Date: Fri, 22 Aug 2014 08:25:49 -0400
From: d.a. w <daw62@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Roommate  Chapter 19

The Roommate   Chapter 19    Trial and Punishment

      Please remember to support NIFTY.  NIFTY is here for authors to share
their work and readers to enjoy.  However money is needed for it to be
here.  Please remember to support NIFTY.

From the end of Chapter 18

 I saw a smile form on the face of the officer in charge. "That's good."
"Court 10, Room 320," the other one said."Thanks" the Lieutenant said, and
he led us away from the public areas through a door marked private, and
into a space I knew was for us.  The marble walls disappeared.  Once again
we were led down a hallway floored in plain concrete, and with walls of
dirty beige paint toward an elevator.  The officer pushed the button, and
when the chime rang and the door opened I knew we were indeed in the
prisoner part of the building.  The elevator car had stainless steelwalls,
and a dull metal floor.  We were pushed to the back, and an officer pushed
his ID card under a reader, and jammed his thumb on the "Three" button.  We
arrived at an equally spare hallway, and were told to march to the right.
I saw a door marked "320" and a bench on the other side of the hall from
it.  We were taken to the bench and told to sit and not move.  All of US
knew that our fates would be decided when we were called to enter the door
marked 320.

The Roommate Chapter 19 Trial and Punishment

 The group of escort officers then removed the transport chain that had
linked us all together, and instructed us to sit on the bench.  I fully
expected to be locked to the bench but instead the officers just picked up
all of our chains, and without any word to us all but one officer traveled
back the way we had come to this hallway.  We heard them talk a bit to each
other as they turned a corner.  We heard the bell announcing the arrival of
our secure elevator to that floor, and then we sat in silence.  Then
officer who remained with us moved down the hallway and around the corner.
Soon he returned with a chair and a magazine, and as he read, we sat.  You
might have thought that those of us waiting for our trial would have talked
to one another, but somehow all of us seemed absorbed with our own fates,
and I guess, like me, each of us just allowed his fears and apprehension
about his fate to dominate his thoughts.  We were conditioned to sit and be
quiet.  We did not have to be told.  As I sat there docilely waiting, I
marveled that my life could change so much in so little time.  I knew that
Beau was extremely talented and very organized.  I had no doubt that what
would happen to me was exactly what Beau wanted to happen to me.  I decided
that this thought should give me some comfort.  Surely Beau would not allow
too much to happen to me.  Any suggestion from Beau or any of the
Wilkinsons would be agreed to if there was any possible way to accede to
their request.

 When there is no clock around, and certainly none of us had on wrist
watches, you really have no sense of time.  It seemed a rather long time
sitting there looking at the door, and so I had again begun my leisure time
activity of counting blocks.  Only one of the jail guards remained with us
after we had been safely installed.  We did not have our hands cuffed to
the back of the bench here.  I suppose that being this close to facing the
judge, none of us wanted to make a scene, and not one of us believed, any
more than I believed, that shackled together, and with the other chains on
us, there was any possibility of escape.  At least I had absolutely no idea
that I could do anything but wait my turn in court, and until then to wait
on the bench, and realize that we would all have our time in court.

 Suddenly a man came through the door which led into the courtroom.  I
noted that his black shoes were shined to a military grade mirror finish.
His uniform was a tan color, unlike the dark blue of all the other police
officers with whom I had suddenly become acquainted since I had awakened
along the destroyed fence at Pleasant Acres.  I also noted this officer's
uniform was more tailored and seemed more neatly pressed than the shirts
and trousers of most of the other officers with whom I had recently become
acquainted.  His uniform also had a leather belt over the shoulder, and I
remembered that this type of belt was called a Sam Browne belt, and was
actually named after a British soldier in India who had lost his left arm
in battle, and used this belt over his shoulder to steady the sword
attached to the belt around his waist so that he could draw his sword
without his left hand to steady the scabbard.  I almost smiled at the
arcane knowledge an expensive Williams College education had given to me.

 I saw that he had a name badge over his left breast pocket, but I could
not read the name. The officer ...or perhaps the more proper term would be
Bailiff... called the name "Pearson!"  The first man in our coffle of seven
answered "Sir, Pearson, SIR."

 Pearson was unchained from our group.  He was a tall guy about my age, and
so handsome that I was jealous of him, the way that I get jealous of all
handsome guys.  He had long dark stylish hair, like the guys who wait on
you in expensive clothing stores.  Now he had his hands cuffed in front of
his body.  His feet remained shackled.  The Officer took a firm grip on his
right elbow and led him to the door, which he opened, and they both
disappeared through the door.  Once again silence reigned for the six of us
awaiting our turn at this ceremony of transferring us to the court.  I
wondered what my fellow prisoners had done to get them in this group of
chained criminals.  I suddenly thought to myself.  What I had just called
all of us?  Did I not just call us all criminals?  What happened to the
idea we were innocent until proven guilty?  I did not feel very innocent as
I was stuffed into the back of the police car.  I certainly did not feel
innocent as I was brought into the jail, and certainly not the time I was
awaiting my trial chained to a bench in a jail hallway.  I almost smiled as
I thought of what we must have looked like trying to eat our lunches with
one hand as the other wrist and hand were still chained behind us, and the
final confirmation of who we are in truth if technically we are innocent
until "proven guilty in a court of law."

The answer is no one, absolutely NO ONE who witnessed the parade of
shackled, cuffed, and chained together men move down the sidewalk, across
the street and into the court building thought "There is a line of innocent
men going to court to be found not guilty and released back into society to
pursue their free lives."  None of us were in an orange jump suit, but even
in free person clothes, I believe that perhaps the phrase, "Shackles and
cuffs make a criminal" would be the right commentary.

 I wandered how long it would take for Pearson's trial to take place.
Knowing I had no ability to affect this process, I leaned back, and in
actuality, I think I dozed off again.  I was awakened by the sound of the
door being opened, and Pearson being led out of the courtroom by the
officer from the court.  This Pearson, however, looked very different from
the Pearson who had entered the courtroom.  I don't know what I noticed
first as Pearson now was so totally different from the person who had
entered the courtroom.  The Pearson now being led past us was wearing the
notorious black and white striped pants and shirt of a convict.  I could
see that the material that now encased Pearson looked stiff, and it almost
seemed that Pearson felt imprisoned just inside the stiff material which
enveloped his body.  The shirt or top of his striped prison outfit had
black stripes alternating with the white cloth.  I felt a shiver of fear
overcome me as I imagined myself also encased in these stripes.  I could
see that Pearson had on a white "T" under the striped shirt that was
buttoned across chest, but it was those stripes that dominated and
commanded your attention as you looked at him.  I then noticed that around
his neck was a shiny band of steel.  It looked, as much as I could tell, to
be about an inch and a half wide. Its width was impossible for me to
estimate, but it was definitely more than a quarter of an inch thick.  It
shone in the light of the hallway.  The bailiff held him at the door so he
could close the door to the courtroom, and Pearson stood there waiting for
whatever someone dictated he should do.  Pearson's top fell over the top of
the pants which seemed as stiff and unyielding as did the shirt.  I almost
expected Pearson to walk stiff legged.  As I returned to look at the top of
his stripes, I noticed that there was printing on the white stripes.  I saw
in very black capital letters on the second white lines across his chest at
breast level the E word "INVOLUNTARY," and centered below "Involuntary" was
the word, also in caps "SERVANT."  When my eyes went above the word
involuntary I saw the bright thick letters "T" and "N."  These two letters
were in bright orange.  I was confused for a second and then realized that
I was looking at the postal abbreviation for the State of Tennessee.
Finally I looked at Pearson's feet.  I don't know what kind of shoes he had
on when he went into the court room, but now there was no missing the thick
soled black boots which encased his feet.  These were the industrial type
of boots.  They were meant to encase and imprison his feet as completely
and emphatically as the stripes encased and imprisoned his body.

As I glanced from his feet, now in thick souled black boots, and around the
bottom of his pants legs were two round steel shiny circles, and probably
eighteen inches of chain between the cuffs on his ankles.  When I stopped
looking his new collar and chains, I looked at Pearson, and his face was
very different from the inmate who had had the nerve to ask to walk outside
to the courthouse.  There now was a sort of vacant look to his eyes, which
I saw only briefly as he kept looking down at the floor...or perhaps he was
looking at the leg shackles and round cuffs around his ankles.  He seemed
in shock, and his look shocked me.  What had happened beside what I could
see about his clothes and his collar, cuffs, and chains that had taken the
life from his being?  I involuntarily shuddered, and my chains clanked in
response.  Pearson looked at me, and as our eyes met for a moment before he
broke eye contact to again concentrate on his leg shackles, and in that
moment I saw that something had indeed changed a man, admittedly a man who
had committed a crime, but a man non-the-less, into an object – a human
who was a docile object who had the ability to do as it was told to the
benefit of whoever controlled his chained and collared body.  Finally I
noticed that his head had been shaved completely and his now bald head
shone back to me sight as Pearson clanked down the hall. The little parade
did not stop and deposit Pearson back on the bench, but instead when down
the hallway.  As Pearson went down the hall I could see the back of the
chained and uniformed involuntary servant.  I saw that the back of his
steel neck collar came to a sort of tab with a padlock locking it on his
neck, but that was not the only use of chains behind Pearson's back.  The
padlock that locked his collar on his neck also locked a link of a thick
chain that dropped from his collar down his back, and connected to the
center of the chains which connected his two wrists with about ten inches
of chain.  Another padlock locked all the parts of his chains together.
Finally the now chained and black and white striped clad new involuntary
servant and turned a corner.  I could hear his chains clanking, and then a
chime, and I could envision Pearson now was on the stainless steel elevator
taking him someplace else in this building or perhaps back through a tunnel
to the jail house.  This image brought me back to another classic I had
read for a class at Williams.  This was the Illiad, I think, and described
the dead descending to Hades. I was now scared.  Had Beau really planned
even this part of my summer?  Could he have arranged not only for my
transformation from a proud, or even perhaps smug, Williams College
graduate, and member of the upper classes of the slave-free New England
states, to a cowering prisoner, but finally perhaps into more an object
than a human being by making me into an involuntary servant just like the
one I saw disappear around the corner and presumably down the elevator.
Once more my Williams College education shaped my thtoughts, and I thought
of Dante's Inferno, parts of which I had read for a humanities class at
Williams. I sat there, as actually I had no choice but to sit there, but I
was no longer as confident that all would work out.  The sight of Pearson
was very disturbing.  I thought about the fact that the involuntary
servants at Pleasant Acres seemed fairly calm about their situation, and
certainly not dripping in chains like I had seen Pearson wear.

Time no longer seemed to be standing still. I heard the chime of the
elevator around the corner, and soon the Courtroom officer returned, but
Pearson was gone.  The officer walked by us, and basically ignored us as we
all sat awaiting our turn in what seemed to be very rapid justice.  As the
Court bailiff opened the door to the courtroom, he turned to those of us
still chained on the bench and awaiting our turn in court, "Don't you
worry.  The Judge is very efficient.  You should be out of court and start
you processing fairly quickly."  He paused and looked at us as if he
expected a "Thank You Officer" response.  I did not believe his information
was anything I wanted to politely acknowledge, and apparently my fellow
detainees agreed as we all still looked at this man in sort of shocked
amazement.  Did he really believe that we were all happily awaiting our
time in a court where, at least in my case, the one example of justice in
Judge Whorton's court was not something that filled me with confident
anticipation that I would have a real chance at telling my side of the
story, at least as much as I had been able to determine from my experience
when I was taken into custody.  I no longer had any expectation that the
explanation that had been planted in my mind from what I had heard at the
crash site of my desperate driving down to Pleasant acres in hope of a job
would buy me much mercy. As I was assessing my chances the Court the
Bailiff returned, and looking at us announced "Fox...Geoffrey Fox.  It's
your turn."  Fox said "SIR, I am Fox, SIR."  "That's good, you all seem to
be in the correct order as your cases are listed on the docket.  I need to
let those jail deputies know I appreciate their organization."  Fox rose
and in with his legs shackled and his hands cuffed he also was taken by the
Bailiff through the door to 320.  Again I had a sense that perhaps a half
hour later...but without a clock your perception of time is really just a
guess, Jeff Fox reappeared through the door from Room 320.  Jeff Fox also
was now in the black and white stripes, but I noted that the collar he wore
was a round one, and I thought perhaps only a half inch in diameter. His
legs were also cuffed in a round cuff, and also had a connecting chain
shackling them together, but his chains seemed much less formidable than
Pearson's had been.  The pattern was now familiar.  The next man in line
would be called.  He would go into the courtroom, and would return after
some period of time.  It was not always the same exact time, but none of
the cases seemed to drag on for anything like an hour or more as far as I
could guess.  The next one called was again following the order in which we
were seated, was Dustin Hershey, and followed by Jacob Brown and Lee Adams.
Finally there was just the two of us left.  When the Bailiff came out and
called "Nate Smith" and Nate disappeared into the courtroom, I expected
that in a half hour or less I would be the next item on the justice
assembly line to be processed.  I was correct as far as I could tell, and
soon Nate Smith made his chain-clanking trip pass me and around the corner.
Now that all the other members of my bench group had experienced their trip
into the court room, and then after a bit of time, their exit from the
courtroom now with a shaved bald head, and in the black and white striped
prisoner suit, and wearing a steel collar of some type, and with ankles
locked together by the hobble chain.  I was quite sure that I would also
emerge from the courtroom with my own collar, striped suit, bald head, and
leg shackles.  The Bailiff opened the door and looked at me.  "Your turn
Miller.  The Judge has rushed through all the rest of those criminals to
get to you.  I know you damaged property of the Wilkinson's and now you
will pay for that." The officer helped me stand as I was shaking a bit.  I
was detached from the bench, and with my hands now just handcuffed, the
officer firmly directed me to and through the door to the fate Beau had
decided for me.  Through door 320 I entered what seemed like a typical
courtroom.  I was facing the seats for the public in the courtroom.  After
quickly scanning these seats and seeing George Black seated in the seats
behind a table with a label on the front facing the judge which stated
"Prosecution."  Seated at the desk I saw three well-dressed and very
confident looking persons, two men and a woman.  In front of them was a
stack of file folders on the side of the desk closest the center aisle and
behind the file folders was seated a six foot man in a blue pin striped
suit who had a folder I front of him which he was scanning.  As I passed by
the desk he glanced up at me, and smiled at me.  However it was not the
smile of friendship; it was the smile of a cat who has just seen a fat
mouse who had his tail locked in a mouse trap, and who was dragging it
behind him.  This mouse would be an easy victim of the cat, and I could see
this confidence in his smug narrow smile.  It was the smile of the "cat"
who would be sure I paid for my crime of violating the sacred property of
Pleasant Acres in a maximum amount of involuntary servitude.  I also saw
the officer who had driven me into the jail sitting right behind the
prosecution table.  I was sure he was just waiting for his chance to make
sure I was described as a wanton deviant who needed the discipline of
involuntary servitude to learn proper respect for the property and the
rights of his betters.  I did not see Frank.  I was disappointed; then, I
realized that the sentencing of a felon on parole who had driven to
Pleasant Acres on the hope of a job that he thought Beau had promised him,
would not have necessitated the appearance of a real Wilkinson.  Much lower
level officials of Pleasant Acres would deal with an indentured servant
issue, and George Black, a recognized master of breaking a coffle of the
newly indentured into an efficient work unit, was an obvious and logical
representative of Pleasant Acres.  I knew I would be indentured to Pleasant
Acres, and I would soon learn how Captain Black achieved turning a group of
newly indentured servants into a dedicated, hard-working, and obedient
involuntary servant coffle.  Suddenly I remembered Beau's term for him,
"gang buster." As I was guided across the room and around the desk which
had the sign on the front "Defense," I looked at my counsel.  He was not in
a finely tailored suit.  His looked like he had purchased it at a
J.C. Penny end of season sale, and even though it did not fit too well, it
was close enough to fitting, and the price was low enough that he saw that
suit as perfect for him.

 I was guided around the table and a lady came down the center aisle and
moved behind "my" (loosely speaking) attorney to sit next to my seat.  How
did I know it was my seat?  Well unlike all the other chairs at both table
which had leather seats and backs, and were on coasters which would allow
the seat to move easily and smoothly, my seat was of very sturdy wood.
There were two indentions in the seat to indicate where my butt was to fit,
and handcuffs were locked on both the arms of the chair.  As I was placed
into this chair, my wrists were released from my handcuffs, and promptly
locked in the cuffs on the chair.  As soon as I was seated, the escort
guard moved to the front of the table.  "Kick your legs forward." he
ordered.  I complied, and I felt the chain connecting my leg shackles swing
forward.  The guard had knelt down, and he caught the chain connecting my
ankles, and I felt him fit it into something, and then a click.  As he rose
he looked at me.  "Your leg shackles are now locked to the floor.  You have
no possibility of escape."  "Really?" I thought.  "Actually," I thought,
"in handcuffs, with my legs shackled, I could easily run off any time I
wanted."  "What an asshole!" was my final thought at how I was now
definitely going to be exactly where the court wanted me until the court
and authorities chose to move me where they next wanted me. Now that I was
literally locked in place, I looked up and saw the raised bench at the
front of the courtroom and almost immediately I looked at the black robed
judge.  My first thought is that the judge could be a poster portrait of a
judge.  He was white haired, and when I looked up at him, my gaze at him
was met by his icy glare at me.  I involuntarily shuddered from that look
of contempt.  I had not expected to have much of a chance in court given
the evidence and the Wilkinson name and prestige, but that icy look of
contempt told me that I was not going to receive any sympathy from this
judge in this court.  The insane thought that I might actually have a
sympathetic judge almost caused me to smile, but I stopped that from
happening, because I knew intuitively that a smile would be interpreted as
"You think this trial is funny, boy?!"  So I decided I would do what I
guessed would be expected of me, I looked down at the table in front of me,
and awaited what those who controlled my movements and future would tell me
to do. After I had sat there for a few minutes, I was finally spoken to by
one of "my" attorneys.  "Mr. Miller?"  the earnest young man said to me.  I
looked up at him, and immediately had to catch myself from laughing.  My
attorney looked to me like a freshman in high school who had just purchased
his first suit, which as I had noted earlier, was not a perfect fit.  My
mind immediately went to the question I wanted to ask him.  "Are you still
in high school?"  However, I swallowed my humor and my supposition, and
answered as I knew I would be expected to. "Yes SIR, I am Thomas G. Miller,
SIR."  The language of "respect" was becoming habitual. "My name is Robert
Hart, and my colleague is Ms. Cynthia Taft.  We are your public defenders.
Do you dispute the assertions that are made in the police report?" "I do
not know.  I have not read the police report."  I detected a quick look of
surprise on the face of my little boy scout of an attorney. He recovered
quickly.  "Well in essence the report states that you fell asleep driving
down the lane to Pleasant Acres Plantation, and your car destroyed several
sections of the vinyl fence, valued at almost $3,000. It is a pity that the
fence was one of those new vinyl ones that cost almost $700 a section for a
vinyl fence of the absolute best quality.  Of course what else would one
expect for anything connected with Pleasant Acres but the best and most
expensive?  The value of the fence turned what might have been a relatively
minor infraction into a very much more serious one.  My colleague, Ms. Taft
and I have been in discussion with the prosecutor, and also with attorneys
representing Pleasant Acres Farm.  The Pleasant Acres attorneys have
offered to let you plead guilty and escape a trial, and we recommend that
you accept their generous offer, since there is no doubt of your guilt.  If
you do enter a plea of guilty, then the Judge has agreed to a sentence that
the attorney for Pleasant Acres suggested would constitute restitution for
the damage you created.  That sentence would be that you serve a term in
involuntary servitude to Pleasant Acres of no less than one year and no
more than four years.  You must pay for destroying such expensive property,
especially property of Pleasant Acres, and since you have no funds, this is
the way to do it.  If you're compliant, you can get out this time next
year."

I must say Mr. Hart ended his speech to me somewhat breathlessly.  I
wondered why he seemed so flustered.  After all it was my neck that would
be in a collar at Pleasant Acres and not his.  Then it occurred to me that
he wanted me to quietly accept the offer, so the powerful family, and its
lawyers, and, I was sure, their close personal friend the Judge Whorton,
would all be rid of me quickly, and the Wilkinsons would receive
compensation for the damage I had caused, and of course my two attorneys
could attain some favorable notice by the powerful Wilkinson family.  I sat
there knowing that my limited part in this little courtroom drama was to
agree to the script Beau seemed to have created, and return to Pleasant
Acres, not as a college friend and honored guest, but as another indentured
servant...and omitting the euphemism...slave.  One to four years!  They
were acting as if that was nothing!  Four years was as long as I had spent
in college!  But I was in a serious jam.  Maybe I could stand one year, or
less, if Beau had mercy on me!  I nodded my head, and "my" lawyer turned to
his colleague.  "He's agreed." Mr. Hart said, and dashed up and over to the
prosecution table.  In a moment or two the two prosecutors at their table,
and my two lawyers all pranced up to the bench, and with the Judge looking
down at them from his seat of eminence, a sort discussion occurred.  There
was vigorous head nodding being done from in front of the bench, and
finally a head nod from the Judge, and I was sure my fate was sign, sealed,
and delivered.  I was off for whatever fate Beau had planned for me, to
learn about the nation's involuntary servant system up close and personal.
I wondered if Beau was sure after my time as an involuntary servant slave I
would become some sort of an advocate for that system to replace the prison
system that both of us had found not too impressive from our limited
experience.  All the lawyers returned to their tables, and of course I
remained where I had been fastened. After everyone was in place the
official who was appointed to make the announcement that court was in
session did so.  The prosecution lawyers, and "my" lawyers then rose
together, the male one made his little speech. "Your honor, in order to
expedite proceedings, and in the face of the clear guilt of the accused,
the accused has agreed to a generous offer from the attorneys for Pleasant
Acres, that the accused, Mr. Thomas G. Miller, serve a term of involuntary
servitude at Pleasant Acres of no less than one year, and no more than four
years.  The involuntary service of Mr. Miller will be attested to by
Pleasant Acres, and upon such certification, Mr. Miller will be noted as
being released from his term of involuntary servitude, and his citizenship
right reinstated."  The judge then seemed to be distracted because he kept
reading instead to going to the required part of this little drama script
which was my limited part, and that was for the judge to ask me if I
accepted the suggested sentence, and I would give my assent.

The bailiff made a signal and another officer went to my chair and unlocked
my arms from the arms of the chair.  He signaled me to stand up.  I did,
the best I could, rattling the chains on my legs and the chains hanging
from my wrists.  The Judge again looked at me rather like he might have
looked at some cockroach that had appeared in his courtroom. "Mr. Miller,
as I was reading over your record I see that you have served time in a
Massachusetts penal facility.  Is that correct?"  "Yes Your Honor."  I
said.  "You see..." "Court is temporarily in recess while the court
discusses this plea agreement with both counsel." The Judge rose; the
bailiff announced "All Rise."  If I wasn't so shocked, I would have had to
keep from smiling again.  I was already standing – with a slight stoop,
at the exact vertical length permitted by the cuffs and shackles.  The
lawyers looked at one another with some degree of consternation on their
faces.  I could see that something the Judge had read seemed to destroy
Beau's plan.  I smiled, but immediately caught myself.  I was relieved that
I now had enough experience as a person in the lowest level of society...a
person in the custody of the criminal justice system to keep my smile to
myself, and just allow myself to be moved back into my chair, which I was
locked up tightly again.  I do not know how long I sat there.  It did not
seem too long, but I really had lost a sense of time.  Again I mused that I
was already adjusting to being at this lowest rung of the ladder of
society.  My time was controlled by others, and actually I was now
accustomed to pay little attention to interstices of time.  As I sat there
I mused that I had played my part in this little drama Beau had created,
and I did not even have to memorize my lines in the script.  They would be
said to me, and all I had to say was "yes." I actually had no clear sense
of how long the huddle of lawyers and judge went.  It did have one
interesting second act when the Bailiff returned to the courtroom and asked
that Mr. Black also attend the meeting in chambers.  Again, I amused myself
by looking at the architecture of the courtroom, and how the majesty of the
law was established by the marble fake marble columns which were a part of
the wall system, and the abundance of polished wood for the Judge's bench
which I decided I would consider the Judge's throne. Being amused kept me
just a little bit above my fear of what was happening and was about
obviously about to happen to me.  One to four year...! I was just raising
my eyes to look at the coffered ceiling when the door to the Judge's
chambers opened, and out trooped all the participants except for the
judge. When my lawyers returned to the table at which I was clearly safely
still seated. My JC Penny lawyer began to lean over to talk to me when the
bailiff intoned.  "ALL RISE!  The Primary Superior Court in and for the
Davidson Country and the City of Nashville is now in session.  The
Honorable Judge Magnus Whorton Presiding.  Court is Now in Session."
Everyone except myself dutifully rose, and the Judge came through the door
and sat down.  "You may be seated." The Bailiff now intoned, and everyone
joined me in sitting at our appointed places. Everyone looked at the Judge,
including myself, and he dutifully began his speech.  "The Court was aware
that an agreement had been reached between the prosecution and the defense
for the sentence for the accused Mr. Miller of one to four years, and I had
assented to this lenient sentence.  But as I was reading Mr. Miler's record
noted I saw a caveat on his release that his release indicating that it was
contingent on his obtaining a job, AND THAT HE COMMIT NO FURTHER OFFENSES
AGAINST THE LAW." I sat there, and I admit that my jaw actually did drop
open. "When the Court became aware of this condition, it was clear that a
sentence of a few scant years was highly inappropriate.  Therefore in
chambers the defense and the prosecution and I have consulted the statutes
which apply to giving the actions of other states full faith and credit in
our courts, the court and all the parties have agreed upon a new sentence
appropriate for the actual conditions of this individual's status.
Therefore, would Mr. Miller stand to receive sentence." It was clearly a
rhetorical question, and I waited as the Bailiff came over to lengthen the
chains securing me.  I rose.  My clanks echoing in the silence of the
courtroom, and my heart pounding so loudly that I thought it was echoing
too. "Mr. Miller, in light of your inability to accept the generosity of
the State of Massachusetts to allow you a chance to show yourself worthy of
freedom, and your clear disregard for that generosity, and for the
hospitality and private property of others, the Court now sentences you to
no less than thirty years, and no more than the term of your natural life.
This penalty is to be served as a hard labor involuntary servant."  Here
the judge paused to look at me.  I was weaving back on forth.  I wanted to
sit down again.  "Thirty years" I thought. I would be fifty at the
earliest, and I was sure that at hard labor I might easily acquire enough
demerits to make my read sentence the maximum MY ENTIRE LIFE! "Mr. Miller
since you ae from Massachusetts, I will also inform you that, with the
approval of this court, the owner of your involuntary service may add years
commensurate with your performance at hard labor.  You will need to work
hard, and perhaps, since the Wilkinsons are famous for being generous and
considerate, you will be released around the minimum length of your
sentence, but I will inform you that the rules for hard labor involuntary
servants recognize that those sentenced to hard labor are allowed no
latitude.  Serve faithfully and diligently, and you may be able to keep
from acquiring demerits which will increase your time of servitude."  Here
the Judge looked at me.  "Serve well servant Miller." I stood there in
amazement.  This sentence was clearly not what Beau could have intended,
but now I was officially going to be a hard labor slave...I was tired of
euphemisms.  That's what it meant.  And the overseers of where I would do
my hard labor could hold additional years of labor over my head to insure
my dedicated and eager service.  The judge banged his gavel. The judge now
looked down at me again.  "Bailiffs, the offender at the defense table is
no longer an accused free man, but a legal hard labor involuntary servant.
I direct you to have this servant properly displayed." "YES YOUR HONOR."
Three bailiffs said.  Where did the other two bailiffs come from?  Then I
suddenly realized that as a hard labor servant I was assumed to be violent
and intransigent, and so I was going to be manhandled to show me that my
choice was to obey or to suffer.  After I was released from the chair and
my leg shackles were unlocked from the floor, I was was put into a belly
chain, and dragged in front of the bench. "Bailiffs, this hard labor
involuntary servant needs to have its appearance altered to confirm to its
new station."