by Silver Abi
Eventually, she heard the shower stop but it took the click of the bathroom door opening to rouse her from her reverie. Leaping up, she ran back to the conservatory to await Greg’s entry, attempting to return to her viewing but finding herself unable to concentrate any more. Instead, her mind kept drifting to the postcard, revealing his distant, unvisited, unloved parents, beseeching their son to come again.
Greg’s step in the hallway followed after a few minutes and he breezed in, his hair damp, this time more appropriately dressed in jeans and a navy shirt, although his feet were now bare.
“How’re you getting on?” he asked solemnly.
“Well, I would have been better if I hadn’t been distracted by a terrible noise from upstairs,” Judith replied. Greg frowned and then groaned.
“Oh no!” he moaned. “I wasn’t singing in the shower again, was I?”
Judith giggled. “You were quite good actually.”
“Sorry, Judith. I do it without thinking. Too many years living on my own, I suppose. What was it this time? ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ or ‘Living on a Prayer’?”
“The first one. Like I said, you were good so don’t be embarrassed.”
Greg returned her smile unguardedly with a decidedly pink hue to his cheeks. “Hm. I think you’re humouring me.”
“Well if I were, that would be very out of character,” Judith retorted, still laughing. Greg sat down at the window and looked out into the darkness before speaking again.
“Moving swiftly away from my singing and on to the work. Is now a good time to touch base?” he asked.
“Yes certainly. I have a really good interview for you – well, for Pinocchio. Do you want to take a look?”
“Sure. Who is it?”
Judith turned her screen so that Greg could see the freeze frame. In the picture there was a young black man, seated in the dock of a wood-panelled, brightly-lit courtroom.
“His name is Duane Livingstone and he was accused of an armed robbery in 2002. Two people were killed. The trial was in Birmingham, Alabama in 2004. Do you want to know anything else?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I can tell you the case history, whether he was convicted, what came out at trial, but that will give the game away, so it’s up to you?”
“Ah. You mean you think if you tell me what happened I might try to fix the result?”
“Absolutely not.” Judith was indignant. “I just thought it might be more fun for you to guess too?”
Greg took the laptop, sat it squarely on his knees and spent some minutes opening and closing various applications.
“Hmm,” he muttered. “The quality of the picture isn’t so good. That’s something I didn’t really think about with US TV.”
“Yes. I can see that. A bit grainy.”
“And his focus is slightly to one side of the camera when he speaks.”
“Yes.” Judith was calm on the outside but on the inside she was profoundly irritated. Had Greg Winter, entrepreneur extraordinaire, not thought any of this out? Was he no better than a street hawker? She had spent the best part of four hours tracking this man down, from acres of footage, at his suggestion, whilst he was pounding the streets, and now she had done so, he was making excuses for why Pinocchio wouldn’t work.
“You know what?” Greg suddenly chirped, running one hand through his hair, all qualms instantly banished. “Let’s just do it. Let’s see what Pinocchio thinks and then afterwards you can tell me the truth.”
Judith endeavoured to return Greg’s enthusiasm but this response too irked her. Martin would have provided a reasoned, balanced argument for why he had performed this mental about-turn. This was life or death for Duane Livingstone being determined by a man who, instead, declared “Let’s just do it” without any justification. Had he no sense of decorum?
Greg, oblivious to Judith’s silent censure, puffed out his cheeks and pressed a couple of buttons on the laptop and Duane Livingstone began his testimony once more, this time under close scrutiny from Pinocchio.
Yes, he did own a hand gun and he had a licence for it; no, he was not outside the JB liquor store in Montgomery at 7pm on Wednesday 7 October 2001; no, he had not been in Montgomery that night at all; in fact, it was some years since he had been to Montgomery.
Greg could see immediately why Judith had chosen this suspect. He was calm and lucid and gave his evidence slowly but thoughtfully. He had an air of quiet intelligence about him. He wondered what Duane Livingstone did for a living; a teacher perhaps. You could see this man commanding the attention of a class.
Judith found she was holding her breath and let it out gently so as not to disturb their collective concentration. All the time Duane was speaking, numbers and symbols were turning and spinning on the right-hand side of the screen at a tremendous pace. Pinocchio was doing his work.
It was almost an hour before the Birmingham Alabama court rose for its recess, at which point Greg paused operations and Judith ordered another coffee. He returned from the kitchen a moment later with a bottle of Merlot in one hand and two glasses.
“Can I tempt you to a little vino instead?” he enquired. “We’re a long way past six o’clock – and I could rustle up some pasta too if you like.”
Judith checked her watch and saw it was almost nine. She sighed deeply.
“I think the alcohol is a must,” she drawled, “but don’t worry about cooking. I’d sooner have a sandwich if you can manage that.”
“OK.” Greg filled up her glass and handed it over with a satisfied smile. “Should we see what Pinocchio has to say about the story so far?”
Judith wavered. Greg’s eagerness to showcase his product was admirable but she was keen, as ever, to respect protocol.
“I don’t think so,” she said, enunciating the words slowly and deliberately. “I think we must give Pinocchio a proper opportunity to review this man’s testimony and that means hearing him through to the end.”
Greg nodded slowly, although his face remained alert and optimistic. “Well. It’s your call. But it’s not like a person. I mean. Pinocchio won’t go back at the end and reassess things, like we do. He simply works on the present, what he sees, and processes it then and there.”
“Quite,” Judith muttered, suddenly deep in thought. “Yes, of course. I see that the machine has those serious limitations. All black or white and instant, no Technicolor, nor even grey for that matter.”
Greg didn’t reply. Where it was a question of true or false, black or white was quite sufficient for him.
“So, you have persuaded me then,” Judith continued. “We should see what Pinocchio says so far. How are the results displayed?”
“Ah. Good question. Just give me a moment. I’ll set it up and whilst it’s printing I’ll get your sandwich. Is cheese and pickle OK?”
Greg carried the laptop to the corner of the room and set it down next to his printer. After a few moments, paper began to feed out, page after page, from the machine. Judith resisted the temptation to collect it and commence her own analysis and spent the time, instead, reviewing her work emails and checking for missed calls. When her dinner arrived, she tucked in with gusto, helping herself to another glass of red wine to wash it down. In the meantime, Greg gathered the paperwork and brought it over to show her.
“Look it does need some work,” he began and then, sensing Judith’s intake of breath, he continued, “but there are lots of options available. The initial printout is a series of numbers and symbols. This represents Pinocchio’s noting down all the movements he’s designed to observe.”
Judith examined the papers and Greg quietly refilled her wine glass. It was like reading nonsense, albeit set out in neat rows, with various patterns of lines and shapes repeated frequently.
“But what I do then is run the initial results back through Pinocchio and he translates them into this.”
He handed Judith a second smaller pile of papers. On the first page there was a large letter “Q” follow
ed by an equally large “A” . Immediately below the letter “A” the word “Truth” appeared. Then a space, then another “Q” and “A” with the word “Lie” following closely after.
“We are nearly there,” Greg explained haltingly. “All you need to do is insert the Qs and As from the interview in the right places and then you can understand what it means. We can watch the video back now and fill them in ourselves. I do have a developer lined up to do this but he wants £25,000 up front.”
“I see.” Judith held the first page of the printout close to her face and allowed her eyes to travel up and down the text. “Yes. What I should have liked to see was the complete text of the question, so, ‘What is your name?’ followed by ‘Duane Livingstone’ followed by ‘Truth’, that sort of thing.”
“Sure. The developer can do all that,” Greg nodded affably.
“But you also need a link back to the underlying results so you can trace what precise movements caused Pinocchio to make its assessment. I know the public won’t care how Pinocchio reached its decision, but anyone you sell it to will want to know how it works.”
“I am not so sure about that,” Greg countered, but Judith bulldozered on regardless.
“Perhaps a summary too,” she added. “You know, at the end it could draw the truthful answers and lies together. Of course, any barrister worth her salt could do that, but it would save time, particularly in a long testimony.”
“You do have a lot of ideas,” Greg commented. Judith lowered the paper to her lap and focussed on Greg again.
“Oh, I am sorry. Am I taking over again? It’s simply not possible for me to take a back seat in any project in which I am involved. Do you still want me on board, do you think?”
“Yes, I do,” Greg laughed companionably. “It’s useful for me to have your views, like a brainstorming session.”
“Well it’s hardly brainstorming if it’s all one-way traffic. Come on, tell me what you’re thinking?” Judith took a gulp from her wine.
“OK. If you’re interested. I’m not bothered about it all looking neat. I think we need to focus on giving Pinocchio a voice.”
“A voice?” Judith could not contain her surprise.
“Yes. The developer says it would be easy to get Pinocchio to announce the results. That would work really well on TV. I know we both keep calling it a ‘he’ but I had rather imagined someone like Joanna Lumley for the role, you know.”
Judith threw her head back and laughed out loud.
“What’s so funny?” Greg joined her, pleased to have such a generous response to what she might have considered a rather silly proposal.
“Oh Greg. I don’t know. I just find the image of Joanna Lumley, AKA Patsy from Absolutely Fabulous, delivering judgement on Duane Livingstone or his successors, totally incongruous.” Greg frowned. Why was Judith not listening to him?
“Well. As I said, that isn’t what I meant,” he countered. “The voiceover would be for TV, reality TV, not for criminals. I know we are using criminals for our research but that’s all. I’m focussing on the public and the public won’t get to see any paper. They’ll just get to hear Pinocchio declare ‘truth’ or ‘lie’ when they’ve made their own guess first, and that’s the point of it.”
Judith collected herself. “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m rather an old sour puss at the moment. I’ll try and get used to the idea of Joanna’s dulcet tones. Perhaps we are leaping ahead in any event. Come on then, let’s first match Pinocchio to Duane’s Qs and As before I die in my seat.”
Greg fiddled with the laptop some more to rewind it to the beginning of the interview. They sat in silence watching the testimony again, with Pinocchio’s assessment of each answer before them. Judith made notes at great speed, stopping only once to drain her glass to the bottom before throwing herself back into the process. At the end, Greg paused the computer and they sat, side by side, weighed down by a heavy blanket of silence.
Judith heaved a huge sigh and then yawned deeply. Now it was after 10.30. Greg stared at her expectantly, hardly daring to hope.
“Very impressive,” she exclaimed, nodding to herself gently as her eyes scanned the responses and she took in their significance. “Very impressive, Greg.” She sat back in her chair and stretched out, rolling each shoulder up and back to release her stiffening neck, before fixing Greg with a solemn stare. “You see, Duane was convicted at trial by 12 good men and true.” Here she paused and swallowed theatrically. “But released on appeal when new evidence came to light. It was proven beyond doubt that another man committed the robbery. As he told the court, Duane was miles away and completely unconnected with the crime. Pinocchio says he was telling the truth when he gave that evidence to the court. Naturally, that’s key.”
“I told you.” Greg was finally warming to Judith. Then his face creased into a sour frown as he pointed to the printout they were sharing. “But, ah, damn, when he said he couldn’t remember where he was – look, he was lying. And here he said he thought that was the day he had gone to visit the minister at church to talk about his daughter’s wedding; that was a lie too.”
“Yes. That is why I am so very impressed.”
“How do you mean?”
“Duane Livingstone was no murderer or robber. He was a family man who happened to look like the culprit and he was put in the frame by a series of events, which I won’t go into now. However, he had one vice; he was a gambler. He had once, five years earlier, lost over $1,000 betting on a football game. His wife had told him she would leave him if he ever gambled again.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Oh, it’s freely available on Google. After his eventual release from prison, a year later, it all came out. He had been placing a bet, in Columbus, 82 miles away from the robbery, at the precise time it occurred. It seems that the betting shop manager knew him and had gone to the police when he saw the trial on TV, but they ignored him until a suspect from another robbery admitted this offence as part of a plea bargain. Duane had never wanted the betting shop manager to give evidence.”
“Because he didn’t want his wife to know about the gambling?” Greg was incredulous.
“Yes. He would rather go to prison for armed robbery and murder than admit to his relapse. Well, I imagine it didn’t quite happen like that. More likely, he thought the Alabama jury might change its habits and treat him fairly and his wife would never need to know.”
For a few moments, Judith and Greg sat in silence. Then Judith rose to her feet, a little unsteady after her three glasses of wine.
“Like I said, Pinocchio was very impressive this time,” she declared earnestly. “So, I accept, it can work, even on grainy images. I suppose then that, whilst I am not a convert, I am now prepared to accept that this is a product of some potential value.”
“Thank you,” Greg smiled at her with a mixture of warmth and relief.
“So we need more interviews,” she continued. “I’ll do my bit to find them.”
“Yes.” Greg would agree to anything, so euphoric was he that Judith, the Titan, had been won over.
“But I think those are all things we can speak about another day,” she added casually.
She stood, tottering slightly, in the centre of the room, reflecting on how she had laughed more this evening than she had in a while. Without a further word, she slipped on her shoes, draped her jacket over her shoulders and sauntered towards the front door, grabbing the remains of her sandwich as she left.
17
JUDITH RUBBED her eyes with the heel of each hand, wriggled up the bed and lay back against the headboard. Martin was working late again and so she had taken the opportunity to retire with her laptop and had spent the best part of the last two hours watching footage from US murder trials. Most of the witnesses had been inarticulate and delivered their evidence staring at their hands; she had made a mental note to ask Greg how Pinocchio would function, if all it could view was the top of a man’s head, but she had jotted down the names of t
hree more whom she could refer on for Pinocchio treatment anyway.
She was about to settle down for the night when her eye came to rest on the newspaper which Martin had cast aside that morning, spread-eagled invitingly across the top of his bedside table. The article catching her attention summarised a BBC Panorama special to be shown that night, focussing on various high-profile British murder cases and the role of police interviews in determining the truth. Suddenly, Judith became animated. She ran downstairs and began to flick manically through the channels on the TV until she located the programme itself, which had only started 10 minutes before.
She sank down into the sofa, congratulating herself on holding out for the real fur scatter cushions which she and Martin had spied on a long weekend in Stockholm, and which had taken months to arrive. In the end, Martin had been forced to drive to Heathrow to have them released through Customs but had agreed with her that the three-hour round trip, including temporary confiscation of his passport, had been well worth it.
At the end of the programme, she switched off the TV, picked up the phone and dialled Greg’s number. It rang five times before a noticeably sleepy voice answered with a cautious, “Hello?”
“Greg. It’s me. I need to tell you something.”
“Ah. Judith. It’s you. It’s uh, late. What will my wife think?”
Judith paused and swivelled around, squinting at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece; an ugly, overly ornate model handed down from Martin’s mother. She had always thought the gift a token of how little her mother-in-law liked her. Now that she looked, it did appear to be close to 11pm – not late by her own standards. But of course, Greg was right; Martin would not have welcomed such an intrusion at that hour, had he been at home. Yet, wait a minute.
