"I'm sorry, Mr. Bartell," May interjected, "but I'm afraid you're losing me. Would you be so kind as to keep your testimony to lay terms."
"Of course. I'm sorry," Bartell replied with a bashful smile. "Neohypermitogenesis is a made up word meaning simply the accelerated growth of new cells. Traditionally, in reproductive cloning, one inserts the DNA of an animal into an unfertilized egg of the same species and, after incubating it in the lab - that is inducing fertilization and igniting cell growth - then implants that now fertilized egg into the uterus of a female. Our new process sped up that incubation process by a factor of forty, allowing new cell growth at a rate unattainable in the womb."
May, who had been leaning against the defense table, stood upright and pursed his lips. "Are you saying that you were able to grow a cloned fertilized egg at forty times the speed of nature?"
"Cloned or organically fertilized, yes. Cellular division, or mitosis, is the natural growth process of any life form."
"But," stated May holding one finger in the air, "one would still require a womb for such a task, would one not?"
"Of course," replied Bartell. His earlier bashful smile had now been replaced by one bordering on the smug. "However the mechanics of the womb, while complex and certainly intricate, are rather, well," - he waved a hand in the air as if searching for the right word - "mechanical. After all, cell growth requires set factors - amino acids, nutrients, vitamins, minerals and the like - which are well known to science. Within two years we had our first prototype of an artificial womb. We produced the first lab created baby white mouse in 15 hours. A baby guinea pig in a day and a half. After months of extensive testing and refinement we took the leap, scheduling a press gala to unveil our technology to the world."
Geoffrey leaned away from the microphone in a seemingly involuntary movement. A doleful sigh escaped his lips.
"That was my first mistake," he said quietly, his eyes losing focus as the past swept him into its muddied stream.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
JEFF WAS BURIED DEEP in a massive couch, draped with pillows and blankets and Lilian and Patch. Lilian was on his right, her legs tucked up under her, body curled inward like an upside down comma, and her head resting on a pillow in the middle of Jeff's chest. She alternated her attention between the TV and her tablet device.
Patch took a more organic approach, laying sprawled down the left side of Jeff's body as if he'd been dropped, not bothering to adjust for comfort. One leg was splayed out across Jeff's thigh and his right hand was thrown above his head where it, seemingly of its own accord, held onto Jeff's ear and kneaded it gently - at times not so gently - in response to the plight of the characters on the show he was watching.
Jeff opened his eyes, coming back from a light doze, and watched Patch's face. The show concerned a young cartoon giant who had discovered the existence of a father he'd thought long dead. After a long quest involving the obligatory obstacles - dragons, dark magicians and self-absorbed humans - the pre-teen giant was now confronting his father on his reasons for having left. Patch's left hand was pressed intently under his chin and his eyes widened and shrank in response to the action, his lips mouthing silent advice to the boy-giant. His face moved the entire range from anger to joyful surprise, now concern, now disbelief, now cautiously indifferent. Jeff ruffled the boy's hair, but this effected no change. He poked Patch gently in the cheek while making a raspberry noise. No response.
"He does that," said Lilian. Her voice was soft and lilting with a tinge of amusement.
Jeff stroked her hair, sweeping the abundant curls aside so he could see her face. "Does what?"
"He gets super intense," she replied, her eyes never leaving the tablet screen.
Jeff put a thumb and forefinger under Patch's chin and began squeezing his cheeks in time to accompanying raspberries. Patch produced a hint of a smile, then reached up in slow motion and took Jeff's hand, pulled it down to his chest and held it there, a small fist wrapped tightly around his father's thumb.
Lillian, who'd looked up to watch the maneuver, emitted a brief snorting giggle and put her head back down on the pillow.
Jeff closed his eyes again and let himself drift, the pressure of the small bodies against him like oil on stormy waters.
Jeff awoke to find his wife standing at the foot of the couch. Her arms were crossed high on her chest and her hips tilted. She was trying for a look of disapproval and not pulling it off. A smile tugged at her mouth and in her eyes Jeff could see the tenderness. Her hair was damp and fell in dark perfect waves onto and about her shoulders, leaving darker trails on the velour warm-up suit. Wednesday, Jeff thought. Tennis day at the club.
"Who won?" he asked around a yawn.
Camilla raised a carefully manicured eyebrow. "Who do you think?"
"Those girls are slouches. You need to find some real competition."
Her smile broke free. "Could be it's just my ridiculous talent?"
"Obviously," he said, matching her grin. She didn't reply right away but just stood watching him. He gazed back at her, taking in every detail, committing it to memory, his chest tightening as he did so. How had he ever come to believe that this wasn't the most important thing in his life? These simple, perfect moments. These moments that one might never even recall again but whose embers remained in the heart - or possibly the soul? - stoking the fire of one's eternal essence.
"Speaking of slouches, you're home early."
"Yeah," Jeff said as he extended himself in a long and languid stretch, "work was quiet today."
"Dad picked us up from school," Lilian piped up, still without removing her eyes from the tablet.
"Is that right?" The eyebrow arched again. "And your homework is all done then?"
"Mommm," groaned Lilian.
"It was dark and stormy, honey." Jeff looked up at his wife with a sheepish grin. "It was a snuggle-down kind of day."
Camilla's eyes crinkled at the corners. "I see," she said, shaking her head. "Well, snuggle time's over." She clapped her hands twice. "I'm going to shower before dinner. When I come back down, you two" - she wiggled a finger at Lilian and Patch - "will have your homework done."
With that she waltzed out of the room, tapping off the power button on the television as she went.
Jeff watched her go with a bemused grin, relishing the sight of her supple form beneath the velour, the sway of her hips as she mounted the stairs, until finally she was lost from view and his bemusement had been supplanted by an altogether different emotion.
He turned back to find two pairs of eyes on him, their necks craned around, heads on his chest and brows furrowed with a blend of curiosity and distaste.
"What?" he said.
Jeff got the kids settled in the family room to confront their homework. Lilian's consisted of a few pages of math problems along with a chapter of pleasure reading, while Patch's centered on the penning of lines between cartoon animals and their offspring. Then he went into the kitchen to inform Chef that she need only cook for two this evening, from whom he received in return a cackle and a wink of one watery eye, which he took to mean her approval.
Jeff heard the shower running when he entered the bedroom. A sliver of steam was issuing from the partially open bathroom door, rising in a frothy arc before being snatched and dispersed by the ceiling fan's draft. Jeff sat on the corner of the bed and listened to the sound of the water. He imagined it soaking her thick hair, pressing its weight between her shoulder blades before breaking free and sluicing down the valley of her back, its heat flushing her skin as it rushed over the delicate curve of her bottom. He sat like that for what seemed a while. Finally he stood up, walked to the bedroom door and locked it, then stripped down and went to join his wife.
They made love in the shower, fast and hot and breathless, and afterwards Jeff remained there, eyes closed, head bent under the stream as if by dint of heat and pressure the water might brand the moment into the cells of his body, never to be lost to him.
She'd kissed him quickly on the lips, after they'd finished and she'd done a final rinse, kissed him like a girl might on a first date, brief and fleeting and on tiptoes but with a flash of something in the smile and a batting of eyelashes that promised more. She'd kissed him like that, and she'd said simply, "You're back."
He turned now and through the thick fog of the shower glass saw her outline standing at the counter, running some kind of product through her hair. He reached out and with an almost automatic movement swiped his finger across the foggy glass. First a circle, then two parallel wavy lines across it, and finally a long slash downward, intersecting the whole at a forward angle. He stood with the water running down his back, watching her, seeing glimpses of perfect skin through the clear strokes, and he decided that, come what may, he would be happy.
He took her to a particular favorite of theirs. A small French affair on the river with wrought iron tables and chairs set amongst potted Honey Locust trees. They ordered red wine and talked quietly about nothing in particular. They breathed the late winter air and watched ducks glide across the river's face. The moon was full and the air was still, and the candlelight burnished her features and accented her cheekbones as she laughed at his jokes. And Jeff was happy.
When the dessert came, her favorite Tarte Tatin, they picked at it with tiny forks and Jeff said, "Camilla?"
"What?" she lifted her eyes to him, darker now in the candlelight, foreboding perhaps, due to his tone.
"I want to ask you something."
"Geoffrey, you're so serious all of a sudden. What is it?"
"What if we didn't have all of this?" He gestured vaguely toward the tables around them.
"All of what?" She giggled hesitantly. "The river? The ducks?"
"No. All of this." He spread his hands indicating the table, then the city around them. "The fancy restaurants. The beautiful house and cars, the vacation homes, the-the-" His voice broke and he cleared his throat to hide it. "The business. The money. All of it!"
Camilla stared at him for so long, unspeaking, that he knew he'd made a mistake. His fears had been right. She was born of privilege and privilege was what she deserved - was all she really knew. How naive of him to think otherwise.
"Oh, Geoffrey," she said. Her face held a look of pity, or was it grief? Her eyes moistened and she reached across the table and took his hand. "Do you think any of this - these things - do you think they mean anything to me? I have you again, and we have Lilian and Patch, and that's all we need. My life is full. It's fuller than anyone deserves."
He looked up at her, uncertain. "Do you really mean that? What if we lost it al-"
"Geoffrey, do you remember our vows? Well, I meant them. I love you, Geoffrey Bartell. For richer or for poorer. And our family is all I need to be happy."
Jeff released the breath he'd been holding. "God, I love you," he said around the lump in his throat.
Camilla refilled their wine glasses and raised hers in the air. "Screw the houses!" she said.
Jeff lifted his glass and tapped it against hers. "Screw the cars!"
They both took a long sip, then lifted their glasses again.
"Screw the fancy restaurants!" she said.
"Screw the vacation homes!" he replied.
"Screw the money!"
"Screw the business!"
"Burn it to the ground!" she said, waving her glass high in the air before tipping it up and downing the remainder in one swallow. She set the glass down and leaned across the table to him. The candlelight reflected a sheen on her neck which trailed down to her exposed cleavage. She looked hard at him, a fire blazing behind her eyes, and whispered, "Now take me home and make love to me."
They made love in a wine-induced frenzy. When their passions were at last spent, Jeff lay on his back staring at, but not seeing, the ceiling fan. Camilla showered quickly and returned to bed. She flopped down next to him and threw an arm across his chest. Jeff angled toward her and propped himself on an elbow. He brushed a lock of hair from her face and traced the line of her jaw with his finger.
"I love you," she said softly, her breathing deepening.
"Camilla?"
"Mmm?"
"Will you promise me one thing?"
"Of course, baby," she said as sleep was taking her.
"Promise me that you'll never forget me, the way I am now."
Her eyelids fluttered open for a second. "Whadyoumean?"
"Just promise me that, no matter what happens, no matter how things end up, that you'll remember me - remember us - the way we are now."
"Prom'se," she said and tightened her arm around him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DISTRICT ATTORNEY ALTON MCBRIDE stood down the hall from the courtroom doors, his cell phone pressed to his ear. The grim pallor of the gray-green walls mirrored his mood.
"How's it going over there, Boss?" asked his assistant, Anna Langley. Her voice warbled as it came over the line and Alton turned and walked a few steps further down the hall. He looked briefly at the phone to assess the signal strength.
"It okay, Anna," he said, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. "I need you to do something, top priority."
"Name it, Boss."
"Can you get a hold of Judge Minkhaus? In a hurry?"
"The old codger's probably holed up in his fishing lodge but, yeah, I can track him down."
The retired appellate court judge had served on the bench for four decades before slipping into reclusion, but Alton knew the man stayed connected digitally even at his lakeside hideaway. Holding sway over the lives of men was an addiction not easily broken.
"Good. Tell him I need a legal opinion urgently. Something without precedent. Ask him to standby this afternoon. Jim will get you the details in the next couple hours."
As if on cue, the deputy DA, James Bianchi, exited the courtroom and, with a quick look up and down the hallway, drew a bead on Alton and came stalking towards him. The man's stocky build gave the impression of a bull, his shoulders involved in each stride and straining against an ill-fitting coat.
"You believe this guy?" Jim said as he rolled to a stop in front of Alton just as he was ending the call.
Alton shook his head. "I see where they're going. Can't believe they're doing it, but I see where they're going."
"You think he really cloned himself?"
"What's the evidence say, Jim?"
Bianchi blanched. "According to the pointy heads at the lab, yeah. But, Mac, really? This guy offs someone with a 12-gauge, it's murder, plain and simple. Screw the DNA. Jury's not buying that."
Alton looked at his deputy for a beat. "Maybe not, but if Lemar buys the legal argument then he's the one instructing the jury on how to interpret the evidence isn't he?"
"C'mon! You think he's drinking the Kool-Aid?"
"I don't know, Jim," Alton replied, a cloud moving across his features. He placed a hand on Jim's shoulder as he moved past him, back toward the courtroom, saying again in a strained whisper, "I don't know."
Geoffrey Bartell was seated at the witness stand when Alton re-entered the courtroom. He sat perfectly still, his hands clasped on the rostrum in front of him. From beneath a perfectly starched white cuff peeked a sleek, expensive looking watch. Probably worth half a DA's annual take-home, yet somehow a standard issue item for Bartell's courtroom attire, which replaced the orange jumpsuit he wore the rest of the time. The watch was a metaphor, Alton mused ruefully; a metaphor for how men like Bartell moved through the world, seemingly part of it yet in their essence disconnected from the daily struggle that defines it, that painful pleasure intrinsic in the pursuit of those brief glimpses of what men call happiness.
Chairs scraped and voices murmured as the crowd filed back in, reporters, grad students, and the morbidly curious all vying for the too few seats in the gallery. None of it seemed to impinge on Geoffrey Bartell. He stared straight ahead, calm, composed, and with a look that, if Alton were not mistaken, appeared to be contentment. The DA
followed the man's gaze and found it falling on Camilla Bartell who was seated in the front row of the gallery behind the defense table. She was outfitted in an elegant cream dress with muted red stitching and a red scarf tied at the throat. Her hair was scooped up on top of her head and held in place with a delicate filigreed comb, and on her face a pair of large dark sunglasses which she had not removed once during the trial. She was stoic. The picture of composure, save for the occasional fidget with a pair of lace gloves in her lap.
Judge Lemar entered and brought the court to order. He repeated his admonitions to the gallery regarding their behavior and then ordered the jury brought in.
The jurors filed in in solemn procession. As they took their seats Geoffrey Bartell finally moved. He looked over at the jury, holding his gaze for a long moment as if needing to imprint on his mind the faces of the twelve who would forever change his life, for better or for worse. Then he gave them a weary smile and returned his gaze to Camilla.
The judge waved at James Scott May, who rose from his seat to continue the testimony.
"Mr. Bartell," he said, "before the recess you mentioned making your 'first mistake'. By that statement were you referring to the press gala?"
"Yes."
"And what occurred at this gala exactly?"
"Well, we staged a major event. Black tie dinner at the Dulcimer Hotel. The attendees included every major media outlet as well as the who's who of the scientific community and, of course, government dignitaries. I emcee'd the event myself, presenting an overview of our breakthrough and the subsequent technological developments. While dessert was being served I revealed the coup d'grace."
"Which was what?"
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