David Walton - Superposition

“That’s your professional opinion?” Terry asked.

“It is.”

Terry let it go at that, and Haviland took the stand with a show of barely concealed incredulity.

“Ms. Massey…”

“Dr. Massey,” Jean corrected.

“Ah yes. Doctor. Of course. Do you really expect the jury to believe that the victim made a copy of himself, which shot him and then disappeared into thin air?”

“I’m not saying he did it. I’m saying it is scientifically possible.”

“Have you ever made a copy of yourself, doctor?”

“No.”

“Have you ever seen anyone else do so?”

“No.”

“Have you read in any scientific journal that such an experiment has been made, or even attempted?”

“Not with a human, no.” It was a marvelous answer, though deceptive, since it implied such an experiment had been done with an animal. Of course, nothing like it had ever been tried, but Haviland didn’t know that. He couldn’t press her on it, because once he asked the question, he’d be giving her free rein to defend the concept on scientific grounds.

Haviland dropped a beat, and then said, “Remember that you are under oath, Dr. Massey, and that this is the real world, not science fiction. To your certain knowledge, in any reputable, peer-reviewed, scientific literature, has any copy of a human being through quantum superposition ever been made?”

“No,” Jean said.

Haviland threw his hands in the air and let them fall, shaking his head as if this had all been a criminal waste of time. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

Jean stepped down from the bench and flashed me an encouraging smile. I nodded back with a look that I hoped conveyed my gratefulness. Not all of my colleagues would have been willing to stand up and be counted with me, to risk the detrimental effect on their careers that media scrutiny of their statements might bring, not to mention the potential of being associated—depending on which way the verdict came out—with a convicted murderer.

No one at the NJSC had seen Elena or Claire or Sean. Jean said she had asked everyone she could think of, and no one remembered them being there. The police had been inquiring, too, but of course I couldn’t ask them what they’d discovered. As time went by, I found it hard to be optimistic.

Christmas was unbearable. Three weeks had come and gone by then, with no word. My theory that they could still be alive started to sound ridiculous, even to me. Marek said Ava was convinced I had murdered Elena and the kids and hidden the bodies, and her other sisters were inclined to agree. It was putting quite a strain on their marriage, and he rarely came to see me anymore.

I mostly stayed in Colin’s safe house, though even there the church held services and events, and I couldn’t entirely avoid the sounds of Christmas music and holiday cheer. I didn’t know what to say to Alessandra, so I didn’t say much of anything. She began to help out around the church: setting up for events, washing dishes, sweeping floors, just for something to do. She could have left me at any time. She could have gone to the police and turned herself in, and then lived with one of Elena’s sisters, but she didn’t. Not even when I started drinking, more heavily than I ever had before. I hadn’t been a drinker in college—there was too much to learn and do. Now I had nothing to do, and the more I could avoid thinking, the better.

It would be months before the trial would start. There had to be all manner of preliminary hearings, and the pretrial, and the discovery process, and myriad motions by both parties, before it could begin. I had missed Jacob’s first appearance in court, which occurred only two days after his arrest, and involved his arraignment and the bail argument, although on a murder charge there was no chance of him getting out on bail. The first preliminary hearing was scheduled for early in January. I insisted to Terry on the phone that I wanted to come, but he shut me down.

“You’re our ace,” he said. “The prosecution has no idea what we have up our sleeve, and if we bring you out now, they’ll have two months to work up a way to discredit you, or even get you barred from the trial.”

“But how can they do that?”

“I’m your attorney, remember? Trust me, the less the prosecution knows about our case for as long as possible, the more likely we are to win. The preliminary is the prosecution’s show—they’re on the hook to prove to the judge they have enough evidence to continue. We don’t have to reveal anything we’ve got planned, unless I choose to in order to get evidence struck down. So be patient. Lie low, and let me do my job.”

So I lay low. I had promised my double that I would do what I could to prove his innocence, but I was no lawyer; I couldn’t help with any of those things. I couldn’t think of anything I could do to find my family, either, or even to confirm that they were dead. So I drank and slept and pretended I was fine and told Alessandra that tomorrow we were sure to find them.

“I know what you’re going through,” Marek said on one of his rare visits. “When I lost my wife, just breathing seemed like more trouble that it was worth.”

“Your wife is still alive,” I said. “Both of your wives are still alive.”

“I expected her to come to the United States, eventually,” Marek said, ignoring me. “I was doing it all for her, sending her money, trying to save as much as I could. And she left me.”

“What are you telling me?” I asked. “That the pain will go away, in time, and I’ll find someone else?”

“I’m just saying, I know what it’s like,” Marek said. “It’s hard. It hurts. It’ll keep hurting for a while. But don’t let it crush you. Get out of this room. Go do something.”

“Where am I supposed to go?”

He shrugged. “You have a daughter. Take her to a movie. Go out for ice cream. Anything.”

“I’m drinking too much, is that it?”

“It’ll get better,” Marek said.

“I don’t want it to,” I said.

January was even worse than December. I got news that my teaching position at the college had been filled by someone else. I heard that Elena’s parents had visited my double in prison a few times, but that most of her family were keeping their distance. Of course, they all thought I was a murderer. The only family I had left was Colin and Alessandra.

“Claire would have been starting to look at colleges about now,” I told Alessandra one day. I was sitting on the bed, flipping through pictures on my phone.

“Who cares?” she said.

“What?”

“Who cares? Claire’s dead. Everybody knows that but you.”

I put the phone down. “Don’t say that.”

“If they’re not dead, then where are they?”

“I don’t know where they are. Maybe they are dead. But it doesn’t mean we stop caring about them. Claire was your sister. She was pretty and smart and kind, and now she’s gone. Maybe she’s dead and maybe not, but she was a special person, and I miss her.”

“Claire?” Alessandra shouted. Tears were streaming down her face. “All you talk about is Claire and Sean and Mom. What about me? I’m alive . I’m here .”

“I know,” I said, bewildered by her outburst. “But I miss them. Don’t you understand that?”

She turned away. “Yeah, I understand.”

“Alessandra,” I said.

She stomped up the stairs. “I know. Just forget it.”

I knew I should go after her. That’s what a good father would do, but I didn’t have the energy, and didn’t know what to say. My head was pounding. I picked up the phone again and flipped to the next picture of Claire.