From: bobandcarole@aol.com   
      
   Story: A Letter from your Worst Nightmare   
   (Mg, preteen, inc, cons, politics)   
      
      
      
   Written by bobandcarole   
      
      
      
      
      
   Author's Note: This is it, the last story ever to be written by   
   Admiral Cartwright. It's been a hell of a ride, but the creative   
   juices have ebbed, and it's time to hang up the word processor.   
      
   Aside from 'Joanne and Lexi', which was written several years ago,   
   I first got the itch to write erotica when I read a number of   
   "pedo" stories that illogically turned children into horny   
   teenaged coeds. I set out to do something more realistic. Since   
   then, the quality of writing has improved immensely (modestly or   
   otherwise, I like to think I had a small hand in that) and, as a   
   colleague so aptly stated, I had an itch, and I've scratched it.   
      
   I would like to express my sincere thanks to everyone from whom   
   I've received support and kind words, including Janey, Denny,   
   Stephen, BillyG, Frank, Fidelius, Celeste (even if we disagree   
   about 'Double Take' -- heh heh), and a bunch of others far too   
   numerous to mention. Thanks on behalf of readers everywhere to   
   Rey, Lazeez and Mr. Double for providing free repositories for my   
   work; and to Usenet for providing the forum. Finally, thanks to   
   you, dear reader: Without you, I would never have continued as   
   long as I have.   
      
   I hope you enjoy my swan song.   
      
   Giving Credit Where Due: The political rant was inspired in part   
   by 'Leave the Children' by Pedro Vila. From it, I finally created   
   the context in which to place a few scrambled ideas.   
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
   A Letter from your Worst Nightmare   
      
      
   Dear Parent:   
      
   Ms. Castilleja already was waiting for me as I was ushered into   
   the small, simple room this morning. A single wooden bench spanned   
   the distance between four booths, each with no more than a   
   telephone, a metal countertop, and heavy glass teasing me with   
   life on the outside.   
      
   We each took our respective positions -- hers in a far more   
   comfortable chair -- and picked up a receiver. "Good morning,   
   Mister Phelps," she beamed.   
      
   My smirk was almost imperceptible. "I see the television was YOUR   
   babysitter, too, eh?"   
      
   "I'm sorry?"   
      
   "Never mind," I finished, brushing off the question in her eyes. I   
   held her gaze, however, in an effort to see into the person behind   
   those eyes and, perhaps, to shake her up. Just a little.   
      
   It worked.   
      
   "So-o-o-o..." she began nervously.   
      
   "So, miz court-appointed psychiatrist," I continued for her, with   
   but a trace of sarcasm, "why am I here, and you're out there?"   
      
   Her tone was more patronizing even than my own. "Um, because a   
   court of law decided that you need to be kept separate from the   
   rest of civilization."   
      
   "I see. And, just what the hell is 'civilization', anyway?"   
      
   "What do you mean?" she asked, puzzled.   
      
   "Consider the man who looks at child pornography, almost every   
   day," I answered. "He does it at work; he does it at home. He   
   finds his victims and stalks them, relentlessly; sometimes, they   
   never escape. Lives are ruined in the name of his twisted desire.   
   But, he's convinced that what he's doing is for your own good, and   
   he'll convince you, too.   
      
   "Sound like anyone you know?"   
      
   My shrink-without-a-choice shifted uncomfortably in her chair,   
   gripping the receiver hard, staring into my eyes from the other   
   side of the glass. "The pedophile," she began evenly, "will say or   
   do anything to justify his actions."   
      
   I smiled; a cold, almost sad smile. "I wasn't referring to the   
   pedophile," I explained. "I was talking about the law enforcement   
   officer who persecutes him."   
      
   Ms. Castilleja blinked. Suddenly looking much younger and more   
   frail than her late-20s-and-perfectly-pressed visage, she regarded   
   me for a moment before closing her mouth and hanging up the   
   receiver.   
      
   She rose, shaking visibly, then turned and walked out without so   
   much as looking back. I was quite certain I'd never see her again.   
      
       ~~   
      
   My name is Harold Phelps, but you may call me Hal. Yes, I'm in   
   prison.   
      
   First, I must serve three years for felony possession of child   
   pornography, then an additional eight years for using it to seduce   
   a child under 14. Okay, technically, I'll serve eighty-five   
   percent of those eleven years, called a "determinate term"; the   
   "indeterminate term" follows, 25 years minimum, to life -- the   
   same as if I'd murdered someone.   
      
   Why? It's called "Three Strikes and You're Out," and it's the law   
   in California and many other states. Three serious felonies,   
   you're imprisoned for good, or awfully close. Only, they managed   
   to pull it off against me, a man with no prior criminal record,   
   all in a single trial.   
      
   How, you ask?   
      
   Six young girls have come to me over the years -- that's right,   
   THEY came to ME -- desperate for the attention they could not get   
   at home. Somewhere along the line, one of them let slip that I had   
   nasty pictures on my computer, or that I was sexually active with   
   them, and law enforcement took over. Detectives and psychiatrists   
   convinced three of my "victims" to testify, on videotape,   
   questioned only by "The People" with no cross-examination, and no   
   objection. I never got to face "my accusers".   
      
   True, my attorney was able to interview the girls and, afterwards   
   -- at my instruction -- he presented an unusual and unpopular   
   defense: That each girl would, by her own admission, choose to   
   continue a relationship with me if given that option.   
      
   I'll give you three guesses how the jury responded...   
      
   The bombshell came when the prosecution argued at the sentencing   
   hearing that my "acts" with each of my "victims" should be treated   
   as separate and distinct crimes, thus eligible for a lifetime   
   behind bars.   
      
   Probation officers noted my lack of remorse, and agreed; so did   
   the judge. Have you ever heard the phrase, "throw the book at   
   him"?   
      
   My life, as I knew it, was over.   
      
       ~~   
      
      
   The Beginning:   
      
   I can thank Deputy District Attorney Art Horst (that's A. Arthur   
   Horst, Esq., to you) for that. We stayed very close friends even   
   after I left law school to "pursue other interests." Several years   
   ago, we happened to meet up at a local social function, and he   
   took me aside. "I've about had it with my job, I don't know how   
   much more I can take of this," he confided.   
      
   "Of what?" I asked.   
      
   "I'm heading the Crimes Against Children Arm now, and that means I   
   get to put child abusers away," he started.   
      
   "What's wrong with that?" I countered, honestly.   
      
   "Well, these fucks usually have tons of kiddy porn," he continued.   
   "I have to look through it; I have to find images vile enough to   
   prove my case to a jury, but not so horrendous that I'm making them   
   throw up, and beg off the case.   
      
   "Very few people have to look at that stuff, and I have to   
   remember what used to turn my stomach, but only a little. Now,   
   I've seen so goddamn much of that shit that I don't trust my own   
   judgment anymore."   
      
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)