The Justice Blind

Introduction

by Errol Klein

The large, multi-building complex nestled advantageously among the confluence of various downtown freeways is a place of unending industry. Employees work a rotating shift to ensure the lights never dim. And while the building is condemned – has been for many years – this small detail does not hamper what the benefactors deem criminal justice.

Monday through Friday, the buses deliver their wares. The barred vehicles arrive in droves, and their cargo bears uncanny resemblance to the customer. The catch is better on some days than others. Mondays’ shipments are usually the heaviest. The load might be doubled, or even tripled, after an extremely profitable day of rest. Once, when the New Year’s also fell on the Sabbath, the bus from San Pedro was proudly packed four-to-a-seat.

The product is hurriedly trundled into the building and out of the view of the public. This is where the standardization process can actually begin. The public is always clamoring belligerently at what it perceives to be injustices. So, the authorities do what they can to keep these alleged inhumanities behind locked doors, out of the public eye. They know the public cannot understand. For the public doesn’t appreciate the need as does the professional. A little suffering is necessary, even desirable. Pain can be motivating. The public, on the other hand, are soft, unlearned, morally bent. It is better to keep them left unaware. Then rumors can be denied, deflected, or denounced and remain rumors.

The first step is not really a step at all. The good is simply left in a secure area to await further processing. It is left in the dirt on the floor. At some point, at random intervals, doors will begin to open. Then, by slow interminable procedure, the good is conveyed safely into the building’s confines. Always further from freedom. Always deeper into misery. Always from one locked room to the next.

After many hours, the newly acquired merchandise is relieved of its burdensome items, which technically is all of them. In reality, it is only those easily identified utilizing the latest in available body-scanning technology, often a glove and flashlight.

Following an invigorating wash, the stock is decorated according to its inner workings and past history. It is tagged, assessed of its condition, and sorted by color. The chattel is then corralled with like kind into concrete receptacles already filled to excess. These repositories are always filthy, their lights always on, and the doors always locked. The property is alternately heated or chilled throughout this process, presumably for preservation purposes.

In rooms without windows or weather or natural light, time goes by without understanding. A lifetime can pass in the blink of an eye. This is the price each customer must pay. The quality varies. The terms will come. But time, precious time. Time is the payment. And it will be paid. To the full extent allowable by law. The governing authorities make sure of that.

“If you feel you’ve been overcharged, or are otherwise unhappy with your purchase, we’ll make it right. Simply sue us. The courts will determine the legitimacy of your complaint.”

Business is good when you have a monopoly. The system is built on logic. The logic is built on lies. It’s a beautiful set-up, perfected through the years. Slapped together haphazardly, maybe. Reactionary in design, mostly. But built solidly, like a wall, one cinderblock at a time. Layer upon layer, each piece supports the next. Now so high and majestic and inescapable.

Business is good. The players reap their profits while the communities they serve suffer. But there’s nothing to be done about that. “It isn’t cost-effective. It isn’t advantageous. It doesn’t fit the narrative. Better to continue building the wall in the name of public safety. Better a hundred innocents suffer than one guilty go free. You know that. Anyway, they’re all guilty of something. Just haven’t been caught yet. But don’t you worry. We’ll sort it all out.”

Business is good. That’s plain to see. Stacked high on shelves from floor to ceiling, shoulder to shoulder or head to toe, thrown together like pick-up sticks, or otherwise smooshed. There are tall ones and short ones, fat and skinny ones too; loud ones, quiet ones; red ones and yellow ones, brown, white, and black ones; ones curled up within their own clothes, ones asking the time, or “Are you going to eat those?” Ones sitting on the commode, crying out for more paper, “For the love of God, please, we need more paper!” while the rest exclaim “Aqua!” and cover their nose. Ones coughing and sneezing, slumbering, twitching, belching and bumpering, whining, recovering, shivering, and sweating; a hungry and thirsty, grumpy and tired, cramped and unhappy, slithering, writhing wall of innocents-until-proven-guilty.

Business is great. Where else can you go? There’s only one dealer. And they have a stranglehold. They set the price. They order the buyer to pay. And their justification is flawless. “Don’t blame us. We’re only doing our job.” While the customer, the supplies, and the inventory shoulder the load. Yet they’re one and the same: We, the People.

Would you believe each has a history, a family, a name?