Authors: Auralee Wallace
“I could go over our rising crime rates in great deal, but I don’t need to. Every citizen in our fair city knows we have a problem without the help of numbers.”
He clicked the screen again. An unflattering picture of the Sultana came up. She looked harder than she did in real life, almost ugly…but just as crazy. The Photoshop boys must have gotten to it.
“We are facing a new kind of criminal.”
He clicked the slide again. A picture of Ryder appeared. Someone had taken the grainy photo from a distance. She was standing in an alley, engulfed by buildings. Everything about it made her look small, insignificant.
“Superheroes are not enough anymore,” he said sadly shaking his head. “And our prisons are overflowing, costing taxpayers millions of dollars. Something needs to change. We need to tackle this problem in a new way. St. James Industries has the answer.”
A rumble went through the crowd once again. My father pointed the remote back at the screen. This time a close up of a computer chip appeared.
“May I present to you what some are calling the latest advance in behavior adaptation.”
The crowd rumbled louder.
“I call it the cure for crime.”
“Everyone, everyone please. There will be time for all of your questions at the end of the presentation.”
The crowd was on its feet, shouting, but my father had his game face on. His smile revealed none of the contempt I knew he felt.
Once the reporters realized he wouldn’t give them anything without it being on his terms, they sat back in their seats.
“I can appreciate your excitement. I assure you, I feel the same way.”
He clicked the screen again and a picture of a highlighted brain appeared. It probably meant nothing to most of the people here, but I had to hand it him, it looked awfully scientific…reassuringly so.
“Let me begin by telling you what this technology is not,” my father said calmly.
Just once, I would love to hear a microphone screech when he spoke, but it was probably too afraid.
“This is not one of those barbaric mind-altering procedures from the past. This is not a lobotomy. This is not electro-convulsive shock therapy. Nor is this some antipsychotic drug that deadens a person to a stupor. No. This is the most sophisticated piece of technology the world has ever seen,” he said, the intensity of his voice growing.
“The closest thing I can compare this implant to is perhaps an antidepressant, but even that label doesn’t do it justice. In the world of medicine, there are multitudes of drugs that can alter the mood of someone suffering from mental illness. However, it is a game of roulette. A drug that works for one patient may not work for another. Doctors are experimenting with the chemistry of people’s brains without being able to guarantee the result, and I have yet to even mention the side effects. Too many young people have taken their own lives because of these medications.”
My father paused, I guessed in what was supposed to be reflection. Like he had ever spent a second thinking about the suffering of others. He had probably hired an empathy coach to help write this speech.
“I have a better way,” he said sagely. “With this chip we can program the neurotransmitters of the brain to stay at optimal levels for individual patients. I am talking about the benefits of antidepressants without the side effects, administered with precision never thought possible.”
Sounded good. I was still waiting for the evil.
“Let me share with you my personal philosophy. People are not born evil. As I am sure any mother can tell you when she holds her baby for the first time, there is nothing in that tiny child but possibility. But sometimes things do go wrong. Nature is not perfect. Just like there can be deformities in the body as you have seen with my darling daughter—”
I nearly screamed.
“—there can also be deformities in the mind. Neurotransmitters can become unbalanced. Certain areas of the brain can become over-active, others under. These imbalances can result in violent, aggressive behavior.”
Father, heal thyself
, I scoffed in my head and maybe a little out-loud. The reporter in the red jacket was looking funny at me again.
“But, let me say once more, what if we could correct these imbalances? What if we could fulfill every mother’s dream for her child? What would that mean for society?”
His amplified words hung in the air. The following silence was suffocating.
He clicked the remote again, and new, mathematical-looking numbers came up.
“This city, this city that I love, is being crippled. Crippled by debt. Crippled by a lack of resources. Crippled by violence. But what if…what if we thought of these perpetrators of crime not as criminals, but as people, people suffering from medical conditions that are beyond their control? Asking someone with a malfunctioning brain to function normally is like asking someone with a broken leg to go for a run. It simply cannot be done….until now.”
Murmurings started again. The reporters were ready to explode.
“Now, I could go through the detailed scientific research that has taken place over the last ten years, but that information is more than covered in your publicity kits. The purpose of this press conference is simply to open up the minds of the fair citizens of this city to the possibilities.”
Well, that was nicely glossed over.
“Imagine a city without crime. A city without jails. A city without families torn apart by the disease of criminality. That is a city in which I want to live. More importantly that is a city in which I want my daughter to live.”
Daughter. Singular.
It wasn’t like I cared. Why would I care if the person I hated most in the world didn’t acknowledge my existence? If I had a therapist, I wouldn’t even bring it up…much.
“If you allow us to implant this technology into the current prison population, I can give you that city.”
And there it was. Brain implants for criminals. I’m glad I didn’t have to write a jingle to sell it.
“Now, I will be more than happy to take your questions.”
A tidal wave of reporters surged to their feet.
After a moment of chaos, my father managed to single one out.
“Mr. St. James, given the seemingly remarkable success you have had with your daughter, why wouldn’t you focus your efforts on curing similar types of congenital disorders instead of focusing your efforts on criminals?”
Yeah. Good question.
“Yes, excellent question. First, let me assure you, given how personal an issue this is, I have not abandoned those areas of congenital research. In fact, I have hired hundreds of scientists who are coming up with new applications to help people like my Jenny. But I also feel an obligation to focus the bulk of my team’s efforts where they can do the most good.”
I rolled my eyes…violently.
“Yes, you,” my father said pointing at another reporter.
“What kind of clinical trials have you run on this implant?” a rather snarky-looking man asked. “How can you be sure this is safe? Just because they’re criminals doesn’t mean they’re your own personal guinea pigs.”
“I agree with you wholeheartedly. If you refer to your press kit, you will see that we have gone above and beyond federal regulations to ensure that this technology is safe. And I do take some exception to the term
criminal
. People are more than their crimes, especially when they are suffering from a medical condition which, I believe, they are.”
Righteous indignation
. He was actually going for righteous indignation. The hypocrisy of it all was going to make me punch something. Instead, I kicked Red Jacket’s chair without even realizing it. She whirled around. I jumped back and tried to look focused on something no one else could see in the sky.
Suddenly I heard a familiar voice, a voice that sent warm tingles to my nether regions.
“Mr. St. James, what do you have to say about the reports of this technology being tested on sweatshop workers in your Third World factories?”
There he was—all six plus feet of Pierce—a glowing beacon in the crowd of reporters. Most of the female reporters, and some of the male, were making the same open-mouthed expression of appreciation I was. If I could have, I would have slapped them all. Mine. Mine. Mine.
“And which paper do you work for son?”
“
The World Chronicles
,” Pierce said.
My father gave him a pitying smile. “Oh I see. Perhaps you should file that story alongside the latest alien abduction of Elvis.”
Oh, if only I could fly. I would have zoomed over this crowd and smacked the smug look right off his face.
“How do you answer the rumors that these workers have exhibited zombie-like behavior?” Pierce replied, so handsomely undaunted.
“My dear boy, I don’t answer to rumors, especially not when there is real work to be done.”
For everyone else that settled it, but the exchange had triggered a memory in me. I recollected a conversation I had overheard my father having with one of his senior executives—something about paying off medical officials to silence reports of hospitalizations in some factory in Thailand.
At that moment, I noticed Red Jacket with her hand up.
Now was my chance.
I hurried over and whispered into her made for TV hair, “Forget your question. Ask this.”
I quickly gave her the details.
“I’m not asking that,” she said looking like I had three, if not four, heads.
“Yes, you,” my father’s voice boomed out. I looked over to the big screen. He was pointing at Red Jacket. I dropped to the pavement.
“Just do it!” I hissed up at her.
She looked down at me, seemingly weighing her options.
“Mr. St. James, what about the reports of hospitalizations coming out from your factory in Thailand? Do these reports have anything to do with the implant?”
A rush of satisfaction ran through me. She had done it. Good thing, too. I was half a second away from biting her panty-hosed ankle.
Silence resounded throughout the packed city square.
“I believe you, too, are mistaken,” he replied. The temperature of his voice had dropped by a few degrees. And I wasn’t the only one who had heard it.
Let the feeding frenzy begin.
I looked over to Pierce. His face was still, but his eyes gleamed with excitement. He had been validated. My heart did a happy dance…then froze, fell over, and puked on the floor.
Over to my left, two burly men in dark blazers and sunglasses were struggling to get past a scrum of camera people.
I didn’t have to guess who they were coming for.
I tried to control my hyperventilation by telling myself my father wouldn’t allow a scene in front of reporters. Then again, he probably thought my presence alone was a danger—solid logic, given that I was crawling around on all fours between chairs and reporters’ legs.
I needed to crawl faster.
I scampered furiously through the crowd, shopping bags still clutched in my fist.
Reporters fired off questions, but they didn’t even register…until I heard my name.
“Mr. St. James, where is Bremy these days?”
I popped up like a prairie dog.
“Is she not here to support her sister?”
Ouch
. Some part of me had been wondering when my name was going to come up. Sure, the press had misgivings about my father and his company, but they loved me. Late at night, I sometimes still dreamed of the furious clicking of camera shutters.
My father cleared his throat. “Well, you know Bremy. I’m sure she is currently working very hard on a new shade of frivolous.”
I scoffed, loudly, but no one heard it over the laughter.
What? You hand-glide into a few parties wearing a tiara and tutu and suddenly you’re labelled frivolous for life?
I looked behind me. The goons, with legs the size of tree trunks, had spotted me and were gaining. I dropped back down to my hands and knees.
I knew it had been a bad idea to come to this conference. My father had warned me what would happen if I ever made any trouble. The official story would read that I was just another sad socialite sent to a clinic for something like bipolar, anorexia—or sad, rich girl disease. But the reality would probably be a dungeon in the basement.
I had no doubt he would do it too. He was capable of worse.
The rough pavement rubbed away the skin on my palms and knees, but I still moved like lightning—clumsy lightning that landed on people’s toes and knocked over chairs.
In fact, I was moving so quickly, I didn’t even see that I was about to smack headfirst into someone’s legs.
Pain shot through the crown of my head.
“Brenda?”
I peeked up at Pierce, holding my head. He bent over to help me up.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded, blinking stars out of my eyes.
“What are you doing here?”
Oh God
. What to say?
Panicky options flew through my head. If I didn’t answer soon, it didn’t matter what I said, it would sound like a lie.
I needed to say something…anything.
“The question isn’t what am
I
doing here? I think the question is what are
you
doing here?”
He pursed his lips together as though he might actually be considering my logic before saying, “I don’t think that’s the question.”
“Oh.” I shot a quick glance behind me. The huge men were having a tough time navigating the crowd, but they were still gaining on me. I had to get out of here.
“I—uh—came to see you!” I inwardly groaned. Stalkers weren’t sexy.
“Really?”
I looked to his face in disbelief. He was smiling and pushing his glasses up his nose.
Aww
.
“Um yeah, you sounded so passionate about this press conference. I wanted to see what it was all about.” I took another furtive glance over my shoulder. They’d be on me in less than a minute.
Pierce suddenly looked embarrassed. “I guess you saw the part where I got dressed-down by
the
Mr. St. James.”
“Don’t worry. He’s a jerk.”
“You almost sound like you know him,” he replied laughing.