Gabriel's Stand

by Jay B. Gaskill

  The Bishop’s response is soft but unmistakably clear. “I am sorry that your Director exaggerates the influence of a single person. If the Gaia movement feels threatened at this moment, at the very pinnacle of its power, the danger comes from its own weaknesses. Helen Hawke has, but does not need, my blessings. God will follow and guard her. I will add you to my prayers. Good day.”

  The camera next captures the handgun in the woman’s hands, aimed at the Bishop’s chest. It shows him staring back calmly. There are three clearly audible silenced rounds penetrating the old man’s chest. He is driven back by their force. At the top edge of the screen, bright red spots of blood are clearly visible on the wall behind the desk.

  “To Gaia, then, old fool.”

  A crawl below the image: Bishop Allen Gardiner’s body was recovered from the murder scene in Manhattan. Further investigation by NYPD was ordered closed by the Gaia Operations Directorate.

  Gabriel spoke again. “This terrorist murder was committed to silence my daughter, Snowfeather, who is the Helen Hawke mentioned in the video, and all those who have courageously spoken out against the Commission and the Directorate. Make no mistake—these are dangerous times for all of us who believe in freedom and sanity. I call on all of you to join me in a weekend of protest memorial services. We must protest the assassination of this man of God and show our opposition to those who would drag humankind back into the slime.

  “Starting tomorrow, all across this nation, in churches, in synagogues, and in other places of worship, my daughter and thousands of others will join in a chorus of voices. We will pray that this good man did not die in vain. We will pray for courage, resolve, and the deliverance of our country.

  “This is Gabriel Standing Bear Lindstrom.”

  ——

  Two days following the release of the Gardiner assassination video, Dr. John Owen stood on the steps to the Seattle courthouse, surrounded by cameras. Behind them and filling the street, the crowd had already grown to several thousand people, many carrying hand printed placards with “FREE DR. JOHN OWEN!” and “GAIA KILLS CHILDREN!” and “DEFY COMMISSION ORDERS!” and “SAVE THE CONSTITUTION!”

  “This nightmare will be over,” Owen said, his amplified voice echoing in the street. “They can firebomb one factory. They can kidnap and maim.” Owen waved his hands. “And they can spread disease. But they cannot hold back the American people.” There were cheers from the street. “It is time to put an end to this madness before another child dies of a treatable disease, before more Commission goons enter our homes and businesses, before another life-saving business is brought to trial!”

  The crowd started chanting, “Defy Commission Orders,” until the volume almost matched Owen’s amplified voice. “We will win here or we will win in the Senate, or we will win in the streets. But, mark my words. We are taking back our country!” The crowd went wild. Owen grinned. He turned to his attorneys. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

  ——

  Max Cahoon had relocated to Seattle to follow the trial of the century. A few minutes after John Owen’s arrival, Max found a seat in the back of the crowded courtroom, next to the photographer, Karen Kanst, a fashionably dressed blond woman, assigned to him by the Times. Cahoon was delayed by the demonstrations outside. This was to be Dr. Owen’s arraignment before Magistrate Kronk. The defendant was already sitting at counsel table, flanked on either side by his lawyers. Next to him sat the balding William Dornan, a trim, vigorous man with military bearing.

  “Who is that man sitting next to Owen?” Kanst whispered.

  “Owen’s security guy. Ex Special Forces.” The two watched from the rear of the crowded room as the judge glanced at the U.S. attorney.

  “Submitted?” Magistrate Kronk asked.

  “Your Honor, Dr. John Owen is one of the most powerful and dangerous men—” The Assistant U.S. Attorney, Gert Frame, pointed an accusing finger at the defendant. John Owen was in a simple, gray business suit, and sitting calmly with erect posture. His white hair shone in the television lights. His hands were folded; he glanced at his lead attorney, with a quizzical expression.

  “Objection!” Owen’s lawyer shouted. The lead defense attorney was Borah Wiggins, an overweight man with a florid face and mane of yellow-white hair. He had lumbered to his feet with the objection, swearing under his breath.

  “—on earth. And the United States requests that his bail be revoked, and that John Owen be remanded into the custody of the Marshal until trial.”

  Wiggins’ booming, theatrical bass interrupted. “Character assassination is not evidence, Your Honor. Dr. Owen traveled to the United States and voluntarily surrendered to the government on condition that he will remain at liberty throughout the trial.”

  “Those discussions were with my predecessor, Your Honor,” the Assistant Prosecutor said.

  “Great. The government doesn’t talk to itself?” Wiggins snorted. “Where is Ms. Blackcroft, the assigned US Attorney that I spoke with?”

  “But we would be agreeable to house arrest. Dr. Owen does not have to go into a locked detention facility.”

  “How generous. Your Honor, the surrender agreement was reached with the Attorney General herself, and—”

  “Where is your client staying?” Magistrate Kronk asked.

  “Your Honor,” Wiggins interjected. “Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves?”

  “Point taken,” Magistrate Kronk said, reddening. “Dr. Owen, please stand. I have carefully reviewed the evidence that the government has presented to the Grand Jury, and I concur that there is more than ample probable cause to believe that you have committed each of the seven unlawful technology use counts charged. I will now summarize the Indictment before formal reading. As to Count One, on the dates alleged, you did acquire, possess, manufacture, or distribute, or cause the same to be done wholly or in part within the boundaries of the United States, certain listed class nine antibiotics proscribed by order 32114 of the Technology Licensing Commission—”

  “Excuse me, Your Honor,” Wiggins interjected. “We will waive the reading.”

  “Very well. Reading of the Indictment is waived. Sufficient cause to support all seven counts having been found, I direct that you, John L. Owen, must stand trial before the District Court. This case has been assigned to Judge Wandright before whom you will appear on Wednesday morning at 9:30 A.M. to select a trial date and for any other proceedings. That is the day after tomorrow. Pending trial, I am ordering that you be remanded to the virtual custody of the U.S. Marshal—”

  “I OBJECT!”

  “Calm down, Mr. Wiggins. Virtual custody. Dr. Owen is simply to remain within the limits of the City of Seattle, subject to such additional restrictions and orders as shall be appropriate to guarantee his appearance.” There was a rustle from the audience. “I repeat my question, Counsel. Where is Dr. Owen staying?”

  “He has a suite in the Westin Arms,” Owen’s co-counsel, a much smaller man named Phil Alder, replied.

  “That, Dr. Owen, is where you will reside from now and during trial, unless you apply to the court for a modification. You may come and go only with a U.S. Marshal escort. You may not leave Seattle.”

  Wiggins leaned forward and boomed: “Judge, this is a clear violation of the surrender agreement.”

  “Mr. Wiggins, are you contending that this court was party to some agreement about Dr. Owen’s custody status?”

  “Not directly, Your Honor.”

  “Then count your blessings, Mr. Wiggins. At least he’s not yet in jail.”

  “Dr. Owen must be free to travel between court appearances. If the custody agreement is not followed, we will seek dismissal of all charges.”

  “Mr. Wiggins, my role in this case is over today. You can take up your concerns with District Judge Wandright, who has been assigned as trial judge. “Now,” the magistrate, a sallow man with a pinched face, picked up a note from the clerk. “There is one more matter, Dr. Owen. It appears the government needs
to examine your right hand.”

  “What?”

  “This is outrageous!” Wiggins began.

  “It’s very simple,” Frame, the U.S. attorney, said. “Your client should not have a right hand. “If he does—” Frame grabbed Owen’s wrist.

  “Objection!”

  “Mr. Frame, you are not to touch the defendant without the court’s permission,” Kronk said.

  “Sorry, Your Honor, but it appears he has broken the law,” Frame said. John pulled away, staring at his hand. “And we are considering adding another charge.” The prosecutor leered. “Genetic engineering, a class one felony.”

  Cahoon watched in horrified fascination as two Marshals approached Owen from either side. Grimly, Dr. Owen faced Gert Frame. The prosecutor pointed at the defendant’s right hand, and one of the Marshals snapped a photo. The U.S. Attorney smiled smugly.

  Karen rose to take a picture. “Not yet!” Cahoon hissed, putting his hand over the lens. “There are no pictures allowed until trial.” Reluctantly, Karen resumed her seat.

  Frame stepped toward Dr. Owen again. Wiggins snarled like a shaggy guard dog, “Keep your hands off my client!”

  Dornan, already on his feet, moved forward, and the prosecutor raised his hands defensively, palms out. “We’ll take care of this tomorrow, Your Honor,” he said.

  “Very well. Adjourned,” the Magistrate said. The snap of a gavel signaled the end of the session, and Magistrate Kronk disappeared into chambers. The room dissolved into fifty conversations.

  As Owen reached the rear of the courtroom, Cahoon overheard the Owen’s remark to Dornan. “Bill, I’m going to need more security.”

  “No kidding, John.”

  “Then get to work on it.”

  Karen Kanst stared at the pair with predatory intensity. Bemused, Cahoon watched the photographer closely. She had been tense as a coiled spring all the time Owen and Dornan were in the courtroom, and relaxed only when the pair had left, escorted by two Marshals. She’s like a hunting dog on a leash, Cahoon thought. I’ve got to call the Times, find out more about this woman. “We should go,” he said. “You okay?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  Chapter 71

  John Owen quickly chafed at his gilded cage captivity. His best attempts to retrofit his hotel suite with secure, encrypted communications were immediately thwarted by federal agents. After an elaborate effort, a privacy zone was established in the hotel living area, but John remained so wary of eavesdropping that a courier system was used for anything more than small talk. His excursions were tailed by US Marshalls in black SUV’s. His walks were tailed by conspicuous agents. John’s outings were widely varied in order to allow brief moments during which sensitive messages could be exchanged. But Edge Medical and Vector Pharmaceutical were out of reach. John made no effort to contact his remote businesses lest the G-A-N attempt sabotage. Meantime Commission agents and G-A-N operatives tried in vain to track down the source of the illegal medicines that were trickling past the embargo.

  But John’s contacts with Gabriel, though indirect, were frequent—facilitated by a dozen contract security employees working for Dornan. Video messages were smuggled back and forth using tiny—but very illegal—flash drives. A tense routine had set in, punctuated by sporadic trips to the law firm. A formal trial date had not been set and John was seething with impatience.

  Finally, Dr. John Owen found himself sitting in the law offices of Borah Wiggins at the edge of Pioneer Square, near old downtown Seattle. Apparently, there was news. All of the routine pretrial motions had been submitted in the case. A date thirty days hence had been selected as a possible trial date, but no one thought the trial could actually start until the first of the year. But Owen had unexpectedly been notified to appear in court the next morning. Dornan stood watching from the doorway, glowering.

  “The U.S. Attorney called,” Phil Alder said. He was second-chair counsel, having recently resigned his position as an Assistant U.S. Attorney in New York. “We are to expect new charges tomorrow. The Grand Jury may add a genetic engineering count.”

  “You said this is about my hand?” Owen asked, flexing his new fingers. He exchanged glances with Dornan who gave John an “I told you so” look.

  Alder nodded in agreement and Wiggins scowled. Up close, the lead defense attorney was even a larger man than he appeared in the media. Preternaturally shaggy and red faced, he was barely contained in his old fashioned three piece suit. Wiggins sprawled next to the younger, more primly dressed Alder. The younger man sat behind a desk while Wiggins commanded the space around it.

  “I just don’t get it. Edge Medical had legitimately developed and applied fully lawful gene technology,” John said. He sat in the chair across from Alder’s desk. Wiggins and Dornan continued to stand. “There was no retro-order then in effect. Right? And I only used it on myself, assuming all risks.”

  “Well you did beat the formal Retro date by a clean three months,” Wiggins drawled, pulling up a chair. “We’ll pass over the government’s point that it became a crime not to surrender your entire lab at that time. We are evidently operating in Alice in Wonderland jurisprudence here. It seems that ex post facto is allowed in their universe. The real crime, from their twisted point of view, is that you used the technology on yourself when you knew or should have known that it was soon to be illegal.” Wiggins wagged a finger at the sky. “They’re saying it was selfish of you. Elitist.” Wiggins gave an exaggerated shrug, as if to say, “Welcome to the funny farm.” Owen was shaking his head in bewilderment.

  “Re-growing a severed limb is now a felony punishable by death,” Alder said. His tone was clinical. He might have been talking about a contract clause.

  John was deeply shocked—he looked at Dornan, then Wiggins, a look of betrayal on his face. Even Wiggins appeared shocked. John slammed a fist on Alder’s desk. “That is outrageous. There was no talk of the death penalty when I agreed to come here.”

  “They didn’t have all of the evidence then,” Alder said. “And they haven’t actually said they’re going for death.”

  John glanced at Dornan, his eyes flashing; then he turned on Alder, his anger barely under control. “You’re implying they don’t keep their promises. Then I should never have surrendered, should I?”

  “Well, it is too late now,” Alder said evenly.

  John stood, furious at Alder’s detachment. “So I am being prosecuted for self-administering high tech medicine to undo the damage caused by the same terrorists who run this government!” He was seething.

  Wiggins also stood, trying to position himself between the two men. “They are winning no prizes for common sense and decency, John. We’ll need to study this carefully. I’m sure there’s an approach.”

  “But it was the clear intent of the Treaty,” Alder added, “to outlaw this kind of technology, and now they see you as openly defying the Commission’s regulatory power. I have the detailed regulations right here.” Alder held up the file like a prize fish.

  “Don’t bother,” John said. “Tell me one thing, please. Just how much additional risk is there for me? Can I assume that without the physical evidence… I mean, how could they prove this new genetic engineering charge?”

  “Good point, Dr. Owen,” Wiggins said. “Only the G-A-N terrorists can establish that your hand was cut off. The emergency room visit before you left the country was under a different name. You have given no statements and you don’t have to testify.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” John said. “No hand. No proof.”

  There was a short pause. Alder seemed to squirm behind his desk. “But they do have your hand,” he said finally.

  “What!” John was ready to strangle Alder.

  Wiggins touched John lightly on the shoulder. “God damn it, Phillip, when the hell did you find this out?”

  “A little while ago,” Alder said defensively. “Borah, you were on the phone. Dr. Owen, I am afraid they do have your hand,” he said. He l
ooked down at his desk. “Or a good part of it. It’s yours according to the DNA. They seized your old hospital records last week in Seattle and got your DNA profile.” He finally looked up. “I guess someone has kept your severed hand in a refrigerator all this time.”

  “Good crap,” Wiggins said. “I suppose they’ll be wanting the rest of his body, now.”

  “That ‘someone’ would be the terrorists who tied me up, Borah. So my kidnappers are cooperating with the government? Is cooperating with terrorism is now government policy?”

  “We don’t know that,” Alder said.

  “The hell we don’t,” Wiggins growled. He was now as furious at Alder as Dr. Owen was, managing only a precarious hold on his composure.

  “At least,” John offered, “the jury will listen.”

  Wiggins gave Alder a bleak stare. “What is that look?” John asked.

  “Ah, Dr. Owen,” Alder said, pausing to take a breath, “…there will be no jury in this case.”

  John froze for a moment, while the import of that statement sunk in. “No jury did you say?” His tone was suddenly very controlled.

  “Correct.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you are not legally entitled to one.”

  “You’d better be goddamn well joking,” John bit out the words.

  “You didn’t warn Dr. Owen?” Wiggins put his cup down with a loud clank. Coffee spilled across Alder’s desk.

  “I’m sorry, I assumed you knew, Dr. Owen,” Alder said. “In Technology Licensing Commission vs. Google, the 9th Federal Circuit Court of Appeal held that there is no jury trial for Treaty-based violations.”

  “What about the United States Constitution, the Bill of Rights?” Owen asked. Alder shrugged.

  “Under the Treaty clause of Article Six,” Alder explained, “the provisions of the Treaty have superseded all inconsistent constitutional provisions.”

  “This is right out of Kafka,” John said. He was about to walk out.