Chapter 7: WWBD

Use her imagination? Vera Bennett had several pluses but a wide and vivid imagination was not one of them. She struggled for days with the conundrum. She thought and discarded all the many and various Machiavellian schemes Ferguson would attempt. But with each one she didn't even know where to begin. How to begin. Even if she invented a scheme out of thin air, which Ferguson seemed to be suggesting, it would collapse under any scrutiny.

It was useless. Because it all came down to one simple fact: Vera Bennett did not speak Beast. The prisoners did. Ferguson did. Vera did not. She was trying to beat them on a playing field that was not only uneven, she barely understood the rules. The startling realisation gave her some peace. She had been a fraud, it was true. Pretending to be someone she was not? Guilty.

So the solution seemed clear. It was time to ask: What Would Bennett Do?

She would beat them on her own terms. Vera contemplated what her strengths were. She was organised. Thorough. Meticulous to the point of anal. She understood the big picture and loved theory over practicalities. She could also spot errors on a macro scale. But she understood on an intellectual level the concept of power structures. How they worked. How people worked. How they fit together as a team and what made them pull away.

She might not have Ferguson's X-ray vision into a soul, but she could read people. She understood on a logical level the base instincts of humans even if she couldn't relate. And, from watching Ferguson's effortless assumption of the alpha female role at Wentworth, she realised she knew how to beat them.

Oh, of course she knew she would never be an alpha female. It had been ridiculous that she'd even tried, however fleetingly. But she had her own brand of cunning. Her own intelligence.

Vera thought back to how she'd been when she'd first arrived at Wentworth. She'd been so absurdly green. She'd thrown herself into researching prison methods around the world for their effectiveness and techniques. At that thought, Vera went to her filing cabinet and pulled out all her old research. Then she sat down and began to read. And read.

Three days and two restless nights later, she went into work, sat down and, with fingers slick with sweat, she made a call that would change everything.

"The Age, Felicity Chambers speaking."

"Hello, this is Vera Bennett. I'm the..."

"Yes," a crisp voice said down the line. "I know who you are. What can I do for you Governor?"

There was no edge of mockery that Vera had become so used to hearing since the scandal. It was refreshing to not have to hear it for once. She relaxed a little.

"We should meet," Vera said. "I believe I have a story for you."

"Is that so?" She could hear the bite of curiosity in the journalist's tone now. An edge of excitement. "An exclusive, perhaps?"

"Yes," Vera agreed. "But not about what you're thinking. Something else. Something far more substantial."

"Substantial?" Chambers asked. "Well that would make a change to the news cycle, wouldn't it?"

She laughed and Vera couldn't help but join in.

Yes, this mightn't be such a terrible idea after all.


Wentworth General Manager, Derek Channing, had been surprisingly easy to turn around to Vera's grand plan. She knew that Ferguson had something on him and it had been a simple matter of quid pro quo to extract the leverage from her. The man had then folded like a puppet with its strings cut. Her most satisfying moment was his utter shock and almost grudging respect that she'd been the one to use the leverage.

Funny how many people underestimated her.

Vera, in return, had pulled a few strings and made it possible for Joan to access her bank accounts once more, which had been frozen during the initial police investigation and her subsequent stay in various institutions. Hell, if the woman wanted to buy herself some luxuries on the inside - or a bulk-load of disinfectant as the case may be - who was she to disagree?

Of course Vera wasn't stupid enough to believe that that was really why Joan wanted access to her cash reserves. But Vera's own schemes were afoot now. Frankly, she didn't care whether Joan bribed her way to Bali or bought the Dallas Cheerleaders.

"You have some sparkle now," Joan observed at their next meeting, with a supple wave of fingers. "You glow. You're either pregnant or up to something."

Her eyes were mocking but Vera merely gave her a slow smile and offered a self-deprecating retort: "I think we both know either are unlikely scenarios."

Joan leaned forward and spread her hands on the plastic table in a gesture that would almost pass as supplication, if one didn't know her better. "Tell me what you're scheming," she suggested softly. "I could help. Find the flaw in your plan? Two heads are better than one."

Vera regarded the woman in the ill-fitting green uniform opposite. She was too tall for their clothes, too broad across the shoulders. Too, too. She did not fit in. She never had.

"You'll find out next week. Everyone will. If there's a flaw in the plan, it's too late to fix now."

Joan gave her a dissatisfied grunt. "So did you use your imagination?" she challenged. "Will there be some showy drug bust arresting dozens on the news?"

A game show flickered on the TV in the corner of the room, drawing Vera's eye. So they'd fixed it. She allowed the noise to fill the pause in conversation for a few moments.

"I'm not you, Joan," Vera said carefully. "We both know that."

A silence fell again, punctuated by the excited TV host.

"I am well aware," Joan drawled. Confusion edged her features. "No one is. Your point?"

"I'm not good at playing the game your way. Instead I decided to do something I'm good at."

Vera waited for the other woman to slip the knife in and ask what she was good at but Joan studied her silently.

"Do you actually know what you're doing?" Joan finally asked.

Vera exhaled. That was the question. She met Joan's eyes evenly, wondering if she was being insulted. Instead she saw the same curiosity as earlier.

"Did you?"

"What?"

"When you were doing all your twisty schemes, did you 'know what you were doing'?"

Joan's lips twitched then, but Vera could see if it for what it was - a defense mechanism.

"I had certain hopes." Joan's gaze shifted to beyond the windows. "I was of the view that with enough planning and time anything could be accomplished."

"And now?"

"Now I appreciate that if a plan has any major flaw, no amount of either will achieve success."

"What was the flaw in your plan? Not killing Fletch outright? Or not framing Will better? And what was that thing with Spiteri all about? Was it just a hobby for you while you were bored waiting? You know she's under 24/7 suicide watch?"

Joan's jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed. "I don't expect you to understand anything. But I was unwell for a time. Now I'm...not."

Vera stared incredulously. "You might have this facility wrapped around your pinky - especially Danvers, I don't even want to know what you've done to her - but that doesn't make you 'well'. It makes you more cunning than all of them put together."

"You think I've done something to the good supervisor?" Joan's eyes glittered. "How interesting."

"Joan, she can barely look at you, yet every time I visit she insists on personally delivering me to you. Because she just wants an excuse to look at you again."

"Would that bother you? Me, bending someone in authority to my will, to achieve my own ends?"

The toying voice was back. The way she said 'bending' sounded positively dirty.

Vera sighed. "You just can't help yourself, can you? Born to manipulate."

"On the contrary, it was a skill I honed with years of practice."

Vera studied her. "You may as well tell me," Vera said finally. "How long before you get out of here? I know you're planning something. I almost pity Supervisor Danvers. I know exactly how it feels being played for a fool by someone you admire."

Joan smiled again, and this was the devious one that always used to make Vera break out into a cold sweat. The Governor shook her head. "I probably don't want to know the answer to that, do I? In fact don't tell me anything that would require me to perjure myself on the stand. I'm too busy to attend your court case."

"I assure you I will walk out the front door, like anyone else," Joan said. She shifted her hands from the table to her lap, where she interlaced them and leaned back in the chair. "But six weeks is firming up in my schedule. Now, tell me: Who is assisting with your grand scheme?"

Six weeks? Ferguson worked fast. Vera wondered if she had a professional obligation to warn Danvers she was being played like a fiddle. Actually the lesson had been a useful one to learn for herself. Danvers would soon discover its worth, too. Vera's mind wandered. Surely Joan wasn't fucking her? She pictured the austere supervisor again. No, she was too ... uptight. God knows, Vera had been there herself. One night with the queen of power plays had changed her perspective on a lot of things. She'd been unable to get too tightly wound ever again.

Joan drummed her fingers impatiently.

"Felicity Chambers." Vera suddenly remembered the question.

"You must be joking."

Vera shook her head. "Not kidding."

"That leftie features journalist? The Age? The one who thinks prisons should be run like Sweden or Finland or wherever it is - prisoners all roaming about on lovely farms with happy little shacks and all the luxuries?" Her sneer was pure Ferguson.

"The very same," Vera observed.

"Tell me you don't agree with that nonsense!"

"For justice to be done it must also be seen to be done. You, more than anyone, taught me the importance of that."

Vera hadn't entirely answered the question. Joan was too busy with her outrage to notice.

"Then she will eviscerate you," Joan said with certainty. "Whatever you are scheming, She. Will. Destroy. You."

"She might try," Vera said placidly. "Or not. It doesn't even matter. But she will also shift the conversation. The entire nation will want to join the debate by the time I'm finished."

"Finished? You may well be."

"We'll see. In the meantime, they'll be so busy discussing my plan that any 'Pussy Prison' slurs will be a tumbleweed in the rear-vision mirror of the news."

Joan peered at her. The expression wasn't exactly approving. "You used to be such a mouse," she purred. "That had its own charm."

"Why? Because I was so malleable? So fearful?"

Joan's eyes dared her to disagree. "You were all mine to play with. I didn't even have to say how high you had to jump. You did it for me all on your own. Didn't you, Vera. It was most amusing."

Vera shot her a sideways look. "So you assume you're the cat in this scenario? I'm the compliant mouse?"

Joan's eyebrow lifted. Her face said "what else?".

Vera's eyes half closed as she regarded her. "You underestimated me, just like everyone else. There's more than one cat in the world, Joan. And we come in all different shapes and sizes."


"Bennett's bold blueprint" was the headline when the story broke. The Governor was reading it at her desk for a fourth time when her deputy, Will, came in.

"You know how to make a splash," he said, eyeing the paper.

"That was the idea."

"Think they'll riot over it?"

"Not for long." Vera folded the newspaper and put it down.

"Well one or two will stick their necks above the parapet. Shit stir. Loss of liberty and so on," he argued.

Vera looked up at him, taking his measure. "Would you stick your neck out if you knew your entire cell block would be punished for your actions?"

Will hesitated.

"Exactly," Vera said. "Group responsibility for everything. One does the wrong thing, they all cop a punishment. One does the right thing, they all get a reward. It's tribal. They're tribal. I've just delineated the lines formally. They pick their tribe when they enter. Play nicely and their whole tribe prospers. Of course I'm not calling it that but it's the bottom line."

"Yeah," Will said, eyebrow lifting. "I've seen some of the rewards programs. Yoga classes, extra yard time. Make-up? Hair-dressing classes? The media will crucify you."

"Only the winning group will get those things. Every six months, the points get tallied and those groups with fewest infractions and best behaviour can take their pick of rewards."

"So you only have to actually stick your hand in the budget twice a year? Shit, that's clever." Will's eyes widened. "Like, Ferguson-level clever." His eyes suddenly darkened. "Which is why I'm sorry I won't be around to see it." He slid an envelope over the desk. "Two weeks' notice."

"No," Vera gasped. "Why?"

He shrugged. "It's time. And I'm just over all of this shit. The steel bars, the anger, the fights, all those feral crazies high on smack. Gotta be more to life, you know? Hey, maybe I'll follow Fletch and find a far-flung fishing spot in Tasmania."

Vera found a headache coming on. "Have you got anything else lined up?"

"Nah. I thought I'd pick a highway, and just keep riding."

"We'll be sorry to see you go."

She meant it, too.

He gave her a smile. "Yeah. I bet. Christ, this will be a fun place the first time you put two dozen members of one 'tribe' in the slot because one of them fucked up. Not to mention the civil libertarians whining because you've punished the innocent."

"Yes," Vera agreed. "It will be interesting. I guarantee I'll only have to do it once."

He grinned. "You are way sneakier than I gave you credit for, Governor."

She cocked her head curiously. "Was that a compliment?

He shook his head, as he got up to leave. "Yeah," he said. "I reckon it was."


The media did, indeed, go to town on the Bennett Blueprint. Talkback callers rang off the hook about the morality of group punishment, group reward. While the military indulged in such practices during basic training to great success, it had never been tried across the board at a prison before. It was dehumanising, various civil libertarians and prisoner support groups argued. Unjustified. Cruel, even.

But for every person arguing for the rights of prisoners, a hundred more wanted them to suffer more. They liked the cold, clean squeezing of the throats of a prison population they hated and feared anyway. But no matter how she cut it, Vera had already won. The scandal was no longer even mentioned. When it came to the name Wentworth, all she ever heard was "groundbreaking" or "controversial", often in the same sentence.

She'd even heard Channing support it on radio.

"The facts don't lie," he told the nation's top shock jock. "Violence is down 13 percent, good behaviour is up 45 percent. And here's an interesting fact," he added, "Governor Bennett has done something no prison boss in history has managed. She's shifted the culture from prisoner vs warder, to prisoner vs prisoner. They watch themselves. They watch each other. They actually report someone from the opposing groups when they see the wrong thing done, because for once there's something in it for them. Their team rises as other teams fall. And they're competitive, so they all want to win.

"Of course, we thoroughly investigate every report to ensure it's not just bull - but you get the idea. There's only a handful of guards in a prison. We need even fewer under Bennett's scheme. She's revolutionised the way to keep dangerous prisoners in check. It's brilliant."

Brilliant? Yeah right. That's not what he'd said when she'd first pitched it to him. And she wasn't sure she approved him talking up the snitching side effects of the scheme.

Vera put her paperwork away and packed up. She headed for the parking lot, her heels crunching on the gravel. Her car was a garish pink eyesore, bought in a fit of insanity when the saleswoman pointed out no man would ever want to steal it. As she drove through the back streets of Melbourne, faint oil slicks shimmering from a recent rain, she reflected on how things were now. The new world order.

Her prison was now being discussed as a template. She was getting respect now from many circles. Even circles who had fought her appointment, with the borderline insulting argument she lacked any edge. She had edge - she just didn't wear it with an iron fist or brutal control issues. She didn't need to rough up prisoners to instil discipline. Their tribe leaders did it for her.

At that thought her mind wandered to her former boss. It had been almost two months since she'd last visited. So much for her vaunted prediction of a six-week exit plan. Perhaps Danvers wised up after all?

Unlikely though. The woman was clearly under the Ferguson thrall. She knew the look all to well - it used to greet her in the morning every day. But that was then. She was over her now. She was over a lot of things.

Like being seen as a mouse.

She pulled into her driveway and headed up the three short stairs to her house. She punched in the security code and closed the door behind her. Kicking off her heels she headed for the fridge. She had a nice Cabernet she wouldn't mind finishing. And some leftover Chinese from Sunday night. She would just...

"Good evening, Vera."

The voice was unmistakeable. It haunted her waking and dreaming hours. It was like a caress and she swayed towards it in spite of herself.

She whipped her head around and saw the lean, powerful leonine form that had installed herself on her couch. Her heart began to pound - just as it always did. Hell. So much for being over her.

After stilling her shocked squeak, she exhaled.

"Hello Joan. Make yourself at home," she said, aiming for sarcastic. It came out breathy.

An amused, achingly familiar smirk greeted her.

"Really, Vera," Joan tsked. "I believe I already have."