Privacy Most Public
Privacy Most Public
by Andrew Burt
_First published in _Millennium.
_Of course Emery DeFreece knew about Minuteman. Who didn't? The Surveillance Act had passed nearly twenty years ago, shortly after Danny Schroff-Martin attempted to assassinate the President with his home-made nuclear bomb. Fortunately for the President, Danny had mistaken 12:00 P.M. with 12:00 A.M. The people of New Orleans weren't so lucky . . ._
_The public had quickly embraced the concept of "preventive medicine" through pervasive and allegedly secure, humanless eavesdropping of all conversations and on-line data._
_Emery DeFreece was about to discover that theory and reality often differ . . ._
"Oswald."
Despite the background noise, it distinctly sounded like "Oswald."
The Sentry had already noted the word "President" and the use of the future tense -- this was definitely interesting. It spun off a thread to begin analysis.
The Sentry's data described that circuit as an audio-only telephone, on hook and in listen mode; an unremarkable apartment among the hundreds of millions of rooms that the Sentries monitored constantly. The datastream had a considerable amount of background noise that made it hard to resolve words, so the Sentry understood why it couldn't be certain.
Try the standard set of filters to disprove, but clear the automatic purge flag to save the earlier "historical" data from the minutes before.
The filters didn't help, it still sounded like Oswald; maybe. Nonetheless: President, future tense, possibly Oswald -- that was enough to warrant upgrading to Do Not Discard.
The Sentry listened.
_Crack-tssszzzzzz!_ The egg spread out evenly over the griddle until the white almost touched the sizzling bacon.
"I couldn't agree more," Emery DeFreece said, cracking another egg onto the griddle, "he's just dragging the country down, and I'd like to see something to stop it." Talking around a bite of toast, he continued, "I mean, Varnell's old, he's obviously incompetent, he could probably get sick and die any time anyway. But, it's not like we're swimming in options."
"Yeah, they sure won't impeach him," Rod Maritz said from the kitchen table, continuing his roommate's thought. "It'd take years the way they move in Congress, by then his term's up, and I doubt he'd be healthy enough to last another eight years. Besides, you don't get to be President without having a lot of powerful friends. I mean, we can mouth off all we want, but unless we take control, our sorry asses are stuck on this train 'til the end of the line. Like you said, where's an Oswald when you need him." He swallowed the rest of his orange juice and stood up. "I need some more juice, man, and hurry up with those eggs -- I gotta get going. I've got _plans_ for today, named Alyssa."
"Oswald." There it was again in the other voice, clearer this time; more future tense; and implied action. Oswald, President, future, action -- the Sentry upgraded this dataset's state to Analyze: Increment the "save" flag from temporary to permanent, enqueue it for a Bloodhound, create a thread to locate any of the prior minute's data that might be untouched in the "least recently used" buffer list, and keep listening.
As the Sentry continued its vigil, the Bloodhound Evidence Correlation module pulled the next item from its list, this one from a phone sentry, high priority. The Bloodhound set to work, methodically gathering data together to help the Minuteman Criminal Defense System determine if this was what the humans called a "live one"; or, as usual, one of the endless sets of harmless remarks, misunderstandings, or even movie dialogue. But hot or cold, every scent must be tracked. The Bloodhound pressed onward.
Probable match on voices to registered tenants of designated apartment, Maritz, R. (eight months of one year lease), and DeFreece, E. (four months). No prior datasets for same location. Valid driver's licenses. Minor traffic citations, Maritz. Auto insurance lapsed, Maritz. Employer files: Frequent job changes; nothing unusual. Current occupations: Cuisine Delivery Artist (synonym-linked to "waiter") at _Tuck's on the River_, DeFreece; Remote Installer III at _The Custom DashWorks_, Maritz. Nothing unusual. No criminal convictions. Multiple juvenile arrests, Maritz, records off-line. Noted. Not on known list of suspected terrorists, smugglers, foreign agents, etc., at least by name or similarly sounding or spelled names. The Bloodhound looked up physical characteristics of the likely voices, matched those against similar lists; nothing found. Other physical databases: Facial match on Maritz, numerous peaceable anti-government demonstrations. Noted.
Financial accounts past and present: Low balances, no large deposits on record, no large withdrawals, profile of recent activity consistent with prior activity. Scan for unusual recent purchases via the sales tax tracking system -- the Bloodhound noted two transactions at department stores known to sell weapons and ammunition. Also, a dataset from a bookseller, marked "decrypt only for probable cause." Noted.
Newspaper/magazine subscriptions, paper and electronic, indexed by name or mailing address: Nothing unusual . . . nothing unusual . . . -- three months into year's subscription to _Take the Streets_, this address; estimated readership 4,000, topic: anti-government / revolutionary, a publication flagged as "always include for probable cause / escalate priority." The Bloodhound included this item in the case dataset and executed what some witty programmer had coded as the statement, "raise(eyebrow)." As instructed, the Bloodhound immediately submitted this case to the Magistrate module as medium priority, then continued the quest for more incriminating data.
Though the Bloodhound was a sophisticated electronic detective, capable of collecting data from seemingly limitless sources, efficiently sniffing for details that might be relevant to a dataset, it was without the logic to resolve whether a case had merit -- thus it fell to the Magistrate to decide if a potential breach of law was involved. The Magistrate was by far the most complex software module in the system, responsible for determining whether to alert the humans about a potential crime, but neither wasting their time on false alarms nor overlooking a serious incident. The Magistrate, indeed the entire Minuteman system, was a software work of art.
Thus, inside that same few seconds, with the conversation still echoing in the heads of the two young men enjoying a Sunday morning breakfast, the Magistrate dequeued the case and set to work.
_Stuck with the dishes again_, Emery thought. Rod, as usual, found a way to dodge his responsibility; it was his turn this week. Alyssa would be upset if he was late again, Rod offered as an excuse. _Yeah, three strikes out of three dates, and you're outta here_ -- Emery almost said it, even started the umpire's hand motion, but stopped at just a thumb's up to Rod and a sly smile. Besides, Rod's idea of a clean plate was anything that water and a drying towel couldn't knock off. Best just to do them, only a momentary delay on his way to a little sun and surf.
In the short time he'd known him, Emery had come to think Rod was more style than substance, there being no exception when it came to relationships. Not that Emery felt either of them was anything better than above average in good looks, but it was Rod who was going out all the time. On the other hand, Emery wasn't interested in what Rod proudly called his "babe of the month club", and was content to wait for some magical event. Emery waved a soapy hand as Rod headed out with what passed for his idea of fine food (which Emery felt sure could be summarized as "anything wrapped in insta-heat"), and wondered if Alyssa would share Rod's bachelor attitudes toward picnic fare.
He'd only met Alyssa Vanaara once. _Hardly your drab stereotype of a government worker, eh?_ was how Rod had introduced her with a private wink. She'd seemed really down to earth -- not Rod's type at all, and Emery wondered what they had in common. She was an environmental analyst for the state, a chemist or somesuch, with a couple degrees beyond the "just barely passing" high school diploma Rod boasted about with a grin. Granted that put her ahead of Emery too, though at least he'd done the college thing, even if he'd only bounced around minor jobs in the growing number of years since graduating. A degree in hospitality management wasn't useless, despite the endlessly sluggish economy, but if the right thing just hadn't come along yet, well, so be it in business as in romance.
Maybe the same patience applied to roommates, Emery decided, and plunged his hands back to their cleansing task.
Rod Maritz jogged down the building steps and angled across the courtyard toward his car on the street, grocery bag in hand, mouthing the words to the song on his EarMan. He was content from the breakfast he'd talked his roommate into cooking again. Cleaning up, too. It always seemed so much better when he'd _earned_ it.
What a dupe. Emery didn't have Rod's brash, devil-may-care attitude, he was more of the _I'm not making eye contact so don't look at me_ type. Except when he did get singled out, when he put on an act of false bravado, as if he wasn't really being manipulated, rather, he was only a moment behind you and just about to suggest whatever you'd said. Breakfast, for example, had been "his" idea.
Rod flickered by the thought of the time he'd talked Emery into crevice jumping -- no net. Only a damn fool of a rank beginner would have actually tried to leap the double-skull fissure Rod led them too, but before Rod had started the task of talking him back out of the jump, Emery had scurried off and hurled himself toward the far side. Rod smirked at the memory. He had to admit, though, Emery had guts; Rod wouldn't have tolerated living with a wimp. Good thing there had actually been a net.
Perhaps their common self-reliance derived from neither of them having any family: Their parents both had disappeared when each was in their mid-teens, almost a decade ago. Admittedly, in Rod's case, they'd just told him to get lost before they packed off. Emery's mysteriously vanished, like so many others who'd held certain unpopular views back then. Rod had his theories about that, and Emery might even be coming around regarding those conspiratorial views. Yes, Rod was feeling quite satisfied with his morning's quota of manipulation.
Beyond the contentment, he was charged with anticipation of sharing this cloudless blue sky with Alyssa. She was a much tougher nut to crack, and he wasn't sure how much longer he'd enjoy the challenge. A while more, at any rate -- Rod inspired himself with the thought that each date with her revealed another of the vast array of scenic, isolated settings for a rendezvous that she knew, important earnings for use in the post-Alyssa long term.
This was going to be a fine day indeed.
As he opened the trunk to store the bag, he noticed a dark blue sedan turn past, unusual for its ominously dark windows. The passenger's head and gaze followed him through the open window as it rolled by.
Rod straightened up and shut the hatch as they double parked not far in front of him.
A man and a woman emerged, both in business suits as dark and imposing as the car. The woman waved at him with a standard, clipboard style datapad in her hand as they started toward him. "Hey," she called, "are you Roderick Maritz?"
Rod took a halting step forward, stopped on hearing his name. Rod could see his picture on her datapad as she folded and clipped it at her side, and noted from the glimpse of background that it couldn't be more than a couple days old. "Ye-es, what can I do for you?"
The pair, now standing close on each side, nodded curtly to each other. Startled by a prick on his back, he began to turn around, but his knees buckled. Head swimming, he lurched into their grasp. His last blurred memory was of the dome light inside their car.
The pair then started towards the building, pausing at the entrance only long enough to swipe an access card.
_Three o'clock in the afternoon. What he Hell is going on here?_ Emery thought, again scouring the room with his eyes for anything he hadn't seen dozens of times before. He must have been unconscious almost an hour. He'd simply awakened on a cot, then led here with a monotonous set of turns down hallways, all alike. He thought he might have seen Rod down one corridor, but it was too brief and distant to tell.
None of his suited escorts would speak to him except to utter monosyllabic commands. _Stand. Walk. Turn._
They'd acted as dead as this room: Off-white walls and ceiling, no decoration or distinction. One door, locked; no windows. A worn wooden table in the middle of the room. Four hard chairs, one on each long edge of the table, one in each corner nearest the door. Old, uniformly placed fluorescent lights glowing with slightly different color were the only disruption in the room's cheerless regularity.
So he sat at the table in one of those hard chairs, teeth clenched, arms crossed, legs crossed. At least he'd been wearing a watch when the his and hers goons had barged in and kidnapped him from plans of carefree sunshine to stale air and dingy walls.
He ran his hands through his hair again, massaged the back of his neck where he felt his headache was, and let out a long breath. What the hell was going on, and why was it taking so long? This was worse than being ignored in a doctor's office; at least you know where you are and why you're there. _Three goddamn o'clock._ Five hours since they'd just stormed in. He replayed the scene in his mind over and over, trying to puzzle out who they were, what they wanted. But, like a pawn in a chess game, he had no idea what forces moved him or why.
_They must be watching all this. So, what am I going to do in here_, he thought, _start revealing state secrets? Confess to crimes? Say I'll do anything, just let me out? I'm certainly not worth ransom to anyone. Are they reading my body language, to see when I'm softened up enough for whatever they want? What would they want? Defiance? Cowering? Is this torture? Well . . . shit.
Maybe if there's somebody listening I can get something going, I don't care what they think._ He stood up. "Hello? Hello! Is there anyone watching this? Hello-ooo! This is so damn borrrring!" Feeling suddenly self-conscious, but still bored and angry, he snorted and sat back down. He stared at the ceiling again. Now, how many pits were there in each ceiling tile?
Another half-hour, or perhaps an hour, passed as Emery lost track of time.
"Mr. DeFreece? I'm Stanislav Turecek," said the athletically fit, gray-haired man entering the room, snapping Emery instantly alert. His body language projected intensity and no nonsense. Behind him came a stern looking woman, no older than fifty, lips drawn tight into a small frown, but businesslike; and a balding man who seemed fidgety, distracted, uninterested, almost shy. "This is Paula McKenzie and Charles Greenlee. Sorry to keep you waiting, but, Sunday, you understand. Can I get you something, coffee, water?"
"You can tell me what the hell is going on! I want some answers." He began to vent his anger, until he remembered he didn't know where he was, or who these people were. And how dry his mouth was. "Water. Please."
Turecek leaned out the door, repeating "Water" to someone in the hall before closing the door and facing Emery. "Yes, we have answers -- and many questions."
Turecek took the chair across the table while McKenzie had already pulled up one from the corner; Greenlee had slumped back in the far corner.
"Mr. DeFreece, before we begin I need to explain the nature of this situation to you. I'm with the United States Secret Service. Mr. Greenlee here is an observer from the court, to ensure all procedures are properly followed and witness these events; and Ms. McKenzie is your Counsel Ad Litem, better known as your 'instant lawyer'. I apologize for the course manner of your detainment, but I'm afraid that's standard procedure in a case like this. Ever since New Orleans, you understand."
Emery began to speak, but Turecek held up his hand. "Before you say anything, you need to know that this interview is being recorded and any statements or actions you make can and will be used against you in a court of law. I'm going to explain your rights in full detail, please remain silent until asked to say anything."
Emery sighed in slight relief that he was at least in the theoretically safe hands of the government, not some unknown thugs. The accusation against him must be pretty steep, though, to warrant what he'd only heard vaguely about, the no-talk arrest. Drugging the suspect was a twist he hadn't considered, but in retrospect it he could see the utility.
"I'm sure you've seen this in movies, but please read along with me", Turecek said, pulling two datapads out of his briefcase and sliding one toward Emery.
Turecek touched his pad, and a pleasant voice began reading the text that scrolled on the pad before Emery.
"(i) Per United States law, any person arrested or detained for questioning shall have his/her entire contact with police or other designated officials recorded in both video and audio, to the extent feasible with reasonable effort, including but not limited to initial contact, transportation, interrogation, and incarceration.
(ii) Detainee shall have the benefit of Counsel from the earliest convenient time, by means of a recognized Counselor Ad Litem or by detainee's own Counsel if such Counsel shall present an order of appearance within four (4) hours of recitation of these rights.
(iii) All evidence currently possessed by detaining officials will be presented prior to interrogation; any evidence obtained under the Automated Software Surveillance Act shall necessitate an explanation of the nature and manner of collection of the evidence so obtained.
(iv) Other rights guaranteed by this section to be explained by Counsel as necessary.
(v) Detainee shall acknowledge understanding of these rights by signature or thumbprint."
Movies usually faded out after the first sentence or two of the "Amended Miranda Rights", thought Emery; but, yes, this was all common knowledge. We watched, we saw, we convicted.
Paula McKenzie, his "instant lawyer", asked him, "Now, Mr. DeFreece is it, do you understand these rights?"
"Yes, but --"
"Please put your thumbprint on the datapad, here," she interrupted.
Again the pawn, he mechanically pressed his thumb to the datapad's square with the icon of a fingerprint, and the pad beeped in acknowledgement.
She continued. "Good. Now, Mr. DeFreece, Sunday isn't my favorite day to be down here, but if you need a lawyer, here I am. Do you have other counsel I can immediately notify or do I stay?"
Emery felt hot and dizzy. This was moving too fast, out of control. He never thought about lawyers, never having needed one, except that lawyers meant trouble. Serious trouble. The stakes suddenly seemed higher, the peril greater even than before when he simply hadn't known. He shook his head to clear it. "I don't have one."
"Well, yes, you do. As my client, my first piece of advice to you is _keep quiet_. Now that that's settled, let's _listen_ to what you're up against." She paused to see if he had anything to say; he appeared to be following her advice to remain silent. "Mr. Turecek, it seems we're ready."
Turecek touched his pad again, and the pleasant voice continued, now in a more informal tone no doubt meant to put suspects at ease; it sounded like a bad documentary.
"As mandated by the ASSA, that is, the Automated Software Surveillance Act, or what most people commonly think of as the 'Minuteman' system, any time Minuteman is used to collect data that is to be used as evidence, full disclosure of that mechanism is required.
"As you're probably aware, all video, data and audio communication lines are constantly monitored for keyword content per the ASSA, in order to prevent crimes before they happen. Phones, radios, televisions, video displays, and so on, are permanently in monitor mode even when not in use. Ordinarily this data is recorded only for a brief time then discarded, and never observed by any person, maintaining your full privacy. When the system detects an abnormal pattern of usage, based on sophisticated software techniques to recognize and correlate words together and weigh them for potential criminal content, then the first level of the system, what you've probably heard termed a 'Sentry,' sends this on to other levels of the system, such as the Bloodhounds and Magistrates. The Bloodhound is a searching subsystem that locates any possibly relevant data regarding your case, having the full
authority to search government records, corporate databases, medical, etc. This is passed on, still without inspection by any
_Listen_, she'd said; Emery was too numb to do anything else. Of course he knew about Minuteman. Who didn't? The Surveillance Act had passed nearly twenty years ago, shortly after Danny Schroff-Martin attempted to assassinate the President with his home-made nuclear bomb. Fortunately for the President, Danny had mistaken 12:00 P.M. with 12:00 A.M. The people of New Orleans weren't so lucky: They'd been sleeping when a good part of their city was obliterated. The last straw was Danny's release on a technicality, mistakes made during his arrest, despite the incontrovertible evidence against him. That an angry mob had hunted him down and literally ripped him apart (and a few of the mob themselves -- it was hard to tell who's flesh one was grabbing, they'd said) was understandable, but only fanned the flames of outrage.
The public had quickly embraced the concept of "preventive medicine" through pervasive and allegedly secure, humanless eavesdropping of all conversations and on-line data. All new phones, radios, televisions, computers, anything that could display video or play audio, were mandated to include a government supplied chip to operate in full-time reverse: Radios would listen, televisions would see. The data would only be seen by secure software, not people, so they sold it "as if it nothing had changed." The software had been carefully named "Minuteman", for its connotations of patriotism, security, and vigilance. Nor did it hurt that it was also the name the older generation remembered as long ago decommissioned nuclear missiles, used to ensure the country's safety during a similarly catalyzing threat. Add some reforms to due process, to seemingly prevent anyone's rights from being stepped on -- such as full time recording of arrests, court observers, and instant attorneys; streamline the judicial process; and
The privacy debate had been short before the Supreme Court ruled it constitutional, since no human beings ever saw any data except when probable cause had already been established by the software. A few test cases were paraded around with great ceremony. The matter was settled.
In fact, crime and fear receded dramatically thereafter. Illegal drug use was only a memory, there being almost nowhere safe to use them. White collar crimes decreased after noted Wall Street wizard Suresh Hilfinger's securities fraud conviction, showing that Minuteman kept the board room just as safe as the streets. By the time it was fully implemented after some ten years, almost ten years ago now, there was no significant trace of anxiety about universal monitoring.
The reduced crime rate now mostly consisted of crimes of passion, where clear evidence was usually on file and convictions rapid; plus the many people sentenced for intent, stopped before they actually did anything. Given the crisis atmosphere then, people simply accepted the necessity, and watched their language, until not talking about anything sensitive became routine. After all, only bad people talked about bad things; if you didn't act like a criminal, you had nothing to fear.
So, Emery knew there were prying eyes and ears everywhere. But, like most people, since he wasn't planning any crimes, he never gave it any thought, essentially forgetting Minuteman was his other roommate. Until now.
The recording stopped, and Turecek continued grimly.
"In your case, and we'll lay out the evidence shortly, Mr. DeFreece, the Minuteman system detected your threat to assassinate the President of the United States. Conviction carries a minimum prison sentence of forty years or voluntary euthanasia."
Turecek's pad beeped, which he acknowledged with a touch, and the door opened. The water was here. Greenlee took the glass from someone Emery couldn't quite see outside the door, and wordlessly set it on the table in front of Emery. Assumedly all this strange formality had to do with the procedures established to handle suspects after Danny Schroff-Martin's unfortunate release. Nonetheless, this gave the whole scene an air of surrealism.
Everyone seemed calm and distant, except for Emery DeFreece, whose apprehension was running full throttle. _What_ threat to assassinate the president? He'd never said anything like that. He quickly swallowed half the tepid water, then clutched the glass with both hands as if it were his only link to the normal world.
Greenlee finally spoke, his voice kindly and melodic, though from his measured pace it was clear he'd given this speech many times. "Mr. DeFreece, as you probably know, but it is my duty to inform you, that you have the option of entering a plea of guilty or no contest, at any time. Should you elect so, only the evidence presented to that point remains on your permanent record. You haven't formally been charged as yet, you understand, but this option is still available to you. You can proceed."
With a detached rub of his chin, Turecek read the evidence. "In particular, we have the following facts: (1) At eight thirty-seven A.M. this morning, an audio recording from the voice-only telephone in your apartment recorded you as saying, quote, 'You know, if _someone_ wanted to pull an Oswald, it would be easy' end quote, and also, quote, 'I couldn't agree more, he's just dragging the country down, and I'd like to do something to stop it,' end quote. Your counsel has a complete copy of the conversation, which you may wish to review."
Emery began to interrupt, rising. "Now wait --"
His lawyer interrupted him in turn, placing her hand on his shoulder to help reseat him, "No, Mr. DeFreece, I highly discourage you from saying anything. Go ahead, Mr. Turecek."
Rebuffed and fuming, Emery sat back.
He was certainly no fan of President Varnell, and had wondered idly, like many people, if the old conspiracy tales were true about then Senator Varnell being involved somehow with concocting the New Orleans incident, but only the fringe put any credence in that. And he merely shook his head at Rod's hypotheses of political intrigue in Emery's parents' disappearance, boat and all, regardless of their vocal opposition to the group Varnell circulated among. The seas had been rough, they should never have gone out; Emery firmly believed foul play was not involved.
Granted, Emery believed Varnell's policies, going back decades, including his sponsorship of the ASSA in the Senate, were the cause of the economic slide that had been in progress for the last fifteen years. The country seemed to have lost its soul, its vitality. The ASSA may have played some part, in that the overall reduction of dangerous talk had become a tourniquet on society, silencing opposition and risks out of ignorance of what might be illegal, but Emery felt the entire Varnell package was flawed. Yet the declines in productivity and other economic woes were far easier to accept as the result of what other counties did, or bad leadership by the previous administration, and that's how Varnell's party marketed it, with great success.
In fact, Varnell had been elected president six years ago on promises to beat the foreign competitors into line, despite the evidence they weren't to blame, and remained popular despite his vindictive, eccentric policies and advancing age. The first president elected for the newly doubled term limits, he also seemed destined to be the first to serve a second eight years. Emery was upset at the prospect, but, no, he had definitely not said he planned to kill him. This was ridiculous; if this is what software monitoring was all about, then something was seriously flawed.
Turecek cleared his throat, returning Emery's thoughts to the present. "Mmmm, you said dut dut dah . . . here we are.
(2) You were found to be a subscriber of _Take the Streets_, a publication widely known for its anti-government views and support of violence."
Emery opened his mouth, but a warning look from McKenzie prompted him to close it and suffice with a scowl.
"(3) Records indicate you purchased a book entitled _Storming the White Castle: Suppressed Insurrections from Washington to Varnell_, which had been tagged by the bookseller as 'encrypt and submit to Minuteman', was decrypted based on the above evidence as probable cause and found to contain the relevant title aforementioned.
"(4) Sales Tax tracking reveals you made a purchase on May 14 at O'Conner's department store, which is known to sell firearms, in an amount large enough to have included a firearm.
"(5) Sales Tax tracking reveals you made a purchase on May 20 at O'Conner's department store, which is known to sell ammunition, in an amount large enough to have included ammunition.
"(6) Initial investigation of your residence revealed the aforementioned telephone unit had been placed at the far end of the room and hidden under a pair of bluejeans in an apparent attempt to decrease its monitoring ability.
"(7) Your roommate has stated in our interview that you expressed a great deal of dislike for the President and did not discount that you might act on something about which you felt strongly.
"That's what we've found so far, though the system is still searching. So, next step: If you are willing to talk with us about this, we talk; if not, we press charges and go at it that way. We'd be looking at intent to assassinate the President, a class four felony. Since that all takes time, you don't appear to be an imminent threat, jail space is limited, etc., we've already received approval from Minuteman's Magistrate to release you on your own recognizance -- _If_ you submit to a locater implant so we can track you and ensure you're in no danger of committing the intended crime. If you don't submit to the implant, then we'd be keeping you without bail by virtue of the seriousness of the potential crime. Again, all this has already been approved. So, Mr. DeFreece, the first question is, would you be willing to answer some questions?"
Paula McKenzie was ready to answer before Emery could open his mouth. "No, my client will not be making any statements at this time." She turned toward him and added in more confidential tones, "Trust me on this one, kid." Although her financial stake seemed clear, Emery had little choice but to trust her judgment.
"Of course," Turecek said, as if he had been expecting that answer. "If you'll just put your thumb on this acknowledging that your client has been charged as we discussed . . ." She did so as he was speaking. "I'm obliged to ask if your client would like to enter a plea of guilty at this time?" Paula shook her head and put her thumb on the appropriate box. "Fine, then, we have the matter of the implant." He looked at them expectantly.
McKenzie broke the momentary silence. "I need to consult with my client."
"Of course," Turecek said, turning the chair a quarter to face somewhat away from the two of them.
"Er, don't we get any privacy?", Emery asked.
"Well," Paula McKenzie said, looking exasperated as she tried to think how best to explain this to her naive client without wasting words, "No. Since everything's recorded anyway, there really isn't anywhere private. The only issue is whether something is admissible in court, which our conversation would not be. So it doesn't matter whether they hear us or not. I suppose if you'd like the appearance of privacy we could ask them to step outside."
Emery nodded rapidly that this was his preference; it seemed the only amount of power he had, and he needed to exercise it. Not to mention that he'd lived his life comfortably with the "appearance" of privacy -- a machine monitor was one thing, someone sitting nearby was another.
He let out a deep breath when the door closed behind Turecek and the silent observer.
"Ok, so we're 'alone'," she said, quoting the word with her fingers in the air. "Implant -- yes, or no?"
"Now, wait, let's just back up a minute here." Emery felt as though he were being rail-roaded. Crime shows never portrayed it quite like this. The new laws were supposed to protect the accused, ensure a fair and quick process. As he thought about this, it dawned on him that all this, the instant lawyer you've never met, instant release if you agree to have your location monitored twenty-four hours a day, "instant" this and "instant" that, this was perhaps just an alternate name for rail-roading. Maybe this is better than days, weeks, and months of delays for paperwork and the old slowly grinding legal system, but maybe not. It sure felt like he was being pressured into just agreeing to the crimes; he knew, of course, in that eventuality he'd meet the infamous "instant sentencing", pre-approved by the software Magistrate. He shuddered through a cold chill. "Just wait, ok?"
His instant attorney, still standing from closing the door, paused, then sat where Turecek had been, across the table. "Ok. I know this is your first time, it probably all seems pretty traumatic. You're in a pretty pickle here, Mr. DeFreece."
He took a deep breath to compose himself, exhaling shakily.
"Call me Emery. And yes, traumatic is the right word. Now, could you just explain again what exactly has happened, what I'm charged with? All this legal mumbo jumbo seems designed to obscure the obvious."
"Well. The software system, the Minuteman, that observes nearly everything anybody says or does in this country, overheard you say some nasty things about how you'd like to assassinate the President, it did some digging into your closets that are only opened if someone is suspected of a crime, found enough for a case, and here you are."
"What about the first amendment and all that? I never thought . . ."
She pursed her lips, having heard this argument from most every client she'd defended. "No, the right to free speech is not universal. You've surely heard of the 'you can't yell fire in a crowded movie house' concept, this is similar. More like the ban on making jokes in airports about hijacking planes. Threatening the President is not something you can joke about, particularly since New Orleans. And you weren't exactly laughing when you made those statements."
"But I _didn't_ threaten to kill the President! I didn't say what they said!"
Paula looked skeptical; of course he said those things, they have it on record. "You're telling me you didn't say," she asked, pulling the datapad over, "'You know, if someone wanted to pull an Oswald, it would be easy' or 'I'd like to do something to stop it'?"
"No! I don't know! I don't know exactly what I said, we were eating breakfast, it was just talk. But that wasn't what I was saying, not the point I was trying to make. I never said I was going to _do_ anything."
"So, ah, what _did_ you say?" Good thing they're not able to use this conversation as evidence, she thought; insanity wasn't a viable defense these days.
"I don't know, but it wasn't that," he said petulantly.
"Well. This isn't the best time to discuss this anyway. We need to concentrate on one item only right now, the implant. You only have two choices." She ticked them off on her fingers: "One, enjoy an all expense paid vacation in a scenic jail cell until this matter is resolved; two, submit to a chip implant to track your every move. The implant only takes a minute, they'd do it right here, right now, then you're out of here. Your choice."
Emery stood up to walk around, massaging his neck again. He also realized how stiff he was from sitting in that chair for the last several hours. A jail cell wouldn't be very appealing. "How long does it stay in?"
"Until you're cleared of all charges; if you're not, it stays. All convicts have them, for the rest of their life. One other thing, though, is that your apartment is sealed, so you'd have to stay somewhere else. Any other property and assets you have will have been frozen too, except for a minimal amount you'd be allowed for basic living expenses."
Great, though Emery, no clothes, no bed, no money, nothing. Yet his feeling of certainty that he'd be cleared of this made freedom seem the less evil choice.
Within the hour he was on the street, a minuscule transmitter lodged in the wall of his colon by rectal insertion, McKenzie's business card in his hand, a huge headache, and nowhere to go.
Alyssa Vanaara's large, wall-mounted screen was ringing, the telephone icon appearing to announce an incoming call. The ID only said "pay phone." She paused the Evening News and considered. It could be Rod, trying to get around the block she'd placed on his number since he'd stood her up this morning. Or, it could be important. She answered the call. Emery DeFreece's bedraggled face appeared in a conference window, what looked like a downtown street behind him. "Hello, you're Emmet isn't it? Rod's friend? We met at that party."
"Yeah, no, it's Emery; uh, hey, I was looking for Rod, is he there? Could I speak to him?"
Though she'd met Emery only once before, he'd seemed nice enough, kind of drifting leisurely through life. Maybe Rod was putting him up to this, but he genuinely didn't look like he'd been having a good day. "No, he stood me up this morning. What's going on? Did something happen to him? By the way, you look really awful."
"No kidding, I feel like crap. These --" Emery didn't want to sound like a lunatic. Secret Service, assassination, implants . . . "Well, it's a long story. I haven't seen Rod since this morning, I thought maybe he'd called you." He gambled, before the situation got any more awkward. "I could stop by, or, uh, meet you somewhere? For Rod's sake I'd like to explain it."
She assumed he wasn't acting to help Rod, or he was great at acting the victim; Alyssa was back to undecided about whether to keep seeing Rod. Curiosity helped seal the decision. "Sure. Why don't you stop by here?" She transmitted her standard address, which dropped out on the pay phone's one free disposable datacard.
"Ok. Be there as soon as I can. Bye." He gave a quick, polite bow of his head and signed off.
An hour and a half later, Alyssa was well into wondering if he was going to be a no-show too, when she heard the chime announcing a visitor, pre-cleared and on the way up. Emery knocked on the door, an old fashioned habit of his. Alyssa thought it quaint, and responded in kind with a playful "Who is it?" before opening the door herself.
"Sorry it took so long, but it was a long wait for a single; I guess I wasn't taking a popular OptiTrans route." She smiled at his joke, the city's so-called "optimal" routing public transit system, which took rider's requested routes and theoretically allocated the smallest sized vehicle to handle the most riders in the shortest overall time, was notorious for being slow and inefficient. A "single", originally the term for a small, single-seater, now was slang to imply one had been given a large bus all to oneself, usually after a long wait.
"So, have a seat. Get you anything?"
"An 'anything' would be great, preferably alcoholic. I've had a grand total of one glass of water since breakfast."
She returned with a beer and the half sandwich she'd saved from lunch. Real meat and cheese, too; her job must pay well. He ate rapidly as he told the tale of his strange day, sacrificing accuracy only regarding the apparent solidity of their evidence.
Emery luxuriated in the softness of the couch. Freedom was definitely the preferable option. "So, tomorrow I guess I get to find out what happens next," he was telling Alyssa.
She was shaking her head. "You took the chip? Their case sounds pretty thin, I'm surprised they didn't just say 'bad boy', and send you home with a warning." From what he said, she suspected Rod was the real instigator; Emery had probably just been caught in the middle. It sounded pretty harmless, albeit stupid on his part. But they'd managed to get a locater on him. She wasn't into politics, although privacy invasion was something she generally disapproved of except for hardened criminals. "You really don't mind that they're going to track you the rest of your life?"
"Like I had any choice. But it's not forever, just until I'm cleared."
"Uh huh, sure. Don't get me wrong, but that's not what usually happens from what I've heard. It's . . ." She became silent, debating whether to worry him with the rumors she'd heard or not.
"What? What've you heard?"
"I don't know, maybe I'm just skeptical of all this monitoring. So, someone I know, a sort of friend of a friend, had almost the same exact thing happen, she was hauled in on some overheard talk, it was really nothing. She took the chip, then they really dragged their feet on doing anything about the charges, just one postponement after another, some useless hearings, basically harassing her with legalities and tearing up her life. After a couple _years_ they offered her this deal, they'd drop the charges from her public record -- but not, of course," she added with a sour face, "from Minuteman -- if she'd keep the implant. She couldn't afford to keep paying the lawyer, so she took it. She thinks it was because of her politics, but you could never prove that."
"Hmph. So you think this happens all the time?" She was saying she didn't necessarily believe any of it, while Emery began wondering just how impossible the chip was to remove. Whether it was true that tampering with it released an incapacitating electric charge, unless properly deactivated by a molecularly unique enema, essentially password encoded to your specific chip. That they said it would feel like your ass was on fire, and you'd go crazy trying to put it out, let alone walk normally. And how this was so much more effective than the old oral kind, that couldn't withstand the acidity of the stomach. Ok, unpleasant, next subject.
He shifted to a more comfortable position, contemplating his waiter's pay, and just how far that could take him on the legal road. He'd have to make a point to ask about payment tomorrow with McKenzie. He realized distantly that Alyssa was saying something, and that he'd even been grunting "uh huh"s. Her voice was so pleasant he could listen forever. Mentally and physically worn out, it was the first peace he'd felt all day.
Emery's soft snoring interrupted Alyssa's exposition. She knew she sometimes talked too much, but, really, she smirked, she'd never put someone to sleep before.
Paula McKenzie looked very scholarly to Emery the way she sat at her desk head bowed, fingers steepled at her forehead. The mantle clock chimed quarter of; 9:45 A.M. "Now, think, very carefully, about what you said yesterday. Did you say 'I'd like to _do_ something to stop it' or 'I'd like to _see_ something to stop it'? With 'see' it isn't grammatically correct, though the recording _is_ noisy. I don't think 'see' would have caused an investigation." She looked up at him. "'Do' certainly would have," she added, accusingly.
"I don't know, we were just _talking_; I can't help it if I don't always speak in sentences you can diagram. But I didn't say 'do', I know that. That's not what I was talking about. I meant I was hoping something would change." Emery felt exasperated. They had him recorded as saying things, but it was hard to hear the exact words, but it did sound like 'do' and nothing like 'see'; he fully realized that if Rod (and he) had been a better housekeeper the omnipresent eavesdropper might have heard him more clearly and he'd be off the hook. Or at least have a stronger case. "Isn't there some way to clean up the recording to pull out the words better?"
"Maybe. I know a lab, maybe they can cook some bacon and eggs and try to eliminate at least that element of the noise," she said, noting this down as another numbered point on her pad. "It would sure help if your friend hadn't refused the locater implant. I don't know what his problem is, they're standard procedure. Even his attorney says he won't talk to him."
"That reminds me," Emery said. "Two things." He'd noticed his opportunities for questions seemed limited, and picked up on the legal trick of numbering everything. "One, how am I going to pay for this, and two, I want your opinion about an implant story."
True to form, before he could elaborate, she began, "Payment, that's simple. In a case like this, where I'm your Counsel Ad Litem, I charge a rate set by the court, a Magistrate reviews my charges, the court pays. How much _you_ pay, that is, how much you reimburse the court to cover my fee and/or pay in fines, depends on the outcome. If you're found guilty, for this serious a felony, you're looking at up to 95% of your assets and/or income. If you plead no contest, which is a possibility we need to discuss, it drops to a third of that. For acquittal, the maximum fee reimbursement is 20% of your assets/income. It used to be you could handle a case _pro se_, that is, without a lawyer, but mandatory representation took care of that, after too many kooks created mistrials by incompetently defending themselves. So, like it or not, you have a lawyer to pay. Now, what about the implant?"
The fee schedule raised his eyebrows and even added supported to the story; so he had no choice but to risk a fifth of his income for life, having virtually no assets. He sighed and relayed the story Alyssa had told him.
"And, you know," he said, finishing up, "what you told me about payment and all that, it just fits very nicely. Once you're charged with something, even if it's false and made up, you're in such a heap of trouble that you have almost no option _but_ to take an implant. This really stinks. You literally have to bend over and take it."
She couldn't suppress a smile at the remark. "Oh, I don't know if it's that big a deal. A lot of people have them voluntarily. There are some countries, Japan for example, that have put them in all newborns for years. Kidnapping is virtually zero, and they show much lower crime rates even than they used to, since they can tell exactly who was at a crime scene. I don't see your problem with it; if you don't do anything wrong, it's as if you don't have one."
"No, that _is_ my point -- I'm proof otherwise. I _did_ nothing wrong, as I know that recording will show when they clean it up, yet here I am being harassed over a harmless comment, made in private, doing nothing more than expressing my dissatisfaction with the policies of the President. Excuse me, but I thought I had that right. It looks to me like the government is strangling the life out of the country by making it so dangerous for anyone to even blow up and express their anger with a few choice words." He could see she wasn't buying this argument. He wasn't really a politically active person, that was Rod; but he could reason and he could see where this might lead. In fact, would almost certainly lead at some point, given the human tendency to abuse power. In that instant he grasped why the Constitution had included the right to own weapons. "When they wrote the second amendment
-- they understood that the people needed to retain the power to overthrow the government, to prevent the creation of a government that would need overthrowing, right?"
She rolled her eyes, but nodded slowly.
Emery continued. "So apply that test to where we are now with privacy. _If_ the government were to become completely corrupt, then full monitoring and tracking of individuals would make it nearly impossible to overthrow. By having no means to prevent it, it seems inevitable that it will happen. I know you said before there was no actual right to privacy in the Constitution, but I'm sure they couldn't possibly have imagined _this_. What if the Redcoats had had this technology back then, to watch everyone all the time -- this country wouldn't exist."
"Mmmm, well." Paula McKenzie wasn't keen on arguing moot points; it was the way it was, none of his ranting had any legal merit, and a philosophical debate here wouldn't change that. "Not to detract from the depth of your feeling on the matter, Emery, but I think we're done for today. Let me review where we are. One, I go with them to inspect your apartment, I show them that the book and those magazines are in Maritz's bedroom, not yours, show them a birthday inscription in the book. Two, subpoena receipts from O'Conner's, disproving purchase of guns. Three, find lab to analyze the recording. If all that turns out as exonerating as you say, I think we'll have this thing knocked out in good time. I'll try to get your apartment unsealed as soon as possible, but they're fastidious about not releasing property or assets and such until the case is closed; nobody said facing criminal charges was easy. You have a place to stay until then?"
"I'll find something, sure." He hoped Alyssa wouldn't mind if he took her up on the note she left saying he could have the couch as long as he needed. Rod was right, she was great. "Oh, hey, what did you find out about Rod, anything?"
Paula drew in a long breath and let it out. She knew her client wasn't going to like this. "Yes, according to his attorney, they're still holding him. They declared him a flight risk; apparently he wasn't entirely cooperative in giving them a statement. He then, ah, refused an implant. They've charged him as an accessory so they could hold him. I know what you're thinking, now don't get started on that. This is standard procedure with a crime like this. They don't do this to everybody. Don't worry, he'll be out as soon as we get you off."
Alyssa joined Emery for a late dinner after his shift, at his suggestion, albeit at a restaurant he could afford in his current state of penury. Emery desperately wanted to talk about anything other than his situation, yet it somehow always returned to that, driven by the overwhelming nature of it and his guilt at feeling he was stealing his roommate's girlfriend while his roommate was locked away.
"So, were you, are you, actually planning to off the President?" she asked with an innocent smile. "You know, most people don't go around talking about that." She hadn't thought he seemed like the type, but it didn't hurt to ask.
"No, of course not! And I didn't say I _was_ going to do it. You'd have to be crazy or stupid to talk about that when you-know-who is listening," he said indignantly. "Oh -- I see . . . You're wondering which I am: crazy or stupid." He smiled.
"By the way, I talked to that girl I told you about, who almost went broke. She said she knows someone you ought to talk to." She motioned for him to lean in, and she whispered the rest in his ear, lest any Sentries be near, "They've got a group that opposes Minuteman, and they're developing a way to remove locaters you might want to try out."
Her hair brushed his cheek as she sat back, and he was ready to follow her to see anyone, legal or not. He blushed at the thought, and then at the thought of the painful consequences of a failed attempt of their experimental procedure. Impulsively he grabbed his wine and took a sip. "Hhm-hmm. Yeah. Maybe. That might be more the type of thing Rod would be into though. I think I'll play this one, uh, y'know, by the book." He hoped mentioning Rod would ease his conscience somehow, or was it that he hoped to find out how much she cared for Rod? "But I'm not. You know -- crazy or stupid."
"And Rod is, you mean?"
"No, no --"
"That's ok, I know what you mean. Rod needs to grow up a little, and he's a bit _too_ into that second revolution stuff. I've only seen him a couple times, but that's been his main topic of conversation." She thought back. No, she'd never started the conversations down that path, only Rod had; she'd just kept them going to be polite. Come to think of it, Rod hadn't even relayed her a message explaining what had happened to him. That settled it: Rod was history in her book. She was glad Emery had reacted negatively about the anti-Minuteman group, it didn't look like he was a Rod-clone. In fact, he was a pretty nice guy. "If he'd gone on about that again yesterday I probably wouldn't have seen him anymore."
Emery wasn't sure if she was thinking along the same lines he was about continuing their relationship, or not, but she had a point. It always did seem to be Rod who brought up the sad state of affairs, how Oswald may have done the country a great favor back then, and so on. Not that Emery disagreed about how things had degenerated, and that he wished it could be repaired. But it was neither his primary subject nor was he in favor of violence to do it, whereas Rod mentioned that theme often. A half-baked thought formed: What if this whole event had really been aimed at Rod, to send him a message: Pipe down. Or at least used as a ploy to get an implant in him to track him better. It had been, after all, Rod's insistence that they couldn't afford the higher cost of a video unit for the phone, and stick with the rare, audio-only "basic service" mode. Emery didn't care, it was Rod's apartment first. But, no, that whole line of thought had to be off base, since what that implied just wasn't possible.
He resolved again to direct the conversation away from this issue and simply have a good time. He liked Alyssa, and she might be liking him back.
"You're right, it doesn't look good at all," Paula McKenzie's image said on Alyssa's screen.
Emery glanced sideways at Alyssa sitting on the couch next to him, nervously watching her reactions. They'd spent as much time together as they could during the past week, mostly at mealtimes -- breakfast in her apartment, he meeting her for lunch, she him for dinner. During the weekend they'd hardly been apart. But at this moment, Emery was thinking maybe he should have taken her up on her offer to let him have a private conversation. Too late now; it would only make him look even more guilty to ask her to leave. He cursed his lack of privacy of late.
Paula had been the bearer of much bad news. First, that the lab had conclusively shown the word he'd said was "do." And now this.
He continued, trying to balance feeling desperate with acting not desperate. "But there _is_ no plot to 'do away with' the president, why would Rod say that? You've got to believe me."
Rod was still being held, having refused the locater implant, they fearing he might disappear without it. For their part, they were probably correct: With nothing to tie him down, Rod might very well disappear. He certainly didn't owe Emery any favors of the magnitude needed to defend him; the limit of any debt only extending to some light housework and a few bucks for food. The selfish person would be smart to disassociate himself from trouble.
"Well, as your attorney, I essentially have to believe you, so that's a moot point. The real issue is that he definitely named you as one of a group plotting to kill President Varnell. He said he didn't have details, and didn't think you were an important player, but that you're definitely involved."
"Shit. I just want you to know: This is _completely false_." He looked imploringly at Alyssa, for whose benefit he'd really said it. She returned a forced smile. _Damnit! Of course she has no reason to believe me._ Emery also remembered he hadn't precisely explained to Alyssa about the 'do'/'see' controversy, either. He clenched his teeth in frustration. _Just when we'd started getting close._
Paula waved the remark off as non-essential, and Emery continued. "So -- why tell you, or me? If there _was_ a plot, which there's not, but if there was, wouldn't this ruin it?"
"Rod said you were pretty small fish in it, and that maybe you didn't even realize yet that you _were_ involved. That maybe you'd help them catch the big kahunas. And, at worst, if they disrupt it and it doesn't happen, they've done their job then too. It's a safe move for them. What it boils down to is: Are you willing to help them catch the others?"
Emery started to answer, then felt the cleverness of her statement. _So, how _long_ have you been beating your wife, Mr. Smith?"_ Get you to admit to something by acting as if _of course_ it was true, let's just get to the details. He said nothing, thinking.
Paula only allowed a short pause before she went on. "All they're asking so far is for you to consent to an audio-video chin implant."
"I need to think about this. I need to figure out why Rod did this. I'll let you know tomorrow."
"You let me know as soon as possible. I'm sure you understand how important this is. By the way, Rod's scheduled for release this evening. Talk to you tomorrow." She dipped her head and faded out.
Embarrassing silence. Emery cleared his throat. He could tell from the suspicious, almost fearful look in Alyssa's eyes that this might be the wise time to conclude his stay on her couch. Not to mention he didn't want to be here if Rod came by; he wasn't sure what he would do if they met. "I, uh, guess I better be going. You've been really kind, thanks a whole lot for letting me stay here. But I need to clear this up and I don't want to get you involved." He stood up, she likewise.
"Sure." Normally eloquent and talkative, her reticence affirmed his decision.
He looked around, checking for anything of his he needed to take, but he had nothing. He reached out, unsure if he wanted to give her a handshake or a hug, which she would prefer. She allowed him a hug, but it was stiff, formal.
He took a step toward the door. "Wait. Here." She went to a drawer and pulled out an old phone, slim though audio only. "I don't use this one any more. If your lawyer calls, I'll give her this number."
"Thanks." He looked at her as if to memorize a face he might never see again, then gave her a sad puppy dog smile and left.
Emery sat in the large, vacant bus, a "single." He managed not a smile, but at least an un-frown, as he thought about the last time he'd been on a single and how hopeful he'd been about Alyssa. Now he just sat in the bus, riding around the city, calling in to change his destination every time the bus neared his requested stop. A well-known flaw with Opti-Trans was that once on-board a designated single, a rider could keep it tied up forever with route changes. _Stupid bus, it's as easily led around as I am._
He'd skipped going in to work, and had been wandering the city all evening and now late into the night. Emery had smashed the security camera in the bus, one of the large, obvious kind meant to remind ne'er-do-wells they were being observed. At least he had the illusion of privacy with it lying in scattered pieces. Surely Minuteman still watched. They must have wanted to see what he would do, as no authorities prevented the bus from wandering.
He just needed time to think. He didn't see any options, he'd have to cooperate with the Secret Service, do whatever they wanted, but he needed to go over it and over it until he knew he'd have no regrets later. Yet it was simple enough. Do what they want, or they make life a living hell. He'd never have privacy again, either way. He didn't know if they had enough to convict him on anything, based on whether he said the word "do" or not. It didn't matter. Even if he somehow came out the so-called winner, the process itself was punishment. Guilty or innocent, you lose. _Damn Rod to Hell!_
It was bad enough before, but he was in the fire for sure now that Rod retched up this plot to "do away with" the President. Sure, Rod gets out, no implant, no charges, he's happy. Emery couldn't say he knew Rod well to know if this selfish behavior was typical, but at this instant he wanted to kill him.
Not to mention it was fine one-two punch to his incipient relationship with Alyssa. Discredit new boyfriend, return old boyfriend to the scene. Emery sighed once again.
He knew for certain he didn't want to have anything more to do with Rod. If they would have unsealed his apartment he'd move out instantly. He'd throw Rod's crap out the window. But even that wasn't an option. He was consigned to the streets, and facing far worse, thanks to something he knew he didn't say and a roommate he couldn't say he knew.
Emery had become content with drifting through life, waiting for the Right Things to happen, but these Wrong Things weren't in the plan.
He entered a set of route change requests for Alyssa's phone to call in at times he hoped would keep his single driving around town all night, then rested his head against the window. At least dreams were still private. He longed for sleep.
Coat-tailing some other tenants into the building was easy, but the Secret Service still had the key Rod Maritz needed to swipe through his apartment's lock. Nobody in the hall, so he used his "spare": The door burst open amid splinters and a flutter of red tape that read " -- sealed -- sealed -- sealed --" as his foot connected with the flimsy latch. He assumed they'd added some bugs to his apartment. If not, they would quickly realize he wasn't still in the park downtown where he'd left their pinhead-sized locater. A kindred spirit had detected it implanted in the sole of his shoe, and pronounced him otherwise unencumbered. Regardless, they'd know soon that he'd slipped his leash and tampered with the apartment -- people don't live in the pond where he'd pitched those shoes. Better move faster.
The deal was, in fact, that Rod would help the Secret Service uncover "the plot" -- in return for which he wouldn't have to worry about his rectal injections and enemas. He had no intention of helping them out, but it made a convenient tale; and it wasn't entirely false, as they'd soon find out. He rationalized that they'd broken their side of the bargain anyway with the hidden locater in his shoe, so what did he owe them? He'd been in scrapes with the law before, what he considered small time stuff as a kid back in the easy days ante-Minuteman: Breaking and entering, joyriding, etc. Rod always found that a good story got him off; plus not leaving any real evidence. Never having been charged after he was arrested made him feel he could be invincible if he wanted, if he was careful enough about his planning. He'd forgotten the adrenaline high it gave him. Some day he'd settle down. Just not yet.
And this was the big time.
The Fold-o-Crow was still in the closet where they kept their meager supply of tools.
He went to his room and fumbled through a stack of papers and magazines; there: _ Take the Streets_, from a year ago January. He ripped out an article, hurriedly folding and shoving it into his pocket. He tossed the rest of the magazine on the bed, where they'd be sure to notice it.
Back outside, at his car, Rod pried the trunk open with the crowbar. He recoiled from the stench of rotting food. Fine day that had been indeed. He held his breath, and ran his fingers around the inside of the grocery bag, disgusted at the squishy things he felt. _There._ He found the small pea-sized item he was looking for, which he'd judiciously dumped into the grocery bag when he saw the peculiar car drive by so many days ago.
He was blocks away into the warm night before the manager came to investigate the smashed in door.
"Do you often take a day off to go on a picnic with someone who's plotting to kill the President?" Emery teased, leaning against a tree next to Alyssa and opening the wine. All he could see around them were trees; there were no signs of civilization, just the sighing breeze and an occasional bird song. He had been rather surprised when she'd called to suggest an impromptu picnic this morning, but took that as a good sign about their relationship. Despite sleeping on a bus, that call, and these surroundings, made him feel renewed, ready to face his troubles again. Maybe she believed him after all, though she still seemed distant. The important thing, Emery thought, was that she'd called; she couldn't completely hate him at least. Her trust might be hard to regain, if he'd even ever had it, but Emery was eager to try.
"I told them I was doing field work. Unfortunately, I _accidentally_ grabbed an ancient pad, without a phone in it -- no Minuteman." She rubbed the side of her nose, something Emery noticed she did when she wasn't sure what to say. He appreciated that she was taking a risk coming here, entirely alone, with a suspected assassin. She seemed as intent to determine his innocence as he was to prove it, but he wasn't sure such proof existed. When she decided how to proceed, she put her hand lightly on his shoulder. "Emery, I don't know where we stand. I don't want to give you any false signals. This whole thing is so bizarre. I care for you, but I can't get involved in this. So, I didn't call you because -- what I mean is -- Here." She pulled out an envelope from her pocket. "I found this slipped under my door this morning. It's from Rod." She handed him the open envelope, marked "Read in private, away from any screen." Emery unfolded the paper note inside.
_Alyssa -- sorry I missed our date back on Sunday, my roommate Emery and I ran into some trouble. I'm fine, but I'm need to drop out for a while. I'll look you up if I get back this way, but don't wait around for me. You're a great person. I have to ask a favor of you. I understand if you can't do it. I'm sending copies out to several people to make sure it gets taken care of. I trust you the most, so this is the original. The favor is to get the enclosed item, my EarMan, to my roommate, Emery DeFreece. I think you met him once. I don't know where he'll be. You should be able to reach him through his lawyer, whose name and address will be on file with the courthouse. Please try to deliver it in person, it is very important and don't talk about this with _anyone_, especially where it could be monitored. I can't explain what's on it, but Emery was wrongly accused of something and this will clear his name._
_Thanks, Rod_
She dropped the EarMan in Emery's palm. "Delivered, in person." She looked at him imploringly. "Well?"
The EarMan was awkward. This was a high end model, the gift of a dashboard customer Rod had spent a considerable time working for. It was molded for Rod's ear, and Emery couldn't quite get the tiny thing to stay up inside his own. Even if he was able to insert it, Emery had never quite mastered the ear-wiggling needed for operation. He'd had a cheap one as a kid -- who hadn't -- but he'd given up after too many headaches from willing his auricular muscles to move. He'd managed a twitch from his left Attollens Auriculam, giving a slight up and down motion, but he'd never quite mastered tuning the things. He'd traded it for a pretend, jaw-operated imitation back then, but that wasn't an option now.
It popped out of his ear again and he pounded his fist onto his leg in frustration. "I can't work those things," he said with disgust.
"Mind if I try?" Alyssa picked it up from his offered hand and deftly slid it into her ear canal. Her ears wiggled expertly, reminding Emery of the fad when they first came out; kids would twitch their ears whether they had one or not, seeing who could do more impressive "aurobatics."
"Hmph. This thing is fancy." Rod had said it had molecular memory for a couple years audio at low resolution (_low_ being the marketing term for something nearly ten times more accurate than the first commercial digital audio had been decades ago, then considered extremely crisp). "It's got a lot of menus, hold on." In particular, it was a government-certified, evidence-quality device, complete with global positioning data, timestamps, single-use encryption and signature, all that. What it recorded was as genuine as anything Minuteman had.
"There." A window appeared on her datapad, with simulated controls and menus for the EarMan. The auricular method was easy (for those who could do it) for simple operations, but the remote access feature made advanced work much smoother.
"Well, look at this," Emery said.
Alyssa held up her finger to her lips and hit her head as if she were clearing her ears of water after swimming. The EarMan dropped into her other palm. She pointed to it and then to her ear. No need for Minuteman to hear all this.
"Oh, no, don't worry, it doesn't transmit. It's a Brazilian import, they don't sell in enough quantity so they're exempt from having to transmit. At least that's what Rod said, and he was pretty proud of that."
"And you trust him?"
"Good point." Emery put it back in its shell. Maybe fifty meters away he gouged out a hole in the dirt, dropped the unit it, covered it, and slid a chunky rock on top for good measure.
Emery poked around the controls and pulled up a directory. "Looks like 'start here' would be a good place to start." After a text message appeared reiterating that this should be viewed in private, Emery pressed his thumb to the pad to decrypt the message, and Rod spoke.
_ Mr. DeFreece, I presume? I hope this finds you well; I'm doing ok, but I'm going to disappear for a while. I sort of created a story to get me out and avoid the locater chip they wanted to implant after it was clear I'd be their prisoner for a long time otherwise. Then I visited our apartment. So, now I'm kind of in violation of the law. But don't worry about me, I have some friends I'll hang out with until this blows over.
Sorry about the story saying you were part of some plot, but I couldn't think of anything else they'd bite on. Don't worry, though, you'll be cleared. If necessary, play this for them. I hereby confess I made the whole thing up.
The important thing is the data on my EarMan you have. I had been recording our phone, just like Minuteman did, after I read this article.
_ A window appeared with a view of some torn pages. Without magnification only the headline was readable, "Does Minuteman Have Bad Eyesight?"
_It's about people who were harassed based on incriminating Minuteman data that seemed of lower quality than some experts thought it should have, pictures that seemed fuzzier than expected, or poorer audio.
I, uh, sort of performed an experiment. After duplicating what Minuteman should be hearing from our phone by making my EarMan an extension to it, I guess I brought up stuff a lot that might trigger it, and, uh, it did. I figured they'd go after me, I'm really sorry you're the one that got snared.
Anyway, what you have on this card are two recordings [two entries lit up on the display]. The first is what my bug picked up, which should be admissible in court. The decrypt key is in this file over here [another entry lit up]. The second recording is what Minuteman heard, you probably have a copy yourself; note that it _is_ signed by Minuteman, so there's no doubt of its authenticity. Finally, I loaded a copy of the standard audio filters that Minuteman uses; they're published, so no big deal, and I put some better commercial filters on there as well. Try them on both recordings, you'll find it most interesting. Pay particular attention to the segments starting around 08:38:17.
At the very least, I think this data should clear you of your charges, but it goes far beyond that. If you're interested in pursuing it, I've put copies of some articles on here showing that this proves Minuteman is definitely, shall we say, "out of spec." The scandalous conclusion is obvious, but I'll leave it to you to take the glory if you want -- it would be much more believable from you than me, since they're your words, and I don't have much credibility right now. However, as a backup, this data will go public in six months if I haven't prevented it.
I didn't plan this, not really. I'd read that article, and was curious if I could test it. Sorry to have involved you, but it may provide us both with what we said we wanted.
Take care of yourself. Bye. _
Armed with an array of filters to try, Emery cued the Minuteman recording to 08:38:17. The now familiar sound of his own voice, muffled and noisy, said again, "I'd like to {garble} something to stop it." He played Rod's: "I'd like to 'ee something to stop it" -- distinctly clearer. He enabled the filters and tried Rod's again. It was very clear: "I'd like to see something to stop it." The filters applied to Minuteman's data were less clear, but clear enough. With the newer, commercial filters, there was no doubt. One said "see", one said "do." Minuteman had the same input, and should have heard the exact same thing. Emery fumbled with the pad until he displayed the audio waveforms of the two phrases. They visually looked similar, though Minuteman's had more spikes of noise. Except for where the word "see" was: They were vastly different.
Alyssa looked at him skeptically. Hearing the actual tape for the first time, she seemed unimpressed with his claims of innocence. "So, you have two different versions. Rod doctored his up."
"No! That's impossible!" Emery said, a bit too emphatically. "What I mean is, his EarMan recorded exactly what our phone transmitted to Minuteman. That's encrypted. Only Minuteman can decipher it."
"Then, ah, how did Rod decipher it?"
Emery could tell this was going downhill, as if he were backpedaling at the very moment the finish line was in sight. "Minuteman, _and_ the sender, they use a dual-encryption." He tried to anticipate her next objection. "Plus it has a time and location stamp, proving where it came from."
"Yeah, sure thing. So . . . who changed it, Hayden Varnell himself?"
Emery said nothing. He wanted to describe the impossibility of what was in his hands, that it was provably genuine, that Minuteman must therefore have been tampered with, that somebody was using Minuteman not only to spy on people, but had the ability to alter their own words to use against them. That this _was_ proof of that.
The memory of his parents' strange deaths flashed to Emery's mind. He'd never given any credence to the idea that people were being eliminated on political grounds, and always assumed his parents simply had a legitimate accident. Yet now, those suspicions didn't seem so absurd. It had been right around the time Minuteman had been activated.
Alyssa stood up. "I've got to go." She was more aloof than ever. He wanted to protest, persuade her to stay -- surely she could see that he was innocent -- but Emery didn't know the words. He reached out his arms, palms up, as if that might explain it. She walked away silently.
He sat there under the tree long after she left, debating what to do. Rod was right. The data on this card was of staggering importance. Emery mentally stepped through the logic again to be sure; but there was no doubt that someone had tampered with Minuteman and was using it for personal ends.
Emery DeFreece had the proof. He could make some changes. The problem was how to do it. On the one hand, Alyssa wouldn't even believe it just coming from him; on the other, it was a loose cannon that could rip the country apart if not carefully aimed. For once, it was Emery's move, and he realized how hard the game could be.
He wished he could talk to Rod. Not to _thank_ him, no, the mess he created for Emery certainly didn't merit thanks. Instead, he wanted to dump it back in his lap -- it has his creation in the first place, and Emery detested the loss of privacy such "glory" would bring. He did find it ironic that Rod's ruse regarding a plot wasn't entirely false, in that Rod knew while he was detained that he had the evidence to silence Minuteman, and with it the slime who had abused it. That this would be Varnell, the man who'd pushed for Minuteman, made it all the closer to the truth that Rod, and without choice, Emery, were in a "plot" to "do away with" the President. Emery wanted to ask Rod just how much he planned in advance, or if it was genuinely an impulse action as he'd explained. The truth might run anywhere from Rod acting alone and by accident, or to all of them being manipulated by larger, unseen forces.
No, Emery decided, it didn't matter. He didn't want to talk to Rod. If he'd been a pawn, he'd been a willing one. He'd done what he believed in all along, whether he happened to follow someone else's plan or not wasn't important. In the end, he'd turned into a piece far more powerful than a pawn, and under his own command. Check and Mate.
Emery suddenly felt in control of his own life. He recalled back to when he'd casually said he wished something could be done, knowing he had no power to cause it. Emery smiled wickedly: Having been falsely accused of plotting an act had given him the power to effect that very end. He, Emery DeFreece, possessed the power to topple a presidency, even end a political dynasty. Best of all, done right, he need not expose himself to the world. The last thing he wanted was the privacy invasion of the media -- it would be a hell of a trade to exchange a life before Minuteman for a life before the Press. Genuine privacy would be his at last.
Yes, he had Varnell by the balls.
"Oswald." Despite the background noise, it distinctly sounded like "Oswald."
The Sentry was taking its usual interest in the pay-phone's datastream. It might appear unusual to a passerby that the person in front of the phone was talking without having placed a call, the standard blue greeting screen still visible; but to Minuteman, all data were equal.
The face in view continued speaking:
"Now that I hope I have your attention, my name is Emery DeFreece. My roommate, Rod Maritz, and I have discovered the interesting uses to which Minuteman is being used. This datacard" -- a card waved in view -- "has proof that not only is Minuteman being manipulated to spy on people, but also used to bring false charges against them. It's self-explanatory. I'll leave this datacard in the dirt under that bench you can see behind me in the park." -- the head leaned out of the way, then back -- "Of course it's a copy, and should anything happen to me this data will be broadcast widely. I neither expect nor desire direct contact, but I request that corrective action take place as soon as possible, with an indication this message has been received by midnight tomorrow. Varnell must resign immediately. Minuteman must be shut down. In exchange, I will keep this private, no press. I assume you'll do what you know is right."
The face stared at the screen for a moment, then walked away.
Emery stood in the kitchen at _Tuck's_, two plates in hand, as the crew watched the unannounced address from the Vice President. She was symbolically standing next to the President's empty chair in the Oval Office. "Five minutes ago, at thirty-seven minutes past eight o'clock Eastern Time this evening, President Varnell collapsed and was taken to the emergency room at Andrews Air Force Base. Doctors are unsure at this time what the cause of the problem is, so I will be assuming the acting presidency until President Varnell resumes his normal duties."
As she continued, Emery realized it. That was "the sign". He set the plates down and leaned against the counter.
Varnell was _sick_. Presumably that wasn't entirely true, but a convenient way for him to temporarily vacate his office with minimal impact on the country -- or on his power. Emery felt lightheaded at the thought that he had caused this; the sign was clear. However, they'd proven their ability at the game, not actually giving Emery anything as yet. _Damn!_
Varnell could recover fully, for instance. Even the election was enough years off that this incident would be forgotten. They were waiting for Emery's next move. Or -- they were buying time. Perhaps they were tracking down the copies he'd set to be distributed if he were to vanish. Worse, even if he got what he demanded, he'd realized afterwards that it left an army of unknowns still in power, all the people who'd executed the sham for Varnell; he had no way to flush them out. Emery was suddenly aware of the size of the game he was playing, and that he was vastly outmatched. His very life might be in jeopardy. He began to sweat as the anxiety welled up inside him.
But they hadn't just made him vanish. The fact remained, they had sent a sign. The time reference: Eight thirty-seven. The time Emery had said "see" and not "do" -- this was clearly the portent that the message had been received and the game was afoot.
One of the other waiters tapped his shoulder. "Hey, DeFreece -- phone message for you. Urgent." Pawning off his plates on him, Emery looked for a quiet room in the back with a phone.
In fact, there were two messages, the first left just after his shift had begun, from Paula McKenzie. Paula's message was typically brief. Case dismissed, charges dropped. Locater ID removed from system, he could come in for the final, but presumably welcome, insult of the deactivation enema any time he wanted. Or he could have it sent up to the doctor of his choice, at his discretion. For the first time, she'd brought him good news. Emery nodded his head contentedly, the knot in his stomach loosening a little; so far his plan was working.
The second message was the problem. It was text only, no identification of the sender. That was supposedly illegal, but there were ways one could route a message through an anonymizing service in other countries. Or it could be done by someone with the same sort of power needed to manipulate Minuteman. His brain felt like cotton, he needed a second opinion. Emery saved it out to a datacard.
He started to call Alyssa. He needed a skeptic right now, and hoped she'd agree to meet him even for only a few minutes. No, he needed to work this out alone. He closed his eyes to try to clear his head, but he was fixated on talking to someone. Alyssa. He called again, and let it ring.
As he rehearsed his opening lines, the screen cleared, and a familiar voice spoke. "We're sorry, your call cannot be completed at this time." Emery's face flushed with blood. "_You bastards!_" he screamed, pounding both fists onto the display: Simulated red tape, reading " -- sealed -- sealed -- sealed -- ."
Emery paced the worn path in circles around where he'd met Alyssa for their "picnic." He was definitely in over his head now, but there was no way to back out. The clear air, the privacy, helped clear his head.
He looked at the datapad he'd taken from the restaurant, realizing it had a phone, realizing it had been intruding on his privacy. He held it up to smash it on a rock, but held back. Exorcising his aggression at the expense of a datapad wouldn't help, and besides, he needed the damn thing. He pitched it onto the wild grass instead. _I'll get my privacy yet,_ he spat in his thoughts.
Emery sat by the tree where he had before. He tilted his head back and let his mind race, looking for a solution.
As he expected would eventually happen, the phone on his datapad signaled. "Yes?"
A software altered voice spoke. "Mr. DeFreece. Ms. Vanaara will be released immediately upon your recording the following statement [a text window appeared] affirming that you said 'do' and denouncing the validity of the Maritz recording. In exchange for Varnell's resignation and deactivation of the Minuteman system, you will deliver us the original alternate recording of the conversation. The charges against you will remain dropped. The matter is settled."
The call terminated, leaving only the text behind.
Emery sat for many minutes.
They'd kidnapped Alyssa, or, rather, arranged for her legal kidnapping, presumably to pressure him into agreement. He would get Varnell's resignation. From their actions, or lack of, he assumed they were worried enough about the impact his recording would have. Apparently it was enough to implicate Varnell, so they simply wrote him off as a sacrifice anyway.
Despite that it was essentially a full acceptance of the terms he'd given them, despite that it would return to him the privacy he was now obsessed with, his conscience gnawed at him. Everything fit into place -- except the urgent text phone message.
He finally decided he had to gamble. If anyone could help, he knew who it would be. Emery pulled over the datapad and placed the call.
Emery slid the datacard from _Tuck's_ into the old, pre-Minuteman datapad that the moonlight silhouetted figure next to him had brought. The other lay a safe distance away in the woods. They had true privacy. After summarizing the events, Emery displayed the mysterious phone message:
Mr. DeFreece, I presume? I hope this finds you well. Good going on Varnell. Even if he didn't do this, he was scum anyway. Just make sure you get the real puppeteers.
The salutation was the same as Rod's private note to him. It either came from Rod, or someone who knew how to fake it.
The implication had stunned Emery. He realized he had no actual proof that Varnell had been manipulating Minuteman; it could just as easily have been the man's political enemies for all Emery knew. Emery had simply been content to assume Varnell was pulling the strings. Now his conscience demanded proof.
As much as he despised Varnell's policies, he had been fairly elected. "So, you see my predicament," he said. "I can bring Varnell down, but I wouldn't be any better than _they_ are, whoever _they_ may be. That's where I need your help."
"I'll have to review your evidence, but on the surface it appears tight. Assuming so, it's your call. You realize that if you go forward with me that you'll have to stick with it; you can't just dump it on me and bow out. I can make sure it gets done right, but once this goes public there will be grand juries, congressional hearings . . . your own life will be a holy mess. If you deal with them privately like you have, you have to live with yourself for not knowing if you screwed the wrong man. Personally, I wouldn't want your life right now."
Turecek stood up to leave. "But it's your call, son."
Emery saw a light in Alyssa's place flick on. She must be free. Emery had recorded the statement, exactly as he'd been instructed.
He debated whether to call her. He looked down; he was probably the last person on Earth she'd want to hear from. He smiled grimly that at least he'd secured her freedom.
During the next month, as but one of her many official acts that Emery perceived as ending the stagnation of the Varnell presidency, President Levy signed an executive order invoking the Iverson-Wang clause to the ASSA. Originally drafted to gain the critical support of Senators Iverson and Wang, the clause allowed the President to repeal the act, and bar the use of any evidence gathered therefrom, any time after a five-year trial period. Since Minuteman had weathered its probation intact, most people forgot that the Iverson clause even existed. Now it had been used exactly as intended, even if covertly, to put the brakes on abuse. She might well have ended her own political career by taking charge so intimidatingly, but Emery had no sympathy for her. For all he knew, she might have been involved in the conspiracy herself.
Emery had been setting up at _Tuck's_, now the lunch maitre d', and assistant to the general manager, when he'd seen the newscast: Minuteman listened no more.
Emery sighed, glad that was over. Privacy was restored.
Emery wrestled with one final decision.
It had been inevitable, he knew; they'd eventually want to meet with him. Things had become very hectic since he'd met Turecek in the woods. Turecek had been right, though, that Emery would have to live with himself if he wrongly destroyed Varnell.
Fortunately one of Turecek's ideas had been wise: Record a disclaimer that his next statement was given under duress. He'd freed Alyssa without jeopardizing his own position. He was learning the game.
Word was that Varnell was on the verge of resignation, his prolonged "illness" having convinced him he could no longer effectively perform as President.
More importantly, Turecek informed him, they had discovered who had masterminded the corruption of Minuteman, thanks to the time Varnell's cooperation had bought them with his fake illness. Varnell had resumed the presidency just the other day, though Levy's fate was uncertain; _her_ resignation was expected, the news predicted.
Emery was saddened that Varnell hadn't been at the center of it, though now content not to worry about it further; let the voters decide if he was fit for the job. Indeed, that it had been a small group within the minority party, albeit containing some influential congressmen, left Emery with a bitter taste about any elected officials. It still wasn't clear how they had been using it, but that was for the hearings to determine. Thankfully he wouldn't have to carry the burden of being the only person in the country who knew of Minuteman's corruption. Having had the power to keep that secret, he'd relished giving it up.
Tomorrow, he would present the disclaimer and publicly reveal his ordeal. Emery was nervous, never having testified before a grand jury, let alone given a press conference. Tomorrow, he'd do both. He'd already had to dodge a dozen news reporters asking if he was the so-called "monkey see / monkey do" witness, in reference to his now famous "do/see" recordings. He clenched his teeth at the thought he was the only person left in the country without privacy, or so he felt. But he had to resign himself to that fate; as Turecek had said, it had been his call.
Lying in bed, waiting for sleep, he wrestled with his last decision of the night: To wear his blue suit tomorrow, or his brown.
Alyssa nuzzled her head against his as she dozed. He didn't have to decide now. But the choice was his.
-----
This ASCII representation is the copyrighted property of
the author. You may not redistribute it for any reason.
The o
Privacy Most Public
Privacy Most Public
by Andrew Burt
_First published in _Millennium.
_Of course Emery DeFreece knew about Minuteman. Who didn't? The Surveillance Act had passed nearly twenty years ago, shortly after Danny Schroff-Martin attempted to assassinate the President with his home-made nuclear bomb. Fortunately for the President, Danny had mistaken 12:00 P.M. with 12:00 A.M. The people of New Orleans weren't so lucky . . ._
_The public had quickly embraced the concept of "preventive medicine" through pervasive and allegedly secure, humanless eavesdropping of all conversations and on-line data._
_Emery DeFreece was about to discover that theory and reality often differ . . ._
"Oswald."
Despite the background noise, it distinctly sounded like "Oswald."
The Sentry had already noted the word "President" and the use of the future tense -- this was definitely interesting. It spun off a thread to begin analysis.
The Sentry's data described that circuit as an audio-only telephone, on hook and in listen mode; an unremarkable apartment among the hundreds of millions of rooms that the Sentries monitored constantly. The datastream had a considerable amount of background noise that made it hard to resolve words, so the Sentry understood why it couldn't be certain.
Try the standard set of filters to disprove, but clear the automatic purge flag to save the earlier "historical" data from the minutes before.
The filters didn't help, it still sounded like Oswald; maybe. Nonetheless: President, future tense, possibly Oswald -- that was enough to warrant upgrading to Do Not Discard.
The Sentry listened.
_Crack-tssszzzzzz!_ The egg spread out evenly over the griddle until the white almost touched the sizzling bacon.
"I couldn't agree more," Emery DeFreece said, cracking another egg onto the griddle, "he's just dragging the country down, and I'd like to see something to stop it." Talking around a bite of toast, he continued, "I mean, Varnell's old, he's obviously incompetent, he could probably get sick and die any time anyway. But, it's not like we're swimming in options."
"Yeah, they sure won't impeach him," Rod Maritz said from the kitchen table, continuing his roommate's thought. "It'd take years the way they move in Congress, by then his term's up, and I doubt he'd be healthy enough to last another eight years. Besides, you don't get to be President without having a lot of powerful friends. I mean, we can mouth off all we want, but unless we take control, our sorry asses are stuck on this train 'til the end of the line. Like you said, where's an Oswald when you need him." He swallowed the rest of his orange juice and stood up. "I need some more juice, man, and hurry up with those eggs -- I gotta get going. I've got _plans_ for today, named Alyssa."
"Oswald." There it was again in the other voice, clearer this time; more future tense; and implied action. Oswald, President, future, action -- the Sentry upgraded this dataset's state to Analyze: Increment the "save" flag from temporary to permanent, enqueue it for a Bloodhound, create a thread to locate any of the prior minute's data that might be untouched in the "least recently used" buffer list, and keep listening.
As the Sentry continued its vigil, the Bloodhound Evidence Correlation module pulled the next item from its list, this one from a phone sentry, high priority. The Bloodhound set to work, methodically gathering data together to help the Minuteman Criminal Defense System determine if this was what the humans called a "live one"; or, as usual, one of the endless sets of harmless remarks, misunderstandings, or even movie dialogue. But hot or cold, every scent must be tracked. The Bloodhound pressed onward.
Probable match on voices to registered tenants of designated apartment, Maritz, R. (eight months of one year lease), and DeFreece, E. (four months). No prior datasets for same location. Valid driver's licenses. Minor traffic citations, Maritz. Auto insurance lapsed, Maritz. Employer files: Frequent job changes; nothing unusual. Current occupations: Cuisine Delivery Artist (synonym-linked to "waiter") at _Tuck's on the River_, DeFreece; Remote Installer III at _The Custom DashWorks_, Maritz. Nothing unusual. No criminal convictions. Multiple juvenile arrests, Maritz, records off-line. Noted. Not on known list of suspected terrorists, smugglers, foreign agents, etc., at least by name or similarly sounding or spelled names. The Bloodhound looked up physical characteristics of the likely voices, matched those against similar lists; nothing found. Other physical databases: Facial match on Maritz, numerous peaceable anti-government demonstrations. Noted.
Financial accounts past and present: Low balances, no large deposits on record, no large withdrawals, profile of recent activity consistent with prior activity. Scan for unusual recent purchases via the sales tax tracking system -- the Bloodhound noted two transactions at department stores known to sell weapons and ammunition. Also, a dataset from a bookseller, marked "decrypt only for probable cause." Noted.
Newspaper/magazine subscriptions, paper and electronic, indexed by name or mailing address: Nothing unusual . . . nothing unusual . . . -- three months into year's subscription to _Take the Streets_, this address; estimated readership 4,000, topic: anti-government / revolutionary, a publication flagged as "always include for probable cause / escalate priority." The Bloodhound included this item in the case dataset and executed what some witty programmer had coded as the statement, "raise(eyebrow)." As instructed, the Bloodhound immediately submitted this case to the Magistrate module as medium priority, then continued the quest for more incriminating data.
Though the Bloodhound was a sophisticated electronic detective, capable of collecting data from seemingly limitless sources, efficiently sniffing for details that might be relevant to a dataset, it was without the logic to resolve whether a case had merit -- thus it fell to the Magistrate to decide if a potential breach of law was involved. The Magistrate was by far the most complex software module in the system, responsible for determining whether to alert the humans about a potential crime, but neither wasting their time on false alarms nor overlooking a serious incident. The Magistrate, indeed the entire Minuteman system, was a software work of art.
Thus, inside that same few seconds, with the conversation still echoing in the heads of the two young men enjoying a Sunday morning breakfast, the Magistrate dequeued the case and set to work.
_Stuck with the dishes again_, Emery thought. Rod, as usual, found a way to dodge his responsibility; it was his turn this week. Alyssa would be upset if he was late again, Rod offered as an excuse. _Yeah, three strikes out of three dates, and you're outta here_ -- Emery almost said it, even started the umpire's hand motion, but stopped at just a thumb's up to Rod and a sly smile. Besides, Rod's idea of a clean plate was anything that water and a drying towel couldn't knock off. Best just to do them, only a momentary delay on his way to a little sun and surf.
In the short time he'd known him, Emery had come to think Rod was more style than substance, there being no exception when it came to relationships. Not that Emery felt either of them was anything better than above average in good looks, but it was Rod who was going out all the time. On the other hand, Emery wasn't interested in what Rod proudly called his "babe of the month club", and was content to wait for some magical event. Emery waved a soapy hand as Rod headed out with what passed for his idea of fine food (which Emery felt sure could be summarized as "anything wrapped in insta-heat"), and wondered if Alyssa would share Rod's bachelor attitudes toward picnic fare.
He'd only met Alyssa Vanaara once. _Hardly your drab stereotype of a government worker, eh?_ was how Rod had introduced her with a private wink. She'd seemed really down to earth -- not Rod's type at all, and Emery wondered what they had in common. She was an environmental analyst for the state, a chemist or somesuch, with a couple degrees beyond the "just barely passing" high school diploma Rod boasted about with a grin. Granted that put her ahead of Emery too, though at least he'd done the college thing, even if he'd only bounced around minor jobs in the growing number of years since graduating. A degree in hospitality management wasn't useless, despite the endlessly sluggish economy, but if the right thing just hadn't come along yet, well, so be it in business as in romance.
Maybe the same patience applied to roommates, Emery decided, and plunged his hands back to their cleansing task.
Rod Maritz jogged down the building steps and angled across the courtyard toward his car on the street, grocery bag in hand, mouthing the words to the song on his EarMan. He was content from the breakfast he'd talked his roommate into cooking again. Cleaning up, too. It always seemed so much better when he'd _earned_ it.
What a dupe. Emery didn't have Rod's brash, devil-may-care attitude, he was more of the _I'm not making eye contact so don't look at me_ type. Except when he did get singled out, when he put on an act of false bravado, as if he wasn't really being manipulated, rather, he was only a moment behind you and just about to suggest whatever you'd said. Breakfast, for example, had been "his" idea.
Rod flickered by the thought of the time he'd talked Emery into crevice jumping -- no net. Only a damn fool of a rank beginner would have actually tried to leap the double-skull fissure Rod led them too, but before Rod had started the task of talking him back out of the jump, Emery had scurried off and hurled himself toward the far side. Rod smirked at the memory. He had to admit, though, Emery had guts; Rod wouldn't have tolerated living with a wimp. Good thing there had actually been a net.
Perhaps their common self-reliance derived from neither of them having any family: Their parents both had disappeared when each was in their mid-teens, almost a decade ago. Admittedly, in Rod's case, they'd just told him to get lost before they packed off. Emery's mysteriously vanished, like so many others who'd held certain unpopular views back then. Rod had his theories about that, and Emery might even be coming around regarding those conspiratorial views. Yes, Rod was feeling quite satisfied with his morning's quota of manipulation.
Beyond the contentment, he was charged with anticipation of sharing this cloudless blue sky with Alyssa. She was a much tougher nut to crack, and he wasn't sure how much longer he'd enjoy the challenge. A while more, at any rate -- Rod inspired himself with the thought that each date with her revealed another of the vast array of scenic, isolated settings for a rendezvous that she knew, important earnings for use in the post-Alyssa long term.
This was going to be a fine day indeed.
As he opened the trunk to store the bag, he noticed a dark blue sedan turn past, unusual for its ominously dark windows. The passenger's head and gaze followed him through the open window as it rolled by.
Rod straightened up and shut the hatch as they double parked not far in front of him.
A man and a woman emerged, both in business suits as dark and imposing as the car. The woman waved at him with a standard, clipboard style datapad in her hand as they started toward him. "Hey," she called, "are you Roderick Maritz?"
Rod took a halting step forward, stopped on hearing his name. Rod could see his picture on her datapad as she folded and clipped it at her side, and noted from the glimpse of background that it couldn't be more than a couple days old. "Ye-es, what can I do for you?"
The pair, now standing close on each side, nodded curtly to each other. Startled by a prick on his back, he began to turn around, but his knees buckled. Head swimming, he lurched into their grasp. His last blurred memory was of the dome light inside their car.
The pair then started towards the building, pausing at the entrance only long enough to swipe an access card.
_Three o'clock in the afternoon. What he Hell is going on here?_ Emery thought, again scouring the room with his eyes for anything he hadn't seen dozens of times before. He must have been unconscious almost an hour. He'd simply awakened on a cot, then led here with a monotonous set of turns down hallways, all alike. He thought he might have seen Rod down one corridor, but it was too brief and distant to tell.
None of his suited escorts would speak to him except to utter monosyllabic commands. _Stand. Walk. Turn._
They'd acted as dead as this room: Off-white walls and ceiling, no decoration or distinction. One door, locked; no windows. A worn wooden table in the middle of the room. Four hard chairs, one on each long edge of the table, one in each corner nearest the door. Old, uniformly placed fluorescent lights glowing with slightly different color were the only disruption in the room's cheerless regularity.
So he sat at the table in one of those hard chairs, teeth clenched, arms crossed, legs crossed. At least he'd been wearing a watch when the his and hers goons had barged in and kidnapped him from plans of carefree sunshine to stale air and dingy walls.
He ran his hands through his hair again, massaged the back of his neck where he felt his headache was, and let out a long breath. What the hell was going on, and why was it taking so long? This was worse than being ignored in a doctor's office; at least you know where you are and why you're there. _Three goddamn o'clock._ Five hours since they'd just stormed in. He replayed the scene in his mind over and over, trying to puzzle out who they were, what they wanted. But, like a pawn in a chess game, he had no idea what forces moved him or why.
_They must be watching all this. So, what am I going to do in here_, he thought, _start revealing state secrets? Confess to crimes? Say I'll do anything, just let me out? I'm certainly not worth ransom to anyone. Are they reading my body language, to see when I'm softened up enough for whatever they want? What would they want? Defiance? Cowering? Is this torture? Well . . . shit.
Maybe if there's somebody listening I can get something going, I don't care what they think._ He stood up. "Hello? Hello! Is there anyone watching this? Hello-ooo! This is so damn borrrring!" Feeling suddenly self-conscious, but still bored and angry, he snorted and sat back down. He stared at the ceiling again. Now, how many pits were there in each ceiling tile?
Another half-hour, or perhaps an hour, passed as Emery lost track of time.
"Mr. DeFreece? I'm Stanislav Turecek," said the athletically fit, gray-haired man entering the room, snapping Emery instantly alert. His body language projected intensity and no nonsense. Behind him came a stern looking woman, no older than fifty, lips drawn tight into a small frown, but businesslike; and a balding man who seemed fidgety, distracted, uninterested, almost shy. "This is Paula McKenzie and Charles Greenlee. Sorry to keep you waiting, but, Sunday, you understand. Can I get you something, coffee, water?"
"You can tell me what the hell is going on! I want some answers." He began to vent his anger, until he remembered he didn't know where he was, or who these people were. And how dry his mouth was. "Water. Please."
Turecek leaned out the door, repeating "Water" to someone in the hall before closing the door and facing Emery. "Yes, we have answers -- and many questions."
Turecek took the chair across the table while McKenzie had already pulled up one from the corner; Greenlee had slumped back in the far corner.
"Mr. DeFreece, before we begin I need to explain the nature of this situation to you. I'm with the United States Secret Service. Mr. Greenlee here is an observer from the court, to ensure all procedures are properly followed and witness these events; and Ms. McKenzie is your Counsel Ad Litem, better known as your 'instant lawyer'. I apologize for the course manner of your detainment, but I'm afraid that's standard procedure in a case like this. Ever since New Orleans, you understand."
Emery began to speak, but Turecek held up his hand. "Before you say anything, you need to know that this interview is being recorded and any statements or actions you make can and will be used against you in a court of law. I'm going to explain your rights in full detail, please remain silent until asked to say anything."
Emery sighed in slight relief that he was at least in the theoretically safe hands of the government, not some unknown thugs. The accusation against him must be pretty steep, though, to warrant what he'd only heard vaguely about, the no-talk arrest. Drugging the suspect was a twist he hadn't considered, but in retrospect it he could see the utility.
"I'm sure you've seen this in movies, but please read along with me", Turecek said, pulling two datapads out of his briefcase and sliding one toward Emery.
Turecek touched his pad, and a pleasant voice began reading the text that scrolled on the pad before Emery.
"(i) Per United States law, any person arrested or detained for questioning shall have his/her entire contact with police or other designated officials recorded in both video and audio, to the extent feasible with reasonable effort, including but not limited to initial contact, transportation, interrogation, and incarceration.
(ii) Detainee shall have the benefit of Counsel from the earliest convenient time, by means of a recognized Counselor Ad Litem or by detainee's own Counsel if such Counsel shall present an order of appearance within four (4) hours of recitation of these rights.
(iii) All evidence currently possessed by detaining officials will be presented prior to interrogation; any evidence obtained under the Automated Software Surveillance Act shall necessitate an explanation of the nature and manner of collection of the evidence so obtained.
(iv) Other rights guaranteed by this section to be explained by Counsel as necessary.
(v) Detainee shall acknowledge understanding of these rights by signature or thumbprint."
Movies usually faded out after the first sentence or two of the "Amended Miranda Rights", thought Emery; but, yes, this was all common knowledge. We watched, we saw, we convicted.
Paula McKenzie, his "instant lawyer", asked him, "Now, Mr. DeFreece is it, do you understand these rights?"
"Yes, but --"
"Please put your thumbprint on the datapad, here," she interrupted.
Again the pawn, he mechanically pressed his thumb to the datapad's square with the icon of a fingerprint, and the pad beeped in acknowledgement.
She continued. "Good. Now, Mr. DeFreece, Sunday isn't my favorite day to be down here, but if you need a lawyer, here I am. Do you have other counsel I can immediately notify or do I stay?"
Emery felt hot and dizzy. This was moving too fast, out of control. He never thought about lawyers, never having needed one, except that lawyers meant trouble. Serious trouble. The stakes suddenly seemed higher, the peril greater even than before when he simply hadn't known. He shook his head to clear it. "I don't have one."
"Well, yes, you do. As my client, my first piece of advice to you is _keep quiet_. Now that that's settled, let's _listen_ to what you're up against." She paused to see if he had anything to say; he appeared to be following her advice to remain silent. "Mr. Turecek, it seems we're ready."
Turecek touched his pad again, and the pleasant voice continued, now in a more informal tone no doubt meant to put suspects at ease; it sounded like a bad documentary.
"As mandated by the ASSA, that is, the Automated Software Surveillance Act, or what most people commonly think of as the 'Minuteman' system, any time Minuteman is used to collect data that is to be used as evidence, full disclosure of that mechanism is required.
"As you're probably aware, all video, data and audio communication lines are constantly monitored for keyword content per the ASSA, in order to prevent crimes before they happen. Phones, radios, televisions, video displays, and so on, are permanently in monitor mode even when not in use. Ordinarily this data is recorded only for a brief time then discarded, and never observed by any person, maintaining your full privacy. When the system detects an abnormal pattern of usage, based on sophisticated software techniques to recognize and correlate words together and weigh them for potential criminal content, then the first level of the system, what you've probably heard termed a 'Sentry,' sends this on to other levels of the system, such as the Bloodhounds and Magistrates. The Bloodhound is a searching subsystem that locates any possibly relevant data regarding your case, having the full
authority to search government records, corporate databases, medical, etc. This is passed on, still without inspection by any
_Listen_, she'd said; Emery was too numb to do anything else. Of course he knew about Minuteman. Who didn't? The Surveillance Act had passed nearly twenty years ago, shortly after Danny Schroff-Martin attempted to assassinate the President with his home-made nuclear bomb. Fortunately for the President, Danny had mistaken 12:00 P.M. with 12:00 A.M. The people of New Orleans weren't so lucky: They'd been sleeping when a good part of their city was obliterated. The last straw was Danny's release on a technicality, mistakes made during his arrest, despite the incontrovertible evidence against him. That an angry mob had hunted him down and literally ripped him apart (and a few of the mob themselves -- it was hard to tell who's flesh one was grabbing, they'd said) was understandable, but only fanned the flames of outrage.
The public had quickly embraced the concept of "preventive medicine" through pervasive and allegedly secure, humanless eavesdropping of all conversations and on-line data. All new phones, radios, televisions, computers, anything that could display video or play audio, were mandated to include a government supplied chip to operate in full-time reverse: Radios would listen, televisions would see. The data would only be seen by secure software, not people, so they sold it "as if it nothing had changed." The software had been carefully named "Minuteman", for its connotations of patriotism, security, and vigilance. Nor did it hurt that it was also the name the older generation remembered as long ago decommissioned nuclear missiles, used to ensure the country's safety during a similarly catalyzing threat. Add some reforms to due process, to seemingly prevent anyone's rights from being stepped on -- such as full time recording of arrests, court observers, and instant attorneys; streamline the judicial process; and
The privacy debate had been short before the Supreme Court ruled it constitutional, since no human beings ever saw any data except when probable cause had already been established by the software. A few test cases were paraded around with great ceremony. The matter was settled.
In fact, crime and fear receded dramatically thereafter. Illegal drug use was only a memory, there being almost nowhere safe to use them. White collar crimes decreased after noted Wall Street wizard Suresh Hilfinger's securities fraud conviction, showing that Minuteman kept the board room just as safe as the streets. By the time it was fully implemented after some ten years, almost ten years ago now, there was no significant trace of anxiety about universal monitoring.
The reduced crime rate now mostly consisted of crimes of passion, where clear evidence was usually on file and convictions rapid; plus the many people sentenced for intent, stopped before they actually did anything. Given the crisis atmosphere then, people simply accepted the necessity, and watched their language, until not talking about anything sensitive became routine. After all, only bad people talked about bad things; if you didn't act like a criminal, you had nothing to fear.
So, Emery knew there were prying eyes and ears everywhere. But, like most people, since he wasn't planning any crimes, he never gave it any thought, essentially forgetting Minuteman was his other roommate. Until now.
The recording stopped, and Turecek continued grimly.
"In your case, and we'll lay out the evidence shortly, Mr. DeFreece, the Minuteman system detected your threat to assassinate the President of the United States. Conviction carries a minimum prison sentence of forty years or voluntary euthanasia."
Turecek's pad beeped, which he acknowledged with a touch, and the door opened. The water was here. Greenlee took the glass from someone Emery couldn't quite see outside the door, and wordlessly set it on the table in front of Emery. Assumedly all this strange formality had to do with the procedures established to handle suspects after Danny Schroff-Martin's unfortunate release. Nonetheless, this gave the whole scene an air of surrealism.
Everyone seemed calm and distant, except for Emery DeFreece, whose apprehension was running full throttle. _What_ threat to assassinate the president? He'd never said anything like that. He quickly swallowed half the tepid water, then clutched the glass with both hands as if it were his only link to the normal world.
Greenlee finally spoke, his voice kindly and melodic, though from his measured pace it was clear he'd given this speech many times. "Mr. DeFreece, as you probably know, but it is my duty to inform you, that you have the option of entering a plea of guilty or no contest, at any time. Should you elect so, only the evidence presented to that point remains on your permanent record. You haven't formally been charged as yet, you understand, but this option is still available to you. You can proceed."
With a detached rub of his chin, Turecek read the evidence. "In particular, we have the following facts: (1) At eight thirty-seven A.M. this morning, an audio recording from the voice-only telephone in your apartment recorded you as saying, quote, 'You know, if _someone_ wanted to pull an Oswald, it would be easy' end quote, and also, quote, 'I couldn't agree more, he's just dragging the country down, and I'd like to do something to stop it,' end quote. Your counsel has a complete copy of the conversation, which you may wish to review."
Emery began to interrupt, rising. "Now wait --"
His lawyer interrupted him in turn, placing her hand on his shoulder to help reseat him, "No, Mr. DeFreece, I highly discourage you from saying anything. Go ahead, Mr. Turecek."
Rebuffed and fuming, Emery sat back.
He was certainly no fan of President Varnell, and had wondered idly, like many people, if the old conspiracy tales were true about then Senator Varnell being involved somehow with concocting the New Orleans incident, but only the fringe put any credence in that. And he merely shook his head at Rod's hypotheses of political intrigue in Emery's parents' disappearance, boat and all, regardless of their vocal opposition to the group Varnell circulated among. The seas had been rough, they should never have gone out; Emery firmly believed foul play was not involved.
Granted, Emery believed Varnell's policies, going back decades, including his sponsorship of the ASSA in the Senate, were the cause of the economic slide that had been in progress for the last fifteen years. The country seemed to have lost its soul, its vitality. The ASSA may have played some part, in that the overall reduction of dangerous talk had become a tourniquet on society, silencing opposition and risks out of ignorance of what might be illegal, but Emery felt the entire Varnell package was flawed. Yet the declines in productivity and other economic woes were far easier to accept as the result of what other counties did, or bad leadership by the previous administration, and that's how Varnell's party marketed it, with great success.
In fact, Varnell had been elected president six years ago on promises to beat the foreign competitors into line, despite the evidence they weren't to blame, and remained popular despite his vindictive, eccentric policies and advancing age. The first president elected for the newly doubled term limits, he also seemed destined to be the first to serve a second eight years. Emery was upset at the prospect, but, no, he had definitely not said he planned to kill him. This was ridiculous; if this is what software monitoring was all about, then something was seriously flawed.
Turecek cleared his throat, returning Emery's thoughts to the present. "Mmmm, you said dut dut dah . . . here we are.
(2) You were found to be a subscriber of _Take the Streets_, a publication widely known for its anti-government views and support of violence."
Emery opened his mouth, but a warning look from McKenzie prompted him to close it and suffice with a scowl.
"(3) Records indicate you purchased a book entitled _Storming the White Castle: Suppressed Insurrections from Washington to Varnell_, which had been tagged by the bookseller as 'encrypt and submit to Minuteman', was decrypted based on the above evidence as probable cause and found to contain the relevant title aforementioned.
"(4) Sales Tax tracking reveals you made a purchase on May 14 at O'Conner's department store, which is known to sell firearms, in an amount large enough to have included a firearm.
"(5) Sales Tax tracking reveals you made a purchase on May 20 at O'Conner's department store, which is known to sell ammunition, in an amount large enough to have included ammunition.
"(6) Initial investigation of your residence revealed the aforementioned telephone unit had been placed at the far end of the room and hidden under a pair of bluejeans in an apparent attempt to decrease its monitoring ability.
"(7) Your roommate has stated in our interview that you expressed a great deal of dislike for the President and did not discount that you might act on something about which you felt strongly.
"That's what we've found so far, though the system is still searching. So, next step: If you are willing to talk with us about this, we talk; if not, we press charges and go at it that way. We'd be looking at intent to assassinate the President, a class four felony. Since that all takes time, you don't appear to be an imminent threat, jail space is limited, etc., we've already received approval from Minuteman's Magistrate to release you on your own recognizance -- _If_ you submit to a locater implant so we can track you and ensure you're in no danger of committing the intended crime. If you don't submit to the implant, then we'd be keeping you without bail by virtue of the seriousness of the potential crime. Again, all this has already been approved. So, Mr. DeFreece, the first question is, would you be willing to answer some questions?"
Paula McKenzie was ready to answer before Emery could open his mouth. "No, my client will not be making any statements at this time." She turned toward him and added in more confidential tones, "Trust me on this one, kid." Although her financial stake seemed clear, Emery had little choice but to trust her judgment.
"Of course," Turecek said, as if he had been expecting that answer. "If you'll just put your thumb on this acknowledging that your client has been charged as we discussed . . ." She did so as he was speaking. "I'm obliged to ask if your client would like to enter a plea of guilty at this time?" Paula shook her head and put her thumb on the appropriate box. "Fine, then, we have the matter of the implant." He looked at them expectantly.
McKenzie broke the momentary silence. "I need to consult with my client."
"Of course," Turecek said, turning the chair a quarter to face somewhat away from the two of them.
"Er, don't we get any privacy?", Emery asked.
"Well," Paula McKenzie said, looking exasperated as she tried to think how best to explain this to her naive client without wasting words, "No. Since everything's recorded anyway, there really isn't anywhere private. The only issue is whether something is admissible in court, which our conversation would not be. So it doesn't matter whether they hear us or not. I suppose if you'd like the appearance of privacy we could ask them to step outside."
Emery nodded rapidly that this was his preference; it seemed the only amount of power he had, and he needed to exercise it. Not to mention that he'd lived his life comfortably with the "appearance" of privacy -- a machine monitor was one thing, someone sitting nearby was another.
He let out a deep breath when the door closed behind Turecek and the silent observer.
"Ok, so we're 'alone'," she said, quoting the word with her fingers in the air. "Implant -- yes, or no?"
"Now, wait, let's just back up a minute here." Emery felt as though he were being rail-roaded. Crime shows never portrayed it quite like this. The new laws were supposed to protect the accused, ensure a fair and quick process. As he thought about this, it dawned on him that all this, the instant lawyer you've never met, instant release if you agree to have your location monitored twenty-four hours a day, "instant" this and "instant" that, this was perhaps just an alternate name for rail-roading. Maybe this is better than days, weeks, and months of delays for paperwork and the old slowly grinding legal system, but maybe not. It sure felt like he was being pressured into just agreeing to the crimes; he knew, of course, in that eventuality he'd meet the infamous "instant sentencing", pre-approved by the software Magistrate. He shuddered through a cold chill. "Just wait, ok?"
His instant attorney, still standing from closing the door, paused, then sat where Turecek had been, across the table. "Ok. I know this is your first time, it probably all seems pretty traumatic. You're in a pretty pickle here, Mr. DeFreece."
He took a deep breath to compose himself, exhaling shakily.
"Call me Emery. And yes, traumatic is the right word. Now, could you just explain again what exactly has happened, what I'm charged with? All this legal mumbo jumbo seems designed to obscure the obvious."
"Well. The software system, the Minuteman, that observes nearly everything anybody says or does in this country, overheard you say some nasty things about how you'd like to assassinate the President, it did some digging into your closets that are only opened if someone is suspected of a crime, found enough for a case, and here you are."
"What about the first amendment and all that? I never thought . . ."
She pursed her lips, having heard this argument from most every client she'd defended. "No, the right to free speech is not universal. You've surely heard of the 'you can't yell fire in a crowded movie house' concept, this is similar. More like the ban on making jokes in airports about hijacking planes. Threatening the President is not something you can joke about, particularly since New Orleans. And you weren't exactly laughing when you made those statements."
"But I _didn't_ threaten to kill the President! I didn't say what they said!"
Paula looked skeptical; of course he said those things, they have it on record. "You're telling me you didn't say," she asked, pulling the datapad over, "'You know, if someone wanted to pull an Oswald, it would be easy' or 'I'd like to do something to stop it'?"
"No! I don't know! I don't know exactly what I said, we were eating breakfast, it was just talk. But that wasn't what I was saying, not the point I was trying to make. I never said I was going to _do_ anything."
"So, ah, what _did_ you say?" Good thing they're not able to use this conversation as evidence, she thought; insanity wasn't a viable defense these days.
"I don't know, but it wasn't that," he said petulantly.
"Well. This isn't the best time to discuss this anyway. We need to concentrate on one item only right now, the implant. You only have two choices." She ticked them off on her fingers: "One, enjoy an all expense paid vacation in a scenic jail cell until this matter is resolved; two, submit to a chip implant to track your every move. The implant only takes a minute, they'd do it right here, right now, then you're out of here. Your choice."
Emery stood up to walk around, massaging his neck again. He also realized how stiff he was from sitting in that chair for the last several hours. A jail cell wouldn't be very appealing. "How long does it stay in?"
"Until you're cleared of all charges; if you're not, it stays. All convicts have them, for the rest of their life. One other thing, though, is that your apartment is sealed, so you'd have to stay somewhere else. Any other property and assets you have will have been frozen too, except for a minimal amount you'd be allowed for basic living expenses."
Great, though Emery, no clothes, no bed, no money, nothing. Yet his feeling of certainty that he'd be cleared of this made freedom seem the less evil choice.
Within the hour he was on the street, a minuscule transmitter lodged in the wall of his colon by rectal insertion, McKenzie's business card in his hand, a huge headache, and nowhere to go.
Alyssa Vanaara's large, wall-mounted screen was ringing, the telephone icon appearing to announce an incoming call. The ID only said "pay phone." She paused the Evening News and considered. It could be Rod, trying to get around the block she'd placed on his number since he'd stood her up this morning. Or, it could be important. She answered the call. Emery DeFreece's bedraggled face appeared in a conference window, what looked like a downtown street behind him. "Hello, you're Emmet isn't it? Rod's friend? We met at that party."
"Yeah, no, it's Emery; uh, hey, I was looking for Rod, is he there? Could I speak to him?"
Though she'd met Emery only once before, he'd seemed nice enough, kind of drifting leisurely through life. Maybe Rod was putting him up to this, but he genuinely didn't look like he'd been having a good day. "No, he stood me up this morning. What's going on? Did something happen to him? By the way, you look really awful."
"No kidding, I feel like crap. These --" Emery didn't want to sound like a lunatic. Secret Service, assassination, implants . . . "Well, it's a long story. I haven't seen Rod since this morning, I thought maybe he'd called you." He gambled, before the situation got any more awkward. "I could stop by, or, uh, meet you somewhere? For Rod's sake I'd like to explain it."
She assumed he wasn't acting to help Rod, or he was great at acting the victim; Alyssa was back to undecided about whether to keep seeing Rod. Curiosity helped seal the decision. "Sure. Why don't you stop by here?" She transmitted her standard address, which dropped out on the pay phone's one free disposable datacard.
"Ok. Be there as soon as I can. Bye." He gave a quick, polite bow of his head and signed off.
An hour and a half later, Alyssa was well into wondering if he was going to be a no-show too, when she heard the chime announcing a visitor, pre-cleared and on the way up. Emery knocked on the door, an old fashioned habit of his. Alyssa thought it quaint, and responded in kind with a playful "Who is it?" before opening the door herself.
"Sorry it took so long, but it was a long wait for a single; I guess I wasn't taking a popular OptiTrans route." She smiled at his joke, the city's so-called "optimal" routing public transit system, which took rider's requested routes and theoretically allocated the smallest sized vehicle to handle the most riders in the shortest overall time, was notorious for being slow and inefficient. A "single", originally the term for a small, single-seater, now was slang to imply one had been given a large bus all to oneself, usually after a long wait.
"So, have a seat. Get you anything?"
"An 'anything' would be great, preferably alcoholic. I've had a grand total of one glass of water since breakfast."
She returned with a beer and the half sandwich she'd saved from lunch. Real meat and cheese, too; her job must pay well. He ate rapidly as he told the tale of his strange day, sacrificing accuracy only regarding the apparent solidity of their evidence.
Emery luxuriated in the softness of the couch. Freedom was definitely the preferable option. "So, tomorrow I guess I get to find out what happens next," he was telling Alyssa.
She was shaking her head. "You took the chip? Their case sounds pretty thin, I'm surprised they didn't just say 'bad boy', and send you home with a warning." From what he said, she suspected Rod was the real instigator; Emery had probably just been caught in the middle. It sounded pretty harmless, albeit stupid on his part. But they'd managed to get a locater on him. She wasn't into politics, although privacy invasion was something she generally disapproved of except for hardened criminals. "You really don't mind that they're going to track you the rest of your life?"
"Like I had any choice. But it's not forever, just until I'm cleared."
"Uh huh, sure. Don't get me wrong, but that's not what usually happens from what I've heard. It's . . ." She became silent, debating whether to worry him with the rumors she'd heard or not.
"What? What've you heard?"
"I don't know, maybe I'm just skeptical of all this monitoring. So, someone I know, a sort of friend of a friend, had almost the same exact thing happen, she was hauled in on some overheard talk, it was really nothing. She took the chip, then they really dragged their feet on doing anything about the charges, just one postponement after another, some useless hearings, basically harassing her with legalities and tearing up her life. After a couple _years_ they offered her this deal, they'd drop the charges from her public record -- but not, of course," she added with a sour face, "from Minuteman -- if she'd keep the implant. She couldn't afford to keep paying the lawyer, so she took it. She thinks it was because of her politics, but you could never prove that."
"Hmph. So you think this happens all the time?" She was saying she didn't necessarily believe any of it, while Emery began wondering just how impossible the chip was to remove. Whether it was true that tampering with it released an incapacitating electric charge, unless properly deactivated by a molecularly unique enema, essentially password encoded to your specific chip. That they said it would feel like your ass was on fire, and you'd go crazy trying to put it out, let alone walk normally. And how this was so much more effective than the old oral kind, that couldn't withstand the acidity of the stomach. Ok, unpleasant, next subject.
He shifted to a more comfortable position, contemplating his waiter's pay, and just how far that could take him on the legal road. He'd have to make a point to ask about payment tomorrow with McKenzie. He realized distantly that Alyssa was saying something, and that he'd even been grunting "uh huh"s. Her voice was so pleasant he could listen forever. Mentally and physically worn out, it was the first peace he'd felt all day.
Emery's soft snoring interrupted Alyssa's exposition. She knew she sometimes talked too much, but, really, she smirked, she'd never put someone to sleep before.
Paula McKenzie looked very scholarly to Emery the way she sat at her desk head bowed, fingers steepled at her forehead. The mantle clock chimed quarter of; 9:45 A.M. "Now, think, very carefully, about what you said yesterday. Did you say 'I'd like to _do_ something to stop it' or 'I'd like to _see_ something to stop it'? With 'see' it isn't grammatically correct, though the recording _is_ noisy. I don't think 'see' would have caused an investigation." She looked up at him. "'Do' certainly would have," she added, accusingly.
"I don't know, we were just _talking_; I can't help it if I don't always speak in sentences you can diagram. But I didn't say 'do', I know that. That's not what I was talking about. I meant I was hoping something would change." Emery felt exasperated. They had him recorded as saying things, but it was hard to hear the exact words, but it did sound like 'do' and nothing like 'see'; he fully realized that if Rod (and he) had been a better housekeeper the omnipresent eavesdropper might have heard him more clearly and he'd be off the hook. Or at least have a stronger case. "Isn't there some way to clean up the recording to pull out the words better?"
"Maybe. I know a lab, maybe they can cook some bacon and eggs and try to eliminate at least that element of the noise," she said, noting this down as another numbered point on her pad. "It would sure help if your friend hadn't refused the locater implant. I don't know what his problem is, they're standard procedure. Even his attorney says he won't talk to him."
"That reminds me," Emery said. "Two things." He'd noticed his opportunities for questions seemed limited, and picked up on the legal trick of numbering everything. "One, how am I going to pay for this, and two, I want your opinion about an implant story."
True to form, before he could elaborate, she began, "Payment, that's simple. In a case like this, where I'm your Counsel Ad Litem, I charge a rate set by the court, a Magistrate reviews my charges, the court pays. How much _you_ pay, that is, how much you reimburse the court to cover my fee and/or pay in fines, depends on the outcome. If you're found guilty, for this serious a felony, you're looking at up to 95% of your assets and/or income. If you plead no contest, which is a possibility we need to discuss, it drops to a third of that. For acquittal, the maximum fee reimbursement is 20% of your assets/income. It used to be you could handle a case _pro se_, that is, without a lawyer, but mandatory representation took care of that, after too many kooks created mistrials by incompetently defending themselves. So, like it or not, you have a lawyer to pay. Now, what about the implant?"
The fee schedule raised his eyebrows and even added supported to the story; so he had no choice but to risk a fifth of his income for life, having virtually no assets. He sighed and relayed the story Alyssa had told him.
"And, you know," he said, finishing up, "what you told me about payment and all that, it just fits very nicely. Once you're charged with something, even if it's false and made up, you're in such a heap of trouble that you have almost no option _but_ to take an implant. This really stinks. You literally have to bend over and take it."
She couldn't suppress a smile at the remark. "Oh, I don't know if it's that big a deal. A lot of people have them voluntarily. There are some countries, Japan for example, that have put them in all newborns for years. Kidnapping is virtually zero, and they show much lower crime rates even than they used to, since they can tell exactly who was at a crime scene. I don't see your problem with it; if you don't do anything wrong, it's as if you don't have one."
"No, that _is_ my point -- I'm proof otherwise. I _did_ nothing wrong, as I know that recording will show when they clean it up, yet here I am being harassed over a harmless comment, made in private, doing nothing more than expressing my dissatisfaction with the policies of the President. Excuse me, but I thought I had that right. It looks to me like the government is strangling the life out of the country by making it so dangerous for anyone to even blow up and express their anger with a few choice words." He could see she wasn't buying this argument. He wasn't really a politically active person, that was Rod; but he could reason and he could see where this might lead. In fact, would almost certainly lead at some point, given the human tendency to abuse power. In that instant he grasped why the Constitution had included the right to own weapons. "When they wrote the second amendment
-- they understood that the people needed to retain the power to overthrow the government, to prevent the creation of a government that would need overthrowing, right?"
She rolled her eyes, but nodded slowly.
Emery continued. "So apply that test to where we are now with privacy. _If_ the government were to become completely corrupt, then full monitoring and tracking of individuals would make it nearly impossible to overthrow. By having no means to prevent it, it seems inevitable that it will happen. I know you said before there was no actual right to privacy in the Constitution, but I'm sure they couldn't possibly have imagined _this_. What if the Redcoats had had this technology back then, to watch everyone all the time -- this country wouldn't exist."
"Mmmm, well." Paula McKenzie wasn't keen on arguing moot points; it was the way it was, none of his ranting had any legal merit, and a philosophical debate here wouldn't change that. "Not to detract from the depth of your feeling on the matter, Emery, but I think we're done for today. Let me review where we are. One, I go with them to inspect your apartment, I show them that the book and those magazines are in Maritz's bedroom, not yours, show them a birthday inscription in the book. Two, subpoena receipts from O'Conner's, disproving purchase of guns. Three, find lab to analyze the recording. If all that turns out as exonerating as you say, I think we'll have this thing knocked out in good time. I'll try to get your apartment unsealed as soon as possible, but they're fastidious about not releasing property or assets and such until the case is closed; nobody said facing criminal charges was easy. You have a place to stay until then?"
"I'll find something, sure." He hoped Alyssa wouldn't mind if he took her up on the note she left saying he could have the couch as long as he needed. Rod was right, she was great. "Oh, hey, what did you find out about Rod, anything?"
Paula drew in a long breath and let it out. She knew her client wasn't going to like this. "Yes, according to his attorney, they're still holding him. They declared him a flight risk; apparently he wasn't entirely cooperative in giving them a statement. He then, ah, refused an implant. They've charged him as an accessory so they could hold him. I know what you're thinking, now don't get started on that. This is standard procedure with a crime like this. They don't do this to everybody. Don't worry, he'll be out as soon as we get you off."
Alyssa joined Emery for a late dinner after his shift, at his suggestion, albeit at a restaurant he could afford in his current state of penury. Emery desperately wanted to talk about anything other than his situation, yet it somehow always returned to that, driven by the overwhelming nature of it and his guilt at feeling he was stealing his roommate's girlfriend while his roommate was locked away.
"So, were you, are you, actually planning to off the President?" she asked with an innocent smile. "You know, most people don't go around talking about that." She hadn't thought he seemed like the type, but it didn't hurt to ask.
"No, of course not! And I didn't say I _was_ going to do it. You'd have to be crazy or stupid to talk about that when you-know-who is listening," he said indignantly. "Oh -- I see . . . You're wondering which I am: crazy or stupid." He smiled.
"By the way, I talked to that girl I told you about, who almost went broke. She said she knows someone you ought to talk to." She motioned for him to lean in, and she whispered the rest in his ear, lest any Sentries be near, "They've got a group that opposes Minuteman, and they're developing a way to remove locaters you might want to try out."
Her hair brushed his cheek as she sat back, and he was ready to follow her to see anyone, legal or not. He blushed at the thought, and then at the thought of the painful consequences of a failed attempt of their experimental procedure. Impulsively he grabbed his wine and took a sip. "Hhm-hmm. Yeah. Maybe. That might be more the type of thing Rod would be into though. I think I'll play this one, uh, y'know, by the book." He hoped mentioning Rod would ease his conscience somehow, or was it that he hoped to find out how much she cared for Rod? "But I'm not. You know -- crazy or stupid."
"And Rod is, you mean?"
"No, no --"
"That's ok, I know what you mean. Rod needs to grow up a little, and he's a bit _too_ into that second revolution stuff. I've only seen him a couple times, but that's been his main topic of conversation." She thought back. No, she'd never started the conversations down that path, only Rod had; she'd just kept them going to be polite. Come to think of it, Rod hadn't even relayed her a message explaining what had happened to him. That settled it: Rod was history in her book. She was glad Emery had reacted negatively about the anti-Minuteman group, it didn't look like he was a Rod-clone. In fact, he was a pretty nice guy. "If he'd gone on about that again yesterday I probably wouldn't have seen him anymore."
Emery wasn't sure if she was thinking along the same lines he was about continuing their relationship, or not, but she had a point. It always did seem to be Rod who brought up the sad state of affairs, how Oswald may have done the country a great favor back then, and so on. Not that Emery disagreed about how things had degenerated, and that he wished it could be repaired. But it was neither his primary subject nor was he in favor of violence to do it, whereas Rod mentioned that theme often. A half-baked thought formed: What if this whole event had really been aimed at Rod, to send him a message: Pipe down. Or at least used as a ploy to get an implant in him to track him better. It had been, after all, Rod's insistence that they couldn't afford the higher cost of a video unit for the phone, and stick with the rare, audio-only "basic service" mode. Emery didn't care, it was Rod's apartment first. But, no, that whole line of thought had to be off base, since what that implied just wasn't possible.
He resolved again to direct the conversation away from this issue and simply have a good time. He liked Alyssa, and she might be liking him back.
"You're right, it doesn't look good at all," Paula McKenzie's image said on Alyssa's screen.
Emery glanced sideways at Alyssa sitting on the couch next to him, nervously watching her reactions. They'd spent as much time together as they could during the past week, mostly at mealtimes -- breakfast in her apartment, he meeting her for lunch, she him for dinner. During the weekend they'd hardly been apart. But at this moment, Emery was thinking maybe he should have taken her up on her offer to let him have a private conversation. Too late now; it would only make him look even more guilty to ask her to leave. He cursed his lack of privacy of late.
Paula had been the bearer of much bad news. First, that the lab had conclusively shown the word he'd said was "do." And now this.
He continued, trying to balance feeling desperate with acting not desperate. "But there _is_ no plot to 'do away with' the president, why would Rod say that? You've got to believe me."
Rod was still being held, having refused the locater implant, they fearing he might disappear without it. For their part, they were probably correct: With nothing to tie him down, Rod might very well disappear. He certainly didn't owe Emery any favors of the magnitude needed to defend him; the limit of any debt only extending to some light housework and a few bucks for food. The selfish person would be smart to disassociate himself from trouble.
"Well, as your attorney, I essentially have to believe you, so that's a moot point. The real issue is that he definitely named you as one of a group plotting to kill President Varnell. He said he didn't have details, and didn't think you were an important player, but that you're definitely involved."
"Shit. I just want you to know: This is _completely false_." He looked imploringly at Alyssa, for whose benefit he'd really said it. She returned a forced smile. _Damnit! Of course she has no reason to believe me._ Emery also remembered he hadn't precisely explained to Alyssa about the 'do'/'see' controversy, either. He clenched his teeth in frustration. _Just when we'd started getting close._
Paula waved the remark off as non-essential, and Emery continued. "So -- why tell you, or me? If there _was_ a plot, which there's not, but if there was, wouldn't this ruin it?"
"Rod said you were pretty small fish in it, and that maybe you didn't even realize yet that you _were_ involved. That maybe you'd help them catch the big kahunas. And, at worst, if they disrupt it and it doesn't happen, they've done their job then too. It's a safe move for them. What it boils down to is: Are you willing to help them catch the others?"
Emery started to answer, then felt the cleverness of her statement. _So, how _long_ have you been beating your wife, Mr. Smith?"_ Get you to admit to something by acting as if _of course_ it was true, let's just get to the details. He said nothing, thinking.
Paula only allowed a short pause before she went on. "All they're asking so far is for you to consent to an audio-video chin implant."
"I need to think about this. I need to figure out why Rod did this. I'll let you know tomorrow."
"You let me know as soon as possible. I'm sure you understand how important this is. By the way, Rod's scheduled for release this evening. Talk to you tomorrow." She dipped her head and faded out.
Embarrassing silence. Emery cleared his throat. He could tell from the suspicious, almost fearful look in Alyssa's eyes that this might be the wise time to conclude his stay on her couch. Not to mention he didn't want to be here if Rod came by; he wasn't sure what he would do if they met. "I, uh, guess I better be going. You've been really kind, thanks a whole lot for letting me stay here. But I need to clear this up and I don't want to get you involved." He stood up, she likewise.
"Sure." Normally eloquent and talkative, her reticence affirmed his decision.
He looked around, checking for anything of his he needed to take, but he had nothing. He reached out, unsure if he wanted to give her a handshake or a hug, which she would prefer. She allowed him a hug, but it was stiff, formal.
He took a step toward the door. "Wait. Here." She went to a drawer and pulled out an old phone, slim though audio only. "I don't use this one any more. If your lawyer calls, I'll give her this number."
"Thanks." He looked at her as if to memorize a face he might never see again, then gave her a sad puppy dog smile and left.
Emery sat in the large, vacant bus, a "single." He managed not a smile, but at least an un-frown, as he thought about the last time he'd been on a single and how hopeful he'd been about Alyssa. Now he just sat in the bus, riding around the city, calling in to change his destination every time the bus neared his requested stop. A well-known flaw with Opti-Trans was that once on-board a designated single, a rider could keep it tied up forever with route changes. _Stupid bus, it's as easily led around as I am._
He'd skipped going in to work, and had been wandering the city all evening and now late into the night. Emery had smashed the security camera in the bus, one of the large, obvious kind meant to remind ne'er-do-wells they were being observed. At least he had the illusion of privacy with it lying in scattered pieces. Surely Minuteman still watched. They must have wanted to see what he would do, as no authorities prevented the bus from wandering.
He just needed time to think. He didn't see any options, he'd have to cooperate with the Secret Service, do whatever they wanted, but he needed to go over it and over it until he knew he'd have no regrets later. Yet it was simple enough. Do what they want, or they make life a living hell. He'd never have privacy again, either way. He didn't know if they had enough to convict him on anything, based on whether he said the word "do" or not. It didn't matter. Even if he somehow came out the so-called winner, the process itself was punishment. Guilty or innocent, you lose. _Damn Rod to Hell!_
It was bad enough before, but he was in the fire for sure now that Rod retched up this plot to "do away with" the President. Sure, Rod gets out, no implant, no charges, he's happy. Emery couldn't say he knew Rod well to know if this selfish behavior was typical, but at this instant he wanted to kill him.
Not to mention it was fine one-two punch to his incipient relationship with Alyssa. Discredit new boyfriend, return old boyfriend to the scene. Emery sighed once again.
He knew for certain he didn't want to have anything more to do with Rod. If they would have unsealed his apartment he'd move out instantly. He'd throw Rod's crap out the window. But even that wasn't an option. He was consigned to the streets, and facing far worse, thanks to something he knew he didn't say and a roommate he couldn't say he knew.
Emery had become content with drifting through life, waiting for the Right Things to happen, but these Wrong Things weren't in the plan.
He entered a set of route change requests for Alyssa's phone to call in at times he hoped would keep his single driving around town all night, then rested his head against the window. At least dreams were still private. He longed for sleep.
Coat-tailing some other tenants into the building was easy, but the Secret Service still had the key Rod Maritz needed to swipe through his apartment's lock. Nobody in the hall, so he used his "spare": The door burst open amid splinters and a flutter of red tape that read " -- sealed -- sealed -- sealed --" as his foot connected with the flimsy latch. He assumed they'd added some bugs to his apartment. If not, they would quickly realize he wasn't still in the park downtown where he'd left their pinhead-sized locater. A kindred spirit had detected it implanted in the sole of his shoe, and pronounced him otherwise unencumbered. Regardless, they'd know soon that he'd slipped his leash and tampered with the apartment -- people don't live in the pond where he'd pitched those shoes. Better move faster.
The deal was, in fact, that Rod would help the Secret Service uncover "the plot" -- in return for which he wouldn't have to worry about his rectal injections and enemas. He had no intention of helping them out, but it made a convenient tale; and it wasn't entirely false, as they'd soon find out. He rationalized that they'd broken their side of the bargain anyway with the hidden locater in his shoe, so what did he owe them? He'd been in scrapes with the law before, what he considered small time stuff as a kid back in the easy days ante-Minuteman: Breaking and entering, joyriding, etc. Rod always found that a good story got him off; plus not leaving any real evidence. Never having been charged after he was arrested made him feel he could be invincible if he wanted, if he was careful enough about his planning. He'd forgotten the adrenaline high it gave him. Some day he'd settle down. Just not yet.
And this was the big time.
The Fold-o-Crow was still in the closet where they kept their meager supply of tools.
He went to his room and fumbled through a stack of papers and magazines; there: _ Take the Streets_, from a year ago January. He ripped out an article, hurriedly folding and shoving it into his pocket. He tossed the rest of the magazine on the bed, where they'd be sure to notice it.
Back outside, at his car, Rod pried the trunk open with the crowbar. He recoiled from the stench of rotting food. Fine day that had been indeed. He held his breath, and ran his fingers around the inside of the grocery bag, disgusted at the squishy things he felt. _There._ He found the small pea-sized item he was looking for, which he'd judiciously dumped into the grocery bag when he saw the peculiar car drive by so many days ago.
He was blocks away into the warm night before the manager came to investigate the smashed in door.
"Do you often take a day off to go on a picnic with someone who's plotting to kill the President?" Emery teased, leaning against a tree next to Alyssa and opening the wine. All he could see around them were trees; there were no signs of civilization, just the sighing breeze and an occasional bird song. He had been rather surprised when she'd called to suggest an impromptu picnic this morning, but took that as a good sign about their relationship. Despite sleeping on a bus, that call, and these surroundings, made him feel renewed, ready to face his troubles again. Maybe she believed him after all, though she still seemed distant. The important thing, Emery thought, was that she'd called; she couldn't completely hate him at least. Her trust might be hard to regain, if he'd even ever had it, but Emery was eager to try.
"I told them I was doing field work. Unfortunately, I _accidentally_ grabbed an ancient pad, without a phone in it -- no Minuteman." She rubbed the side of her nose, something Emery noticed she did when she wasn't sure what to say. He appreciated that she was taking a risk coming here, entirely alone, with a suspected assassin. She seemed as intent to determine his innocence as he was to prove it, but he wasn't sure such proof existed. When she decided how to proceed, she put her hand lightly on his shoulder. "Emery, I don't know where we stand. I don't want to give you any false signals. This whole thing is so bizarre. I care for you, but I can't get involved in this. So, I didn't call you because -- what I mean is -- Here." She pulled out an envelope from her pocket. "I found this slipped under my door this morning. It's from Rod." She handed him the open envelope, marked "Read in private, away from any screen." Emery unfolded the paper note inside.
_Alyssa -- sorry I missed our date back on Sunday, my roommate Emery and I ran into some trouble. I'm fine, but I'm need to drop out for a while. I'll look you up if I get back this way, but don't wait around for me. You're a great person. I have to ask a favor of you. I understand if you can't do it. I'm sending copies out to several people to make sure it gets taken care of. I trust you the most, so this is the original. The favor is to get the enclosed item, my EarMan, to my roommate, Emery DeFreece. I think you met him once. I don't know where he'll be. You should be able to reach him through his lawyer, whose name and address will be on file with the courthouse. Please try to deliver it in person, it is very important and don't talk about this with _anyone_, especially where it could be monitored. I can't explain what's on it, but Emery was wrongly accused of something and this will clear his name._
_Thanks, Rod_
She dropped the EarMan in Emery's palm. "Delivered, in person." She looked at him imploringly. "Well?"
The EarMan was awkward. This was a high end model, the gift of a dashboard customer Rod had spent a considerable time working for. It was molded for Rod's ear, and Emery couldn't quite get the tiny thing to stay up inside his own. Even if he was able to insert it, Emery had never quite mastered the ear-wiggling needed for operation. He'd had a cheap one as a kid -- who hadn't -- but he'd given up after too many headaches from willing his auricular muscles to move. He'd managed a twitch from his left Attollens Auriculam, giving a slight up and down motion, but he'd never quite mastered tuning the things. He'd traded it for a pretend, jaw-operated imitation back then, but that wasn't an option now.
It popped out of his ear again and he pounded his fist onto his leg in frustration. "I can't work those things," he said with disgust.
"Mind if I try?" Alyssa picked it up from his offered hand and deftly slid it into her ear canal. Her ears wiggled expertly, reminding Emery of the fad when they first came out; kids would twitch their ears whether they had one or not, seeing who could do more impressive "aurobatics."
"Hmph. This thing is fancy." Rod had said it had molecular memory for a couple years audio at low resolution (_low_ being the marketing term for something nearly ten times more accurate than the first commercial digital audio had been decades ago, then considered extremely crisp). "It's got a lot of menus, hold on." In particular, it was a government-certified, evidence-quality device, complete with global positioning data, timestamps, single-use encryption and signature, all that. What it recorded was as genuine as anything Minuteman had.
"There." A window appeared on her datapad, with simulated controls and menus for the EarMan. The auricular method was easy (for those who could do it) for simple operations, but the remote access feature made advanced work much smoother.
"Well, look at this," Emery said.
Alyssa held up her finger to her lips and hit her head as if she were clearing her ears of water after swimming. The EarMan dropped into her other palm. She pointed to it and then to her ear. No need for Minuteman to hear all this.
"Oh, no, don't worry, it doesn't transmit. It's a Brazilian import, they don't sell in enough quantity so they're exempt from having to transmit. At least that's what Rod said, and he was pretty proud of that."
"And you trust him?"
"Good point." Emery put it back in its shell. Maybe fifty meters away he gouged out a hole in the dirt, dropped the unit it, covered it, and slid a chunky rock on top for good measure.
Emery poked around the controls and pulled up a directory. "Looks like 'start here' would be a good place to start." After a text message appeared reiterating that this should be viewed in private, Emery pressed his thumb to the pad to decrypt the message, and Rod spoke.
_ Mr. DeFreece, I presume? I hope this finds you well; I'm doing ok, but I'm going to disappear for a while. I sort of created a story to get me out and avoid the locater chip they wanted to implant after it was clear I'd be their prisoner for a long time otherwise. Then I visited our apartment. So, now I'm kind of in violation of the law. But don't worry about me, I have some friends I'll hang out with until this blows over.
Sorry about the story saying you were part of some plot, but I couldn't think of anything else they'd bite on. Don't worry, though, you'll be cleared. If necessary, play this for them. I hereby confess I made the whole thing up.
The important thing is the data on my EarMan you have. I had been recording our phone, just like Minuteman did, after I read this article.
_ A window appeared with a view of some torn pages. Without magnification only the headline was readable, "Does Minuteman Have Bad Eyesight?"
_It's about people who were harassed based on incriminating Minuteman data that seemed of lower quality than some experts thought it should have, pictures that seemed fuzzier than expected, or poorer audio.
I, uh, sort of performed an experiment. After duplicating what Minuteman should be hearing from our phone by making my EarMan an extension to it, I guess I brought up stuff a lot that might trigger it, and, uh, it did. I figured they'd go after me, I'm really sorry you're the one that got snared.
Anyway, what you have on this card are two recordings [two entries lit up on the display]. The first is what my bug picked up, which should be admissible in court. The decrypt key is in this file over here [another entry lit up]. The second recording is what Minuteman heard, you probably have a copy yourself; note that it _is_ signed by Minuteman, so there's no doubt of its authenticity. Finally, I loaded a copy of the standard audio filters that Minuteman uses; they're published, so no big deal, and I put some better commercial filters on there as well. Try them on both recordings, you'll find it most interesting. Pay particular attention to the segments starting around 08:38:17.
At the very least, I think this data should clear you of your charges, but it goes far beyond that. If you're interested in pursuing it, I've put copies of some articles on here showing that this proves Minuteman is definitely, shall we say, "out of spec." The scandalous conclusion is obvious, but I'll leave it to you to take the glory if you want -- it would be much more believable from you than me, since they're your words, and I don't have much credibility right now. However, as a backup, this data will go public in six months if I haven't prevented it.
I didn't plan this, not really. I'd read that article, and was curious if I could test it. Sorry to have involved you, but it may provide us both with what we said we wanted.
Take care of yourself. Bye. _
Armed with an array of filters to try, Emery cued the Minuteman recording to 08:38:17. The now familiar sound of his own voice, muffled and noisy, said again, "I'd like to {garble} something to stop it." He played Rod's: "I'd like to 'ee something to stop it" -- distinctly clearer. He enabled the filters and tried Rod's again. It was very clear: "I'd like to see something to stop it." The filters applied to Minuteman's data were less clear, but clear enough. With the newer, commercial filters, there was no doubt. One said "see", one said "do." Minuteman had the same input, and should have heard the exact same thing. Emery fumbled with the pad until he displayed the audio waveforms of the two phrases. They visually looked similar, though Minuteman's had more spikes of noise. Except for where the word "see" was: They were vastly different.
Alyssa looked at him skeptically. Hearing the actual tape for the first time, she seemed unimpressed with his claims of innocence. "So, you have two different versions. Rod doctored his up."
"No! That's impossible!" Emery said, a bit too emphatically. "What I mean is, his EarMan recorded exactly what our phone transmitted to Minuteman. That's encrypted. Only Minuteman can decipher it."
"Then, ah, how did Rod decipher it?"
Emery could tell this was going downhill, as if he were backpedaling at the very moment the finish line was in sight. "Minuteman, _and_ the sender, they use a dual-encryption." He tried to anticipate her next objection. "Plus it has a time and location stamp, proving where it came from."
"Yeah, sure thing. So . . . who changed it, Hayden Varnell himself?"
Emery said nothing. He wanted to describe the impossibility of what was in his hands, that it was provably genuine, that Minuteman must therefore have been tampered with, that somebody was using Minuteman not only to spy on people, but had the ability to alter their own words to use against them. That this _was_ proof of that.
The memory of his parents' strange deaths flashed to Emery's mind. He'd never given any credence to the idea that people were being eliminated on political grounds, and always assumed his parents simply had a legitimate accident. Yet now, those suspicions didn't seem so absurd. It had been right around the time Minuteman had been activated.
Alyssa stood up. "I've got to go." She was more aloof than ever. He wanted to protest, persuade her to stay -- surely she could see that he was innocent -- but Emery didn't know the words. He reached out his arms, palms up, as if that might explain it. She walked away silently.
He sat there under the tree long after she left, debating what to do. Rod was right. The data on this card was of staggering importance. Emery mentally stepped through the logic again to be sure; but there was no doubt that someone had tampered with Minuteman and was using it for personal ends.
Emery DeFreece had the proof. He could make some changes. The problem was how to do it. On the one hand, Alyssa wouldn't even believe it just coming from him; on the other, it was a loose cannon that could rip the country apart if not carefully aimed. For once, it was Emery's move, and he realized how hard the game could be.
He wished he could talk to Rod. Not to _thank_ him, no, the mess he created for Emery certainly didn't merit thanks. Instead, he wanted to dump it back in his lap -- it has his creation in the first place, and Emery detested the loss of privacy such "glory" would bring. He did find it ironic that Rod's ruse regarding a plot wasn't entirely false, in that Rod knew while he was detained that he had the evidence to silence Minuteman, and with it the slime who had abused it. That this would be Varnell, the man who'd pushed for Minuteman, made it all the closer to the truth that Rod, and without choice, Emery, were in a "plot" to "do away with" the President. Emery wanted to ask Rod just how much he planned in advance, or if it was genuinely an impulse action as he'd explained. The truth might run anywhere from Rod acting alone and by accident, or to all of them being manipulated by larger, unseen forces.
No, Emery decided, it didn't matter. He didn't want to talk to Rod. If he'd been a pawn, he'd been a willing one. He'd done what he believed in all along, whether he happened to follow someone else's plan or not wasn't important. In the end, he'd turned into a piece far more powerful than a pawn, and under his own command. Check and Mate.
Emery suddenly felt in control of his own life. He recalled back to when he'd casually said he wished something could be done, knowing he had no power to cause it. Emery smiled wickedly: Having been falsely accused of plotting an act had given him the power to effect that very end. He, Emery DeFreece, possessed the power to topple a presidency, even end a political dynasty. Best of all, done right, he need not expose himself to the world. The last thing he wanted was the privacy invasion of the media -- it would be a hell of a trade to exchange a life before Minuteman for a life before the Press. Genuine privacy would be his at last.
Yes, he had Varnell by the balls.
"Oswald." Despite the background noise, it distinctly sounded like "Oswald."
The Sentry was taking its usual interest in the pay-phone's datastream. It might appear unusual to a passerby that the person in front of the phone was talking without having placed a call, the standard blue greeting screen still visible; but to Minuteman, all data were equal.
The face in view continued speaking:
"Now that I hope I have your attention, my name is Emery DeFreece. My roommate, Rod Maritz, and I have discovered the interesting uses to which Minuteman is being used. This datacard" -- a card waved in view -- "has proof that not only is Minuteman being manipulated to spy on people, but also used to bring false charges against them. It's self-explanatory. I'll leave this datacard in the dirt under that bench you can see behind me in the park." -- the head leaned out of the way, then back -- "Of course it's a copy, and should anything happen to me this data will be broadcast widely. I neither expect nor desire direct contact, but I request that corrective action take place as soon as possible, with an indication this message has been received by midnight tomorrow. Varnell must resign immediately. Minuteman must be shut down. In exchange, I will keep this private, no press. I assume you'll do what you know is right."
The face stared at the screen for a moment, then walked away.
Emery stood in the kitchen at _Tuck's_, two plates in hand, as the crew watched the unannounced address from the Vice President. She was symbolically standing next to the President's empty chair in the Oval Office. "Five minutes ago, at thirty-seven minutes past eight o'clock Eastern Time this evening, President Varnell collapsed and was taken to the emergency room at Andrews Air Force Base. Doctors are unsure at this time what the cause of the problem is, so I will be assuming the acting presidency until President Varnell resumes his normal duties."
As she continued, Emery realized it. That was "the sign". He set the plates down and leaned against the counter.
Varnell was _sick_. Presumably that wasn't entirely true, but a convenient way for him to temporarily vacate his office with minimal impact on the country -- or on his power. Emery felt lightheaded at the thought that he had caused this; the sign was clear. However, they'd proven their ability at the game, not actually giving Emery anything as yet. _Damn!_
Varnell could recover fully, for instance. Even the election was enough years off that this incident would be forgotten. They were waiting for Emery's next move. Or -- they were buying time. Perhaps they were tracking down the copies he'd set to be distributed if he were to vanish. Worse, even if he got what he demanded, he'd realized afterwards that it left an army of unknowns still in power, all the people who'd executed the sham for Varnell; he had no way to flush them out. Emery was suddenly aware of the size of the game he was playing, and that he was vastly outmatched. His very life might be in jeopardy. He began to sweat as the anxiety welled up inside him.
But they hadn't just made him vanish. The fact remained, they had sent a sign. The time reference: Eight thirty-seven. The time Emery had said "see" and not "do" -- this was clearly the portent that the message had been received and the game was afoot.
One of the other waiters tapped his shoulder. "Hey, DeFreece -- phone message for you. Urgent." Pawning off his plates on him, Emery looked for a quiet room in the back with a phone.
In fact, there were two messages, the first left just after his shift had begun, from Paula McKenzie. Paula's message was typically brief. Case dismissed, charges dropped. Locater ID removed from system, he could come in for the final, but presumably welcome, insult of the deactivation enema any time he wanted. Or he could have it sent up to the doctor of his choice, at his discretion. For the first time, she'd brought him good news. Emery nodded his head contentedly, the knot in his stomach loosening a little; so far his plan was working.
The second message was the problem. It was text only, no identification of the sender. That was supposedly illegal, but there were ways one could route a message through an anonymizing service in other countries. Or it could be done by someone with the same sort of power needed to manipulate Minuteman. His brain felt like cotton, he needed a second opinion. Emery saved it out to a datacard.
He started to call Alyssa. He needed a skeptic right now, and hoped she'd agree to meet him even for only a few minutes. No, he needed to work this out alone. He closed his eyes to try to clear his head, but he was fixated on talking to someone. Alyssa. He called again, and let it ring.
As he rehearsed his opening lines, the screen cleared, and a familiar voice spoke. "We're sorry, your call cannot be completed at this time." Emery's face flushed with blood. "_You bastards!_" he screamed, pounding both fists onto the display: Simulated red tape, reading " -- sealed -- sealed -- sealed -- ."
Emery paced the worn path in circles around where he'd met Alyssa for their "picnic." He was definitely in over his head now, but there was no way to back out. The clear air, the privacy, helped clear his head.
He looked at the datapad he'd taken from the restaurant, realizing it had a phone, realizing it had been intruding on his privacy. He held it up to smash it on a rock, but held back. Exorcising his aggression at the expense of a datapad wouldn't help, and besides, he needed the damn thing. He pitched it onto the wild grass instead. _I'll get my privacy yet,_ he spat in his thoughts.
Emery sat by the tree where he had before. He tilted his head back and let his mind race, looking for a solution.
As he expected would eventually happen, the phone on his datapad signaled. "Yes?"
A software altered voice spoke. "Mr. DeFreece. Ms. Vanaara will be released immediately upon your recording the following statement [a text window appeared] affirming that you said 'do' and denouncing the validity of the Maritz recording. In exchange for Varnell's resignation and deactivation of the Minuteman system, you will deliver us the original alternate recording of the conversation. The charges against you will remain dropped. The matter is settled."
The call terminated, leaving only the text behind.
Emery sat for many minutes.
They'd kidnapped Alyssa, or, rather, arranged for her legal kidnapping, presumably to pressure him into agreement. He would get Varnell's resignation. From their actions, or lack of, he assumed they were worried enough about the impact his recording would have. Apparently it was enough to implicate Varnell, so they simply wrote him off as a sacrifice anyway.
Despite that it was essentially a full acceptance of the terms he'd given them, despite that it would return to him the privacy he was now obsessed with, his conscience gnawed at him. Everything fit into place -- except the urgent text phone message.
He finally decided he had to gamble. If anyone could help, he knew who it would be. Emery pulled over the datapad and placed the call.
Emery slid the datacard from _Tuck's_ into the old, pre-Minuteman datapad that the moonlight silhouetted figure next to him had brought. The other lay a safe distance away in the woods. They had true privacy. After summarizing the events, Emery displayed the mysterious phone message:
Mr. DeFreece, I presume? I hope this finds you well. Good going on Varnell. Even if he didn't do this, he was scum anyway. Just make sure you get the real puppeteers.
The salutation was the same as Rod's private note to him. It either came from Rod, or someone who knew how to fake it.
The implication had stunned Emery. He realized he had no actual proof that Varnell had been manipulating Minuteman; it could just as easily have been the man's political enemies for all Emery knew. Emery had simply been content to assume Varnell was pulling the strings. Now his conscience demanded proof.
As much as he despised Varnell's policies, he had been fairly elected. "So, you see my predicament," he said. "I can bring Varnell down, but I wouldn't be any better than _they_ are, whoever _they_ may be. That's where I need your help."
"I'll have to review your evidence, but on the surface it appears tight. Assuming so, it's your call. You realize that if you go forward with me that you'll have to stick with it; you can't just dump it on me and bow out. I can make sure it gets done right, but once this goes public there will be grand juries, congressional hearings . . . your own life will be a holy mess. If you deal with them privately like you have, you have to live with yourself for not knowing if you screwed the wrong man. Personally, I wouldn't want your life right now."
Turecek stood up to leave. "But it's your call, son."
Emery saw a light in Alyssa's place flick on. She must be free. Emery had recorded the statement, exactly as he'd been instructed.
He debated whether to call her. He looked down; he was probably the last person on Earth she'd want to hear from. He smiled grimly that at least he'd secured her freedom.
During the next month, as but one of her many official acts that Emery perceived as ending the stagnation of the Varnell presidency, President Levy signed an executive order invoking the Iverson-Wang clause to the ASSA. Originally drafted to gain the critical support of Senators Iverson and Wang, the clause allowed the President to repeal the act, and bar the use of any evidence gathered therefrom, any time after a five-year trial period. Since Minuteman had weathered its probation intact, most people forgot that the Iverson clause even existed. Now it had been used exactly as intended, even if covertly, to put the brakes on abuse. She might well have ended her own political career by taking charge so intimidatingly, but Emery had no sympathy for her. For all he knew, she might have been involved in the conspiracy herself.
Emery had been setting up at _Tuck's_, now the lunch maitre d', and assistant to the general manager, when he'd seen the newscast: Minuteman listened no more.
Emery sighed, glad that was over. Privacy was restored.
Emery wrestled with one final decision.
It had been inevitable, he knew; they'd eventually want to meet with him. Things had become very hectic since he'd met Turecek in the woods. Turecek had been right, though, that Emery would have to live with himself if he wrongly destroyed Varnell.
Fortunately one of Turecek's ideas had been wise: Record a disclaimer that his next statement was given under duress. He'd freed Alyssa without jeopardizing his own position. He was learning the game.
Word was that Varnell was on the verge of resignation, his prolonged "illness" having convinced him he could no longer effectively perform as President.
More importantly, Turecek informed him, they had discovered who had masterminded the corruption of Minuteman, thanks to the time Varnell's cooperation had bought them with his fake illness. Varnell had resumed the presidency just the other day, though Levy's fate was uncertain; _her_ resignation was expected, the news predicted.
Emery was saddened that Varnell hadn't been at the center of it, though now content not to worry about it further; let the voters decide if he was fit for the job. Indeed, that it had been a small group within the minority party, albeit containing some influential congressmen, left Emery with a bitter taste about any elected officials. It still wasn't clear how they had been using it, but that was for the hearings to determine. Thankfully he wouldn't have to carry the burden of being the only person in the country who knew of Minuteman's corruption. Having had the power to keep that secret, he'd relished giving it up.
Tomorrow, he would present the disclaimer and publicly reveal his ordeal. Emery was nervous, never having testified before a grand jury, let alone given a press conference. Tomorrow, he'd do both. He'd already had to dodge a dozen news reporters asking if he was the so-called "monkey see / monkey do" witness, in reference to his now famous "do/see" recordings. He clenched his teeth at the thought he was the only person left in the country without privacy, or so he felt. But he had to resign himself to that fate; as Turecek had said, it had been his call.
Lying in bed, waiting for sleep, he wrestled with his last decision of the night: To wear his blue suit tomorrow, or his brown.
Alyssa nuzzled her head against his as she dozed. He didn't have to decide now. But the choice was his.
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