“Remember not to talk,” he says to us. “Not one single word. I do the talking unless the judge asks you a direct question, and if he does, keep it brief. A few words, no more. And call him ‘sir.’”
I nod, even more anxious. Mr. Pataky’s presence here does little to reassure me. On the other hand, I know that if I were here alone, I’d be terrified.
Mr. Pataky goes back to the tables. From the animated expressions, I can tell that the attorneys are talking to one another via Navi. And I’m guessing that it’s not about the cases. There’s too much chuckling and smiling. These people are trading humorous anecdotes. While we sit here with our lives at risk of being taken away, they’re exchanging quips. I hate them.
Another door opens, and a couple of women enter and sit at chairs one step lower than the judge’s chair.
The bailiff calls out, “All rise.”
Everyone stands up, including me.
The judge enters in his black robes. He looks intimidating, too. He’s old, with wrinkles on top of wrinkles and outrageously bushy eyebrows fighting with reading glasses. His expression is as serious as death.
As he walks in, a young woman in a suit—looking mildly embarrassed—recites, “Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye. The United States District Court of the Northern District of Georgia is now in session, the Honorable Judge Elliot Keith presiding. We admonish all who have an interest in the business of this court to draw near and pay heed.”
“Have a seat,” Judge Keith says as he sits down and makes himself comfortable. I hear that his voice is amplified, and then I notice the microphones suspended from the ceiling in strategic locations around the courtroom.
The judge’s voice is cantankerous. “Don’t forget, there is no Navi use in my courtroom. You’ll get contempt of court if I catch you, so either be smart or be sneaky.”
There are a few smiles from the attorneys.
“The United States versus Phoebe Bernhart,” the judge says, looking up over his reading glasses.
The sound of my name is like an electric shock. I leap to my feet, my heart instantly in palpitations. Mr. Pataky approaches a lectern in front of the judge’s bench and gestures to me to join him. Another man approaches at the same time but stands off to the side. I don’t recognize him.
“Don’t talk,” Mr. Pataky mouths, and I shoot him a glare.
I’m breaking into a sweat.
Judge Keith shuffles paper printouts. Then he looks down at the two men. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
They return the greeting crisply and confidently, standing tall. These are two men who seem to have everything under control. No big deal. Of course, their lives and their freedom don’t depend on what happens next. My heart is hammering.
“Twelve counts of cybercrimes,” the judge says to the other man. “What is the government requesting for bail, Mr. Harren?”
“Your Honor, this is an important case. Ms. Mila Bremer, seated there, is part of the same case.” He gestures to Mila, whose expression remains flat.
“Then bring her up here,” the judge says irritably.
As the bailiff escorts her up, the judge asks, “Mr. Pataky, do you represent them both?”
“Yes, Your Honor, I do,” Mr. Pataky says.
The judge makes a sour face but gestures at Mr. Harren. “Go on.”
“These two defendants represent a danger to society on a massive scale,” Mr. Harren says and then pauses dramatically. The judge purses his lips and looks at him attentively.
“Your Honor,” Mr. Harren goes on, “the FBI executed a warrant and arrested Ms. Bernhart and her co-conspirator Ms. Bremer on direct evidence of their hacking into the Navis of five people and then into a national database of Navi IDs.”
He pauses dramatically again, letting the judge draw his own conclusions about the connection between these two acts. “Ms. Bremer is a loner, an anti-social computer programmer with an axe to grind against society because she is a Nonnie—someone who is unable to have a Navi installed. She is outside of society, and she knows it, and she resents it.
“The FBI intervened before they could execute any cyberterrorism they may have had planned, but it’s clear that their capabilities represent a serious security concern for our nation. Bail must be set high enough to keep them away from computers and internet access so that they cannot carry out their full plan.”
Judge Keith picks up his pen. “And what is that figure, Mr. Harren, if you’d care to get to my actual question?”
Mr. Harren shuffles his feet. “Yes, Your Honor, I’m sorry. Given the tremendous likelihood that these defendants could carry out substantial cyberterrorism while they’re out, we’re asking that bail be set at one million dollars apiece.”
Ten
I bite my tongue in an effort not to speak. I look pleadingly at Mr. Pataky, but he’s looking at the wall.
The judge makes a note and then turns to Mr. Pataky expectantly.
Mr. Pataky lets out a breath and then says calmly, “Your Honor, these charges are nonsense. What Mr. Harren’s summary fails to include is the fact that the five people consented.”
The judge shoots a glance back to Mr. Harren. “Is that true?”
Mr. Harren replies smoothly. “I’m not aware of any evidence for that claim, but even if it were, the mere fact of hacking into the Navis constitutes a crime. It is a non-consentable offense.”
“Your Honor, I would be interested in hearing Mr. Harren explain what court of law ruled that the troubleshooting of a Navi by an authorized technician could not be consented to. Obviously, there must be precedent, or surely my honorable opponent would not have stated it as fact. I’d merely like to know what that precedent is so that I can read it for myself.”
The judge glares at Mr. Pataky. “Are you telling me that Ms. Bernhart was merely troubleshooting Navis?”
“I’ve submitted the consent forms to the office of the attorney general and to your court, Your Honor. The fact is that the people in question are all patients at Browning Charity Hospital. All of them are suffering from a particular neurological malady, and they specifically consented to having their Navis scrutinized by the defendants in order to determine whether the Navis might have some previously undetected problem. My clients were helping these patients. One of them is even Ms. Bernhart’s youngest brother. And Ms. Bernhart is a nurse.”
“A fired nurse,” Mr. Harren clarifies. “Terminated only a week ago specifically due to this so-called research, which her hospital had forbidden as a potential violation of the rights of human subjects.”
“Not only is Ms. Bernhart a nurse,” Mr. Pataky says with a patient tone, “but Ms. Bremer is a licensed and bonded Navi technician approved by the hospital to carry out this research with the consent of the patients and the supervision of a Dr. Kalyani Abadi.”
He sighs, and his tone becomes weary. “Your Honor, these two young women have no previous criminal record. While Ms. Bremer is, in fact, a loner, there is no evidence that I’m aware of that suggests that she has any ill will toward anyone. Merely being a loner, is, I hope, not a crime. She just happens to be a cat person rather than a people person. She has been gainfully employed as a computer programmer here in Atlanta for almost ten years, and she supports her elderly mother, who lives in a skilled-care facility.
“And while it’s true that she doesn’t have a Navi—as someone who eschews the use of a Navi himself, Your Honor, you know that she can still be a part of society.”
Mr. Pataky shoots a sly look at the prosecutor, who presses his lips together.
“And Ms. Bernhart here is an upstanding citizen of her community. She has been working as a registered nurse here in Atlanta for over five years. She has hundreds of friends with whom she communicates daily. She has a dog she time-shares with her elderly neighbor, Mrs. Jones.
“These are ordinary people who, at the absolute worst, may have accidentally tread where the law forbids anyone to step, entirely out of their zeal to help. They’ll face these char
ges in good faith. They have no criminal intent, and they’ll cause no trouble to anyone while out on bail. Your Honor, we respectfully request that we allow these two young women to return home to their dog and their cat, with bail set at ten thousand dollars for the both of them.”
Both men look at the judge and wait. Despite my sick stomach and pounding heart, I admire their lack of animosity. They’re civilized about this.
“Gentlemen, this is an interesting story, and I want to hear all the details in a hearing in a few weeks. I want some of these supposed victims up here as witnesses. One of you see to that. In the meantime, I think a few restrictions ought to render these ladies safe enough for society.
“Defendants are not to interact with any of the five patients, are not to approach that hospital, and are not to touch a computer. Ms. Bernhart’s Navi is to be disconnected from all forms of communication. The defendants are not to leave the city. Bail is set at twenty thousand dollars each.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” both men murmur, and we step away from the lectern.
My stomach clenches with sudden misery. Okay, we should be able to handle that bail amount, probably with a bondsman’s help for me, but… with no communications and no computers, how the hell are we going to help Jamie?
Mila remains as calm as ever. As we go back through the doors into the hallway, she says in an aside to Mr. Pataky, “I’ll pay the bail.” He reminds her that we can get a bondsman to supply most of the money on loan, but she says she wants to handle it herself.
She signs a piece of paper that will transfer the money, we both sign our releases with the terms of the bail, and then we recover our personal items and clothes and get changed.
But Mila gets one exciting new fashion accessory: an ankle bracelet. “Don’t try to leave the city or remove the bracelet,” a disinterested court employee tells her. “You’ll have cops on you like buzzards circling roadkill.”
Nice visual.
They tell me the same thing, but I don’t need a bracelet. I have a Navi with a GPS in it, and all Navis have auto-installed tracking software that the authorities can activate with court approval. So my ankle bracelet is in my brain.
I kind of wish I’d never known that.
They also make good on the judge’s decision for my Navi to be disconnected from all forms of communication. It feels like a death knell.
Even though I’m free, I’m hopelessly out of touch. I can’t talk to my Collective even to let them know that I’m out of jail. I’m sure there’s some way to talk to my Collective via a physical computer, but I was told not to do that, either, even if I knew how. And yet my Collective is the least of my worries right now.
As soon as we see Mr. Pataky again, I say, “The first thing we have to do is get Jamie’s Navi shut down.”
“I’m hungry,” he answers.
We both stare at him. Food is the last thing on my mind.
“There’s a cafeteria downstairs in the basement. Let’s go down there and talk so that I don’t have to talk while I’m starving.”
“Fine,” I mutter, and we head toward the elevator.
“You can’t have anything to do with your brother,” Mr. Pataky says as we walk. “You heard what the judge said? You’re prohibited from interacting with any of the five patients. You have something called a ‘no contact order as a condition of bond.’ You signed it, remember?”
“I know,” I say through gritted teeth. “But someone has to do something. So if I can’t do it, who can? Isn’t there some sort of guardian thing?” I dimly remember that coming up with some of my neuro patients in the past.
“Family members,” he says as we wait for the elevator. “His parents would be best.”
“Do they have to appear in court?” I ask.
“Yes. There’s a hearing process.”
I shake my head. “They’ll never do it. It’s a long story as to why, but it’s not going to happen. Who else can do it?”
We get on the elevator.
“Wait a minute, what am I missing?” Mr. Pataky asks. “Why doesn’t he put in the request himself? He has a right to direct his own—”
“He’s been involuntarily committed,” I answer. “He’s in the neuro ward.”
“Ah,” Mr. Pataky says.
We get off the elevator and go into a cold, dimly lit cafeteria not much more cheerful than the cell I just got out of. But I’m still glad to be free again. For the moment.
“Then the court probably appointed the facility as his guardian during the confinement hearing,” our attorney says. “They’ll need to make that decision.”
“Okay, but listen to me.” I’m getting frustrated and short tempered. And, I realize, hungry. “Someone has to ask the hospital to do it, and I can’t. So who can?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Mr. Pataky says. “You can ask. You’re allowed to call the hospital and ask, so go ahead.”
“Consider it done, then,” I say. “Mila, will you get me a sandwich and chips?”
She nods, and I go looking for a phone. I soon realize that I have no idea where to find one, since I’ve been making calls exclusively via Navi for ten years. I ask around until a security guard lifts a phone from behind his counter and puts it in front of me. I do at least know how to dial the numbers.
Ten minutes later, I’m storming to their table with tears welling up in my eyes.
“Jamie’s having seizures and hallucinations and blackouts. And they won’t take out his Navi.”
“Why not?” Mr. Pataky demands as he chews his sandwich.
“They say that they don’t feel it would be in his best interest. In his best interest. He’s dying. It’s killing him, and they won’t take it out.” I try to stop my chin from trembling, but I can’t.
“Did you explain the situation?” Mr. Pataky asks.
“Of course I explained!” I shout. People are staring at me, and I don’t care. I wipe my face even as I sob, “Are you stupid? Of course I explained. They won’t listen to me. And I don’t have any proof. Mila, can we prove this?”
Mila shakes her head slowly. “They took my laptop. I’ve lost all the evidence I had.” She slumps back in her chair. “I should have thought to back up my hard drive. But I didn’t…”
I turn to Mr. Pataky. “Can we ask them to look at the laptop for the proof?”
“Why would they listen to you?” he asks. “You’re criminal defendants. Felony criminal defendants.”
I look for a wall to punch. Luckily for my hands, there isn’t one nearby.
“Quit pacing,” Mr. Pataky says. “Eat your sandwich. It’s faux chicken.”
“I cannot possibly eat my sandwich,” I say, although I finally do sit down. “Jamie’s brain is being destroyed by that thing. We have to do something. What can we do?”
Mr. Pataky eats another potato chip thoughtfully. “I can ask to become his guardian ad litem. Then I can put in the request. But I’ll have to ask you to put me on retainer. Guardianship costs are difficult to estimate up front. It depends on whether it’s contested and a lot of other factors.”
“How much?” Mila asks.
“Two thousand to start with. We’ll go from there. Do you have another five or ten thousand more if it comes to that?”
I glare, but Mila answers coolly. “I do.”
I could have kissed her.
“Thank God for you,” I say with utter sincerity. She tries to smile reassuringly, and I reach out my hand to her. She takes it and squeezes it gently. She feels like a lifeline, like she might keep me anchored in sanity.
“Then I’ll put in the request for the guardianship hearing. I’ll classify it as an emergency request.” He looks at his watch. “It’s a Friday, so they’ll do it this afternoon. Hold on.” He sits back and eats chips slowly while his gaze flutters around his display.
I grab a handful of napkins and clean myself up. “You have to take care of this,” I say to Mr. Pataky. “It’s important.”
“I understand,” he
replies.
I try to eat my sandwich, but it settles like lead in my stomach.
“So, what else do we need to discuss?” Mr. Pataky asks. He sounds like he’s about ready to head off, and I raise a hand.
“Wait, wait,” I say. “We have no idea what’s going to happen to us.”
We have a lengthy and frustrating conversation in which we try to convince Mr. Pataky that we’re being framed and he tries to convince us that it doesn’t matter. He tells us that all we should worry about right now is beating these specific charges, and he thinks we have a good chance, given what we’ve told him and the paperwork he’s requested from the hospital.
His only concern is the charge that Mila hacked into the national database of IDs. When he asks if she has a ready defense for that part, she looks away and says no.
In the end, he says that all the stuff about HAD and what we’ve learned about what the Navis are doing is all well and good, but, “You’re going to have to prove it. So, good luck.” Then he gets up to leave.
“Aren’t you supposed to help us?” I demand. “Aren’t you our attorney?”
He shakes his head wearily. “I’m defending you from the charges you’re up against. That’s what I can do. Please understand me—I would love to help you prove that HAD is a conspiracy, but I would also love to do an adequate job for the other twenty-seven clients that I’m defending right now, and at some point, I have to go home to my wife, or she’ll divorce me. And I don’t want to get a divorce.
“I’m happy to answer your legal questions, and I’m happy to make discovery demands and do all those other things that attorneys do. I’m even happy to hire an investigator or expert witness to make your case if that seems to be the thing to do—if you can pay for it, as that would be an expense not covered by my fee. But you have to tell me what evidence we’re chasing and where to go get it. If the government has evidence you need to prove your defense or anyone else does, you tell me, and I’ll get it. With a court order if need be. But I don’t have time to go down rabbit holes. You do that. You give me the path, and I’ll walk down it for you. You got it?”
Absence of Mind Page 18
