Welcome to the Marines (Corporate Marines Book 2) (2 page)

T
he woman sitting at a small wrap-around stage desk is gorgeous. Her brown hair is cut in a short bob and has blonde streaks running through it. Her brown eyes are behind what are still known as Clark Kent glasses. She is wearing a short mesh vest over a very small tube top which is quite filled with a cleavage that was provided by a higher power known as a bodymod doctor. She has several tasteful tattoos that people who knew her well could tell you have changed over the years to stay “in.” Her tan is so good, and even then, it’s as fake as her smile and perfect teeth. Susie is the perfect presenter and is very popular; she was sent down to the city after presenting out of the capital for several years. Six years there is a long time for those who do not have perfect genes or slightly higher ratings, though. “Good day and welcome to Channel 95, news all day, every day, and all real! I’m Susie Halent and I’m all yours for the next ten minutes!

“The big story today is Slaughtering Sam Slate, the psycho killer who killed off four innocent kids that he went to school with. The four victims went to New Hope High School on Tenth Street. In fact, they were two adorable couples that were the sweetest kids in the school!” Behind Susie is a full-size screen that shows some slowly changing pictures of the victims generally doing what teenagers do — participating at local school and charity events — as well as the pro forma sports shots. “It is unknown at this time what caused Sammie to snap and go on a rampage. The evidence does appear to make Sammie, as everyone calls him, the prime suspect. As you may have heard previously, Sammie boy is a reclusive teenager that never really fit in at school and was never into extracurricular activities. Why would this man go out and do such horrific things? We really don’t know at this time.”

Susie pauses and a concerned look comes onto her face. She leans forward toward the sensors, which also just happens to accentuate her heaving cleavage which is almost exploding out of her top. “The rumour mill has it that Sammie came from a single-parent family and there was abuse that had been documented in public previously. No one knows at this time if there had been more direct…physical abuse in past. Experts have stated that it could be possible.”

Susie took a deep, shuddering breath as she wrestled with the revelation. “In a situation like that, anything was possible, after Sammie was moulded by a parent into the monster he is today.

“Now let’s take a look at some of the recent footage of Sammie in court and Ms. Smirko, the prosecuting attorney.”

Susie fades out and the interior of a richly appointed local court comes up on-screen. The judge is sitting behind a large stand with a bronzed justice symbol embedded on the front. The jury is already sitting in their box and the records keeper is checking the assorted sensors that will be recording everything. The entire room gives off an air of authority and power. There must be two hundred spectators in the room. The doors at the rear open and in walks a beautiful woman in current business attire, which includes a short wrap skirt in a deep purple and a form-fitting orange top with panels cut out over the abs and the back. The material is like a second skin. Her tan is almost perfect. As she walks down the aisle to the prosecutor’s table, a voice narrates, “Ms. Smirko is the prosecutor’s attorney for this case; you’ll note that she is perfectly turned out, as always, in a Dal-Jar original. Ms. Smirko demanded this case ‘to get closure for the parents and to ensure that a maddened criminal is removed from the streets.’ This on top of just being appointed to the committee for women’s rights and needs in the city, as well as assistant chair for the charitable organization Food for the Children. Ms. Smirko is still teaching, practicing law, involved with a dozen different charities and organizations throughout the region and is the youngest partner in the firm of Opper, Degs and Chukle. The rumour of her future promotion to senior partner persists, and if she does make senior partner, she will likely be moved to one of the satellite offices on the West Coast. As the most eligible bachelorette in the city, the question on everyone’s mind is, when will she be getting married and who will that lucky fellow be? She has been seen on the arm of politicians, movie stars and billionaires. Who will she choose? Her answer?” The broadcast cuts to a scene with Ms. Smirko looking gorgeous as ever, sitting on a lounge along with the interviewer. She’s wearing the workout outfit that she has made popular within the state through her classes and sims. She laughs at something the interviewer says and then replies, “Oh, Billy, I am able to manage the whole workload quite easily. I would consider a partner if I could only find someone with the same energy levels that I have. Part of my success is that I am fortunate and have an excellent staff that knows what I need and can give it to me in a timely manner. Any future partner has to understand that and would almost become an integral part of the staff. If you can’t go for twenty hours a day, every day, then you may not be up for that sort of position.”

The scene fades away and Susie is back. “I just love her! Don’t you all just love Ms. Smirko? I take as many of her classes as I can and watch all her sims. She is just so amazing!

“Now we can see Sammie brought into court.” Again the fade-out, then a young, gaunt man is led into the same court by four beefy guards. He is in a prison jumpsuit and looks terrible. He is taken to the defence table and stays standing while the judge begins to address the court. The screen blacks out and Susie is back. She is leaning back with her arms folded under her breasts with a cross look on her face. “He just looks so guilty, you know? I do not know how a man like that can live with himself after what he did.”

Susie straightened up and addressed the sensors again with a serious look. “As much as we would like to show you some of the pictures that were released previously regarding the bloodshed and carnage that Sammie allegedly did to those four young innocents, we cannot, as this is prime time and the images are too horrifying for the young or those people viewing that are sensitive to that level of violence or cannot stand the sight of blood. However, if you want to review those pictures, just follow the link below and they are all located on the site. Thankfully our viewers are all careful enough to put their parental firewalls up so only those who are of an appropriate age can access that site!

“Now, to be fair to the defendant, there are unfounded rumours that he was bullied by the victims in the past. It has been said that with his family dying just recently, the bullying along with the stress of the death of his father and sibling may have pushed Sammie over the edge and there may be a temporary insanity plea. I don’t know about you, but I think that after the horrible things that were done to those kids, any insanity plea should be denied! Could you picture the criminal responsible for those atrocities simply being sent to a hospital where it costs over four times as much for a criminal to be housed versus a prison? If he is mind-wiped and they reset his personality, it is true that ‘he’ won’t be there anymore, but everyone else will know who he is and what he did.”

Susie puts her right hand over her heart and continues. “In all good conscience, the only thing that I could see a criminal like that doing is getting the ultimate penalty. Putting this mad, crazed killer down once and for all is the best choice for both society and for the taxpayers’ wallet.”

Her hand drops. “Well, as long as he is found guilty. I mean, maybe he is innocent after all. That is up to the court and those twelve good jurors to decide on for sure.”

Susie’s chair pops back upright as she relaxes and smiles her trademark sunshine grin. The snapping motion presents her cleavage to the sensor in a well-practiced motion that has earned Susie several awards and kept her ratings up even though she is over twenty-five.

“We will be tracking this story and others as they go on over the next few days and weeks, so make sure that you stay turned on and tuned in!” She even says that with a straight face and a big wink.

“Next up is going to be an in-depth interview with Ms. Smirko the prosecutor, as we were lucky enough to get her right after her Muay Thai class for just a minute — and I must say that she looks as amazing in person as she does on the net. She will be discussing the case and her new workout videos and training sim coming out next month!”

I
am being made to stand while the judge talks to me. This is not a courtroom right out of the shows I used to watch. I guess that the “touch-up work” using CGI that everyone hears about is a lot more extreme than I would have thought. This building is fifty years old now and I guess that they have not changed it at all except to do patch-up work, as every one of these boxes in this building is the exact same: small and fake. These are small poured concrete boxes with two small tables split on either side of the centre aisle. The judge sits on an elevated dais behind a plastic pedestal desk. The justice symbol is a plastic attachment on the front that is cracked; it looks like someone hammered on it. The flooring is a cheap tile that is easy to clean. There are three benches behind where we sit that are also cheap extruded plastic. There is no need for them, as anyone who wants to view the trial can watch on one of the channels. The three cameras record all the factual stuff and then let the general public view it after it has been cleaned up. The witness box is just a chair that is raised up on a small platform. If the witnesses are afraid to come in, then they can be in another room and the screen behind the witness platform can be used for two-way communications. I guess it has been practice for the last few years for the witnesses to be elsewhere, as no one even made a comment when all the witnesses were interviewed through the screen. The jury box is just like the rest of the room: cheap plastic with a shield in case the defendant gets aggressive. The jury dutifully walked in on the first day and witnessed me and heard the charges, then left again. One of my earlier attorneys was good enough to point out that they were paid workers by the city now and had been an “official” jury for the last three years. I asked if it made sense to have the same twelve people always on jury duty, and he explained that there were over a hundred jurors in the city working like this and they kept rotating them. They all lived segregated from the rest of the world, and if they had them, they did not use their plants to watch the media. I asked if that was a fair system. He told me that this is how the system works now and it works well. The next day I had a new defence attorney as he had been moved to a “higher-priority case.”

I get to stand at the defendant’s desk next to my court-appointed attorney. The prosecutor for the state is dressed for the kill in a low-cut dress that shows all her body mods as this is the last meeting before they sentence me.

The media is sitting behind me and has been for the entire trial. The first attorney I had told me that this is a high-priority case and the media is there to get a clear and unsullied view of everything that happens for posterity, and this three-ring circus just keeps going on. I asked him what media outlet they worked for. He smiled and let me know that they worked for city, state and federal.

I am pretty sure that the prosecutor is looking to get promoted. Heck, I can’t even keep my eyes off her, she looks that good. I heard the guards talking about how everything here is touched up electronically except for her. She is actually made to appear a bit less perfect so that she better meshes with the three female demographics that watch the most. The company that she works for has contractual agreements with the city for that and more.

When the trial started, I was briefed on the judge and the prosecutor. The judge is distinguished; he has written several popular books and is getting ready to retire to a business venture. The prosecutor has been in the business for a few years and is one of the best. Her tell-all books are popular, as are her workout books and videos. She also has several healthy eating books. Her workout show on the syndicated network is rated in the top three of the state and I was allowed to watch one episode. She does not wear much and I thought I was watching some soft-core porn, given what she was wearing and how she was working out with her assistants. She also has the most popular yoga and Muay Thai classes. She is single and one of the three most eligible bachelorettes in the state.

She met with me before the trial; she has a dazzling smile.

Her one-piece sheath dress is low-cut and body hugging. It’s black and there is a part over her stomach that has been cut away, showing off her abs. I wonder if she even eats and how she puts the outfit on. I mean, the front wraps around and is formed to her boobs, and she is a C-cup. No bra or padding, either, as I can see her nipples through the fabric. She has been flirting and poses like a model for the judge and almost all-male jury. Whenever she looks at me she gets a sad face that looks like she wants to tell me it’s all okay.

Of course, she has been trying for the death penalty from the very beginning. That hasn’t happened for a while and it would really bump up the ratings.

Even the women on the jury like her as she is sympathetic to them being “stuck there forced to listen to these horrors that occurred because of this young man’s inability to control himself after the upbringing that that he had.” She let them know she empathizes with them, lamenting the fact that they had “to be exposed to someone like this, that could not even work up the courage to go seek help. Instead, he worked out his hatred on those poor, innocent children.” It was all just stupid double talk and made no sense, but they ate it up.

I hate Ms. Smirko with a passion, as she tells everyone half-truths and outright lies.

Everything she does and says is geared to make everyone drool over her and agree for a chance of a smile. Heck, I’m having fantasies of sex with her while I’m standing here listening to her bury me.

No one cares what the truth is. They only care what the goddess says.

“Mr. Slate. If I could have your attention here for now, please, and not on Ms. Smirko?”

I jump and cut my eyes back to the judge. I realize that I am blushing as I was caught out staring at a rack that stands right out there on its own. Of course, no one is laughing. No one will ever laugh when I am around now, after what I did.

I nod, and then at a poke from my attorney, say, “Yes, Your Honour. Sorry, Your Honour.”

He continues. “I understand you come from a troubled family. But nothing in your past could possibly begin to grant you the permission, even in your own mind, for what you have done. I also understand from the psychological evidence that you may not fully understand what is going on and what you did. Such a disconnect from reality is disturbing to everyone and may cause some to fear how you would react.” He pauses while considering Ms. Smirko with a professional smile. “Women have the right to dress for business and work in a manner that shows them as the enlightened people that they are.” He paused for effect, and I’m pretty sure he planned that out in advance. “It would be inappropriate for you to be treating a professional such as Ms. Smirko as an objectified symbol of male regression. It could also, given the charges that have been brought against you, be viewed as threatening.”

The judge continues and is addressing not me as much as the cameras. “Please do not ogle the women in the room as sex objects, Mr. Slate.”

I want to kill him. I don’t come from a troubled family. I came from a single-parent working-class family and they were everything to me. This asshole is telling the world through the cameras that they were “troubled.” Everyone thinks that I was molested by my dad now. I can feel the heat in my face and I want to throw up. This bastard is saying this about my family because he is scoring points with the prosecuting attorney, who is probably in his office after hours “getting consulted” in every way I can imagine while I rot in a cell. I have never seen a professional dressed like that, ever. The term “business attire” is still real for a lot of people, including people from the Projects. I can’t do this. I take a breath; I can talk. “Yes, Your Honour, I understand.”

For the first time I have something to be proud of. I didn’t finish my sentence with
“that she is dressed like a prostitute to get better ratings and she probably fucked your brains out last night, you bastard.”
I know Dad would be proud of me.

Who am I kidding? I let them all down. But I can still picture him smiling sadly and shaking his head while he tries to hold a yawn back after a night shift. “Sammie, you have to control that temper and think through your actions. You always have to act honourably and do the right thing. You are a great boy and I want you to do better in life than I did. Promise me you’ll try?”

I would always get that talk when I screwed up something small and I knew how important it was to him that I do better for myself. He so needed that help. He needed to see me succeed. That would have made all that work with the late hours and overtime with missed family holidays and no celebrations worthwhile. To know his kids were on a better path. Then I messed it all up.

I flash back to the first few weeks after my arrest.

This is absolute crap. I was arrested and then turned eighteen while in custody. I celebrated my birthday eating bologna steak. I know I deserve that, but it is still crap.

My attorneys are all younger guys that got the short end of the stick. They don’t want to be here, as it seems like there is a good excuse for them to leave after a week. So after a month here, I’ve gone through five. I wonder how many work for the public defence pool and if I will eventually get stuck with the company idiot who is in shit for banging a secretary on the boss’s desk and getting caught. My dad used to say every company keeps one idiot on as management who ends up taking the blame when things go wrong. “It’s the way the world works.”

The prosecutor is a walking fantasy with biosculpt and a professional trainer that makes her look that good. When she came to the meeting room to introduce herself, she had four large beefy guards and three cameras there to record the visit. I thought it was for the court and as a record in case I went nuts. But no, it was for the local, regional and national media. She was wearing a two-piece suit and tube top with two-inch heels. I couldn’t think after she smiled at me, as my brain had exploded. I mean, come on — I was seventeen and full of hormones. She never said she was the prosecutor, just that she was Ms. Smirko, lawyer, and more. I told her I recognized her from her workout videos and she giggled and gave me a smirk, asking if I watched them late at night.

I had told her that, no, I worked after school and I had caught one of her episodes because I was trying to stay fit as the school gym had been closed for renovations.

She looked concerned. “Well, why didn’t you and your dad buy a home gym or get a membership to one of the local gyms?”

I answered, “Well, Dad works two different jobs a day to put healthy food on the table and keep us sheltered and is trying to get enough for my sister and I to go to college. Everything that I earn goes to a bank account for college next year.” I looked down at the scratched plastic tabletop and I was shaking when I whispered, “I guess that doesn’t matter now.”

I heard a clicking sound and saw that the guards were looking a lot more threatening, like they were posing. Then I saw that the camera drones were recording now and she spoke very clearly and slowly like she was in a presentation. “I understand that your family has a lot of pride, but at any time your father could have applied for the in-school assistance package that is open to everyone attending the school. All a parent has to do is submit a request and get interviewed at school and at home.”

I just looked at her. “I had brought the paperwork home, but the food provided is almost all junk food. It’s processed food that’s full of sugar and the drinks are from a local cola company. There is no fruit or healthy stuff provided.”

I had thought that she must not know what was going on there as all that food was provided by larger companies and the schools are pretty much covered with their advertising. I understand that schools in other areas are not like that, but it seems like anything near the Projects is cheap and bad for you.

Then she smiled at me again like she was sad, but she really didn’t sound like it when she talked. “Well, maybe he was afraid of what the interviewer would find in the home. Most people who need the help ask for it and are glad that they can get it. I personally have talked to the local providers and arranged for good-quality product, including the latest energy drinks, to be in our schools so that the young can get the nutrition that they need to learn. I also donate and arrange for sizeable donations every year. Sometimes people are too proud to ask for help, or they have something to hide from the trained interviewer.”

I was shaking my head no. “Dad had no time to go to school for the first interview and the food is all junk food. Half the kids who are eating it are all messed up on sugar and labelled as developmentally challenged!” My voice was rising; I kept seeing my little sister eating the processed food and getting fidgety in class and then being judged developmentally challenged and being drugged every day and sitting there in a class of kids that just play at stations designed to prepare them for menial jobs when they graduate at sixteen. Some kids get out of there, but we all knew it was a judgement that set what you did for life. Didn’t the woman know this? I was thrashing around a little in the chains that kept me tied into the chair.