William Johnstone - Out of the Ashes

“The patient has no choice in the matter?”

“None.”

“Death with dignity, doctor—is that allowed in this semireligious society?”

“I’ll let the sarcastic ‘semireligious’ part of your question slide, sonny. I am not a religious man, personally. Yes, euthanasia is allowed in this society. And it’s nobody’s business but the patient’s—as it should be anywhere. Not all doctors agree with it, naturally; we have diverse philosophies in this society just as you do in yours. Those doctors that don’t like the idea don’t take part in it. But the right to die, with or without dignity, is a personal choice and right. And no one else’s goddamned business.” He walked out of the room.

“Very blunt man,” someone observed.

“But a compassionate one,” Charles Bellford said.

“Mr. Bellford, you used to be a federal judge. You don’t look like a judge now.”

Bellford was dressed in ranch pants, western shirt, and cowboy boots. He smiled. “I don’t have all those lofty decisions to hand down here, Mr. Charles. I’m a rancher/farmer first, legal officer second. Lawyers and judges don’t have much to do in the Tri-states.”

“Sir…” A reporter stood up. “I don’t mean to appear ignorant… but I just don’t understand your system of justice here. Surely you have decisions to weigh.”

Bellford shook his head. “I realize this state must come as a shock to most of you. But I have very few decisions to ponder. The people we allow in here are almost always amazed at how smoothly our system runs. It almost runs itself. And it’s easily explained: we simply brought the law back to the people.

“You see, I believe—and have for years—that the legal profession tried to keep the law, and themselves, on a plane far above the average person’s level of understanding. And they—we—did it deliberately. Gods on high, so to speak, uttering pronouncements in a verbiage beyond the grasp of the nonlegal-educated majority. It was arrogant of us, and that is not the way it is done in the Tri-states. Governor Raines believes that lawyers perpetuate lawyers. I agree with him.

“Our trials are different from those on the outside, but I assure you, one and all, they do not make a mockery of justice.

“You see, we don’t believe it’s fair or just for the state—as in your system—to throw millions of dollars, highly trained investigators, and fine legal minds into a case, when the defendant is left out in the cold with one attorney and all the bills. That is not justice for all. Even if the accused is proven innocent, beyond the shadow of a doubt, in your system, many times he or she is ruined financially and publicly humiliated—by the press. We just don’t believe that is true justice.

“There are no fine points of law here; no tricky legal maneuvering; no deals; no browbeating of witnesses. If a question cannot be fairly answered by a simple yes or no reply from the witness stand, we allow that person to elaborate. Or, one of the judges may stop the witness and take him or her into chambers, along with the attorneys; they’ll hash it out there.” He laughed. “You can all see I’m rusty with legal jargon. And so very happy about it.

“As you all know, polygraph and PSE machines are much more accurate than, oh, say ten years ago. And they are used in every case in the Tri-states. Every case. If they leave any doubt, we use drug-induced hypnosis. But a case will seldom go that far.”

“What if I don’t want to be subjected to that type of treatment?” he was asked.

“You don’t have a choice,” Bellford replied. “By your very refusal, you’re admitting a certain amount of guilt. Look, we’re dealing, in some cases, with human life; certainly with careers, with families, with dignity, and we want to be certain the right person is punished. And I know, and you people should know, that eyewitnesses are notoriously unreliable. I wish we had a case being tried somewhere in the Tri-states so you could all see our system in action.”

“Sir… are you telling us that in all of the Tri-states, you aren’t trying someone?”

“That is correct. Sorry.”

“That’s impossible!”

Bellford laughed. “Perhaps incredible—to you people—but certainly not impossible. Sociologists, psychologists, psychiatrists, and social anthropologists have been preaching for years that the death penalty and harsh laws would not be a deterrent for criminals. Many people believed them; I never did. Our society proves they were wrong. One day a week—this day—I come in in the afternoon to hear cases. I usually read a book to pass the time. Obviously, we are doing something right.”

“But you are selective as to the caliber of person you will allow to live in the Tri-states?”

“Oh my, yes.”

“Then how do you know harsh laws would work in the other states?”

“I don’t. But you don’t know that they won’t, because you people have never tried them. Probably never will. But that’s your problem; we’ve solved ours. Understand this: in the Tri-states, murder, kidnapping, armed robbery, the selling of hard drugs, and treason, are all punishable by the death penalty. And lesser crimes—and that is a paradoxical statement—are still treated in a very harsh manner.”

“Your system of justice does not allow much leeway for human error, Mr. Bellford.”

“More than you might realize, sir. We have counselors ready and willing to talk with anyone who might have a problem—twenty-four hours, around the clock. And our people do use them. We do not have a pressure-free society. But it’s as close as we could come to it.”

“Be that as it may, Mr. Bellford. I don’t think I’d like to live in your society.”

“Your choice,” the reporter was informed. “And ours.”

Barney and his crew drove through the countryside as the press scattered over the thousands of miles of the Tri-states. They admired the neat, well-kept homes, the tidy fields and meadows, and the open friendliness of the people. No one seemed to be in any great hurry to get anywhere, and the press people realized then that the pace was indeed slower in the Tri-states. They were invited into homes by people they did not know, for coffee and cake and pie and home-baked bread. Homes were open, with doors unlocked; keys left in the ignitions of vehicles.

“Don’t let a good boy go bad,” one of Barney’s crew said sarcastically. “I always did think that was a bunch of shit. Good boys don’t steal cars. Punks steal cars.”

Barney glanced at him. “I never knew you felt that way, Jimmy.”

“You never asked me.”

Toward the end of the second day, Barney and his crew stopped to sit in silence for a time, digesting all they’d seen.

Barney sighed and shook his head. “Ted, we haven’t seen one shack in two days. I have seen no signs of poverty. I have not seen anyone who looked poor or unhappy about anything. Why is everyone so contented in this wacko place?”

“Because they have what they want. I couldn’t live here; I’ll admit that. I like to whore around too much.” He grinned. “I’d get shot for fooling around with someone’s wife. O.K., so I couldn’t live here—I haven’t been invited, have I? But these folks like it here. Hell, why doesn’t the government just leave them alone and let them live the way they want to live. They’re not forcing their way of life on anyone. It’s none of President Logan’s business.”

Jimmy said, “I agree with you, Ted. But I’ll admit something: I’d like to live here. Man, these people have something good going for them.”

Barney glanced at him. “The death penalty, Jimmy? Hard laws? I never knew you felt that way.”

“You never asked me.”