Barbi

CHAPTER 1: THE CHOICE

"This will really work?" Marty Howard asked suspiciously. He wanted it to be able to work, but it seemed ... well, it seemed too perfect. He was a man with a lot of devious and manipulative ideas that were on the boundary of legal or moral. He never went over the line, however. Or, at least, he tried really hard not to go over those fine lines. Marty Howard was an attorney, a very successful attorney who made his fortune and reputation in representing and defending clients who needed such an approach and, most importantly, could afford him. It was a small office with him as the only real attorney and four or five top-of-their-class law students and interns who were paid very well (for students) and could learn what their professors would not teach.

"Yes, it will work," the older scientist insisted, defending his pet project. "I've spent years on the development of this."

"And," Howard interrupted, "almost ended up in jail if I hadn't discovered that legal loophole and your security camera hadn't recorded the consent of your three trials." Howard shook his head at the scientist, "And, how could someone so brilliant forget about having a security system in your private lab?" He then quickly waved his hand as if waving the very question away. "It lacks formal certification or recognition by the medical community even after it was exposed."

"There is plenty of application. The quacks do more damage to patients with their antiquated psycho-therapy and numbing drugs."

"Numbing drugs. Isn't that what this does?" Howard questioned, trying to recall some of the specifics that came out of the medical inquiry and hushed legal trial. "Doesn't this approach numb the brain, too?"

"Sure, it does, but it doesn't numb the entire brain. That was always the point, that was always the goal." They were sitting in the scientist's living room. He lived in a small, very modest 1960s tuck-under style house buried in what was once the rising suburbia and was now the working-class neighborhood, showing the struggles of the residents. Research and making a living off his science were no longer an option. "All those people with mental afflictions and addictions who could be helped. No, oh no, rather than attacking a specific area of the brain like a surgeon, they insist on the barbaric but accepted practice of attacking the entire brain, numbing people rather than helping them."

Marty Howard sat back on the old sofa across from the man, listening to the rant that was coming back to him, again. The man had stumbled onto something while doing funded and approved research into treating the brain. Where he had gone with his research was not funded or approved. It was deemed dangerous and too easily abused.

Howard held up his hand to stop yet more ranting. He did feel sorry for the man. Once a brilliant scientist with numerous successes to his name, he was now ostracized from legitimate research. He now lived off menial employment, and the settlement even Howard had been surprised he managed to pull from his former employer as part of a final settlement.

"What I want to know is if you can do it?" Howard had a very specific application in mind. He was again walking up to the boundary of security and looking out over the edge of an abyss of chance and risk. And, this time, it wasn't for a client but for his own amusement and enjoyment.

"Yes, of course it will work," the man protested in control. "You understand it is not certified by anyone, and I was never a therapist. This would be far outside of accepted treatment." The man studied Howard across the old, dented wood coffee table. "I have enough of the vaccine I had hidden in my private lab, which they never discovered. The rest is simply implanting directions in the proper locations, much like rewriting code in updating a computer program." The man was clearly uneasy, though.

"We've agreed on compensation that will allow you to relocate and begin something of a new life in your late years." The man nodded back. It indeed makes a difference. "So, how exactly will this work?" Howard pushed.

"Quite simple, really. I'll need the written consent, of course, before it begins. I'll need about six weeks from start to finish. There are two parts of the brain I'll have to attack and overwrite impressions. One is the part affecting addiction, which, after she has completed rehabilitation, will eliminate all such impulses."

"Her addiction is to drugs. What about alcohol after? Does she have to stay away from all of that?"

The man shook his head, "No, you're missing the point of how this works. It won't be her choice, decision, or desire to avoid addictive substances. The impulse for addiction will be gone. Even if she used, she wouldn't be addicted."

Howard smiled. One down. He didn't need an addict in the office. "And the other?"

This was the part the man was really nervous about. Treating someone, even outside of medical practice, was helping the person. This was different. "As I understand it, this woman would voluntarily consent to having her base personality modified. I don't really need the details, I guess, but she must be in some trouble for you to barter with her."

"You are correct. You don't need to know the details of why she would consent to it, only that she would, in writing, witnessed, and notarized."

"Right ... okay." He took a breath. "There is another part of the brain where taking risk or aversion to taking risk resides. It is where our depth of modesty or lack thereof would reside. Those impulses or tolerances or fears are partially implanted by parents and society, but could be driven by trauma or some specific event that pushes a change ..."

Howard held up his hand to stop the man. The detail was giving him a headache. He didn't need all that. The man took another deep breath. "It means I will have to overwrite everything to alter what she has always believed about herself and give her a new persona she'll not question." He shrugged his shoulders. "It might sound like a bigger problem, but it's not. It's the same thing, really."

"But," Howard pushed at the critical detail of it all, "it will be like a split personality?"

The man shook his head, "Not really, no. A split personality can go back and forth in personality presentation outward. No, this would be changing her base understanding of herself while leaving that part of her brain that functions in tasks and thinking, as you've detailed to me. You said she was a brilliant legal aid and researcher. She would remain that while ... her personae would change, the way she would appear to others and to herself. I will have to be precise in application."

Howard liked what he was hearing, but was confused. "It still sounds like split, like there are two personalities that have to be managed. Wouldn't there need to be a command or trigger for her to switch from one to the other?" Howard hoped he was just misunderstanding. Managing change back and forth would be ... less attractive.

"No, no, no ... okay, think of it this way: Let's oversimplify it and say she is shy. Okay, what about being shy keeps her from performing complex tasks and achieving stunning results? It isn't being shy or not shy. It has to do with your brain's ability, whether a true functional capability of the brain or education and training."

"Right, but her public and personal identity will be dumb," Howard stated, hoping the man hadn't lost track of what he was expecting.

"Right, but only as she appears to others. And to herself, of course, but only as it appears by her reflection and not how her mind actually works. She'll be dumb but will also be able to focus and perform. I admit, though, it won't be one to the other instantly. Her brain will need to respond to the change in expectation. Think of it like an older brain walking into a room and forgetting why it was there until, 'my glasses, right', and then it is fully functional."

"Six weeks, you said." The man nodded. "In-person sessions ... how many for how long? I'll need to work that out with the rehab facility."

"Three weeks for each separately. Three days each week for ... say two hours. Injections and hypnosis." They studied each other. The man broke first. Of course, he did. "Get me the written consent and her availability.

Howard smiled.

* * * *

"Who are you?" she asked the man sitting across the table in the prison visitor room after she was led in and sat down. She was wearing the standard prison garb, including the soft slippers everyone inside were issued.

"I'm an attorney," the man said with a calm confidence that was somehow unnerving.

"I already have an attorney," she retorted with the same false confidence prison required.

He smiled in a way that added to the unnerving feeling. "A public defender with no chance in hell of helping you."

The woman sat back against the hard metal chair. "And you could help me?" she chuckled. "My attorney said my only hope is to have my sentence minimized by being contrite, that the evidence was sufficient that the wrong judge could have me locked up for a very long time."

"You're happy with that outcome?"

"Happy? Of course not." she stared at him. "Who are you, anyway? Why are we talking without my attorney present?" She knew the law, and she knew she had to be careful. In her despair, she might already have offered too much.

"My name is Marty Howard," he said calmly.

"Wait ... what? THE Marty Howard?" she exclaimed.

"Well," he replied in a self-deprecating manner that was also unnerving, "I never considered there might only be one. I know your legal background and expertise, Barbara Benton." He paused. "Just out of curiosity ... wasn't there a Barbi Benton in Playboy?"

Barbara had to laugh, even if the recurring association wasn't irritating enough and likely had something to do with her fall into disgrace. "My father's sick joke, though he thought it was a special recognition of his favorite centerfold from back in the day."

He nodded as if that explanation meant something or decided something. "Anyway, I was saying that I am very familiar with your background and abilities. In fact, I learned that it was your research that almost ruined my defense in one case."

She laughed. It had been a thrill at the time to think she was taking on the great Marty Howard. "And it would have if the attorney had used everything I gave him."

Howard laughed, too. "Yes," he nodded. "I remember thinking someone had done a very thorough research and the attorney was moving the court and jury to pulling the handle on the guillotine when he seemed to lose his direction. He failed to draw a conclusion. Why was that?"

"He was a pussy," Barbara added, remembering the case sadly. "He was up against THE Marty Howard and let himself get intimidated. You are very good at that, I might add. I was in the courtroom and watched it all happen when you objected and countered and sucked the air out of his sails."

Howard smiled at the memory. It brought a smile to him and sadness to her. "Yes," he said, "at that critical moment, he allowed himself to fall into being a spectator to my antics rather than a litigator objecting to them."

"Which, none of all that reminiscing reflects on why you are here," she said.

He smiled again. "How would you like to change attorneys and walk out of this hellhole?"

She laughed at the idea. "No way possible," she sadly replied. "I know what they have on me, and it is all real and true. My life went to hell, and it's my own doing. There are no loopholes to be manipulated and no evidence to question its validity. They have me, and it's my fault. I sadly deserve this."

"Very contritely spoken," he said, repeating what my public defender had told her. "You just want to accept it, or are you willing to hear me out?"

Okay, Barbara thought, as contrite and humbling as that was said, there wasn't a fiber of her that was ready to be locked up for God only knows how many years. Depression led to the drugs, and the drugs led to desperation, and the desperation led to a ruined life, and that led to hopelessness. What could he possibly be offering? But Marty Howard was like a wizard when it came to manipulation and outrageous tactics in the courtroom. The winning percentage was unfathomable, and he had become excessively wealthy as his clients were willing to pay handsomely for those tactics. So, if he really was the wizard ...

"Do you really think there is a way?" she asked, hoping against hope. Another thought slammed on the brakes, though, "I can't afford you."

He just smiled. "If you agree and all this works, you will repay me. Not monetarily, but you will."

Okay, that was mysterious, but, yeah, why not listen?

He began his explanation, rationalizations, and what he wanted in return. Barbara stood up sharply, the chair scraping against the old, marred tile floor, which drew the attention of the guard outside the closed door. Howard raised his hand, and the guard stopped from entering. She sat back down and pulled the chair back to the table. She stared at him, but there was nothing in his countenance hinting at anything but being totally serious. It was outrageous, though.

"That can't even be possible. Besides, accepting that would mean being so desperate ..."

"Not just desperate but fully self-aware and accepting of what and who you are and have become and what life awaits you. You are a slut, Barbara. Whether you always were or merely became one to serve your needs, you are."

Slut. Yeah, she never called myself that, but there were plenty of others who had. Whore, though, might be a better term.

That was one of the charges against her, in fact, prostitution. Sure, it was only for money for her next fix, but it was still true. The drugs found in her position added to it, especially in the fevered climate of fighting it wherever it was found. The fact that the amount of drugs found was close to the level that could point to distribution was yet more damning charges the system could level against her.

"To your challenge, yes, it is very much possible to accomplish. I won't give any details, Barbara. Even if you were leveling charges against me, given what I have already said and offered, I assure you I have an airtight explanation of why you confused what I said. Let's not forget that you are still in withdrawal."

A sad fact, too. She sat back and looked under the table. Who was she kidding? She was going to go against Marty Howard? She looked back up and leaned her forearms on the table top to lean ever closer as if someone might be listening when she knew that wasn't possible. Not in that room.

"What you are offering is to clean me up and for good ... somehow. You would give me a job in your firm as a researcher and allow me to work on challenging, complex cases with you and the other associates. I would be paid as a senior associate since the others are law students and clerks." He nodded with a spreading smile. He saw the hook was set, and all that was left was reeling her in. She knew it, too. "In return, I give up some freewill."

He shook his head, "Not at all, Barbara. Your freewill remains, merely in a new persona. It's accepting the new persona or remaining here, taking your chances."

What kind of choice was that? Over the next week, she not only made her choice but signed the necessary willful consent document, witnessed by his clerk, and notarized by himself.

* * * *

Mr. Howard became her new attorney, and he immediately filed for an expedited hearing. Turned out it was Marty Howard being Marty Howard when a sympathetic judge was due in rotation.

When her trial began, Barbara Benton sat next to Mr. Howard at the defense table in a simple dress he provided that buttoned to the neck and went below her knees. She sat quietly, contrite and afraid. He directed all that, but it was suddenly easy because, for the first time in her life, for a long time anyway, there was something to look forward to in a positive way. Would it be a different life? Absolutely, but it would be a sober life with real legal work and personal pleasure.

Mr. Howard told her he would be presenting little in the way of defense. The prosecution had its case locked and loaded thanks to hfer own actions. His focus would be to object to characterizations and limit the perception of drugs beyond personal use. Victimless crimes were his goal.

His closing argument wasn't about her guilt or innocence but about her life's downward spiral; a young woman with a promising legal career cut short after her parents' unexpected deaths that sent her into a spiral of depression and escape. She was stunned. How did he even know about that? She watched the judge alone, for there was no jury by design. It was Marty Howard, the courtroom wizard, spinning his magic, and it was evident on the judge's face as he periodically glanced Barbara's way as she held the look of fear on her face, an expression Mr. Howard had her practice endlessly in front of a mirror.

Shockingly, to her, the judge was agreeing to Howard's appeal. When the prosecution called for the maximum sentencing possible, which Mr. Howard foresaw because the prosecution attorney was running for District Attorney, Mr. Howard countered with an appeal for probation of the same length of time under his personal guidance, working in his office, completing a detox facility, and personal therapy, and performing community service at a local homeless women's shelter.

"Our prisons are already far over capacity, your Honor," he pleaded earnestly. "Our overcrowded jails are no place for people of victimless crimes born out of depression and then desperation. That is not the place where she could find the help she would need to become a contributing member of our society, again, your Honor."

"And you would take on this probation responsibility yourself for what reason, Mr. Howard?"

He released a soft, controlled, measured chuckle, "As I already said, your Honor, she was a brilliant legal researcher and I think she still is."

* * * *

He had done it. Marty Howard. Barbara Benton was going to have a life, again. She was still having to wait to be released to the treatment center Mr. Howard arranged and get through the first part of her 'therapy', which would guarantee her freedom from addiction. The treatment center would drill into the fact that addiction was never cured, just controlled. She would be their best client and go through all the motions, meetings, and one-on-one discussions to win her probation once the judge received the center's recommendations.

* * * *

Three weeks into her treatment at the facility and three weeks with the therapist Mr. Howard arranged for her, and she could feel that release already. No desire or temptation to go back to or try those drugs. It was like a miracle. Or so it might seem. Mr. Howard explained what the 'therapist' would do for her. Each visit, three per week for two hours each, was the same. A taxi would pick her up at the treatment center and deliver her to a nondescript house that would seem an odd place for a therapist to have clients, but she knew he wasn't a real therapist in the strict sense.

Each visit, he gave her an injection that targeted a part of her brain, he explained, though she really comprehended little. Something about nano-technology. It sounded more like science fiction. Then there was an hour of hypnosis and easing her out of that hypnosis. Each time she returned, she felt refreshed and energized. Each time, she felt layers of addiction peel away from her.

After the first three weeks, she knew the rest was about to begin. She arrived at the 'therapist's' home on that first Monday of the second three-week period. He settled her in the old recliner where she had spent the previous three-week period. Intentional or not, it provided her with a feeling of comfort and security. She reminded herself that Mr. Howard wouldn't go through all this only to have her hurt.