ATTICUS

“Attic, stop! S-stop!”


My little sister dissolved into laughter as I nuzzled her damp cheek and tickled her stomach. She writhed on the bathroom rug and kicked her little bare feet at me until I stopped and held up the dry pastel pink and white striped towel. I was drying her hair off with the towel, and we were trying to decide which Disney video we were going to watch when my father stepped into view at the end of the hall.

“Atticus, would you come here?”

His voice sounded strange and unnatural, and I remember that the first thought that ran through my mind was ‘Oh no… who died?’ Standing up, I wiped off my wet hands on my jeans, leaving damp spots on the denim as I walked down the hall, my eyes staying on my father. I barely rounded the corner before two men wearing reflective black glasses and blue uniforms stepped into our home. “Atticus Forrest Ingram?” I froze, my mind immediately running through the list of things I had done that could deserve a visit from the police. Nothing came to my mind; I was a straight A student, majoring in psychology at a local university, I did not drink though I smoked cigarettes socially, I never got into any fights, I never went to any out of control parties, and I had not robbed any banks lately. My attempt at calming myself down did little good; my heart rate quickened as the officer on the left, a tall, experienced looking man, said calmly. “You are under arrest.”

I barely had time to breathe before I was led out to their patrol car that was sitting in the middle of the neighborhood road just at the end of my driveway. I felt heat travel up the back of my neck as I continued to wrack my brain for what could have caused this, but I could think of nothing. I had not done anything to deserve this. My eyes turned back and forth slowly, taking in my neighbor’s houses. The nosy, gossiping elderly woman that lived across the street from my family and I stepped outside, wearing a pink bathroom and curlers in her damp hair. She stared at me with her pale eyes narrowed and accusing. She always knew that I was trouble.

I was pushed against the side of the car, my hands against the cool metal while they patted me down then curved my arms to my back, first the left then the right. The patrol car siren was loud and echoed in my ear like screams, and the lights were blinding me. Red, blue, red, blue, red, blue. It was like some kind of patriotic rave. The handcuffs were tightly snapped about my wrists, and I expected them to open up the door of the patrol car. Instead, the younger of the two officers, who was reading me my rights, grabbed my shoulders and pulled me up and the other tugged out a strip of cloth and tied it over my eyes.

My world was thrown into immediate and complete darkness. I turned my head this way and that, trying to get myself oriented, but before I could, I was pushed forward. I stumbled toward the car that I knew was close by, feeling completely helpless. I could not even reach my hands out to feel my surroundings like I had seen blind people do on television because my wrists were cuffed. A hand cupped my head, and I instinctively started to duck down. After being practically shoved into the back of the car, the door was slammed so violently that the patrol car rocked gently on its wheels. My heart was throbbing against my chest as I awkwardly tried to push myself first onto my elbow then up into a sitting position.

The siren continued to blare as we tore down the quiet neighborhood road and turned right. Their radio buzzed to life and a static-y female voice asked for the officers to give their position. “We just picked up Ingram, en route to station.”

I swallowed hard and for the first time that morning, I began thinking clearly enough to question what was going on. The shock had started to wear off, and instead of fear, indignation was starting to blossom. “What did I do?”

“You’re being brought in as part of a mass arrest for violation of Penal Codes 211 and a 459 PC.” It sounded like the younger cop had answered.

“What does that mean?”

“Armed robbery and burglary.” The elder cop that time.

“But I haven’t robbed anybody!”

They did not answer and I groaned as I leaned back and tilted my head back so that if I could see, I would have been staring up at the ceiling of the car. I didn’t know what was going on, but they had obviously gotten me confused with someone else. A mass arrest, that meant I wasn’t the only one getting arrested. If I could only think of how I could be involved in something like this.

Suddenly, it hit me.

Two weeks ago, I had been looking through the classified ads, trying to find an easy way to make more money, like someone that needed their grass cut or a babysitter or something simple like that. What I had found was an ad asking for twenty four college students to participate in a two week long psychological experiment that would study prison life. It paid well and sounding interesting, so I had called the number and signed myself up. I was told that I would be picked up when they were ready for me.

Inwardly, I breathed a heavy sigh of relief. This was just part of the experiment. Relaxing into the seat, I tried to shake the uneasy feeling that lingered under my profound relief. This was just an experiment, I’d hang out in a jail cell somewhere for a couple weeks and then I would get released and paid. From what I had always heard about prisons- three meals a day, times to exercise and socialize, televisions- it couldn’t be too hard.

And, if I didn’t like it, I could always quit the experiment.

...Right?