Cubicle       
By Don Stockard

The woman in black tights and patent leather heels marched quickly down the hall, her heels clicking noisily on the tile floor. She was young, trim with short black hair. Both sides of the hall were lined with white cubicles. The three-by-four-by-seven-foot boxes stood in neat rows. The front of each was covered with a barred Plexiglas door. A person was jammed in each. Some stood and others slumped in a confused jumble of limbs. The woman scanned the numbers on the tops of the cubicles, ignoring the people. She halted in front of a cubicle and glanced at the occupant, a middle-aged man with dark eyes staring out of a hollow face. There was three days of salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin. She unlocked the door.

"Follow me," she said in a voice devoid of emotion.

The man, who was crouched, stood up and stepped out of the cubicle. He walked stiffly for several moments as his body adjusted to motion. Although he was considerably taller than the woman, he looked strangely diminished as he shuffled after her, his shoulders sagging and his head down. He never glanced to either side. The people inside the cubicles stared listlessly at the two as they passed. The woman turned a corner into a hallway devoid of cubicles. At the end of the hall she opened a door to a small room, stood aside as the man entered, and then entered herself, closing the door. A corpulent man with close-cropped sandy hair sat behind a desk, the only furniture in the room.

"18 2104?" he asked.

She nodded and walked out of the room.

The man behind the desk clicked on the keyboard, stared at the screen for a moment, and then turned his eyes on the man in front of him. "Name?"

"Jason Andrews."

"Charge?"

"Talking of the forest."

The man nodded. "This is not your first offense, I notice." He returned his eyes to the monitor.

Jason said nothing, assuming, correctly, the judge's statement was rhetorical.

"You were convicted of loitering and defamation of character." The judge continued to stare at the monitor.

Jason recalled his previous encounter with the authorities. The law defined loitering as remaining in a given place other than within a hundred meters of one's residence or place of employment for more than thirty minutes. On one occasion an assailant had struck Jason on the head and robbed him. Jason had lain on the sidewalk for an hour before he regained consciousness. Since it was a kilometer from his residence and two from his place of employment, his stay on the sidewalk was considered loitering.

When charged, he had protested, saying it was not his fault but rather that of the assailant. The judge had immediately added the charge of defamation of character. Since it was his first offense, he had been soundly thrashed and then released. Jason felt a surge of vague rage but quickly suppressed it. Any display of emotion would doom him.

"Talking of the forest is a serious charge. What do you have to say for yourself?" the judge asked.

Jason remained silent. From his previous experience Jason knew any attempt at self-defense would only make matters worse. Rage once again swam out of his subconscious. This time it was directed at the man behind the desk. Jason wanted to scream at him -- tell him the charge and the whole system was ridiculous. But once again he repressed his anger.

"I could give you the death penalty." The judge yawned. "But I'll assign you to rehab instead. There's a small chance you might at sometime perform useful service to society." He pressed a button and the same woman appeared. "Take him to rehab."

She nodded, her face frozen. Jason wondered if the woman possessed any feeling. He thought of pinching her as he followed her out of the room. It would, he know, be sheer folly. Touching an on-duty employee of the state would automatically bring the death penalty.

They walked past the retention cubicles containing those awaiting trial. The prisoners ignored Jason and he them. Several long halls and an elevator ride, followed by another hall, brought them to the Rehabilitation Department.