vegetative state, as the doctors say."

"I'm sorry," I mumble, though I don't really mean it. Judge Jonah was right — I don't feel bad about what happened, not after what he tried to do to me. Lance deserved it.

In my mind I hear the sound he made when… My stomach lurches just thinking about it. There's so much of that night I've already forgotten, all the inconsequential bits that don't matter — I'd love to have them back and forget the sound, but it's imprinted too deeply. No one should ever have to hear that.

Prescott laughs — not in the polite, practiced way he does at political debates, but with a soft grunt. "I told you to save it. You're not sorry, and I don't blame you. Lance was a p.r.i.c.k. Protecting his a.s.s and my political career at the same time…" He grunts again, looking to the skies with a wry grin. "Not f.u.c.king easy. But thanks to you, he's a victim now. He can't cause trouble from a hospital bed, where he'll stay for the rest of his life… thanks… to… you. Instead of a giant liability timebomb stuck right up my a.s.s, I have a comatose son sympathy card I can play over and over again. So, Quinn Harris, thank you."

Numbness crawls inward from my skin to my core. I knew Prescott put on a face for the camera, but f.u.c.king oh my G.o.d.

"That said," Prescott continues, "Lance was still my son, my only real heir, and I've always stood by him. I can't let what you did go unpunished — I', obligated to make sure you suffer. I take that seriously, and I'm gonna see to it personally — but not yet. As you're probably aware, I'm running for re-election, and I'll be pretty busy for quite some time."

Prescott reaches into his jacket and produces an unsealed envelope. Pulling out the letter inside, he holds it open so I can see. "This is an acceptance form for Walker. I signed it for you. I know that they'll take very good care of you — I own the place."

"f.u.c.k you," I mutter, blinking tears from my eyes.

Prescott backs away until he can knock on the door. "I'll come visit when I'm free to stop by," he adds. "I'm already looking forward to it."

In seconds, a pair of guards enter the room. "Prepare her for transfer," Prescott says.

As he watches, the guards remove my handcuffs, stand me up and re-cuff my wrists in front of me.

This can't be happening!

"Stop!" I shout. "You can't do this! There were witnesses! People will be looking for me!"

Prescott stops. "You mean your friend, Lydia? Don't worry. An a.s.sociate of mine warned her to forget about all this. To forget you. If she doesn't, you might see her again pretty soon, actually."

No. Oh my G.o.d no.

They wrap a chain around my waist and lock my hands to it tightly enough that all I can do with them is flex my fingers. To incapacitate me nearly completely, they cuff my ankles and connect them together with another chain.

"I'm sorry about Lance! Please, don't do this!" I beg. Maybe it's wrong that I didn't feel bad about what happened to him, but this isn't justice.

With one more chain, they link my ankles to my wrists. There's no hope of running, I realize, as tears drip freely down my cheeks.

"That's a good look for you," Prescott says, taking a white cloth from his pants pocket. He brushes my face dry, then forces the fabric between my lips. I howl with rage, tasting my tears as he ties the gag behind my neck. "Have a safe trip," he whispers into my ear. "I'll see you very soon."

Then a guard pulls a hood over my face, blinding me and silencing my screams.
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