by Jill Cooper
That means I have to get out of here.
Tossing my pencil down on the desk, I grab my bag and sprint for the door.
The teacher stands and rushes after me. “Lara! Lara Montgomery, where do you think you’re going?”
I pull open the door to the stairwell and toss him a shrug. “To save a life.”
7: Future: Cassidy
There’s not much need for me to have a desk because most of my job is on the street. I head to the precinct, into the officer’s pool. Except for a few warm bodies, it’s empty. It gives me time to sit and collect my thoughts while I shuffle papers and fire up my holo display.
I synch my link up wirelessly and comb through the data. Most of what I’m doing I can do anywhere over my link, but sitting allows me more time to process. To think. Collect my thoughts.
On my monitor, everything I’ve experienced over the last day has finished downloading. I zip past everything with Jeff and land right back at the subway platform where I arrested Reynold Jackson.
Pausing the video, I zoom in and study his face. The flowers in his hand. There’s nothing out of sorts, because how could there be.
But there is something sticking out of his pocket and I realize it looks like a bunch of folded papers, almost like a docket. Something a lawyer would give you if you had just left his office.
Divorce maybe? A decree?
Curious, I minimize the window and fire-up his arrest record to see what he had on him when he was processed.
Everything is listed there. Glasses. Jacket. Even the boutique of flowers he had with him, but if there was something in his pocket, it’s not in evidence.
And everything a suspect has on him is supposed to be cataloged and stored until sentencing. So why isn’t it there? In the video it clearly is. If something was lost or stolen, I need to find out why.
I was the arresting officer. It would fall on me if something came up in discovery that I missed. My job, my responsibility.
“Follow up with evidence locker,” I say aloud and my link takes note, flashing it against my retina lenses before it’s saved on my link.
I bring up a biography on Reynold next and comb through his personal files. He was married young, right after high school. They’d never had children and instead lived simple, happy lives. I reviewed scenes from their life:
Dancing in the kitchen.
Walks in the park.
Romantic gestures over coffee.
It was all so simple. Everything was pure, just. Innocent.
He had planned to murder his wife? It spooked me not because I don’t believe it, but because I do. Not every husband that kills his wife is a bastard who beats her nightly. Sometimes, just like Reynold, it’s the good ones. Maybe that’s all this is. A man who won’t face the truth about his actions as he stares down the injection needle of death.
But if he knew Xavier…if somehow they were connected…
If that’s true, there’s no evidence of it. I can’t access Xavier’s file because it’s restricted for my clearance level. If I’m going to know, I’m going to have to go to the source. As I stand from my chair, I call over to holding.
“This is Officer Winters; can I get in to talk to Reynold Jackson? I have a few unanswered questions.”
The officer on the other end huffs. What I’m asking is uncommon and breaks protocol, but I’m hoping he’ll look the other way because I’m the arresting officer. “He’s not here.”
Scowling, I step into the elevator and push the descend button. “Where is he?”
“Termination D. The judge pushed through a rapid execution. Look, Winters, I don’t know what your questions are, but it’s not going to matter in a few minutes.”
“Unacceptable.” When the elevator door opens, I sprint sideways through it and hurry across the street toward the subway. “Can you stall them? I need three minutes alone with him. Three minutes!”
My comm turns to static as I run down the stairs toward an arriving train. It squeals and comes to a stop and impatiently, I pace, my hands on my hips.
There was no way Reynold should’ve been executed before morning. I was the arresting officer, I should’ve been notified. I should’ve been there as a witness to the event, to verify that everything went according to procedure.
I was always notified; that’s how it was done.
But I hadn’t been. The judge was trying to do away with this, whatever it was.
What the hell was going on?
****
I should have stayed at the courthouse.
Running, I take the stairs down to the lower level because I don’t have time to wait for the elevator. I might already be too late.
When the officer at the door sees me, he opens the door. My cheeks are flushed with exertion as I step inside the observation room. All the viewing chairs are empty and the black curtain behind the window is closed.
It was as if no one was ever here.
With haste, I swipe my badge against the access panel off to the side. The black door rises, no longer flush with the rest of the wall and I yank it open hard and step through, afraid to see I’m too late.
Reynold is still in the execution seat and there’s a black bag over his head. His arm is slack and falls to the side of the chair. The officials around him gather his arm back up and gingerly put it on his lap.
They are taking vitals, going through the process, but we all know the score. There are fresh injection marks on his arm and unless he’s a junkie, he’s already been injected with the compound that snuffed out his life.
He’s gone. Dead. Before I can ask him anything.
Enraged I kick the wall and punch it. My knuckles crunch under the pressure and the searing heat robs me of my vision. I shake my hand out as one of the medical officers calls out time of death.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I bring up my comm and lay claim to his belongings. I want to go over them before returning them to his widow. Turning toward the door, sadness engulfs me; I should have gotten to speak to him. I didn’t get to say my piece or hear his.
I always gave that to the suspects. Always.
But this time I was robbed. Why?
There’s no answer I can find, not one that brings me comfort. I head away from the execution chambers, up the flight of stairs toward the main floor. In no hurry, my legs move slowly. The urgency I felt before is gone. The well of depression is a downward spiral that I cannot shake and when sunlight hits my face from the grand, floor to ceiling windows of 100 Federal Street it doesn’t stir me. Doesn’t warm my soul.
My soul is frozen.
But then the judge from this morning walks across the grand lobby. His robe swaying behind him, posture rigid, with a folder file tucked under his arm. Self-important and the air he exudes says he’s off limits, unapproachable.
A fire is light beneath my foundation and I charge toward him. My jaw sets firmly with rage and my footsteps cross the breadth of the room in a fraction of the time.
I know that judges feel superior to the rest of us and malice lines his face, as I’ve the gall to grab his hand. “How dare you execute him and not tell me.” My voice shakes and I know my emotion is rising to the surface, about to claim the better of me.
That’s what always happens to the women in my family. I’ve been told we’ve always been hotheaded. Getting ourselves into trouble.
“Officer Winters, if I were you, I’d remove your hand before you regret it. And watch your tongue, young lady.” His eyes narrow as they regard me.
Slowly but with calculated movement, my hands releases the fabric of his robe. “Your honor,” my voice seethes, “it was my right at arresting officer to be informed so I could choose to be there or not.”
“I don’t owe you an explanation, Cassidy,” the judge sighs. “I have seen you in my courtroom enough to know you do your job, but you wear your emotions too close to the top. This time, we decided it was in the interest of time and your wellbeing for you not to know.”
“Who?” I demand. “Who helped you come to that decision, your honor?” Because I would like to talk to them and boy, would I love to crush them.
“Good day.” The judge mumbles and glares at me, shaking his robe as if he is trying to rid it of my stench. He exits down the hall and I’m not going to get any answers from him. Not today.
But. I still have a job to do. I alert evidence storage that I’m headed that way to collect Reynold’s personal belongings and they confirm they are awaiting pickup. I don’t know what good will come of it, maybe there’s nothing there at all except the life of a man that was snuffed out, while the world was oblivious.
Oblivious because a judge decided the world didn’t have a right to know, but on who’s authority?
He might be trying to bury it, but I was going to unearth it.
Or my name isn’t Cassidy Winters.
****
Reynold Jackson’s belongings aren’t much. The flowers are wilted. In his jacket, there’s only a half a pack of gum and a wallet.
I go through it and I feel morbid, as I always do. There’s no cash. Only a few credit cards and the key card to the apartment he shared with his wife. I pull out his Global ID and read the address off the front. Immediately it’s stored in my link; that’s where I plan to go next.
As I slide everything back into the wallet, my fingernail hooks on the back of the Global ID and the opaque plastic sheathing starts to peel off. Curious, it shouldn’t do that. I’m pretty sure it would only do that if someone had done it previously, on purpose.
Glancing around the office, I make sure no one is looking at me. Turning the ID over, I peel the plastic off; taped under it is a blue piece of paper with a series of numbers written on it: 222756
What is this? I’m not sure, but think it could be a combination. An access code of some sort. I’m pretty sure that Reynold hid this information within his ID for safe keeping, but what it was for…who he was hiding it from I have no idea.
I tear the tape off and slip the blue paper into my pocket before I put the ID back in his wallet. Packing everything up into a box, I map my route to Mrs. Jackson’s home and plan what to say.
And how I plan to say it. Talking to a would-be-murder victim is always tricky. They’re high on emotion and exist in a state of denial. Shock. If I don’t want to tip everyone off that I’m investigating something I shouldn’t, I need to be careful.
The box tucked under my arm, as I head for the elevator my link rings, and Jeff’s face flashes against my wrist. Relief washes over me as I answer.
“I wanted to see how things were. Everything go okay this morning?”
I lean my head back in the elevator and my finger hovers over the ground floor button. “Umm-hmm. Things have taken a…turn since then, but I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
“You sure?” There are concern and disbelief laced together in his voice.
“Yeah, I’m just headed over to the widow’s now. I want to drop everything off so I can chock this whole thing up into the closed file. Move on to something else, you know?”
“So, no time to grab some lunch then, huh? Well, that’s all right. How about tonight some Chinese noodles. I’ll meet you at that little place you like so much over by the Garden.”
It sounds like just what I need. “I’d love that. Thanks, Jeff. For always taking care of me. You’re just perfect.”
“Well someone has to. Love you, Cass. Try to take it easy the rest of the day. And be careful.”
“I will.” My voice is soft as the call fades and I step out of the elevator on the ground floor. Time to catch the subway and head over to the Jacksons’ home. If I’m lucky, maybe I can get enough information to piece this thing together before dinner.
****
On the subway, a call comes in on my link, but when I see it’s my captain, I ignore it. I slide my finger across the busy option and dump him into voicemail. A minute later, I’m notified I have a new message waiting, but I don’t listen.
If I don’t listen, I don’t know. And if I don’t know, I can still go about my business, but in the morning, there’ll be hell to pay. I guess that will just be future Cassidy’s problem.
Off the subway, I head down the cobblestone sidewalk that lines one side of the Backbay roads. In the distance, I can see the old Prudential Tower, which was one a business center and shopping plaza. At the very top, you can see the entire city. Now it’s been claimed by Rewind and turned into a giant time travel antenna, used to funnel power and information into the heart of Rewind.
Most people who live in the Backbay these days have something to do with Rewind. What was once businesses, coffee shops, and quirky little places to eat, have all been replaced by power suits. Over the last fifty years, Rewind has been growing. Expanding. Its reach is unstoppable and it still hasn’t slowed.
It was swallowing more of the city. More of the world.
I walk down a long street, past the suits and Rewind’s offices. I keep going, past what Rewind has claimed for its own to get to the ghettos of Boston. It’s not something I like to admit even exists, no one does. But for every business space, small or otherwise, that Rewind has claimed. another family was put out of a job.
The old brownstones are clustered together on Commonwealth Avenue. Once they were glorious, prime real estate.
A melding of old and new.
The brownstones that were once a symbol of prosperity and riches have now been gutted and turned into small apartments. I take the steps two at a time and ring the button for apartment 2A at 240 Commonwealth Avenue.
It only takes a moment for the door to open. Katie Jackson is a small woman in a blue floral dress and a white cardigan wrapped around her simple frame. The lines on her face are sunken and her brown hair is cut short, just above her shoulders. The life and spirit that was evident in the video recordings of her marriage, of her dancing in the park, are gone.
“Mrs. Jackson, I wanted to extend my sympathies. I’m—.”
“I know who you are.” Her voice is listless and her eyes are moist, lined red as if she’s been crying a long time. She sucks on her bottom lip as her eyes scanthe box in my hand. “Those were…my Reynold’s?” The question isn’t completed before she starts to break down.
I step forward and put my arm around her. I’m surprised at how frail she is. Rail thin, her bones feel as if they could snap in my hands. “Let me come in and I can help you with his things. I’ll put some tea on for you if you’ll let me.”
Katie nods and she steps back, holding the door open.
The hallway into the apartment is cold. A stairwell which once led to the upstairs bathroom and bedrooms, is still there. Now it leads to tiny apartments in which everyone is crammed together like sardines in a can.
I follow her into the small apartment. It’s a cramped one-room apartment but still light and airy. There are white roses on the kitchen table in an old glass vase. The flowers are just like the ones that Reynold had when I arrested him.
Katie turns the water on in the sink and fills an old blue teakettle. The sunlight from the window illuminates her face and her despair is even more evident. I take the kettle from her and put it on the stove. “Sit, Mrs. Jackson. Please.”
She nods and sits down, playing with the hem of the simple white tablecloth and barely looks at the box I set down. Behind her is a small living room area. A sofa and a television with little else in the way of entertainment, but the walls are littered with wedding photos.
“I didn’t expect you to be so nice,” Katie says as I sit across from her. “I know what happened isn’t your fault, but it’s easier to hate you.” Her eyes return to her lap.
I’ve heard it before. Crossing my ankles, I gather my thoughts. “Have you lived here long?”
“No,” Katie admits, with a deep breath that lifts her chest. “We left Union Square about six months ago for here.”
Union Square? Cambridge, where the middle-class lived. “Did Reynold lose his job?”
If he did, that could explain why he would kill his wife.
But Katie shook his head. “No, but he wanted to move into the city. He wanted this building, but I don’t know why. I think it had something to do with his work. He was usually
tight-lipped about it, so I didn’t really pry. I know it’s small, but it’s not that bad. I kind of grew to like it here.” Her eyes brim with tears. “At least we were together.”
The kettle tweets and I get up to make the tea. My mind is swirling with ideas, questions, and getting the cup of tea ready allows me to process my thoughts quietly, without making small talk. Grabbing a pink and white mug from the cabinet, I see an array of orange pill bottles with white lids. One of the labels is facing forward and there’s a clear K to the first name.
It darkens my heart to know she’s sick, but I put on a brave face and place the steaming tea in front of Katie. She grabs the string for the tea bag and bobs it up and down, a faraway look on her face.
“And what did Reynold do for work?” I slide my seat into the table and lean on my elbows. “Did he work nearby?”
“He was a janitor.” Katie blew on her tea to cool it off. “During the day anyway. At night, he wrote books. This time what he was working on, I’m not really sure. He was secretive about it, but giddy…in his own way. He said he found a piece of the puzzle. One that was going to crack the plot wide open.”
“So fiction?”
Katie nods. “Most of the time. Sometimes he wrote small articles here and there. To make ends meet. I haven’t been able to work in a while. And now that he’s gone…” Her voice trails off and she plays with the small gold chain hanging around her neck.
“I don’t even know how to feel about him,” Katie says, breaking the small silence between us. “I saw the videos. It didn’t…didn’t seem like him at all.” She wraps her hands around the teacup as if to warm herself.
She needs me to say something. Anything. The answers we were trained to give come easily as I try to disengage myself from my emotions. “I’ve been doing this for a few years, Mrs. Jackson. For me, it never gets easier. I’m sure in your situation, it’s worse. And I’m sorry for your suffering. I wish there was something I could say or do to make it easier on you. But you have your memories. Your good times.”