Robert Sawyer - Mindscan

“Urn, well, rounded up to the nearest thousand, it would be one.”

“One thousand dollars, correct?”

“That is right.”

“In fact, are there any forms that doctors in Maryland normally charge more than a thousand dollars to issue?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Now,” said Deshawn, “are you certain that your discussion with the defendant about a hundred-and-twenty-five-thousand-dollar fee for issuing a death certificate took place after you’d agreed to in fact issue one?”

“Yes.” Chandragupta glared defiantly at Deshawn. “That’s how I remember it.”

I’d thought it strange that Deshawn Draper had started by calling Chandragupta, since the doctor seemed totally on Tyler’s side. But I soon saw why: once Chandragupta’s testimony was over, Deshawn immediately called for summary judgment, based on the invalidity of the death certificate. Judge Herrington dismissed the jury while motions and countermotions were argued. Deshawn wanted the death certificate thrown out because it was issued by Chandragupta outside the geographic jurisdiction in which he was licensed to practice medicine, and because of the possibility that he’d been bribed to issue it.

Lopez countered with old maritime statutes from Maryland, where Chandragupta w as licensed, that said that any doctor could issue a death certificate in international waters when it was impractical, impossible, or against the decedent’s wishes to have the body brought to shore; that last allowed for navy personnel to be buried at sea if they died during duty. She also vehemently argued that innuendo did not equal established fact. A lot of minutiae of Michigan and Maryland law were debated, but ultimately Judge Herrington ruled that the death certificate was indeed valid for the narrow purpose of determining the death of the original, biological Karen Bessarian.

Deshawn and Lopez spent the morning arguing more motions; I’d had no idea how much time could be wasted on that. But finally, after lunch, we got down to the main show.

“Please state your name for the record,” said the clerk.

Karen was wearing a simple, inexpensive beige suit. “Karen Cynthia Bessarian,” she said.

“Be seated.”

Karen sat down, and Deshawn got up—almost exactly like a seesaw.

“Hello, Karen,” said Deshawn, smiling warmly. “How are you feeling today?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“I’m glad,” said Deshawn. “I suppose health concerns aren’t a major issue for you anymore, are they?”

“No, thank God.”

“You sound relieved. Have you had health problems in the past?”

“No more than anyone my age, I suppose,” said Karen. “But they’re no fun to go through.”

“I’m sure, I’m sure,” said Deshawn. “I don’t want to pry, but might you share a few of them with us?”

“Oh, the usual litany—everything from tonsillitis to a hip replacement.” Karen paused. “I suppose the worst thing was my bout with breast cancer.”

“My God, that’s awful,” said Deshawn. “How were you treated?”

“Initially with radiation therapy and drugs. The tumor was destroyed, but, of course, I was still at risk of future tumors. Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

“Because you’ve uploaded into this durable body?”

“No, no. Because I had genetic therapy. I had two of the key genes that predispose a woman to breast cancer. About twenty years ago, I had gene therapy to eliminate those genes from my body. That cut my likelihood of ever having another breast tumor to a very low level.”

“I see, I see. Well, I’m delighted to hear that. But let’s move on. Karen, have you been outside the U.S. since you became a Mindscan?”

“Yes.”

“Where have you been?”

“Canada. Toronto.”

“And that means you’ve crossed over the U.S.-Canada border since uploading, no?”

“Yes, by train going into Canada, and by car going back.”

“And have you taken any flights recently?”

“Yes.”

“Where from?”

“Toronto’s Lester B. Pearson International Airport, to Atlanta, Georgia.”

“Why?”

“To attend a funeral.”

“Not your own, I hope!” A few jurors laughed.

“No. In fact, the funeral of my first husband, Daron Bessarian.”

“Oh, my God,” said Deshawn, with appropriate theatricality. “I’m so very sorry to hear that. Still, when crossing the border between—what, Windsor and Detroit?—you had to speak with customs officials, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And when you flew from Toronto to Atlanta, you also had to deal with customs officials, correct?”

“Yes.”

“So, in fact, you’ve dealt with both United States Customs and Canadian Customs, correct?”

“Yes.”

“In these dealings, were you asked to provide identification?”

“Naturally.”

“What ID did you present?”

“My United States passport, and my U.S. Homeland Security personal-identity card.”

“And do you have both of these documents in your possession?”

“Yes, I do.”

“May the court see them?”

“Of course.”

Karen had a small purse with her. She removed the passport, and the smaller personal-identity card.

“I’d like to enter these as exhibits,” said Deshawn, “and have the court note that they were indeed in the possession of the plaintiff.”

“Ms. Lopez?”

“Your honor, just because she has physical possession—”

Herrington shook his long head. “Ms. Lopez, don’t argue your case. Do you have an objection to the exhibits being entered?”

“No, your honor.”

“Very well,” said Judge Herrington. “Continue, Mr. Draper.”

“Thank you, your honor. So, Karen, as you’ve just demonstrated, you possess the identification papers of Karen Bessarian, correct?”

“Of course,” Karen said. “I am her.”

“Well, you’ve certainly got Karen’s ID documents, but let’s see if it goes further than that.” Deshawn took an object off his desk and held it up. It was about the size of a deck of playing cards; parts had a shiny silver finish and the rest were matte black.

“Do you know what this is?”

“A transaction terminal,” said Karen.

“Exactly,” said Deshawn. “Just a common, garden-variety wireless transaction terminal. The kind you encounter in stores and restaurants—anywhere you might want to access the funds in your bank account and transfer some amount to someone else, correct?”

“That’s what it appears to be, yes,” said Karen.

“Now, please let me assure you that this isn’t a mockup; it’s a real, working unit, hooked into the global financial network.”

“All right.”

Deshawn pulled a golden disk out of his pocket. “What’s this, Karen?”

“A Reagan.”

“By which you mean a ten-dollar United States coin, correct? With the American eagle on one side and former president Ronald Reagan on the other, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Now, do you have access to your bank accounts currently?”

Karen’s tone was measured. “In his wisdom, until this matter is cleared up, Judge Herrington has put a cap on how much of my money I can take out. But, yes, I should be able to access my accounts.”

“Very good,” said Deshawn. “Here’s what I’d like to do, then. I’d like to give you this ten-dollar coin—good for all debts, public and private. In exchange, I’d like you to transfer ten dollars from your principal bank account into mine. Would you be willing to do that?”

Karen smiled. “By all means.”

Deshawn looked to the judge, who nodded. He then crossed the well and gave Karen the coin. “Don’t spend it all in one place,” he said, and a couple of jurors chuckled; Deshawn was warm and witty, and slowly but surely I think he was indeed winning them over. “Now, if you please …?” He handed her the transaction terminal.