Steve Martini - Double Tap

“So why was she killed? What was it that Madelyn Chapman discovered that caused her death?” I pause for a second or two. “Ladies and gentlemen”-I drop my voice a half octave so that some jurors lean forward in their seats to hear-“the defense will produce evidence to prove that the victim, Madelyn Chapman, discovered a scandal of immense proportions. We will produce a document showing, beyond any question or doubt, that the computer software produced by Isotenics, Incorporated, the company run by the victim, Madelyn Chapman-the computer program known as Primis, the key component to IFS, the government’s Information for Security project. .” When I turn to look toward Templeton’s table, the gray hair in the suit is all eyes and they are directed at me like a laser. “. . the software designed to run IFS, the project that is under review by the Congress of the United States at this very moment-was in fact transformed before the victim’s own eyes and was being used by elements within our own government to spy on the American public.”

There is a hum of voices in the audience. The guy with the gray hair is out of his chair, leaning over, whispering into Templeton’s ear.

As I turn I can see Templeton out of the corner of my eye trying to quell a mini-rebellion behind him. Turned partway around on top of the chair, he is whispering and gesturing with his hands.

Gilcrest slaps the gavel. “I’ll have it quiet or I’ll clear the courtroom. Mr. Templeton, please. Excuse me, Mr. Madriani.” The judge apologizes for the interruption.

I offer a smile, a shake of the head, and gesture as if to say, “No problem. Please feel free to kick the crap out of the prosecutor at any time.”

“Mr. Templeton, have your guest take his seat.” They are still whispering and doing pantomime with their hands as the judge breaks it up.

“Sorry, Your Honor,” Templeton apologizes, and the guy in the suit sits down.

“Please, go ahead, Mr. Madriani.”

The problem with most of this is that I have no evidence. The gulf between what I am promising and what I can prove would swallow the Aswan Dam.

“As for the defendant, Mr. Ruiz,” I tell them, “our evidence will show that he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, a convenient scapegoat whose firearm from his earlier military service was discovered and used to commit this crime. The evidence has already shown that there was no serious effort to dispose of this weapon after the crime was committed, but that instead the killer laid the gun in the garden, where the police would trip over it, and placed the silencer on the rocks, where it would be found. The evidence will show that this is not the rational conduct of a man who knows that the firearm in question will be traced back to him. So you must ask yourselves once again: Why was this done?”

Templeton objects, claiming that this last bit is argument. He asks the judge to strike it from the record.

“So ordered,” says Gilcrest. “The jury will disregard the last question posed by counsel.”

Time to light the coals at Templeton’s table again.

“We will show beyond any question or shadow of a doubt that Primis, the software developed by Madelyn Chapman and sold by her company, Isotenics, Incorporated, to the federal government, had been transformed by sinister forces and used to spy on the very citizens it was intended to protect.”

This time it’s a gang bang. All three of the government lawyers are out of their chairs, huddled at Templeton’s shoulders, pumping protest into his ears. The judge slaps his gavel. I look at the bench, and by the time I turn around again, the scene at Templeton’s table looks like part of the refectory wall from Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper , everybody jumping on Judas and the paint peeling off the wall.

This time I don’t let it stop me.

“We will produce a witness who will sit on that stand”-I point to the witness box-“and will testify under oath that Madelyn Chapman was killed after she discovered that her software had already been harnessed to millions of personal computers and industry networks. That it was being used daily to read and copy massive volumes of private information, everything from personal medical records to financial information and personal correspondence. That anything and everything being processed, stored, or sent by computer was being read and copied by supercomputers in Washington, D.C., without your knowledge or your consent.”

When I glance back toward Templeton’s table, the expression on the lead lawyer’s face looks as if he’s had a stroke.

“We will show by witness testimony that Madelyn Chapman complained bitterly and loudly when she discovered this fact. And that she was murdered in order to prevent her from revealing the existence of this spyware .”

With the emphasis on the last word, there is an uproar in the courtroom. The judge bangs the gavel, but at least a half dozen reporters in the front row bolt for the door.

“Silence!” Gilcrest shouts in a booming voice, so that even Templeton is jerked a little in his chair. “Those people, the ones who just ran out”-he points with his gavel-“they do not get back in. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” One of the bailiffs heads out to get names and descriptions so he can enforce the banishment.

“Fill their chairs with members of the public,” says Gilcrest. “Somebody’s gonna get ringside seats.”

As people start moving to fill the vacant chairs, Nathan Kwan seems to hurdle forward four rows like an Olympic athlete and ends up in the center of the front row.

It takes the judge five minutes to restore order. I take my seat at the table. The entire time Templeton is arguing with the government lawyers, giving me the evil eye whenever he can spare the time. The three lawyers are angry. I would be, too, if Templeton had manipulated the release of tons of paper from a defense contractor without giving me the courtesy of a phone call or the opportunity to review the information. God only knows what it is that we have back at the office because, given the limited time frame, Harry and I sure as hell don’t.

Templeton could have no way of knowing that he was putting his case in jeopardy, because Templeton had never met Jim Kaprosky or been briefed on the shoals and pitfalls of national security. When he had Sims open the floodgates on the documents from Isotenics, Templeton put himself up to his hips in muddy water. Now the crocodiles are stirring on the beach. The only question is, can I get them to snap?

Templeton is talking with both hands, eyes like saucers, a broad smile on his face, his most sincere expressions of assurance. He now turns the other way so I can no longer see his lips moving. But I can read his mind. He is trying to convince the three government lawyers that Harry and I have a briefcase full of nothing but air.

“Mr. Madriani, you want to call your first witness?” says Gilcrest.

If Templeton’s guests don’t do something soon, the judge is going to force me to open it. And then everybody in the courtroom will know that not only is the briefcase empty, but Harry, Emiliano, and I are all sitting here at the table naked.

“Your Honor, the defense calls Karen Rogan.”

“Karen Rogan.” I hear the name repeated by one of the bailiffs out in the hallway.

Templeton manages to get the three lawyers to sit down again, but the older one is shaking his head. He seems no longer to be asking Templeton: he is telling him. It may only be wishful thinking, but my sense is that the prosecution is now on a short tether.

Rogan enters the courtroom through the main doors in the back. As she walks up the aisle toward the bench and the witness chair, every head in the audience turns. The three government lawyers take a bead on her. Then they confer. Puzzled expressions, and then one of the younger ones gets up and heads for the door.