EXILE

Agent Steadman took a remarkably short time to organise the trial of his career. Despite the controlled chaos of the Central Security Agency during these first minutes after the assassination at the new Chicago Spaceport, he reached the second-floor offices of the Justice Department quickly. He used the stairs, as he knew that the lifts, as reliable as they were, would be full of agents, guards and administrators rushing to cope with the emergency that hardly touched Steadman. Resolute, the fact of the success of the Freedom Movement, as he presumed the criminals to be, only underlined the success of his own casework investigations of the last few months. The trial of Stein, during which the Movement documents in his handwriting would be presented as evidence, would be a monumental breakthrough for the CSA, and would further polish his own buttons.

Gaining the top of the stair well, he turned hard right and walked a short distance down the hall to the Registrar’s office. The clerk on the other side of the counter looked up, and seeing him, carried on with her work. Steadman was well known to the Justice Department, mainly because of the larger than normal number of lawyer’s clients that he put through the department. Steadman was used to the off-hand reaction. It reminded him of something that he had heard a long time ago, something about familiarity. Who cares, he thought. Whatever it was, it was only some folkie trash that grannies and soft-in-the-head sentimentalists spouted. He half-sauntered, half-stalked up to the counter, upon which he slapped the arrest notes of Abraham Stein.

“Morning, Gloria.” Gloria continued typing at her terminal, barely raising an eyebrow in acknowledgment. “Have an arrest downstairs, his brief has demanded an Article 12.”

“Really?” Gloria spoke, but continued typing. “Who’s the doe’s brief?”

“Roth. I awarded it.” Gloria stopped typing, and, pushing back against her desk to roll her chair out, stood up and moved ahead to the counter. Without looking up, she took the papers from the counter, and started to scan them.

“I can see why, Steady. You’ve got nothing on him but i.d.”

“On paper, yes, you’re right. But off paper, you’re wrong.” He smiled at Gloria, a thin, secretive smile that spread across his face like slime mould on stale bread.

“Really? I don’t fancy his chances.”

“Pray tell.”

“Other than the legality of the charges, you don’t seem to be too torn up over the Article 12 demand. My guess is that you already have the evidence to carry this one.” She studied Steadman carefully as she spoke. He was one of the coldest men around, and one of the most unemotional. If you could equate emotion with personal feelings. His face remained static as she finished, and his body language was silent.

“Maybe. Time will tell,” he replied. “When can he appear?”

“This afternoon. Judge Borstaller had a full count, but a remand hung himself last night. As far as the judge knows, he has an early tee-off at the driving range.”

“Better tell him to cancel, then. This should make his day.”

“Yeah, right.” She turned, and sat back down at her terminal. “I’ll just schedule Stein in.” She started tapping at the keyboard. “Do you know how long it will take? It is a first appearance, isn’t it?”

“Ten, fifteen minutes. Book a cell for him, too.”

“That certain?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She knew too well not to question the agents too deeply about their cases. The successful agents were tighter than a Gordian knot when it came to their own cases. That was why they were successful. “Who do you have for the prosecution?”

“Ducatista.”

“Duke? You sure, Steady?” Luis Ducatista was a special-unit attorney who very rarely made court appearances, let alone first-hearing remands. He spent most of his time working with the special units, correlating and co-ordinating evidence and witness testimonies to construct faultless cases. An unappealing, unscrupulous man, he cared little about the sources of the evidence, only that it could not be recanted or disproved. “I thought he was working on an infiltration case for you. This it?”

“In a way. I’m calling him in for Stein.”

“Poor bastard. Stein, I mean. Now... “ She tapped a couple of keys, and finalised the court schedule. “I’ve shuffled the appearances, to give Stein a fighting chance.” She smiled thinly, he didn’t. “Here’s your appearance ticket. Case one-zero-four, the fourteen-thirty hours session in courtroom three, Judge Irwin Borstaller presiding. Please sign as the arresting officer, and return the top copy.”

Steadman had heard the same many times, but just as reading a person their civil rights had been a standard part of a cop’s duty a few decades ago, the court clerks had to recite the appearance schedule. He opened his featureless, styleless suit jacket and took out a polished steel ballpoint pen. He glanced at the form, and dashed off his scribble of a signature. Steadman roughly tore off the top copy, and left it with the arrest notes. Together, they would be placed in a manilla folder and passed on to Borstaller for his pre-hearing review. Steadman took the bottom carbon, and left the office. Instead of returning to the stair well, he turned and followed the blue, signposted arrows that showed the way to the special-unit lawyers’ offices.

He soon arrived at the plain, yellowy brown door that bore the sign “SU Legal”, screwed to the wood above the frosted glass window. He pushed through without knocking, and entered the familiar territory of the least ethical lawyers to be found anywhere in the world. A highly-controlled mess of moveable desks and overflowing waste-paper bins, the room would have been empty but for the tell-tale gleam of light shining off the top of Ducatista’s bald head. The door slammed shut behind Steadman with a high, glassy rattle. Steadman stood where he was. Ducatista didn’t even look up.

“What’s the matter, Graham? Spaceport too hot for you?”

“No, Duke.” He looked around, taking in the mess. Much of the light in the room came from Ducatista’s desk lamp. “Fact is, I’ve booked you for a remand hearing.” Ducatista stopped short. He slowly raised his squashed pig-face to stare at Steadman through his simple, gold-wire rimmed spectacles.

“You did what?”

“You heard. You’re prosecuting a remand this afternoon. An Article 12.” Ducatista slid his glasses off his face with a sideways swipe of his meaty, muscled hand. He was a short, muscular and sweaty man who looked more like a meat worker than a lawyer.

“I hope,” he snarled, “that your doe who protests his innocence is in some way related to this current investigation. Otherwise, your career will be as dead as the case.”

Steadman smiled. “You still have those Movement documents?”

“The ones from the raid? Yeah, of course I do. It’s the only evidence that we have a shit’s chance of pinning on anyone...”

As he spoke, he slowed down and stopped. “You have him, don’t you?” Steadman nodded slightly. “Are you sure? Unequivocal?” Again, the nod. “Good. I’ll do it, even be nice to that old bastard Borstaller. This could be the break that we need. What are the details?”

“We found him in the State Hotel. You know about the operation. Booked himself in as a guy called Stone.” He reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out the folded page of the register that bore Stein’s signature. “Here’s his signature.” He passed it to Ducatista, who held it front of him against a photocopy of a page from the raid documents.

“Looks genuine. I can call for remand while we cross-match the scripts. What did you book him in for?”

“We brought him in on a conspiracy charge, but Roth says we have nothing that’ll stick.”

“Roth? Good. He’s clever, he’ll try to do right by his man, and he knows how we play ball. Any evidence on him?”

“No, only no i.d. at all.”

“Okay, hence the Article 12. Figures. Who is he, anyway?”

“One Abraham Jeremiah Stein, second son of Samuel Stein.”

“Uh-huh.” Ducatista leaned back and scratched his nose. “Bit of a public relations problem for you, isn’t it? Booking a hero’s son for treason with no evidence.”

“Well, that’s debateable.”

“Isn’t it always? From the looks of things, he handed us the evidence himself some weeks ago.”

“Yeah, well I need an open remand from you. I need to interrogate him more thoroughly. If we can break him, we may break the Freedom Movement.”

“Now, wouldn’t that be a feather in your cap,” Ducatista replied, not without some cynicism. “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll do the hearing, but I need more script. Have you any statements?”

“No.” Ducatista scowled. “But, I’ll get them soon. As part of his defence,” Steadman continued, a grin starting as the thought began to grow, “he will need to make a formal, written statement of why he was in the State Hotel. Rather ironic, really, that his defence will hang him.”

“Good. Have you the court schedule?” Steadman handed him his signed copy. “Okay... I’ll just copy this down. Does Roth know the appointment?”

“Not yet. He expects it to be soon, anyway.”

“Of course.” Ducatista took a couple of notes from the schedule, and gave it back to Steadman. “You’d best be going back downstairs. I’ll book this,” as he fingered the register page, “as official evidence for the general case. Physical suggestion such as this is important leverage. I’ll come with a copy of the raid documents. Get a statement off him, too. Without this, he walks on bail for i.d. With it, he’s yours.” Steadman took the schedule, and turned for the door as he folded the paper, and pushed it back into his pocket.

As he walked back down the corridor towards the stair well, Steadman reflected on how the pieces of his case were now beginning to fall together. The hearing was set, his pet prosecutor was organised, and his quarry was safe downstairs. As he pulled open the door that led into the stair well, he glanced up at the clock on the wall above the door. One-thirty, one hour before the hearings began for the afternoon session. He would be able to take Stein and Roth to the bailiff’s chamber any time now. Good. The sooner the better, really. The success of his project depended upon the speed with which Stein could have his remand hearing, the manuscript, and Ducatista. All three factors were now assured. He was happy.

When Steadman emerged from the stairs back into the basement booking level, his face again showed no sign of the jubilant emotions inside. Always the professional, in public and in private, his was not a world for being happy or sad - only cold, analytical, angry. Holding himself open and erect, he walked confidently to the interrogation room, and to the one guard remaining outside. From the end of the booking hall he could hear the sounds of the first arrests from the spaceport arriving. There would be dozens, most likely. At public events like that, any possible offender would be brought in, if only for eye-witness testimonies. Always in for the easy kill, CSA agents behaved like sharks in a feeding frenzy.

Steadman entered the room without knocking. Both Stein and Roth were seated, chatting lightly about the latest cure for cancer. No matter. Any important `chat’ from while he had been gone would be edited and played back to him and Ducatista while they waited for their shot that afternoon.

Stein and Roth stopped talking when Steadman entered. Not waiting for them to start, Steadman took the high ground, speaking immediately. “You are appearing before Judge Borstaller in a little less than one hour, for your remand hearing. Counsellor Ducatista for the prosecution. Counsellor Roth, has your client filed a personal statement of circumstances?”

“No, Agent. But I will recommend it,” answered Roth, glancing at Stein. You do that, Steadman thought to himself.

“Abe, are you prepared to make a written statement of why you were at the State Hotel?”

“Why? I’ve nothing to hide.”

“Simple, Abe. If you don’t, it can be seen as an admission of guilt. If you do, your confidence of the statement works in your favour, particularly if you are truthful.”

Stein thought for a moment, before replying. “Personally, Paul, I’d prefer not to. The CSA has nothing on me beyond the i.d., so I have nothing to defend. If I make a statement, then it gives the CSA something to work on. No, Paul, we go with no statement.” He looked at Steadman as he spoke, and could read nothing in the agent’s face. Still, he had an uncomfortable feeling about the way that the case was heading. Worst of all, Ducatista was standing for the prosecution - he never did that. He was too busy fabricating cases - that was half the reason that he didn’t want to write a statement. The Duke would be able to pick a phrase out of his words and use it to create a life-penalty case, and make it stick. No, Stein did not want to give the CSA anything; they already had enough.

Paul looked at Stein, and tapped his pen on the desk. “Well, okay, Abe. It’s your call. But, it’ll only make my job more difficult.”

“Yeah, man, I know,” Stein replied. “But remember, you yourself said to give them nothing. Still, it may not make any difference in the long-run. You know how they work.” The room was silent for a brief moment. Steadman was disappointed, but cared little - Luis had the register page, and that was enough.

“Counsellor Roth, Stein, if you would accompany me, we have a hearing to go to.”

Steadman opened the door, and the guard outside turned to face the three men. Roth and Stein caught each other’s glance, and held it briefly. Broken, they stood up together. Stein moved around the desk, and walked past Steadman and Roth into the hallway. Roth left the room next, followed by Steadman. The guard placed one handcuff on Stein’s wrist, and cuffed herself to complete the pair. Ready to go, the guard and Stein started the walk to the elevator.

The elevators, all four of them, were in a single combined shaft that ran down the centre of the CSA building. Roth followed immediately behind Stein’s exposed shoulder, and Steadman brought up the rear. Reaching the elevators, the party paused to wait while the guard pushed the `up’ button, bringing the elevator to them. The door soon binged, and slid open with a mechanical woosh, allowing the lift’s passengers to spill forth out of the small chamber onto the floorspace in front of the Stein party. Patiently, they waited while the last passenger, the CSA mailboy, dragged his little trolley out and over the rattly gap between the lift and the office floor. Empty, the lift beckoned, a mechanical mouth that soon swallowed its human offerings, its metal lips sliding to seal the deal. Humming, the lift moved its carriage smoothly upwards, only to stop and open the cage again, allowing the four people to walk forwards towards another fate.

The courtrooms occupied the floor beneath the Justice Department offices, and was the only floor directly accessible to the public. The four courtrooms and their public galleries were on one side of the building, which the two public elevators reached from the ground-level public foyer downstairs. On the other side of the building were the immediate remand cells for existing, sequestered prisoners awaiting appeal or final-sentence hearings, and the offices of the judges, bailiffs and court clerks. That was the side of the floor that the public never saw, and was where the small group found themselves when they stepped out of the elevator.

People were milling around already, in preparation for the afternoon session. Guards were escorting prisoners to the holding cells, clerks were carrying cardboard file-boxes in and out of the court rooms. Steadman looked ahead. “Courtroom three, guard. Borstaller’s session. No cell, we’ll wait in the gallery.” The guard nodded, and led the party down the corridor until they reached the rear entry of courtroom three. Steadman stepped forward, his red-level CSA i.d. tag in his hand. The guard relaxed slightly. “May I see your appointment sheet, Sir?” Steadman dug into his jacket pocket, taking out the folded copy, which he then handed to the guard. The uniform unfolded the paper and swiftly read the details. Satisfied, he refolded it and handed it back to Steadman. He lifted up his clipboard, and ticked off the entry for Stein’s hearing. “All okay, Sir. You know the way. The defendant may sit with his counsel in the front gallery. As the arresting officer, you may not sit near the defendant. You may be with Counsellor Ducatista in the Bailiff’s gallery.” Steadman then stood aside, as the guard took Stein and Roth through the door, followed by Steadman. Once through, Stein and Roth were led around to the left, behind the judge’s seat to the secure, smaller front section of the gallery. Steadman carried on straight ahead into the courtroom, taking a seat next to the aisle.

Behind them, the courtroom was already filling up with the public. Friends and family of remand prisoners, the already heavily-censored media, and bookmakers. In a bizarre twist of circumstances, more bets were placed on the outcomes of CSA trials than on horse races. As usual, tough, only the bookies ever won. Over the next half hour, a few more defendants came in with their briefs, and took their seats with Stein and Roth. Ducatista came in barely seconds before the Bailiff announced Borstaller’s arrival. He had only enough time to place a cardboard evidence box and his briefcase on the desk in front of him and Steadman before the order came to rise for the judge. Ducatista was already standing, and through the room a clattery shuffle was heard as a few dozen people stood. People were still finding their feet when Borstaller came in. A tall, business-like man, his solid build and square, blockish head conveyed an impression of physical as well as judicial power. He carried no notes, as he had already studied the court schedule on his office terminal. The same computer files were available through his personal terminal at his bench. Because of the greatly increased arrest rate since the introduction of the CSA, the judge for each case entered and authorised convicts’ sentences at the trial, saving on system-clogging paperwork afterwards.

He reached his seat in a few, powerful strides, and sat down without so much as glancing at the roomful of faces looking in his direction. As he sat, the Bailiff commanded the gallery to sit. Amid the shuffle, the judge logged onto his terminal, and scanned the hearing list. Looking up, he glared at the Bailiff. “Alright, Marty. Let’s get this show on the road. Roll on case number... “ Here, he looked back to the list - “thirteen - c.” And so began the session. The afternoon remand hearings were very much a production line of convicts, and the judiciary had long since lost the more formal trappings of the court process.

Ducatista and Steadman sat quietly, patiently waiting their turn. As the cases appeared and finished, different bookies in the public gallery would leave to make their calls, only to return soon after. The public presence was always changing, as cases finished and others began. At one point, a group of kids came in on a school visit. Stein and Roth sat, watching the parade with different eyes. Roth was unmoved, as this was how he made his living - he spent as much time in these four courtrooms as he did at home. For Abe, this was his fist visit in twenty years, and then it had been to get in from the rain. Hell, back then courtrooms were more exciting than the highly sanitised, propagandist movies that were the alternative entertainment.

The cases rolled by relatively swiftly. On the whole, the charges were more mundane than exciting - unpaid fines, bar fights, abusing agents in a public place. None of the cases offered anything spectacular. The defendants would stand, be identified, and have to listen to the charges read out. If a guilty plea was entered, the hearing would be ended and the defendant would step down to face an indefinite remand period. If a not-guilty plea was entered, an agent would offer evidence before the defendant stepped down to face an even longer remand in a higher-security prison. After some forty-five minutes, Stein’s case number was called. At this stage there were only two other people waiting for their hearings. As the Bailiff called their case number the guard stood up, pulling Stein up with her. They shuffled along between the rows of chairs, and up the three steps to the dock. Once inside, the guard unlocked the cuffs and returned them to her belt. Paul gathered up his short notes and approached the defence bench. Borstaller wasted no time.

“Are you...” he looked again at his terminal screen, “Abraham Jeremiah Stein?”

“I am.”

“You are appearing to hear the charges of ...” Borstaller pulled in a breath, “of conspiracy to treason, and failure to have proper identification. Sir, one of these charges is very serious, indeed. On the first charge, how do you plea?”

“Not guilty, your honour.”

“I see. And the second charge?”

“Guilty.” Paul tapped a pencil. So far, so good, he thought. The i.d. charge is indefensible, but minor.

“Fine, fine. We’ll deal with that one later. First, I’ll call on your counsel, Mister Roth, to explain your defence. Counsellor Roth?” Paul stood and approached the bench.

“Your honour, you have read the arrest notes. My client was sleeping in the State hotel, booked in for purely personal reasons. A separate chain of events led the Special Unit of the Central Security Agency to suspect the planning of an outlaw group to commit a treasonable act. Their investigation led them to the State Hotel this morning, not knowing specifically who they were looking for. The only non-resident guest was my client. A purely coincidental sequence led to his arrest. As it has since transpired, my client could not have been the person that the CSA were seeking, as the act that they sought to prevent did, in fact, occur a little over three hours ago, while my client was already in custody. Furthermore, there is no evidence that could even link or associate my client with the outlawed Freedom Movement, as the arrest implied. I therefore put to you, your honour, that with respect to the charge of conspiracy to treason, my client is innocent.”

“Hmm. Thank you, Counsellor Roth.” Paul turned back to the desk and sat down, deeply troubled. Abe’s confident attitude in the interrogation room, and Luis Ducatista’s presence did not combine in the most promising manner. Time will tell.

“Counsellor Ducatista.” Luis looked up, and smiled greasily at the judge. “How refreshing to see you in court for a change.” Again the smile. “Please put forward your case for the charge, as read out.”

Ducatista stood, and took with him an unmarked manilla folder. “Your Honour,” and then took a breath. He oozed confidence and sweat at the best of times, and his bald head glistened under the court room lights. “For some months now the dedicated unit lead by Agent Graham Steadman has been working to reveal the outlawed Freedom Movement. To this end, one of his agents achieved a notable first - he successfully infiltrated a cell of the Freedom Movement and became a member. This is a commendable achievement, as the Movement apparently recruits by invitation only. As he was a junior member, the intelligence that he was privy to was extremely limited, but sufficient for the unit to suspect the Movement of a plot to assassinate members of the beloved Committee. The accuracy and worth of the investigation was proven this morning, as Counsellor Roth has already mentioned.

“Not knowing who or how they would commit this act, the unit developed a psychological investigation as to how the crime would be committed, and employed the CSA hypo-surv team. The investigation, we felt, led directly to an unnamed Movement operative. As it happened, we consider the defendant to be that operative. Your Honour, please note that the charge is one of conspiracy, not of action.”

“All very well, Counsellor. But apart from finding the defendant at one end of the investigation, and this courtroom at the other, what reason do you have for not releasing Mister Stein on bail?”

“Given to us by his own hand, Your Honour.” Paul felt the case slip away. Ducatista opened the folder. “Mister Stein, did you, or did you not sign the hotel register?”

“I did.”

“And is this your signature?” Ducatista walked over and showed Stein the torn page, now tagged and numbered as State Evidence in a plastic bag.

“It is.” Ducatista walked over and showed the page to the judge. “Needless to say, Mister Stein did not use his own name. Instead, he used the name Stone. Why did you use a false name, Sir?”

“It is not a false name,” Stein replied boldly. “It is the anglicised version of my own name. I have often used the name Stone when I wanted privacy.” Paul relaxed slightly, as Stein’s easy reply gave him some confidence.

“Counsellor,” Borstaller interrupted, “the use of another name seems to me to be more consistent with the second, minor charge, not the first.’

“Not so, Your Honour,” Ducatista replied. “We have established, Mister Stein has admitted, to writing that name in the hotel register. That is what I required of the defendant.” He paused. For effect, not to think. He had had more than enough time for that. “Your Honour, during the course of our infiltration investigation, a unit raided what was hoped to be an operating, high-level cell of the Freedom Movement. We were too late for the people, but we did recover numerous hand-written documents, mainly rough notes. The manuscript was submitted to the handwriting experts in the CSA forensic division. The team there produced a summary report, stating that the notes were the work of two individuals. Also included was a type sample that had the principal characteristics of each writer. These samples were studied by the special-unit team, led by Agent Steadman. At the scene of the arrest, Agent Steadman recognised one of the type samples on the hotel register.

“It is Agent Steadman’s belief, and, I confess, my own, that the writer of the name “Stone” in the register of the State Hotel, and the author of much of the seditious document, are the same person. It is from my concern for the welfare and security of the State that I request that the defendant, Abraham Stein, be held on remand until such a time as we can establish whether or not he is the Freedom Movement author.”

As he finished his speech, Ducatista was studying both Stein and Roth. Stein was as impassive as ever, while Roth was glumly looking to and from his notes and Stein. The courtroom was hushed. No-one had really expected such a turn of events for a seemingly routine remand hearing. A couple of bookies left in a hurry.

Borstaller coughed, and leaned forward on his elbows, his fingers interlaced. “Counsellor Ducatista, what you are implying is rather grave. Would you care to provide myself and Counsellor Roth with duplicates of the register page and your prepared type sample?”

“Certainly, Your Honour. I have here two copies already prepared.” As he spoke, he opened the box on his desk and took from the top of the pile two clear-bound envelopes. Roth watched this, feeling the case slip away. He knew Ducatista, and knew that the Duke would not normally bother with a remand hearing unless it was crucial to his current work, which always had some element of self-promotion. Nevertheless, it was his habit to lose cases, as that was what he was more or less paid to do. What the CSA wanted, the CSA got. Every arrested person was entitled to a defence, which was typically either him or any of a few other attorneys. After all, the work was steady and secure.

Ducatista crossed first to the bench, where he handed Judge Borstaller a clear evidence envelope, and then to Roth, who received the same. Paul opened the envelope, and studied the contents. He flicked a quick glance up at the judge, who was studying his duplicates, holding them together and leaning his farsighted head backwards. Paul took a good look at his. On one side was an enlarged copy of the vaunted register page, where he could easily recognise Abe’s jerky, slightly rounded scrawl. When he held it next to the other page, Paul knew that Abe had been far from forthright in what he had told him. The sample was a sentence that had been considered by the experts to be typical of the hand, containing all repeated features and most letters available. Stood side by side with Abe’s signature, the barest look would lead anyone to say that they were written by the same person.

The silence lasted for only a couple of minutes, but to Roth they seemed an hour. He looked up at Abe, who was as calm as ever. He obviously knew about the documents and their loss - this outcome must have been anticipated long ago.

“Well, Counsellor Ducatista,” Borstaller started, “You have come prepared. Counsellor Roth, in the face of this evidence, I am offering your client an opportunity to revise his plea.”

Paul thanked Borstaller, and looked to Stein. Stein returned Paul’s glance, and, without emotion, gave his head the barest turn to the left. Paul, resigned, stood. “Your Honour, my client does not wish to change his plea.” At which, he sat down, wondering how, and what, he was going to tell his sister, Abe’s wife.

“Counsellor Ducatista, Counsellor Roth, Mister Stein.” Borstaller spoke slowly, with measured syllables. “In the face of the evidence presented by the prosecution, I must confirm the suspicions of the Central Security Agency, namely that the defendant may be the author of certain seditious material, and to be involved intimately with a traitorous organisation. Such identification, however, cannot be confirmed instantly. Nor should the defendant be released on bail, as there is always the possibility that the prosecution is correct in their assertion.

“That said, I am in the position whereby I am compelled to refuse the defendant’s application for bail at liberty. He will, of course, be expected to co-operate fully with the CSA’s research, in their attempts to establish the true identity of the unknown traitor. To be fair,’ he continued, “Counsellor Roth is to be privy to all agency researches, which will be subject to a time limit of two months from this date, at which time the first hearings and sentencing, if any, will be made. That is all.”