J. Curtis - Calexit - The Anthology

“I see racist scum like you every day, you know that? Interlopers like you, who came here from whatever jerkwater sewer spewed you out, wanting nothing more than to tear down what we’ve built here.”

“I was raped!”

“No!” the social worker spat back, jabbing a long, thin finger at Jennifer’s face, “No, you weren’t!” She pointed out the window and continued, “You parked at the edge of the parking lot where there would be no video of your so-called ‘assault,’ ripped your own clothes, and rammed yourself into your own car to make it look like you’d been attacked!”

The accusation brought Jennifer’s sobs to a halt as she gaped at the other woman in disbelief. “I know what you’re doing, you racist whore!” Gloria shouted. “You’ve got something against Mister Hamilton, an African American.”

“I never…” Jennifer shouted back.

“Good daughter of the South just can’t stand to see a darkie in a good job, now can you?” The forced twang in Gloria’s words dripped with malice.

“I…”

“Jennifer Bradford-Costa, I am recommending charges under the Crimes Against the Community Act,” the social worker said in a formal tone as she brought her tablet closer to her face so that the recording would be clear. “You are advised to not make any further statements until you have spoken with an attorney. A member of law enforcement will be by soon to arrest you and set your identification token for home arrest until you are brought to court.”

She pressed a button on the tablet’s side, and the blinking green light went out. Jennifer felt herself sag back. She had not even noticed that she had sat up, but now pain pushed her back down on the thin mattress. “I have to say, you did really well on this one,” the social worker said as she slipped her computer into her purse and turned toward the door. “You certainly had the doctor fooled for a while. Took two calls from my office to get him to change his report.”

She opened the door, then paused. “Cutting your hair off and slicing up your face was a nice touch. I’ll have to look to see if you had an accomplice or if you did it to yourself. Where was your husband last night?”

Mark helped Jennifer down into one of the wooden chairs at a long table. Next to her, a tired looking woman with what might have been dark hair a decade before rifled through a stack of file folders.

“I’m sorry, Señora ,” the woman said softly as she pulled a thin folder with a red and white sticker from the middle of the pile. “We don’t have pads like the People’s Advocates do.”

Jen gave her a reassuring smile. “You’ve been wonderful to us.” She looked around the room, then turned back to her attorney. “This won’t take long, will it?”

“No, no,” the woman replied. “You’ve already signed the agreement, so this is just a formality.”

Jennifer nodded tiredly. Ramon had been coming by the house every couple of nights in the weeks since she had come home, and he had helped her to recover a lot of the movement in her shoulder. But all she had for the lingering pain was what Mark could get at the pharmacy, and the constant reminder of that night dragged on her. The bumpy ride across city streets to the courthouse had jostled her about, and the ache in her bones was sapping her energy even before she began the day’s business.

“Do we have to do this?” Jennifer asked. “This isn’t right.”

The woman shook her head sadly. “It’s either this, or they convict you of crimes against a downtrodden community. That would be a lot worse.”

“Worse?” Jen asked numbly.

“Ten years for each offense, and your husband loses his job and probably goes to prison too.” She pointed to the front of the courtroom. “And this way,” she sighed, “there’s only one camera.”

Jennifer shook her head and pursed her lips. She felt Mark put a gentle hand on her shoulder, and reached up to squeeze it.

The door behind them opened, and a man in a dark business suit, followed closely by Gloria Anderson-Hermosa, walked in. The investigator gave Jen an icy stare, while the man, tall, blonde, and tan, gave all three of them a wide smile.

The man reached across Jennifer to shake hands with the woman sitting next to her. “Consuela, it’s good to see you again.”

“Jeff, thanks for doing this.”

“It’s always easier for things to go this way.”

The door at the front of the room opened, and a large woman wearing a brown and tan uniform, complete with a gun on one rounded hip, walked into the room. She nodded to Jeff, who stepped across the aisle to stand next to Gloria. The court reporter, a small man in an ill-fitting suit, entered behind her. He held a large tablet to each of their hands, moving on to the next after the identity reader flashed their pictures and names across its screen.

Once that was accomplished and the little man had retreated to a desk at the side of the room, the bailiff barked out, “Please, rise!” in a voice that seemed to be forced into a low pitch. At her words, a small woman with dark, curly hair entered the courtroom. Mark helped Jennifer struggle to her feet, while Consuela merely stared straight ahead as she stood stiffly with her hands at her side.

Once Jennifer had straightened to stand next to her attorney, the judge took her seat and nodded. Again, Mark had to help Jennifer down into her seat. The judge glanced at Jeff, who gave her an imperceptible shrug.

With a sigh, the judge tapped the microphone and intoned in a bored voice, “This is Judicial Hearing number 25-721, People’s Deputy Tedalla Bainbridge presiding.”

She nodded to the tables in front of her. “I have Mr. Brooks and Ms. Anderson-Hermosa here, as well as Ms. Rodriguez-Turner and her client, Jennifer Lynn Bradford-Costa. And you are, sir?”

“Mark Costa, your honor. I’m Jennifer’s husband.”

“Splendid. All of you understand that you are directed to tell the truth in this hearing, under penalty of incarceration for perjury?”

Everyone at the tables nodded their understanding.

“Good. Well, let’s get this business over with. I’ve looked over the plea agreement Ms. Bradford-Costa and Mr. Brooks signed, and it seems to be in order. I also listened to the recording Ms. Anderson-Hermosa made of her interview with the accused, and I’m glad we’re all being spared a trial for such a horrible crime.”

She looked up to survey the small group before her. The prosecutor gave her a smile, while Consuela merely nodded her agreement. “Are we ready to do this?” the judge asked.

Brooks stood up and smiled at the camera installed in a console next to the judge. “We are, madam Deputy. The accused has agreed to surrender her license to work as a nurse in the Republic, pay a fine of five thousand Callors, remain under house arrest until she has done five hundred hours of community service at one of the clinics for the indigent here in Sacramento, and has received counseling to help her overcome her racist tendencies.”

“I understand that she has finally surrendered her passport from the United States?”

Consuela spoke up. “She has, your Honor, as has her husband.”

“Good. Now, Ms. Bradford-Costa, if you will stand and look into the camera there, we can finish this business.”

Mark moved to help Jennifer stand, but stopped when the bailiff put one hand on her pistol and waved a chubby finger at him. Mark sank back into his chair, a look of worry on his face. Jennifer suppressed a groan as she stood. She gritted her teeth and straightened as best she could against the brace that dug into her back. Brooks also stood and faced her.

“You admit to faking an attack on your person on the night of June 15, 2025?” he asked in a theatrical tone that carried across the courtroom.