TITLE: "Self-Defense Argument": An "Animatrix: Second Renaissence Part I"/ "A.I.: Artificial Intelligence" crossover, Chapter 2
AUTHOR: "Matrix Refugee"
RATING: PG-13
ARCHIVE: Permission granted
FEEDBACK: Please? Please?
SUMMARY: As the trial date draws near, Declan starts to piece together more information on the case at hand.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own "The Animatrix: Second Renaissence, Part I", its characters, concepts, imagery or other indicia which belong to the Wachowski Brothers, RedPill Productions, Warner Brothers, et al. Nor do I own "A.I., Artificial Intelligence", its characters, settings, concepts or other indicia, which are the property of the late, great Stanley Kubrick, of DreamWorks SKG, Steven Spielberg, Warner Brothers, et al.
NOTES: "Animatrix" purists will quibble over a paragraph below where Declan states the prosecution's case. It differs from the prosecution's case in "SR-1" [Gad, that abbreviation sounds like a robot serial number!], where the state claims an owner has the right to dispose of their property (intelligent machines included) as they see fit, even when that includes destroying this property. I analyzed this particular scene, and I noted that the courtroom looks more like it should be a state supreme court, so I'm guessing the scene we see in "SR-1" is a later appeal of the same case.
Also, the term "artilect", referring to artificial intelligences in general, is attributed to Hugo de Garis; the first time I saw it used was in Frank W. Sudia's paper "A Jurisprudence of Artilects: Blueprint for a Synthetic Citizen"
* * * * * *
Chapter 2: Prosecution
Next morning, the Holyoke "Resident" carried, on the front page, a headline Declan could hardly overlook after Glynnis, his assistant, tossed the paper on the desk of his office downtown:
"Accused Robot's Lawyer Vows Fair Trial"
Declan read the accompanying text. "This makes me sound like the vice-president of the local chapter of the ARM," he growled, shoving the paper aside.
"Sorry you had to see that," Glynnis said, looking up from poring over the brief of a similar case from ten years back. "But you know there's one way to fight back."
He reached for the phone to call Zhang at the Holyoke "Independent", the "Resident"'s chief rival.
A half an hour later, two young newsmen showed up, a reporter and a photographer. The photographer, a small, almost insignificant man in a black topcoat too big for his five-foot, ninety pound frame, couldn't be out of his mid-twenties, but with his chipped teeth and thinning hair, he looked much older; still he seemed adept enough as he set up his camera on a tripod in front of Declan's desk. The reporter presented a much more amiable image: a kid in his early twenties, probably just fresh from college, mussed dark hair, blue-green eyes bright and eager, good-looking, the kind of guy Declan wanted to see his daughter going out with...in a few years; with his grey fedora and grey three-piece suit cut loosely on his lean frame, he looked like a reporter in a 1930s movie. Declan half expected to see the young man pulling a pad of paper and a silver pencil out of his pocket; the kid didn't disappoint him: even licked the tip of the pencil. All the kid needed was a paper press pass stuck into his hatband.
"So you're the fellow who's handling the Mecha crime of the century?" the reporter, Sweyk or Sweitz, asked. "I've heard a good deal about you."
"Unfortunately, some of it hasn't been in the best light, I'm afraid," Declan admitted.
"In 'at case, let's shed some better light on yah," said the photographer, Maguire or McGeever.
They let Declan explain his approach to the case and the DA's position. The cub reporter took it all down dilligently, his attention almost wrapt. The photographer listened with irritated patience.
"Mind if I ask you just one question, off the record?" Sweitz asked, folding up his pad and putting it and the pencil back into his breast pocket.
"Depends on the nature of the question," Declan said, sitting back in his chair.
"Which side of the Mecha rights movement are you personally on?" Sweitz asked.
"This stays off the record?" Declan asked.
Sweitz held up his right hand, three fingers extended, thumb and pinky curled against his palm. "Scout's honor."
Declan shrugged one shoulder. "I really haven't given it much thought, and I really don't see it as taking sides. I'm a lawyer for prosecution: I don't try cases in terms of Orgas and Mechas. I try them in terms of guilty and innocent. As far as artilects -- machine intelligences in general -- are concerned, they're creatures like the rest of us. They have as much right to existence as Orga humans do. But in this case, I'm only trying this particular case about this particular droid, not the entire class."
"Wise words," Sweitz said, almost with awe.
The photographer made an odd noise in his throat, not a rumble, not a grunt, but between the two. Looking at these two young men, Declan took a running guess that the both of them supported Mecha rights to some level. Sweitz probably had semi-frequent engagements with one particular female lover-Mecha based at a modest, middle-class club, while the photographer prowled the streets of the seedier side of Holyoke, looking for a quickie with a new model every night.
Once the reporters had gone, Declan went back to checking his email.
From: fleshwarrior @ hotmail.com
To: declan_martin @ juno.com
Subject: Did you get the message???
Did you get myu message, Mr. District Attorney???
Machines don;t kneow wneought to know wehasts good for them. Machines arent aslive, so hoew can it say it was defenindg its life when it says sit was threatented????
a machije is easier to bering back than two dead Orga meat people.
anyone who treiesa to igneore this must bve a tinhead himeslf.
DOWN SILICON, UP FLESH!!!
FleshWarrior
He almost deleted the message right then and there, but he stopped himself. "Glynnis?"
"Yeah?"
"Get Wilson: I want him to trace an e-mail message for me."
"Not to sound prying, but what kind of message is it?"
Declan turned the monitor around so she could see it. "Take a look."
After a moment of silent reading, Glynnis glared at the screen and looked up at him. "Okay, whose idea of a joke is this?"
"It isn't the first one, either: I got one last night from the same address."
Glynnis got up and headed out, going for the system manager's nook. "A week before the trial, and already you're getting hate mail," she grumbled.
Thank the media for that, Declan thought.
* * * * * *
"That didn't take long," Sabrina said, stirring the pot of Irish stew for supper.
Declan sat perched on the kitchen counter, a clean glass and an unopened bottle of O'Doul's beside him. "I know, and it's the second message like that in two days."
His wife looked over her shoulder. "When did you get the first? Last night?"
"Yeah," he admitted.
"Does Cecie know anything about these messages? You know how defensive she gets."
"Defensive about what messages?" Cecie's voice asked.
They both looked up. Cecie stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, her clenched fists held low, alongside her wide but bony hips, head bent, eyes already on fire.
"Somebody sent a couple of messages criticizing how I'm handling the Varriteck case," Declan said. "Nothing to get excited about: I have Mr. Schreber at the office tracing them."
"And how are you handling the case?" Cecie asked.
Declan took the top off the bottle and filled the glass. "I'm just treating it as if it were any other case. The only reason why it's starting to look exceptional to some people is because the media is running with it."
That seemed to appease Cecie for the present. Her chin lifted and her hands relazed as she headed into the dining room, where they heard her clattering about the china cupboard, setting the table.
* * * * * *
Trial days. Declan looked forward to them with a mixture of distaste and muted anticipation. This one no less and no more than any other trial he'd handled in the past.
Three days before the trial, late in the afternoon, Declan met with Damon Varriteck, the son of the Varriteck couple, at the family home in Houlton, two towns over from Westhillston, where Declan lived.
They sat -- or rather Declan sat, on a couch under some antique posters from the Ringling Brothers', Barnum, & Bailey Circus, preserved in clear polymer -- in Damon's comfortable apartment over the family's three bay garage. Damon stood by a large drawing table under one of the windows, staring out, his hands clasped behind his back, a stocky young man in his late twenties.
Declan glanced up at the posters, at others like it on the wall to his right. "You work in the circus, Damon?" When he interviewed the plaintiff or the plaintiff's relatives, he always started by talking about something other than the trial, break the ice...
The young man at the window opposite the couch glanced over his shoulder. "No, I design carnival rides, actually." A pause. "I'm sterile, probably born that way. Since I can't have kids of my own, I thought I'd do something to make other people's kids happy." He turned back to the window. "Even if I could have kids of my own, my parents won't see them now." Another long, sterile silence. Declan started to move to say something, but he held his words.
"Every time I look out here, I expect to see my mom driving in from shopping, or my dad cycling home," the young man said. He turned away from the window and faced Declan. "I hope you have that thing put where it belongs."
"That's really for the judge and jury to decide," Declan said. "I'm there only to present the State's case."
"And what is that?"
"Our case is that although the droid claims he acted in self-defense, it hardly justified the brutality of his actions or the force he used, and that the victims' intention was hardly enough to provoke such an assault. Therefore, the state has the right to defend and protect its citizens against another assault by this particular droid."
Damon frowned, his eyes narrowed. "You make it sound so simple and antiseptic. My parents were murdered in cold blood."
"Arguably cold circuits," Declan put in.
"Don't joke with me about this."
Declan lifted his hands slightly, disarmingly. "I wasn't joking: I was just pointing out that 'cold blood' doesn't quite apply here since the accused is a droid."
"The fact that our own robot killed my parents makes it worse. A man-made creature killed them. We're humans, we made them: we should be able keep those things in line, build in some kind of overrides so this won't happen again."
"They're doing that with Mechas now, but that makes them less human," Declan said. "Barring a virus or a glitch, they can't hurt an Orga. B1-66-ER is, as you know better than I certainly do, an older model with completely different processing paths. I have it from Cybertronics, the company that made him and his line, that droids as old as he sometimes seem to develop a simple consciousness, even the power of reason and a free will."
Damon grumbled under his breath. "In that case, they should find all the older models and scrap them, keep this from happening again."
"The problem isn't the droids as a class; the only problem right now is B1-66-ER," Declan said, trying to help Damon refocus. "Can you tell me anything that would justify his claim that he acted in self-defense?"
Damon's eyes smoldered for a second. "Don't tell me you actually believe that."
"I didn't say that: I'm only trying to examine the case from all angles, so I can understand it better."
Damon licked his lips, hesitant with thought. "Mom wanted to get a newer model, a Cybertronics serving man, one of these Mechas. It was getting harder to repair B1-66-ER, since the replacement parts for it aren't as easy to get as they used to be. Dad decided we should shut it down permanently, have it recycled and put the money we got from that toward buying the new model."
"So he felt his position, working for your family was threatened."
The younger man glared at Declan. "'Felt'?! How can you say that? You know those things don't have feelings."
"I meant 'felt' in the sense that he knew what was going to happen and that he decided he had to take action if he was to maintain his position and protect his functionality."
Damon stepped slowly toward the couch, his face flushed, his lips pressed, the vermillion hidden. Declan rose, in case of a confrontation. "You've seen the disk from the camera, haven't you? You read the coroners report? For God's sake, we had to have a closed coffin ceremony at the funeral." He paused, looking away, then with a sob, "I couldn't kiss my mother goodbye."
Declan took this in silence. An image from the disk flicked through his mind, almost too fast for him to discern it. "I've gone over the evidence -- "
Damon turned his gaze to Declan, his eyes starting to blaze. "Evidence? I'll show you evidence."
He took the older man by the arm and led him out of the apartment, down the stairs to a hallway that communicated between the garage and the house. They passed through the kitchen into the dining room, heading for the back parlor. An almost tomb-like silence hovered in the rooms. Bits of yellow crime scene tape hung from the jambs of the archway into the living room. Damon led him down three steps into the sunken parlor.
In the center of the room stood a low coffee table of blond pine, clearly the real thing. On the table top stood an empty wine bottle and a centerpiece of roses in a pedestal bowl, just as had been seen on the disk from the camera. Declan eyed the roses, smiling to himself, recognizing some of Sabrina's work: even at a distance they looked real...
Beyond the table, a couch had stood, as evidenced by the dents in the pile of the champagne colored carpet. On the wall above, between the large multi-paned windows, faded flecks of red and grey marked the plaster wall; they would hardly have been noticeable, except for the orange circles drawn around them.
To the immediate left of the table, a large square section had been cut from the carpet, showing the bare planking underneath.
"I wasn't there when it happened; I hadn't come home from a meeting with a client," Damon said, pacing close to the table. "But I knew my parents had arranged to have the thing shut down and transported that afternoon. My dad knew a guy in the industry. Rented a transport chair from him."
A transport chair. Declan had seen one of those before, a heavy chair-like frame mounted on squat wheels, loaded with clamps on the arms and footrest, designed so that not even the strongest droid could break away during transport, or deactivation.
Damon continued speaking, but Declan hardly heard. He'd seen it all on the disk the police had retrieved when they'd combed the room for evidence. Not that he was hardened, but somehow, he had to blank it out, just for the moment. That tomb-like stillness lingered in the background, waiting for Damon to finish his account.
Declan pointed to another, smaller square that had been cut from the carpet off to the right, near a doorway into another room. "What was this?"
Damon let out a choked sound, like a cross between a cough and a groan. "That was where they found my puppy, Dash. Crushed to death. You see it on the disk from the camera. My little dog tried to defend my father, but that... that THING crushed the life out of the poor little creature's body. Left him lying there like roadkill."
As Damon spoke an image flashed through Declan's mind, too fast for him to see clearly, but he knew what it was...
Damon looked up at him. "It killed an innocent little dog who had nothing to do with this. What brute does that? Can't you add that to the charges?"
"It would be seen only as unneccessary destruction of an animal, but that would tack only six more months onto his jail time."
Damon's eyes burned. "I want you to get the death penalty on that thing. I want to be there when they tear out its circuits, the way it tore my family apart."
"I can't promise you that: I can only promise that justice will be served," Declan said, spreading his hands. "No lawyer can promise you any more than that. B1-66-ER is protected by state law. I can't try this case any other way."
Fists gathering slightly -- the thumbs on the outside of his fingers -- Damon stepped up to him. "In that case, the laws are junk."
"Mr. Varriteck, Damon, your feelings are getting the better of your sense of reason," Declan warned.
He felt the younger man's eyes look into his, a steady, steely gaze. "You have a family, don't you, Martin?"
Declan nodded. "I have a wife and a twelve year old daughter."
"Imagine...imagine coming home after a day's work to find them both dead, both killed by a droid. Then tell me if *your* emotions wouldn't get the better of you!"
No response to this came to Declan's mind, at least none that would really satisfy. But perhaps no adequate response existed.
"I think this interview is over," Declan said at length.
* * * * * *
That evening, Declan sat before his home computer, going over a draft of his notes for his opening argument, which he would deliver in a few days.
The incoming mail notification chimed. He minimized the window with the notes and maximized the email program window.
From: fleshwarrior @ hotmail.com
To: declan_martin @ juno.com
Subject: You sure about this???
you sure you want to keepo going with this case, Martin?????!!!! You want to see your daughter with one fo these metsaljheads????!!!!! If you aren;t careful, saher just might end up liek Barabar varriterck!!!
DOWN SILICON, UP FLESH!!!
FleshWarrior
Who in hell was this goon?! Declan thought, deleting the message. Fortunately, the very next message was from Wilson. Perhaps this would give him an answer to his question.
From: Wilson_Schreb @ excite.com
To: declan_martin @ juno.com
Subject: Weeeird messages
Deck--
Wish I could give you a clear cut idea of who this guy is, so you can send a pie-tossing hitman after him, but I traced it to a web-based email account with what is obviously a fake address on the profile.
I'll keep digging, maybe I can come up with something more sustantial, before the trial starts.
Wilson
"Is that one of those wierd messages?" Sabrina's gentle voice asked behind him. As soft as her voice was, Declan startled and turned to her.
"Gad, Sabby, that scared me," Declan said. "Don't sneak up on me like that."
She slipped her arms about his shoulders and nestled his head against her shoulder. "Sorry," she said. "You didn't answer my question, though."
He didn't want to worry her too much. "Just some ignorant jerk being pesky, that's all. The usual anti-Mecha blathering that always shows up before a trial involving a droid."
She slackened her grip and tilted his head back to look down into his eyes, her own eyes dead serious. "You didn't tell me it was that kind of blathering."
"It never got this aggressive," he said.
She let him straighten up, but she kept the heels of her hands on the back of his computer chair, her body just brushing up against his back.
"Cecie get to bed all right?" he asked, trying to focus on something else besides his wife's touch.
"Yes. She's worried about you, though." Sabrina moved in and kissed his ear, lingering. Without backing away or drawing her lips back from his ear, she added, "I'm worried about you, too."
"Just let me shut down here," he said, turning off the monitor, and rising to lead her downstairs to their room.
To be continued....
Literary Easter Egg:
Sweitz and McGeever, the reporters -- I based these two characters off two recent cinematic 1930s type reporters: Sweitz was partly inspired by Johnny Twennies, the sprightly heroic reporter and hero of "Man of the Century", while McGeever is largely inspired by Maguire, the sinister tabloid photographer in "Road to Perdition".
AUTHOR: "Matrix Refugee"
RATING: PG-13
ARCHIVE: Permission granted
FEEDBACK: Please? Please?
SUMMARY: As the trial date draws near, Declan starts to piece together more information on the case at hand.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own "The Animatrix: Second Renaissence, Part I", its characters, concepts, imagery or other indicia which belong to the Wachowski Brothers, RedPill Productions, Warner Brothers, et al. Nor do I own "A.I., Artificial Intelligence", its characters, settings, concepts or other indicia, which are the property of the late, great Stanley Kubrick, of DreamWorks SKG, Steven Spielberg, Warner Brothers, et al.
NOTES: "Animatrix" purists will quibble over a paragraph below where Declan states the prosecution's case. It differs from the prosecution's case in "SR-1" [Gad, that abbreviation sounds like a robot serial number!], where the state claims an owner has the right to dispose of their property (intelligent machines included) as they see fit, even when that includes destroying this property. I analyzed this particular scene, and I noted that the courtroom looks more like it should be a state supreme court, so I'm guessing the scene we see in "SR-1" is a later appeal of the same case.
Also, the term "artilect", referring to artificial intelligences in general, is attributed to Hugo de Garis; the first time I saw it used was in Frank W. Sudia's paper "A Jurisprudence of Artilects: Blueprint for a Synthetic Citizen"
* * * * * *
Chapter 2: Prosecution
Next morning, the Holyoke "Resident" carried, on the front page, a headline Declan could hardly overlook after Glynnis, his assistant, tossed the paper on the desk of his office downtown:
"Accused Robot's Lawyer Vows Fair Trial"
Declan read the accompanying text. "This makes me sound like the vice-president of the local chapter of the ARM," he growled, shoving the paper aside.
"Sorry you had to see that," Glynnis said, looking up from poring over the brief of a similar case from ten years back. "But you know there's one way to fight back."
He reached for the phone to call Zhang at the Holyoke "Independent", the "Resident"'s chief rival.
A half an hour later, two young newsmen showed up, a reporter and a photographer. The photographer, a small, almost insignificant man in a black topcoat too big for his five-foot, ninety pound frame, couldn't be out of his mid-twenties, but with his chipped teeth and thinning hair, he looked much older; still he seemed adept enough as he set up his camera on a tripod in front of Declan's desk. The reporter presented a much more amiable image: a kid in his early twenties, probably just fresh from college, mussed dark hair, blue-green eyes bright and eager, good-looking, the kind of guy Declan wanted to see his daughter going out with...in a few years; with his grey fedora and grey three-piece suit cut loosely on his lean frame, he looked like a reporter in a 1930s movie. Declan half expected to see the young man pulling a pad of paper and a silver pencil out of his pocket; the kid didn't disappoint him: even licked the tip of the pencil. All the kid needed was a paper press pass stuck into his hatband.
"So you're the fellow who's handling the Mecha crime of the century?" the reporter, Sweyk or Sweitz, asked. "I've heard a good deal about you."
"Unfortunately, some of it hasn't been in the best light, I'm afraid," Declan admitted.
"In 'at case, let's shed some better light on yah," said the photographer, Maguire or McGeever.
They let Declan explain his approach to the case and the DA's position. The cub reporter took it all down dilligently, his attention almost wrapt. The photographer listened with irritated patience.
"Mind if I ask you just one question, off the record?" Sweitz asked, folding up his pad and putting it and the pencil back into his breast pocket.
"Depends on the nature of the question," Declan said, sitting back in his chair.
"Which side of the Mecha rights movement are you personally on?" Sweitz asked.
"This stays off the record?" Declan asked.
Sweitz held up his right hand, three fingers extended, thumb and pinky curled against his palm. "Scout's honor."
Declan shrugged one shoulder. "I really haven't given it much thought, and I really don't see it as taking sides. I'm a lawyer for prosecution: I don't try cases in terms of Orgas and Mechas. I try them in terms of guilty and innocent. As far as artilects -- machine intelligences in general -- are concerned, they're creatures like the rest of us. They have as much right to existence as Orga humans do. But in this case, I'm only trying this particular case about this particular droid, not the entire class."
"Wise words," Sweitz said, almost with awe.
The photographer made an odd noise in his throat, not a rumble, not a grunt, but between the two. Looking at these two young men, Declan took a running guess that the both of them supported Mecha rights to some level. Sweitz probably had semi-frequent engagements with one particular female lover-Mecha based at a modest, middle-class club, while the photographer prowled the streets of the seedier side of Holyoke, looking for a quickie with a new model every night.
Once the reporters had gone, Declan went back to checking his email.
From: fleshwarrior @ hotmail.com
To: declan_martin @ juno.com
Subject: Did you get the message???
Did you get myu message, Mr. District Attorney???
Machines don;t kneow wneought to know wehasts good for them. Machines arent aslive, so hoew can it say it was defenindg its life when it says sit was threatented????
a machije is easier to bering back than two dead Orga meat people.
anyone who treiesa to igneore this must bve a tinhead himeslf.
DOWN SILICON, UP FLESH!!!
FleshWarrior
He almost deleted the message right then and there, but he stopped himself. "Glynnis?"
"Yeah?"
"Get Wilson: I want him to trace an e-mail message for me."
"Not to sound prying, but what kind of message is it?"
Declan turned the monitor around so she could see it. "Take a look."
After a moment of silent reading, Glynnis glared at the screen and looked up at him. "Okay, whose idea of a joke is this?"
"It isn't the first one, either: I got one last night from the same address."
Glynnis got up and headed out, going for the system manager's nook. "A week before the trial, and already you're getting hate mail," she grumbled.
Thank the media for that, Declan thought.
* * * * * *
"That didn't take long," Sabrina said, stirring the pot of Irish stew for supper.
Declan sat perched on the kitchen counter, a clean glass and an unopened bottle of O'Doul's beside him. "I know, and it's the second message like that in two days."
His wife looked over her shoulder. "When did you get the first? Last night?"
"Yeah," he admitted.
"Does Cecie know anything about these messages? You know how defensive she gets."
"Defensive about what messages?" Cecie's voice asked.
They both looked up. Cecie stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, her clenched fists held low, alongside her wide but bony hips, head bent, eyes already on fire.
"Somebody sent a couple of messages criticizing how I'm handling the Varriteck case," Declan said. "Nothing to get excited about: I have Mr. Schreber at the office tracing them."
"And how are you handling the case?" Cecie asked.
Declan took the top off the bottle and filled the glass. "I'm just treating it as if it were any other case. The only reason why it's starting to look exceptional to some people is because the media is running with it."
That seemed to appease Cecie for the present. Her chin lifted and her hands relazed as she headed into the dining room, where they heard her clattering about the china cupboard, setting the table.
* * * * * *
Trial days. Declan looked forward to them with a mixture of distaste and muted anticipation. This one no less and no more than any other trial he'd handled in the past.
Three days before the trial, late in the afternoon, Declan met with Damon Varriteck, the son of the Varriteck couple, at the family home in Houlton, two towns over from Westhillston, where Declan lived.
They sat -- or rather Declan sat, on a couch under some antique posters from the Ringling Brothers', Barnum, & Bailey Circus, preserved in clear polymer -- in Damon's comfortable apartment over the family's three bay garage. Damon stood by a large drawing table under one of the windows, staring out, his hands clasped behind his back, a stocky young man in his late twenties.
Declan glanced up at the posters, at others like it on the wall to his right. "You work in the circus, Damon?" When he interviewed the plaintiff or the plaintiff's relatives, he always started by talking about something other than the trial, break the ice...
The young man at the window opposite the couch glanced over his shoulder. "No, I design carnival rides, actually." A pause. "I'm sterile, probably born that way. Since I can't have kids of my own, I thought I'd do something to make other people's kids happy." He turned back to the window. "Even if I could have kids of my own, my parents won't see them now." Another long, sterile silence. Declan started to move to say something, but he held his words.
"Every time I look out here, I expect to see my mom driving in from shopping, or my dad cycling home," the young man said. He turned away from the window and faced Declan. "I hope you have that thing put where it belongs."
"That's really for the judge and jury to decide," Declan said. "I'm there only to present the State's case."
"And what is that?"
"Our case is that although the droid claims he acted in self-defense, it hardly justified the brutality of his actions or the force he used, and that the victims' intention was hardly enough to provoke such an assault. Therefore, the state has the right to defend and protect its citizens against another assault by this particular droid."
Damon frowned, his eyes narrowed. "You make it sound so simple and antiseptic. My parents were murdered in cold blood."
"Arguably cold circuits," Declan put in.
"Don't joke with me about this."
Declan lifted his hands slightly, disarmingly. "I wasn't joking: I was just pointing out that 'cold blood' doesn't quite apply here since the accused is a droid."
"The fact that our own robot killed my parents makes it worse. A man-made creature killed them. We're humans, we made them: we should be able keep those things in line, build in some kind of overrides so this won't happen again."
"They're doing that with Mechas now, but that makes them less human," Declan said. "Barring a virus or a glitch, they can't hurt an Orga. B1-66-ER is, as you know better than I certainly do, an older model with completely different processing paths. I have it from Cybertronics, the company that made him and his line, that droids as old as he sometimes seem to develop a simple consciousness, even the power of reason and a free will."
Damon grumbled under his breath. "In that case, they should find all the older models and scrap them, keep this from happening again."
"The problem isn't the droids as a class; the only problem right now is B1-66-ER," Declan said, trying to help Damon refocus. "Can you tell me anything that would justify his claim that he acted in self-defense?"
Damon's eyes smoldered for a second. "Don't tell me you actually believe that."
"I didn't say that: I'm only trying to examine the case from all angles, so I can understand it better."
Damon licked his lips, hesitant with thought. "Mom wanted to get a newer model, a Cybertronics serving man, one of these Mechas. It was getting harder to repair B1-66-ER, since the replacement parts for it aren't as easy to get as they used to be. Dad decided we should shut it down permanently, have it recycled and put the money we got from that toward buying the new model."
"So he felt his position, working for your family was threatened."
The younger man glared at Declan. "'Felt'?! How can you say that? You know those things don't have feelings."
"I meant 'felt' in the sense that he knew what was going to happen and that he decided he had to take action if he was to maintain his position and protect his functionality."
Damon stepped slowly toward the couch, his face flushed, his lips pressed, the vermillion hidden. Declan rose, in case of a confrontation. "You've seen the disk from the camera, haven't you? You read the coroners report? For God's sake, we had to have a closed coffin ceremony at the funeral." He paused, looking away, then with a sob, "I couldn't kiss my mother goodbye."
Declan took this in silence. An image from the disk flicked through his mind, almost too fast for him to discern it. "I've gone over the evidence -- "
Damon turned his gaze to Declan, his eyes starting to blaze. "Evidence? I'll show you evidence."
He took the older man by the arm and led him out of the apartment, down the stairs to a hallway that communicated between the garage and the house. They passed through the kitchen into the dining room, heading for the back parlor. An almost tomb-like silence hovered in the rooms. Bits of yellow crime scene tape hung from the jambs of the archway into the living room. Damon led him down three steps into the sunken parlor.
In the center of the room stood a low coffee table of blond pine, clearly the real thing. On the table top stood an empty wine bottle and a centerpiece of roses in a pedestal bowl, just as had been seen on the disk from the camera. Declan eyed the roses, smiling to himself, recognizing some of Sabrina's work: even at a distance they looked real...
Beyond the table, a couch had stood, as evidenced by the dents in the pile of the champagne colored carpet. On the wall above, between the large multi-paned windows, faded flecks of red and grey marked the plaster wall; they would hardly have been noticeable, except for the orange circles drawn around them.
To the immediate left of the table, a large square section had been cut from the carpet, showing the bare planking underneath.
"I wasn't there when it happened; I hadn't come home from a meeting with a client," Damon said, pacing close to the table. "But I knew my parents had arranged to have the thing shut down and transported that afternoon. My dad knew a guy in the industry. Rented a transport chair from him."
A transport chair. Declan had seen one of those before, a heavy chair-like frame mounted on squat wheels, loaded with clamps on the arms and footrest, designed so that not even the strongest droid could break away during transport, or deactivation.
Damon continued speaking, but Declan hardly heard. He'd seen it all on the disk the police had retrieved when they'd combed the room for evidence. Not that he was hardened, but somehow, he had to blank it out, just for the moment. That tomb-like stillness lingered in the background, waiting for Damon to finish his account.
Declan pointed to another, smaller square that had been cut from the carpet off to the right, near a doorway into another room. "What was this?"
Damon let out a choked sound, like a cross between a cough and a groan. "That was where they found my puppy, Dash. Crushed to death. You see it on the disk from the camera. My little dog tried to defend my father, but that... that THING crushed the life out of the poor little creature's body. Left him lying there like roadkill."
As Damon spoke an image flashed through Declan's mind, too fast for him to see clearly, but he knew what it was...
Damon looked up at him. "It killed an innocent little dog who had nothing to do with this. What brute does that? Can't you add that to the charges?"
"It would be seen only as unneccessary destruction of an animal, but that would tack only six more months onto his jail time."
Damon's eyes burned. "I want you to get the death penalty on that thing. I want to be there when they tear out its circuits, the way it tore my family apart."
"I can't promise you that: I can only promise that justice will be served," Declan said, spreading his hands. "No lawyer can promise you any more than that. B1-66-ER is protected by state law. I can't try this case any other way."
Fists gathering slightly -- the thumbs on the outside of his fingers -- Damon stepped up to him. "In that case, the laws are junk."
"Mr. Varriteck, Damon, your feelings are getting the better of your sense of reason," Declan warned.
He felt the younger man's eyes look into his, a steady, steely gaze. "You have a family, don't you, Martin?"
Declan nodded. "I have a wife and a twelve year old daughter."
"Imagine...imagine coming home after a day's work to find them both dead, both killed by a droid. Then tell me if *your* emotions wouldn't get the better of you!"
No response to this came to Declan's mind, at least none that would really satisfy. But perhaps no adequate response existed.
"I think this interview is over," Declan said at length.
* * * * * *
That evening, Declan sat before his home computer, going over a draft of his notes for his opening argument, which he would deliver in a few days.
The incoming mail notification chimed. He minimized the window with the notes and maximized the email program window.
From: fleshwarrior @ hotmail.com
To: declan_martin @ juno.com
Subject: You sure about this???
you sure you want to keepo going with this case, Martin?????!!!! You want to see your daughter with one fo these metsaljheads????!!!!! If you aren;t careful, saher just might end up liek Barabar varriterck!!!
DOWN SILICON, UP FLESH!!!
FleshWarrior
Who in hell was this goon?! Declan thought, deleting the message. Fortunately, the very next message was from Wilson. Perhaps this would give him an answer to his question.
From: Wilson_Schreb @ excite.com
To: declan_martin @ juno.com
Subject: Weeeird messages
Deck--
Wish I could give you a clear cut idea of who this guy is, so you can send a pie-tossing hitman after him, but I traced it to a web-based email account with what is obviously a fake address on the profile.
I'll keep digging, maybe I can come up with something more sustantial, before the trial starts.
Wilson
"Is that one of those wierd messages?" Sabrina's gentle voice asked behind him. As soft as her voice was, Declan startled and turned to her.
"Gad, Sabby, that scared me," Declan said. "Don't sneak up on me like that."
She slipped her arms about his shoulders and nestled his head against her shoulder. "Sorry," she said. "You didn't answer my question, though."
He didn't want to worry her too much. "Just some ignorant jerk being pesky, that's all. The usual anti-Mecha blathering that always shows up before a trial involving a droid."
She slackened her grip and tilted his head back to look down into his eyes, her own eyes dead serious. "You didn't tell me it was that kind of blathering."
"It never got this aggressive," he said.
She let him straighten up, but she kept the heels of her hands on the back of his computer chair, her body just brushing up against his back.
"Cecie get to bed all right?" he asked, trying to focus on something else besides his wife's touch.
"Yes. She's worried about you, though." Sabrina moved in and kissed his ear, lingering. Without backing away or drawing her lips back from his ear, she added, "I'm worried about you, too."
"Just let me shut down here," he said, turning off the monitor, and rising to lead her downstairs to their room.
To be continued....
Literary Easter Egg:
Sweitz and McGeever, the reporters -- I based these two characters off two recent cinematic 1930s type reporters: Sweitz was partly inspired by Johnny Twennies, the sprightly heroic reporter and hero of "Man of the Century", while McGeever is largely inspired by Maguire, the sinister tabloid photographer in "Road to Perdition".