They Aren't Mine

by Karen Page

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"Sir!" cajoled one of the paramedics. "Sir!"

The man groaned as he came too.

"He's coming around," said the other paramedic, unnecessarily to his colleague.

An eye tentatively opened.

"Welcome back," said the paramedic. "It looks like someone knocked you out. Can you tell me your name?"

"Gregory Fraser. Greg."

"Well Greg. I'm Jim with the Ambulance Service. Have you taken something? Did you fall?"

"No. I was in Tommy's, you know, the card shop. Next thing I know, I'm waking up here."

Greg had more checks performed, and was raised, to go to the ambulance. As he did, a bag of pills fell out of his coat.

"They aren't mine," said Greg quickly.

* * *

The screen faded and the police sergeant turned to Greg. "Do you admit that you had those drugs on you?"

"But someone must have planted them," he responded.

The sergeant asked the question differently. "You saw the video. You were there. Do you admit that the video was a true representation of what happened?"

"Yes."

"Do you therefore admit that there were drugs on you?"

"Yes," he responded. "But they weren't mine."

"Greg Fraser, you are being charged under section 2.3 of the drugs act. You were knowingly or unknowingly carrying a class A drug."

Greg wasn't stupid. He knew this was where they'd been going. It was the radical law brought in two years previously to try to get on top of the growing drugs problem. Anybody found with drugs was arrested, charged and went through an expedited court process.

"Someone planted them on me," Greg reiterated, but knew deep down it was a losing battle. The special law didn't care. Someone had drugs on them, and that was that.

The law was harsh. It broke all the rules on fairness. The government had spent a lot of political capital in getting the law on the books, but after the number of drug deaths started to fall, and then drug related crime falling, the number openly critical plummeted.

Nobody seemed immune to the law. Famous people including pop stars who fell foul were jailed alongside the everyday workers. When the home secretary who'd promoted the law was jailed for breaking the law she'd brought in, the press had a field day.

"The guy who framed you was Harold Entwistle."

"Harry?" responded Greg in shock. Harry had been an old school friend.

"He was arrested and charged under section 2.1. He is in a much worse situation than you."

"Since you know I was framed, you can't still charge me, can you?"

"We have to, we have no leeway. It is a harsh law, but it is the law. If you aren't charged, we will be charged with aiding a drug possessor and that penalty is just as harsh as what Harold will get."

"So, what happens now?"

"You'll be taken to the special court and since you are being charged with the lowest category of offense, you get more options."

"But I don't have a lawyer. I asked for one, but-"

"The drugs law is outside of normal proceedings. A special legal representative will be assigned when you get to court. If you had a lawyer, they would join you there. But since you didn't, you get to choose one there."

The hour back in the cell was torture. He'd not been able to ring anybody, not that there was anybody to ring. He had friends, but they wouldn't have been able to help, apart from letting his boss know. Until he knew more, he decided to leave that call until later.

When the guards came to take him to court, they had the look of total distain on their faces. To them he was a druggy. He was put in the same bracket as terrorists, murderers and child abusers.

"No talking," ordered one of the guards when Greg was going to protest his innocence.

The walk to the van wasn't a gentle affair, and Greg was glad to be seated in the blacked-out vehicle. There he found himself not alone. There was a middle-aged man in the chair next to him. His blond hair swept to one side in an old-fashioned side parting. Around his neck was a gold chain, with a bright green thread running through it. He wasn't in handcuffs like Greg.

"So pure," muttered the man more to himself, and it made Greg wonder if he'd heard correctly.

"The drugs were planted on me," said Greg as the vehicle set off.

The man waived it away as if he heard the same thing twenty times a day. "I'm creating a quick report for the court. Tell me about yourself. Who do you live with? What do you do?"

"I'm a school caretaker. I live in a house on the edge of the school grounds. Or I did. My arrest will make me unsuitable. Before that, I used to be an AI architect, until the AI's learnt how to program each other."

"And relationships?"

"I never found anybody that did it for me."

"Did you try men?"

"Yes," blushed Greg. "It just never did anything for me. Male friends are great, but I didn't want to be a bottom."

They pulled into the court complex and Greg was taken to a processing room where he was handed over to a court usher and a guard. In there were four lawyers and several small offices with glass partitions to the main room.

"These are the lawyers available who will be paid by Legal Aid. There is a dossier on their desks."

It was a bit like a market. Greg went across and glanced them over. They outlined where they'd got their law degree and prominent cases. There wasn't anything about success with drug cases.

Greg reflected on that, and it dawned on him. The drug laws were so draconian that with evidence for a charge, a conviction was a given. These lawyers weren't there to get him free. These lawyers were there to tick the box that he had legal defence, even when the defence was futile.

Another prisoner came in, surrounded by guards. These guards were armed where his solo guard wasn't.

"Will you take me," asked Greg. The usher handed Greg's file to the lawyer.

"Of course," he said, not smiling and not looking at the sheet. When asked to represent, the lawyer had no choice but to accept, unless it was family. "Let's go to an office and discuss."

The usher and guard waited outside the room, and Greg followed the lawyer.

"Have a seat," the lawyer said. "I'm Steve. I will represent you. Give me a second to review your case."

Greg sighed and waited. He looked out into the main room on the sound of a gun. One of the prisoners was trying to make a run for it and the guard had simply shot them in the leg. Steve just continued to read, having seen this type of reaction before. The gun shot had been the only sound he'd heard and that had been muffled. The rooms were to some degree soundproofed.

When Steve had finished, he asked, "How do you want to plead?"

"Even though the drugs were planted on me, that isn't how this law works, is it? Even though I unwittingly had drugs on me, I'm guilty. If I plead guilty, can I mention that, and ask for leniency?"

"Of course. The law is hard, and the way these courts are setup are harsh, but yes you will be able to speak."

"What sentence might I get?"

"If you plead guilty at the level of your crime the starting position is ten years with no early parole. If you plead not guilty and then found guilty, you can add an additional five to ten years. For the guy that set you up, he won't keep his life even if he pleads guilty."

This was the other big debate when the law was brought in. At the time, the UK didn't have the death penalty. But with the high number going to jail, and the tightness of proof, they decided to bring it back just for the drug crimes of distribution or carrying for distribution. There was no death row. If you were convicted, you were executed within the hour.

"And there isn't anything else, like a form of community service?"

For the first time, Steve smiled. "Oh, you've heard those rumours too. They are just that. All the sentences I've seen have been as described."

Then I will plead guilty and hope the court is lenient. Well, the courts AI is lenient."

"Don't do anything silly," said Steve with a frown. "They know you worked on AI, and they have taken precautions just in case you worked on the courts AI."

"Good. I don't want to be tarnished. Why don't you suggest to the court that when I speak my voice doesn't get input to the AI but is respoken by a member of the court. That way there is less concern."

"You'd allow that?"

"Why not? I have nothing to hide."

"Okay, stay here while I talk to them. A guard and usher will be in here with you."

Greg sat there quietly under the watchful gaze of the guard. He refused a drink the court usher offered him. He knew he had limited options and the harshness the guards had treated one of the other detainees, made him not want any misunderstandings.

The room was oppressively silent. Outside through the glass partition, he could see the comings and goings but could hear nothing. The guard and the court usher were silent, watching his every move.

Eventually, after what seemed an age, Steve, Greg's lawyer, came back and Greg's watchers took their position back outside.

"That's agreed. You will be in court four. The judge, the prosecutor and I will listen in real time. Your speech will be on a ten second delay, which a court official can interrupt at the direction of the judge. If you plead 'not guilty' then the AI sits as the jury. A separate AI also advises the judge. The court then knows the AI can make any decisions without being compromised. Is that acceptable?"

"Everybody seems to be going to an enormous amount of trouble for me when the result is a certainty."

"A fair trial, in the limits of the law, is important. It is also important to you that things are fair. If you plan to plead guilty, your statement is particularly important to what the AI advises the judge what sentence you get. I will speak with the judge and prosecutor. The court usher will take you through when it is time. Do you have any questions?"

"This all seems a bit rushed. I was only arrested four hours ago."

"This is the expedited process as laid out in the drug law. The law is very plain and strict. There is no mitigation. Drugs were found on you. It doesn't matter that they were planted. The law states that you were knowingly or unknowingly in possession of the drugs. To this law, it doesn't matter. If this had happened before this law came in, then I'm sure it would have been a different story."

"Will I be sat next to you, like the dramas on television?"

"That's American courts. In the UK we do it differently. You will be sat in the dock, which in this court is at the back behind a Perspex wall. It is a soundproofed room, with your voice being carried via a microphone. You will be able to hear proceedings via a speaker. Let me go through what will happen so nothing is a surprise."

* * *

Greg sat in the dock thinking about the black gowns the courts ushers wore. The way they flowed as they walked were like wraiths. He'd expected the court to be like a dungeon, but it was a light airy building with fine wooden features.

The activity went as described. The judge turned up, and everybody stood and when he sat, everybody sat. The case was confirmed, and the court clerk read the charges.

It was now time for action. "How do you plead?" asked the Judge.

"Guilty."

The judge shuffled some papers. "Before sentence is past, do you have anything to say in your defence?"

"When I stopped work in systems development, I decided to dedicate my life to helping others. I've been working as a school caretaker. Making sure the school is fit to give the next generation the best chance in life. It looks like drugs being planted on me is going to stop that.

"I'm not asking for an exception from the law. The law is the law and in the eyes of the law, I'm guilty. Nothing I can say today can or should take that away. What I'm asking the court is to allow me to still give back to society. I'm no use to anybody if that isn't the case and might as well be executed so not to be a burden."

After a pause, the judge decided that Greg had finished. He was quiet as he read the pre-sentencing report that had come in from the drug court investigators.

"This is the type of case I don't like to see. Someone who appears to be trying their best in life to appear here, not because of their own fault. Part of my sentencing is covered by the law which gives a minimum tariff. The rest is based on your culpability and likelihood of reoffending. I am setting your sentence at ten years. That is the minimum that can be given. I am going to add a request that wherever you end up incarcerated, you get to help in some ways. That can only be a request, and the prison governor doesn't have to accept that."

This was all out of Greg's control. He'd heard rumours that some drug prisoners convicted like he'd been, had not ended up in prison. It looked like they were just that, rumours.

It was the walk of shame for Greg as he was transferred out of the court room to the prisoner holding area. He was a convicted felon. He felt that everybody was watching and judging him. He knew that pleading guilty was his only choice, but he didn't expect the feelings he had. What would his parents think if they'd still been alive? Their youngest child, a convicted criminal.

"Where–" started Greg.

"No talking, felon," barked one of the guards and pushed Greg roughly into the transfer vehicle.

As he climbed into the van, he noticed the same blond man that had accompanied him to the court was sat waiting. He was watching Greg with a bemused look. The doors slammed shut, and the prison van departed.

"What?" asked Greg, slightly snarked at the blond man's stare.

"It's not every day I get to see someone use the system for their own ends."

"I don't understand?"

"You knew Harold."

It wasn't a question, but a statement. Greg decided to answer, all the same. "Yes, he was a friend from school."

"Oh, not that. You knew he was dying a slow and painful death. You gave him a way to end it quickly."

"I still don't get what you're meaning."

"The untraceable money hit his wife's account thirty minutes after his execution."

Greg gave a small smile of relief. Andrea deserved that after what she'd done to help her husband over the years.

"Why are you telling me this now. I thought you would have told the court."

"You were compassionate and helped two people during your brazen act. It isn't something I see very often. I knew some of this when I met you on the way to trial. I thought I'd see how it played out."

"So, what now?"

"Would you like to do community service instead of prison?"

Greg's heartrate picked up. It had been a long shot, but perhaps it had been worth it.

"I thought you said that it was just a rumour," said Greg cautiously. "Just a tale to give hope."

"It isn't for everyone. We have a deal where you can disappear and give back to society."

"But why me?"

"A few reasons. You already know how to help others. You didn't just put drugs on yourself but did it in a way to help your friend. You also are pure. You don't have body piercings, or tattoos. You have never had surgery."

"How did you know that?"

"This," said the blond man, pointing to the necklace.

"I don't get it. How can a necklace mean you know?"

"Am I right?"

"Well, yes."

"Fantastic. There is something else. You have a mixed body and soul."

Greg held his breath. This was something that nobody knew. He'd spent his whole life hiding the fact.

"You have a male body, and a female soul. It causes you conflict. I can help resolve that."

"How?"

"This." The blond man produced a little device and showed it to Greg. "Will you join us?"

"Yes," said Greg. This was it. The rumours were true. There was a cure for him.

The man took out his phone and pressed a few buttons. "Poppy, it's Zane. Tell Sue I've a new recruit."

Zane leaned across and put the device in front of Greg's face. It flashed in a strobe fashion.

He hung up. "I'd hold on tight to something."

"Huh?" croaked Greg, confused.

There was a sudden bang, and the prison van rolled over twice, landing on its roof.

When Greg came too, he was being dragged out of the van and a body was being put in his place.

"Come on," said Zane.

"But you said you'd cure me," said Greg, struggling to get to his feet. "I'm still male."

"Yes, you are, but your soul no longer conflicts. Your soul is now slightly more male. You are cured."

Greg shuddered. The duality he'd felt was gone, but it felt like something was missing. He didn't know much they'd tweaked him, but the feeling he'd felt before was gone. He felt bereft.

"Give it a few days," said Zane. "I know it feels strange at first. You feel like part of you has been ripped away."

"Yes," said Greg, staggering after Zane. Realising that is exactly his feelings. "How did you know."

"I was in your situation. Don't worry. You're still you."

"But I thought–"

"I know. But your body is pure. That is the important thing. A tweak of your soul is much better than hacking at the body."

Two cars drew up. The driver of the first one threw a set of keys to Zane, then without uttering a word, jumped into the passenger seat of the second vehicle. It drove off, leaving Zane and Greg all alone.

"Look, Sue will give you the details. Just know there are two factions. We are trying to save the world by stopping it stagnate. The other faction, they also revere dual souled people, but they desecrate the body as they think the soul is perfect. However, both groups believe these drug laws are bad, and we need help fixing it. You can help."

As they got into the vehicle, Greg wondered if he'd made the right decision. He'd gambled and his gamble had paid off. Supposedly he was cured, but the price was nothing like he'd thought. It sounded like he was being brought into a gang war. And they'd altered his soul. How had they done that? Would he still be the person he was.

"So, what can you tell us about the school you worked at?" asked Zane as they made their way out of the city.

"Hayfield? I was just a caretaker there. The pupils are bright, and it was a pleasure to work there."

Greg wondered why they wanted to know that, and if he'd made the right choice. Only time would tell.

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* For readers outside of the UK, you might call a caretaker the Janitor.