New Taboos Read Free Page B

Faye, as she spoke, at the horizon; at nothing in particular.
    Faye had the folder open on her lap now; she handed over the pass. Why did they say “may I,” she wondered, when there was no “may I” about it?
    Ten minutes passed, the woman looking at paperwork, scanning codes, gazing into the wafer-thin computer monitor, asking questions that fell between them like abstract shapes in Styrofoam.
    â€œWelcome to Arizona,” the woman said, at last, her voice almost inaudible. “After you pass the barrier, drive to slot number five for scan, and then drive directly to your destination.”
    The scan station at slot five was almost identical to airport TSA. Two white middle-aged men checked the trunk of her car, looking under the spare tire; they ran an instrument over the inside of the car, sniffing for some chemical. They attached a long-distance monitoring deviceto her car’s aerial, one of them explaining that the device would be removed when she left the state.
    They rescanned her Four Pass, squinted at her ID, offered her another faint welcome, and sent her through, with a quick warning that drones would be monitoring her car, as they monitored everyone’s.
    â€œWell,” she said aloud, as she drove onto AzPrisSystem Road 35, “I’m here, Phil. I said I’d get here.”
    She was in his office, when she said she’d get here. Sitting across from him, two weeks after they’d agree to end their affair.
    She reran that wet April morning in her mind; the rain lashing sideways when the wind rose, and it rose as often as a woman takes a breath.
    The umbrella hadn’t been much use. She was wiping rain from her face and hair when Phil’s receptionist told her to go in …

    Like Phil, the office was neither large nor small. It was carefully arranged for appearances.
    She’d been here before but, after all that had happened between them, the office seemed new to her, its walls and desk festooned with memorabilia of his other life; with pictures of his wife and kids—two sons with curly black hair like Dad, and ornate yarmulkes. There were photos of him interviewing presidents, generals, CEOs. But her eyes kept coming back to the pictures of him with his wife.
    Phil was at the window, hands in his pockets, pretending casual interest in the rain. “It’s not a heavy rainbut it’s sneaky,” he said, turning toward her. “I see it snuck up on you.”
    She returned his practiced smile with a weaker one. “Yep.”
    He motioned toward a chair and sat down behind his desk, leaning back casually as if saying,
The desk isn’t between us. We’re still friends.
    Were they friends? Faye doubted it. But Phil was the third most influential internet magazine editor in the USA, according to NewsReader.com. He was a fixture at Priority Media, a genuinely powerful corporation, and she was just a freelance journalist. So she kept on smiling.
    â€œSo—I read your proposal,” Phil said, altering his smile to fit his shrug. “I doubt if I can get Priority to go for it. Everyone knows about this stuff already. Not like there was any shortage of controversy when Arizona became one big privatized prison.”
    â€œThat was
then.
How much reporting has there been on actual conditions in the state—in the prison?”
    â€œQuite a bit, from what the search engines tell me.”
    â€œIt was all done in-house, Phil. That’s not real reporting.”
    â€œYou’re claiming corporate censorship, spiking, that sort of thing?”
    â€œThey don’t
have
to censor anything if it comes from in-house. They hire a journalist who does a little segment that he syndicates out, and cable news buys it. They get a pass from any real scrutiny, Phil. I mean, it’s a multi-billion-dollar business, and McCrue’s financing half of Congress. The company gorges their PACs with cash, it spends millions on