Magic IRL

Effigy Magistrate

"Alright counsel, today I'll hear from the parties on the sentencing of Ronald Gable Bowen," Judge Minchin says from the bench.

I remain impassive, but my body feels unnaturally heavy. Time seems to slow. Even after six months at the court, the weight of sentencing is still palpable.

"According to your papers, the relevant Pain Matrix is eighty-four. Correct?"

Eighty-four. Like assigning a number makes this exercise any less barbaric.

A tall, handsome man in a blue checkered suit rises from the counsel table. "That is consistent with the government's understanding, your Honor."

"The defense too, your Honor," says a woman in a frumpy charcoal dress, standing slightly as she speaks.

She looks small, but not because of her stature. With grand marble walls and a cavernous ceiling, every advocate looks diminutive in the courtroom.

"OK, so checking my notes here," the Judge says, rifling through a stack of papers. "The options are forty-two percent for two years, twenty-eight percent for three years, twenty-one percent for four years, fourteen percent for six years, twelve percent for seven years, and of course vice versa. Ms. Ronch, does that accord with your calculations?"

Palms sweaty, I stand and face Judge Minchin—careful to avoid eye contact with the defense.

"Yes, your Honor, with two points of clarification. First, just to resolve any ambiguity in the record, eighty-four percent for one year would be unconstitutional by breaching the eighty percent threshold. Second, the defendant is already on six percent for a prior offense."

"Thank you, Ms. Ronch. And you would be able to administer the Pain Matrix following today's hearing?"

"Yes, your Honor. The Effigy Magistrate serves at the leisure of the Court."

"Excellent," the Judge says, waving his hand.

I take my seat. My hands are no longer clammy but cold and numb. My heart is pounding. I used to think it was fear of public speaking, but now I think it's shame.

"Alright, and what have the parties agreed upon?" Judge Minchin asks, looking down from his bench.

The woman in the frumpy dress stands. "Your Honor, for armed robbery, my client and the government have agreed to a sentence of twenty-eight percent for three years."

For a moment, I feel my stoic stare slip into the slightest wince.

"Are you sure, counsel?" Judge Minchin says. "I mean that gets him over thirty percent with his priors."

"My client is aware. He would simply like to get this all behind him as soon as possible."

Judge Minchin sighs. "That is his right." He swings his gaze to the other side of the courtroom. "Does the government have any objection?"

"We do not, your Honor," the prosecutor says.

"Well, Mr. Bowen, I wish you well," Judge Minchin says. "It is going to be a painful three years, but I admire your fortitude."

The defendant—in an oversized polo and slacks—simply nods.

"By authority of the State of Michigan, I hereby sentence the defendant to a Pain Matrix of 84," Judge Minchin says. "The sentence is to be served as twenty-eight percent for three years. May this sentence extricate your malevolence. This Court is adjourned."

"All rise," the bailiff shouts.

#

The Sentencing Chamber is not like the courtroom. No grandeur, no white marble, no enlightened official in long dark robes. Just a shabby room separated into two halves by a plexiglass wall. On one side, I sit at a table with a toolbox and several monitors. On the other, Mr. Bowen sits in an uncomfortable-looking chair, flanked on either side by bailiffs. A fluorescent lightbulb audibly flickers above us.