by Tony Salter
It would be good to see Nicki, but where was she?
A buzzer broke the silence and the pink cloud faded out of focus as I saw the door open and a slim figure walk in. She was looking a lot better than I felt, although her trademark sharp, black trouser suit with a white blouse and shoulder pads left a lot to be desired – it must have been the fourth time shoulder pads had been back since I’d watched Dallas as a child and they’d never been much of a look.
She was breathing heavily as she slumped onto the metal chair. ‘Sorry I’m late, Julie. Swiss Cottage was a nightmare.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s not as if I’m going anywhere.’ I managed a decent attempt at a smile. ‘Take a second. Catch your breath. We’ve got half an hour.’
Nicki opened her bag, took out a leather notebook and pen, straightened her jacket and leant forward. ‘OK. I’m with you.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘I’ll get straight to it. Things have changed, and I needed to speak to you before the trial ends.’
‘It isn’t going as planned?’
‘Unfortunately not.’
‘What’s happened?’ I could hear the squeak of anxiety in her voice. The last year must have been tough on Nicki. She’d only ever known me as a figure of power and control and, although I’d tried, it wasn’t easy to maintain that image from behind bars. Losing Pulsar had been tough enough, but having Odell had helped. Being in prison was worse.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘Everything will be fine in the end but, for now, it appears that Dave Bukowski, with a bit of help from Sam Blackwell, has stuck his big nose into my life one more time.’
‘What do you mean?’ I loved the angry snarl on her face. ‘What’s wrong with them? Why can’t they leave you alone?’
I shrugged. ‘I guess hell has no fury like a lover scorned,’ I said. ‘Anyway, Bukowski has used a side effect of his nano-genetic fingerprinting to help the police link the shards of glass found in that policeman’s face with me. They’re saying that it places me at the scene of the crime. It’s bullshit, of course, but the media have been against me from the start and my lawyers are saying I’ll be found guilty next week.’
‘But that’s ridiculous,’ said Nicki. ‘It’s not fair.’
As she spoke, I felt my body sag into my chair and unfamiliar wetness blinking at the corner of my eyes. For once, it would be wonderful to embrace the unfairness of life and to wallow in a cotton-wool bed of self pity. Why not stop fighting and let the future be what it chose to be? Would that be so bad?
My moment of self-indulgence couldn’t have lasted more than two or three seconds. Of course that would be bad. I’d travelled a long way down that road almost a year earlier, after watching helplessly from Rome as Pulsar was taken from me. I could still remember the feeling of slowly breaking apart and becoming insubstantial. They weren’t good memories and besides, I had my little black book to consider.
‘Come on, Nicki,’ I said. ‘You must’ve learned at least one thing from me. The concept of fairness is pointless and redundant. I may not be guilty of this, but I am guilty of letting my guard down, and I’m paying a price for that. It won’t be for long though. We’ll win on appeal.’
‘I’m sure you will. And then you’ll make those bastards pay.’
‘And some …’ I said, leaning forward closer to the grubby glass. ‘The thing is, Nicki. I don’t want to wait. I need you to drive the first phase forward while I’m away. It would be too obvious to start as soon as I’m out. Where are you with our pet project? Last time we spoke, you’d made some breakthroughs.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s going well. We’ve now called it Damocles and we’re making great progress on the updated version. The self-learning algorithms are completely new, so we don’t quite know how it’ll develop once it’s out in the real world, but the initial results are very promising. The bit we’re struggling with is the fixed lifetime and abort sequences. Once the current versions are unleashed into the test environment, they develop an uncanny sense of self-preservation. They disable their own control systems, become self sufficient and totally focused on their goal – like the killer robots from those old President Schwarzenegger movies.’
‘It sounds as though it’s working too well if anything,’ I said. ‘I don’t think that will be a problem for the first phase, although you do need to figure out how to control it.’
‘Don’t worry. We will.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘When will it be ready for release?’
‘It’s going to be six months at best.’
‘I need it in two weeks. Can you do that?’
Nicki almost jumped out of her chair. ‘Not a hope,’ she said. ‘Even with a massive increase in resources, and accepting that there might be some unexpected side effects, we couldn’t get a working beta version operational in less than eight or nine weeks.’
‘You have all the resources you need, I assume?’
‘Yes. Odell is twenty per cent up on budget for the year and that’s showing no sign of slowing down.’
‘Good. So we’re agreed. Assuming I’m found guilty next week, you’ll activate against the two primary targets in two weeks?’
‘But I just told you. It won’t be ready.’
‘I heard you loud and clear,’ I said. ‘But that’s when it has to happen. You’ll have to go with whatever you can get done by then and hope it works. Spend whatever you need.’
I could see the fight in Nicki’s eyes. She wanted to be professional, and I was pushing her into a corner. I held her gaze and waited until the resolve faded. ‘OK,’ she said, eventually. ‘I’ll do what I can. And the others?’
‘The others can wait,’ I said, my mind filled only with images of Dave and Sam’s smug faces, toasting my upcoming conviction, smiling and clinking champagne glasses. I took a deep calming breath. ‘I want to see Sam and Bukowski squirm first of all.’
Nicki must have seen something in my eyes and pulled back from the glass. ‘Remind me never to become your enemy, Julie,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I’d like that.’
I smiled. ‘Don’t worry. That could never happen,’ I said. ‘And one more thing. We shouldn’t see each other again until after the trial. If you need anything, speak to Simon Jacobs.’
Time to Pay
I couldn’t just sit down and wait. It was impossible.
My father and Daz were perched on one of the long pine benches, seemingly relaxed and chatting away. I knew they weren’t really calm, but how were they able to lounge around and pretend to be? I didn’t have it in me.
The lawyers had told us the jury might take hours, or even days, to reach a verdict. I needed to settle in for the long haul, but all I could do was pace up and down, walking along to the looming Tudor-arched windows at the end of the corridor, peering out through the dirt-stained glass, then turning and striding back towards the stairwell. I kept my hands stuffed into my trouser pockets to stop my arms from waving around like an animated scarecrow.
The case had already taken three weeks, and I hadn’t missed a moment. I’d eventually accepted that Julie would never be prosecuted for what she did to my mother, but if the evil bitch saw me in court every day, it would remind her of the real reason why she was there.
There was no concrete proof that it was Julie who’d deliberately driven my mother to question her sanity. Maybe she hadn’t expected Mum to actually kill herself? Maybe her cold heart wasn’t able to understand how far a mother might go to protect her child? It didn’t matter either way; her cold-hearted obsession and jealousy was responsible and she needed to pay.
She would be convicted of a different offence, but I wanted her to understand that it was because of Fabiola that she’d been caught and it would be because of Fabiola that she would go to prison for the rest of her life. I needed her to know that.
Sadly, she’d recovered a lot of her poise since I’d seen her that one time in prison. When I’d told her about the new evidence, she’d looked broken – as though she�
�d given up fighting. But, as Daz had told me more times than I could count, Jax Daniels – to me she would always be Julie Martin – was an elemental force of nature and should never, never be underestimated. My mother had made that mistake and had paid for it with her life.
The cold fires which burned inside Julie seemed able to rekindle themselves again and again, however many times they were quenched. There was something inhuman about the way she managed to restructure herself and rebuild her ego whatever happened to her. Almost as though she was an android which could be rebooted after a system crash.
I’d watched her standing in the dock, day after day, with a quiet smile on her face, looking as young and beautiful as ever. Anyone who’d wondered how I could ever have been attracted to a fifty-year-old woman would only need to see her to understand. I’d been surprised when she’d refused to be a witness – she would have been able to use that opportunity to impose her charisma on the jury members – but her lawyer must have insisted.
It was agonising to see her looking so happy, healthy and relaxed but I kept reminding myself that, as long as she was found guilty, it didn’t matter so much. The years in prison would wear on her eventually.
As long as the jury found her guilty.
The evidence was compelling; they might not be able to prosecute her for my mother’s death, but they’d linked her DNA directly to the attack on that poor policeman. Even her lawyer had been lukewarm in his summing up. Surely no jury would see anything differently? She must be found guilty.
Unless – and there could always be an “unless” where that woman was concerned – unless she had somehow got to the jury. Threats or bribes, she’d proven that she was capable of both. I took a deep breath. There was no point in going round and round in circles – we would find out soon enough.
‘Come on, Sam. The jury are on their way back.’ I saw the familiar figure of Rishi Patel walking towards me, high heels clacking on the tiled floor. Rishi was the Crown’s lead barrister, but she wasn’t much older than me and, apart from the wig, she didn’t look like any barrister I’d ever seen.
‘What?’ I said. ‘But they can’t be finished already. They only went out ten minutes ago.’
‘It’s actually been more like an hour,’ she said. ‘But they’ve been much quicker than I expected.’
She wasn’t smiling, and I felt my shoulder blades spasm together. ‘It must be a good thing, though,’ I said. ‘Right?’
She squeezed my forearm and forced a half-smile. ‘I’m sure it is. Only, with Julie Martin, it seems as though anything is possible.’ She pointed towards Rupert and Daz, her crimson nails flashing under the fluorescent lights. ‘Anyway. Let’s grab the others and go face the music.’
Quick had to be good. It had to be.
The courtroom was packed. Julie couldn’t avoid publicity any more, and the world’s press had gathered to gloat in her downfall. There weren’t many human constants which spread across race, culture and geography, but the guilty pleasure of watching rich or powerful people take a nosedive was high on the list. Just twelve months earlier, Julie Martin had been owner and CEO of the fifth largest company in the world. She’d fallen a long way.
This last act in the story of her humiliating crash was attracting billions of rubberneckers and the trial had dominated water cooler gossip for weeks. What was good – in most ways – was how the media was picking up on my mother’s story even though it hadn’t been part of the evidence.
They understood how the story would resonate with their audiences. A beautiful young woman, a spurned lover and the evil methodical cyberstalking which had left everyone questioning their own lives and online security. And, even in 2042, the fluid sexuality still had the power to titillate.
Although I was happy to see the world judging Julie for what she’d done to my family, the downside was that the journalists were behaving like vultures and wouldn’t leave us alone. There was also talk of a book, or even a film. I had my own ideas about that, but what I was really hoping was that, after the verdict, they would move on to something else so our life could start again.
As long as it was the right verdict.
The court clerk was struggling to keep discipline and hundreds of overexcited voices filled the room with wave after wave of babbling chatter. It wasn’t until the judge came in that the atmosphere calmed and, even then, it was five minutes until something approaching silence returned.
The jury filed in and sat down, ordinary people facing an extraordinary task. They were a mixed bunch, although their faces were uniform, each mouth set into a grim expressionless line. I’d been watching them all week, trying to get a hint of something out of the ordinary, something to indicate that Julie might have got to them. But how would I be able to tell?
The clerk walked over to the jury foreman who handed him a folded scrap of paper. He passed it to the judge who then read it carefully before refolding it and placing it down in front of him. Time seemed to be moving so slowly. Were they deliberately trying to build tension?
The court clerk looked at the judge who nodded. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,’ he said. ‘In the case of the Crown and Janice Cargill.’ Just for a second I thought I saw Julie wince at the mention of her birth name. ‘Have you reached a verdict?’
The jury foreman stood, arms by his sides. ‘We have,’ he said, his voice booming across the sudden silence. Everyone in the crowded room was holding their breath.
‘And you all agree on this verdict?’
‘Yes.’
The clerk continued. ‘On the charge of administering a destructive or noxious thing thereby endangering life or inflicting grievous bodily harm, contrary to Section 23 of the Offences against the Person Act 1861. How do you find the defendant?’
‘Guilty as charged,’ said the foreman, looking down at the floor.
I squeezed my eyes tight with relief, but this wasn’t the main charge. It carried a maximum sentence of ten years. Intent was the thing. That was what would make the difference.
‘On the charge of throwing a corrosive substance with intent to do grievous bodily harm, contrary to section 29 of the Offences against the Person Act 1861. How do you find the defendant?’
The foreman looked up, turned towards Julie and thrust out his chin like a posturing cockerel. ‘Guilty as charged,’ he said.
The sound of a hundred people all gasping in unison filled the room before the clamour of a hundred chattering voices flooded back, rising and falling and swamping any attempts to quieten them. The cries of the clerk were now soundless and impotent against the lynch mob fervour.
It took a moment for me to realise that I was crying – I didn’t know whether it was with relief, sadness or joy, although they were probably all mixed together. When I felt my dad’s arm wrap around me and squeeze me tight, I turned to face him and saw he was equally overwhelmed.
‘Well done, boy,’ he said. ‘None of this would have happened without you and no-one would ever have known the truth. I’m proud of you … and right now your mother must be looking down on us with a massive smile on her face.’
I hugged him and buried my face into his shoulder. There were plenty of reporters watching us and I needed a few moments to get myself under control.
‘Thank you,’ said the judge, finally regaining control of his courtroom. ‘And, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you for your diligence in following what has been a difficult and most unsettling case. Considering the various complexities involved, I will defer sentencing until tomorrow.’
The full impact of the verdict still hadn’t sunk in and we didn’t know the final sentence, but guilty on both counts should mean at least twenty years, which would be enough.
It really was over.
I looked across at Julie, who was facing straight ahead, standing tall and looking at the judge with that familiar half-smile. I saw nothing in her expression to show that anything was troubling her, let alone that she’d been found guilty and was facing a po
ssible life sentence. If she had any genuine human emotions left, she kept them buried very deep.
And then she turned and looked at me. It wasn’t a look of anger, not even hatred; there was something else in that stare, something dark and implacable, something hungry which would never be satisfied.
I shivered.
What Next?
‘Your lawyer’s here,’ said the policewoman as she pushed open the door to the holding cell. Then she laughed, the nasty, crowing laugh of the professional bully. ‘Maybe you should’ve got someone better, eh?’
She looked at me with her piggy little eyes and waited for me to cower like the broken woman she assumed I was. I held her gaze and smiled, filling my look with dark promises, until she turned her head away, stepping aside to let Simon pass. ‘Murdering bitch,’ she muttered under her breath as she pulled the door closed.
Simon Argyle had been my personal lawyer for a very long time – I looked after him well and he worked exclusively for me.
As he walked into the interview room he avoided my gaze, his eyes flicking all around the cell. I suspected he was much more upset than me about the verdict. He would be questioning where his next mortgage payment was coming from after all. Even a day earlier, he’d tried to convince me there was a good chance of acquittal and I knew he expected me to be furious with him.
That was the thing about lawyers; however good they were, they could never make a realistic appraisal of the odds facing them. It was always in their interests to convince their clients that the chances of success were better than they actually were. Misguided hope and false optimism kept the fees rolling in.
Unfortunately, after years of gilding the lily, it seemed that every one of them lost the ability to look at reality even when the facts were spread out in front of them, as glaringly obvious as shining diamond rings in a jeweller’s window.