“Yes.”
“No accredited teachers?”
“No.”
“No standardized testing?”
“No.”
“So no outside benchmarks for what you were taught—or what youweren’ttaught.”
I thought about it, then nodded. “I suppose not.”
He smiled faintly, like he’d just placed a chess piece.
“So your understanding of the world was limited.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. I didn’t argue it. It was true.
“And your understanding of morality came exclusively from your father.”
My cube creaked under my grip.
“Yes,” I said. “Or at least adults teaching us Father’s words.”
“Exactly,” the attorney said. “So when you describe punishment—‘whipping,’ as you called it—you’re filtering that experience through a belief system he gave you. One that framed discipline as divinely ordained.”
Huh?
“It didn’t feel very divine, sir.”
A few people in the gallery whispered.
He raised his eyebrows. “Feelings are subjective, Mr. Ransom. Pain is subjective.”
I focused on the beads of my sweater, rolling one gently between my fingers.
“You volunteered for the first punishment, did you not?” he continued.
“Yes,” I said. “To protect someone else.”
“So no one forced you.”
I shook my head. “That’s not—”
“No onephysicallyforced you,” he corrected smoothly.
My mouth felt dry.
“No, but it was either I volunteered, orsomeone else got hurt.”
He tilted his head. “Did you seek medical attention for your injuries?”
“No.”
“I see,” he said, voice mild. “And did you at any point think to call 911 or seek help from professionals?”
“I didn’t have a phone, and I didn’t know what 911 was until I was off the compound.”
