"And, since the man is innocent," Jonathan continued, "we have to reveal the mistakes that were made by the prosecution and the defense. I've read through most of the case files, and something just seems to be a little off. That's why we're interested."
"Why do you need to talk to me?" Pam asked.
Denise answered, "We need to know if we're wasting our time here."
Jonathan took out a pipe. "Do you ladies mind if I puff a little?"
Neither woman objected.
"There were two crucial pieces of evidence," Jonathan continued. "The first was that Thompson could be placed at the scene. This was never refuted, so it's not important to us. The second was the DNA evidence—it went missing at the lab. Do you have any insight into that, Ms. Sorrensen?"
"I heard that it happened, that's all," Pam replied.
"Did anyone make a big deal out of it?"
"Not really. It seemed that the prosecution was confident that they'd win without it."
"Was the rest of the evidence really that overwhelming?—I'm just not convinced," Jonathan said. "Tell me if we're missing something."
"It was the timing of everything, and the testimonies of the witnesses," Pam explained. "If I'd been a juror, I would have had a hard time acquitting him."
"Another thing confuses me," Jonathan said. "What kind of idiot would do that at a public event with over a thousand people present? This guy—Thompson—was no idiot. On top of that, he denied it all—even after the prosecution had offered a plea bargain that would've halved his sentence."
"He was always stubborn," Pam said.
"Stubborn maybe, stupid no," Denise said.
Jonathan's pipe went out and he relit it while puffing in a slow rhythm. "So my question for you, Ms. Sorrensen, is the following: disregarding the abundance of circumstantial evidence, how did you know that William Thompson raped that girl?"
"I didn't know," she replied.
Pam's voice sounded defensive, and Denise saw it definitively in her face.
"I read your testimony in the transcript—it's in the case file," Jonathan said, and pointed to the cardboard shipping box on his desk. "You sounded pretty persuasive—in print anyway. I don't know how you actually sounded during the trial."
"I only answered their questions."
"I'm sure that's true," he replied, "but it's easy to tell the difference in your demeanor—even through the written transcript—between your interactions with the prosecutor and the defense lawyer. You were obviously a witness for the prosecution, and if I were the defense attorney, I would've objected to much of your testimony." He tapped out his pipe, which had gone out again. He sighed and put it in an ash tray.
"Like I said, I just answered the questions—the most embarrassing questions ... "
Denise saw Pam's lip quiver almost imperceptibly.
"I just can't understand how he was convicted," Jonathan said. "The evidence was all circumstantial, and there was no input from the victim obviously."
He poured more coffee into his cup, and then Denise's.
"The community was frightened by a string of rapes that had occurred in the months leading up to his arrest," Pam explained. "When he was arrested, the local news even reported that the "serial rapist' had finally been caught."
"That's why Thompson's attorney should have requested a change of venue. This is a classic case of inept defense," Jonathan said. He opened a notebook and read for a few seconds, then looked to Pam. "I don't really understand the relevance of your testimony."
Pam shifted in her seat and responded, "My understanding is that it was meant to compare some of the defendant's behaviors with specific attributes of rapist profiles."
"The defendant?" Jonathan replied. "Really?"
Denise could tell the conversation wasn't going to go well from this point forward.
"The man was your fiancé, and you refer to him as defendant?" Jonathan reiterated with a look of irritation. "I have to say, Ms. Sorrensen, I don't understand at all what happened there. To answer the questions posed by the prosecutor was necessary, but many of your answers were speculative, and the defense attorney should have objected." Jonathan glanced at his notes, sighed, and continued, "You testified that you two were having problems; please explain."
Pam seemed to process his words for a few seconds before she responded. "We'd been having problems for months—mostly arguing about our plans for the future. Things became much worse once he was arrested, and I pretty much lost any feelings I had for him once the evidence came out."
"Excuse my bluntness, but you jumped ship pretty quickly," Jonathan retorted. "And I don't really care why, but I need to know if there was some special circumstance. Did he abuse you? Did you know of someone else that he'd assaulted? We need to know—are we wasting our time here?"
"He never abused me," Pam replied. "I only testified regarding our relationship and our sex life, which was nonexistent near the end." She looked as if she was about to cry, and her lips quivered more now. "As far as I know, he never assaulted anyone until that night ... The media accused him of those other rapes at first, but he was never charged with them ... They were brought up during the trial, but it was supposed to be stricken from the record."
"My lord. So the jurors heard it—although, it's likely they had already heard it in the news anyway." Jonathan shook his head in disapproval. "This man needs a new trial. This is very disturbing." He opened a file folder and said to Pam, "According to your testimony, you two weren't sexually active for many weeks before William's arrest?"
"We hadn't had sex in over two months, and I was out of town for the two weeks before he was arrested. I was still in Wisconsin with my parents when I got a call from a friend about Will's arrest. I testified that he might have been sexually frustrated at the time of the assault."
"What were the specifics of the problems between you two?" Denise asked.
"The future," Pam replied immediately. "I didn't want to live in a shitty little college town, and not have a career." Her eyes became glassy, and her voice cracked. "If he wasn't willing to risk his career, and try to move to city where I could find a job, I wanted to get out of the relationship altogether."
"Then why didn't you just leave him?" Jonathan asked.
Pam glared back at him. "I couldn't leave him. My mother was pressuring me to marry him—have her grandchildren, all that crap," Pam almost yelled, but seemed to catch herself and toned it down.
"Have you spoken with him since the conviction?" Denise asked.
"I haven't communicated with him since I testified," Pam replied. "I'm sure he sees it as a betrayal, but I don't ... I doubt I could have done anything to stop the conviction."
Denise tried to see it from the man's point of view: he was hanging off the edge of a cliff, and the woman he loved was basically indifferent to his predicament. She didn't peel his fingers from the edge or anything, but she maybe kicked a little sand in his face to help him along.
"Do you even know where William is?" Denise asked.
"Yes, I do," Pam snapped. "Some experimental treatment—he's going to be out in a year. I heard he's getting off easy."
Denise saw Jonathan shake his head in disgust, and his face redden to the point of bursting. "Nobody knows exactly what that so-called treatment entails, so let's not refer to it as "getting off easy' just yet," Jonathan hissed. He walked over to his desk, retrieved something from a drawer, and returned to the table. "We have a lot of work to do." He tossed an envelope onto the table in front of Pam. "Here's something for your time. Thanks for coming." He grabbed his coat from a chair next to his desk. "Denise, please lock up when you leave," he said as he walked out.
Denise knew they would now undoubtedly proceed with the case.
*
Will waited for the next phase of the assembly with some anxiety. After ten minutes of nervous stewing, he finally heard Coates get things started.
"Time to finish the head frame—call in the med group," Coates spoke in
to the walkie-talkie.
"Roger that," came back, and Coates put the radio back in his pocket. "We have one more minor procedure, and then you'll be ready to be inserted into the system."
"What's the minor procedure?" Will asked nervously.
"The frame needs to be rigidly fastened to your head," Coates explained. "Some of the procedures that you'll go through later require precise positioning. The Exo uses a modified version of stabilization technology that's employed in brain surgery and radiation oncology. It keeps the head perfectly stationary—and precisely positioned."
A cart approached, chirped to a halt, then backed in towards Will's feet. Two men got out and opened a container on the flatbed, revealing a stainless steel hand-drill, and the remaining parts of the head frame.
Coates pushed a button on a remote control, and the Exoskeleton tilted backward until Will was facing the ceiling and suspended three feet from the floor, as if he were lying on a table. A tech started working immediately, fastening rods and brackets, and plugging in wires around his head. After a few minutes he said, "Time for the straps."
Will didn't like the word "straps" anymore. He knew something bad was coming.
Another man retrieved the nylon straps, and together the two techs weaved them through the frame and around his head. Will then heard a familiar ratcheting sound, the straps tightening around his skull until it was painful. When they were finished, his head was completely immobilized.
One tech walked to the cart and returned with a roll of gauze and a scalpel, while the other assembled the drill. Will thought he knew where this was headed, and tried to prepare himself. Sweat trickled into his eye.
The man with the scalpel rubbed ink around the edge of the metal rod and fed it through a hole on the head frame until it touched Will's forehead. Will saw his reflection in the tech's safety goggles: the cold, metal rod left a circular, blue mark on the upper-right part of his forehead, about an inch below where his hairline had been. The tech then made two incisions, forming a bleeding cross pattern centered on the blue mark, and then soaked up the blood around the incisions with the gauze. He then tore open one of the four pie sections of the cross pattern with a needle-nosed pliers, revealing white skull for a split second, after which the void filled with blood.
Will hissed in pain as he felt the skin being ripped away. His eyes watered, blurring his vision, but he felt the man tear open the remaining three flaps. Next, the other tech came in with the drill. He fed the drill bit through the same hole through which the marking rod was fed, and began drilling. It was slow and painful, and seemed to make his entire skull vibrate. Will now understood why the nurse had shaved his head so closely after the medical exam.
When the drill was removed, the tech inserted an object into the hole, and slowly twisted it back and forth. About a minute later, he removed the object and said, "It's tapped. Get the cement and anchor, and let's get this one set in."
In the distorted reflection from the goggles, Will saw them fill the hole in his skull with a white paste, thread in an anchor, and then feed a threaded, blue-metallic rod through the head frame and into the anchor. They finished by tightening two lock-nuts to secure the rod to the frame.
Although he couldn't see their work, Will felt the process being repeated three more times, for a total of four holes and four threaded support rods, all rigidly mounted to the frame.
Coates walked over. "That epoxy will be fully cured in an hour, and we'll release the straps at that point to make some final adjustments," he explained. "Then we'll put you into the insertion room for the night. Tomorrow morning you'll start treatment. We're on time, thankfully." Coates seemed relieved.
"Yes, thankfully," Will repeated quietly.
"Good work everyone. You all can leave—except for you guys," Coates said and pointed at a group of technicians. Coates now spoke into his radio, "Let's get him something to eat for after that epoxy hardens." He turned to Will, "We'll get you a burger; it's our only choice—New Year's Eve."
A young tech jogged around the corner and stopped next to Coates.
"Get the man a burger and some fries, and get me the same," Coates said.
The tech dug into his pants pocket and pulled out his car keys. A few others placed their orders and gave him cash before he left.
"That'll take about forty-five minutes," Coates said. "We'll have to feed you through that thing. It'll be a little messy, but don't worry—you'll get a shower before you're put into rotation for the night."
"Rotation?" Will asked.
"You'll have to experience it for yourself."
The place was full of secrets, Will thought. The little information he'd been able to acquire along the way was incomplete, and didn't help him any. "I sure didn't know what I was getting into" Will said. "I thought this was going to be a hard labor facility, or something to do with hazardous duty ... "
"It's quite a bit more than that," Coates cut in. "We had a guy come through last year who said he wasn't going to give them the pleasure of hearing him scream. What a jack-ass ... Everybody screams."
"Scream? Why did he scream? What happened to him?" Will asked, even though he wasn't surprised—based on what he'd already experienced in the medical and dental exams.
"You still don't get it," Coates said, shaking his head. "Why do you think they were testing your pain thresholds?"
"Because the treatments will be painful," Will responded.
"They're designed to be painful."
The words made Will's blood run cold.
Coates spoke into his radio, and they lowered the Exo into a seated position with its feet almost touching the floor. Coates then walked into another room, leaving Will to himself for a few minutes until the food arrived.
Will was thoroughly frightened, but just sat there in an exhausted, unthinking daze. Before he knew it, the young technician had returned with the food, and was feeding him bite-sized pieces through his head gear.
*
Richard was enjoying the calming glow of his fireplace when his cell phone rang. He set his wine glass on the coffee table, sat forward on the couch, and looked at the caller ID on his work phone. The pit of his stomach always tightened when heard that ring-tone, but it was fully yanked into a full knot whenever he saw Bergman's name. It was 10 p.m., why was Bergman calling him at home so late? He answered the phone.
"Richard, I wanted to see where you're at on that presentation," Bergman said.
Richard thought Bergman's words were slightly slurred. Had the man been drinking? "I just got the data from the Long Island facility this morning—they're always late—but it's ready to go. I'll get it to you tomorrow morning."
"This is an important one," Bergman said. "You know it's not just about the funding anymore."
"I know."
"It's about the people—the subjects," Bergman explained. "If our suppliers abandon the project, we're screwed—it won't matter how much money we have."
"I know," Richard replied. This was not news: of course Richard knew that the supply of human subjects was the most crucial aspect of the project. Bergman had successfully tapped every military, foreign, and penal resource available, and had generously compensated the respective suppliers. However, the more time that passed without results, the more nervous the suppliers became. And they should be nervous, Richard thought. One day, they'd all be hunted down like Nazi war criminals.
Bergman continued after an awkward pause. "There's something else I needed to talk to you about, but we can do that after the presentation."
"Something important?" The knot in Richard's stomach tightened even further.
"Of some importance, yes. Not to talk about over the phone," Bergman replied. "Having a nice New Year's with the wife?"
Richard felt it was an awkward change of topic. "We're just taking it easy tonight. And you?"
"And how are the girls—in bed already?"
"Hours ago."
"Sounds good ... Have a happy New Year, Richard."
>
"You too," Richard replied and then hung up. He stared blankly at the fire. Why was Bergman asking about the kids? And why had he been drinking? He'd never known Bergman to drink.
"Something wrong?" his wife said, interrupting his thoughts. She'd just walked into the living room with a newly-opened bottle of wine.
"No, just work stuff." He smiled the best he could, but knew his wife saw through it. He hated keeping things from her. But he'd done it for years now. He had to. It only added to the guilt.
*
Will watched Coates sign some paperwork and hand it off to one of his minions.
"Make the transfer—send him to the showers."
Will heard what sounded like claps and sighs of relief from the onlookers as the scorpion-vehicle transported him towards two giant, white doors. They extended all the way from the floor to the high ceiling, and had a large, red emblem in their center. The emblem looked like a tic-tac-toe board, but with a few extra line segments on the outer edges. He'd never seen such a symbol before, but it had a foreboding familiarity to it; something he couldn't put his finger on. The emblem split at its center as the two doors slid apart, to the left and right. The truck took him through the opening and into another room, where another Exo support arm, identical to the one on the vehicle, hung from a flat, chain-like track in the ceiling. Two winches lowered cables with hooks to aid in the switchover.
The techs made the switch, performed another quick systems check, and then left. The doors closed behind them with a loud, metallic latching sound, and Will assumed he was finally "fully inserted" into the system.
After about a minute of tense silence, Will saw and heard small hatches open on every surface of the room—the walls, ceiling, and floor. Nozzles poked out, and all at once warm water and soap sprayed from them with great force.
EXOSKELETON - A Novel Page 9