He had expressed to the judge his intention to be exempted from the Deveux case, that was true, but that was not a good reason for not continuing to investigate further. There were six counts and, in the short time left before the final verdict, he wanted to try to re-examine them. If William Deveux had to be convicted, it had to happen for offenses actually committed. Even a single acquittal on six counts would mean a lot. A lot for Justice, but a lot for him, above all.
He also spent ten or twelve hours a day in his office. He had not much to do at home, to be honest. He had even started to investigate on his own. That Minneman case seemed a little too inflated. What if they were hiding something and had decided to turn William Deveux into a sacrificial lamb? And why had William Deveux, an ordinary employee with an ordinary life, started collecting personal data on some East Eden citizens? Even them normal citizens, by the way, no wealthy men to blackmail. That did not make sense. Alfred DiFraia was aware that, to reply to that petty insult, Kasper Visser would do everything possible to ensure William Deveux a severe punishment, even at the cost of forcing things, manipulating the evidence and convincing the judge to admit them. Until then, however, nothing such had yet happened, the Deveux William file contained only that long series of clues and assumptions his colleague Visser had listed in the courtroom, with exaggerated emphasis. Where was the evidence of actual damage to Minneman Company?
Every day Alfred DiFraia started working at eight. Around ten o'clock, after completing formalities, he allowed himself a break for a decaf and then devoted at least an hour or an hour and a half to studying the Deveux case. He estimated he had at least a couple of weeks to deepen the matter. Michael Roberti would not issue a sentence in such a short time. The judges were swamped with all kinds of cases and sometimes preferred to slow things a bit.
On the first day of December, the unthinkable happened. Alfred DiFraia kept his usual coffee break routine and around ten he went to the mess hall for a few minutes of relax. He found two militiamen talking happily and tasting their drinks. When they saw him, they suddenly fell silent. “Good morning gentlemen” and “good morning Mr. Delegate” were the predictable pleasantries. Alfred DiFraia noticed that strange silence and invited the two colleagues to ignore him and continue the discussion they interrupted. The two smiled and made it clear that it was nothing serious. Unconvinced by that courtesy reply, DiFraia decided not to stay in the room and take the decaf with him to drink it calmly in his room. Along the corridor the delegate fell victim to the oldest and most trivial of jokes. One of his colleagues, Delegate Morris, approached him anxiously, asking him the time and also praying him to answer quickly. In the hurry to turn his wrist to look at his watch, Alfred DiFraia poured his coffee on his work uniform. Morris almost died laughing. DiFraia laughed a little less and asked his colleague if he had already turned fifteen. «I'm sorry, Alfred, I know you've been a little nervous lately.» «I'm not nervous at all, it's just that I can't stand these childish things.» Alfred DiFraia looked at both the cup and his uniform, undecided about priorities. Eventually he chose to go back and get another decaf. He would take care of cleaning the uniform later. Morris still apologized and got back to his office with a big smile on his face. Before opening the door of the mess hall, the delegate checked the stain to make sure it was not too showy and involuntarily ended up intercepting a conversation he never wanted to hear. The two militiamen he met just before were still there chatting. He heard one of them call him naive. The other said that DiFraia was “an idealist who had not yet understood what kind of world he lived in”. Alfred DiFraia grimaced bitterly and put his ear closer to the door to listen better. The discussion turned to William Deveux and the reasons why DiFraia strove so much to help him. A lousy criminal, like the many who had already been housed in a cell of Militia headquarters, said one of them; there was no need to have an argument with the prosecutor and the judge because of that scum. The delegate checked that no one came from right or left and then got even closer, gluing his ear to the door.
«What was the name of the other asshole?», one of the two militiamen asked.
«Renard. Malik Renard, if I'm not mistaken. What a shitty name, don't you think?»
«Yeah. But tell me something, how will they handle the charges? Will they fake the existence of a criminal association?»
«I don't know. Who cares, after all. One more, one less...»
«That scum, Deveux, must have really stepped on some big shot's toes to set him up like this...»
«Yeah, but again: one more or one less makes no difference. Anyway, from what I heard, Deveux had responsibility for that work group. He had to watch his colleagues better.»
«Have they already convicted Renard?»
«Yeah, yeah. A twenty year sentence. It's just ain't enough, if you ask me. Did you know that they held the trial at night to avoid having him meet Deveux and DiFraia?»
They both had a huge laugh. Alfred DiFraia got more and more restless. His nervousness exploded when, from the words of the two militiamen, he deduced that Ralph Minneman, founder and majority shareholder of the pharmaceutical company, had put pressure on the High Officer DeMartini to have William Deveux condemned, though he had nothing to do with the facts. Evidently Deveux had stuck his nose into off-limits places and had been punished. So the delegate opened the door wide, panting and with his forehead beaded with sweat.
«Are you still here?», DiFraia barked. «Don't you have work to do?»
The two paled and answered in unison in the affirmative. It was clear that DiFraia listened to their chatter. They left the room with their heads bowed, apologizing repeatedly.
Alfred DiFraia, with a flick of his wrist, threw the cup with the remaining coffee into the sink, chipping it in several places. He took a chair and let himself collapse on it, completely powerless. He ran a hand over his wet forehead and then poured himself a half glass of water. He no longer had a urge to drink coffee.
Chapter XXI
Once again a prisoner in his own house, William Deveux switched from moments of apathy and discouragement to moments of fury, in which he looked like a lion in a caged. However, that stalemate would last little. The Zoo was waiting for him, with all its comforts and the warm embraces of its many guests. He hardly slept and, when it happened, it happened casually, like the times when he collapsed from exhaustion, tired of brooding and turning over on the sofa like a pan-fried omelette.
Once again he had to reflect on his life, on the choices made and those that he would have liked to make. However, it no longer depended on him alone, and his aching left leg and right shoulder reminded him of that. It depended on Militia and he could bet that they would keep him locked up for no less than ten years. Ten years. He was not ready to face them and he would never be. Day by day he came up with ideas about things he would have liked to do, things that had been put aside in a recess of the mind, pushed away by the torrent of everyday life, and now were strongly trying to make their way, like a child eager to emit his first cry.
Like a high-quality chronograph, a militiaman arrived every day at noon to bring him food and relieve one of the two colleagues. Food that was supposed to last until the same time the following day. Cut off from the world an with no connection to the net, William tried to carve out a few minutes of his long days to read. He discovered he had novels he did not even imagine he had. Just a few pages and his attention span usually went away and his mind left for unknown galaxies, passed by enchanted kingdoms with young girls to defend, and, at the end of the journey, then finally returned to Earth. A different Earth, where people tried to help and support each other, where human relationships were simpler, where oppressors were defeated and everyone could aspire to live a fulfilling life. Then the image of the prison bars ended up replacing everything and William looked for asylum in the enveloping light of his window. How beautiful it was on sunny days. Hour by hour, even minute by minute, he could almost perceive the shades of color as they faded from blinding white to golden y
ellow, passing through the orange of the sunset up to the nuances of night. If there was a moment in those unreal days when he really felt at peace, it was at sunset. He let himself be flooded by those low, dazzling rays, and he enjoyed them in silence, almost in apnea. Even for just a few minutes, everything in the world was as it should be.
On the ninth day of that 'dress rehearsal for prison' William decided it was time to make an effort to rationalize. He remembered he had saved an old fountain pen and some paper in a corner of the attic, gifts brought by unknown relatives in the period of his adolescence. The kind of gifts that, after a few months, if not a few weeks, you forget you have and, above all, who brought them to you. He found what he was looking for behind the jar with the sweetener sachets, confirming that, being stuff never used, its location had changed over and over again over time and it ended up to be confined - like an unwanted guest - in the kitchen area. William gently touched the paper and then held the pen in his hand for a few seconds to see how it felt. He thought for a moment about the many gestures that had been forgotten over the course of time due to changing habits and the advancing progress of technology. The paper was peculiar, similar to those ancient scrolls he had studied at school. It was porous and yellowish, still sturdy after all those years, and was all curled. It took William a while to make sure that it kept the flat shape for at least ten seconds in a row. The pen was beautiful, enameled and glossy, of a black tending to blue, very elegant. He looked at it several times, holding it with a certain pride. Suddenly he had to make a point: was it really worth using something so chic for what he had in mind? No, but it was too late to change his mind. He settled down on the table where the computer lay, made room by moving all the junk scattered on it, and then made sure it wasn't wet. He unrolled the paper again, holding it in place with his left hand to keep it flat. So he thought of writing his thoughts on that still fragrant paper. He first did some finger exercises: he was a lot out of practice with handwriting; he was not even too sure how to hold that shiny jewel. He wrote in capital letters. The first letters were hesitant and somewhat irregular. He tried to remember what it was like to write in italics, but at that moment he was too nervous and had too little time to revive an art so refined yet so complicated. “Wait for sentence” were the first glacial words, and it could not be otherwise. A few days, perhaps hours, separated him from the inevitable. He thought a while before filling the second and hypothetical line, then wrote “study the environment”. He had to adapt as soon as possible to the new prison habitat, analyze the dangers and look for those elements he could use to his advantage. Relationships with other prisoners also fell within that perspective. “Try to be exonerated” was the third note. Between one thing and another he had to gather useful information to proclaim his innocence, to put Militia in front of its responsibilities and to expose the abuses. Difficult, certainly very difficult, but he would have plenty of time in prison. He had not succeeded in the pre-trial phase, nothing would prevent him from trying to do it from within the penitentiary, maybe trying to involve Alfred DiFraia, the only one who seemed to care about justice. True justice.
After the third line he stopped, caught by a new sense of loss. Ten or twenty years in prison. How could he forget, pretend nothing happened? All his life or much of what was left of it. He dropped the fountain pen on the paper and put his hands in his face to push back the tears.
The ringing of the front door bell made him jump out of his chair and almost caused him to faint. He checked the watch: two a.m. What did Militia want at that time of night? Was the sentence issued and they had to transport him to North Hill? You bastards, he muttered. He went to open the door with the desire to dump on the militiaman everything he got. He didn't have much to lose. But, to his surprise, the militiaman looked scared. He asked him to let him in quickly and close the door. William had to repress the instinct to let off steam and curse him.
«What... when d'you... what do you want at this time?», the recluse asked. His tongue got tied and he could not articulate words well.
«I'm Walter Kaminsky, don't you remember me?», said the young red-haired militiaman. «I brought you food when you were at the courthouse...»
The sense of loss and the anger turned into dazzling amazement. That's why he had such a familiar face, William thought. «What are you doing here?», he asked the guy, instinctively approaching him.
«We have to hurry, we bring you to a safe place.»
«What? Bring where? What do you mean 'we'?»
Walter Kaminsky realized he had to slow down and take a deep breath. «Mr. Deveux, they're going to convict you... it's a matter of time... the delegate begged me to help you escape.»
Running away. Freedom. Those terms began to play in William's mind like notes of a sweet violin. A new hope. The chance of not having to give up a normal life. William's brain formulated so many thoughts and questions in just a few seconds that he didn't know what to reply to his unexpected savior.
«But... where do you want to bring me? What if they find out? Does Mr. DiFraia come with us? And my attic?»
Kaminsky tried to stop the bursts of laser rifles, signaling him, with both hands, to brake.
«You will talk to the delegate at another time, now take your things and leave. Hurry!»
William obeyed and started jumping around the house in excitement, too confused to define priorities: what to bring, what to sacrifice.
«Don't bring food or water», Kaminsky told him, as he watched him open the fridge. William still complied with the demands and in the end it all came down to collecting the communicator and a coat. He examined the apartment to make sure that nothing essential was left behind. He had an old printed photo of his father Dominic, which he had framed. He then tried to slip it into a pocket of his overcoat, forcing it a little to get it inside. He stared for a few seconds at the computer N-27 lying on the table, then met Walter Kaminsky's eyes and the guy shook his head, having already sensed his intentions: too bulky, they had to travel light. He eventually realized that it would make no sense to pick one thing and leave ten more, so he stopped searching and said he was ready to go.
They left the front door open, then Walter Kaminsky approached a second guard militiaman, a man named Mike Sanchez. The two militiamen exchanged a nod and Kaminsky pulled a laser-pistol wrapped in a cloth out of a bag. «Remind Delegate DiFraia that he owes me a big favor», Sanchez said. The red-haired militiaman got even more red when he had to aim at his colleague's left shoulder with that pistol. «Hey Kaminsky, be careful where you aim. I wouldn't want to find myself with a pierced jaw.» Kaminsky began to sweat. He probably hadn't much experience, William thought. «It's all right, kid, you can do it», Sanchez said again, taking what looked like a rubber ball from his pocket and putting it in his mouth. It took a few seconds to William to finally figure out the intentions of the two: they wanted to stage a fake assault by someone who came to the place to help him escape. They were risking endangering their careers for his sake. He wouldn't forget it. With the ball in his jaw's grip, Mike Sanchez showed Kaminsky his thumb to tell him he could proceed. The blow rolled him on the floor, yet he managed not to make any sounds. Kaminsky hurried to check his colleague's conditions. He was afraid he made some mistakes. William Deveux remained in his place instead and checked that none of the neighbors ran out the door and watched the scene. Fortunately, everything was silent. Walter Kaminsky bent down and slowly pulled the rubber ball out of Sanchez's mouth. The wound burned like hell. Sanchez said he was fine and they had to leave immediately. Within half an hour another colleague would come to relieve him and would find him lying on the ground, wounded: that was the only way to get a convincing cover story. Kaminsky wanted guarantees that he would be able to hold out for half an hour without medical assistance, before abandoning him. Sanchez tried to laugh but the pain was strong. «Go, damn it. Go!», he said, stifling a curse. Kaminsky executed and, with a movement of his eyes, indicated to William to follow him. Sanchez, heavily knocked d
own, tried to whistle a lullaby to keep himself awake and lucid.
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