“Nope.”
“How does a college junior end up with a datasleeve?”
“I deserved it.”
“Right,” drawled Marta, but then she was given over to curiosity. “Is it true that the nanoprocessors eliminate all of the heat that a dataslate generates?”
“See for yourself.”
Eva held up her wrist and Marta examined the device. It was nanotextile, wearable electronics, components thousands of times smaller than human hair. The sleeve was about the thickness of flannel. It packed the computing punch of a massively-parallel mainframe from an earlier semiconductor generation.
“How does it work?” asked Marta. “I thought they had to communicate with datapillars. No, don’t tell me you have a pillar. Isn’t that a little beyond even you?”
“They do have to sync with a datapillar,” said Eva.
“Tell me what I’m missing,” said Marta. “Only governmental agencies have pillar-and-sleeve technology.”
“They’re being deployed commercially now, too. In a few years, everyone will have them. I’m just a bit ahead,” said Eva.
“So, do you have a pillar?” Marta pressed.
“Not yet.”
“Then what good is it?”
“Well, you can sync with anyone else’s pillar if you know how,” Eva grinned. “Anyway, sleeves will be on the market for the public in a year or two.”
“How did you get it? This is incredible. Can I try it?” asked Marta.
Eva held Marta’s gaze. “Where are the other witnesses? Where’s that bastard, Coogan?” Without turning her attention from Marta, without looking around the courtroom hallway, she observed, “I don’t see the prosecution witnesses. You suppose that’s a good sign?”
Inside the courtroom, Sean Doyle suppressed a grin as the public defender rose for his opening statement. Three members of the jury crossed their arms as if to wall themselves off from the hapless attorney. Another two glared. The final juror’s eyes were fixed on her feet, as if she’d found webbing where she expected to see sensible shoes. None made eye contact with the overmatched defense counsel. He reminded the jury that his client was innocent until proven guilty, that his client had been protecting himself and his friends and had every reason to fear for his life. The defense counsel asked for their patience and skulked back to his seat.
Judge McClincy turned to the prosecutor. “Mr. Doyle, are you ready to call your first witness?”
“I am, Your Honor.”
“Then please proceed.”
Doyle rose, nodded to the magistrate, looked at the jury and in a clear confident voice, began his prosecution. “The People call Brian Coogan.”
Every eye in the courtroom turned to the secured door from which Coogan would emerge. The quiet lasted for thirty long seconds. The witness did not appear. Judge McClincy turned an expressionless glance to Doyle asked the prosecutor again for his witness.
“Judge, he is on the witness list. Would Your Honor direct the bailiff to locate him?”
“Mr. Doyle, I expect attorneys to be prepared in my court. Please call another witness while the bailiff finds your Mr. Coogan.” McClincy nodded to a burly, uniformed man who nodded back and entered a secured holding area attached to the courtroom.
“Thank you, Judge. In that case, the People call William Stevens.” Stevens was one of the two police officers who witnessed Coogan’s attack on Rozen and Ecco’s subsequent assault. Eyes turned to a door at the rear of the courtroom, expecting to see the officer appear. The door stayed closed.
The bailiff reappeared and told the judge. “Mr. Coogan did not arrive. The defense witnesses are outside but none of the prosecution witnesses are here.”
Doyle’s ruddy cheeks drained of color. He looked up at Judge McClincy and spoke, “Judge, all of my witnesses are supposed to be here. There must be a minor mix-up. May I have a brief recess to get this straightened out?”
“Five minutes. Please have your witnesses when we reconvene. The jury will remain.”
McClincy gaveled the session to a halt and then returned to his chamber, but not before offering a dark look at the prosecutor whose temerity interfered with His Honor’s schedule. Three hundred seconds later Judge McClincy returned. The bailiff called the session back to order. McClincy turned to the prosecutor and asked, “Are you ready to continue, Mr. Doyle?”
“Your Honor, may I approach?”
Permission granted. Doyle and the public defender rose and approached the bench. Doyle was subdued. “Judge, the witnesses appear to have been sent to a different court. Somehow a change of venue order was entered in error and my witnesses were sent to Franklin County.”
“Not good, Mr. Doyle. How did a Suffolk County prosecutor manage to send three witnesses to a court ninety-one miles from here?”
“I don’t know, Judge. We’re still looking into the matter. May I ask for a continuance?”
“Do you at least have statements from the witnesses?” asked the judge.
“Of course. May I present those?”
“If you don’t, I’m guessing that the defense here will ask for a dismissal.”
Doyle walked to the prosecutor’s table and conferred with the second chair, his assistant. Doyle’s demeanor changed from confident to frantic as he subvocalized commands to his datasleeve. He checked an index of documents and blanched.
Doyle’s pinstriped suit pulled the reluctant prosecutor to face the bench. The perfect Windsor knot was askew. Once again he asked permission to approach, and once again the public defender accompanied Doyle to speak with His Honor.
“Judge, it appears that the witness statements are not available.”
“Not available now…or not available ever?”
“The written statements were destroyed in error, Your Honor, and the backup is gone. If I could have a postponement…”
The public defender showed his first signs of life. He was overmatched, but understood the most basic tenet of criminal defense. No evidence? No victim? No witness? No case. He called for a dismissal.
“I’m inclined to grant the defense motion,”
“Your Honor! The defense request is outrageous. The People have spent days preparing for this case. If you can give us a continuance, we can reassemble the testimony and get the witnesses into court.”
McClincy glared at Doyle. “As I recall, you refused a plea bargain offer from the defense. No counteroffer, either. Do I remember correctly?”
“Yes, Judge.”
“I don’t like trials. They interfere with justice. Too inefficient. And now you want a continuance? You reap what you sow, Mr. Doyle.”
“Your Honor. Mr. Coogan deserves justice.”
“Chambers, both of you,” McClincy snapped. He looked up and addressed the court. “We’re going to take a recess here for, let’s say, fifteen minutes. Bailiff, please escort the jury out. Ladies and gentlemen, remember not to discuss the case. We’ll call you back when we’re ready to reconvene.” The jury turned a piteous glance on Doyle, their fallen hero. They rent their garments, covered themselves in ash, and wailed in grief.
McClincy turned to the defense. “Mr. Ecco, I’m going to have a little chat with your attorney and Mr. Doyle. Would you be kind enough to join us?”
Without waiting for an answer, McClincy walked behind his bench and through a door leading to his chambers. Dark wood-paneled shelves accommodated photographs of His Honor’s family. The walls were papered in a
