Chapter One
Arrest and trial
On the thirteenth level three blue uniformed policemen step out of an opened elevator door and walk past the building security station in the foyer without pausing. Flanked by two younger officers, a husky white-headed New Dallas Detective in a blue jacket, signifying his high rank, steps out into an open area and stops.
Responding to a flick of the old man’s hand the two younger officers spread out on each side of him. All three stride out into and through the large open busy corporate office of Brewster Consolidated. Each police team member wanders through rows of desks and partitions. Their hard imitation rubber heels and soles make loud tap-tap sounds against a grayish terrazzo floor. Each officer stares intently at names painted on glass office doors.
Workers taking and processing local, national, and international orders for office furniture, office supplies, and business machines glance up only to see police not customers. Quickly, they return to their work.
The police team leader’s head twists and turns reading names on glass doors. Through glass-walled offices on both sides of the room upper management people stare at them.
A nod of his white-haired head at one particular door quickly sends a junior officer on that side rushing to open it. With a nod of thanks the lead detective steps through, strides up to a large mahogany-looking high-quality plastic desk, serious black eyes double read the name-bar on the desktop to be sure, compares in his mind the name and face behind the desk from a remembered file, and from long years of practice speaks clearly and forcefully.
"Mister Duncan Gulihur Bakman?” the old Detective asks. He pronounces the name of the criminal before him as if his name is spelled Back-man.
“You’re under arrest!"
From behind the desk a man wearing green, the man the old Detective came to arrest, is leaning back in his chair watching their arrival. And strangely, the fugitive does not frown or put on a blank face to try to bluff his way through—instead the criminal smiles.
The man’s unusual first response makes the old man wonder if he has the wrong man. He glances down again at the Bakman name-bar. The Detective had expected objections, excuses, explanations, and attempts to flee. Instead, the smiling man replies in a calm pleasant tone.
"I’m Bakman,” the smiling man behind the desk replies and corrects the pronunciation of his name as “Bake-man.” For many years ago, five generations ago, his ancestors had dropped the e and caused the confusion.
“Do you have a warrant?"
"Yes."
"Let me see it . . . Please!" asks Bakman smiling warmly as if he were in charge of his own arrest.
It was politely asked by a slightly taller than average, rugged looking, almost handsome square face with a strong prominent jaw. The seated smiling man being arrested had carefully trimmed brown hair, powerful-looking square-shoulders, and a slender narrow-hipped athletic body in a modestly expensive pale green tunic. The usual unisex one piece clothing of the day, somewhat like an old day coveralls, called a “tunic.” The one he wore was well tailored with a matching green jacket of upper management.
Brewster Consolidated’s corporate manager Duncan Gulihur Bakman leans forward in his chair preparing to stand. His one-button green jacket is unbuttoned. The dark blue coat of the old Detective across the desk from him and his green coat makes both of them look somewhat like old fashioned Middle History era citizens. However, both men are without neckties, lapels, or collars that one sees in old Middle History archive footage on ReRun Information Screens late at night.
Having spoken softly and pleasantly to the hefty old Detective demanding his arrest Duncan Bakman rises to accept a folded in half piece of paper the old white-headed Detective offers over his desk. Accepting and stepping around the desk Duncan Bakman pauses at the right front corner to unfold the document and reads it quickly.
The old Detective’s wide husky and thick body is starting to show a late middle age belly and his knowing black eyes watch his suspect read his arrest warrant. His old age-lined and wrinkled face frowns as both junior-grades assigned to him for this arrest needlessly push closer. Neither junior-grade detective wears a blue jacket. Both hope someday to earn a promotion that will give them the right to wear one too, but today they both wear only police blue tunics.
The tunic of the day is a stylized and color coded by occupation garment developed from old Middle Age coveralls and given a more stylish name from ancient Greece. It is a one piece loose fitting garment for comfort in a cotton blend. The tunic is worn for both formal and informal occasions. A few vain ones like Duncan Bakman wore their tunic tailored to fit more tightly.
Both of his assistants in tightly tailored blue tunics act as if this will be a dangerous arrest, but the old Detective worries their actions might turn it into a risky one. A long career of dealing with people in trouble tells the old Detective it will not be violent, nor does he see a weapon.
Finished reading his arrest warrant Duncan Bakman notices the clock display on the dark gray imitation granite back wall shows 10:18, looks at each of the three policemen in their dark blue tunics, stares a moment at the old Detective’s blue jacket, glances at the New Dallas police emblems on all three, refolds the warrant again slowly the long way, and slips it into his inside coat pocket.
As Bakman’s hand disappears into his coat both eager junior-grades grab at their shoulder holsters for the only weapons police detectives are allowed to carry, stun-wands. This action forces the old Detective to turn his back on the criminal to stop his two young hotheads from discharging stun-charges indoors needlessly.
"Stop it! You damn fools!" the old Detective shouts. His strong hands grab both stun wands and push them toward the ceiling. With both wands in the old man’s firm grasp, the two junior-grades struggle briefly for control of their weapons. The old Detective’s face turns red from the effort. He yells an order in a low and forceful tone at his two assistants.
"Put these away!"
The two junior-grade detectives with angry flushed faces slowly stop struggling. When the old man releases their wands, they move reluctantly to comply with his order, and slip their stun-wands back into holsters. Both stand with angry faces hoping the suspect offers them a chance to act; the old Detective turns back to face the criminal.
Smiling at their discomfort Duncan Bakman turns his back and puts his hands behind him to be restrained. "Everything seems to be in order, Detective Ferner Manly Vanskiver."
The old Detective steps forward nodding, pulls out a set of blue plastic restraints, and fastens them gently and loosely on Bakman's wrists.
As the old man works Bakman turns his face half around to speak quietly over his shoulder to the old Detective in a calm non-threatening voice.
"Detective Vanskiver, that box of disks on the desk and folders under it will help your case. Also, they hold my signed confession. The last file includes all known passwords on our company and upper management computers."
The old man picks up the box, looks inside, and briefly thumbs through each of the three thick folders beneath it. All the time he is perusing the material his old white head is nodding up and down. When Vanskiver finishes the old Detective turns his attention back to Bakman.
"Why are you doing this?"
"I tried to clean up this mess. That is why they hired me. I do what I’m paid to do. I thought I had made progress until last week."
"You’ve been expecting us for a week."
“Yes. I’d almost given up hope of you ever coming."
"Well, I'll be damned. A malfeasant waits for us, does not run, doesn’t destroy records, and spends his time collecting information helpful to his conviction. Boys, that's a new one on me."
"That other list lying beside the folders and disks is the names of the people that helped gather that information. I don't want them charged."
Using again one of his favorite expressions the old Detective folds the paper Bakman mentioned and slides it into his inner jacket pocket. "Wel
l, I'll be damned. A felon giving us helpful information and reasonable orders instead of threats! That's new too."
The two junior-grades start roughly pushing Bakman toward the door to his office, but the old man orders gruffly, "Hold it. Stop that." The other two are reluctant to move away from the criminal and the old Detective has to shoulder between them. Vanskiver presses forward to remove the restraints from Bakman’s wrists.
Rubbing his wrists Duncan Bakman stands still a moment before smiling and walking toward the elevator. The old white-headed Detective follows a step behind and turns his upper torso to point back at the things on the desk. One junior-grade grabs the box of disks and the other all three folders. Both still wearing flushed angry expressions on their faces are a good three steps behind their assigned team leader.
Through a busy Brewster Consolidated main office the small group walks. Most workers look up from Computer screens to stare at their corporation manager being escorted away by police. Near the elevator doorway, the small group walks silently past light blue dressed personnel at Brewster Consolidated’s private corporate Security Station, and waits nearly a full minute for a down elevator.
Vanskiver’s group takes a quick ride down to the Seventh Level causeway and a slow ride in a hydrogen powered armored squad hover in heavy Friday midday traffic. Recorders all over New Dallas fill with images of the alleged embezzler Duncan Bakman sitting inside a clear inch-thick plastic cage of an armored police-hover.
His cage is large enough to hold six. People along the causeway shopping stop and stare at Bakman. They stare at a former corporate manager specializing in turning around troubled corporations being hauled to New Dallas’ Police station under arrest. Stare as the police vehicle twists and turns slowly through heavy traffic. A few along the way shake their fists at a criminal on display. Recordings of his journey to jail are on all local Information Screen broadcasts Friday evening, March 3, 3217.
For the next several months his and other corruption trials will make news. Due to worldwide office equipment sales of Brewster Consolidated that Bakman managed a short segment of this ride does also get planet-wide coverage. Local information channels auction off their recordings to out-of-town buyers and increase this year’s earning statements.
Two hours and seventeen minutes later the arrested Bakman has been electronically fingerprinted and digitally scanned with and without clothing front, back, and both side-views. Bakman’s DNA has been taken and recorded, been examined front and back by a full-body-scan medical exam machine, examined by a police staff doctor and dentist, teeth documented, eyes scanned and recorded, snips of hair taken, and finger and toe nails clipped. Clippings and hair samples saved. The criminal was forced to stand naked five minutes with his eyes covered in a very warm purplish-green disinfecting light-chamber, sprayed with a liquid soap-water mixture, walked through warm and cold rinsing showers, and finally allowed to dress in an ill-fitting florescent orange and yellow-green striped prisoner tunic and soft slippers.
Finally, processing over Bakman is free to sit quietly alone in his 4-by-7 foot cell number 14233. His new home is on level fourteen of the New Dallas Municipal Police and Jail building. After a quiet hour of sitting on his bunk looking through welded crisscross bars at other prisoners, a bulging fat woman jailer in too tight a blue tunic waddles past giggling at a tall skinny bald prisoner diagonally across from Bakman’s cell running in place to get his exercise. With a swing of her fat arm that takes her tunic dangerously close to bursting the fat jail guard tosses into Bakman’s cell an old coverless free advertisement magazine for Star Seven’s Antarctic Ocean cruises. Watching her waddling rotund shape disappear from his sight he wonders whether to take the magazine as a funny gesture or cruel act.
For the next six days while Bakman gets bored eating and sleeping and staring at his three-year-old cruise magazine, Vanskiver’s team of two detectives work long fourteen hour days to log, screen, and organize all the evidence Bakman furnished. Each of forty-one computer disks display numerous digital images and voices of high-level company personnel engaged in illegal activities or planning the same in meetings. Two files show retrieved copies of eighty-seven damaging documents from computer memory units of those deleted documents with an explanation of what happened to each of the signed originals. It even includes the signed orders for their destruction by lot and section number.
The information Bakman provided makes extremely strong cases against fourteen individuals. The list includes all six top Brewster Consolidated assistant managers and its entire board of eight corporate owners. Eleven days after Bakman’s arrest the old detective sets city and planet-wide Information Screens a buzz for two days with his next fourteen arrests. Two days after the last arrest the old Detective is promoted to Master Senior Detective, level one.
After each arrest many more boxes of information are gathered and armed with their personal computer passwords gather three dozen boxes of documents, data disks, and hard drives. After all fourteen arrests a small mountain of information is accumulated. Vanskiver pleads for more help explaining that there is enough evidence for strong cases against twenty-three additional individuals. No extra help is given, but after each of these nearly two dozen arrests another huge stack of new evidence is collected.
After Vanskiver’s preliminary report about cases against another thirty-eight Brewster Consolidated present and former employees and its agents, the old detective again pleads for more help. Again no help is given and he is promoted to Master Senior Detective level two.
Finally, fearing a leak about Vanskiver's manpower shortage will reflect badly on them the New Dallas Police administrators assigned an additional eighteen assistants and five newly promoted Detectives, two of which are the two junior officers newly promoted to detective that helped arrest Bakman. All are assigned to Master Senior Detective Vanskiver, newly promoted to level three. His team now twenty-five strong is ordered to follow each lead and collect all evidence. The old Detective makes headlines again on all the Information Screens for weeks this time when his team serves another forty-seven warrants and is promoted to the highest detective level—level four.
During all of this on the fourth day of the third week, Duncan Bakman stands before Judge Veasy. He pleads guilty to one illegal transfer of company funds to pay a large past ninety day outstanding corporation bill to a major supplier after the board of directors ordered him in writing not to and an accessory-after-the-fact to numerous frauds the corporation committed. In a courtroom packed with Informationalists and recorders Judge Veasy quickly sentences Bakman to five years in prison for accessory to fraud and illegal transfer. After Bakman’s sentencing, Judge Veasy has to pound her gavel for nearly two minutes to quiet a sudden persistent crowd murmur. When quiet returns Judge Veasy fines Duncan Bakman three million dollars.
The fine size makes Duncan Bakman’s mind work hard at hiding a smile for they have emptied his bank account of 4,900 plus credit dollars; sold his cute redheaded mechanical companion and housekeeper Ravenna Nicole, an old Xent model 9; and auctioned off his collection of fourteen old frail plastic encased Middle History graphic novels, clothing, and furniture. In total, all sales net the City of Dallas over ninety-four thousand, but they missed one item. It was in his old green trouser right-hand special card-pocket in a police storage locker. It held a plastic funds card worth 128 dollars and 18 cents.
While Duncan Bakman sadly remembers pretty redheaded Ravenna Nicole and wonders how many years he will have to serve for each million at a prisoner’s fine credit of forty-eight dollars a day. And, Bakman wonders if he will still be alive when all three million are paid off. His mind works on this problem while waiting for Judge Veasy’s review of his paper work before she orders Duncan Bakman to his new prison cell to start his never-ending sentence. Once there, Bakman expects after four or five years to be put out on parole to work, live in a men’s shelter, and some cold heartless judge will apply all of his unused and unneeded monthly monies in the ju
dge’s opinion toward his fine.
While in this state of mind, Judge Veasy pounds her gavel to get his attention, interrupts his thoughts, and asks the newly convicted felon a question.
“Duncan Bakman, will you be a witness for the Court?"
"Yes . . . Your Honor."
"You forgot to ask what you will get out of it."
"The answer is still yes, Your Honor."
"If your testimony is helpful, the state will reduce your time to two years."
"Thank you, Your Honor."
After two long boring months of waiting filled with interviews by an endless number of defense lawyers, Duncan Bakman testifies at more than five dozen trials spaced out over six months. In between times he repeatedly calculates how long a prison term he will have to serve to pay his fine—the answer always seems different. Numerous times Bakman grins over his answer regardless how he figures it, and believe it will not be paid before he signs up for his old age pension and senior assisted living housing. All defendants are found guilty and his continuous exposure on Information Screens makes Bakman’s face recognized all over the city and planet. The shortest sentence handed down by the court to any of the group is Duncan Bakman’s five years and his three million dollar fine the smallest.
When Duncan Bakman returns to court eight months, three weeks, and four days later for the last time he is again wearing his badly wrinkled pale green tunic and matching one button jacket. It had been a surprise to Bakman when Master Senior Detective Vanskiver entered his cell row, tossed his old clothes at him, and ordered him to wear them at his final sentencing. Felons in court Bakman knew from information screens wore no tunic or jacket—just prison uniforms. While he waits in the hallway for his case Duncan Bakman ponders over Vanskiver’s earlier visit.
Bakman’s eyes close and remembered how surprised he had been to watch the old white-haired detective walk down the passageway with a green bundle under his left arm. It further surprised Duncan Bakman when Vanskiver stopped at his cell door. The old detective forced the bundle through the bars and flipped them at him.
“Strip . . . Put ‘em on . . . Now,” orders Vanskiver and stood watching to make sure Bakman changed into his old clothes. When Bakman is dressed again Vanskiver motioned for his old jail uniform and slippers. Bakman rolled them up and handed they through the bars. The old detective stuffed Bakman’s orange and green stripped prisoner uniform roll under his left arm.
For a long minute Vanskiver stood staring at Duncan Bakman before shaking his old white head like it was a sad thing that stood before him, turned, and walked away without saying a word. Vanskiver looks back at Duncan at the far end of the passageway while waiting for a guard to unlock the door. In his loudest command voice, the old detective gives Duncan Bakman a prediction and a warning.
“They will try to kill you . . . you know . . . and won’t stop until they get it done. Prison time one gets over but a conviction record is for life. They will never forget. They will never quit. Thanks for your help. On the outside . . . I hope you live a full month.”
With the sound of the opening gate the old detective gives Duncan Bakman a grin, a wink, and a small wave. It was the old detective’s way of thanking Bakman for his promotion to Master Senior Detective Level Four pay grade that will raise his retirement check to a more comfortable level. Detective Vanskiver left Bakman watching his back, for he never looked back.
For long hours after that Bakman thought about his new problem. How to stay alive?
An overweight junior-grade police officer escorting Bakman yanked him out it by roughly grabbing his bicep and shoving him stumbling out into the court docket. A small murmur stirs through the room as Informationals notice Duncan Bakman and the audience buzzes about him. Bakman stares at the judge and pretends not to hear it.
Senior Judge Tellin Pelia Veasy accepts a new thick folder from an old skinny gray-headed court clerk. Although thoroughly familiar with Bakman’s case, Judge Veasy looks through documents about his case for a long two and a half minutes. Finally, the Judge closes the folder, stares at the audience lost in thought, opens his folder again, begins making a final review of his papers and documents in his folder, and a low buzz continues throughout the courtroom.
Without showing any emotion Duncan Gulihur Bakman stares straight ahead waiting and hoping for only two years and a fine reduction by at least half.
Mostly Informationalists packed courtroom waiting to hear how severely the government will increase Duncan Bakman’s final sentence. They believed he is guilty of all the charges and evil crimes that they have dreamed up on their screens. All want the maximum sentence on each and every count given to this man they have vilified on their Information Screens in New Dallas and around the planet these last more than eight months. On each program they went on and on about his crimes before, during, and after each trial Bakman testified in and portrayed him as an evil man doing harm to good people that unknowingly made a mistake.
When Judge Veasy finishes her review, has made her judgment, she looks up and waits patiently more than a long awkward minute for the noise in the room to quiet before speaking. It finally does quiet.
"Do you, Duncan Bakman, have any last words for us or a statement to read to the court?”
Bakman shakes his head and replies, “No . . . Your Honor.”
“Mister Duncan Bakman, your fine has been paid. By the authority invested in me by The Gulf Coast Justice Local 1349, I hereby sentence Duncan Gulihur Bakman to time already served and probation. During your probation of ten months from this date, Duncan Gulihur Bakman, you will work and live in the OpDyke Building. You will not leave the jurisdiction of this court, the city limits of New Dallas, without permission in writing from this court. You will report weekly to Mister Harry Zeed OpDyke, your parole officer."
Twice Judge Tellin Veasy bangs her gavel down on the desk to signify that his case was over and turns to the bailiff. "Next case!" Judge Veasy orders.
The silence in the room is like broken glass as the old skinny gray-haired court clerk walks toward Duncan Bakman in the docket. The old woman, whose nameplate reads Adyth Utta Zorn, hands Bakman his court ordered release on parole document. The silence in the courtroom lasts until Duncan Bakman holds the piece of paper.
Suddenly, the courtroom loudly buzzes as Duncan Bakman nods his thanks to the smiling clerk, the Judge, folds the release-paper the long way twice, slips it inside his wrinkled green coat pocket, turns, and walks quickly down to the main aisle.
Behind him Bakman hears the noise of the next criminal thrust roughly into the docket as he rapidly walks through the confused crowd in long quick strides. Every hand-held and wall-mounted recorder centers on him.
Gradually full noise returns and builds to a loud clamor for interviews and statements. However, in long strong quick strides D. G. Bakman, paroled convict, walks straight out of the courtroom without speaking, responding, or stopping. Quickly, the crowd surges along behind him noisily trying for a statement.
Outside before they can stop him and while they are still yelling for interviews, Duncan Bakman steps up on a public hover platform, hoping it still works, and passes his plastic card through a slot. To his surprise the controls light up. Surprised and glad it still works Bakman orders, “North.” His busy fingers tap “Full power” on the control panel’s screen and quickly it speeds away through the Seventh Level Causeway traffic.
Two buildings north Bakman’s finger taps “right turn” on the screen. The hover turns right at the next corner. Out of sight of his pursuers for a minute or two, even those that thought to try to take hovers after him, his fingers taps “stop” on the screen near the public elevator. The hover turns out of the traffic and parks.
Walking quickly Duncan Bakman is surprised that the elevator door opens before he pushes the panel, wonders if it is a new sensor feature added recently, steps inside, pushes a panel spot to close the doors, and smiles hoping he has lost them. The elevator door closes, before he can dec
ide which level-number to push, he feels the elevator floor lift. That cannot be an added feature and it makes Duncan Bakman frown. Watching numbers flashing on the screen tells him that the elevator is going up. On the ride he wonders what is going on, but does not have time to investigate. Hoping it is not the work of assassins hired by his enemies Bakman prepares to move when it stops. Finally, it jerks to a stop at the Twenty-second level, the highest causeway in the area.
Quickly, Bakman steps out, glances around at a nearly empty causeway, feels a stronger breeze than below, walks a dozen steps to a line of waiting public hovers, steps on the first platform, and flashes his plastic card. Instantly, it starts humming. In a crisp sharp commanding voice Duncan Bakman orders, "OpDyke Building."
Bakman’s hover darts out into the sparse traffic moving at its full speed of twelve miles per hour on a warm gusty day with small cotton ball clouds in a blue sky. He stares at the clouds, watches a small flock of birds headed southwest, and studies a circling buzzard. After being inside for more than eight month, it is a joy to feel sun and wind. Riding along Bakman’s mind fills with thoughts of how good it is to be outside again and forgets about assassins. Almost fondly his eyes stare at a city of tall buildings, a webbing of causeway bridges and moving people, and hovercrafts.
His hover speeds east along a Twenty-second level causeway rocking in wind gusts between buildings on causeway bridges. Bending his knees Duncan Bakman crouches down over bridges to reduce his hover’s rocking motion. It turns north into the wind still with several buildings to go. Looking down at the hover’s small screen, Bakman reads the speed indicator, notices that traveling into an increasing wind slows it for the upper corner speed indicator screen reads 7.6. Below the speed he reads, “Eight buildings to destination.”
After that, Bakman divides his time between looking behind him searching for anyone following and staring at window-shoppers, his eyes linger a little longer on shapely female shoppers, and until jerked back to his problem of staying alive. His darting eyes hunt for assassins in every doorway and shadow. A pleased Bakman does not see any Informationalists or assassins. He is please to be out, pleased to be outside, pleased to be alive on such a pretty day, and so busy looking that he does not think about stopping to take the elevator to a higher causeway when possible.
The Centauri Conspiracy Page 3