A Tangled Road to Justice

by Olan Thorensen

  She took on a wistful look. “I once got a small taste of real coffee while I was in Trondheim. Afterward, I wished I hadn’t because I’ve never been able to appreciate Astrild ‘coffee’ quite as much.”

  She had set the coffee pot on the table, while she explained that it wasn’t real coffee. More important was what she outlined with a finger in the liquid left on the table surface before she moved on to other customers holding up empty cups.

  Millen casually rubbed out the “1 + 6 + 4” she’d written. I figured it was a message that Bossev had arranged for everyone needed for the trial. The one and six were presumably the judge and the jury. As for the “4,” I guessed it was witnesses. Millen nodded, as he smeared the message.

  When we finished eating, Millen paid via comm transfer—the satellite link for credit transactions seemed to still work. We would eventually have to find out how Cherkoff had managed to leave some links intact while blocking others.

  As we got up from our table, Alda began clearing off the dishes and said in a normal voice, “Oh, before I forget, you asked when we close in the evening. It’s nine o’clock.”

  Since neither of us had asked, she was telling us the trial would begin shortly after nine that evening.

  The rest of the day was “see and be seen.” Aleyna Hamdan was still in town. We passed her twice during the day, as we toured almost every business and introduced ourselves. Neither time did she give any hint we’d already met. As for the businesses, I was surprised how many owners and workers seemed to already know something about us. I suppose Justice was small enough that news of two shootings might as well have been written on the clouds.

  “Smoke signals,” was Millen’s response when I commented on how word had spread so fast. The local news business was run by a Cherkoff man who was unlikely to cover those stories.

  We ate dinner at a larger eating establishment on the other side of town, not wanting to raise suspicions about our connection to Alda by having every meal at her place. Then we pretended to take another walking tour of the town about thirty minutes before nine. However, this time we ducked into an alley on the second block and waited to see if we were followed. Then we walked six blocks down a dark residential street, through a patch of pines (another transplant from Earth) and came to the back of the school complex. Earlier in the day, a boy about ten years old had passed us walking and, without stopping or looking at us, uttered, “Nine o’clock, come to the rear of the school.”

  Millen led the way up the six narrow steps to the back door. I doubled-tapped my wrist comm for the time. We were two minutes late. We entered a dark hallway with doors on both sides. From under one door came the only light. Millen knocked. David Ostell opened it and motioned us inside.

  Classroom desks had been pushed to the back of the room. Judge Felzoni sat behind a small table facing ten wooden chairs in two rows and a single chair between him and the rows. To his right were six chairs occupied by people I assumed made up the jury. I recognized four of the occupants: Alda Nakasomi, Abdul Farr, Ashraf Hayek, and Aleyna Hamdan. In one of those stray thoughts that sometimes crossed my mind, the four first names starting with “A” made me wonder if the jury selection had started alphabetically.

  I raised an eyebrow at the last of the four. Hamdan shrugged at my look. I guess she’d changed her mind about becoming involved, or maybe she’d had a chance to talk to other farmers and got their okay.

  Facing the jury and to the judge’s left were two empty chairs.

  “Ah, Mr. Millen and Mr. Cole,” said Bossev, who sat at the end of one row. He waved us to the two empty chairs. “Now we’re all here. Let me do the introductions for those you may not have met yet. The jury includes Mullam Algebel and Victor Halsberg. Mullam was a member of the regional council and manages the cargo handling at the dirigible field.

  “Victor is the owner of the largest food store in Justice. Or, more correctly, I should say the half-owner in the store. Cherkoff forced Victor to turn over half-ownership under threats to his family and workers.

  “Sitting with me are four witnesses, plus a supporting friend. You know Alfredo Landa. Next to him is his wife, Elena.”

  The woman’s dark hair was a stark contrast to her wan, white face. Her hands were clasped together in her lap. Alfredo had an arm over her shoulder, and his other hand rested on top of hers. Her eyes were red, but she looked straight at us.

  “Sitting next to Elena is Francesca Vallejo. She has no formal part in this trial but will take Elena home after her testimony.

  “You know Dr. Gebran and David Ostell. David will act as the court reporter but will only take notes written on paper. These will be used by the judge and jury as needed. After the trial is over and everything settled, all his notes will be burned. There are also no audio recordings allowed. Despite the people here having committed to taking this risk, it was agreed not to have a record of what is said here tonight and what actions may or may not follow.”

  Bossev turned partway in his chair to indicate a woman in the second row. “The first occupant in this row is Serena Daouk. She’s also a farmer and has no role but is here as an observer, as part of the agreement to have Aleyna serve on the jury. The second occupant is Orneel Ahbutan, who I understand had a slight disagreement with you about staying in his hotel. Orneel is a witness, albeit a reluctant one.”

  The rest of the chairs were empty.

  Bossev turned forward again. “Now I’ll hand it over to Judge Felzoni. From this point on, it’s his show.”

  Felzoni rapped the knuckles of his right hand on the tabletop. “Consider this the official opening of this unusual trial. The procedure will be simple. I will state the charges against Niko Ferantis and Yode Neliseranda.”

  It was the first time I’d heard the names of the two men.

  “I have a list of four proposed witnesses,” said Felzoni. “Elena Landa, Alfredo Landa, Jahd Gebran, and Orneel Ahbutan. We will hear from the witnesses, then anyone can ask questions. When questions are complete, the jury will move to another room to deliberate, if they think it necessary. If the verdict is not guilty, the proceedings will be closed, and everyone will go their own way. If, on the other hand, the verdict is guilty, then I, Mayor Bossev, Edgar Millen, and Everett Cole will confer on the appropriate and feasible punishment. We had previously thought the final decision would involve only Mayor Bossev and Mr. Millen, but I believe I need to participate. Plus, I perceive Mr. Millen and Mr. Cole may have different views on important issues, and we’d like to get both of their input. Unless there are last minute comments or questions, we will begin.”

  The judge looked around for anyone to respond. No one did.

  “All right, then. The charges are that Niko Ferantis and Yode Neliseranda raped and beat Elena Landa and murdered Willie Lefont. The first witness is Elena Landa.”

  Alfredo Landa gave his wife’s shoulder a squeeze and took his other hand from atop hers. Francesca Vallejo whispered something to her and patted her leg. She wiped almost angrily at her eyes, straightened her torso, and walked to the single chair facing the judge, with the jury to her left and Millen and me to her right.

  “Elena Landa, take your time, and tell us what happened on the night in question,” said Felzoni.

  “I was working . . .” Her voice was so low, I could barely make out the words. She stopped as her voice cracked, cleared her throat, and began again.

  “I was working in the store just before closing. Alfredo had already gone home two hours earlier to be with the children and start dinner. Usually, there are very few customers that time of night, and we only stay open because I keep the business’s books and do orders, so it’s easy to do those and take care of any customers. Willie was in the storage building behind the store, arranging the latest shipment from Trondheim.

  “I was in the back room we use as an office when someone called out if anyone was there—a man’s voice I didn’t recognize. I had been concentrating so hard on the books, I hadn’t noticed it w
as a few minutes after nine o’clock, so I should have already locked up for the night.”

  Her last words were laden with bitterness and regret.

  “When I went into the display area, I saw two men I suspected were some of Cherkoff’s. They made me uneasy, and I guess I made the mistake of trying to get them out of the store, instead of just finding out if they were there to buy something. Well, maybe buy. Cherkoff’s men often took things without paying. That stopped when Cherkoff forced us to give him half ownership in the store.

  “Anyway, when I tried to tell them the store was closed, they got angry. One of them grabbed me and said something about ‘teaching this uppity bitch a lesson.’ That’s when I got really scared.”

  She swallowed several times, her hands clenching and unclenching.

  “I heard him tell the other one to lock the front door, and then he pulled me into the office and started tearing at my clothes. I fought, but he hit me, and I couldn’t breathe. The next thing I knew, I was on the floor with one of the men on top of me and the other holding my arms. Every time I struggled, they hit me again. Finally, I couldn’t fight anymore, and they . . . did it. One after the other.”

  She stopped. Her face had taken on a stony, stoic expression. Her hands trembled, but her voice was firm.”

  “Elena, I’m sorry to have to ask, but you’ll have to be explicit in naming what they did to you,” said the judge. “More than ‘doing it.’”

  “They raped me!” she declared in a loud voice. “Those two men came into our store, beat me, and raped me!”

  “Did you know these two men before?”

  “I’d seen them around town but didn’t know their names and had never spoken with them.”

  “And you did nothing to encourage them,” said Felzoni, his voice leaving no doubt what answer he expected.

  “No,” was all she said.

  “And what happened then?”

  “The second man was still doing . . . it, when Willie came in. I could hear him yell for them to stop, then more yelling, and I looked over to see the first man grab Willie and stab him several times . . . I don’t know how many. Willie never said a word or yelled or anything. Almost like he didn’t believe what was happening. Then the man with the knife pushed Willie away to fall on the floor. He never moved again.

  “Finally, when the second man was . . . finished, they started kicking me and calling me names like whore and bitch. I tried to roll away, but they kept doing it until I blacked out. I don’t know anything else that happened until I woke up in the hospital.”

  She stopped talking and sat staring at the judge. He cleared his throat and looked at the jury, then us.

  “Any questions for this witness?”

  “Do you believe you would recognize the two men if you saw them again?” asked Millen.

  “I would, and I have seen them around Justice several times since then. They even came into the store once. I saw them enter, and I went home before they saw me—I think.”

  “So, you think you would recognize an image of them?” I asked. No matter what other evidence there was, I wanted to know that a victim could pick out specific people. We wouldn’t have a lineup, but I wanted her to make a direct identification.

  “If it was a reasonably clear image, then yes, I know I would recognize them. For one thing, one had red hair and two parallel scars on the right side of his cheek.”

  Felzoni waited for more questions. There were none. All the jurors looked either angry or uncomfortable. I suspected at least some of them had heard the story before, although perhaps not in this much detail.

  “If there are no more questions, the witness is excused.”

  Alfredo rushed to his wife and embraced her, then gently led her to Francesca, who put an arm around her friend. They left through the back door.

  “The next witness is Alfredo Landa,” announced Felzoni.

  Elena’s husband forcefully dropped into the witness chain as if to quash the words that had come before. Elena had been stoic, but Alfredo’s red face and body language left no doubt of his rage.

  “Alfredo, tell the court what you witnessed that night,” said Felzoni.

  “Elena was late coming home. As she said, the store closes at nine, but sometimes she spends a little time cleaning up or finishing something in the books that she wanted fresh in her mind. Still, when it got to after ten, I went to the store to see if there was some problem. That’s when I found her and Willie in the office.”

  He went on to describe her injuries and torn clothing and Willie’s body. The recounting was straightforward, though I imagined what was going through his mind.

  When Landa finished, Hayek asked a question. “Alfredo, you told me you later got a message from Cherkoff.”

  Landa cursed and spat to one side. “A note came saying what happened was regrettable and that in compensation, I didn’t have to share the next two months’ proceeds with him. As if that canceled everything out!”

  Felzoni rapped his tabletop. “I take that to mean he acknowledged what happened. We’ll move on.”

  The third witness was Dr. Gebran. He described being called to the hospital after Alfredo brought his wife in. He described a body covered in bruises, two broken ribs, a broken collarbone, three broken fingers, a dislocated shoulder, tears and bruises of the genitals consistent with forcible vaginal entry, and the presence of semen from two different men—he had sent the samples to a laboratory in Oslo.

  When Elena first regained consciousness, she had told a nurse what happened. The nurse relayed the information to Gebran. Although the nurse was not called as a witness, for worry about keeping the trial covert, Felzoni accepted Gebran’s memory of what the nurse had told him. It meshed with what other witnesses had said.

  The owner of the Blue River Hotel was the final witness. I was curious how he’d been involved. He obviously didn’t want to be there. I also wondered what tactics had been used on him.

  “Ahbutan, tell the court what you overheard,” ordered Felzoni.

  “Well . . . uh . . . I had been in the Starliner Bar and went outside to get some fresh air—”

  “Ahbutan!” interrupted the judge. “You are required to give accurate testimony and not make changes for whatever reason. Would you care to start over?”

  The witness licked his lips. “Uh . . . I guess I had had too much to drink and went outside to get some air.”

  Felzoni’s grunt conveyed volumes. Ahbutan needed no interpretation.

  “To be completely accurate, I had had way too much and passed out on the ground near the bar behind some bushes where I had gone to throw up. When I awoke, there were voices. I didn’t see who it was, except it was two men, one of whom did most of the talking. My head was spinning, so I was waiting for it to clear. The man kept complaining that they didn’t have enough money for a visit to Freda Weltsman’s place. The other one—”

  “Explain to anyone not familiar with Weltsman’s establishment what it is,” said Felzoni.

  Ahbutan looked surprised, as if he thought the requested information was widely known. “Why . . . it’s the only brothel in Justice.”

  I wasn’t surprised. Even on Earth, laws dealing with sexual preferences and activities tended to be locally set and enforced. I had no clue how colonized worlds dealt with such issues.

  “Continue,” said the judge.

  “Anyway, my attention drifted in and out, but the talker of the two started saying maybe they should pay another visit to the storekeeper’s wife. They both laughed and talked about—”

  Ahbutan nervously glanced at Alfredo Landa, whose expression would have been fatal if eyes were weapons.

  “Well . . . yes . . . uh, talking about what they’d done to her and wishing they’d taken more time with her before stomping her so much. They moved on, and I couldn’t hear anything more.”

  The hotel owner shifted in the witness chair and leaned forward as if looking to escape as soon as possible.

  “Did you r
ecognize them?” asked Felzoni.

  “Not from where I was and in the dark, but they used names. I can’t be sure, but I think I heard something like Yahd, Yud, or something like that. Another name was Nick, I think.”

  “Could they have been Yode and Niko?” asked the judge.

  “Niko? Yes, that was it. The other one could be Yode, but I’m not sure of that one.”

  “Any questions for the witness?” asked Felzoni.

  “Yes,” came a rumbling voice from the jury. Ashraf Hayek had raised a hand. “By chance, did you notice if one of the two men had something odd about his voice?”

  “Odd?” replied Ahbutan.

  “Did it sound like a normal voice, or was something different about it?”

  “Well, at times I suppose it sounded like the words were . . . I don’t know how to describe it . . . maybe whistling?”

  “Ah, yes,” Gebran piped up. “Now I remember. There was a patient about six months ago who came to the hospital with a gunshot wound. He claimed it was by accident, but he was accompanied by another man who I recognized as one of Cherkoff’s men. When I treated the wound, I was curious and asked him about his voice and a scar on his throat. When he spoke, it sounded like wind going through cracks in a wall overlaying the tones of his voice. He said it was from a fight many years ago in Motumbo. I didn’t think about it again until just now.”

  “Since you treated him,” said Felzoni, “you must have his name.”

  “Ferantis. Niko Ferantis.”

  Grunts or sighs emanated from what seemed to be everyone in the room, except Millen, me, Felzoni, and the witness.

  “That’s what I was getting to,” said Hayek. “I had a run-in with Ferantis a while back. He’s a shitty asshole and backed off when he saw I wasn’t intimidated, but I remember that voice and its odd undertones. He runs around with a second asshole named Neliseranda.”

  “Any more questions?” asked Felzoni. There were none.