Marlene Dotterer - Shipbuilder

The inspector smiled at Sam, who had tears in his eyes. “He’s in custody and will be going to trial in a week or two. You’ll be up to testifying, sir?”

Sam nodded, looking relieved and regretful all at once. “I wish it wasn’t like this,” he said, his voice husky.

The inspector nodded. “I understand. When it’s a colleague who turns on you…” he left it unsaid and shrugged again, slipping the never-lit cigar back in his pocket. He stood and shook hands with all of them. “I’ll be in touch. You people try to stay out of my life from now on, what?”

They promised to try.

Tom saw the inspector out. Sam stood and limped to the window. His legs still had not healed completely and he often used a cane for support. He stared out at the darkness, not seeing anything, a state of affairs he sensed matched his soul. He felt Casey beside him and smiled grimly in acknowledgement, but didn’t look at her.

She knew what he was thinking. “It’s not your fault, Sam.”

He wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly chilled. “What right did I have to just appear on his doorstep? To expect him to do something about us? I only knew his equation; I knew nothing about the actual person.”

“You have to let him be responsible for his own actions.”

“He’s insane, Casey. He’s not responsible.”

“Maybe.” She seemed unusually annoyed. “No one is guaranteed a stress-free life. Maybe our problem was stranger than most, but you did not send him over the edge, Sam. Anything could have done it.”

“What am I condemning him to?”

“He tried to kill you, Sam!”

He sighed and did not respond. She tried again, resting her forehead against his arm. “If he’s let go, you will always be in danger. Maybe I will be, too. He might even decide my children are abominations against the natural order of the universe.”

He turned to stare at her and Tom spoke up from the doorway. “Why would you want him to be free? I don’t understand.”

They both turned. “Our concept of crime and mental illness is different in the future, Tom,” Sam explained. “My experience with Riley convinced me he’s not sane. He should be helped, not punished. I feel responsible for him.”

Tom laughed. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” He held up his hands. “Not about him needing help. That’s fine. But you are not responsible. Even if all you say is true, you’d be the worst person to try and help him.”

“That’s true,” Casey chimed in. “He freaks as soon as you’re around. He needs a chance to be away from your influence, and deal with his own issues.”

Sam gazed at Tom. “What is the state of treatment for the mentally ill, Tom? What’s done with them, these days?”

Tom looked disturbed. “I don’t know very much. Most people are taken care of by their families, who try to keep them safe and someplace where they can’t harm others. There are institutions for truly violent people. Riley may fall into that category.” Tom moved into the room, his eyes glinting in the lamp’s light. “There are doctors who try to help them.”

“Not successfully.” Sam was bleak. “If he lives long enough they’ll start jabbing him with electric shocks and turn him into a sponge.”

“He’s going to jail, Sam,” Tom said. “Not a mental institution.”

Sam looked startled. “But if he’s insane…”

Tom shrugged. “He committed a crime. Maybe it’s different in the future, but right now, that means jail. In fact, with this degree of premeditation, he might be put to death.”

Casey gasped and Sam turned back to the window. “I’ll find a place for him. I’ll ask the judge to send him there. Where he can be safe. I’ll pay for it, myself.”

Tom’s lips tightened, but he didn’t say anything. Casey just nodded.

The shipyard’s conference room was stifling in the July heat. The managing directors were close to wilting as they compared notes on the progress of Titanic . As bad as it was for them, they were all aware how much harder it was for the men in the yard. George came in, shaking his head. “I just overheard a fellow promise to start praying to the pope if they would just get a breeze through the plating shop!” he reported with sardonic amusement as he took his seat. The laughter that met this story was only half sincere. With the Home Rule questions raised by Tom’s letter, the extreme factions were determined to cause trouble. Sloan’s group was quietly malicious. The heat was fraying tempers and making things worse. The managers kept the water boys hopping to supply water to the men, but even so, a current of fear ran underneath the work. Tom had just had to force the workers to remove anti-Catholic graffiti from the ship’s walls and funnels. The yard was on the tipping point.

Lord Pirrie was in London, but had sent a telegram to Mr. Kempster, who presented it to the directors. “Ismay is asking for a deadline when he can expect delivery of Titanic . Can you all give me an estimate?”

As they each reviewed their records and considered what was still needed, they began throwing out dates. Tom, already aware of the date that would be chosen, sat back and watched the byplay. These moments were problematic. He knew what the answer was, but not how that answer was reached. He was never sure what role he had played in reaching the decision, so was not sure if his actions now would change something, and in changing something, would it be for better or worse?

Thinking about it produced a headache. So he didn’t think, he just watched and waited. He did know his own schedule and tossed out the date of 15 March. After more discussion, they decided to tell Lord Pirrie the ship would be ready on 18 March 1912. Tom felt an eyebrow twitch. Sam had said the date was 20 March.

Later, when he told Sam and Casey what they had decided, Sam was unimpressed. “Is that the date Lord Pirrie is going to give to Ismay?” he asked. “Let’s wait and see before we get our underwear tied up in knots.”

Sure enough, the next day a telegram from Pirrie informed them that they would turn the Titanic over to White Star Line on 20 March, 1912. Lord Pirrie had given them two more days after consultation with Mr. Kempster revealed that a vendor would have trouble meeting the original deadline.

Tom made a notation in his time travel journal: The smallest details seem to fall into place without any prodding or manipulation from anyone. I don’t know whether to be confident or afraid.

Sam was determined to save Riley, and finally found an asylum in Switzerland that seemed accommodating. He then began the lengthy process to convince the powers that be to send Riley there, rather than to jail. He worked with Tom’s brother James, whose practice in law, Sam knew, would eventually lead to a Judgeship in Ireland’s highest court. James approved of Sam’s empathy, but warned Sam that he must not let his empathy for Riley overrule his common sense.

The judge was skeptical. He was inclined, based on the evidence, to use the death penalty, unless he could be convinced that Riley was insane and incapable of controlling his decisions. It was Riley who provided the final proof.

James told everyone about it over dinner at Ardara the Sunday before the trial, shaking his head in amazement. “Sam had hired a psychiatrist to talk to Riley and give the judge a report. So the fellow’s visiting Riley and ‘just chatting,’ he says, when Riley leans in toward him, all intent-like, and says,” James sat straighter, wagging his finger furiously in front of him at his audience, quoting his source who was quoting Riley, “’He’s from the future, you see! He knows things! He’s planning to take over the woooorld!’” James finished with an exaggerated flourish, extending the last word dramatically, as everyone around the table laughed or gasped in amazement.