Paradigms Lost

by Ryk E. Spoor

  I concentrated on the pieces of collected evidence that appeared to have no bearing on the case—that is, the kind of stuff you pick up in the investigation that turns out to not be relevant, like fingerprints from the once-a-week cleaning lady, or undeveloped film which has just pictures of the kids at the beach, or that giant dust-bunny under the bed which simply gives evidence that the deceased didn’t do much vacuuming. It was as I went back over the first two folders the lieutenant had given me that it finally hit me.

  That woman at the trial—the one with the spectacularly long, red hair—had strongly reminded me of the murdered Jesse Roquette. I grabbed the file and looked up Jesse’s maiden name: Grandis. Armed with this new piece of evidence, my search skills, and the name of the politician who the redhead had apparently been working with, it took me only a few minutes to confirm that Virginia “Ginny” Grandis was indeed working with California State Senator Henry Reed, and was undoubtedly the slightly older sister of Jesse Roquette, neé Grandis.

  Now the whole thing was clear. Everything made sense. I picked up the phone. I could at least confirm or deny the crucial question. Then it would just be a very tricky matter of proof and timing. Which might get me killed if I screwed it up, but hell, that was no surprise.

  “Verne,” I said, when he got on the line, “tell me something. You know that little stunt that Angela pulled on me while she was yanking my strings—hitting me with a supercharge from the energy she’d taken from Delacroix?”

  “Yes. I understand how such things could work, certainly. What do you want to know?”

  “I guess . . . well, you fought these things and even ended up having to do unto one of them as they would’ve done unto you.”

  “Yes.” His voice was unusually . . . cold? Restrained? Nervous? I knew that particular event embarrassed and upset him, but I thought he’d have been over it by now.

  “Anyway, from what I got out of her I guess she used maneuvers like that fairly frequently with her clients. What I want to know is, how much energy would that be in their terms? I mean, if you were a wolf and killed one guy, could you jazz up one client, ten, a hundred times that with the energy?”

  “That,” he said, more animation coming back into his voice, “is a very interesting question. Let me think on what I have sensed and what impressions remain from those and similar contacts.” He was silent for several minutes. “Not many, Jason. The transfer in that direction would not be tremendously efficient. Humans are not designed for input, so to speak, and wolves are not generally for output, though they are certainly capable of it. More than one, less than ten I would guess.”

  “Thanks, Verne.” I took a deep breath. “Exactly what I needed to know.” I hung up after a quick good-bye.

  Now the real dangerous game would begin.

  CHAPTER 97

  Reasonable Fear

  I stood before the Court now, the prosecution having just rested its case. I turned to face the jury. “You have heard the prosecution’s case, and you have been instructed as to what the requirements of the law are in this case.

  “I think it is important, however, to establish that the broad general principle—that non-human, intelligent creatures deserve the same justice as those who are human—is one in need of establishment. If the wolves are what we believe them to be, it would be difficult to argue that there is any justification—for the protection of our own species—for according them such rights.” I took a deep breath.

  “With the approval of the Court, I am going to present some evidence previously shown only to a very limited number of people, prior to this trial, on which basis the trial was permitted to proceed. In short, I want to introduce you to someone it would be worthwhile to protect—by giving them the right to trial.”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” David Hume said. We’d already hashed this out in chambers, but we both knew he needed to get his objection on the official records, and I didn’t mind as it meant my rebuttal would be there, too. “Defense is attempting to sway the jury through introducing irrelevant facts designed for emotional appeal.”

  “In a sense true, Your Honor,” I responded, “but if we are honest about this trial and its setting, it would be essentially impossible to get a truly impartial jury. For the past year and a half and more, entire governments have changed their courses of action because of the revelation of the existence of the wolves—and not always for the better. I simply want to prove to the jury—and to the world—that allowing such justice is not merely and solely going to be an avenue to permit monsters to go free.”

  Judge Freeman nodded. “Objection overruled. Proceed, Mr. Wood.”

  This time the screens were visible to the courtroom. While specific identification had been eliminated from the video, any sufficiently determined and intelligent researcher would probably be able to trace the source, and that was why it had taken a great deal of soul-searching and courage by the principals to allow me to show this video. I felt renewed gratitude towards the whole family as Lizzie Plunkett, face blurred digitally, appeared. “Hi. You can call me . . . Victoria. I want you to meet my best friend in the whole entire world.” Her voice was also subtly altered, but still clearly that of a young girl. “This is Arischadel.”

  A tiny dragon, seemingly sculpted of smoky black quartz, flew into view. A murmur sprang up around the courtroom. “He can’t speak English very well because his throat isn’t made for it, but he’s just as smart as you or me. So, he’s going to write for you.”

  Arischadel took a little notebook from Lizzie’s outstretched hand and, gripping a small pencil in his claw, began to write in a clear, if somewhat shaky, script. The camera zoomed in to show him actually writing each word, and Lizzie read out each line as he completed it. “Hello, ar . . . arbiters?” she glanced suspiciously at Arischadel. “Is that a real word?” He bobbed his head again. “Okay. Hello, arbiters of justice. I am Arischadel. I am one of many kinds of creatures you would call supernatural or magical. I live with”—here Aris wrote an “L” but managed to convert it to a “V”—“Vicky and her family and watch over them the best I can. I cannot journey to your courtroom, as I am bound to this place.” The little dragon looked directly into the camera, large dark eyes giving an appeal which was reinforced by the slightly childlike proportions of the creature’s head and body. “I do not ask you to set the one called Angela free for my sake. All that I ask is that you judge her fairly for myself and all other creatures that are not of your blood, but are still of your world.”

  Lizzie looked up as he finished. “And that’s all we ask. We’re afraid of wolves, too. But people like Aris need to be protected by the law. That’s the point of this trial. Thanks for listening and . . . good luck.”

  I nodded to the jury, some of whom were looking startled, a few of whom were looking suspicious. “That video was taken by me personally. It has been verified—and the facts in it examined directly—by personnel from the prosecutor’s office as well. You saw no special effects, except the blurring of the girl’s face and certain background details to protect her anonymity. Arischadel is a real, living, thinking being, and he is far from the only non-wolf, non-human out there.

  “This will be an emotional trial, and decisions are and have always been affected by emotions. But this is also a question, in many ways, of what defines a person, of whether we have the right to pass summary judgment on someone because they are different from us. The wolves are, to us, truly horrifying. Perhaps Angela is just as much a monster as the prosecution wishes you to believe. But her people think, and feel, and hate, and I believe they can choose to love, to care, and to protect. Anything that thinks and lives can do those things. Arischadel certainly can, and certainly has. Remember this, when the time comes to render your verdict.”

  I turned. “The defense calls Angela McIntyre to the stand.”

  A ripple of murmurs circled around the courtroom as the petite form of the shapeshifted werewolf entered the witness box. She was sworn in, with a lin
e added specifically for her: “I swear to tell the truth by the name of our King, Virigar himself.” Angela had very, very much not wanted to accept that change, but in the end, she’d realized that I wasn’t budging on that.

  I advanced to the witness stand. “Angela, the oath that you’ve sworn does actually bind you, doesn’t it?”

  She glared at me, although the glare at this point was mostly for show. “Yes. As you well know.”

  “What would happen if you were to directly lie on the stand, having given that oath?”

  She looked bleak for a moment. “Worse than the death your people threaten me with. I will not elaborate.”

  I nodded. “Good enough. So we can count on the truthfulness of your testimony at least as much as we could with any other witness.”

  “More, I would think, Mr. Wood.”

  I led her through a series of questions establishing her identity and history. “Exhibits ten-A through ten-F verify that the identity of ‘Angela McIntyre’ is one used solely by the wolf before us, over the last several years. This is not an identity stolen from a human being but a unique identity of her own.”

  From that point, I quickly rehashed her career with Frederic Delacroix, again avoiding the rather intimate nature of the “escort” duties. “Now, Angela, is it true that Frederic Delacroix pressured you, as one of his employees in a rather . . . intimate sort of industry, to be more than merely professionally involved with him?”

  “Yes. Freddie didn’t choose his employees just for the target clientele. He had his own interests.”

  “Would it be fair to say that he applied this pressure to most of his escorts?”

  Angela nodded. “Yes.”

  “But you refused.”

  “I did. He wasn’t my type, you might say.”

  “How did he accept your refusal?”

  “Poorly.” Angela gave a half-smile. “He wasn’t bad-looking for a human and he could behave decently, so given that plus money, connections, and his position as employer, I do not think he was accustomed to being refused.”

  “Did you at any time lead him on, give him the impression that you might be accessible?”

  She shook her head emphatically. “I was professionally friendly but no more. I had no interest in him and I tried to make that clear.”

  “Tell us about the night in question.”

  The story followed what had already been established, until we reached her flight from the party. “So you left the party?”

  “It was pretty clear to me that Freddie just wasn’t giving up, he was actually becoming almost obsessive, and I didn’t want to put up with it anymore.”

  “Did you think he would follow you?”

  “Most of us girls stick together, so no. I thought he wouldn’t realize I was gone until it was too late and he’d calmed down a bit.” For a moment, she did look venomously angry, glaring at Trisha, who was just visible in the audience. The girl shrank back. “But someone told him that I’d gone.”

  “Were you afraid of Frederic?”

  “Not at that time, no.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was about half a block from Freddie’s when I heard a shout behind me, and I saw him coming after me. So I ran.” She sighed. “But, as you can see, I’m not built to outrun people like Freddie. He was a running back in college, you know.”

  “If you weren’t afraid of him at that point, why run?”

  “Because I thought fighting him might be too revealing. I was trying to get out of his sight long enough to shift to another shape—one that he wouldn’t recognize, so he’d think he lost track of me. But he kept way too close. If he were to see me change, well, that would have been bad. I didn’t want to kill him and have to leave the area; I had everything nicely set up.”

  “So Mr. Delacroix caught up with you. What happened then?”

  She grimaced, the pretty face looking both repelled and slightly frightened. “He grabbed my arm, said something like ‘where the hell do you think you’re going, bitch?’ and then backhanded me across the face.”

  “Were you afraid of him then?”

  She hesitated, looking almost embarrassed, then nodded. “Yes. Yes, I was, after he hit me.”

  “Why would you be afraid of him then?”

  “Because he hurt me.” She took a tissue and swabbed makeup from the side of her face. A shadowy bruise, along with some still-visible scarring, came into view.

  I turned to the judge and jury. “Exhibit twelve is a photograph of Angela’s face shortly after she was taken into custody. You will note the cuts and heavy bruising on her face, in the same place as these scars. Referring to Exhibit four-E, it can be seen that Mr. Delacroix wore a set of rings on his right hand. Trace material found caught on points and angles of the rings has been analyzed and shown to have DNA content identical to the DNA of Angela McIntyre.” I glanced over at Prosecutor Hume as I continued. “These rings are described in the accounting of the deceased’s possessions, in the ME report, page seven. The most important point of the descriptions is that the two rings which caused the cuts contain a high proportion of silver.”

  That got a reaction. “Exactly. Until that point, Angela was not afraid of Frederic. But when he struck her, it was with a weapon known to be very deadly to her species, a weapon that could easily kill her if she did not defend herself.” I returned to Angela. “Was that when you changed and fought back?”

  She shook her head. “Not quite. He knocked me down, and I tried to get away, but he was too fast and pushed me back down. He pulled out his knife and I realized what he intended to do, and then I fought back. And then the police came around the corner, just at the wrong time. I was not able to get away.”

  “Thank you, Angela.” I nodded to Hume. “Your witness.”

  Hume was conferring with a couple of people at his table. “Your Honor, as it is getting late, we would like to begin our cross-examination tomorrow.”

  Judge Freeman nodded. “I have no objection to adjourning until tomorrow. Does the defense object?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then court adjourned until tomorrow. When we reconvene, the prosecution may begin its cross-examination of the witness.”

  CHAPTER 98

  Lest You Become Monsters Yourselves

  “Mr. Wood, do you think you have a chance to win this case?”

  “Mr. Wood, don’t you feel you’re betraying your own people by doing this?”

  There were a dozen other questions, all being shouted at once, as I exited the courtroom with Angela. Other questions were bellowed at Angela, but she completely ignored them, looking scared and small. Her Oscar-winning performance continued all the way to the car that would take her back to the lockup. I stopped before I reached my car. “Okay, people, I’ll give you some footage. Do I feel I have a chance to win? Yes, I do, as long as the jury is fair. The evidence we just presented shows—contrary to the prosecution’s original contention—that Angela did in fact have reason to fear for her life.

  “No, I’m not betraying anyone. I don’t like the wolves any more than most people, and—in fact—there isn’t anyone alive that has more reason to be afraid of them than me. But if we let our justice system be run by anything other than fairness, or at least the willingness to try to be fair, we’ve already lost what makes this country worth living in.”

  Brian Clement of CNN knew an opening when he saw one. “What do you mean by that, Mr. Wood?”

  “I mentioned in court today that entire governments changed after the existence of the wolves became known. The fact is that a lot of the panic over the werewolves has been used by opportunists to get away with things that would never fly in ordinary times. The WAS Act—Werewolf Alertness and Security—made a lot of things legal that simply shouldn’t have been, all in the guise of allowing the federal government to detect and deal with wolves. Monitoring cameras sprouting up everywhere, background traces to detect discontinuities, my own CryWolf systems doing double-duty as sec
urity monitors in thousands of places that never were watched before; there’s a serious danger here, worse than anything those monsters could do. They live on fear, you know, and if they make our whole society based on fear, I’m not at all sure they wouldn’t be willing to risk the increased so-called security measures.”

  “But if that’s the only way to be safe—” someone began.

  “—then we had better accept that there’s no such thing as real safety.” I cut him off. “Ben Franklin said it best: ‘Those who would give up essential liberty, to purchase a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety.’ Yes, by not allowing the government to monitor whatever it desires, it’s possible for werewolves, or murderers, or terrorists, or whatever, to sometimes get away with something. That’s the price you pay for living in a free society. Sometimes a monster—human or otherwise—will abuse that freedom to do something to you or yours.” I shrugged. “I would rather take that risk than allow a slowly creeping fear to erode our freedom until there’s nothing left.” I opened my car door. “That’s all.”

  “You’re really playing with fire, Wood.” Clement whispered.

  Thinking of how the endgame of this whole mess might play out, I agreed. Timing was going to be absolutely everything . . . and I had to make sure that all three sides involved—mine, the prosecutor’s, and the police—knew the right info, at the right time, to act on it, or else the whole thing would blow up in my face—and I’d be the first casualty. I had the proof in hand, though, courtesy of poor, dead Joe Buckley and a very thorough scene investigator who’d bagged a single hair that was out of place. Now if I could just get through these next few days . . .