TITLE: "Motion to Deactivate" Chapter Eight -- Rebuttal Evidence
AUTHOR: "Matrix Refugee"
RATING: Strong R, arguably NC-17 (Gruesome violence and gore)
ARCHIVE: Permission granted
FEEDBACK: Please? Please?
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: I had every intention to get this chapter posted much sooner, but the content in it gave me the creeps, and therefore it took me forever to write it and to start typing it... And then when I was in the middle of typing it, my computer caught a spyware bug that killed the operating system, so I had to have the software reloaded... And then Internet connection got screwed up for some inexplicable reason, so it was one thing after another for the past few weeks.
WARNING!: Extreme violence -- machine against human; if you've seen "Second Renaissence: Part 1" or read the comic book story "Bits and Pieces" on the movie website, you'll know what to expect. (Don't pin the blame on me: pin it on those Wachowski Brothers and their friend Geoff Darrow and their collectively wierd imaginations...)
Declan managed to obtain a deferrment for the next trial session till the following day. Judge Wendell's patience was wearing thin, but since his family needed him on account of circumstances beyond his control, she relented: she'd had some trouble with the media bothering her as well, though certainly not on the same scale as the Martin family.
Peter helped him move a few necessities from the house to the hotel where they were staying, and helped him patch up the broken window. The police were still keeping an eye on the house just in case anyone attempted something nasty. So far, no one had tried anything, and the police suspected that they'd given up targeting the house now that no one was in it.
That evening, back in the hotel, Declan consulted the planner on his palmtop and found a flagged entry on it: "Bring Our Child to Work Day". He vaguely remembered Cecie mentioning it a while before the trial and all the commotion attendant upon it began.
He consulted Sabrina first before he broached the subject to Cecie.
"Do you think that's a wise move, though?" Sabrina asked. "The media was nipping at her heels too."
"Well, it would show them that she's a basically normal young woman, not the troubled teenager they've portrayed her as," Declan said. "Besides, we can't keep her cooped up here and she wanted to go. My father used to say that whatever happens, you should try to keep your routine as normal as possible."
"It's worth a try," Sabrina said. "But I guess the final decision is really for Cecie to decide."
"Only one way to find that out," Declan said. He got up from the bed, went to the connecting door between their room and the next one and tapped on it.
"Come in?" Cecie's voice called, from beyond it.
He turned the knob and pushed the door open.
Cecie sat cross-legged on the bed, typing on her laptop, with several school textbooks open around her on the bedspread. She looked up from her work.
"You still want to come along tomorrow, Cecie?" he asked, perching himself on the edge of the bed.
"Yeah, if they'll let me," she said. "I mean, I'm writing a piece for the school newsletter on the trial, kinda setting the record straight on what's going on. And I was wondering if you could help me sneak in a short little interview with B1-66-ER."
"That won't be easy, his lawyer has been talking with the media on his behalf."
She gave him one of her disarming smiles, the kind that showed the dimple in her chin. "I can find a way around her."
"He's considered dangerous: I wouldn't want you put at risk."
"I'll make it really short, just ask him a couple questions."
"We'll see what we can do about that," he said.
Next morning, Declan noticed the look of surprise on the face of one of the courthouse security guards as he and Glynnis, with Cecie between them entered.
"This your little girl?" the guard asked, as the Mecha guard at his side scanned their National ID Cards.
"Yes, this is her, this is Cecie," Declan said.
"Oh yeah, it's take your kid to work day. The wife and I couldn't get a license, so she brought our cat to the travel office she works for. Thought for a minute you'd hired a new paralegal."
Cecie smiled. "I'm a little young for that and besides, I'm gonna be a writer. I've got a good runing start: I write for the school newsletter."
"Ooh, gonna cover the trial?" the guard asked, as the Mecha guard ran a metal-detector up and down her sides.
"Yep, it's the biggest news story in Westhillston," Cecie said.
A group of guards from the prison entered from a side door, leading the defendant to the main courtroom when Declan and his companions were entering. With Cecie at his side, Declan approached Johnson.
"Good morning, Johnson."
"G'd marnin', Misther Martin." Johnson's small eyes darted to Cecie's face. "Oi see y've brawt yer daughter today."
"Yes, as a matter of fact, she wanted to know if she could interview the defendant, she's a writer for her school's newspaper."
"So yer coverin' t' thrial, eh, Miss Marthin?"
"Yes, it's the biggest story in Westhillston right now," Cecie said.
Johnson's small eyes darted from her face to B1-66-ER's stamped-metal visage, then back to Cecie's face. "Ye shore yeh want that, choild?"
"Please allow me to speak freely to her," B1-66-ER asked.
Johnson glared at the droid, then drew his EMP. "Dawncher do nuthin' funny-loike. This is the disthrict attorney's daughter yer speakin' to."
"I guessed that from the moment I saw Ms. Martin; her facial structure is similar to her father's," the droid observed.
Cecie dug her palmtop out of the breast pocket of her coat. "So you worked for this family for how long?"
"I served the Varriteck family for three generations. Herbert Varriteck bought me and had me licensed; his son Edward inherited me, and at his passing, my service passed on to his son Henryk," B1-66-ER replied.
"Did you enjoy it?"
"I found working for Mr. Herbert to be a rewarding experience," the droid replied. "He treated me almost as if I were an equal, though his wife found this notion utterly peculiar. His son Edward took his mother's viewpoint when I started serving him. And I am sorry to say that this pattern of behavior did not improve when Henryk inherited my contract."
"That's so sad," Cecie replied. "But wait a minute... you said you were sorry to say that. What made you put it that way?"
The droid tilted down its chin, as if it thought over her question. Then it looked straight at Cecie again. "I expressed it that way because I was stating facts that might be painful for you to hear. It is a common phrase to ease the blow of ones words, is it not?"
"That's true," Cecie agreed. "I've just never heard a droid say something like that and sound like they meant it."
"I am told, by two people whom I understand to be experts in robotics, that I am not like many other droids," B1-66-ER replied.
At this point, Damon Varriteck emerged from a nearby group of reporters he had been speaking with and approached Declan. "Mr. Martin? I'd like to apologize for the way I spoke to you the other night. I heard about what happened to your family."
"Word travels fast," Declan said, avoiding eye-contact with any members of the press. He noticed B1-66-ER's head come up sharply as Damon approached. Johnson nudged the droid with his nightstick and
"Actually, I heard it from the police keeping an eye on your house," Damon replied. He reached inside his coat and took out a DVD case. "I went there last night to give this to you, but they couldn't tell me where I could find you."
Declan eyed the thin black plastic box in the young man's hand. "What do you have there?"
"I only finished having it put together last night," Damon said. "It's a scan from B1-66-ER's memory cube."
"The next session is about to start in five minutes," Declan said. "I don't have the time I need to examine it before I can admit it, and I can't ask for another deferrment."
"I bet you've had evidence turn up at the eleventh hour and you admitted it on the fly," Damon said. "Besides. I guarantee this will seal the case. You've seen how that lady lawyer for defense has been twisting the case -- and the jury -- around her little finger."
Declan felt a curt reply rise in his mind, but he knew it would only exacerbate the situation.
He reached out and took the DVD case. "All right, but I'm warning you: Judge Wendell is unlikely to admit it."
"Mr. Martin, do the people wish to call a rebuttal witness?" Judge Wendell announced.
Declan rose, his hand on the DVD case on the table before him.. He noticed a slight film of vapor on the plastic surface. "Your honor, new evidence has been brought to the people's attention."
Judge Wendell eyed the case under Declan's hand. "Evidence of what nature?"
"It is a disk containing visual scans from the defendant's memory log."
"And how did the people obtain it?"
"Your honor, it was given to me just moments ago this morning by Damon Varriteck, who arranged for a scan."
"It's on extremely short notice," Judge Wendell replied, with an obvious sigh of irritation. "But you may proceed, Mr. Martin."
Declan picked up the disk, turning to the jury, his mind hunting for the words to say. "Ladies, gentlemen, intelligent beings of the jury, it is not fully known what exactly this disk contains, but since the scans were made from the defendant's memory logs of the day of the murders, it is likely to contain images of a disturbing nature."
He handed the disk to the bailiff, who had been setting up the DVD player and viewscreen. The larger man took the case, opened it, and removed the disk carefully before inserting it into the tray on the player. He glanced up at Judge Wendell, as if awaiting confirmation. She nodded to him: her gaze was calm, but a "let's get on with this" pucker had settled on her brow. The bailiff closed the tray and pressed the play button.
The screen went blue then kicked over to black and white snow for a moment before jumping to an image: a view of a patch of parquet wood flooring, seen from above as someone dust-mopped it with precise, careful strokes. The image tracked back and to the sides and from time to time, a metallic foot protruded into the bottom of the frame.
"B1? could you come in here for a moment?" a man's voice called. The view panned up from the floor, then panned across a dining room furnished in an elegant yet utilitarian manner before coming to rest on a tall, sturdy man in his mid-fifties with light brown hair flecked with grey patches, casually dressed in a black jersey under a marroon canvas shirt.
"Yes, sir?" B1's voice asked.
"There's something important I need to tell you. Could you come into the living room?"
"Indeed, sir."
The man, clearly Mr. Henryk Varriteck turned, leading the way out of the room and into a hallway leading to the living room. The viewer followed the man. From time to time a metallic creaking and grinding noise could be heard, but the sounds of voices in the living room soon covered them up.
"I'll have to go out to the van to get those brochures," said a man in light grey coveralls, standing in front of the couch, his back to the viewer as Mr. Varriteck approached him.
"Yeah, I'll have to get the fresh battery for the power interrupter: this one's out of juice," said a deep female voice from the other side of the room.
The view panned across the room two technicians, a tall, well-built woman and a small Asian man, both in light grey coveralls, were at work, the man adjusting the metal straps on a restraint chair, the woman testing some small device that looked like an electrician's light meter.
"I'm sure that any of your new models are worlds better than this walking scrapheap," said a woman's voice, with a slight nasal edge to it. The view panned back to the couch, coming to rest on Mrs. Varriteck, a heavy-set woman in her early fifties, plain-faced, even a little dowdy, with jaw-length hair of a muddy reddish-brown.
"Oh they are," said a young man's voice, belonging most likely to the Asian man. "They practically look human except their skin's a bit shiny."
"They are when you look at them," said the first tech, clearly Castleroux. "You'd hardly know that they're just a hundred miles of fiber optics inside."
"Good. I never cared much for these antiquated mechanical designs," Mrs. Varriteck said, glancing toward the viewer without really looking at him.
"Okay, you want us to step out for a minute while you brief the unit on what's about to happen?" Castleroux asked, turning to Mr. Varriteck.
"Is that really necessary?" Mrs. Varriteck asked.
"It is a good idea: many droids tend to hesitate less if their owner explains what's going on when the droid is about to be deactivated," Castleroux explained.
"Besides, we gotta get a few gadgets," the female tech said. "I knew I shoulda checked this battery before we got here."
The view shifted to the techs as they prepared to head out, then panned back to Mr. Varriteck, the frame angled a bit, as if the droid had cocked its head quizzically.
"Sir, what is happening?" B1's voice asked, as the techs stepped out.
Mr. Varriteck turned to face the viewer. "B1, we can't afford your upkeep any longer. We can't keep paying the repair bills, so we're going to have these techs shut you down permanently."
Silence hovered for a moment, the view perfectly still. "I'm sorry. I don't understand," B1 said.
"It would cost less to buy a new model than to keep throwing money away trying to fix this walking pile of junk," Mrs. Varriteck said, but she clearly intended for B1 to hear it.
The view moved slightly closer to Mr. Varriteck. The dust mop swung into view, handle first, B1-66-ER's jointed metal hands gripping the wooden shaft, jamming the end like a stake through the Orga man's left eye. Blood and tissue spurted from around the mop handle. Mr. Varriteck staggered back a step or two before he faltered and fell over flat on his back. His mouth opened, emitting a thick, liquid groan as a rush of blood spilled out onto his chest.
The view panned down, looking at the sprawled man on the floor, at the red stain seeping through the carpet under him.
Mrs. Varriteck screamed, leaping up from the couch, and darted out of sight range. "Help! Help! Someone help us! It's gone mad!"
The view panned, following her as she scrambled out of the droid's way, trying to run behind him and out the hallway. She tripped on the steps leading up from the living room.
The view approached. B1's hands took her by the shoulders, pulling her up onto her feet as he turned her back into the room, facing him. She looked up at him in terror, panting, her face pallid, her pupils dilating and contracting with fright. She tried to pummel at the droid, but he did not let go.
Instead, his hands came up and took hold of the sides of her head, first one, then the other. The angle of view changed as they edged closer to the back wall of the room. Still holding her head, he pushed her down onto her knees.
"Oh God! Oh God, help me!" the woman cried. "Please don't hurt me! Please don't make me die!"
The metal hands closed tight about her head, the view so close nothing else could be seen. The grip tightened, squashing her face, forcing her nose to wrinkle and her mouth to pooch out. The fingers tightened around her temples, forcing the eyes from the sockets. The teeth splintered from the jaws and her speech became an inarticulate wail of pain. The skull under the skin creaked, then buckled, distorting the face out of recognition. With a sickening splrtch! the droid's hands pulled the woman's head in two, the brain splattering over the wall behind the headless corpse as it toppled to the floor.
The view turned down, looking at the disfigured corpses lying sprawled at the droid's feet, then turned away, heading for the hallway. Then it hesitated. The droid raised its hands before its eyes, clearly scrutinizing the blood dripping from the finger segments, the strands of tissue snagged in the joints. The hands moved out of sight range as the view moved purposefully up the hallway and into a bathroom, where the droid meticulouslywashed its hands in the sink, careful to stop and wipe the blood from the faucet handles with a few squares of bathroom tissue, then flushed the gory paper down the toilet.
Declan turned to Ms. Te and her client. The droid maintained his usual calm, watching the screen almost disinterestedly. Ms. Te's face puckered with obvious distress as she looked away from the screen. Looking back to the public gallery, Declan noticed Damon sat turned away from the screen, his eye on him, a self-satisfied look in his eye.
Cecie jumped up from the back of the public gallery, one hand clutching at her mouth. As she rushed out, somehow or other, her hand swung back, clipping Damon on the side of his head. "Hey, watch it, kid!" he called after her, but she didn't listen to him as she stumbled for the hall door. The guard at the door tried to block her passage, but he looked down into her face -- now turning slightly green -- and quickly opened the door, guiding her out.
The jury shifted about in their seats, averting their eyes, some clutching their mouths. From the speaker on the front of Hammurabi's remote presence device came a sound that might have been a groan of disgust.
One of the camera men in the press gallery shut off his camera, his practised hands fumbling with the off switch. Sweitz jumped up from his seat, tripping over McGeever in his hurry to get out. The smaller man got up, helping the taller one up and guiding him to the hall door.
It took the bailliff a full ten minutes to restore order; even still, Judge Wendell ordered the session adjourned until the next day, and ordered Declan and Damon into her chambers. Ms. Te and her client had already been removed from the courtroom.
"Mr. Martin, what were you trying to accomplish by submitting that disk?" Judge Wendell demanded, her voice stern.
Declan spread his hands helplessly. "I had no idea what was on that disk. Mr. Varriteck gave it to me just before I entered the courtroom."
Judge Wendell aimed her gaze at Damon. "Is this true?"
Damon tried to meet her gaze with his, but the cold anger in her eyes caused his gaze to dart away to a corner of the room behind her. "It's true your honor... I tried to give it to Mr. Martin last night, but I couldn't get ahold of him."
"And how did you obtain these scans? Did you order it yourself?"
Damon's throat tightened and relaxed. "Yes."
"Did the defendant request this scan?"
"Not really..."
"You realize that violates the defendant's right to free from an unlawful search."
"But it's just a droid, dammit!" Damon cried.
Judge Wendell looked him in the face, her eyes as cold as steel in January. "We're highly aware of that, Mr. Varriteck. But let us consider what is going on here. Suppose that there were a way for images to be scanned from a Orga human's brain. And supposed someone decided to obtain uncontestable evidence for your trial by scanning your brain, without your consent."
Damon fell silent, his gaze falling to the floor.
"I'm rejecting the disk," Wendell said.
"Now that the jury has been prejudiced on account of what was on it," Declan said. "And it's too late in the game to start over with a new jury."
"I was only trying to help the process," Damon argued.
"You're in danger of being charged with interfering with due process," Judge Wendell replied.
"And if the jury ends up not being able to reach a verdict, you'll have yourself to blame," Declan said.
"Now where'd Cecie go?" Declan said, as he and Glynnis emerged from the courtroom.
"I'll go look for her," Glynnis said. "There's places she may be hiding where you can't go." With that she headed for the washrooms. Declan followed her but went into the men's room to wash his hands and his forehead. He could feel the cold sweat dripping off it, running down his temples.
Entering, he found the two young reporters there, Sweitz leaning over a sink, washing out his mouth under the faucet. McGeever sat perched on the sink ledge, beside him, a comforting hand on the taller man's back.
Declan turned on the faucet of the sink next to them. He pushed up the sleeves of his shirt and jacket, then cupped his hands under the running water, letting the stream cool his palms and wrists.
"Washing your hands of the whole affair?" McGeever asked, looking up, his gaze almost meeting Declan's.
"No... I just had to think..." Declan said, half replying, half speaking to no one in particular.
"So what's next besides the defendant allocuting?" McGeever said. "A declaration of mistrial?"
"We're proceeding as before," Declan said.
Sweitz drew his head from under the faucet, turned it off and spat a mouthful of water into the basin. McGeever leaned over him, a look of something approaching brotherly tenderness coming into his eyes. "Y' ready?" he offered Sweitz a paper towel.
"Almost," Sweitz said, taking it.
Declan shut off the water in the sink and dried his hands under the air drier, wishing he could blow those images out of his head.
McGeever regarded Declan out of the corners of his eyes, running the tip of his tongue over his lips, thoughtfully and yet with a trace of hunger. "I was wondering, since the unfortunate disk is in the possession of the DA's office, if you couldn't make a copy of it for me? Just so I can make a few stills. The other paper I work for is looking for this kind of material.
Declan looked down into McGeever's brackish eyes. Didn't this young man have any regard for the last moments of a person's life?!
"I can't do that," Declan said. "You'd have to ask Varriteck, but I greatly doubt he would give you those photos."
"Hal, don't you even think of going there," Sweitz said, taking the towel from his mouth.
"Ah right, ah right, I know when to fold," Mcgeever growled.
Declan found Glynnis sitting next to Cecie on a bench in the hallway, his daughter curled up on the seat in a tight ball, her face hidden in her lap, but her hands clasping Glynnis's.
He knelt down to Cecie's level and put a hand on her shoulders. "Jade, you all right?" he asked.
Cecie raised her tear-stained face to his, hardly uncurling her body. "That was awful."
"You're not alone: it scared the hell out of everyone else too, even me and I've been looking at stuff like this for thirty years," he said. "If it makes you feel any better, the judge wants it tossed out, though it's too little too late."
"You're darn right about that," Cecie said, blotting her eyes on her sleeve.
To Be Continued....