Day 28

With three more days left, I finally write a story that has been on my mind since before day one. It is a dystopian story of a place that isn’t unlike our own, a time not unlike our own, but with some telling differences…I hope they remain differences. On purpose, I did not name the state, the country, or the main players.

THE TRIAL

 The governor looked up from his paperwork; his aide was waiting, hands at his sides, wanting to speak to him. “Well?” he growled.

“Sorry to bother you, sir”, the aide mumbled. “The riots…they’re…right in front of the capitol. We gotta do something.”

“Riots.” The governor spat the word. He was sick of the riots. They’d been going on for over a week, and everyone was looking to him for a solution. He had no idea how to solve the problem. “Call…” He stopped. He didn’t want sympathy for the rioters when they were arrested. The police had not recovered from the bad publicity following the concussions and broken bones they caused the last time there were riots. Sometimes they could get a little too enthusiastic. When it was men of color, the citizens would give them some slack. But this was women…and some of them older women, the grandmas of the town. “Thank you, Mr. Spivey. I’ll deal with it from here.”

The men he called grumbled, but they came for a meeting. He sent his administrative assistant out. “Spivey will take notes”, he assured her. He wasn’t sure what would happen at the meeting, and he wanted to make sure everything was done in secret. “Gentlemen, I need your advice.”

The brainstorming session was lively, and continued until late evening. Most of the men were suggesting things that weren’t possible, and certainly weren’t legal. They wanted the women to go home and get over themselves, but no one could agree on a proper action. They could see the women through their window, standing in front of the capitol holding signs. People were stopping to speak with them, shake their hands, smile at them. Quite a few of the people took selfies with the women.

“It’s damn hard to persuade the news to report it as a riot”, Mr. Alcorn complained. “They say it’s just women standing with signs. ‘It’s a protest!’” He made his voice high and squeaky on the last part. He had picketers outside his bank all morning. This was the first morning they’d been there, and he couldn’t get the police to move them. “They have a permit? Who the hell gave them a permit?” He glared at the governor, sure it was him.

“I didn’t do it”, the governor protested. “Some city official, probably some minor level flunky who grew up awash in the liberal secular teaching, believes somehow in some absolute right to free speech. There is no freedom for dangerous speech!”

As if to punctuate the governor’s words, the songs the women were singing and the chants they were chanting could be heard as passing pedestrians joined them. The words were familiar; all the men had been hearing them for a week. Equality. Freedom to make their own choices. Reproductive freedom! The men shuddered whenever they heard that one.

The meeting adjourned shortly after midnight. The governor promised he would look over all the suggestions and come to a decision by morning. Something needed to be done, but a guillotine would look bad in the papers; the negative publicity would sink his reelection bid. He crossed out most of the suggestions as similar problems, leaving only those that wouldn’t prove worse than the riots. “Riots!” he shouted, frustrated that the press and the public couldn’t see the danger in letting women stand around waving signs.

He remembered his mother; she was a good, obedient woman, especially after the new laws went in place. He used to watch her moving around the kitchen, cooking, sweeping, washing dishes…she was a wonderful woman. A warm feeling came over him. His mother was sensible, not like the women out there. His mother wouldn’t get involved in such a stupid campaign…riot, he reminded himself, determined to keep that word on the front burner. If he could just get the news to report it that way…he drifted off to sleep, his head on the paper. His decision was made, and he slept without worries.

“Spivey!” He bellowed for his aide as soon as he had his coffee. Slept in the office again. He pulled a clean, pressed suit out of a cabinet and was dressed appropriately by the time Spivey showed. “Take this to the chief of police”, he ordered. “Don’t open it, don’t read it, and deliver it only to him.” Spivey headed off to fulfill his duty.

It was nearly an hour later when the phone rang. It was the police chief, Chief Hays. “What the hell is this?” he sputtered. “I can’t do this.”

“Of course you can. You’re doing it on my orders.”

“I can’t arrest a woman for peaceful protest, not when they’ve got a permit.”

“You can arrest anyone I tell you to.” The governor was grumpy. He hated it when people acted like there were laws prohibiting him from doing his sworn duty. “They have caused trouble long enough. Find one of the women, arrest her, and bring her to me. I’ll have a judge here, and he can determine if she should be held.”

The police chief sighed. He hated the arbitrary tyranny that characterized this administration, but he knew there would be consequences to his job if he didn’t comply. “Which woman?”

“I don’t care. Any of them. They’re all guilty, aren’t they?”

The chief mumbled something the governor couldn’t hear clearly. He thought it sounded like “None of them are guilty”, but he decided he would let the chief talk to himself, as long as he arrested one of the women.

The governor called one of his judges, the most loyal of the typically loyal lot. He was there by the time a young police officer pushed a woman into his office. “She’s here, sir.” The officer stood at attention, admiration for the strength of the governor showing in his face and in his salute.

“Good job. Wait here in case you need to take her to the jail.” The governor didn’t look around. He would be as innocent as Pilate, washing his hands of the death of Jesus. The judge would do the heavy lifting from here.

Judge Coley didn’t waste any time. “Lock her up. She is to be held for trial. The trial will be tomorrow morning at ten a.m.” He turned on his heel and left, instructing the officer to take her away.

The governor whistled as he headed to the courtroom in the morning. The day was bright, and no clouds spoiled his mood. He was tempted to stick his tongue out at the women standing there in their silent riot, holding up signs as he went by. He resisted the urge. He was an adult, right? He was governor, right? Governor for life. He whistled louder and kept his gaze straight ahead so he couldn’t see the rioters.

The courtroom was packed; word had gotten around that the rioters were to be on trial today. Everyone was ready for the riots to end. The courtroom was divided; those who supported the women sat on one side, those who were against them the other. The governor was surprised to see the supporting side was full, and had overflowed to the other side. He could tell, because all the traitors supporting the women were wearing yellow roses. He took a seat behind the prosecutor. He planned to enjoy the trial; the verdict was already determined. He put in hours yesterday making calls to be sure.

The bailiff led the defendant into the courtroom in handcuffs. The governor didn’t look at her; he didn’t want the press to see his gleeful look. He would remain solemn. When she was seated, he peeked. The woman was familiar. He collapsed, a huge moan escaping him. This couldn’t be real! “Mom?” He whispered, hoping no one in the courtroom heard. His mother? In handcuffs? Taken from that…subversive…rioting…group of  women? They must have kidnapped her.

The judge entered and the trial began. The defendant had waived a jury; she understood the verdict was already set. She knew how it worked. First her husband, now her son, as lifetime governors taught her how rigged the system was. She only hoped the press would listen to her story and report it accurately. The judge asked her to take the stand.

The story was heart wrenching, a story of a life of abuse, a life of terror, until the day her husband keeled over with a heart attack and freed her from her domestic prison. She joined the women when they began the protest; her husband left a handsome estate, and she bankrolled the efforts. She demonstrated scars and bones that hadn’t healed right because she was forbidden to go to the doctor. The cigarette burn scars elicited gasps from the crowd. Some of the spectators that wanted the women arrested found people to give them yellow flowers and changed sides.

The governor refused to comment at the close of the trial. He dragged back to his office and slumped in his chair, turning to watch out the window as police rounded up the rest of the women. Funny, they didn’t look so much like rioters now, just…women waving signs. He watched until he fell asleep.

The next morning, the papers were full of the story. Pictures of him watching helplessly as his mother was taken away for execution after the guilty verdict he ensured graced the front page. Below the story were pictures of the women. The headlines were not kind, but the op eds were supportive. He sighed, picked up his pen, and signed the new law the legislature passed making it illegal for women to be outside their houses alone.