Little Deadly Things

by Harry Steinman

  “Then you need to find a new way to feel.”

  Marta turned to her companion. “Thank you, Eva. No one needed to be hurt, and no one was.”

  “The night’s still young.”

  Jim was silent for a few moments then turned to Eva. “How did you disappear like that?”

  “Smartwool,” she said. “It’s the latest fashion in stealth wear. It absorbs odors. Sheds water and stains. And the nanothreads are glass and plastic. They change colors instantly. I had them programmed to reflect the colors around me so that I appear invisible. Military’s been using this stuff for years now. Neat, huh? Bet you wish you had a snappy little outfit like this.”

  Marta spoke. “Uh, guys, I think it’s time we get out of here. We’re beginning to draw some attention.”

  Jim and Eva looked around. “Nothing here we can’t deal with,” Jim said.

  “You’re wrong. There are three things we can’t deal with,” Marta said. “We need to leave—now.”

  “What three things?” asked Jim as they began walking. Dried leaves crunched under their feet as they crossed the park to the busy street. There was just enough light from Tremont Street’s shops and streetlights to cast shadows across their path. The hum of traffic and voices on the sidewalk grew louder as they approached the park’s end. Jim heard something different in Marta’s voice, a new vitality that animated her words. He tuned out all of the night’s sounds to concentrate on Marta.

  “Well, first of all, there’s a curfew and we’re violating it. You two might feel immune, but I don’t.”

  “Okay. What else?” asked Jim.

  “This is taking a lot out of me. My legs hurt. And I have a ton of schoolwork. Premed’s tough, and I’m swamped. I’ve got an organic chemistry project due. Eva’s the chem whiz. It’s no picnic for me.”

  “Oh, jeez, I’m sorry. Right. Let’s go,” Jim said.

  They walked across the Common, headed for the bright of the Park Street station of the underground transit line.

  “You said there were three things. What’s the third?” he asked.

  Marta beamed. “I’m pregnant.”

  The assault came, vicious and unexpected, just fifty feet from the lights, clamor, and activity of Tremont Street. Hooting in surprise and congratulations, the three friends failed to hear running footsteps behind them. Then Eva tumbled to the ground.

  At his trial, Eva’s assailant Brian Coogan would testify under a forensic dosage of TrueSpeak that he wanted to reach her before she was out of the park. He was furious. Eva had embarrassed him and the money she’d given him was gone. He would state that he thought that somehow she’d taken the money back. (She had.) He would tell the court that when Eva fell forward, he believed that his knife had penetrated her heart.

  Eva survived Coogan’s knife attack with deep bruises but no other injury. Her snappy little outfit included magnetic shearing fluid within woven carbon fibers. Iron nanoparticles, suspended in the fluid, solidified in a microsecond when subjected to stress. It was an old technology, first deployed with mixed results in the early years of the U.S. wars with Iraq and Afghanistan. A quarter century of development, and the armor was more effective than Kevlar or spider silk. The principal customers for this class of smart textiles were police and military organizations...and Eva Rozen.

  Perhaps Juricán did indeed walk with Jim Ecco that evening. When Eva fell, Jim reacted instantly. He pushed Marta out of the way and turned to Coogan. The attack reanimated Jim’s rage. His vision narrowed uncharacteristically. He missed seeing Eva roll on the ground, bloodless and then struggle to her feet. He missed the sight of two Boston police officers running to their aid.

  Jim continued his turn and lashed out with a kick that landed on the side of Coogan’s left knee, just below the patella. Coogan crumpled in pain. In their statements, the patrolmen would report that they ran to protect the three victims when they saw Coogan fall and hold his left leg. They saw Eva begin to rise. Then they saw Jim turn and stomp on Coogan’s right foot.

  Two things happened. The fifth metatarsal bone at the base of Coogan’s little toe cracked apart, producing a crippling break called a Jones fracture. Despite nanoputty surgeons applied to the bone, Coogan would wear treatment cloth for three weeks. The second result was Jim Ecco’s own arrest: assault and battery with a deadly weapon. The weapon was, in the language of his indictment, a shod foot.

  Within the space of a minute, Jim Ecco found that he would be a father...and a felon.

  08

  ___________________________________________

  TWO VERDICTS

  BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

  APRIL 1, 2030

  Sean Doyle rose for his opening statement on behalf of the People of Massachusetts. His navy pinstriped suit clung to the contours of his six-foot frame and fell from broad shoulders to hug a trim waist. Doyle’s red and blue striped club tie fastened itself into a perfect Windsor knot and bisected an unblemished white shirt, stopping precisely at the top of his beltline. Doyle’s head was adorned by thick curly blond hair, augmented eyesight, and a surgically-crafted cleft chin. Here stood a man the jury could trust on sight, a man who could lead them to discover justice on a spring morning in the Suffolk County Municipal Court in Boston, Massachusetts.

  The People’s representative addressed the presiding judge, the Honorable Chris McClincy. Doyle stated his name for the record. He was given leave to begin his opening statement. He stood without notes and faced the jury. These six men and women took in his self-confidence and beamed with reflected pride. Ordinary men and women, working people, retirees, salt of the earth now stood shoulder to shoulder with this mighty champion. They would join him in a pact to protect the Commonwealth, to honor the Law, and to send that son-of-a-bitch in the defendant’s chair to whatever dark corner of the penal system he deserved, God have mercy on his contemptible soul.

  Doyle spoke. Twelve ears edged forward to listen. Twelve eyes focused to watch their prophet. Six hearts readied to be blackened. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury, this is Case 260093, the Commonwealth v. James Bradley Ecco. The defendant is charged with having committed an intentional assault and battery by means of a dangerous weapon, his shod foot. Section 15(b) of chapter 265 of our General Laws makes this act unlawful.”

  Assistant District Attorney Sean Doyle was ambitious. Step One in the Doyle Plan: District Attorney. Then Attorney General for the Commonwealth en route to Congress. Or to the governor’s office. Then, who knows? Presidents have been created from similar pedigrees.

  Seniority granted him the ability to choose cases that bolstered his conviction rate. This case was a prosecutor’s dream: an injured victim and two unimpeachable witnesses, sworn officers of the Boston Police Department. Doyle was cultivating a tough-on-crime reputation and had refused the defense offer of a plea bargain.

  Doyle’s pinstriped suit followed him faithfully as he paced behind his lectern. Two steps to the left; two steps to the right, the pendulum in God’s hypnotic metronome. Left, Right. Tock, tock. Left, right. Tock, tock. Gazing into an unseen vision, he became a Loa-possessed demon, Michael the Archangel and Skadi, the Norse paladin of Justice, Vengeance, and Righteous Anger. Turning to his jury, his jury, he was holy, fair, and humble. “Ladies and Gentlemen, there are rules that I must follow, and you must hold me accountable.”

  These words elevated the panel and he was rewarded with six faces set with grave dignity. The prosecutor paused before them, arms outstretched, an Old Testament prophet. If he could embrace them, he would.

  “The Commonwealth must prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant intended to touch the victim with a dangerous weapon. You must require, no, demand proof from me that the defendant intended the touching to occur, that it was no mere accident.” The jury leaned forward as if to lay their hands on the trailing hem of his pinstriped garment.

  “Let’s talk about what the law does not require. First, the Commonwealth is not required to prove that the defendant inte
nded to injure Mr. Coogan—only that he did cause harm. Next, it is true that the victim is a criminal, but the victim is not on trial. Finally, it is also true that Mr. Ecco at first acted in self-defense. But he did not stop when his victim was helpless and that, ladies and gentlemen, is Mr. Ecco’s crime.”

  Doyle filled the jury with glowing comprehension. They were clay and he would breathe life into them, endue them with holy purpose: to perform their duty to convict.

  “What about the ‘dangerous weapon’? A shoe? Not a gun, knife, or club? Well, the law says that even an innocent item is a weapon if you use it in a dangerous way. Your old-fashioned pencil is an innocent item if you are writing a grocery list. But if you poke me in the eye, then it a dangerous weapon. When the defendant used his shoe, not to walk away from a helpless man, but to stomp on a helpless man, then his shoe became a deadly weapon.”

  Doyle paused, seventy-two inches of moral outrage, and pointed. “The defendant may look harmless, but he has a vicious temper. He committed a crime in plain sight of two police officers. This case is simple and the People of Massachusetts depend on you to do your duty.”

  Sean Doyle looked at the jury, thanked each member. They watched in awe as he and his pinstriped suit returned to the prosecutor’s table.

  Two women waited outside the courtroom, witnesses in the case and unable to attend the proceedings until called to testify. Marta fretted. Eva seemed detached, even bored.

  “How can you take this so lightly?” Marta asked Eva.

  “Why worry?”

  “Why worry? Because Jim drew a prosecutor with political motives and a judge who favors prosecutors. Lord knows what the jury will do,” said Marta.

  “Can’t worry about what you can’t control. Just control what you can.” Eva touched a device wrapped around her forearm and began to subvocalize.

  Marta stared at her friend in goggle-faced astonishment. “Oh, my god. Is that what I think it is?”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “Where in the world did you get a datasleeve? They cost a fortune! I don’t understand...did the Foundation buy it for you?”

  “Nope.”

  “How does a college junior end up with a datasleeve?”

  “I deserved it.”

  “Right,” drawled Marta, but then she was given over to curiosity. “Is it true that the nanoprocessors eliminate all of the heat that a dataslate generates?”

  “See for yourself.”

  Eva held up her wrist and Marta examined the device. It was nanotextile, wearable electronics, components thousands of times smaller than human hair. The sleeve was about the thickness of flannel. It packed the computing punch of a massively-parallel mainframe from an earlier semiconductor generation.

  “How does it work?” asked Marta. “I thought they had to communicate with datapillars. No, don’t tell me you have a pillar. Isn’t that a little beyond even you?”

  “They do have to sync with a datapillar,” said Eva.

  “Tell me what I’m missing,” said Marta. “Only governmental agencies have pillar-and-sleeve technology.”

  “They’re being deployed commercially now, too. In a few years, everyone will have them. I’m just a bit ahead,” said Eva.

  “So, do you have a pillar?” Marta pressed.

  “Not yet.”

  “Then what good is it?”

  “Well, you can sync with anyone else’s pillar if you know how,” Eva grinned. “Anyway, sleeves will be on the market for the public in a year or two.” By that time, Eva thought, I’ll know how to jack anyone’s sleeve.

  “How did you get it? This is incredible. Can I try it?” asked Marta.

  Eva held Marta’s gaze. “Where are the other witnesses? Where’s that bastard, Coogan?” Without turning her attention from Marta, without looking around the courtroom hallway, she observed, “I don’t see the prosecution witnesses. You suppose that’s a good sign?”

  Inside the courtroom, Sean Doyle suppressed a grin as the public defender rose for his opening statement. Three members of the jury crossed their arms as if to wall themselves off from the hapless attorney. Another two glared. The final juror’s eyes were fixed on her feet, as if she’d found webbing where she expected to see sensible shoes. None made eye contact with the overmatched defense counsel. He reminded the jury that his client was innocent until proven guilty, that his client had been protecting himself and his friends and had every reason to fear for his life. The defense counsel asked for their patience and skulked back to his seat.

  Judge McClincy turned to the prosecutor. “Mr. Doyle, are you ready to call your first witness?”

  “I am, Your Honor.”

  “Then please proceed.”

  Doyle rose, nodded to the magistrate, looked at the jury and in a clear confident voice, began his prosecution. “The People call Brian Coogan.”

  Every eye in the courtroom turned to the secured door from which Coogan would emerge. The quiet lasted for thirty long seconds. The witness did not appear. Judge McClincy turned an expressionless glance to Doyle asked the prosecutor again for his witness.

  “Judge, he is on the witness list. Would Your Honor direct the bailiff to locate him?”

  “Mr. Doyle, I expect attorneys to be prepared in my court. Please call another witness while the bailiff finds your Mr. Coogan.” McClincy nodded to a burly, uniformed man who nodded back and entered a secured holding area attached to the courtroom.

  “Thank you, Judge. In that case, the People call William Stevens.” Stevens was one of the two police officers who witnessed Coogan’s attack on Rozen and Ecco’s subsequent assault. Eyes turned to a door at the rear of the courtroom, expecting to see the officer appear. The door stayed closed.

  The bailiff reappeared and told the judge. “Mr. Coogan did not arrive. The defense witnesses are outside but none of the prosecution witnesses are here.”

  Doyle’s ruddy cheeks drained of color. He looked up at Judge McClincy and spoke, “Judge, all of my witnesses are supposed to be here. There must be a minor mix-up. May I have a brief recess to get this straightened out?”

  “Five minutes. Please have your witnesses when we reconvene. The jury will remain.”

  McClincy gaveled the session to a halt and then returned to his chamber, but not before offering a dark look at the prosecutor whose temerity interfered with His Honor’s schedule. Three hundred seconds later Judge McClincy returned. The bailiff called the session back to order. McClincy turned to the prosecutor and asked, “Are you ready to continue, Mr. Doyle?”

  “Your Honor, may I approach?”

  Permission granted. Doyle and the public defender rose and approached the bench. Doyle was subdued. “Judge, the witnesses appear to have been sent to a different court. Somehow a change of venue order was entered in error and my witnesses were sent to Franklin County.”

  “Not good, Mr. Doyle. How did a Suffolk County prosecutor manage to send three witnesses to a court ninety-one miles from here?”

  “I don’t know, Judge. We’re still looking into the matter. May I ask for a continuance?”

  “Do you at least have statements from the witnesses?” asked the judge.

  “Of course. May I present those?”

  “If you don’t, I’m guessing that the defense here will ask for a dismissal.”

  Doyle walked to the prosecutor’s table and conferred with the second chair, his assistant. Doyle’s demeanor changed from confident to frantic as he subvocalized commands to his datasleeve. He checked an index of documents and blanched.

  Doyle’s pinstriped suit pulled the reluctant prosecutor to face the bench. The perfect Windsor knot was askew. Once again he asked permission to approach, and once again the public defender accompanied Doyle to speak with His Honor.

  “Judge, it appears that the witness statements are not available.”

  “Not available now...or not available ever?”

  “The written statements were destroyed in error, Your Honor, and the bac
kup is gone. If I could have a postponement...”

  The public defender showed his first signs of life. He was overmatched, but understood the most basic tenet of criminal defense. No evidence? No victim? No witness? No case. He called for a dismissal.

  “I’m inclined to grant the defense motion,”

  “Your Honor! The defense request is outrageous. The People have spent days preparing for this case. If you can give us a continuance, we can reassemble the testimony and get the witnesses into court.”

  McClincy glared at Doyle. “As I recall, you refused a plea bargain offer from the defense. No counteroffer, either. Do I remember correctly?”

  “Yes, Judge.”

  “I don’t like trials. They interfere with justice. Too inefficient. And now you want a continuance? You reap what you sow, Mr. Doyle.”

  “Your Honor. Mr. Coogan deserves justice.”

  “Chambers, both of you,” McClincy snapped. He looked up and addressed the court. “We’re going to take a recess here for, let’s say, fifteen minutes. Bailiff, please escort the jury out. Ladies and gentlemen, remember not to discuss the case. We’ll call you back when we’re ready to reconvene.” The jury turned a piteous glance on Doyle, their fallen hero. They rent their garments, covered themselves in ash, and wailed in grief.

  McClincy turned to the defense. “Mr. Ecco, I’m going to have a little chat with your attorney and Mr. Doyle. Would you be kind enough to join us?”

  Without waiting for an answer, McClincy walked behind his bench and through a door leading to his chambers. Dark wood-paneled shelves accommodated photographs of His Honor’s family. The walls were papered in a trompe I’oeil image of books—codes, statutes, ordinances, decisions—an artist’s notion of a jurist’s sanctuary during the gaudy age of paper. Maroon pile carpet finished the effect, a gentlemen’s club. McClincy gestured to a pair of adjoining leather chairs for the attorneys. Jim looked around for a chair. There wasn’t one. He stood. A court police officer stood at his elbow, ready to pounce, ready to protect the assembled officials of the court.