As courthouses go, the one in Louise is a modern structure, nicely paneled in light wood with a public gallery seating about two hundred—just enough for the media to obtain a good sample reaction. This looks down on the business side of things, the larger area with tables, chairs, equipment, and—in the center of the arena—the Triangle of Justice. A symbolic representation of this is repeated on almost every available flat surface.
“I’d like you at the Triangle, Joe,” said Rennie, strolling up. He was casually dressed and in his element; I’d heard he usually conducted his own prosecutions and he looked as though he was enjoying himself. I sat at the big three-sided oak table in the glare of lights and tried not to panic.
Carioca sat on the defense side of the Triangle, dressed in slithe skin, her counsel beside her, his programmer at the defense computer. She smiled at me briefly; her dress was actually glowing a faint pink. The thrill of the spotlights was overcoming the fear of her predicament. Other men sat around the Triangle, their roles unknown to me—although the side of justice was as yet empty. Around the wall of the courthouse arena sat or stood the other people concerned: the later witnesses, court officials, police. A few recorders and newsmen manned machines at scattered tables. The cameras were wheeled into position.
“The Court will rise!” As some minor official yelled this infuriating command I glanced at Carioca’s face. Her expression was of anticipation, and I saw the flicker of her tongue moisten her bright lips.
The compitrator entered, an impressive machine in crimson enamel wheeled by its operator, who wore a robe to match. They crossed the floor in stately fashion and halted at the justice side of the Triangle, where the operator plugged the compitrator in. A green light glowed and we all sat down. “The Court is in session,” mumbled the operator. “Case L8756B, the State versus Miss Carioca Jones.” He nodded to Rennie.
The policeman said, “Fine. I introduce Bryce Alcester.” He turned to the club secretary, who was also sitting at the Triangle. “Tell us about the row between Carioca Jones and Doug Marshall on the slipway of Skipper’s Marina shortly before the sabotage incident, will you?”
“On the Sunday afternoon in question I happened to be passing the hydrofoil of Doug Marshall which was at that time drawn up on the slipway,” began Alcester in his precise voice, “when I overheard Miss Jones use a certain epithet.”
“Warren, could you ask your man to speak up a bit?” called Dale Finlay from the foot of the public gallery, where he held a recording instrument. “We can’t hear a goddamned thing over here.”
The prosecution programmer was tapping at a machine as Alcester spoke on more loudly, when Rennie suddenly interrupted. “Look, John. Do we need to know exactly what your client said? I mean, this dirty word, or whatever? I’m willing to leave it out unless you think otherwise. It’s not part of my case and it certainly won’t sound good on the media.”
“Thanks a lot, Warren,” murmured Carioca’s man.
Suddenly Carioca Jones was on her feet, and the first moment of drama occurred. “I wish the whole world to know what I said,” she stated forcibly. “I will not be silenced. On that afternoon I referred to Charles Wentworth as a Spare Parts man—which is exactly what he was. Like all those poor wretches whom Robert Gallaugher is hiding in his dungeons!”
“Drop it, Carioca, will you?” murmured her counsel tiredly.
“Leave it out,” said Rennie to his programmer. He shouted across to Dale Finlay. “I know damned well you’re prerecording, Finlay. Now if you put that crap out on Newspocket I’ll have you thrown out!” He pulled a portovee from his pocket and scanned it. I caught sight of the compitrator being wheeled in; Finlay was broadcasting two or three minutes behind, and Carioca’s outburst would go unheard by the nation.
Visibly seething, her dress a bright purple, she sat down reluctantly.
Bryce Alcester continued his evidence while the programmer tapped away. At length he was finished with very little prompting from Rennie. The programmer extracted the metallic card from his machine and slipped it into a slot on the prosecution computer. A green light flashed and the card reemerged. Rennie passed it across the Triangle to the defense, who slipped it into their computer.
“I’d like to put you on after Bryce, Joe,” Rennie said.
Two cards had now emerged from the defense computer: the original and another. The defense programmer slipped the second card through a scanner, then spoke quietly to counsel.
“I’m sorry about this, Warren,” said the defense counsel, “but our machine thinks it essential that Carioca’s exact words are placed on record, Christ knows why. Maybe it’s following some sort of previous good character line, showing where her sympathies lie, perhaps. Bearing in mind that we don’t have much of a case, that’s all I can think of.”
“That won’t work,” objected Rennie. “I have evidence to show that Carioca once received a graft herself. I didn’t want to have to bring it in, though. The donor is due for release shortly and she wouldn’t want her name all over the country.… Finlay!” he called.
“Oh, all right,” groaned the Newspocket man from across the arena.
So Carioca’s outburst became a matter of court record and was fed onto the evidence card together with a surgeon’s testimony of her hand graft of the previous year—but at least Joanne’s name was not mentioned. Again the card was put through the defense computer and reemerged with a suggested question.
The prosecution computer answered satisfactorily and for a while the two machines quizzed and tried to outthink each other, with Bryce Alcester occasionally being called upon to amplify. In many instances we didn’t even know what the questions were; the cards were merely passed to and fro between the machines without translation. Occasionally defense counsel would check a question. When Alcester’s help was needed, the prosecution machine flashed a red light.
At last both machines showed green and the completed cards were handed to the operator, who fed them into the compitrator with a flourish. The wheels of justice began to turn.
About that time there was a low, dull roar audible in the courtroom as the crowd outside reacted to an earlier piece of evidence.
Then I told my story of the night on the slipway while Carioca watched me intently from the other side of the Triangle.
“You say you heard a gasping,” defense counsel said. “Would you say it was a female gasping or a male gasping, or even an animal gasping?”
“At the time I was frightened it was a fish gasping,” I admitted. “But I couldn’t say for sure.”
The remainder of the questioning was conducted between the computers and soon my legal duties were completed. With much relief I left the Triangle and joined the onlookers lounging around the walls. Doug Marshall and Charles were called in turn and described the flight, the accident, and their subsequent findings on examination of the harness, which was produced in court. One or two other club members testified; then we adjourned for lunch.
Due to the crowd outside, which, we heard, had now reached massive proportions, most of us lunched in the courthouse café. As we discussed the evidence over coffee the general opinion was that the case would be over by the end of the afternoon session—when we might expect a huge and lengthy demonstration outside.
“I don’t know how many more witnesses Rennie has,” said Doug Marshall, “but I can’t see our friend Carioca calling anyone.” He chuckled suddenly. “Unless she has it in mind to call Joe as a character witness.”
I ignored that one. “So far Rennie’s proved nothing,” I pointed out. “All that’s been fed into the compitrator so far is the fact that someone tampered with your harness, and that Carioca Jones had several disagreements with the club.”
“Don’t forget the preliminary programming by the operator,” Bryce Alcester said. “He fed in a large number of undisputed facts about Miss Jones, the club, and its members. I know, because I had a questionnaire to fill out. I have no doubt the Foes of Bondage had a similar form�
�as did the state pen, the police, and even you, Joe, for all I know. The compitrator takes into consideration every fact which might have any conceivable bearing on the case. Somewhere it will be finding links, spotting discrepancies, and forming theories which would never occur to you or me.”
We regarded Alcester with respect. For a fussy little prig, he seemed to know a lot about the law.
“And don’t forget the Occupancy Factor,” he concluded mysteriously.
Immediately after lunch Rennie produced his star witness.
“This is Miranda Marjoribanks, John,” he told the defense counsel. “I’d like both our programmers to work on this one because her evidence is pretty damning to your client, so let’s get it right first time, huh? Otherwise we’ll be here all night. I’ve been priming her for the last hour, so we’ll just let her talk, shall we?”
I edged closer to the Triangle as Miss Marjoribanks began to speak, and I noticed the cameramen doing likewise, jockeying for position. In the background Dale Finlay was directing his men like an orchestra conductor, with pursed lips, waving arms, and a wealth of furious mime.
“I’ll start by saying that I can’t stand the sight of Carioca Jones, ever since her unspeakable attitude over a most unfortunate feeding frenzy at my establishment, Pacific Kennels, when her disgusting brute of a land shark was killed—and a damned good thing too, if you ask me.”
Rennie touched her on the arm. “I realize I asked you to make your sympathies clear in order to save time, Miss Marjoribanks; but I ought to tell you that the computer pays no attention to rhetoric or adjectives. It deals in facts.”
“Quite, but just seeing that woman makes my blood boil. However—” She collected her thoughts. “Before his death, this woman had been to see me several times with the land shark Wilberforce, who was proving difficult to handle. A course of psychotherapy failed to produce the desired results and no wonder, because the brute was too fat. Fish are not land animals,” she explained, “and are not accustomed to supporting their entire weight on their ventral regions. The obesity of the shark Wilberforce was placing a constant strain on his bodily structure and causing him to act with a viciousness quite abnormal in a properly handled fish.”
She consulted her notes briefly, then resumed. “So I was forced to recommend other measures. I sold her a denticure set. It’s not an item in much demand—in fact that set is the only one I’ve ever sold. It contained sedative pills, anesthetic hypodarts”—she paused dramatically—”and a medium-sized, case-hardened file, for the shark’s teeth. Here is an example.” She laid a box on the table, opened it, and displayed the contents. So far as I could tell, it was identical to the set I’d seen in Carioca’s car on the morning the squid got Dave.
“Yes, well, you can see what we’re getting at,” interrupted Rennie, to Miranda Marjoribanks’ obvious annoyance. “There’s a file in the set, and a file was used for roughing up Doug’s harness. We aim to prove Carioca sabotaged the gear with the file from her denticure set.” He tossed a file on the table; it had a label attached. “Here’s the file found by our lampreys near the scene of the crime. Here”—he tabled a sheet of typed paper—”is a deposition by our lab to the effect that the traces of metal found in the teeth of the file are identical to the metal used in the harness—a comparatively unusual alloy. Here is a deposition by our fingerprints and perspiration analysis department stating that Miss Jones was the last person to use the file.”
The cards were passed over and fed into the defense computer. Eventually the cross-examination card emerged and the programmer began to translate it.
While this was going on a policeman had risen quickly from one of the side tables and was speaking to Rennie, who frowned and beckoned Dale Finlay. “Do you want to cause a revolution?” I heard him ask urgently. “There’s just been a breakout at the pen, and I can’t spare any men to handle it. It’s obviously tied in with what’s happening outside. Now just play it straight, will you? No angles, no heroes or martyrs, or I’ll have your cameras thrown out of court!”
Finlay nodded, for once chastened.
Carioca sat uncaring in her chair, a little back from the table with crossed legs exhibiting an expanse of thigh, her slithe-skin dress still a bland pink. Her eyes met mine and she winked almost imperceptibly. There was no way she could realize just how serious her crime was. I could imagine her on the slipway that night; maybe she’d just been driving by, furious at the abortive trip to Lake William, convinced that Doug was to blame… . Then, on a whim, she had stopped the car and taken the only available tool with which to vent her spite.
Eventually the defense counsel received the transcript of Miranda Marjoribanks’ evidence and glanced down the list of alternatives. He frowned. “This is a little embarrassing, Warren,” he said. “The machine can’t come up with any sensible cross-examination, unless you happen to believe in parallel worlds. It looks very much as though we shall have to go straight to the compitrator.”
I began to dream of Joanne with her fair hair and freckles.
Dale Finlay was standing over Rennie again, talking quickly. “Look. What sort of goddamned flop is this? I’ve contracted for two more hours and you’re talking about going to the compitrator already?”
“This is a court of law, Dale. I’m afraid your miscalculations have nothing to do with the issue.” Rennie was smiling in satisfaction.
“Yes, but what about the public? They’re the ones who foot the bill for this goddamned court and all its trappings. What about all those people outside? That’s Carioca Jones sitting there, man. The public is entitled to some sort of show!”
“They can have that after the verdict. She’ll be asked if she has anything to say before sentence is passed.”
Muttering unhappily, Finlay moved away. I was feeling that glow which normally comes only after the third scotch on an empty stomach. I had given my evidence, the whole wretched performance was grinding to a close, and soon I would be able to go home and think about Joanne.
“Are you saying that an accused person is not entitled to any defense?”
As Carioca spoke out, there was a flurry among the cameramen and Rennie and the defense counsel looked at her in surprise.
“I was under the impression that we had no defense,” said her man anxiously, wondering where he had slipped up. “We can only present facts, Miss Jones. And I must admit that the facts are against us.”
“Well, really!” Carioca was on her feet in an attitude of astonishment, staring at those seated around the Triangle in dramatic bewilderment. “Is this what I’ve been paying my taxes for? Is this what I hired a legal counsel for? Oh, no, indeed. You’re not going to get away as easily as that. Since it’s clear to me that you’re totally incompetent, I am informing you that I’m terminating your services as from this minute!” Subtly her stance altered, she struck a heroic pose. “I shall conduct my own defense.”
“Well, for God’s sake, go ahead,” replied her counsel, annoyance conflicting with amusement on his face.
“I call Mr. Joseph Sagar as my witness.”
As the thrill of apprehension hit my stomach I saw the cameras swing in my direction like a billion eyes—which, in fact, they represented.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Rennie was saying disgustedly. “He hasn’t been primed, Miss Jones. Are we going through the old question-and-answer routine? It’ll take forever.”
“Because he hasn’t been primed like those other parrots, he’ll tell the truth as he sees it. The truth from an honest man is worth a thousand rehearsed lies from your minions.”
The operator spoke up for once. “The compitrator isn’t interested in truth or lies, Miss Jones. It’s interested in the facts.”
“And the facts you shall have!” she cried. “Come here, Joe. Now. I want you to cast your mind back to a certain morning a few weeks ago when you came running to me, desperate for my help because your man Dave—Froehlich, is it?—was in the terrible clutches of a giant squid. Do you remembe
r that, Joe?”
“I remember.”
“I was in my car—and fortunately I happened to have poor late Wilberforce’s denticure set with me, which now I have unaccountably mislaid, in which there were a number of objects that we thought might be of use. Do you remember that, Joe?”
“Yes.” Both programmers were tapping away like maniacs.
I heard another low growl from the crowd outside.
“In fact we found the hypodarts in the set. You took them and you saved Dave’s life with them. Now; think carefully. Visualize the denticure set. In it were the following items: A bottle of pills. A pack of one-shot hypodarts. And a medium-sized tooth file, metallic with a blue handle, bearing the initials P. K. Do you remember that, Joe?”
Her black eyes were deep and glittering, her gaze fixed unwinkingly on mine.
I couldn’t remember. I honestly couldn’t remember. I didn’t think the file was there, but it might have been. Rennie’s evidence could be faked. Miranda Marjoribanks could have lied. There were influential political elements behind this trial.
I thought of Joanne, shortly due for release.
Carioca sensed my indecision and her hands rose slightly in supplication. Her smooth young hands.…
“You’re a goddamned liar, Carioca,” I said harshly. “There was no file in that box.”
19
Carioca stood still for a moment, allowing her expression of surprise to drift gradually into tragic grief; then she sat down while the programmer finished his tapping and slipped the card into the defense computer. Rennie was grinning at me wolfishly as I wandered away from the table, a little sickened by my own action.
“You don’t rate very high, nationwide,” Finlay informed me in that remonstrating tone favored by those who haven’t made fools of themselves.
The Girl With a Symphony in Her Fingers Page 19