Should the punishment fit the crime? Some say, “Yes.” But what if you didn’t do it?

How do you prove your innocence? It is not always easy. And if you can’t, you may have to serve your sentence in . . .

The Glass Cage

     Eyes. Eyes staring at me. What can I do to avoid them? How can I keep my sanity? Will this ever end?

     Flashback—one year ago. I sat at my desk in my small, but well-equipped office at Trenton University, thirty miles from Vegas, in the middle of the desert. Data flowed across my iMac computer screen—sensitive information meant for only a few chosen specialists in the field of “Human Manipulation.”

     I perused the statistics dancing before me. My concentration was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Who’s there?”

     “James, it’s Brad. We need to talk.”

     “Okay, come in.”

     The door opened and Brad, the chair of the Department of Human Exploration entered, shutting the door behind him. “What do we need to talk about?”

     His head bowed, he spoke in a whisper, “We’re being investigated and you’re the main target.”

     “Investigated? For what?”

     “Misuse of secret government property.”

     “You’re joking? Aren’t you?”

     “I wish I was. You knew when you took this position at the university that your research would be subject to federal scrutiny. Well, they’ve accessed your computer files and discovered you’ve been manipulating the lives of six influential politicians for your own benefit.”

     “I’ve been doing what? What are you talking about? My research has nothing to do with the government or political officials. And you know that.” Brad stood there in silence. “Wait a minute. You’re not setting me up, are you?”

     “Well, somebody has to take the fall. And you knew there would be risks. You’re low man in the department and we have to give someone up to save our sixty million dollar research grant.”

     Flashback—eight months ago. I stood in a courtroom facing a stern looking judge. He glared at me with a scowl on his face. “Mr. Woodson,” or should I say, “Professor Woodson? You have been accused of committing quite serious crimes against six federal representatives that involve human manipulation, which compromised their ability to make their own decisions. How do you plead?”

     Before I could respond, my federal appointed defense lawyer rose from his seat and bellowed, “Guilty as charged, your honor.”

     “But your honor,” I yelled.

     “Sit down now, Professor. Since you admitted you committed six crimes against the state, we will proceed immediately to sentencing.”

     “But your honor, I didn’t do any of those things. I’m being . . . “

     “Sit down, Professor, or I’ll have to order the guards to shackle and mute you.”

     Two guards pushed me back into the chair, as the judge continued. “I’m sentencing you to twenty years, for each of the six crimes committed. These sentences will be served concurrently. Since the punishment should fit the crime, you will be housed at the Twenty-Nine Palms Glass Cage facility.”

     “Glass what? But your honor, I’ve done nothing.”

     Ignoring my comment, the judge proclaimed, “Take him away. Next case, please.”

     That was eight months ago. Prison would have been a reward for what they said I had done. However, for exposing the secret lives and lies of our political elite to the public, my twenty-year sentence would be served in what they termed a “total transparency environment.” And this has been much worse than serving time in any prison one could imagine.

     My days are unbearable. I can’t interact with anyone in a normal way. I have little to do and nowhere to go. My clothing has been stripped from me and every hair on my body removed. I live in a glass cage, in a compound open to the public—a human zoo, where my every move can be observed. And to make things worse, new technology has allowed my keepers to tap into my brain and read my thoughts, which they then display, like a closed captioning function on TV, for all to see.

     My only means of communication with my keepers is a yellow pad and pen, placed on a small wooden table, with a bench attached, which also serves as my sole place to sit. It’s anchored to the ground so I have to face the visitors who gape and then attempt to elicit a reaction from me. I tried once to use the writing supplies to alert my viewers that I needed help, but as I raised a sheet of paper to the glass, electricity zapped my body and I fell with a thud to the ground. When I awoke, a message on the “closed captioning display” read, “Don’t ever try that again.”

     For the past eight months, I’ve languished in my cage. Although I’ve tried to get a message to my so-called attorney, I’ve been told, he doesn’t want to speak to me. I submitted a request for new counsel, but this request fell on deaf ears. So here I exist, with my life placed in total view of gawkers and stalkers who wish to get their jollies from watching a man perform his basic life essentials in the public eye.

     What will my future bring? Will I live long enough to again enter the outside world? I yearn for a life—getting married, having a family. But for now, I live in a world of my own making. I pretend that the people who “visit” are my friends who have come to share themselves with me. I wave and they respond in kind. Some days, I can say I’m almost having fun. I work out to keep my body in shape. For I’m on the set of my own one-man reality show every day, but not in costume, so I have to look good.

     Flashback—three months ago. I stood staring at an empty courtyard surrounding my glass enclosure. Not a soul in sight. I started to turn away from the glass, when I saw a beautiful blond woman walking toward me. It seemed strange to see a woman approaching alone. This hadn’t happened before. She came right up to the glass and pressed her face against it. I don’t know what possessed me to follow suit, but I did. It was my first real personal encounter since I arrived at Twenty-Nine Palms.

     Today, three months later, as I watched as onlookers eyeballed me, I wondered what had happened to that woman. Drifting off, I became lost in thought, when all hell broke loose in the compound. People ran like crazy to escape something. But what?

     Then I saw a cavalcade of police, followed by what looked like a throng of reporters and cameramen. Lights flashed everywhere. Then from out of the crowd, the attractive blond I had “met” three months ago approached. She held something in her hand as she reached for the door of the glass cage, pressed some numbers into the door’s keypad and inserted a gold key into the lock. As the door swung open, she motioned to me to step outside. I shivered in the frigid air, the temperature at least twenty-five degrees less than inside my glass enclosure. A man in the group raced toward me and draped a robe over my naked body. However, it still took a couple of minutes for my teeth to stop chattering.

     The woman embraced me and then planted a passionate kiss on my lips. Amazed, I just stared at her. I wondered what this was all about. Then she moved her mouth to my ear and whispered, “I saw you eight months ago in the courtroom.”

     “You did?” I mumbled, still shaking a bit from the cold. “Why were you there?”

     “I was a law student. I came to observe the case. It sickened me to witness the crime committed.”

     “My crime?”

     “No, their crime. They never gave you a chance to prove your innocence. You had a fool or a politician’s puppet for a lawyer. So I vowed, when I passed the bar, I would work on your behalf. And that happened three months ago.”

     “What happened?” I asked, still confused by this whole situation.

     “I passed the bar. That’s when I came to see you. And when we pressed our faces close together, I knew I had to prove your innocence.”

     “You did? But how did you, a new attorney, accomplish this?”

     “Let’s just say it doesn’t hurt to come from a wealthy family with a father whose legal practice specializes in overturning unfair convictions. I went to work as a lawyer for his firm and you were my first case. In front of a new judge, who had few political affiliations, I succeeded in getting the case thrown out of court.”

     “Well, what do we do now?”

     “Simple, we get the creeps who set you up, I become a great defense attorney, and you and I get married.

     “Get married?”

     “Why not? You do know you have a gorgeous, sexy body?”

Copyright © 2015 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.