every day … lots more hearings. Getting a proxy to go instead is big money, but you kind of have to play the part. If you look or sound dicey, they’ll pick you up in a heartbeat. Plus, we can’t use the same proxies over and over again, so you’ll have to sort of … change your identity.”
“What?”
“It’s no big trouble, or technically illegal. Plus, the rich don’t want to get caught any more than you do, so they pay a lot of hush money in the off chance that you do get into trouble. Been doing this for years.”
“But what about your rules?” I ask. “The ones about keeping out of situations like this?” I didn’t mention the other, but he smirks anyway.
“That’s just something we say to the newbies, to try to scare them into giving us all of their good rations.”
“You mean, I didn’t have to give up my desserts?”
Journee laughs. “So that’s why Manda looks like she’s put on ten pounds.”
I fold my arms and raise an eyebrow.
“Nah, Mozart. Chill. We got you. Don’t worry, mon, ‘cause every little ting gonna be all right.”
Twenty-three
After a weekend spent with Serena, my wardrobe includes a dress suit, a wig, heels, and some sunglasses. Pearls, too.
“They’re fake,” she said with another eye roll. “Stuff your bra and put on some makeup. You have to look a lot older than…?”
“Sixteen,” I supplied.
“Yeah. We need to make sure you don’t look like jail bait.”
“But I …” I began, and then, “You know what? Never mind.”
I didn’t want to start a dialogue on why I didn’t even own a bra. I’d tape socks to my chest if I had to.
Today, Serena wears a pant suit, herself. It’s sharp. And Journee’s out in the alleyway, his own tailor-made suit and tie perfect for his physique.
“I know, right?” Serena nudges me, and we start toward a waiting taxi.
The rules are simple: Act rich. Get paid.
My fake ID is snapped onto my jacket, and Serena dabs some lipstick on me. The dark grey looks silly with my pale skin, but I’m trying to keep my confusion to a minimum for this job.
As I enter the courthouse, my blonde wig and heels turn a few heads, but I’m too busy gawking, myself. Massive white pillars bracket the entrance. Banners of the Authority’s eagle insignia hang from the ceiling. Inside reminds me of a cathedral, but instead of saints on the walls, statues of the Authority figures stand—the same man and woman I’d seen from the train.
Below these, however, are their names: Reginald Cromwell, and Karma Cromwell.
“Next!” At the entrance, a guard wands me down, and I hope he isn’t the same one I’d choked after my arrival to the city.
Just getting through this one step at a time is my only plan.
Twenty-four
“The defendant pleads ‘not guilty,’ your honor.”
The judge fixes his wig, mops his brow, and waves his hanky in reply to the defense attorney’s statement.
All day it’s been boiling hot, like the fans are broken, and everyone looks melted.
“A treason sentence is the same either way,” the judge says between pants, “so I wouldn’t expect him to plead otherwise.”
The juror next to me whispers into my ear for the fourth time during the trial. He says, “Death,” with a chuckle like it’s all too much to contain the fun he’s having. “See that thing in his arm? It’ll lethally inject him as soon as the verdict’s in. You ever see one?”
My head shake is stilted. I’m not interested in seeing the guy die. Well, kid. Boy. He’s in the wooden chair across from where we jurors sit, staring at the floor, IV taped to the crook of his elbow. Can’t be much older than me, but taller by far, and heavy is the head that rests on his shoulders, too. Framing his face is shaggy brown hair that’s grown long while waiting in jail.
When the defendant came up on the screen for his testimony, I could focus on nothing else but the violet eyes staring back, seemingly right at me, electrified with such
“What?”
“It’s no big trouble, or technically illegal. Plus, the rich don’t want to get caught any more than you do, so they pay a lot of hush money in the off chance that you do get into trouble. Been doing this for years.”
“But what about your rules?” I ask. “The ones about keeping out of situations like this?” I didn’t mention the other, but he smirks anyway.
“That’s just something we say to the newbies, to try to scare them into giving us all of their good rations.”
“You mean, I didn’t have to give up my desserts?”
Journee laughs. “So that’s why Manda looks like she’s put on ten pounds.”
I fold my arms and raise an eyebrow.
“Nah, Mozart. Chill. We got you. Don’t worry, mon, ‘cause every little ting gonna be all right.”
Twenty-three
After a weekend spent with Serena, my wardrobe includes a dress suit, a wig, heels, and some sunglasses. Pearls, too.
“They’re fake,” she said with another eye roll. “Stuff your bra and put on some makeup. You have to look a lot older than…?”
“Sixteen,” I supplied.
“Yeah. We need to make sure you don’t look like jail bait.”
“But I …” I began, and then, “You know what? Never mind.”
I didn’t want to start a dialogue on why I didn’t even own a bra. I’d tape socks to my chest if I had to.
Today, Serena wears a pant suit, herself. It’s sharp. And Journee’s out in the alleyway, his own tailor-made suit and tie perfect for his physique.
“I know, right?” Serena nudges me, and we start toward a waiting taxi.
The rules are simple: Act rich. Get paid.
My fake ID is snapped onto my jacket, and Serena dabs some lipstick on me. The dark grey looks silly with my pale skin, but I’m trying to keep my confusion to a minimum for this job.
As I enter the courthouse, my blonde wig and heels turn a few heads, but I’m too busy gawking, myself. Massive white pillars bracket the entrance. Banners of the Authority’s eagle insignia hang from the ceiling. Inside reminds me of a cathedral, but instead of saints on the walls, statues of the Authority figures stand—the same man and woman I’d seen from the train.
Below these, however, are their names: Reginald Cromwell, and Karma Cromwell.
“Next!” At the entrance, a guard wands me down, and I hope he isn’t the same one I’d choked after my arrival to the city.
Just getting through this one step at a time is my only plan.
Twenty-four
“The defendant pleads ‘not guilty,’ your honor.”
The judge fixes his wig, mops his brow, and waves his hanky in reply to the defense attorney’s statement.
All day it’s been boiling hot, like the fans are broken, and everyone looks melted.
“A treason sentence is the same either way,” the judge says between pants, “so I wouldn’t expect him to plead otherwise.”
The juror next to me whispers into my ear for the fourth time during the trial. He says, “Death,” with a chuckle like it’s all too much to contain the fun he’s having. “See that thing in his arm? It’ll lethally inject him as soon as the verdict’s in. You ever see one?”
My head shake is stilted. I’m not interested in seeing the guy die. Well, kid. Boy. He’s in the wooden chair across from where we jurors sit, staring at the floor, IV taped to the crook of his elbow. Can’t be much older than me, but taller by far, and heavy is the head that rests on his shoulders, too. Framing his face is shaggy brown hair that’s grown long while waiting in jail.
When the defendant came up on the screen for his testimony, I could focus on nothing else but the violet eyes staring back, seemingly right at me, electrified with such
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