The Roommate Chapter 19 Trial and Punishment
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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."