IGMS Issue 38 Page 8

  "Did you tell the police about this?"

  "Uh-huh. They wrote it down and said they'd talk to him."

  Interesting. It was the first I'd heard about it . . .

  It wasn't unheard-of for the prosecution to "forget" some small item in the reports they turned over to the defense, but when I told Rusty I wasn't planning to go the extra mile for my client, I wasn't giving him permission to sandbag me. I'd have to decide if I wanted to talk to him off-the-record or take it up with the judge at the bail hearing, but first I wanted to talk to Jorge Sandoval. Regina had given me his phone number, but I preferred not to use my cell in the car where I could be overheard.

  One of my escorts met me at the closed car door.

  I stared for a minute. "Oh, Gemini. Sorry."

  "Libra," he answered, and let me into the car. He got in the front, muttered a few words into his tiny headset radio, and we drove off. I looked straight ahead and tried not to notice the things my client's race had done to my planet, still obvious after more than a decade.

  Our civilization had been hanging by thin threads, and when spaceships the size of ocean liners appeared, a lot of those threads snapped. We were already halfway to a hysterical breakdown when the plagues started.

  For a month, we thought the aliens were just sitting up there and watching us die, out of reach of anything we could throw at them. Then the CDC and the WHO calculated disease vectors and infection rates and realized that the germs were still being spread -- from down here. The Jan'i were already on the ground, using their bioweapons right in our midst. The rumors started: How could aliens be operating on Earth without someone helping them? The U.S. accused the Koreans, the Chinese accused the Russians . . . and then they landed. Tanks, aircraft, and waves of infantry -- all looking completely human.

  When the enemy looked like us, no one was safe. Suspicion swelled to violence within hours. Neighbor attacked neighbor without any provocation. Entire blocks went up in flames. Barring a miracle, civilization had about a week to live.

  Thank heaven the Russians were no longer atheists, because that's where we got our miracle. They'd been waiting the moment the aliens came down and showed themselves. The Kremlin had uncovered a Jan'i sleeper agent soon after 9/11, and had plenty of time to develop specialized bioweapons of their own.

  The Jan'i fell back, but their ships took off, leaving thousands of their own to the tender mercies of the human race. Most were taken up quickly by the military, but the killings and the lynchings of "aliens" went on for months.

  Eventually, exhausted, the violence burned itself out. We mourned our dead and after ten years, we thought we were over it. Then they found Ed on the floor next to Dr. Farmer's body.

  My reverie was interrupted when my driver slammed on the brakes, jerking me forward, slamming me into the front headrest. It was padded, but it still hurt.

  One marshal was mumbling rapidly into a microphone; the driver was backing us up, one hand on the wheel, the other holding a pistol so large I wondered where he had hidden it.

  There was always a small knot of photographers and cameramen in front of my place, but they'd been just a nuisance, as if I'd been a TV star or something. This crowd was bigger, not sporting cameras, and chanting.

  They were also moving toward us.

  "No justice for aliens! No justice for aliens!"

  Are they demanding or complaining? I wondered, but I wasn't about to get out of the car and ask them. A rock starred the windshield and my escorts had had enough. The car went into full retreat without the driver ever turning to look over his shoulder. Had this been the old days, we'd have been killed, but there was little traffic, and we stayed in reverse for two blocks before we spun around to face the right way. By then the sound of approaching sirens was almost on top of us, but the crowd had been left behind.

  "The Fourth Amendment wasn't written with alien shapeshifters in mind! This is a world the Founding Fathers couldn't even conceive of!"

  "Whatever happened to strict constructionism? The Founders couldn't conceive of airplanes, either, but you don't see us changing the Constitution to accommodate them."

  "That's exactly what I'm saying! Look at full body scans -- they're an example of exactly the kind of search that I'm talking about, and you go through those every time you want to board an airplane!"

  These people were giving me a headache. I'd only tuned into this "news" station because according to everything I'd been able to piece together, that's where the trouble had started. It had taken the marshals hours to find someplace to stash me, and it felt as though I had been run all over town. I didn't even have a toothbrush; somebody was out buying one for me. All I had was my briefcase, and I was too tired to study Ed's file. But since I couldn't go to bed yet -- like I was going to be able to sleep -- I'd turned on the TV in hopes of finding out why that crowd had come after me. So far I hadn't, but there was plenty else going on.

  "All right, everybody," pleaded the talking head host, making calming gestures with his hands as though he hadn't been the one to stir up the argument in the first place. He turned to the token liberal, a law professor from UCLA, who was not only the sole woman, but the only person on the panel appearing by satellite. "Ms. Thurston, when we come back we'll give you a chance to talk. But now, before our break, I want to take this opportunity to update any viewers of the Ray Avery Show who just came in and don't know about today's developments." Given that the delivery of cable television was still spotty in many areas, he really was performing a valuable service for once.

  "This afternoon, in Los Angeles, William Goudreau, defense attorney for the Jan'i terrorist and murder suspect who insists on going by the name Edward Kane, was met by a crowd of angry patriots on his way back to his home in Pasadena." There followed footage of the crowd, and the car approaching, then speeding away backward. The crowd had been larger than I thought. I shivered.

  "No one was hurt in the incident, and police arrived a few minutes later to disperse the demonstrators." Demonstrators? They looked more like rioters from my point of view. "As of tonight, police remain on the scene, but Mr. Goudreau has not returned. We have unconfirmed reports that he has gone into hiding, but we do not know where. We, were, however, able to obtain a statement from this man, who was on the scene."

  A nineteen-year-old kid wearing an earring, with a Superman "S" tattoo on his cheek, appeared on screen.

  "I was watching TV tonight, and the guy on Global News said the lawyer for that alien lived in Pasadena, and maybe a few of us should get together and talk to him about sticking with his own kind instead of the Jannies. So me and Ronny, me and him decided to come down here and talk to this guy, and there was a whole bunch of other people here, and then we saw the car coming and we figured it must be him, so there was some yelling and stuff, but he didn't get out of the car and then they just drove away." He looked off-camera for a second, and waved to someone out of range. "So we hung around a while, and then you guys showed up."

  Ray Avery came back on camera. "After the break, we'll replay the segment from this afternoon's 'Coffee Break with Marnie Krieger' that the witness was just talking about, and you can judge for yourself."

  I ground my teeth through a blur of commercials about finding a dentist, how selling gold had gotten so many through the recent troubles, and the great real estate deals now available in such widespread and formerly-congested areas as St. Louis, Portland, Oregon, and Augusta, Georgia. By the time they ended my back ached from leaning forward. For the "Coffee Break" tape, Avery didn't bother with an introduction.

  Two men and three women were seated around a low TV studio table, cups in front of them. I guess they were supposed to appear as if they'd been drinking coffee, but they looked more like they wanted to throw it at each other.

  "We fought a war with these -- people -- for heaven's sake!" a tall African-American woman was saying. The clip identified her as a law professor from NYU. Lots of work for law professors on TV these days. "A war on America
n soil! He's a spy and he doesn't deserve due process!"

  "He's not a spy!" one of the men railed at her. "He's a political prisoner! You of all people should understand --"

  "Why?" the woman shot back. "Because I'm black? Are you saying that just because he doesn't look like you, I should identify with him?"

  "Wait, wait!" interrupted another woman. She was quickly identified on the screen as Marnie Krieger, the host. "We're getting off-topic here. I'm sure Mr. Behr didn't mean that the way it sounded." The camera flashed to the black woman, who looked to have her own opinion, and the man, who fidgeted and looked guilty. "The question is, it's one thing to defend a murderer, but how does any human being find it in his heart to defend a murderer and a terrorist--not just a religious terrorist, or a survivalist, but a terrorist from another planet, someone who helped kill that person's own parents?"

  I froze, the blood rising in my face. But it got worse.

  "Maybe he just believes in the rule of law," the fidgety guy began, but he was cut off.

  "Well, what I'd like to know," cut in the third woman, a tall, sharp-featured blonde. "First, did he really lose his parents in the war? And second, how do we know he is a human being?"

  The resulting uproar was lost as Ray Avery stopped the tape and brought the audience back to his own discussion, but I weakly pointed the remote in the direction of the screen and managed somehow to press "off."

  I jumped at a knock on the door. Through the peephole I saw one of the marshals. He must have seen the window darken, because he leaned in and said, "Gemini."

  I pulled open the door and grabbed the toothbrush and supplies he'd brought me.

  "Libra," I snapped, and slammed the door.

  It would serve those narrow-minded idiots right if I actually got Ed acquitted.

  I called Jorge Sandoval's number early the next morning, figuring that a gardener would be up before the sun. It was quickly apparent that while Jorge might speak English well enough to get jobs and argue with his clients, the rest of his household did not share his ability. I dug into my college Spanish.

  "¿Allo? ¿Puedo hablar con Jorge?"

  There came a wailing at the other end so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear.

  "Jorge no esta. ¡Se llevo la Migra!"

  "¿La Migra?" I repeated stupidly. "¿Cuándo?"

  "¡Si! ¡Si! ¡Anoche!"

  Son of a bitch. Jorge Sandoval had been picked up by ICE last night. What the hell was going on?

  "All rise. This court is now in session, Judge Harley Roddick presiding."

  Judge Roddick looked like the flinty Lord Justice in one of those old British movies where the judge puts on his black cap before he sentences the innocent defendant to death, an injustice that indirectly results in the hero embarking on a life of piracy. My client was far from innocent; his days of piracy were a matter of record. If Judge Roddick was flinty and prone to hanging, Ed's long-term outlook was bleak.

  Today, however, I was looking to make Rusty Becker's outlook a little bleaker. We were the first matter on the docket.

  "Mr. Goudreau, you wish to be heard on the matter of bail?"

  "Your honor, my client has been remanded without bail. He has no prior criminal record. We would request a more reasonable bail be granted."

  "If it please the court," Rusty said, "the People will be seeking capital punishment in this matter, and we believe the defendant's flight risk is extremely high. We would oppose any bail."

  "Bail is denied. Anything else?"

  I swallowed. This was exactly the kind of motion I hadn't been planning to make, but the government's high-handedness gave me no choice.

  "Your honor, the defendant renews his plea for bail on the grounds that he is not safe in custody. I have reason to believe that the People are withholding evidence and have tampered with a witness."

  There was a long moment of electric silence.

  "In my chambers."

  "So you think it went well today?"

  I sighed and shook my head. "Yeah, I guess. Rusty argued that there was no way to know that Jorge was the one who called the cops, but when I said Regina could testify it was his day to come in, the judge had to agree with us. He ordered Jorge to be brought in so I can question him.

  "But Jorge's being held by the feds -- if he's still in the country at all. If they say they've already sent him back to Mexico, or El Salvador, or wherever, then we're done."

  Ed sat very still on his bunk. "I guess I shouldn't have expected anything else."

  I threw his file to the floor. "Yes you should, dammit! And so should I! I'll be straight with you, Ed -- if I weren't your defense attorney, I'd be happy as shit to see you fry. But damn it, I am your lawyer and now they've made me mad!"

  Ed actually looked at me. "What's going on? You were never this interested in defending me before."

  I chopped the air with my hand. "That was then. This is now. A lot of people want you to be guilty. I can handle that, but now they're trying to make you guilty, and that's over the line." I started to pace in the small area. "They've made a tactical mistake. As long as Jorge Sandoval isn't available to testify for us, he isn't available to testify against us, either. And we can put him at Dr. Farmer's house near the time of the murder. That's called reasonable doubt."

  "But they've already made a witness disappear. Who knows what else they might try? If you start making trouble . . . Like you said, nobody wants to me walk out of there after the trial."

  I nodded like one of those drinking bird toys. "I did, and they did. But they don't want to execute you for terrorism; they want it to be for simple murder. And for that they need some legal cover. I won't sugar-coat it; even if I can get you off, you'll still go to the camps, but if I can dig up enough to undermine Rusty's case, the judge may have to acquit you at least of murdering Dr. Farmer."

  I picked up a notepad and a pen. "Okay, let's get started. What exactly were you doing at Dr. Farmer's house that day?"

  "We were friends."

  "Yeah, I know. But why did you go there that particular day? Wasn't he working?" No answer. "Ed, this isn't going to work if you don't help me."

  "I can't. It was a secret."

  "What do you mean, you can't? Why can't you? You want to die instead?"

  "Better me than you. You've already treated me better than anybody else ever has. I'm not going to turn on you now that you've finally decided to go to bat for me."

  I stared at him like he was deranged. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  For a moment I thought he was going to refuse to answer. "Can I borrow your notepad? I need to diagram the crime scene." I handed it to him, then stood over him as he began to write quickly. I didn't realize it at the time, but he'd arranged us so our backs were to the camera.

  I think the cell is bugged.

  I started to protest that eavesdropping on our conversations was illegal, that it would blow the entire prosecution sky-high, but nothing came out. They'd suborned Rusty. They'd gotten to Jorge Sandoval. They had me spouting secret codes like James Bond. The world post-invasion was not what it had been.

  "Oh, I see," I said nonchalantly. "So you were here . . ." I took the pencil from him as though I were making notes. Why were you there?

  We had an argument. Dr. Farmer wasn't working on a cure for the beta virus. He was trying to weaponize it.

  I felt the floor slipping away from under my feet. My world shrank to a small disc of light surrounded by blackness. The Jan'i had devastated the Earth with plagues and bioweapons. Now my own government wanted to create its own Jan'i plagues for its own use? The mere rumor would incite worldwide rioting.

  "The government is petrified the Russians already have something because they were the ones who stopped us -- and they have a huge head start," he whispered, so low I could barely hear him even with our heads together. "When I met Dr. Farmer, he told me he was working on the beta virus vaccine. After we became friends, I told him who I was so I could help him. But
he figured that weapons areeasier to make than cures, and the government will pay a lot of money for them."

  "And you figured it out."

  "Dr. Farmer was a scientist. He talked too much. I think he thought I'd appreciate what he was doing, me being an alien monster, after all. We had an argument, and I left. But I didn't want to leave it like that, so I went back to talk to him, and I found him on the floor. I knelt down next to him and someone hit me. I woke up with ten cops on top of me."

  I was still trying to wrap my brain around what he was telling me. I believed him, it made sense, explained everything. Unfortunately . . .

  "It still doesn't do us any good. All it does is give you another motive."

  Ed's trial came with wicked speed. Before I knew what I was in for, I'd agreed to the government's request for a quick trial, and now I was paying for it. It didn't help that the marshals moved me every two days to a new hotel, ushering me in through service entrances wearing a hat and dark glasses. I didn't have time to watch TV, so I didn't know if it was really necessary or just another of their tricks.

  On the other hand, I had a very sparse defense and it wasn't going to get stronger. Dr. Farmer and Ed had both been attacked with a $6,000 microscope that their assailant had picked up at the scene. It bore their DNA, but no fingerprints other than Dr. Farmer's. Since Jan'i don't have fingerprints, the cops claimed that was evidence Ed had used it to kill Dr. Farmer. From Ed's wounds I could argue that this scenario made no sense, but I couldn't seem to hire an expert for any amount of money. Every time they heard who my client was they either found a conflict or just hung up.

  Of course, there were no witnesses. Jorge Sandoval's trail was stone cold. Regina Farmer offered what help she could, but it wasn't a lot.

  Security was so tight that even with my escort I was late getting in to the courtroom, but Judge Roddick didn't comment. I had the distinct impression that he'd been run through a few scanners himself. Even with the heavy security, the packed courtroom made me nervous.