Kilmer had no provable alibi at the time of the crime and admitted he had been in the area.
(Note: Had Kilmer kept a documented life, his alibi would have been provable. Unfortunately he valued privacy and frequently turned off his wristband camera and recorder. Some 15 years later, David West would deliver his famous sound-bite: “Privacy indulges secrecy, and it is secrecy that now most imperils our survival.” In context, “our” refers to the human race, not to individual humans. Still, the quote seems to apply remarkably well to Kilmer.—22g CP)
According to Kilmer’s statement, he had been at a virtual reality arcade working on his racquetball game at the time of the crime. Unfortunately he had used a coupon rather than a credit chip to pay for his VR session, and his wristband camera had not been activated during the time of the robbery.
Worse yet, he had been in the coin store only two days before the crime, a fact which had been absolutely proven. A government-notarized digital tape, shown to the jury, had depicted Kilmer looking around the store, scanning nearly every counter, but never making a purchase. Naturally the state’s theory was that Kilmer had been scouting the job for Smith.
David lived less than 14 minutes from the Plano Capital-Crime Facility where Kilmer awaited his appeal decision. He asked his aide to call ahead and less than half an hour later met face-to-face with the condemned man.
Thin and wiry, Kilmer wore long sideburns and a neatly trimmed mustache. His demeanor was serious but not somber. He thanked David for taking time to see him. David liked him right away.
He spent the next 40 minutes questioning Kilmer, interrogating him as though still a prosecutor. Kilmer regarded David as an ally, so naturally his answers were far more detailed than they would have been on a witness stand.
“When was the last time you saw Colin Smith?” David asked.
“About two years ago. I ran into him at a recharge station. We knew each other as teenagers, so I asked how he was doing. We talked for around 10 minutes—just talked about people we’d both known in school, told him about my family, that kind of stuff. Nothing heavy. Honestly, that was the last time I ever saw him.”
“Why were you in the coin store two days before the robbery?”
“I had lunch next door. Then I went looking for an anniversary present for my wife. Bought her flowers from a store on the next block, but I used an electronic debit card instead of my personalized chip. Sure wish I’d had them wand a receipt into my wristband. My lawyer tried to find a witness, but florists don’t bother to make tapes and nobody there remembered me.”
“Several witnesses said they saw you with Smith during the previous three weeks. How do you explain that?”
“Look, it just isn’t true. I was at work most of those times; dozens of people swore I was there. Two of my coworkers who document their lives even gave my attorney their notarized audio-visual records of those three weeks. So we have ironclad proof I was at my office at the exact times some of the state’s witnesses say they saw me. Don’t you think if those witnesses were wrong, the ones at the crime scene could be wrong, too? There has to be someone else—probably someone who looks a lot like me.”
David had interviewed many accused criminals. Usually he had known right away that they were lying (which they almost always were). But there were no inconsistencies in Kilmer’s story and nothing he said was contradicted by the evidence.
And then there were the intangibles: Kilmer’s sincerity even in his resignation, the obsessive and unwavering support of his family and friends, and a feeling in David’s gut. David’s instincts about people were rarely off the mark; 40 minutes wasn’t a long time, but it was more than enough time to convince him that Kilmer was innocent.
“Mr. Kilmer, I believe you,” David told him. “There probably isn’t much I can do, but I’ll do whatever I can.”
At least he had a plan.
First, he called Pete Armstrong for a Truth Machine update. “I just finished talking to a man named Kilmer.”
“I’ve read about him—the guy they’re going to execute in the next day or two.”
“That’s the one, and I think he’s innocent. I’m afraid this isn’t one of those extenuating circumstances cases either, or some criminal who got convicted of a different crime from the one he committed. If he isn’t guilty, he’s as solid a citizen as they come. This is the kind of case it’s important to get right and I don’t think we did. How close are you on the ACIP?”
“It’s at least 98-percent accurate, but we’re still stuck on that last two percent,” Pete answered, thinking, But we wouldn’t be if we could just use the damn Renaissance code. “The government’ll never accept it until we overcome the problem, because two percent of the population would figure out that they could commit crimes with impunity. Even if we fixed the fatal flaw today, it’s going to take a minimum of three months for the Truth Machine Panel to approve the ACIP for judicial process.”
“Would you have a team ready to SCIP Kilmer if I needed you to?”
“On a minute’s notice. Anything else I can do for him?”
“Just pray. Pray that Safer takes my call and that he’s in a good mood.”
At least President Gordon Safer was a fellow Democrat, the first one to occupy the White House since January 2005. And Safer liked David West. He had even considered choosing him as his vice-presidential running mate in the 2020 election until his selection committee advised that David, who was only 35 at the time, might be too young to be an asset.
Safer did not accept the call immediately, but called back in 20 minutes.
“It’s good to hear from you, David. How’s Diana?”
“Doing well, sir. Her book’s still at number three. Right now she’s in Katmandu on a promotion tour of Asia, but she’ll be back in Washington next week. I’m sure she’d want me to extend her warmest regards to you and Dottie.”
“Please give her our love. Y’know, I just read her book myself. Brilliant. I’m considering coming out in support of World Government. No promises though. Maybe we can all get together for dinner next week at the White House—and a quick round of virtual golf afterward. Are you two free Thursday evening, say at seven?”
“We’d love it, sir. But I’ve got a man here with a more immediate problem and I hope you can help him.”
“Try me.”
“His name’s Harold Edward Kilmer. He’s been convicted and is scheduled to die. The appeal decision’s due tomorrow and it doesn’t look good. But I think he’s innocent. His record’s been clean for 13 years; I believe we’re about to execute a solid citizen. Pete Armstrong says his Truth Machine’s at least 98-percent accurate. Is there any way we can test Kilmer? At least put the execution on hold if he passes—just until the Machine’s perfected and approved. I doubt it’ll be more than another two years. Doesn’t mean we have to let Kilmer loose. But it would be tragic if we found out later that we’d killed an innocent man.”
“If you think he’s innocent, he probably is, but this has serious implications. We’ve got almost 2,000 death-row inmates awaiting appeal decisions with dozens of new ones every day. Constitutionally speaking, wouldn’t we have to test them all?”
West’s staff had already researched that question for him. “I believe we could set a standard. Maybe we could just test those who claim innocence and whose records have been clean for 10 years or longer. That would be less than two a week and ATI is willing to perform all the tests at no cost to the government. You could do the whole thing by executive order. I’ve already had it checked out, sir. I know it’s asking a lot, but this time I think it’s the right thing to do.”
“I’ll think about it, David, and get word to you within two hours. Don’t forget about dinner Thursday.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. We’ll be there.”
* * *
True to Safer’s promise, West was informed of his decision less than two hours later. The answer was no. Without a presidential order, there could be no other delay
unless the trial verdict were reversed on appeal; a most unlikely event. Kilmer lost his appeal decision the following day.
Harold Edward Kilmer was strapped to the pliable table with his arms and legs securely restrained. He appeared calm as the toxin was injected. We will never know his final thoughts, but can make an educated guess as to the physical sensations. He probably felt a slight tingle for about three seconds as the computer-designed poison found its way to his brain. Then he would have felt nothing at all.
Some good followed in the aftermath of this tragedy. At age 30, Kilmer was near the peak of physical health and all his transplantable organs were immediately harvested. Several lives were lengthened when Kilmer’s ended.
Most condemned convicts agreed to donate their organs, if only because signing the consent form secured what was rumored to be the most painless way to die. Undoubtedly Kilmer would have consented anyway. He was that sort of person.
(Note: Prior to the ACIP, the most ridiculous rumors often found believing audiences. In reality, by then all capital punishment was—and continues to be—equally painless.—22g CP)
David was appalled and enraged, but tried not to get depressed over it. That evening, Diana attempted to console him. “Maybe he really was guilty.”
“Maybe. I hope he was, but I doubt it. He seemed like a genuinely good man.”
“You did everything you could.”
“Unfortunately my best wasn’t good enough.”
“Sometimes, my precious, life works that way. I love you for trying so hard.”
“I love you too—more than anything.”
He kissed her and beckoned her upstairs to their bedroom where they temporarily fled the outside world’s frustrations and woes. Afterward, their talk turned to the more mundane: friends, gossip, the smaller issues of life.
“The more I get to know Jennifer, the more I like her,” Diana said.
“Me too.”
“I hope it works out between them, but I doubt it. She’s gorgeous and very bright, but it’ll take more than that to entice Pete out of his cocoon.”
David agreed. “You’re probably right and it’s too bad. I think she really loves him. Not for his money or his fame. Just for him. She’s a lovely woman.”
“Well, maybe they’ll surprise us.”
“I hope so.”
Less than a week later the Wests spent the evening with President and Mrs. Safer. The President, charming as ever, explained his reasons for withholding his executive order on Kilmer’s behalf.
“I really wish I could’ve done it for you, but it would’ve been a political and judiciary morass. It would probably have hurt your career as much as mine. I’d have been accused of showing favoritism to one death-row inmate who happened to know my friend David West. Judges would’ve started granting stays to other prisoners based on that favoritism. The system would break down and there’d be all kinds of delays. You and I’d both be blamed for that—and any related problems. The Democratic party just can’t afford that kind of trouble right now, especially with a tough reelection campaign expected next year. I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you though.”
Make it up to me? David thought. What about Kilmer?
But he remained polite and deferential until the end of the evening, when Safer told him, “I’ve decided I’m not going to ask Vice President Connors to be my running mate again in 2024.”
“Why not, sir?”
“Frankly, Gail hasn’t been much of a team player. Her positions have differed from mine, which is fine—in private. I’m always happy to entertain disagreement, you know that. But once a decision’s made, a president needs unwavering support. David, I need a vice president who’ll stand by me, right or wrong. I’ve narrowed my short list down to three. You’re my first choice.”
“That’s too bad, sir. Choosing me would be a leap in the opposite direction. In fact, I’ve decided to run against you in the primaries.”
CHAPTER 28
FRUSTRATION
Dallas, Texas
February 29, 2024—Jamaican sprinter Crowell Brown becomes the first man to run a mile in under three and one-half minutes. Brown runs the mile in 3:29.92 at the World Track and Field Championships in Johannesburg, South Africa. Records are also set in the 100 meter and women’s high jump.—Ex-football star and former murder suspect O. J. Simpson, age 76, dies in a gyrocopter crash in Encino, California. Simpson, the pilot of the machine, is the only casualty.—In light of Senator David West’s (D.TX) formidable challenge to incumbent President Gordon Safer, no fewer than 15 Republican legislators and governors have officially declared themselves presidential candidates. One political commentator refers to the Republicans as “sharks who smell blood in the water.” The Democratic primaries are expected to result in a nasty and close delegate race that will likely leave neither candidate politically unscathed.
After the death of Abraham Lincoln, as a tribute to the slain President, Walt Whitman composed what some literary scholars believe is the finest poem ever written by an American. It is entitled “O Captain, My Captain.” Pete Armstrong loved that poem more than any other, admiring its heartbreaking pathos and inspirational glory.
Lincoln had long been Pete’s historical inspiration, and Pete secretly hoped that if he succeeded in bringing the world a Truth Machine, future generations would venerate him as modern Americans revered Abraham Lincoln. He often recited the poem in his mind, almost as a mantra for meditation, finding it inspiring yet calming. He recited it to himself that evening as he rode home from work.
He had a big decision to make.
In 2024, humans generally waited until their late thirties to enter marriage. But Pete, only 34 years old, wondered how much longer Jennifer would put up with their relationship without a real commitment. He thought, I love her and I’m sure she loves me. We’re a little young to have children, but we both want them eventually—and she’d be a wonderful mother. Besides, I was so lonely before. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be married. But I’d better make up my mind soon. Otherwise it’s just not fair to her.
Jennifer Finley had lived with Pete in Dallas for over a year. Most Princeton Gazette business could be handled by digital transmission or videoconference. While he was at ATI, Jennifer usually worked from a study in his house, editing, answering correspondence, speaking with colleagues and subordinates, and studying financial reports. He had often watched, fascinated by her ability to direct and motivate others. She was never dictatorial, but nobody could take advantage of her either. He admired her for it, wishing he could be more like that himself.
Jennifer, will you marry me?
Jennifer, would you spend the rest of your life with me?
I love you, Jennifer. Please be my wife.
She met him at the door and hugged him. “Pete, honey, I have bad news.”
“What’s the matter, Jen?”
“Cathy Hunt’s been approached by another paper. I have to go to New Jersey tonight and convince her to stay at The Gazette for half as much money as she’s just been offered.”
“You can’t handle it by videoconference?” he said, thinking, Does she have to go now?
“I don’t want to take the chance. She’s my best reporter. I need to show her this really matters to me.” Does he want me to stay?
“When will you be back?” Please don’t leave.
“Day after tomorrow. Is it okay?” He doesn’t need me really. Pete doesn’t need anyone.
“Of course. No problem at all. Anything I can do to help?” I might as well get used to this. She’s got her own life. She’ll never be there when I really need her. Maybe I’m too young to get married anyway.
“No, but I don’t have to leave for another hour.” He could at least try to talk me into staying until tomorrow morning.
She took his hand. They went to their bedroom and stayed the entire hour. As always, it was wonderful. Then she left.
* * *
By the next morning he was really st
arting to miss her. In the back of his maroon Ford Office-Master, sitting at the desk unit, he prepared for the ride to the ATI Tower, and heard Leonard’s voice again. The voice unnerved but also soothed him. It’s okay.I’m still here with you, Petey. And I’ll always love you.
“Take me to work,” he commanded the automobile’s voice-activated navigator/pilot, “the fastest way, please.”
“Yes, Mr. Armstrong.”
It was 8:27 a.m., still rush hour. Pedestrians would slow things down, so the seven-mile trip that would have required 2.81 minutes at midnight, took nearly six.
But that was plenty of time for Pete to speed-read most of the relevant daily news. Every morning on the way to his office he scanned his custom newspaper on the portable screen, which he had set to scroll at 2,000 words per minute, the fastest setting then available.
(Note: 2,000 WPM was only 70 percent of Pete’s maximum reading speed, but in 2024 the print did not yet scroll to accommodate the reader’s eye movements, as you take for granted today. The screen was a Motorola 2KM Viewer, only slightly more advanced than the rudimentary Sony Readboy that had revolutionized the publishing industry five years earlier. Long in use as videophone, computer, and media receivers, screens were still only slightly more popular for reading than the printed versions of books, newspapers, and magazines. I suspect this was because the newspaper-sized screens available to the average consumer were nearly one-fifth of an inch thick, weighed almost six ounces, and could only be folded once. There were obvious advantages, however, particularly that information in digital-bit format could be sorted based on the individual reader’s interests, and tended to be more timely since the news was continuously updated. Digital publishing’s mushrooming popularity was also a function of its lower cost—paper is expensive while digital bits are practically free—but this aspect was of little concern to multibillionaires like Pete Armstrong.—22g CP)
The Truth Machine Page 19