For the next hour there was silence in the office, as Hope flicked through the document files looking at anything that might have been the typist’s file copy of the original test data and Jude combed through the desk and the filing cabinets. Beside the computer a laser printer now and then hummed into life as Hope took a copy of various documents she found.
At last Hope sat back, blowing upwards to dislodge a damp tendril of hair that flicked her eye. “Well, I don’t think there’s anything here.”
Jude crossed silently to stand beside her. “No?”
“As far as I can see, the document files are arranged exactly like ordinary files: they open a client folder, and then every letter they write relative to that client is saved in that folder. We’ve checked every computer in the office, and there’s only one Thompson Daniels file. That’s got a copy of that letter dated August first as the last letter on file, and no previous letter referring to test data.”
“And the others?” Jude asked.
She bent to pull the pages out of the laser printer. “The file for DeMarco Labs has the letters you’d expect relative to the testing in June and July and the test results they used in court. I’ve checked for other labs, too, but there’s nothing. I’ve looked for ROSE and LIBRARY, in case whoever was typing had chosen a file name that Bill Bridges didn’t know about. I’ve checked every file that has a curious file name, that might be code. I’m about out of inspiration. Nothing.”
It mirrored his own findings among the paper files. Hope stood up to stretch, and Jude slipped into the chair she had vacated. On the screen was a directory with three choices: OFF, LAB, FAK.
“Right,” he said to Young. “Let’s go into the lab files.”
They had agreed in advance that Hope would check the office files; but Jude would have better experience and feeling for the test laboratory records.
Another age passed, the silence broken only by the click of the keyboard, a muttered question, the sound of drawers and paper. There was one document to reflect the preliminary test done on the prototype shape. At last Jude admitted defeat and abandoned the lab computers, punching the directory back up onto the screen.
OFF, LAB, FAK. This time he noticed that it was a K and not an X. It was a curious misspelling of fax, his brain suggested, as though trying to bring the third option to his notice. “Fax!” he whispered, as an idea brushed him “Does this have a computer-generated fax system on it?” Computer-generated fax systems saved all faxes sent and received in a separate file.
But Gig was shaking his head. “Nah, that’s not fax, it’s the factory. Bill got the factory computers on-line a couple of months ago. He didn’t have the capacity before, but this is a new computer.”
Jude stared at Gig Young, then at the screen, then back at the draughts man again. “All the equipment on the factory floor is computerized,” he said, as if to himself.
“Oh, yeah, it’s years since we had that.”
Jude said, “Let’s take a look at the actual manufacturing programs for the Rose Library glass.”
“Hell, that won’t tell you anything.”
“No,” Jude agreed, not sure what his brain was trying to tell him. “Let’s look anyway.”
Gig Young reached in front of Jude and pulled the keyboard closer to himself. He began punching in codes. Suddenly the screen was full of long lists of numbers. He shook his head.
“The jobs are all saved under the factory code,” he said. “I got no idea how the codes are assigned. The guys on the floor know the codes for whatever job they’re working on.”
“There must be some kind of master document,” said Jude.
“I guess so.”
Hope, abandoning her fruitless re-search of the paper files, drifted over to look over Jude’s shoulder. 8192A. 5593. 6694C. 41295A. 7696A. 111296B. 2197D. 3397A, she read at random. She frowned, bending down over Jude, and her eyes quickly scanned the screen. The second-last digit of every number was a nine; there was no final digit higher than seven. No letter higher than D. “Those are dates, aren’t they?” she said.
The two men stared transfixed at the screen as gibberish transformed itself into sense.
“So they are!” breathed Gig Young. “The Start Date! I’m always hearing the guys asking for the Start Date Number to be assigned to a job. A, B, C, and D would be used if more than one job was started on the same day. I don’t think we have the capacity to start more than four in one day unless there’s a couple of very small jobs.”
“The Start Date for the Rose Library job must have been late April or early May that year,” said Jude, and all three bent their heads closer to the screen in sudden excitement. “Is this day month year or month day year?”
“Day month,” said Young.
20596A. 20596B.
Gig’s finger pointed out the figures. “That’d be two different jobs started on the same day, see!” he said excitedly.
23496. 24496. 27496A. 27496B.
Jude said, “When there’s no letter suffix, what does that mean?”
“Only one job started that day, probably.”
6596B.
May 6, 1996. Jude frowned. “Why is there no 6596A?”
“Hard to say.” Young shook his head.
“Because he wiped it,” Hope offered simultaneously.
Jude exchanged glances with her and nodded. “Because he wiped it,” he agreed.
“Can you call up one of these files?”
“I can try.” Young hit several keys.
The screen filled with the recognizable gibberish of a computer programme. They heaved a simultaneous sigh.
“This is the instructions to the computer that controls the blast furnace,” said Jude. “Why did Bridges wipe the Rose Library program? It’s meaningless without a reference, in any case.”
“I don’t understand what this is,” Hope said.
He twisted to look up at her. “It’s just temperature and timing control during the manufacture. It’s telling the furnaces how to temper the glass. To hold it at a certain temperature for a certain period. To reduce the temperature over a certain period. Why did he wipe this information?”
“Just being thorough,” Gig Young guessed.
“Maybe,” said Jude. “Maybe not.” He stared unseeingly at the screen as light seemed to form in his head. “This is the one thing I never thought of,” he said slowly. “The most obvious thing, and I overlooked it. There was a problem in the actual manufacture of the glass.”
He sat silently brooding while the other two waited and watched his brain work behind the broad brow.
“Hope,” he whispered after a moment. “Now I see it. They made a mistake in the computer instructions to the furnace. The first shape off the production line—31AA—was flawed, but nobody realized. By the time they noticed it, we had the glass installed...and it was going to cost Bridges if he told us about it....”
“A lot?” Hope asked.
“Enough.” Jude came out of his reverie. “What we need are not the test documents, but what was probably filed here as 6596A: the computer instructions for the furnace for every shape of glass that was poured for the library consignment.”
“Wait a minute,” said Hope in a different voice that made both men look at her. She turned to Gig Young. “Can you go back into the OFF files, please?”
Jude stood up to make way for her to sit in front of the computer while Gig Young summoned up access to the office hard disk.
Dirlp, Hope typed, and again the screen was filled with a list of codes. She hit a key at random several times, then paused. “There!” she said.
SD3-em
cd/SD, Hope told it.
C:/SD> replied the computer.
dirlp, she requested.
All three held their breath.
The same long list of number codes flashed on the screen, the 92s, then the 93s...Hope hit a key to flash each succeeding page of the directory until they came to those numbers ending in 96 an
d a letter. The codes ran through February, March, April, May...
6596A
6596B
Gig breathed a curse. “There it is! 6596A. He musta wiped it off the factory computer but forgot there was a matching record in the office files. This should have the original instructions that they used to program the factory computer as well as the actual program.”
Her heart pounding with almost unbearable excitement, Hope instructed the computer to open the 6596A file.
THOMPSON DANIELS, ARCHITECTS
THE ROSE LIBRARY, the computer announced unemotionally, but it seemed to its three interlocutors that it screamed the words.
Chapter 17
“It’s past four o’clock already,” Gig Young said nervously. “Can we get out of here? The guys in the factory start coming on at six.”
Jude pushed back his chair and stood up. “I’ve seen all I need to see.” He picked up the sheaf of laser printed pages he had been poring over and glanced at where Hope stood taking more pages out of the printer.
“Have you got everything, Hope?”
“Three copies,” she said. “You found it?”
He smiled grimly. “Easy when you know what you’re looking for. Let’s get going.”
The sky was already growing pale as they emerged from the front doors of the building, so it wasn’t difficult to see the flashing lights of the police cruiser as it screeched to a halt a few feet away, nor the guns in the hands of the uniformed men who piled out of the car, leveled their aim and ordered them to put their hands up.
She heard Jude sigh beside her as the three of them obediently came to a halt. Just ahead of her, Gig Young was cursing in a high, nervous voice.
Beyond the police cruiser, another car entered the factory parking lot and pulled up.
Bill Bridges stepped out. He looked first at her, frowned in incomprehension, then at Jude. His face hardened into concentrated ugliness. “Jude Daniels!” he spat. Then his gaze moved to the third member of the party, and the look on his face shifted between shock and rage.
“You little bastard!” he shouted. “You damn stinking coward, what the hell are you doing here?”
One of the police officers looked at him. “Do you know this man, Mr. Bridges?”
“Sure he knows me,” Gig Young said excitedly. “I’m his nephew. I work for him. I’ve got keys. It’s not a burglary!”
Out of the corner of her eye, Hope noticed a third man, in jeans and a jacket, slide out of the back seat of the police cruiser. He lifted his hands and she heard the whirr and click of a flashless camera.
“Not anymore he doesn’t!” Bridges snapped. “This is breaking and entering. Arrest them all.”
“I’ve got keys!” Young shouted triumphantly. “I’m a registered key holder for the alarm company! You can check the record! We didn’t break and enter, we used my keys.”
“Is that right, Mr. Bridges?” asked one of the uniformed men. “Is he a keyholder?”
But Bill Bridges ignored him and addressed his nephew again. “You bastard!” he said again.
“Not him, Bridges,” Jude said with a contempt that froze them all where they stood. “You. You’re the bastard.”
Bridges turned to look at him and smiled. “You got any evidence of that?” he asked insolently, as if he knew the answer.
“Oh, yes,” said Jude. “We have the evidence. You missed one file in your purge, Bill. The one that proves form 31AA was three hours short in the annealing time.”
The change that came over Bridges’ face now was ludicrous. Anger, shock, incredulity, horror.
“I’m Art Foster, The Express,” interjected the man who had got out of the police cruiser. “Aren’t you Jude Daniels, the Rose Library architect?”
“That’s right.”
“I followed your case last year. I’ve just been with these guys here—” he indicated the uniformed police with a negligent thumb “—looking for something to fill up a slow night. Think I just found it,” said the reporter.
Art Foster’s exclusive was blazoned across the front page of the first edition. Jude Daniels Proves Innocence the headline read. Underneath was an unflattering photo of Bill Bridges, his mouth open, his eyes narrowed menacingly. He looked coldly sinister.
“Bill Bridges early this morning at his glass factory listens to architect Jude Daniels tell him he has gathered the proof from Bridges’ own files that the glass that exploded in last year’s Rose Library disaster was defective and the evidence covered up by the manufacturer. Jude Daniels served a prison term for manslaughter of the night watchman who was killed in the tragedy. He has always maintained his innocence.”
“Trial by front page,” remarked Jude.
He had been released from police custody in time to come home to a late breakfast. During the ten minutes in which the police had questioned them all, prior to arresting Jude for parole violation, the journalist had got his story.
Hope nodded. “They don’t actually say anywhere that he’s guilty, but no one reading this is going to be in any doubt, are they? ‘More pictures, page three.”’ She turned the page to find a large shot of
Jude Daniels, his wife, and the Environmental Glass employee Gig Young at the glass factory where they uncovered the evidence reproduced below. Gig Young, an employee and relative of Bill Bridges, alleges that he was forced by Bill Bridges to take part in the cover-up. He took a job at the firm of architects Thompson Daniels allegedly to plant false evidence of negligence that later convicted Jude Daniels.
The bottom half of the page showed photo reproductions of two documents they had printed from the computer, copies of which Jude had given to the reporter as well as the police. She read the caption.
The document on the left records the correct manufacturing process. On the right, the figure circled in red shows that the glass shape manufactured to these specifications was tempered for an inadequate length of time. At Jude Daniels’ trial, it was shown that it was this shape that exploded, causing all the other pieces of glass in the Rose Library to shatter.
Hope smiled tremulously at Jude across the table. “Congratulations, Jude,” she said.
The phone rang, the first of many times.
Bill Bridges did not crack. The factory foreman did.
“Here’s what they’ve got,” Nicholas Harvey said. He leaned back in his leather chair and steepled his fingers. “The accountant doing the costing estimates on the Rose Library glass failed to take into consideration that more than one shape had to be tested. Their estimate to you was low. Now, that’s where Bill Bridges’ greed took over. He decided to do the testing in his own labs to keep his costs down. And that should have been the end of it.
“But then something else happened during the manufacturing process. As you saw from the records, somebody on the factory floor misread a number and cooked—whatever you call it—”
“Annealed,” said Jude.
“Annealed the glass for an inadequate time. That was only the one shape, but of course every piece of that shape was made to the same program and came off the line stressed.”
“Right.”
“By the time anyone realized, the rose was already half complete. Now, we’re at crisis of conscience number two for Bridges. And what he does is manufacture another piece of glass with the same specifications as the stressed pieces he shipped to the site—you get me?—and runs that through the tests in his own lab.”
Jude nodded as he saw the lawyer’s point. “To find out how much danger there was of the stressed glass exploding immediately.”
“That’s right. And he finds out that the stressed glass isn’t as dangerous and volatile as he feared. It hasn’t got quite the same specifications as the correctly manufactured glass, but it might be years before anything happened, if ever. So what does he do? He now gets an independent lab—DeMarco, as it happens—to test all the glass shapes, including the stressed shape, as if they were the routine tests.”
Jude frowned with amaze
d incomprehension. “What?”
“That’s it. Meanwhile he asks Hal Thompson to hire his nephew, and the nephew plants the evidence in the office and removes the original docu—”
“No.” Jude shook his head. “No, this is impossible. That glass was stressed. It didn’t just have greater thermal movement, it was stressed due to faulty manufacture. DeMarco would have picked it up. Whoever is telling this story is still lying when he says the stressed glass shape was tested and found not to be too far out of line with the others. When Bill Bridges tested that badly manufactured shape it exploded right there in the lab, I guarantee it. It had to.”
Jude considered a moment. “What he then did was deliberately develop another shape which they called 31AA and was close in shape to the real 31AA, but which was designed to have slightly more thermal movement. This is the shape he sent to DeMarco for testing.”
The lawyer stared at him. “Jude, are you sure?”
“Bill Bridges could be morally certain that glass would not hold up,” said Jude. “Stressed glass is unpredictable. It didn’t need a heat wave. It could go anytime. Anything might have triggered the explosion.”
“Right. I’ll pass that on.”
“Your Honour, the prosecution does not intend to offer any argument in this appeal. In fact, we join with defence counsel in urging you to direct a new verdict of acquittal, and with the Court’s permission, we would like to take this opportunity to tender the Crown’s apology—and I would like to add my own personal apology—to Jude Daniels for what I’m sure Your Honour will agree has been a miscarriage of justice...” said Sondra Holt.
“...and this Court of Appeal therefore orders a directed verdict of acquittal to be entered in the records, and for Jude Daniels to walk from this courtroom in the knowledge that his entire innocence of the crime has been established to the satisfaction of this court and the people of the lane. ...”
“Isn’t it funny how everything can just be over like that?” Hope said softly that evening. The nights were closing in; the smell of winter was in the air. A bright half moon climbed up the sky, and Venus winked and blinked at them in solitary splendour, a wishing star. Hope was both happy and sad at the same time.