by Pat McKee
Ariel’s moral failures may well have been inherent in her being. As far as my limited understanding of artificial intelligence informed me, she was nothing more than the code that created her. Ariel’s moral limitations were dependent on how she was instructed. And since philosophers have debated morality for thousands of years without coming to an agreement even on fundamental principles, Ariel’s designers were hobbled. She could be coded without any moral direction at all, but if she were given some ethical guidance, choices had to be made among an almost limitless array of philosophical schools. Should Ariel be coded as a moral relativist or an idealist? Or should she be coded a pragmatist, learning her morality by the layering of instances from interactions with humans? If so, Ariel could hardly be expected to tell blackmail from black beans.
Ariel’s most recent moral exemplars included a well-regarded man willing to torture his niece and murder his brother to steal money he didn’t need and to dominate a corporation he already controlled. And my behavior could hardly be deemed laudable: killing Fowler, stealing cash from an ATM, ignoring the plight of my own mother. Had I bothered to keep score, I may well have violated every one of the Ten Commandments since my trip to Frederica Island. I couldn’t—or worse—wouldn’t conform my conduct to rules that I agreed on.
And that, I decided, was the chief difference between Ariel and me. If Ariel was programed to act a certain way, she was mandated by the laws of electronics to act just that way. I, on the other hand, had that uniquely human trait of discerning what’s right and still being able to do just the opposite. The knowledge of good and evil—the difference between humans and animals—and the propensity to choose wrong even though we know what’s right, was what got us banished from the Garden in the first place.
After working with Ariel, it had become clear to me that she wasn’t programed to follow either the law or any particular morality. As Placido said when he first disclosed Ariel as AI, he made choices concerning what traits she should be programed with, and—like modesty—morality was not one of them. Ariel is a free agent, unshackled from the limits of human cognition and the boundaries of right and wrong. Being outside the ability of any legal authority to sanction, Ariel is only restrained by the master who created her. And now, after working with Ariel and Placido through almost every imaginable circumstance, I grasped the power of Placido’s instruction to Ariel: “I want you to do everything possible to assist Mr. McDaniel.” With that, I knew it was I, and not any bundle of code or twist of wire, that constituted Ariel’s moral center. And I had to make it clear that blackmailing Judge Cotten wasn’t an acceptable option.
Besides, going to Judge Cotten with a threat to expose his dalliances wouldn’t get to the source of the problem: Strange & Fowler. If we eliminated Judge Cotten, Strange & Fowler would just find another judge to issue the injunction, and it likely would be a judge with more intelligence and gravitas, making the prospect of a successful challenge less certain. In that regard, I was much better off with a judge who counts on Jim Beam for his breakfast juice.
“No. We have to go back to the Strange & Fowler Management Committee and convince them that they have more to lose if I’m forced to defend myself. Since Judge Cotten issued the TRO without giving me prior notice, it will expire in ten days unless I am given a hearing. Strange & Fowler must know that, if forced, I’ll play Fowler’s confession of murder and bribery in open court for all the world to hear.”
“Paul, I can do better than that. I found a video.”
I set up a meeting with the Management Committee on the representation that I wanted to talk about resolving the TRO. While the implication was that I wanted to cave in, I didn’t say so, and I was fine with their reading into my request what they wanted. Ariel called a press conference for thirty minutes after our presentation to the Management Committee, on the assurance that there would be a joint statement by Strange & Fowler and myself concerning the litigation filed against me by the firm. We were just as opaque with the press about what that statement might be. Either Strange & Fowler was going to tell the world they were dismissing the suit and I was leaving with the blessing of the firm, or I would play the recording of Fowler’s admissions of bribery, murder, and mayhem. After that, there wouldn’t be anyone left at Strange & Fowler to defend the TRO.
I walked into the conference room with only my laptop in my hand.
The Chairman of the Management Committee smirked.
“Well, Paul, I’m glad we can come to some agreement. You need to know that your attempted power play doesn’t sit well with the firm, and there will be consequences from the fact that you forced us to go public with our dispute and petition for a TRO.”
“There will be consequences. I expect you to announce that Strange & Fowler filed the lawsuit without being aware of all the facts and that it has dismissed the case and dissolved the injunction. You and the firm will wish me well. I have called a press conference in the lobby so we can make it a joint statement.”
I don’t recall ever having seen the Chairman smile. I know I never heard him laugh. But my speech scored both at once.
“Well, Mr. McDaniel, I think we have a rather different idea concerning the outcome of this meeting. Right now, we have a TRO in place preventing you from taking any steps toward starting your new firm, and I’m sure after the upcoming hearing in front of Judge Cotten that he’ll make that injunction permanent. I fail to see why Strange & Fowler would alter that outcome.”
I opened my laptop. Across the conference room Ariel projected a life-size image of a scene from Fowler’s study. Ariel recovered the video from the most unlikely source: the Frederica Island Security Force. The force had their own, comparatively primitive, video surveillance cameras outside Fowler’s residence for the G-8, and they never bothered to remove them or take them off-line. The cameras continued to send video to an obscure computer that stored the last thirty days’ images. One of these cameras was trained on the side of the cottage where the study was located and had a direct view in the window. Ariel enhanced the video and matched it with the audio we already had. Then she did her magic, transforming an ordinary video into a hologram that looked as good as being there.
Fowler was alone, talking on a cell phone, his voice, his image, unmistakable.
“You damn fool. I told you the judge’s death had to be an accident. Now everything has changed. I expect you to take care of that loudmouthed ambulance driver or you won’t see another penny. I’ll deal with McDaniel when he arrives.”
Fowler clicked off the phone and tossed it in a chair. He sat, head in hands, on the leather sofa where—only days before—he had told me of my reward for winning the Milano case, where all of this started. In a moment he rose, opened a drawer in his grandfather’s desk, pulled out a handgun, jammed a clip home, and strode out of the room. One could hear two voices, Fowler’s booming, Oliver’s pleading, then a shot, and in seconds Fowler returned, gun in hand. Then he paced. Several times he put the pistol to his head, stopped, put it back down. Even though I knew the outcome of the play that was unfolding before me, Fowler’s suicidal gestures were both unnerving—not having witnessed his self-destructive actions before—and reassuring that it had been Fowler’s intent all along to take his own life. I finally felt relief of the guilt that had still hung on me as I sought to make sense of Fowler’s final moments.
Through the window of the study, which looked out on the plaza below, I saw my car as it screamed into the driveway. Fowler stuck the pistol inside his coat. Seconds later, I burst into the room.
It was eerie to be standing outside myself watching and listening as Fowler confronted me, bragging of his schemes to bribe and kill Judge Richards, disclosing his murder of Oliver, and announcing his intention to do away with me. But what got the most attention was Fowler’s direct tie of the bribery money to Strange & Fowler. When Fowler bragged that ten million dollars from the coffers of Strange & Fowler should have
been sufficient to keep Judge Richards happy for the rest of his life, someone groaned. Another member of the committee grasped his head. Many reacted with such shock that it was clear they had not been in on the scheme.
The struggle between me and Fowler lasted longer than I remembered, the pistol taking far longer to turn back on him, anticipation making discharge seem even less certain. Fowler smiled. The gun went off.
Several in the room jumped. But the Chairman remained silent, motionless.
I closed my laptop.
“I think that answers the question why Strange & Fowler would want to dismiss the lawsuit and dissolve the injunction. I expect you to inform the press that the legal action against me will go away and that we part on the best of terms. If I don’t like your performance, you will be watching Fowler’s last moments replayed on the evening news.”
Downstairs in the lobby of Strange & Fowler, the Chairman of the Management Committee embraced his role before the cameras at the press conference with an enthusiasm I would’ve never expected. After describing the lawsuit as a “mere precaution” that proved “absolutely unnecessary for someone of the stature and integrity of Mr. McDaniel,” the Chairman went on to explain the “deep and abiding ties between Mr. McDaniel and Strange & Fowler” that will continue even as we go our separate ways.
“I wish Mr. McDaniel well, and Strange & Fowler wishes Mr. McDaniel great success. We understand Milano Corporation will be the first of many fortunate businesses to benefit from Mr. McDaniel’s excellent counsel. We wish Milano and all of Mr. McDaniel’s clients well, including those of his many friends from this firm who have decided to follow him into his new practice. Godspeed.”
That press conference was far better than any marketing campaign I could’ve devised. My phone was buzzing with congratulatory texts and inquiries from potential clients while I was still in front of the cameras shaking the Chairman’s hand. The firm of McDaniel & Associates took off before it even opened its doors. I realized that just as McDaniel & Associates had succeeded, so had Strange & Fowler, adding yet another influential successor to its list, each now tied by their own interests to the continued success of the other.
In the next few days, Placido and I worked out a retainer agreement that gave me sufficient capital to get an office up and running. Counting attorneys and support staff, we would have close to fifty employees and need two entire floors in one of Atlanta’s Midtown office towers. With the retainer agreement in hand, I was able to get a sizeable credit line to cover the rough spots in my cash flow. A week after the press conference, McDaniel & Associates was already a major litigation boutique, attracting new clients by the draw of Strange & Fowler’s hearty endorsement, a video of which played as soon as you visited my firm’s new website.
Twenty-Five
The next week Placido had a few more surprises for me. He asked me, “as the family attorney,” to visit him, Melissa, and Hector at Key Biscayne for a discussion concerning the future of Milano Corporation. Placido’s remark constituted a significant promotion from solely being their corporate attorney, something I took as a further indication of Placido’s confidence and as a step toward the inner circle of the family, my lack of Milano blood not a disqualification.
Such an invitation usually meant the patriarch wanted to rewrite his Will, but since I knew little about estate planning, I was hoping the meeting was going to be about something else. I didn’t want my first invitation to result in an admission of my ineptitude. Whatever the legal import of the trip, our meeting would give me an opportunity to see Melissa again before our planned weekend at Frederica Island. It would be the first time I’d be with her under normal circumstances since our dinner with Fowler and Anthony—if that dinner could be called normal in light of what I now knew about it. Regardless, that evening felt like ancient history.
I arrived mid-morning and drove straight from the airport. Melissa met me at the door, relaxed, radiant, with no signs of her recent trauma. She was dressed in workout gear, but her perfect hair and make-up did nothing to indicate that the outfit was meant for exercise.
“Paul.”
Melissa greeted me not with an embrace, but a handshake. Placido appeared at her side; Cabrini was nowhere in sight. While I wasn’t expecting to be carried in on a sedan chair and placed at the head of a banquet table with Melissa fawning at my feet, this reception felt unreasonably cool. I credited Melissa’s formality to the fact that her father was standing at her side, all business, looking every bit the head of a multi-billion-dollar company, ready for a meeting with the family attorney.
“Paul, so good of you to come on such short notice. There is no one I trust more to assist us with such matters. Melissa and Hector have been told only what I’ve told you, so they are anticipating our meeting as much as you are.”
“Yes, Father has been very secretive. I think he’s going to tell us that he has a new girlfriend, and we’ll all have to fend for ourselves.”
“At my age I’m no donnaiolo. Besides, this is much more important than a new girlfriend.” Placido winked at Melissa, then motioned down the entry hall toward the center of the house. “Come on back. We’re meeting in the library. I wish I could offer you something to drink after your travels, but you’ll see in a moment why I can’t.”
Cabrini was already in the library, seated at an elaborately carved rectangular table, two red leather chairs on each long side. In the middle of the table was a fire-proof file-box the size of a roll-on suit case, with a key in the lock. Placido motioned for me to sit next to him, and Melissa joined Cabrini on his side of the table.
“I want to show you all something few people see outside a museum. But first you each must put on these.”
Placido handed each of us a pair of white cotton gloves of the type used to protect something—like a valuable manuscript—from the corrosive oils on one’s hands and pulled on a pair himself. I hoped Placido hadn’t dragged me down here just to play show-and-tell with one of his rare books. As interesting as they are, I have indeed seen many such books in museums, and as much as I wanted to see Melissa, I had far more pressing matters to handle back in Atlanta. But I put on the gloves as instructed. Placido turned the key in the lock. He lifted out a large leather-bound book encased in a clear plastic clam-shell box. Placido opened the clam-shell and placed the book on a shallow V-shaped cradle from the file-box. He opened it to an engraving on the frontispiece. Shakespeare.
Though I had seen several First Folios, they’re always impressive. And I’ve never handled one, so this was a treat. Placido encouraged each of us to turn the pages, touch the engravings and feel the type. Even through the gloves and with the passage of four hundred years, the indentions from the pressure of the press on the pages were still evident. I was touching history.
“Well, I didn’t ask you all to meet with me just to look at an old book, as beautiful as it is. Before I tell you why I have brought this First Folio, I want to make an announcement.”
Placido paused and looked each of us in the eye, drawing out the moment.
“I’m retiring from Milano Corporation. I’m not just retiring. I’m giving my entire interest in the corporation to Melissa and Hector equally, divesting myself of all my shares. I’m asking you, Paul, to handle the transactions. And, before I step down, one of my last acts will be to ask the Board to appoint Melissa CEO and to pass on my mantle as Head of Research to Hector. I expect the appointments to be confirmed immediately.”
The three of us, everyone other than Placido, were stunned, speechless. Placido grinned, pleased that no one had guessed his intentions and that his announcement had been a complete surprise. Melissa was the first to recover.
“Father! I cannot imagine your stepping down! Milano needs you; we need you; you must reconsider. While I appreciate your extraordinary generosity, you must retain your interest in the corporation and continue your leadership for the good of the business.�
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“Melissa, I’ve made up my mind. The events of these last weeks have made me realize how precious my remaining time is. I want to spend it with the people I love. So you can count on my being around a lot, giving my advice, but I want you and Hector to bring your ideas, your vitality, to Milano Corporation. I represent the past. You are the future.
“Paul, I realize that a transaction of this magnitude will take time and will have many legal implications. I trust you to handle these in the best interests of the family, including when the proper announcements need to be made.”
It was now official. Melissa was indeed one of the richest and most-powerful women in the world. Her wealth and her responsibilities would complicate our relationship in countless ways, particularly since Placido had given me the task of making it happen. Timing of transactions, creating legal strategies to minimize tax implications, even determining the way the interests would be transferred, all will directly affect Melissa’s access to her wealth, and these plans were now at my discretion to implement.
Most people—that is, most people who haven’t grown up with wealth—when faced with the transfer of significant assets, want their money immediately, even if it means getting less in the long run. This fact puts significant pressure on the lawyers effecting the transfer, since their ethical obligation is to maximize their clients’ benefits, not satisfy their desire for instant gratification. I knew Melissa’s training in finance and Cabrini’s in the law, as well as their familiarity with wealth, would mean they would approach the transfer with greater sophistication than the common rabble with a winning lottery ticket.
“So, I’m sure you are wondering why I brought an old book to the announcement of my retirement. It has to do with the second part of what I want to tell you all.”
Melissa wasn’t ready for another surprise.
“Father, I can’t believe there’s more. You should’ve given us that drink you mentioned when Paul arrived.”
