Rock Killer

by S. Evan Townsend

Charlie remembered from high school civics that Pennsylvania Avenue ran from the White House to the Capital. It should be on their left. She was about to say something as the taxi passed behind some Smithsonian museums. She saw a cross-street sign for Pennsylvania Avenue, which cut across Constitution at an oblique angle. The driver kept going, seemingly oblivious to their location.

  “Hey,” Charlie said, “That was Pennsylvania.”

  The driver looked around. “It was?”

  “Didn’t you see the sign?”

  “I can’t read.”

  “Excuse me?” Charlie exclaimed, noting Pennsylvania was getting farther behind as the discussion proceeded.

  “I can’t read,” the driver repeated

  “Then what in God’s name are you doing driving a taxi?” Charlie exploded. My God, she thought, what if he missed an important safety sign? Maybe the computer wasn’t broken, he just couldn’t use it.

  “Just because I’m illiterate don’t mean you can deny me a job. It’s the law.”

  “It’s a stupid law,” Charlie said. “Stop the damn car and let me out. I’ll walk.”

  “The streets ain’t a good place to be,” the driver advised, pulling the car to the curb. “If you get within the security zone after dark they’ll arrest you.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Charlie growled.

  She used her computer to pay the fare. She rolled her eyes when the display indicated the tip had been automatically added.

  She climbed out of the cab and angrily threw her bag over her shoulder. The taxi moved away and Charlie could smell the ozone from its hydrogen-burning engine.

  She started back down Constitution toward Pennsylvania. She had to divert a few blocks towards the capital to get around the security zone, well-marked by armored vehicles and concrete barriers.

  Back on Pennsylvania, with the FBI building’s gray slab sides in view, a young man—a boy really, Charlie thought—stepped in front of her. He was holding a knife.

  “Okay, bitch, give me the bag,” he said in the most menacing voice Charlie ever heard come from someone so young.

  “Do you realize you’re about 20 meters from the FBI building?”

  “Shut up and give me the bag,” he spat as if he didn’t understand her.

  Charlie took the bag from her shoulder and held it out for him. He reached for it. Once he had his hand around the strap, she pulled back hard. The boy was pulled off balance and Charlie grabbed the wrist of his knife-wielding hand and twisted hard.

  She was rewarded with a dull, moist pop as she broke the joint.

  He howled in pain and dropped the knife. Charlie pushed him away with her other hand.

  He turned and ran.

  Charlie talked to her computer on her wrist “911.”

  There was a short wait.

  “You have reached 9-1-1,” another computer said, “all our operators are busy. If you’ll please hold, your call will be answered in the order it was received.”

  Charlie was beginning to wonder if this was a mistake.

  “Nine-one-one,” a bored human said a few minutes later.

  “I was just mugged,” Charlie said.

  “If your loss was less than 1,000 dollars I can give you a report number for your insurance.”

  “Insurance?” Charlie asked.

  “You do have insurance that covers mugging, don’t you?” the emergency operator droned. “To cover your loss.”

  “I didn’t have a loss. I fended him off.”

  There was a pause. “You attacked the alleged perpetrator?” the voice asked incredulously.

  “I defended myself, yes.”

  “Wait there,” the voice said. “What is your name?” The computer automatically sent the operator Charlie’s GPS-determined location to the square meter.

  Charlie was still giving vital statistics to the operator when a siren howled behind her. She turned to see a police car pull up to the curb and two officers jumped out with their guns drawn.

  Charlie smiled. Late help was better than no help.

  Then one ordered loudly, “Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head.”

  Bewildered, Charlie complied.

  They loaded her into the back of the police car and drove to the police station. She was treated with less consideration than a bag of sheep dung. They took a mug shot, fingerprinted her, took a dental mold and scraped for DNA samples on her palm.

  They pointed her to a pay computer terminal and gave her a dollar. She gave the dollar back and called Mitchel collect. A bored officer questioned her in a white, acoustical tile-lined cubical with a single table and two chairs. Charlie related the details of the attack while he wrote on a tablet. She was informed she would be charged with an “unlawful self-defense.”

  Then they left her in the room alone.

  “Who the hell are you?” Charlie barked at the handsome, black man that came into the interrogation room four hours later.

  Charlie was in a foul mood. It was late at night and she had been left waiting impatiently in the locked room. She couldn’t even go down the hall to the bathroom without permission from the female turnkey. There were even hints she’d be charged with a “bias crime” because, as far as Charlie could surmise, she had told police the “victim” was black and Charlie wasn’t black enough.

  “I’m Special Agent Freeman,” the man said, sitting. He was wearing a good but inexpensive suit. “You’re Charlene Jones?”

  Charlie looked him over and finally recognized him from the picture Mitchel had shown her. He’d aged since it was taken.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “It was a good idea to call Mitchel,” Freeman continued. “He called me and told me what happened.”

  “Thanks for coming.” Charlie was genuinely grateful.

  Freeman shook his head. “It’s against the law to attack a person. You know that, don’t you?”

  Charlie stared at the man. “He threatened me with a knife,” she exclaimed. “Is it against the law to defend oneself?”

  “Yes,” Freeman retorted, “in the United States, it is.”

  “It’s a stupid law,” Charlie said for the second time that day. She had a feeling that as long as she stayed in this country she’d be saying that a lot.

  “I agree,” Freeman said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I agree,” he repeated. “Listen,” he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Unfortunately, it’s the law. An act of Congress, signed by the president, and tested before the Supreme Court. Doesn’t make it right; it does make it the law. I talked to the DDA and—”

  “Excuse me,” Charlie interrupted, “the what?”

  “DDA: Deputy District Attorney for the County and State of Columbia.”

  “Wonderful,” Charlie said sardonically.

  “Anyway, I talked to the DDA and convinced her you weren’t racially motivated, so they’re dropping the ‘bias crime’ charges. Also, she’s agreed to let you ask for just a fine and probation because this is a first offense and there were extenuating circumstances.”

  “Extenuating circumstances? What was I supposed to do? Stand there and let him stab me? I want to press assault charges against him.”

  “Okay,” Freeman said leaning back in the old, wooden chair. “You may if he comes forward.”

  Charlie had to think for a second. “He hasn’t come forward to press charges against me?”

  Freeman shook his head. “In ‘unlawful self-defense’ cases only a witness is necessary. It was felt the victim may be afraid to come forward. And since you confessed to the 911 operator, and the police, that is all that’s necessary.”

  “Wait a minute. Isn’t that a Constitutional guarantee, to face your accuser?”

  “Well,” Freeman breathed, spreading his hands, “the Sixth Amendment means less today than it used to. Hell, the Second almost means nothing. The property rights provisions of the Fifth and the Fourteenth are violated daily in the name of environmental protectio
n and growth management. And ‘equal protection under the law,’ as stipulated in the Fourteenth, is ignored by bias crime laws and affirmative action. But, all of those laws have been held up by the Supreme Court. The Constitution, unfortunately, means exactly what the current court says it means.”

  “Can I still file a complaint?”

  “Yes,” Freeman replied. “But they’ll probably never find him.”

  “You mean they’ll never look.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what does probation mean?”

  “It means that if you commit another crime during the probation period, you will definitely get a harsh sentence.”

  “Am I free to go? I live on the Moon, you know.”

  “Yes, you can come and go as you wish.” He stood. “Come on. Let’s go talk to the DDA.”

  “Boy,” Charlie commented dryly while standing, “things have sure changed since I was last dirt-side.” Either that or she was no longer used to it.

  ***

  Alex held his wife as she slept in the large, four-poster bed that dominated the master bedroom in their Boulder home. The next day he would return to space and leave her again. He felt unbelievably lucky that she married him almost 17 years ago. He kissed her china-delicate white shoulder and she stirred and opened her eyes.

  “Hi,” she said groggily and turned in the bed to face him.

  “Hello,” Alex whispered.

  “Can’t sleep?”

  “No.”

  “Wha’cha thinking about.”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Yeah, right,” she retorted, turning on her side to face him.

  She wrapped her arms around his back. “I know you. You’re worried about something.”

  “I was thinking about McConnell. I really screwed it up for you, didn’t I?”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’ll be okay. But that’s not all of it.”

  Alex smiled. “Why did I ever marry a psychologist?”

  “You didn’t. A psychologist married you.”

  He pulled her to him and kissed her gently but persistently.

  That stopped her questions about things he didn’t want to talk about. And it got his mind off Frank, and the Rock Skipper, and the Gaia Alliance.

  Later he asked playfully, “Why did I marry you, anyway?”

  “Must have been my bedside manner,” she whispered dreamily. She fell asleep with her head on his shoulder.

  He looked at the room’s computer display. The green numbers unsympathetically indicated that his plane left in less than twelve hours.

  Chapter Six

  “...no compromise when it comes to protecting Mother Earth”

  The deputy district attorney was a harried looking woman. She met Charlie and Freeman in her cubical-like office. Also present was the public defender, a snide young man who regarded Charlie as if she were something he’d stepped in. Freeman explained to Charlie that a court ruling had determined everyone got a public defender, not just the indigent. If she wanted to pay for a better lawyer, she could, but that would delay the proceedings.

  Charlie stuck with the public defender. She wanted this ordeal over.

  Freeman then explained to her lawyer that Charlie planned to plea bargain. Charlie’s stomach turned at the phrase. She’d always thought plea-bargaining was something criminals did to get out of the punishment they deserved; she never thought she’d be doing it herself.

  At one point, as the DDA and Charlie’s defender conferred, Charlie said, “I feel like I’m being railroaded here.”

  The two lawyers looked at her.

  “I mean,” she added, “what are my options?”

  “You may,” the public defender explained, “plead not-guilty, be held over for trial, which will take about nine months, most likely be found guilty, and probably be sentenced to time in jail.”

  “Oh,” Charlie breathed. Doesn’t leave me much choice, she thought ruefully.

  Her lawyer and the government prosecutor talked about the deal, the details were established, and Charlie was told to wait to see the judge.

  A few hours later, a bailiff escorted Charlie into the courtroom. The judge was a middle-aged woman with fading blonde hair. The public defender stood next to Charlie and the DDA read the charges. Freeman sat in the gallery.

  All the while, the judge peered down on Charlie. “Ms. Jones,” she said in a New England nasal tone, “it has been decided not to charge you with a bias crime, because it cannot be determined that you were motivated by bigotry. However, you are charged with unlawful self-defense.”

  “He assaulted me,” Charlie explained in vain. “I was protecting myself and my property.”

  “It is the job of the police to protect the citizen. We cannot tolerate citizens taking the law into their own hands. You acted unilaterally to punish the alleged perpetrator without due process. This is intolerable in a lawful society.”

  “How many police officers are there in Washington?” Charlie asked.

  “I don’t know,” the judge replied. “What does that matter?”

  “Because there aren’t enough to protect everyone,” Charlie answered. “You take away a person’s right to defend themselves and they are automatic victims of anyone willing to break the law. First, you disarmed the law-abiding with gun control laws. And now you’ve made it illegal for them to fight off an assault with their bare hands.”

  Charlie remembered the fire in her grandmother’s eyes when she showed Charlie her illicit handgun. She said she didn’t care what any idiotic law stated; she would kill anyone who tried to violate her home. She’d rather spend time in jail alive than be permanently dead.

  The judge glared at her and the public defender said, “Ms. Jones has decided to plead guilty in exchange for the government’s recommendation for a fine and a suspended sentence with probation.”

  The judge looked at Charlie. She was debating if that was acceptable.

  “We have a rather full docket,” the government’s attorney stated flatly.

  That decided the judge. “Okay, Ms. Jones,” she proclaimed, “sixty days suspended and one year probation, plus a thousand dollar fine, court costs, and police department reimbursement. You can pay the clerk when you leave.”

  Charlie was about to stand to leave when the judge said, “However, Ms. Jones,” and proceeded to lecture Charlie on a) not taking the law into her own hands, b) no property is worth protecting with violence, and c) she was in the U.S. now, not in space, and subject to the laws of the United States and not, what the judge implied, were the low moral values of Space Resources Incorporated.

  Charlie waited with infinite patience during the diatribe. When the judge was finished Charlie stood silently and walked out of the office. Freeman followed, hurrying to catch Charlie, who was almost running.

  “God damn it!” Charlie growled at him in the corridor.

  “I’ll take you to a hotel to rest,” Freeman said calmly. “We’ll meet tomorrow. I’ll pick you up so you won’t have any trouble.”

  “Damn that woman,” Charlie spat, refusing to calm down.

  “Come on,” Freeman said, reaching for her arm. “You’ll feel better after some rest.”

  Charlie let him hold her arm and pull her toward the elevator. They paid the clerk, who accepted Charlie’s payment from her computer’s SRI account. Charlie was sure Mitchel would approve the expense.

  Then the clerk asked, “Residence?”

  “Huh?” Charlie blurted.

  “We have to sign you up on probation,” the clerk explained. “Residence?”

  Charlie looked at Freeman.

  “Tell him what he needs to know,” Freeman instructed her.

  “Space Resources Incorporated Facility, Room 210, Nippon/European Space Agency Facility One, the Moon, in care of Space Resources Incorporated, Tokyo, Japan.”

  The clerk looked at her. “Don’t you have a more, uhm, local address?”

  “No,” Charlie said, again growing angry. />
  The clerk sighed and typed on his computer. “Employer?”

  “Space Resources Incorporated, Tokyo, Japan.”

  “Do they have a more local office?”

  Charlie knew there was a United States Liaison Office in Washington but she didn’t know anything about it other than part of its function was to house security’s Eastern United States Terrestrial Information Gathering Office. “Yes,” she said. “But I don’t know the address or number.”

  “Fine,” the clerk mumbled. “Name and address of a person who would always know how to locate you?”

  Charlie rolled her eyes and wondered when the humiliation would stop. “Eugene Mitchel, Head of Security, Space Resources...”

  ***

  Griffin watched Knecht work the computer. She was plotting their course to the asteroid belt.

  “Where’d you learn this stuff?” he asked.

  “Stuff?” Knecht asked without looking up.

  “Yeah: navigation, computers, ship piloting.”

  “The Space Resources Incorporated School in Boulder, Colorado.”

  “You worked for SRI?” he asked incredulously.

  She nodded. Griffin liked the way her hair moved in zero-gee when she did that.

  “I wanted to get out of the United States. I saw SRI as the way out.”

  “Didn’t you know what they’re doing to the environment and to space?”

  Knecht shrugged. “Not really. I didn’t get involved in the GA until later.”

  “How?”

  She turned and looked at him. For the first time he noticed the blaze of her sea-green eyes.

  “SRI recruited me in Los Angeles. After graduating the SRI school, I had no place to go for the customary vacation, so I went to L.A. You know, Disneyland-California, the beach, the whole thing. That was where I met Linda.”

  “Trent?”

  “Yeah. She taught me about SRI and its degradation of the environment. She taught me there can be no compromise when it comes to protecting Mother Earth and her solar system. I honestly didn’t know the danger of taking asteroids out of the asteroid belt. She got me into the Gaia Alliance. Then I went to the safe house in Los Angeles and Beatty taught me about the revolution.”

  “Beatty,” Griffin snorted, “is slime; right now, a useful slime.”