But it was too late. Jeff was pacing now, contempt seething from his every movement. "You worthless prick!" he spat. "You traded our family for that?"
"Jeff, you're wrong."
He stopped pacing and squared off in front of Geoffrey's desk. His eyes were flat and empty now. "How many others?"
Geoffrey said nothing. He crossed his arms and lifted his chin and shook his head sadly. Jeff gripped the desk edge and leaned across it, his hands and arms vibrating. He brought his face to within inches of Geoffrey's.
"How many others?" he screamed. Spittle flew from the corners of his mouth.
Geoffrey glanced to the door, wondering if the sound had carried through the thick insulation. He wasn't sure of his own reasoning for the action. Was his concern that someone might hear the fray, or that none might hear it and he be trapped, alone in his sanctuary with a mad man?
"Jeff," he said in a soothing tone, "listen to me very carefully. You're wrong. And I can prove it to you."
He moved around the desk and with slow tentative motions put a hand on Jeff's shoulder.
"I'll prove it to you right now. Okay?"
Jeff was unmoving, a frozen statue of despair, but finally he acquiesced with a slight nod.
"Okay," said Geoffrey, "come." He gently guided Jeff into the elevator and they rode it in silence to the private lab above. Upon exiting he ushered Jeff into a chair by the window. "Just breath for a minute. Let me get you a drink and then I'll explain, and show you, everything."
"Okay," Jeff said. His voice sounded faraway.
Geoffrey walked back to the elevator, stepped in and thumbed the lower of the three buttons. He stared at the closed doors as the machinery hummed, taking long deep breaths, willing his heart-rate to return to normal.
Twenty three seconds later the doors opened.
Geoffrey flipped open a panel above the buttons and typed in a code, locking the doors in the open position.
Then he stepped out and walked away, down the softly lit corridor to the garage.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
"AND DID YOU THEN, in fact, reset the memory of your copy?"
"No, I did not."
"And why not, Mr. Bartell?"
"When it came to it, he refused to submit to the procedure."
"I see. And when was this exactly?"
"This was the afternoon of the 17th of February."
James Scott May nodded onerously.
"He refused you say?"
"Yes. By the time we were together at my lab he'd become delusional, and paranoid. He attacked me verbally, accusing me of all sorts of betrayal."
"Such as what, Mr. Bartell?"
"I can't even recall most of it. It was the ramblings of a compromised mind."
"Let's see what you can recall. As I'm sure my esteemed colleague will want to know during his cross examination." He flashed a smile at the DA. May knew the prosecution would go after such dangling threads and he'd rather preempt them.
"He accused me of wanting to erase his memories."
May cocked his head. "But is that not exactly what you intended?"
"No. That was never my intention. My plan was to remove the aberration, to reboot him if you will. I was to implant him with a fresh cerebral scan from myself - an up to date consciousness - not terribly dissimilar from updating a computer's operating system."
"I see. And what other accusations?"
"Just one other that was coherent enough to make sense of," Bartell said, his gaze flicking briefly to Camilla. "He accused me of cheating on my wife."
"And was there any merit to this accusation?" asked May, eyebrows raised in concern.
"No. I have never been unfaithful to my wife."
"Thank you for your candor, Mr. Bartell." May walked to the prosecution table and consulted his legal pad. "Now, what transpired as a result of this heated interaction?"
"Well, I tried to calm him, get him to see reason, but it only inflamed him further."
"Did the copy become violent at that time?"
"Not directly, no. But I saw it brimming below the surface."
"And did you fear for your safety at that time?"
"I did, yes. And I knew continuing would cause further harm. Emotional episodes of this kind elevate cortisol levels in the blood, which would exacerbate the cerebral degradation. So I locked him in and left."
"Locked him in?"
"Yes, my lab has only one exit: a private elevator that runs between it, my office below, and the garage level. I distracted him and slipped into the elevator, taking it down to the garage, then I locked the doors in the open position so it couldn't be recalled back to the lab."
"And what time was this?"
"Around three-thirty."
"Three-thirty," repeated May, a finger pressed against his lower lip. "Then you fled to your home to seek sanctuary, did you not?"
"Objection, leading the witness," said the DA mechanically.
"I'll rephrase," said May. "You then went to your home, is that correct?"
"Yes. I drove straight home."
"But he followed you home, didn't he?"
"Yes," said Geoffrey. He looked into his lap and shook his head. "I don't know why I thought he wouldn't be able to get out."
"And when exactly did he arrive at the house?"
"Around five thirty, which makes some sense - it would have taken him some time to crack my password for unlocking the elevator."
"Would you please tell the court what happened then, Mr. Bartell."
"Well, I was in my den and I saw the Mercedes pull into the driveway."
"A black Mercedes, is that correct?"
"Yes, it was a rental we'd been using. Whoever was out in public drove one of our cars while the other took the rental. Anyway, he pulled up and came straight to the den through the private entrance."
"What was his mood when he arrived?"
"He was calm, in an almost trance-like state. It was very strange. He walked in, barely even gave me a glance, dropped the car keys on our desk, then went and sat on the couch facing the fireplace. Never said a word. I tried to engage him but he wouldn't respond in the slightest."
"And what then?"
"Well, my first concern was to get the car out of public view. It would have raised many difficult questions with the staff. I told him to go put it in the garages but he was unresponsive. So I went to do it myself."
"And upon your return to the den?"
"When I returned I found him standing behind the couch with a shotgun in his hands."
"One of your shotguns taken from the wall above the fireplace, is that correct?"
"Yes."
"And you keep these shotguns loaded, do you not?"
"Yes, always. They're mounted high enough to escape the reach of children and, besides, no one else has the access codes to my den."
"And what happened then?"
"I approached him carefully, trying to understand what was going on in his head. He was silent, just shifting the gun in his hands and staring at it. When I got within a few feet of him he suddenly looked up and spoke for the first time."
"And what did he say?"
"He said, 'For the good of the whole.'"
"What does that mean, Mr. Bartell?"
"He was referring to a pact we'd made on the first day. That we would both work toward the good of the whole - both of us as two parts of one person. But what I took from it, given the circumstances, is that he meant one of us had to go."
"So, what did you do then?"
"I could see the mania in his eyes," said Bartell, his voice quickening. His breathing became labored as it was amplified through the microphone. "He began to bring the gun down towards the horizon, and I reacted. I stepped in and grabbed the barrel. We struggled for control of it."
"How long did this struggle last?"
"I'm not sure. It's hard to say in such circumstance, but it seemed a few minutes at least."
"And was anything said during this entangl
ement?"
"Yes. He snapped, like he had earlier at the lab, screaming that I'd betrayed him, that it was his life and not mine."
"Can you tell us what were your thoughts during these same moments?"
"I realized I'd make a very serious mistake. I had a monster of my own making right before me, and I realized I had to put an end to it."
"Mr. Bartell, if I may digress here for a moment, I would like to broach a question which I'm sure the DA will bring up later. In your testimony so far it sounds very much like your copy, your clone, displayed emotions and consciousness which some might contend proves him to be his own separate, rational being. Would that be accurate, sir?"
"No," said Bartell, rearing back as if offended by the question. "No, not at all. You have to understand that as I tell the story I naturally relate it in terms such as 'I said' and 'he said' or 'he did this' and 'I did that', simply because that is the only way to make it grammatically comprehendible within the confines of common language. In actual fact these interactions were more along the lines of what a schizophrenic might have - an internal dialogue, if you will. These were not interactions between two people but more accurately an internal struggle within one mind."
"Thank you for that clarification," said May. He paused, allowing the jury to digest this point of view, then looked at Bartell with a sympathetic eye. "Now, please explain as best you can the final 'internal dialogue', as you put it."
Bartell cleared his throat and came in close to the microphone again.
"Well, as I said, we were locked in a struggle for the shotgun. The accusations raged back and forth. The cross purposes. It was insane. I finally got a position of leverage on the gun and rammed the stock up into his solar plexus. He released his grip and stumbled back a few feet."
Bartell stopped and took two long breaths. He scanned the room, his eyes flicking across the gallery, to the jury, then back onto the defense attorney.
"Continue, please, Mr. Bartell."
"He was standing there, breathing heavily, glaring at me with a look of raw hatred. I knew then that I could no longer live with myself like that."
"So, what did you do?"
"I lifted the gun and I shot him."
"Thank you, Mr. Bartell. No more questions."
CHAPTER TWENTY
"WE MIGHT BE WILLING to consider a deal," said Alton McBride catching James Scott May as he exited the restroom.
May smiled. "Ah," he said, elongating the word for effect, "and how is the old war horse?"
"Who?"
May dipped his head and looked over the rim of his tortoise-shell glasses at the DA. "Let's not play games, Alton," he said, his smile taking on a wry aspect. "We've done this dance too many times to be coy, you and I, don't you think? Dollar gives you ten you went to Minkhaus for an opinion." He raised his eyebrows. "And you didn't like what you heard."
McBride snorted. "I'm confident with my case."
"As you should be. Your cross was precise. Your closing argument elucidative, to be sure. You've certainly shown culpability, commission, and even intent, I don't deny that. But there's a fly in your ointment, isn't there? The sticky little fact that the victim of my client's crime is, by all strictest legal interpretation, no other than himself."
Again May looked over the rim of his tortoise-shells.
"And my money says that's exactly what the old judge told you."
"You can't predict the jury, James," said the DA, breaking eye contact.
"True. But we have the appeals process, which you lack, my friend, in the event of an acquittal."
"Enough," said McBride sharply. "Let's talk resolution."
"Okay. What'd you have in mind?"
"We drop the Murder One and your man cops to Attempted Suicide."
"Suicide? Is that still a crime in this state? I really do need to update my law review subscription."
The DA's eyes flashed steel. "It remains a common law felony."
May pushed his lips out and nodded. "Granted," he said, his head bobbing minutely as he digested the idea. "Sentence?"
"One year. Out in six months."
May studied the DA, running his tongue over the front teeth beneath his top lip.
"Six months, out in three."
"Fine, six months. State mental hospital. He'll be out in four or five."
May shook his head. "No. That's a non-starter, Alton. No psyche eval. No mental health intervention, period. Six months, minimum security. General population."
"Come on James, you know I can't do that. Case like this."
May shrugged. "Okay then. Good talk, Alton." He began to turn in the direction of the courtroom.
McBride stopped him with a palm on his chest. "Wait," he said, taking a deep breath and releasing it through his nose. "Six months, medium-high security. That's the best I can do."
"Medium-low."
McBride's jaw moved laterally, like he was grinding grain between his molars, his eyes focused intently on May's shirt-front. He finally lifted his eyes to meet the defense attorney's.
"Let me run it up the flagpole."
May patted his shoulder. "Better hurry," he said as he started toward the courtroom, "my closing argument is succinct."
James Scott May strode to the jury box and smiled serenely. In his peripheral he watched the DA hurrying down the aisle towards his seat, cell phone being deposited into his inside pocket as he went, and a scowl on his face.
"Ladies and gentleman, let me begin by thanking you for your service. I know these past weeks have disrupted your lives considerably and my client and I thank you deeply for your willingness to serve our venerable justice system."
He walked to the end of the rail and leaned casually on the post.
"I won't take too much of your time. My noble colleague, District Attorney McBride, and his exceptional team have proved beyond all doubt that a body was killed, and that my client did the killing. We do not dispute these facts. They have shown, quite well I might add, that my client had premeditated reason to want to rid himself of this other, and that in a moment of passion he did act upon that inclination. Again, we do not dispute this. They have also been good enough to independently validate the findings of Dr. Stein in proving the identity of the victim to be Mr. Bartell himself, and we thank them for that. There is however one item with which we must take issue."
May paused with an index finger held in the air.
"And that is the question of whether a murder took place."
May spoke to the jury in a subdued, almost familiar, tone. He chose not to pace theatrically nor make use of the grand and sweeping hand gestures to which many of his peers were inclined during closing arguments. He preferred to address the jury in a more intimate manner, as one might a neighbor across a backyard fence.
"Ladies and gentleman, you are here tasked with deciding whether Geoffrey Bartell murdered someone. In fact, with an indictment carrying a single charge: that of First Degree Murder, you are quite literally tasked with that one decision; and that one decision alone. Did Geoffrey Bartell murder Geoffrey Bartell?"
May paused and scanned the twelve faces, making eye contact with those that would engage. Ten of the twelve held his gaze without discomfort. Good odds he thought, allowing himself a measure of satisfaction. He stole a glance at Alton McBride but the DA's eyes were fixed on the table in front of him.
"Murder, as it is defined in our great country and, indeed, in every civilized nation on Earth since antiquity, requires by its very definition the taking of a life of another person - that is a person distinct from one's self. Suicide, by contrast, is defined as the taking of one's own life. We have to now ask ourselves whether the act of murder and the act of taking one's own life can stand together - legally, morally, or even logically. And I submit to you that they cannot. I submit for your consideration, gentle people of the jury, that the two are mutually exclusive."
May looked once again to the prosecution table. The DA stared straight ahead, his brow lightl
y furrowed, but wouldn't meet his gaze. So be it then.
"If the facts show that Geoffrey Bartell did indeed take a life, and I believe the prosecution has quite competently proven beyond a reasonable doubt that he did so, then I also believe it is incumbent upon you to find that no murder took place."
May straightened and took three steps so that he stood in the center of the jury box. He faced the twelve with a look of somber affection.
"Ladies and gentleman, I said earlier that you had but a single decision to make. Let me modify that now, as I believe this to be truly the only question which must be answered: did Geoffrey Bartell take a life? Because if the evidence shows that he did, then that same evidence also shows clearly that the life he took was his own."
James Scott May bowed his head.
"Thank you for your time and attention."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
BY 8:30 AM the courthouse steps were already a zoo. James Scott May fought his way through a writhing mass of journalists, microphones bristling at him on every side as he made his way to the sanctuary of the police line. Once upon the summit, and behind the barricade of helmeted officers, he turned to survey the scene.
A carpet of news anchors covered the lower steps, delivering preamble to the camera in contrived poses of sober professionalism. Cameramen vied for position trying to line up their shots, jostling this way and that in pursuit of the perfect angle to the impending spectacle. Further below, covering the sidewalk and spilling into the street, protestors marched, some in support of the accused, others decrying him. To one side May saw a sign reading "Bartell is going to Hell", while not ten yards away another proclaimed "Make clones, not war".
James Scott May checked his watch. Thirty minutes and it would be over. He lifted his gaze out over the city and took a few cleansing breaths. Spring was making an early bid and the air was brisk but not cold. An achingly blue sky was laced with fading sprigs of coral pink. Its lower edge, where it met the city skyline, was being steadily infused with a growing grey smudge.
Returning his attention to the scene below him he tried to remember exactly when human travail had become good television. Then he shook his head sadly and turned toward the courthouse doors.
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