Story code: ST-000296
Part 1: The Glare and the Concrete
Carter leaned into the camera, adjusting the lapels of his tailored suit while his pixelated face froze and unfroze on the monitor.
“The glare in this facility is absolutely unacceptable,” he declared, his voice lagging a half-second behind his moving lips.
Lettie kept her hands pressed flat against the freezing surface of the metal table, staring at the split-screen display in her barren, echoing room. The connection had been active for less than five minutes, and Carter had not stopped complaining once.
“If the connection drops again, I will have my attorney file a formal grievance,” Carter said. The audio popped and hissed as his feed caught up to his movements. “I was assured this wing of the facility had premium fiber-optic access.”
Lettie stared at the screen, her back rigid. The table beneath her palms was bolted directly to the gray concrete floor. Her chair, a backless steel stool, was welded to the same concrete. She felt the bitter chill of the metal seeping through her faded, stiff cotton uniform, stiffening her joints. The room she sat in offered no natural sunlight, only the stark, shadowless illumination of caged fluorescent bulbs bolted to the cinderblock ceiling above.
“Noted, Mr. Hayes,” the mediator said. She was a weary-looking woman labeled simply as ‘Admin_Alvarez’ in her tiny video square. The clatter of her heavy mechanical typing filled the brief silence on the line. “Let the record show we are experiencing minor bandwidth issues on the respondent’s end. We will proceed as best we can.”
Carter shifted his laptop on his end, revealing more of his spacious room. A large, healthy potted ficus stood in the corner next to a plush leather armchair. The bright afternoon light spilling from a massive window washed out the left side of his screen, illuminating a stack of hardcover books and a ceramic coffee mug on his desk. He tapped a manicured fingernail against the wood veneer, the sound transmitting crisply through his expensive external microphone.
“I am trying to conduct serious legal business here, and the buffering is giving me a migraine,” Carter continued, ignoring the mediator entirely. “Not to mention the groundskeeper running a leaf blower right outside my window all morning. The ambient noise level is a violation of my residency agreement.”
Lettie dug her fingernails into her own palms until the crescents turned white. She focused on the steady, aggressive drone of the industrial lights above her. Every time she shifted her weight on the steel stool, the sound ricocheted harshly off the bare walls, amplifying her slightest movement. She forced herself to breathe in slow, measured counts. She knew any sudden outburst, any display of anger, would be recorded by the blinking green light on the plexiglass barrier in front of her monitor. It would be analyzed and used against her. She had to remain perfectly, completely still.
“And the glare,” Carter complained, shielding his eyes dramatically with one hand. “The afternoon sun off the lake is blinding. The administration promised me blackout curtains three weeks ago. It is impossible to review the docket under these conditions.”
“I have adjusted the contrast on the court’s recording feed, Mr. Hayes,” the mediator said flatly. “Please remain focused on the proceedings. This is a preliminary civil dispute hearing, and we have a strict time limit on this secure line.”
“I certainly hope so,” Carter said. He leaned back in his ergonomic mesh chair, stretching his arms wide. “I have a mandatory wellness seminar in the recreation pavilion at three o’clock. I expect this to be concluded well before then.”
Lettie stared at his perfectly groomed hair, styled and swept back without a single strand out of place. She looked at the expensive silk tie knotted at his throat. She listened to him complain about lake glare and wellness seminars while her own reality consisted of timed movements, heavy steel doors locking behind her, and the ever-present, nauseating smell of industrial bleach.
Carter had stolen everything from her. He had buried her under mountains of fabricated financial evidence, shifted the blame for the corporate collapse entirely onto her shoulders, and destroyed her life.
Now he sat in a place he called a facility, treating it like a subpar corporate retreat. He had manipulated the legal system to ensure his comfort while she was stripped of every dignity.
The mediator cleared her throat, adjusting her plastic headset. She began reading from a prepared script on her screen, her eyes moving rapidly from left to right.
“We will now swear in the parties and verify the administrative data for the sworn court reporter before we begin the formal deposition. I must remind both parties we are operating under penalty of perjury. Let the record reflect the time and date.”
The clatter of her heavy typing filled the audio feed again. She looked directly into her webcam, addressing the top right square of the video grid.
“Mr. Hayes, state your full legal name.”
“Carter William Hayes,” he said, sounding supremely bored with the bureaucracy of it all.
“State your current location.”
“I am at the Spring Valley Facility, South Wing, Executive Block.”
“Thank you,” the mediator said. Her eyes flicked down to her monitor, scanning a separate document. She adjusted her glasses, bringing the next file to the forefront of her screen. “Ms. Barton, it is your turn.”
Lettie swallowed hard. The dry click in her throat echoed loudly in her own ears. She kept her eyes locked on the tiny green light of the webcam.
“State your full legal name for the record,” the mediator instructed.
“Lettie Marie Barton,” she said.
Her voice sounded raspy, thin, and entirely foreign in the cavernous space. She had not spoken a single word aloud to another human being in three days.
The mediator’s mechanical keyboard clacked loudly, recording the vowels and consonants. On the other side of the screen, Carter took a leisurely sip from a branded stainless-steel water bottle. He rolled his eyes, acting as if the mere sound of Lettie’s voice was a personal insult to his busy schedule.
The typing stopped abruptly. The mediator leaned closer to her screen, her brow furrowing slightly as she cross-referenced a red-flagged file in her system. She tapped the screen with one finger, verifying the discrepancy.
“Ms. Barton, I need your current physical address for the court reporter.”
Carter leaned into the camera, adjusting the lapels of his tailored suit while his pixelated face froze and unfroze on the monitor.
“The glare in this facility is absolutely unacceptable,” he declared, his voice lagging a half-second behind his moving lips.
Lettie kept her hands pressed flat against the freezing surface of the metal table, staring at the split-screen display in her barren, echoing room. The connection had been active for less than five minutes, and Carter had not stopped complaining once.
“If the connection drops again, I will have my attorney file a formal grievance,” Carter said. The audio popped and hissed as his feed caught up to his movements. “I was assured this wing of the facility had premium fiber-optic access.”
Lettie stared at the screen, her back rigid. The table beneath her palms was bolted directly to the gray concrete floor. Her chair, a backless steel stool, was welded to the same concrete. She felt the bitter chill of the metal seeping through her faded, stiff cotton uniform, stiffening her joints. The room she sat in offered no natural sunlight, only the stark, shadowless illumination of caged fluorescent bulbs bolted to the cinderblock ceiling above.
“Noted, Mr. Hayes,” the mediator said. She was a weary-looking woman labeled simply as ‘Admin_Alvarez’ in her tiny video square. The clatter of her heavy mechanical typing filled the brief silence on the line. “Let the record show we are experiencing minor bandwidth issues on the respondent’s end. We will proceed as best we can.”
Carter shifted his laptop on his end, revealing more of his spacious room. A large, healthy potted ficus stood in the corner next to a plush leather armchair. The bright afternoon light spilling from a massive window washed out the left side of his screen, illuminating a stack of hardcover books and a ceramic coffee mug on his desk. He tapped a manicured fingernail against the wood veneer, the sound transmitting crisply through his expensive external microphone.
“I am trying to conduct serious legal business here, and the buffering is giving me a migraine,” Carter continued, ignoring the mediator entirely. “Not to mention the groundskeeper running a leaf blower right outside my window all morning. The ambient noise level is a violation of my residency agreement.”
Lettie dug her fingernails into her own palms until the crescents turned white. She focused on the steady, aggressive drone of the industrial lights above her. Every time she shifted her weight on the steel stool, the sound ricocheted harshly off the bare walls, amplifying her slightest movement. She forced herself to breathe in slow, measured counts. She knew any sudden outburst, any display of anger, would be recorded by the blinking green light on the plexiglass barrier in front of her monitor. It would be analyzed and used against her. She had to remain perfectly, completely still.
“And the glare,” Carter complained, shielding his eyes dramatically with one hand. “The afternoon sun off the lake is blinding. The administration promised me blackout curtains three weeks ago. It is impossible to review the docket under these conditions.”
“I have adjusted the contrast on the court’s recording feed, Mr. Hayes,” the mediator said flatly. “Please remain focused on the proceedings. This is a preliminary civil dispute hearing, and we have a strict time limit on this secure line.”
“I certainly hope so,” Carter said. He leaned back in his ergonomic mesh chair, stretching his arms wide. “I have a mandatory wellness seminar in the recreation pavilion at three o’clock. I expect this to be concluded well before then.”
Lettie stared at his perfectly groomed hair, styled and swept back without a single strand out of place. She looked at the expensive silk tie knotted at his throat. She listened to him complain about lake glare and wellness seminars while her own reality consisted of timed movements, heavy steel doors locking behind her, and the ever-present, nauseating smell of industrial bleach.
Carter had stolen everything from her. He had buried her under mountains of fabricated financial evidence, shifted the blame for the corporate collapse entirely onto her shoulders, and destroyed her life.
Now he sat in a place he called a facility, treating it like a subpar corporate retreat. He had manipulated the legal system to ensure his comfort while she was stripped of every dignity.
The mediator cleared her throat, adjusting her plastic headset. She began reading from a prepared script on her screen, her eyes moving rapidly from left to right.
“We will now swear in the parties and verify the administrative data for the sworn court reporter before we begin the formal deposition. I must remind both parties we are operating under penalty of perjury. Let the record reflect the time and date.”
The clatter of her heavy typing filled the audio feed again. She looked directly into her webcam, addressing the top right square of the video grid.
“Mr. Hayes, state your full legal name.”
“Carter William Hayes,” he said, sounding supremely bored with the bureaucracy of it all.
“State your current location.”
“I am at the Spring Valley Facility, South Wing, Executive Block.”
“Thank you,” the mediator said. Her eyes flicked down to her monitor, scanning a separate document. She adjusted her glasses, bringing the next file to the forefront of her screen. “Ms. Barton, it is your turn.”
Lettie swallowed hard. The dry click in her throat echoed loudly in her own ears. She kept her eyes locked on the tiny green light of the webcam.
“State your full legal name for the record,” the mediator instructed.
“Lettie Marie Barton,” she said.
Her voice sounded raspy, thin, and entirely foreign in the cavernous space. She had not spoken a single word aloud to another human being in three days.
The mediator’s mechanical keyboard clacked loudly, recording the vowels and consonants. On the other side of the screen, Carter took a leisurely sip from a branded stainless-steel water bottle. He rolled his eyes, acting as if the mere sound of Lettie’s voice was a personal insult to his busy schedule.
The typing stopped abruptly. The mediator leaned closer to her screen, her brow furrowing slightly as she cross-referenced a red-flagged file in her system. She tapped the screen with one finger, verifying the discrepancy.
“Ms. Barton, I need your current physical address for the court reporter.”