"Murder In The Solid State" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mccarthy Wil)

"I'm working on it, buddy; just hang tight. I need you to think about something, OK? Don't answer out loud, but I'm working on a plan right now, and it won't work if you'rj: guilty."
The remark hit David like a slap across the face. He felt stunned, then stung, and then after a slight pause, angry. "Bowser," he said, the fury rising up like hot bile in his throat. "God damn!"
"Hey, relax." Bowser stared earnestly through the screen for a moment before looking back down at whatever lay in front of him. Highway traffic? His image jumped and rippled like the horizon on a hot day, and suddenly David understood the view. Bowser was in his car, his clanky old Jeep, with the video cellular clipped to the sunshade above him. The image fractal-approximated, digitized and compressed and then unpacked at David's end, losing a little resolution in every step. And blurring each time Bowser crossed a cell boundary, every twenty seconds or so. fast was he driving?
"How can you say something like that?" David demanded, his anger burning a little cooler now, but burning still.
Bowser shrugged. "Privileged conversation-the cops can't listen, and even if they do, they can't use the information. Plus, we're encrypted."
"I did not kill Otto Vandegroot," David said tightly. "I don't have any idea who did."
"Hey, I didn't need to hear that. Sorry to get your blood pressure up-OK?-but I'm trying to swing a deal for you. Do you know what a Fellmer scan is?"
"The lie detector?" David asked uncertainly. Did Bowser still think he was lying?
Bowser nodded. "That's the one, yup. Very sophisticated, very reliable, very inadmissible in jury court right now. But if you say you're innocent and the machine agrees with you, I'm guessing we could sway the judge in a bail hearing, and get you back out on the street. Today, with any luck. Do not tell me whether your conscience is burdened with something you'd rather not reveal; just tell me whether you'd like to consent to a scan."
David nodded. "Yeah, fine. Whatever it takes."
"This is a big deal," Bowser cautioned. "They'll inject you with a tracer, which is mildly radioactive, and they'll put this thing on your head, like a giant helmety kind of thing, and it's going to be really uncomfortable. It may even hurt a little, and it'll take some time, about an hour. You'll bare your soul, too; they can scan your brain's reaction to a question even if you refuse to answer."
David thought about that. "So I waive the right to remain silent?"
"Under the Fellmer scan, yes, you do. That's why it's inadmissible, because you can't defend yourself against a slanted interrogation. And if you've done anything else wrong, the scan will probably dig that up, too, and then the police will have probable cause for search and seizure warrants and they'll level more charges and keep you in court for the rest of your life. The thing comes straight from the Spanish Inquisition, I swear, but in this case, if you're sure you're clean . .."
He looked thoughtful, troubled. "You know, the more I think about this, the more I don't like it. We set a precedent like this, maybe bail judges will start expecting a Fellmer scan. Refusing to take one could make you look awfully guilty."
"I'm not guilty!" David snapped.
"Relax, buddy, I didn't mean you you."
"I don't want to refuse," David told Bowser. "Set it up for me, I want to take the scan."
"Gee," Bowser said uneasily. "I wish I hadn't brought it up. I mean, if it was just you ... Ah, screw it; this whole issue is coming to a head anyway. The Pandora's box is already open, you know? We might as well be the ones to cash in on it." -
Bowser looked like a man who'd just decided to put his dog to sleep. What exactly was the big deal, here? Was he David's lawyer, or wasn't he? Precedent, schmecedent, David was not going to let himself get railroaded for a crime he didn't commit. And then an unpleasant thought occurred to him.
"Bowser Jones, how long have we known each other?"
"Twelve years," Bowser said.
David nodded. He'd been in ninth grade, Bowser in eleventh, when they'd first become friends. "Yeah. And you know, in all that time I don't recall you ever trying a criminal case. Hell, how many times have you even been inside a courtroom? Are you calling in help on this?"
At that, Bowser tipped back his head and laughed. "You forget, David, I've seen your bank account. I'll go to the mat for you on account of friendship, and that's good, because friendship is about all you've got to offer, unless you want to suck up your parents' retirement fund. If things get really hot, I can make some phone calls, OK?"
David did not laugh, did not crack a smile. This was serious, damn it. He scowled at the screen's jumpy image. "Do you even know what you're doing?"
"Nope," Bowser replied, half seriously. "But I got you through your P, T, and C, and I didn't know anything about that, either."
P, T, and C stood for "Patent, Trademark, and Copyright," the department of Extralegal Counseling Services Corporation that had handled the Vandegroot v. Sanger arbitration. And yes, Bowser had swept through that affair with remarkable aplomb, his oration and body language flawless, his case-law memory astonishing, his logic unassailable. Vandegroot's people had been on the defensive almost from the start, and their trenchworks had crumbled rapidly.
Afterward, the ECS judge had remarked that had David been the plaintiff rather than the defendant in this case, he might well have won some money. The comment had been intended as a joke, but. . .
But it was true that inexperience never seemed to handicap Bowser all that much. A generalist, a Renaissance man, an expert on the subject of expertise itself, Bowser flitted from subject to subject, from hobby to hobby, mastering each one quickly and then dumping it for other pursuits. He wasn't even a lawyer, not really, not more than a few hours out of every months He spent more time playing with his rental properties and his stock holdings, building and fixing things, adding to his license collection and his comic-bookish assortment of gadgets and toys.
He was one of those people, not idly rich but rather accomplished, fulfilled, self-made and self-regulating, the sort of person who kicked through life like it was one long Saturday afternoon. That was a rare talent, in David's experience, and one that went unnoticed and unappreciated by those few who possessed it. It was annoying as hell, really.
But if it came down to it, if things got really bad and David found himself spending long hours inside a courtroom, fighting for his life, he would rather do it with Bowser's assistance than without. So let the man operate his own way, at least for now.
"I'll set up the scan for you," Bowser said, after David's long silence. "There's a beta unit being tested there at Druid Lake."
"OK." David's voice had calmed and softened. "That would be great. I appreciate it."
"No problem," Bowser said. Static replaced his image on the telephone screen.

The bail judge glanced down at David, and at Bowser beside him. His look was precise, thoughtful, at once critical and impartial. How much do 1 trust these young men? he seemed to be asking himself. What price can I place on that trust?
On the other side of the room, the DA's assistant sat with one of David's arresting officers. The two of them looked alert; new evidence had just been introduced, piped to the judge by Special Agent Puckett, and things had swung once more in favor of the defense. It annoyed David greatly, that this seemed to surprise them all so much.
"So," the judge said, leaning slightly over the bench, menacing David with his dark and unsympathetic face, "you didn't leave the hotel room during or after the phone call to your girlfriend. Your testimony indicates you were actually on the phone at the time of the murder, but your girlfriend can't confirm this for us, because she hasn't been home all day."
"I, uh . . ." David shrugged, not sure how to answer. Under the falsewood table, Bowser waved him to silence.
"Fortunately for you," the judge went on, "the hotel's phone and door lock records support your story. And we have this ... brain scan."
The judge looked troubled, as Bowser had. And indeed, after experiencing the Fellmer scan firsthand, David knew they were right to worry about it.
The experience had the same quality in his memory as a long-ago tooth extraction: clinical, controlled and yet nightmarish, smothering and inescapable. And they hadn't given David the injection Bowser had promised, but a whiff of gas instead, which had reinforced the overall dental impression. Details were fuzzy in his mind, but he remembered a machine-generated voice, firm and commanding, low in register but androgynous in inflection. The voice had asked him questions, over and over it seemed, and he had mumbled replies to it, replies that went unacknowledged. Had they listened to his voice at all? Had they needed to?
If this process should fall into the wrong hands . . . David shuddered. Cognitive brain scanning should be a thing of wonder, of healing and progress and understanding. If I could read your mind, love . . . But such things were years away, at best. Why did the easiest applications always have to be so awful?
The hotel's door lock records were another example- they supported David's innocence, yes, but why would the hotel care how he came and went? What business was it of theirs? Deterring theft by the hotel's own employees was the only reason he could think of, but it seemed a flimsy pretext. Hell, why not just put them all under Ma Fellmer?
"What we have here is a very public murder," the judge said. He seemed to note David's discomfort, seemed now to be weighing it along with the other evidence. "People don't have much patience with that anymore, so I expect there'll be a lot of pressure for a quick resolution. Is there anything you'd like to tell this court? Anything you've overlooked? Anything that will help speed the process along?"
His eyes, a darker, more penetrating brown than his skin and hair, bored into David, probing his soul. Are you guilty? the eyes demanded. Did you kill the man, shove a drop foil through his brain? Come clean; do it now.
"No, sir," David said evenly.
The eyes cooled, the muscles around them relaxing. The judge eased back a little in his chair. "That's 'no, Your Honor,' " he corrected. He glanced at the screens and papers in front of him, glanced over at the prosecution, then back at David once again.
I hate being a defendant, David thought. Or a suspect, or a witness, or whatever the hell I am this time. I hate that look.
"I don't see anything in here that contradicts your story," the judge said. His voice was gentler now, sounding almost friendly. "The victim had a lot of enemies, and I gather a great many of them were in a position to commit the crime. I support the defense's recommendation that you be released on your own recognizance. Does counsel have any objection?"
"No, Your Honor," Bowser said quickly.