Coffee House Clone

by

Christopher Morgan

New York City. Arlington Penitentiary, Cell 5A

July 5th, 2066

Adam awake to a sharp buzzing as his cell door slid open. A burly jailer dressed in a slick black uniform stepped into the cramped confines of the jail cell. Adam rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and moved to sit up, but the jailer placed a slender black rod across his chest, on the end were two tiny metal prongs that could discharge any voltage up to your normal house power supply, a mere 500V.

"I want you on your feet, buddy, but nice and slow," the jailer said, giving the word want and slow the New York twang that Adam was just getting used to. "Or I'll zap your sorry ass for disobedience."

Adam gave a world weary nod , though not in the least bit tired - he never seemed to be, no matter how much sleep he had, be it five hours or fifteen. He rose from the cold hard slab that had been his bed for the night and asked, "Is my lawyer here?"

A short bark of a laugh. "No lawyers are needed for this kind of matter. Now just walk on out that door and walk straight ahead, I'll be right behind you. You're going to the panel for your hearing." The man slapped the rod into his palm a few times to enforce his personal no-questions-asked policy, his bushy eyebrows drew tight around his brown eyes. "And keep quiet."

The silent march to the hearing was long to his hungry body, a clinically sterile, whitewalled corridor that stretched off into the infinite beyond, thick metal doors to cells lined their walk and dotted here and there were humming security cameras. This penitentiary was mainly for long-term offenders but was also used as an overnight rest stop for thus awaiting trial, to take pressure off the already overcrowded police stations and courtrooms. The judicial system in America had rapid legal proceedings now - a criminal was tried and convicted in the space of a day, then was sent for a stint in one of these massive cinderblock lockups on the outskirts of the city or released back into the wild.

They were approaching a t-junction in the corridor and straight ahead was another secure steel door but this one had a green light above it. A quick glance to both his left and right, revealed roughly fifty more of his kindred, some lights red, most were green though.

"Stop right there!" barked the jailer and Adam froze in place. The huge man passed him and typed four digits into a keypad, always keeping a wary eye on his prisoner. The doorway suddenly whooshed open to reveal the panel. Four austere people, who - at first glance - appeared genderless, sat around a wide glass table that dominated the room. They all stared at Adam, their mouths in thin tight lines and their eyes in narrowed slits, looking like the front line of soldiers in an offensive.

"Go on," prompted the jailer, tapping the rod against the base of Adam's spine. He stepped into the room and the door came down with the same whoosh, sealing then in tight. The guard had not entered and there was a buzz as the door locked, and Adam imagined that the light outside turned red. As he took a few steps closer, towards a plastic-glass seat he saw that the panel comprised of two severe-looking women and two pink-faced overweight men.

"Please take a seat," said one of the harshly featured women, her candy-apple red hair was twirled up in a bun and held in place with a golden needle, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses matched the hair accessory.

"Hearing in session," said one of the fatter men, obviously to some hidden recording device.

Adam obliged, then noticed his dishevelled shirt wasn't tucked in and shoved it into his pants when the first fat man spoke, his jowls dancing from side to side.

"Your name is Adam Parlowski, is it not?"

He cleared his throat and looked up as he adjusted his tie. "Yes it is."

"You are aware of the crime that you have committed that has brought you here today, are you not?" asked the second severe woman, her intense brown eyes scrutinised him like he were a laboratory rat being dissected under the microscope. Her voice was higher than the other woman's, and perhaps just an octave short of a voice enhanced by helium.

"Yes," Adam replied, wanting nothing more than to forget the awful incident, it was bad enough knowing what he did, but they didn't have to tar him with a criminal record into the bargain. Couldn't he at least be allowed to express anger at what he had experienced? Or was that not politically correct? Was that being inconsiderate?

"And what is that?" spoke the first fat man again his ruddy jaws jiggling again. The other man watched on quietly, waiting to hear the admission of guilt.

He breathed through his nose patiently. "Inflammatory language, i.e. profanity. Speaking out against the establishment, and more than likely, breach of the peace."

All through the night Adam had thought about what he had said, or shouted rather, from atop the dustbin in some alley of downtown New York City and he felt the same way now as he did then.

The panel members exchanged looks; their expressions went from bewilderment and perhaps near amusement to stern coldness. Finally, they all turned back to face him with a singular questioning frown etched across their brows.

Then the second rounded man spoke, but the words that spilled from his pink lips didn't make a whole lot of sense to Adam. He waited for a few moments then asked the man to repeat his crime...the words "expressly forbidden", "violation of regulations", and "genetic material", merged together into a confusing alphabet soup in his mind...they couldn't be saying what he thought they were saying. They simply couldn't be telling him that.

In that moment of realising the unbelievable, Adam screamed.