factor?”
Rodd grunted. “Huh, hard to say. A few hundred?”
“Records indicate the number is eight thousand three hundred and six. You have had a lengthy and distinguished career. Of those eight thousand or so, do you know how many received guilty verdicts?”
“I would venture to say – all of them.”
“That is correct,” said James. “And do you know how many of the convicted were sent to prisons operated by Independent Confines, Limited?”
“Never heard of them. What happens to convicts after they leave my court is of no concern to me.”
“Well, it seems it is – or rather, has been your concern. Independent Confines is another TIL investment – in fact, it was you who personally authorized the purchase of a controlling share in the company, some seventeen years ago. Perhaps that escaped your memory?”
Rodd glared, but didn’t answer.
“Independent Confines was struggling a few years back. But a sharp influx in their prisoner population saved them.” James stood by the defense table and tapped more commands into his interface. “If I were to pull up bank records for you, Judge Rodd, over the past several years, and display them here for the court to see, they will indicate a steady stream of income from TIL holdings, as well as bonuses from Independent Confines – the result of you sending plenty of business their way.”
Rodd looked ready to blow a gasket. I knew James was bluffing at this point – he’d not had time or authorization to check bank records. But I’d supplied him with enough data to put the screws to the judge.
“I’ve kept Britain’s streets safe!” bellowed Rodd. “I’ve helped victims enjoy solace. Measured out retribution! Balanced the scorecard between criminals and the rule of law.”
“You’ve cheated innocent people out of years of freedom, because you couldn’t be bothered to discover the truth!” James retorted. “You made a mockery of the legal system, just to make your job easier and to line your pockets! You are a disgrace, My Lord.” James addressed Judge Tainton. “I move for this case to be dismissed, My Lord. I also respectfully request a retrial for every person ever convicted in this man’s court. Charges should be brought against Judge Rodd, and the BR system of justice should be suspended indefinitely.”
“One thing at a time, there, Mr. James,” said Judge Tainton. He looked over the records of the case for a few moments. “Based on the evidence, I believe your client has been exonerated. As for the other business, we’ll tackle it in another proceeding. Case dismissed, and court adjourned.” He banged the gavel.
Roland James had won his first case in many years, and Harold Grant was free.
And so was my conscience.
#
The next morning, I was called to investigate a double homicide. Harold Grant and Roland James had been found stabbed to death outside a Bow Street pub.
The first lead in my investigation revealed a telling dead end – for twelve jurors around the country, the court transmission had disconnected as Judge Tainton, chief executive officer of TIL, had entered the courtroom the day before.
That left me and the bailiff as the only witnesses to the proceedings that had uncovered the BR conspiracy.
I received a call at noon from Judge Rodd.
“I have your suspect. His name is Phil McCall. He’s the bailiff of my court. Use your – expertise – to ensure his memories show him committing the crime. Get to work on the technology side of it while I develop the motive and fill in the story. We’ll hold his trial a week from Friday.”
Funny thing about making choices. Good or bad, they tend to beget similar choices.
That is, when I was sliding down the slope of mischief, taking money for sending up innocents, it got a little easier each time.
Then something finally clicked in my head, and I couldn’t take it anymore. Now that I’d changed direction, and made a choice to right these wrongs, it was easier to choose the right again.
Instead of following Rodd’s orders, I contacted McCall and asked him to meet me. We needed to take this thing public.
Not surprisingly, he was very amenable to a meeting.
We got together that night outside the pub on Bow Street. We took a walk down the wet streets in the cool misty air.
“We need to deal with what happened,” I said.
We turned down an alley, where we could speak in private.
“Yes, we do,” said McCall.
I felt a sharp pain on my head and saw a flash of light. I was instantly dizzy and my legs turned to jelly. As I went down, another crack to my skull and everything went black and silent.
#
I awoke as I was being wheeled into the courtroom.
Judge Rodd’s court room.
Sir Healey, the prosecutor, wasted no time pulling up the BR screen and playing back a memory.
My memory.
Only, it wasn’t.
Through my eyes, I saw the brutal murder of Harold Grant and Roland James. I saw their torn, bloody bodies lying on the street, just as I had seen them. But I also saw my own hands covered in blood, and a speedy retreat to my own apartment.
A processed BR.
And a certain sentence of life.
THE END
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