Steve Martini - Double Tap

As one of the bailiffs inserts the cassette into the player, a checkerboard pattern of pixels flashes on the screen. A second later a clear picture of Emiliano, his hands stuffed into the pockets of a leather flight jacket, appears on the screen. In the background, slightly out of focus but easily recognizable, is a shot of Chapman talking to some people on the street in the Village. She is smiling, vital, and animated.

Templeton has Rufus narrate the video as he works through the frames, going back and freezing them periodically to point out locations and clarify dates.

As the video continues, there is the sound of sniffling from the front row. I take a quick glance, but I already know what is happening. Madelyn Chapman’s mother is crying; her only surviving daughter, who is wiping tears from her own eyes with Kleenex, attempts to comfort her.

At one point Templeton freezes the video, adjusts it just a little for clarity, and leaves it up on the screen. In the shot Ruiz is clearly visible standing on the sandstone shelf over the Pacific, his back to the ocean and the view. He is looking south, toward the rear of Chapman’s house, through a pair of binoculars. In the distance is a blond figure. It is Chapman in the yard. She is stooping, clipping flowers or picking them. Behind her, no more than two feet away, is the screened window through which the killer entered her house.

James Kaprosky is dying. He sits in an armchair next to the fireplace. This evening I visit him at his home out near Escondido.

He has been reading about the trial in the papers and watching all the talk on the cable stations, the kibitzing by lawyers, almost all of them now taking bets that after the verdict Ruiz is going down. The emphasis is on whether or not the jury will give him the death penalty.

“It’s got to be more painful to watch these idiots talk to themselves than the trial,” says Kaprosky. He is hooked up to an oxygen bottle and is sitting in a recliner in front of the fireplace, a blanket over his legs. “If I could get up out of this chair,” he says, “I would come down there. At least give moral support.” With each phrase he struggles to regain his breath.

“No. No. You get better,” I tell him as I sit across from him on the couch, as though Kaprosky’s recovery were a possibility.

He shakes his head. Kaprosky knows he hasn’t got much time.

Jean is in the other room sewing, taking the time to get some chores done while I’m visiting. She has brought coffee and a tray of cookies. I offer to pour some coffee for Jim but he says no.

At times he seems to ramble as his mind wanders through the legal hell that has been his life for the last decade or more.

“I don’t know if you remember,” he says, “a few years ago. Chapman and her company. They were sued for antitrust.” He smiles a little. “One of the few. . I wasn’t. . wasn’t involved in.”

I laugh.

“Foolishness. Wasted years.”

“I don’t think I remember the antitrust suit,” I tell him.

“Two private companies,” he says. He coughs. “Tried to trim her wings. Competitors with Isotenics. After government contracts. My program,” he says. “What they took and gave to Chapman. What she called Primis. It was unique,” he says.

“I know.”

“No. No. That’s not what I mean,” he says. “My software was its own operating platform. Didn’t require any. .” He stops to catch his breath. “No underlying software to operate,” he says.

“I understand.”

The small tank at the side of his chair away from the fireplace is feeding oxygen through a tube under his nose.

“These other companies. . had special applications. . designed to run on top of mine. I shared the source code.” He smiles again. “They were small start-ups. A niche market. Here and overseas. I didn’t care. It was specialty software. I thought every little bit. . adds something of use.” Then he shakes his head. “But Chapman crushed them.” He sits breathing heavily for a moment as he thinks. “She had to control everything. Dominated the market. She kept changing Primis. Every year. Tweaking it. Called it ‘updates.”’ He looks at the ceiling and smiles cynically now. “She was busy. . developing applications to take over. . crush them.”

It is painful to listen to him struggle for breath, but it seems that I can’t stop him from talking.

“She hid the changes. . to Primis. Called them ‘trade secrets.”’ He looks at me. He’s been reading the newspapers about Sims and his motion to quash.

“Cunning woman. Gave away upgrades, free,” he says. “No cost. But when you booted. . when you booted the new one. . the old piggyback application. .”

“Her competitor’s software?”

He nods. “Didn’t work. Guess who had the only software replacements?”

“Isotenics.”

As I say the word he is nodding. “She crippled the industry. Brought it to its knees. Stifled innovation. Made unneeded changes. Primis is a digital Tower of Babel.”

“You mean it’s unstable?”

He smiles and nods as if this thought at least provides a little satisfaction. “Sold it to governments. All over the world,” he says. “All over the world.”

“Maybe I should go. Let me get Jean.”

“No.” He raises a palsied hand in a feeble gesture to stop me from leaving. “Stay.”

“Just a few more minutes. I think you need to rest.”

“Plenty of time. I’ll get a long rest. Your case. . any chance?” he says.

I take a deep breath, offer up a long sigh. “The truth? It doesn’t look good.” Somehow divulging a confidence to a dead man doesn’t seem to be an ethical violation.

His face is drawn. There are dark hollows and lines etched like canyons under his eyes. The loose flesh drooping from his chin and neck are a measure of the weight he has lost since just our last meeting in the office. I look at James sitting in his chair near the fireplace, with the hiss of the gas logs, a plaid wool blanket to keep him warm, and I know that I will not see him again.

“What happened to the antitrust suit?” I ask.

“Hmm?” Another tired smile crosses his face. “Government stepped in.”

“Ah, of course. National security,” I say.

He shakes his head slowly. “Brought their own suit,” he says. “Took it over.”

He means the antitrust suit. “The government stepped in and took it over?”

He nods. “Convinced the companies.” He is talking about the two competitors. “Wouldn’t be in their interest. . to continue,” he says. “Year later it was settled. Out of court. The next year. . Isotenics killed. . three more companies. Same tactics.” There is a struggling rhythm of death in his words now as he fights for breath.

“I think you should rest,” I tell him.

“No. Need to talk to you. I think I know. . how they’re doing it.”

“What?”

“Feeding Primis,” he says.

He is talking about the raw data, the input of massive volumes of personal information needed to keep Primis and the supercomputers in Washington humming with private intelligence.

“How?”

“Looking glass,” he says. “Mirror software.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Spyware,” he says. Until this moment I might have thought he was hallucinating. He swallows hard and tries to sit up in his chair.

“No, Jim, sit back. Relax.”

As he tries to lean forward, he stretches the clear plastic tube leading to his nose. I’m afraid he’s going to pull it free, or topple the small oxygen bottle on the floor.

He settles up in his chair. “Man I know”-he tries to catch his breath-“says NSA. . wrote the stuff. Two years ago. Invisible,” he says. “No way to see it. Plants itself on your machine. Spyware.”