“She must have known something of it,” Flint said. “She agreed to the case.”
The Rev’s emotion collar rose, then settled against his neck. Flint wasn’t sure what the gesture meant—perhaps irritation?—but whatever it was, it made the interpreter jump.
“She represented a guilty client,” the Rev said, and did not add anything else.
Finally Flint said, “Defense attorneys often do. That’s how the advocacy system works.”
“The human advocacy system—” The Rev didn’t break off mid-sentence. The interpreter did.
Again, he spoke to the Rev. He spoke for a long time, his hands moving as if illustrating a point. The other Rev had crowded closer to listen.
Flint only caught a few words. Law. Court. Misunderstanding. The rest was lost in a flurry of Rev.
Then the Rev’s head bobbled—it was the Rev’s version of a dismissive gesture.
The interpreter turned toward Flint.
“I asked him,” the interpreter said, “if I could explain this to you. He isn’t a legal expert and he certainly doesn’t understand interstellar law. He’s the Rev version of a bounty hunter, and having him explain the delicacies of the Rev legal system probably won’t work. You’ll both get frustrated, and his companions are upset enough.”
“All right,” Flint said. Then he repeated that in Rev. When he was finished, he added, “Better make it quick.”
“Believe me,” the interpreter said, glancing nervously at the Rev. “In some ways, the Rev legal system is similar to ours. It appears to be an advocacy system, where two attorneys meet head to head in front of a judge. But that’s where the similarities end.”
The Rev were watching. The spokesrev appeared to be listening closely. Flint wondered just how much English he understood.
“The Rev have two courts: one for the innocent and one for the guilty.”
“What?” Flint asked.
The interpreter raised his two forefingers, so that Flint wouldn’t speak any more.
“A Rev defense attorney’s first job is to figure out whether the client is innocent or guilty. If the attorney believes the client innocent, the attorney defends that client in the advocacy system. If the attorney believes the client guilty, she takes him to another system where they plea-bargain or find a way to settle the case.”
The spokesrev nodded. Flint frowned, wondering why this mattered.
“If a Rev attorney defends a client in the advocacy system, the attorney is, in effect, signaling her belief in the client’s innocence. The Rev are sympathetic to an attorney who later learns of her client’s guilt, believing anyone can be fooled. Where they are not sympathetic is in the case of the repeat offender.”
Flint felt his frown grow deeper. There had been nothing mentioned about attorneys or repeat offenses on that warrant. Maakestad was accused of a crime.
“An attorney who represents a client in advocacy court guarantees by her word and bond that the client is innocent. She also takes responsibility for any similar crimes the client commits in the future.”
“Responsibility?” Flint asked.
“She is considered an equal partner in those crimes because, the Rev assume, she knew her client’s character. She knew that he would go out and commit a second or third crime.”
“How can anyone know that?” Flint asked.
The interpreter glanced at the Rev again. They were watching the interchange closely.
“If you don’t know, you don’t defend the client,” the interpreter said. “You take the client to the other court where you plea-bargain. Defending the client becomes too great a risk otherwise.”
“So Maakestad defended a Rev client in this advocacy system?”
“Apparently,” the interpreter said.
“And this client was a repeat offender?”
“I’m not sure.” The interpreter turned toward the Rev and spoke for another moment in Rev. The spokesrev leaned closer, but as he did, the emotion collar on the Rev in the back turned a faint shade of green.
They would have to end this part of the conversation soon. The Rev were getting too upset. Maybe Flint would be able to convince them to return to their ship until he could deliver Palmer/Maakestad.
“This woman,” the Rev said, “defended a known criminal who manufactured drugs. She claimed that it does not matter what he did in the past, only that he was innocent of this particular crime. It was a novel concept in Rev justice and made big news.”
Which was why the Rev knew about it, then.
“So her client was found guilty?” Flint asked.
The Rev shook its head. “She was successful. However, her client has since been convicted of the same crime, manufacturing drugs, only this time, two of the Rev who took those drugs died.”
The Rev home world, Revina, and its satellites had been battling the drug trade for a very long time. Because the Rev’s emotions were so volatile, many Rev used artificial means to keep those emotions in check. Unlike so many in the human drug trade, this crime on Revnata was a high-end crime, with wealthy clients who often worked for interstellar corporations.
Flint had dealt a lot with the Rev drug trade because the Rev considered caffeine to be one of the worst drugs on their market. Caffeine worked like cocaine on the Rev nervous system, speeding up the thought processes, making the Rev more efficient, and granting a sense of confidence. Caffeine also killed one out of five Rev who used it regularly. Since caffeine was a legal drug in all human colonies, the Rev had to rely on help from border patrols and space cops to prevent shipments to Rev worlds.
Flint wasn’t familiar with the manufactured drugs on any of the Rev worlds but he suspected they were as lethal to the Rev as caffeine could be.
“So he was a repeat offender, and she should have known that,” Flint said. “Which is why she’s being charged with a crime on Revnata.”
“Not charged,” the Rev said. “She is guilty. She defended a known criminal and her deception resulted in the death of two Rev.”
“This is, to the Rev, a slam-dunk,” the interpreter added, as an aside. “They don’t have to prove anything about her except that she defended this guy.”
“What did you say?” The Rev asked the interpreter in Rev. Flint recognized that phrase, having used it a lot himself.
The interpreter answered in Rev. The spokesrev nodded, and then continued, “This woman has escaped our justice too long. You cannot allow that to continue.”
And Flint wouldn’t if he knew where she was. “One more question, and then I’ll see if I can get her to admit any of this.”
The third Rev leaned forward, his dark eyes bulging. The room was even hotter than it had been before.
“This happened a long time ago,” Flint said. “Has this woman been on the run for years? If so, that would explain the alternate name.”
“She has fought us in court, citing her status as a human as an excuse,” the Rev said. “It would be a valid excuse with a human client, but she had a Rev client, one no other Rev would touch. She should have known better.”
Most criminals should have known better than to repeat the crime in any Rev world, Flint thought, but did not say that. Still, this was the first case that had come to him in the last two days that he had no ethical qualms about. If Palmer had indeed muddled in a legal system she did not understand—or worse, if she had tried to change one she did understand—then she knew what the consequences might be.
“I take it she lost her court case.”
“Yes,” the Rev said. “She was notified two weeks ago to surrender herself to us. Instead, she Disappeared.”
That caught Flint’s attention. “She what?”
“Disappeared. We went to her home and she was gone. Everything remained, including her accounts, which hadn’t been touched for days.”
“Yet you found her,” Flint said.
“We were notified of her presence on that space yacht. She was supposed to be turned over to us. Instead, she ma
naged to escape.”
“Coming here.”
“Yes,” the Rev said.
That all jibed with what Flint had heard on the yacht’s logs. “What happened to the pilot?”
“She forced him, his co-pilot, and another into an escape pod. We have them in custody now.”
“Are you charging them with something?” Flint asked.
“No,” the Rev said. “You may have them.”
Flint nodded, feeling a little light-headed, hoping it was the heat instead of the ginger stench. “They might be able to verify her identity.”
“Best to use your method first,” the Rev said.
Flint frowned. “Have they been harmed?”
“They were in an escape pod built for two for more than an hour,” the Rev said. “They are space sick.”
This time, Flint was the one who was irritated. “Why didn’t you turn them over to us immediately for treatment?”
The Rev bobbled his head from side to side, a gesture of discomfort. “We weren’t sure whether or not we would need them.”
“As hostages?” Flint asked.
“To bargain with,” the Rev said, as if that were different.
“Turn them over to us,” Flint said. “You won’t need bargaining chips.”
“As you wish,” the Rev said. “We shall send word to the ship immediately.”
Flint suppressed a sigh. Were these Rev never going to leave? “Actually, you don’t have to wait here. You’d be more comfortable on your own ship. I’ll notify you as soon as I’m convinced the woman who got off that yacht is Maakestad.”
Lying to a Rev. Part of his brain was appalled at that, still. The interpreter was watching him closely, probably just as worried.
If, under Rev law, a lawyer could be charged with defending a guilty client, could a interpreter be charged with speaking someone else’s lies?
Flint didn’t want to know.
“We shall stay here,” the Rev said, and rocked back on his base, the Rev equivalent of crossing his arms.
Flint knew better than to argue. “I’ll make sure you’re moved to a more comfortable surrounding. This room is too small and—”
“This is fine,” the Rev said in English, interrupting Flint and the interpreter both. The Rev’s emotion collar fluttered upward. Apparently he was beginning to see Flint’s efforts to move them as stalling tactics.
“All right,” Flint said. “If you change your mind, let me know. I’ll do what I can to take care of this.”
He reached for the door, but the interpreter caught his arm. “What about me?”
“Stay here,” Flint said. “Make sure they get that pilot and crew off their ship, and then see if they want some food or something. It’s better if they can speak through you than to let them try to communicate themselves.”
The interpreter sank back into his chair. “I would prefer to leave.”
“And I’d prefer to be off the case,” Flint said, as he let himself out of the room.
The air in the corridor was cooler. It took a few moments for the smell to clear from his nostrils.
The Rev’s comments confirmed his suspicions. Palmer was a Disappeared, just like the three who had been killed by the Disty. These two cases were linked by more than the yachts now.
If Flint found out who owned those yachts, he might find which Disappearance service was selling out its own clients. Not that that was illegal. It was, in fact, the legal thing to do—which created even more problems for Flint.
And for the children.
Twenty-one
Ekaterina started awake, her entire body on alert. Something was different. She sat up, her eyes grimy with sleep and dust, her mind muzzy.
She’d managed to get some sleep, but it felt shallow, filled with Rev and flipping aircars and arguments with detectives. They were yelling at her about contacting her former clients, ticking off names as if they were looking at her case history.
One of the names struck a bell.
She rubbed her eyes, and sat up. The walls were so old, they were streaked with brown lines. Everywhere else, the once-white permaplastic had yellowed.
And that was what differed. She could see. False Dawn had come, bringing enough light that she could see inside this house. And she wished she couldn’t.
The floor was littered with brown dust, discarded food packets, and animal droppings. They looked like mouse droppings, but she wasn’t sure how that was possible. Who would have brought rodents to the Moon?
The stench was still noticeable, even though she had been in it for a while. She wondered if her own clothing had absorbed it. She hoped not. She wanted to be able to blend into Armstrong’s day crowds.
Even though it was False Dawn, she knew she hadn’t been asleep very long. Her body’s clock told her that—the muzziness in her brain, the way she was having difficulty waking up. It showed just how alert she was, even in sleep, that a change in the light woke her.
She got up and stretched. Her muscles ached from that short time on the hard chairs. The accident had had more of an effect on her than she first realized. She would have aches and pains from it for the next few days.
If only she could remember the names that had run through her dreams.
The room she had slept in had no windows. A stairway, with the steps broken in the center as if someone had carried something too heavy up them, was built into the far wall. The wall across from her was the one that had collapsed. More light poured in there, revealing blankets, a pile of food packets, and bottles of water.
Someone was using this place—or had in the recent past.
Her stomach growled as she walked toward the stash. The food packets had expired two years ago, but the water hadn’t. She picked up the nearest bottle and drained it, feeling better than she had just a moment before.
She had been very dehydrated. She drank another bottle, slower this time, and then looked for something to use as a knapsack. She wanted to carry some bottles with her.
It seemed odd that someone would just leave all this stuff here without coming back for it.
She wandered through what had once been the kitchen, opening cupboards, finding broken utensils and cracked dishes. Clearly someone had looted this place long ago.
Then she went into a third room, which was mostly empty except for the pile of discarded clothes in the corner.
The smell was the worst here. The food packets that she had kicked had landed in here, and there was something green that had once been food growing on the floor.
She eyed the clothes again and saw a boot sticking out at an odd angle. A boot with Moon dust on its sole and pants attached to its top.
And she knew. She didn’t have to walk any farther.
Her mysterious host had been here, all along. Dead.
Her stomach turned. She was glad she hadn’t eaten anything that morning or it would have come back up. Fortunately, she hadn’t had any light last night. She hadn’t explored, so she hadn’t found him and as a result, she had gotten a few hours sleep and some much needed water.
She wondered if he had died of natural causes or if someone had killed him. Then she decided that she didn’t want to know. It would be better for her not to know, so that she wouldn’t worry about it for the rest of the day.
But she had to get out of there.
She took her two bottles of water, and stuck them in the waistband of her pants. Then she grabbed two more bottles and hurried to the open door.
There she paused.
The light was bright outside, reflecting off yet another piece of permaplastic, this one looking like part of the roof. She blinked, then stepped back inside. People would be able to see everything, every bruise, every speck of dirt. She grabbed one more bottle of water and used it to wash her face and hands, scrubbing hard so that she was as presentable as possible.
She couldn’t do anything about her clothes, but she could help her appearance. She had always tried to engrain that into her clients,
but some never learned. She’d had to buy clothes for more than a few to help them through court appearances—
—And one of those clients lived in Armstrong. Or had when Ekaterina had defended him. That was why she had been thinking about clients. Because her subconscious had taken a backwards route to one of the names she needed.
Shamus Shank. She was amazed she could ever forget a name like that, even for a short period of time. She used to tease him about it, since she hadn’t been sure then—and still wasn’t sure now—whether or not the name was made up.
Ekaterina shook her head. Shamus Shank was the perfect person to help her. He specialized in “clean” crimes, hacking into systems and stealing money or altering security protocols so that he could make a quick getaway.
He’d been caught half a dozen times, but each time he had gone free. And he’d always laughed about the police, saying that they had no idea how much money he’d stolen and how much of their records he’d tampered with.
Shamus Shank. She had visited him here once, nearly a decade ago. He had owned the building, and used it when he was in Armstrong, which he had listed as his permanent home address.
And if she couldn’t find Shamus Shank, she might be able to find the people who had testified toward his good character. They had all had unusual names as well, and they used to gather at the Brownie Bar, a place she hadn’t believed existed until Shamus took her there once.
The Brownie Bar and Shamus Shank.
Finally she had a destination—and a little bit of hope.
* * *
“I’d like to see the boy,” Ira Reese, the city attorney, said.
DeRicci ran a hand through her hair and wondered how long it had been since she’d slept. Her body hummed with exhaustion. She had worked straight through the night, and now it looked like she’d be working all day as well.
She and Reese were outside a conference room in the city attorney’s office. They were in a wide hallway that branched into several corridors. A fake tree leaned against one wall, looking out of place. An assistant stood nearby, as if she wanted someone to tell her what to do.
They were waiting for a meeting to end. After talking with Jasper Wilder’s parents for a while, Reese had called in a colleague, Damien Carryth, who specialized in Disappeareds. He was alone with the Wilders now.
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