“Ah. The roofer. Yes. Tragic.” My interpretation of what he says is informed by the way he looks into his glass, by the tinkling of the ice. A man not moved by tragedy. “I had not understood that the authorities had discovered any anomalies in that situation.”
His tone is very smooth—very cool. I catch a ripple in the air, a minor distension. I look at Paige to see if she catches it too, but she’s looking straight ahead. I have a feeling she is out in the wilderness, with or without Mr. and Mrs. Paige.
“Whether the authorities had discovered one in the situation or not,” I say to Judge Sampson, “I believe you were aware there were anomalies.”
“I know there are anomalies,” he says. “I know, more than most, that such things exist.”
“I fear, sir, that your statement contains omissions,” I say, picking my words carefully.
“Well, let’s be serious, son,” he says. “All statements contain omissions.”
This is more or less the same thing that Captain Tester said to me, more or less the kind of thing people say all the time, as we slide through our lives like roller skaters, skirting and dodging around the hills and valleys of the truth, ducking under it at the last minute.
But Aysa isn’t having it. “No they don’t,” she says, her voice still hot.
“Ms. Paige?” I turn toward her again, twisting uncomfortably in the small wooden chair. “Do me a favor, would you?” But Judge Sampson isn’t ready to move on.
“This is interesting, now, isn’t it? Very interesting. What do you mean, exactly, young lady? Do you object to the statement that all statements contain omissions?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Oh, I think it is, Ms. Speculator,” he says. “Should we requisition the stretch? Ask for a playback?”
As ever when someone mentions the Record, I become conscious of it, of the captures glittering in the light fixtures, of the captures on the doorframe, all the truth of this moment entering history as it goes. Even so, I know what the judge is doing: he is moving sideways, away from the conversation, using my partner’s righteousness to duck away from my questions.
“Go ahead,” says Paige. “Requisition the stretch. We’ll watch it together. All I meant was, don’t try to pretend that you don’t know what we’re asking about.”
I sigh. I shake my head. She’s still too young to know what I knew coming in: that of course he would try to pretend. Of course he would go to any legal length not to answer questions. One day she will know what I have known for years: the extraordinary lengths people will go not to let certain truths pass their lips.
“We are trying to find out how a man died,” Paige says. “The truth is the most important thing. You have a piece of it, and you are going to hand it over. Now.”
“Young lady,” the judge says. “Imagine a stone.”
She blinks. “What?”
“A stone, dear.” He stands up. He goes so far as to reach into his pocket and come out with a closed fist, pretending, really pretending to be holding a stone. He then places it gently, the fake stone, at the center of his desk. “We place it here. And now we draw a ring around it. Okay? Like so.”
He does it, with one bony finger, turns his finger into a pen and traces a perfect circumference around his imaginary stone.
“And now the stone is a flat fact, and everything inside the circle is a relevant supporting fact. And when we are asked to provide context, to say everything we know about the stone, these are the things we say. Are you with me?”
She doesn’t answer. She stares at him.
“But now these facts have been introduced. All around this ring, these are relevancies. They support the foregoing; they are part of it. Seen another way, we have one truth. But if you now take this spot, here along the ring, and put a stone here—another ring can be drawn. You see? New relevancies, new relevant facts all along the new outskirts. And each of these spots could, in turn, be made into the center of the circle. And so the truth blossoms outward endlessly, and it is always—always—ultimately the speaker of truth who decides which pieces of it to label, in this case, relevant.”
I sigh. Enough of this.
“Your honor—”
But he’s not finished, and we’re in his house. His chambers. He speaks like a man in full control: of this room, of the State, of the whole universe. “Of course it’s easy for you all,” he continues.
Aysa’s expression sharpens. “Easy for—women?”
He smiles. “No. Speculators. You with your vaunted discernment. To simply see a lie, to know one when one is there. Black-and-white. You feel it. But for the rest of us? Who must make our own sorry way? We must make judgment calls.”
“Your honor,” I say. “We are here to ask you about Captain Elena Tester.”
He scowls, and his face clouds over. All of his charm, all of his wit, it was all dodging around this moment, which he knew was coming all along.
“What about her?”
“You know her?”
“I do.”
“How well do you know her?”
He sighs. The cloud passes; his insouciance recovers itself. “If you are here to ask if I am fucking Captain Elena Tester, then please. Please. Ask me if I am fucking Elena Tester.”
I wait. Raise my eyebrows. Well?
“Yes.” He raises both hands in slow synchronicity with the smile on his face. “I am fucking Elena Tester.”
He then arrives at the next step before Aysa can beat him there, and the calm of his voice now possesses something else. “And before you ask, I opted not to volunteer this information to you, for the same reason, I imagine, that Elena—that Captain Tester—chose not to volunteer it. Because it is private. Because all statements contain omissions.” He gestures to his imaginary ring of stones. “It is better for both Captain Tester and me that the flat fact of our connection not
