Gregg Hurwitz - The Kill Clause

“There is one thing we all share, Mr. Rackley. Everyone in this room, including you. We all have loved ones who have been victimized by perpetrators who managed to evade justice due to loopholes in the law. Procedural defects, chain-of-possession mishaps, warrant irregularities. The courts of this country, at times, have trouble functioning. They’re backed up, choked with statutes and new case law. Because of this we’re forming the Commission. The Commission will operate within the strictest legal guidelines. Our criteria will be the Constitution of the United States and the Penal Code for the state of California. We’ll review capital cases in which defendants have gotten off due to technicalities. The three responsibilities with which we will be concerned are those of judge, jury, and executioner. We’re all judge and jury.” His eyebrows drew together, forming a single silver line. “We’d like you to be our executioner.”

Dumone used both arms to help himself out of the chair. He headed over to a collection of bottles on a shelf behind the desk. “Can I get you a drink, Mr. Rackley? Christ knows, I need one.” He winked.

Tim looked from face to face, searching for some hint of levity. “This is not a joke.” He realized his remark sounded closer to a statement than a question.

“It would certainly be an elaborate one and a considerable waste of time if it were,” Rayner said. “Suffice it to say, none of us have a lot of time on our hands.”

The ticktock of the grandfather clock was slightly unnerving.

“So, Mr. Rackley,” Dumone said, “what do you think?”

“I think you’ve all been watching too many Dirty Harry movies.” Tim dropped the RF emitter wand into his bag and zipped it up. “I want nothing to do with vigilante retribution.”

“Of course not,” Ananberg said. “We would never ask you to engage in such activities. Vigilantes are outside the law. We’re an adjunct to it.” She crossed her legs, lacing her hands over a knee. Her voice was soothing and had the practiced cadence of a newscaster’s. “You see, Mr. Rackley, we have an immense luxury here. We can concern ourselves exclusively with the merits of a given case and the culpability of the defendant. We needn’t stand on procedural formalities or permit them to get in the way of justice. Courts regularly have to make rulings irrelevant to the merits. They’re not always ruling on the case itself-they’re ruling preemptively to deter illegal or improper government conduct in the future. They know that if they overlook warrant limitations or Miranda rights even once, it can set a precedent that will open the way for the government to act without regard for individual rights. And that is a valid and compelling concern.” She spread her hands. “For them.”

“Constitutional guarantees will still function,” Dumone said. “We’re not in conflict with them. We’re not the state.”

“You understand firsthand how complex Fourth Amendment search-and-seizure issues have grown,” Rayner said. “It’s gotten to the point that good-faith efforts by the police fall short. The system’s rough patches aren’t due to crooked cops who feel they’re above the law, or bleeding-heart knee-jerk judges. These are men and women like you and me, of good conscience and fair temperament, who are seeking to uphold a system that’s increasingly undercut by its neurotic fear of victimizing the accused.”

Robert finally chimed in with a smoker’s voice, his hands flaring in disgust. “An honest cop can’t even fire a shot without being waylaid by an internal investigation, shooting board…”

“Maybe a criminal and civil case on top of that,” Mitchell said.

Dumone spoke coolly, mitigating some of the twins’ sharpness. “We need those people, and we need the system. We also need something else.”

“We’ll be tied not to the letter of the law but the spirit.” Rayner gestured to the sculpture of Blind Justice on the desk. Their prop.

Tim noted how carefully orchestrated the presentation was. The affluent milieu, designed to impress and intimidate him, the arguments laid out succinctly, the language heavy on law and logic-Tim’s language. The speakers hadn’t so much as interrupted one another. Yet despite their skillful maneuvering, they also evinced circumspection and righteousness. Tim felt like a buyer annoyed with the salesman’s pitch but still interested in the car.

“You’re not a jury of their peers,” Tim said.

“That’s right,” Rayner said. “We’re a jury of intelligent, discerning citizens.”

Robert said, “I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a jury, but lemme tell you-they ain’t your peers. They’re a group of sorry-ass individuals with nothing better to do on a workday and no brains to fabricate an excuse to duck duty.”

“But you’d be lying to say you don’t have biases. Your system is flawed, too.”

“Isn’t everything?” Rayner said. “The question is, is our system less flawed?”

Tim took this in silently.

“Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Rackley?” Ananberg said.

Tim didn’t budge. “Do you have an investigative arm?”

“That’s the beauty of our system,” Rayner said. “We’ll address only those cases that have already gone to court-cases in which suspects were let off due to procedural technicalities. These cases tend to have exhaustive evidence and reports already in the dockets, court transcripts, and case binders.”

“And if they don’t?”

“If they don’t, we won’t touch them. We’re aware of our limitations-we don’t consider ourselves equipped to deal with more complex investigation and evidence gathering. If the proof isn’t all there, we happily defer to the court’s decision.”

“How do you get the court files and case binders?”

“The court files are public record. But I have several judges-close friends-who send me materials relevant to my research. They enjoy seeing their names in the acknowledgments of my books.” He worked something off one of his cuff links with a fingernail. “Never underestimate vanity.” A self-aware grin. “And we have certain arrangements-untraceable arrangements-with temps, mailroom workers, clerks, and the like, positioned advantageously in DA and PD offices. We get our hands on what we need our hands on.”

“Why do you only review capital cases?”

“Because our capabilities for punitive action are limited. We can impose either a death sentence or nothing at all. Because of this we don’t concern ourselves with lesser charges.”

Robert settled back against the wall and flexed his crossed arms. “Our rehabilitation program is not yet under development.” He ignored Dumone’s unamused glance, his eyes on Tim, dark stones in the leathery flesh of his face.

Ananberg said, “An added benefit is, we serve as a corrective for all those death-penalty biases. The majority of those sent to death row by America’s traditional courts are underprivileged minorities who can’t afford proper representation-”

“Whereas we’re an equal-opportunity exterminator,” Mitchell said.

“Do you know, Mr. Rackley, one of the overlooked benefits of legal punishment?” Tim found Rayner’s rhetorical questions to be another indication of his not-so-subtle condescension. “It removes from the victims and victims’ families the moral obligation of retaliation. In doing so it prevents society from deteriorating into feuds. But when the state defaults on its ability to inflict punishment for you, you still feel it, don’t you? The moral necessity to see justice done for your daughter? You’ll always feel it-believe me. The twitch of a phantom limb.”

Tim walked over, got in Rayner’s space just enough to imply aggression. Robert pushed himself up off his incline against the wall, but Dumone backed him down from across the room with the briefest flutter of his hand. Tim took note of all these dynamics and plugged them in to the dominance hierarchy he was evolving in his head. Rayner didn’t give the slightest indication of being intimidated.