“Then you won’t mind if I share them with Hot Rod Rodney,” said Atticus.
“If suing you for libel is not minding,” said Boss Kone. “We’ll slap an injunction on you so fast the top of your pointy little head will spin off.”
I didn’t know if that was anatomically possible for Pyrs, but the mental picture was entertaining, even if I wasn’t pleased with Kone’s threats.
“None the less,” said Atticus, “the public—and more than one level of law enforcement—would find conspiracy to commit murder and destroy property by one of your corporate executives quite interesting.”
He waved toward Agnes Spelman at the prosecution’s table.
Boss Kone looked mad enough to spit lightning bolts. He was clearly someone used to getting his own way.
“Publish and be damned!” Adolphus thundered. He tried to swat a gnat hovering around his forehead but missed. His hand made an impressive splat when his palm collided with bare skin.
“Did you get that Rodney?” asked Atticus.
The reporter, tracking his bugs from the back of the courtroom, gave the little Pyr a thumbs-up.
“Excellent,” said our lawyer. “Make sure you give me a chance to review the final cut before you post it.”
I could see metaphorical steam coming off the top of Boss Kone’s head. So could his daughter.
“If you post these videos—made without consent—I can’t be responsible for the consequences,” said the Bulldog.
“Should I construe that as a threat?” asked Atticus.
“Take it as you will,” said Brunhilde Dagomar.
“All rise,” said the bailiff.
We resumed our seats with only a minimum of milling and confusion just before the judge returned. He adjusted his visor, scanned the room, and sat down.
“Mr. Finch,” he said. “You’re up.”
“Yes, your honor,” said the Pyr. “The defense calls Cumulocirrus Jordan.”
As the bailiff called our first witness, Atticus turned to the judge.
“No relation, your honor.”
Atticus, the judge, and the witness laughed. ’Lo Jordan was a black man in his early fifties, built like a fireplug. He wasn’t fat—he was solid and not much taller than he was wide. He looked strong enough to arm press an anvil. The man was shorter than the Bulldog, but must be three times her weight. He was wearing a custom-tailored suit—not as expensive these days as it was before mutable morphabrics—and looked centered and dependable.
“Mr. Jordan,” said the Pyr, “would you please tell us your occupation?”
“I am the chief building inspector for the city of Atlanta,” Jordan replied.
“Would you summarize your experience in that role?” asked Atticus.
“The prosecution accepts Mr. Jordan as an expert witness,” said the Bulldog. “His many years of service as a building inspector are well known.”
This was a smart tactic on the Bulldog’s part. I knew all about ’Lo Jordan from my work at Ad Astra. The Bulldog seemed to be doing Atticus a favor, but was really trying to minimize the weight of Jordan’s testimony by not allowing a recitation of his credentials. Atticus didn’t fight it, however.
“Did you personally inspect Factor-E-Flor’s premises in July of 2028?”
“I did,” said ’Lo Jordan.
“Were they fully compliant with Atlanta’s building codes?” asked the Pyr.
“They were not,” said Jordan.
He kept as sentences as short as his stature.
“What was Factor-E-Flor’s most significant violation?”
“They did not remove the live gas main buried eight inches below the surface near their front entrance,” said Jordan, waxing loquacious.
“Why was this a violation?” asked Atticus.
“Because it might blow up the building,” said Jordan.
It looked like the Bulldog was going to object to his statement, but she reconsidered and kept silent.
“Did Factor-E-Flor’s management respond to your report noting this violation?”
“They did not.”
“Do you know why they didn’t respond?” asked the little lawyer.
“No,” said Jordan, “but many companies would rather pay the fines for non-compliance instead of incurring the large one-time cost required to remediate the problem.”
“Objection,” said the Bulldog. “Speculation.”
“Sustained,” said the judge.
“Withdrawn,” said Atticus.
At least a seed had been planted in the jury’s mind.
“Have you studied the reports of the damage to Factor-E-Flor’s headquarters?” asked Atticus.
“I have.”
“Is the level of damage what you’d expect from the gas main exploding?”
“It is.”
“Would an exploding Macerator power pack cylinder be enough to account for the damage you reviewed?”
“No.”
“What would account for that level of damage?”
“The gas main exploding.”
“Would an overloaded Macerator power pack cylinder be the minimum necessary force necessary to trigger a gas main explosion?”
“A lit match would be enough,” said Jordan, “if the integrity of the pipe was compromised.”
“In your experience,” said Atticus, “are gas main pipes the age of Factor-E-Flor’s often compromised?”
“They are.”
The Bulldog rose to her feet. “Objection!”
“Overruled,” said the judge. “And sit down.”
Brunhilde Dagomar sat.
“Your witness,” said Atticus, waving a cheery tentacle at the Bulldog. She didn’t smile back but popped back up out of her chair like the weasel in the old nursery rhyme. It was fascinating to watch the way Atticus manipulated the jury’s perception of the Bulldog by having her stand, sit, and stand in rapid succession. The big bow on her blouse had bounced comically in response to her vertical motions.
“Mr. Jordan,” said the Bulldog from the lectern. “How many office buildings in Atlanta the age of Factor-E-Flor’s have been damaged due to gas main explosions over your career.”
“Two,” said Jordan.
“Two?” asked the Bulldog.
Her eyes went wide. That wasn’t the answer she’d been expecting. She recovered enough to ask another question.
“Factor-E-Flor and…?”
“Widget Technology and Fabrication’s headquarters next door,” said Jordan. “It’s a near-identical structure.”
The Bulldog stopped him before he could do more damage.
“No further questions.”
Jordan stepped down and took a seat a few rows behind me on the defense side.
“Next witness,” said the judge.
“The defense calls Jean-Jacques Bonhomme,” said Atticus.
I did a double-take, since I hadn’t noticed J-J in the courtroom. My one-time client took the stand and made the usual affirmations. Atticus led Jean-Jacques through a few questions to establish his role as president of WT&F and confirm that his corporate headquarters was only a stone’s throw—or perhaps a bomb’s throw—away from Factor-E-Flor’s building. A satellite view flashed on the screens to either side of the judge’s bench, showing the only thing separating the two companies was a screen of mature pine trees on a ten-foot patch of bare ground between their respective parking lots.
“Mr. Bonhomme, please tell the court about the phone call you received on the Sunday evening before your building was destroyed,” said Atticus.
J-J looked uncomfortable, but he spoke—haltingly—as if trying to avoid stepping into pools of quicksand.
“I was in New York City, visiting my mother, when the call came in around seven o’clock in the evening,” said Jean-Jacques. “The caller didn’t give her name, but said WT&F needed to fabricate something right away, based on specs she’d provide.”
“Did you do what she asked?” Atticus probed.
“Y
es, but the giant robot flew away.”
“Giant robot?” said Atticus incredulously. “She wanted you to build a giant robot?”
“A giant combat robot two hundred and fifty feet tall,” continued J-J. “But it disappeared before I could arrange for delivery.”
“I see,” said Atticus. He paused and cleaned one of his pairs of glasses with a pocket handkerchief. “Is this the only time you heard from this woman?”
“No. She called again.”
“There was a second call? Please tell us about that one.”
“It wasn’t a request this time,” said Jean-Jacques. “It was a threat.”
Atticus approached the judge and removed a Darth Vader thumb drive from one of the pockets of his three-sided suit.
“Your Honor, this drive contains an authenticated recording of the second call my witness referenced. Independent vocal identification experts have confirmed that the voice talking to Mr. Bonhomme belongs to Ms. Agnes Spelman, CEO of Factor-E-Flor,” said Atticus. “May I play the recording for the jury?”
The judge leaned down to review something that must have just appeared on his smart desk. He nodded.
“Proceed,” the judge instructed.
Atticus handed the thumb drive to the bailiff. A few seconds later, the recorded phone conversation began to play. Waveforms flowed across the flat screens on either side of the judge’s bench while scrolling text below reminded everyone of the speaker’s identity.
A cold, hard woman’s voice was speaking. It had a hint of a Caribbean accent. “Mr. Bonhomme, if you don’t produce my order on time, you’ll be very, very sorry.” The voice paused to let her message sink in, then continued. “I advise you to seriously consider the consequences of failure to comply with my instructions. If you don’t produce my order on schedule, you and your company won’t be producing orders for anyone in the future. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Jean-Jacques’s petrified voice on the recording. On the stand, the here-and-now J-J was trembling from the memory.
The recording abruptly switched to a dial tone, then ended. I glanced over at Agnes Spelman She was the sister of Columbia Brown, the woman who had shot me in a VIGorish Labs’ hangar near Hartsfield Port almost two months ago. In profile, her face looked like it had just received a massive injection of botox. She didn’t react at all. I hoped the jury would draw the proper conclusion from her lack of expression.
“What did you do after you received Ms. Spelman’s call?” Atticus asked J-J.
“I left town and flew to Las Vegas,” said WT&F’s CEO. “I had some business there and wanted to get out of town as fast as possible.”
“Were you afraid you might be killed?” asked Atticus.
“Wouldn’t you be?” returned Jean-Jacques.
“Please answer the question,” instructed the judge. He leaned down to follow the interrogation more closely.
“Yes,” said J-J. “I was afraid Ms. Spelman would kill me, or arrange for me to be killed.”
“Thank you,” said Atticus. The Pyr waved a tentacle at the judge to appreciate his intervention and continued his examination of the witness.
“What happened to WT&F’s corporate headquarters shortly after your conversation with Ms. Spelman?”
“It was blown up,” said Jean-Jacques.
“Did you witness the explosion firsthand?”
“No, I got a call from the fire department, informing me of the damage.”
“Your Honor,” said Atticus, “I would like to question an officer from the Atlanta Fire Department to share her direct knowledge of subsequent events.”
“That’s fine,” said Judge Jordan. “Mr. Bonhomme, you may step down temporarily. Remember, you are still under oath.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said J-J.
He took a seat at the far end of the row where Martin and Poly and I were sitting. I took advantage of the interlude as a new witness was sworn in to ask Martin a question, sotto voce.
“What ever happened to all the disassembled two hundred and fifty foot robots?” I asked.
“They were reassembled in a police impound warehouse near the airport,” said Martin. “Factions from three law enforcement agencies and the military are fighting over who gets to control them.”
“Nice to know,” I said, quietly. I could think of several circumstances where a few giant robots might come in handy.
A familiar-looking woman in an official City of Atlanta Fire Department dress uniform was taking the stand. It was Clarisse Beatty, the woman in charge at WT&F after the explosion. I started to wave, then realized where I was and sat on my hand. Atticus established her bona fides and skipped right to the most essential part of her testimony.
“Did you investigate the cause of the explosion that severely damaged Widget Technology and Fabrication’s headquarters?” asked the intense little Pyr.
“I did,” said Clarisse in a no-nonsense, just-the-facts tone.
“Can you tell us your findings?” asked Atticus.
“I can do better than that,” said the firefighter. “I’ve got video of the act of sabotage being committed.”
“Objection!” shouted the Bulldog. “Any such video was not provided during discovery and its provenance has not been established. It could be a fake and showing it to the jury would be prejudicial.”
“Please sit down, Counselor,” said the judge in a kindly tone. “I’ll take your objection under advisement.”
He theatrically pulled a handkerchief from somewhere and wiped his forehead to buy himself time to think, I assumed. Then he spoke to Atticus.
“Mr. Finch, would you mind if I asked Officer Beatty a few questions directly?”
“Go right ahead, Your Honor.”
“Thank you,” said the judge. His visor made it impossible to read his eyes, but he seemed to be amused by the way the trial was going. Judge Jordan smiled at Clarisse and spoke almost casually.
“Did you verify the authenticity of the recording?” he asked.
“I did,” said Clarisse. “The official position of the Atlanta Fire Department is that the video is an authentic recording of the events immediately prior to the explosion, taken by WT&F’s external security cameras.”
“Was the perpetrator of the sabotage aware of the cameras?” asked the judge.
“Objection! Speculation,” said the Bulldog.
The judge and half the courtroom laughed.
“Withdrawn,” said Judge Jordan, smiling. “Let me rephrase. Were the external security cameras easy to identify?”
“They were not,” said Clarisse. “They were integrated with the exterior lights. No separate units identifiable as cameras were visible.”
Poly nudged me with an elbow. I looked at her and grinned. The hidden cameras had been part of my program of improved physical security for WT&F.
“Thank you,” said the judge. “At least we can be confident the perpetrator of the sabotage wasn’t completely stupid.”
“Objection,” said Atticus. “Assumes facts not in evidence.”
Now three-quarters of the courtroom laughed.
“Very true, Counselor,” said the judge. “But I’m convinced of it’s authenticity. I’ll allow the video to be shown.”
“Exception,” said the Bulldog.
“Noted,” said the judge. “You wanted a speedy trial, Ms. Kone. You can’t have that without a few discovery items falling through the cracks.”
The Bulldog looked like she’d just bitten into a Scotch bonnet pepper. Agnes Spelman turned and stared daggers at me. I smiled back, glad that the jury had a clear view of her expression. The video began to play on the pair of screens above the judge’s bench.
The scene was clear. It was a wide-angle view of the front entrance to WT&F’s familiar headquarters. Nothing seemed to be happening, then everything happened all at once. A cylinder that looked a lot like a Macerator’s power pack appeared out of thin air a few inches above the ground and rolled over to a bush near the s
tairs and ramp leading to the HQ’s main door. We could hear the sound of feet running on concrete, then asphalt, then nothing. The screen went blank as my hidden cameras were vaporized by the explosion that severely damaged the near side of the building.
Around the courtroom, everyone was making puzzled noises. Nobody could tell what had happened. Before the hubbub could grow louder, Atticus asked another question.
“Could you rewind and show us a close up of the bomb?”
“Certainly,” said Clarisse.
The video ran in reverse until the Macerator power pack cylinder started to fall. Then Officer Beatty zoomed in on the device.
“Can you identify any details about the manufacturer?” asked Atticus.
The focus of the video shifted and framed a small metal plate on one side of the cylinder.
“Please tell the court the name of the company that made the bomb?” Atticus requested.
“Factor-E-Flor,” said Clarisse.
“Thank you,” said Atticus. “It’s very hard to identify the individual delivering the explosive device. Do you have anything further to add about the person who planted it?”
“I do,” said Officer Beatty. “We couldn’t make a solid ID using visible light, but then we watched it again in infra-red.”
I was glad I’d spent more of J-J’s money to get top of the line cameras. It was time for the rest of the story. The video ran again, but now we could see a dim red image of a human form approach the front of the building, drop a Macerator power pack cylinder, and run. Factor-E-Flor’s minions must have managed to get some Blend Into The Scenery cloth—or maybe they still had some left over from when they’d stolen bolts of the stuff from Morphicouture last March.
“Once we realized the saboteur was using light-bending fabric as a disguise, we used image-enhancement algorithms on the perpetrator’s face,” said Clarisse.
The video ran yet again. This time, the fuzzy infra-red image of the person with the cylinder became distinct. Poly gasped, and I may have, too. It was Ms. Smith, Agnes Spelman’s executive assistant. I looked over and saw Ms. Smith was standing up and trying to crawl over Adolphus Kone in order to leave the courtroom.
“Stay where you are,” commanded Judge Jordan. “I expect Mr. Finch will want to ask you some questions shortly.”
Xenotech General Mayhem: A Novel of the Galactic Free Trade Association (Xenotech Support Book 4) Page 20