Gabriel's Stand (35 page)

John Owen quickly chafed at his gilded cage captivity. His best attempts to retrofit his hotel suite with secure, encrypted communications were immediately thwarted by federal agents. After an elaborate effort, a privacy zone was established in the hotel living area, but John remained so wary of eavesdropping that a courier system was used for anything more than small talk. His excursions were tailed by US Marshalls in black SUV's. His walks were tailed by conspicuous agents. John's outings were widely varied in order to allow brief moments during which sensitive messages could be exchanged. But Edge Medical and Vector Pharmaceutical were out of reach. John made no effort to contact his remote businesses lest the G-A-N attempt sabotage. Meantime Commission agents and G-A-N operatives tried in vain to track down the source of the illegal medicines that were trickling past the embargo.

But John's contacts with Gabriel, though indirect, were frequent—facilitated by a dozen contract security employees working for Dornan. Video messages were smuggled back and forth using tiny—but very illegal—flash drives. A tense routine had set in, punctuated by sporadic trips to the law firm. A formal trial date had not been set and John was seething with impatience.

Finally, Dr. John Owen found himself sitting in the law offices of Borah Wiggins at the edge of Pioneer Square, near old downtown Seattle. Apparently, there was news. All of the routine pretrial motions had been submitted in the case. A date thirty days hence had been selected as a possible trial date, but no one thought the trial could actually start until the first of the year. But Owen had unexpectedly been notified to appear in court the next morning. Dornan stood watching from the doorway, glowering.

“The U.S. Attorney called,” Phil Alder said. He was second-chair counsel, having recently resigned his position as an Assistant U.S. Attorney in New York. “We are to expect new charges tomorrow. The Grand Jury may add a genetic engineering count.”

“You said this is about my hand?” Owen asked, flexing his new fingers. He exchanged glances with Dornan who gave John an “I told you so” look.

Alder nodded in agreement and Wiggins scowled. Up close, the lead defense attorney was even a larger man than he appeared in the media. Preternaturally shaggy and red faced, he was barely contained in his old fashioned three piece suit. Wiggins sprawled next to the younger, more primly dressed Alder. The younger man sat behind a desk while Wiggins commanded the space around it.

“I just don't get it. Edge Medical had legitimately developed and applied fully lawful gene technology,” John said. He sat in the chair across from Alder's desk. Wiggins and Dornan continued to stand. “There was no retro-order then in effect. Right? And I only used it on myself, assuming all risks.”

“Well you did beat the formal Retro date by a clean three months,” Wiggins drawled, pulling up a chair. “We'll pass over the government's point that it became a crime not to surrender your entire lab at that time. We are evidently operating in Alice in Wonderland jurisprudence here. It seems that
ex post facto
is allowed in their universe. The real crime, from their twisted point of view, is that you used the technology on yourself when you knew or should have known that it was soon to be illegal.” Wiggins wagged a finger at the sky. “They're saying it was selfish of you. Elitist.” Wiggins gave an exaggerated shrug, as if to say, “Welcome to the funny farm.” Owen was shaking his head in bewilderment.

“Re-growing a severed limb is now a felony punishable by death,” Alder said. His tone was clinical. He might have been talking about a contract clause.

John was deeply shocked—he looked at Dornan, then Wiggins, a look of betrayal on his face. Even Wiggins appeared shocked. John slammed a fist on Alder's desk. “That is outrageous. There was no talk of the death penalty when I agreed to come here.”

“They didn't have all of the evidence then,” Alder said. “And they haven't actually said they're going for death.”

John glanced at Dornan, his eyes flashing; then he turned on Alder, his anger barely under control. “You're implying they don't keep their promises. Then I should never have surrendered, should I?”

“Well, it is too late now,” Alder said evenly.

John stood, furious at Alder's detachment. “So I am being prosecuted for self-administering high tech medicine to undo the damage caused by the same terrorists who run this government!” He was seething.

Wiggins also stood, trying to position himself between the two men. “They are winning no prizes for common sense and decency, John. We'll need to study this carefully. I'm sure there's an approach.”

“But it was the clear intent of the Treaty,” Alder added, “to outlaw this kind of technology, and now they see you as openly defying the Commission's regulatory power. I have the detailed regulations right here.” Alder held up the file like a prize fish.

“Don't bother,” John said. “Tell me one thing, please. Just how much additional risk is there for me? Can I assume that without the physical evidence… I mean, how could they
prove
this new genetic engineering charge?”

“Good point, Dr. Owen,” Wiggins said. “Only the G-A-N terrorists can establish that your hand was cut off. The emergency room visit before you left the country was under a different name. You have given no statements and you don't have to testify.”

“That's what I was thinking,” John said. “No hand. No proof.”

There was a short pause. Alder seemed to squirm behind his desk. “But they do have your hand,” he said finally.

“What!” John was ready to strangle Alder.

Wiggins touched John lightly on the shoulder. “God damn it, Phillip, when the hell did you find this out?”

“A little while ago,” Alder said defensively. “Borah, you were on the phone. Dr. Owen, I am afraid they do have your hand,” he said. He looked down at his desk. “Or a good part of it. It's yours according to the DNA. They seized your old hospital records last week in Seattle and got your DNA profile.” He finally looked up. “I guess someone has kept your severed hand in a refrigerator all this time.”

“Good crap,” Wiggins said. “I suppose they'll be wanting the rest of his body, now.”

“That ‘someone' would be the terrorists who tied me up, Borah. So my kidnappers are cooperating with the government? Is cooperating with terrorism is now government policy?”

“We don't know that,” Alder said.

“The hell we don't,” Wiggins growled. He was now as furious at Alder as Dr. Owen was, managing only a precarious hold on his composure.

“At least,” John offered, “the jury will listen.”

Wiggins gave Alder a bleak stare. “What is that look?” John asked.

“Ah, Dr. Owen,” Alder said, pausing to take a breath, “…there will be no jury in this case.”

John froze for a moment, while the import of that statement sunk in. “No
jury
did you say?” His tone was suddenly very controlled.

“Correct.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are not legally entitled to one.”

“You'd better be goddamn well joking,” John bit out the words.

“You didn't warn Dr. Owen?” Wiggins put his cup down with a loud clank. Coffee spilled across Alder's desk.

“I'm sorry, I assumed you knew, Dr. Owen,” Alder said. “In
Technology Licensing Commission vs. Google
, the 9th Federal Circuit Court of Appeal held that there is no jury trial for Treaty-based violations.”

“What about the United States Constitution, the Bill of Rights?” Owen asked. Alder shrugged.

“Under the Treaty clause of Article Six,” Alder explained, “the provisions of the Treaty have superseded all inconsistent constitutional provisions.”

“This is right out of Kafka,” John said. He was about to walk out.

“What is Kafka?” Alder said.

“Alder, it may not be that clear cut,” Wiggins said. “Not in a capital case, not on the right to a jury.”

Then Alder pulled a book down from the shelf, and thumbing open a page. “All treaties made, or which shall be made, under the authority of the United States, shall be the supreme law of the land; and the judges in every state shall be bound thereby, anything in the Constitution or laws of any state notwithstanding.” He looked up. “That is from Article Six of the Constitution.”

Wiggins walked over and took the book from Alder. He looked straight at Dr. Owen. “I don't happen to agree with the Google decision. And I don't think it applies to felony cases. I believe that Google was wrongly decided. And that Court of Appeal panel is still subject to review by the United States Supreme Court…last time I looked. I have argued and will continue to argue until my last dying breath that the framers of our constitution intended only to give treaty provisions supremacy over state laws and state constitutions, not over federal laws and certainly not the Bill of Rights. But,” he closed the book with a snap, “I wasn't exactly consulted, was I? Still, I am of the opinion that the Supreme Court will
eventually
overturn the Google case.”

“But Judge Wandright won't,” Alder said, “and you are counting on a five-to-four vote on the Supreme Court going our way on the Treaty question some day in the distant future, when at least one of the Justices is under pressure from the Commission to resign.”

Wiggins sighed. “My young colleague is right on one thing. We have a trial judge who won't buck the government on this. Judge Wandright is bound to follow the Google case on the jury question. He will not empanel a jury.”

“And Wandright has already denied a jury in a Retro Order case affecting Microsoft,” Alder added.

Wiggins shot Alder a warning glance. “We've got our work cut out for us. I'm sorry. John, I know this is a lot to take in at once. And it seems—” Wiggins shot a glance at Alder that would have blistered paint, “—that I wasn't fully informed about a certain call from the prosecutor this morning. So that means that we need to get right to work immediately. I'll want to see if I can get a panel of the Court of Appeal to take up this jury question before the trial begins. And there are other pressing matters. So if you'll excuse us.” Wiggins placed his arm on Dr. Owen's shoulder. Dornan stepped forward with a glare. Wiggins let go, and John strode to the exit.

John was sick. “When will you know more?”

“I'll get back to you very soon. Now, don't worry about tomorrow. What time, Phil?”

“Nine-thirty.”

“We can meet anything they throw at us then. And we'll have plenty of time before trial. So I'll see you at 9:20 right outside Judge Wandright's Department? That is number fourteen on the fifteenth floor.” John nodded, his jaws clenched. He and Dornan left the office without saying another word.

When the door closed behind Dr. Owen, Wiggins turned on Alder, his face redder than usual. “Alder, why the fuck didn't you let me in on your latest news this morning? Why didn't I know about this
before
Owen arrived?”

“Sorry. You were on the other line at the time.”

“Yes I was. Why didn't you make a point of telling me before we let Owen in the door? We have one pissed off client and I don't blame the man. Maybe they did things differently in the New York U.S. Attorney's office. But if you and I are going to work together to save this man, you've got to be on my team. That means what I know what you know. No more surprises. Clear?”

“Clear.” Alder's tone was matter of fact.

Wiggins glared at Alder. “They're sure as hell going to try to put our boy in lock up when this new charge is filed.”

“Do you think?”

“Alder, sometimes you amaze me. Of course they are. They've already violated the custody agreement once by the last minute substitution of a version of house arrest for the promise of unlimited free movement that John relied on when he surrendered. The death penalty charge makes this a new ball game.”

“The penalty will be overturned on appeal.”

“Now you're confident? Maybe. Maybe not. But it does give me an opportunity to attempt to get a panel of the Circuit Court to revisit the jury question before trial. So while I am working on that little matter, I want a brief from you on the custody issues by the end of the day.”

“You'll have it.”

“And I want to find a way to disqualify Wandright from this case.” Alder looked surprised. “What?” Wiggins bellowed. “You didn't do that sort of thing when you worked for the other side?” Alder didn't answer. “This is a no-holds-barred battle for a man's life, Alder. When can I expect a brief on that question?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Hell no. In my fat hands by four this afternoon. Get your well-paid law clerks to do something useful for a change.”

Alder was flushing. “Four, then,” he said with forced civility.

“Thank you. Now you better call Owen's people and warn them of what to expect. This will get ugly.”

“Of course.” Alder paused, as if thinking. “What if he decides to run?” Alder's face was opaque.

Wiggins shook his head. “
Flight
? John Owen? Good God, Phil. You know you can't even suggest that. It's our job to defend this man, not set him up to get killed in an escape.”

The next morning, just inside the courthouse, Dornan stood face to face with a U.S. Marshal. Dornan, balding and fit, was still imposing in his post, post-middle age.
After last week
, he vowed,
I won't be counting the damn birthdays anymore
.

“Where are your scanners and the metal detectors?”

The Deputy Marshal, a man in his late twenties, shrugged apologetically. “They were removed last night, Mr. Dornan.”

“On whose authority?”

“The Commission has issued another Retirement order. Everything is perfectly legal, sir.”

“Retirement order? This isn't high tech stuff. X-rays have been around a hundred years.”

“Not our kind, sir. It was the new chips, I think.”

“This is a fine mess. How the hell do you propose to keep this zoo safe?”

“We've added Deputies. Nobody gets into that courtroom without a thorough search.”

“Damn well better be thorough.”

A second Marshal stepped forward. “May I inspect that pistol of yours, sir?”

“I am licensed,” Dornan growled, slipping the weapon out of his shoulder holster.

The second Deputy turned the semiautomatic over in his hands, squinting.

“No TERET date stamp,” he said.

“Technology Retirement date? You are kidding me, son. This is old fashioned technology,” Dornan said, holding out his hand. “But it works.”

But the Deputy kept the gun. “Sorry. You can pick it up in the Marshal's office after the session.

“This won't do,” Dornan barked. Then a huge entourage entered the main lobby. Dornan turned. “Here comes the Boss,” he said. John Owen was flanked by Wiggins and two of Dornan's security detachment. Alder trailed behind with three law clerks.

“Dr. Owen,” the new Deputy Marshal called out. “Over here, sir.”

When John approached, the Marshal motioned and several more Deputies converged. “This will just take a minute, sir. Oh, oh. I'm afraid certain body armor is included in the current Retirement order. May I inspect that vest you are wearing under your coat?” A man in a suit stepped forward and distributed copies of the latest Commission Retirement Order to Owen, Alder and Wiggins.

Dornan grabbed a copy from the man's hand, and scowled as he scanned the two-page document. “Interesting timing,” he mumbled. “He's not going into that courtroom without an armored vest.”

“Not much choice, today,” Alder said.

“Sorry, John,” Wiggins added. “They are playing dirty. I'll scare up an old-fashioned one for tomorrow.”

“But our security agreement,” Owen said.

“It didn't cover technology,” Alder said.

“It didn't?” Dornan growled. “What about all those hi-tech cameras?”

“Media was covered under a different section,” Alder said.

“Yes. I insisted on the cameras,” John said. He exchanged looks with Dornan, then motioned. “Let's get this over with. Deputies, we expect you to do your job. Come on Bill, you can sit with me at the counsel table.”

Dornan looked at his watch. “We're pretty early. I suggest that you gentlemen,” addressing the lawyers and clerks, “go on ahead. John and I need to talk a minute.” Dornan jerked his head toward the door. As the legal team headed to the elevator, Owen and Dornan stepped outside. A large crowd had already gathered. Owen waved and smiled at them while Dornan whispered fiercely into his ear. “They confiscated my gun. I don't like this. Not one damn bit.”

“On the way over, Alder said to expect a move to put me in custody as soon as the new charges are filed,” Owen said, covering his mouth with his hand.

“Can Wiggins stop it?”

Owen turned with his back to the crowd. “Alder didn't think so. Bill…I think Alder was suggesting that I should split.”

Dornan scanned the crowd, the cameras, and the Marshals standing close by. He nodded and whispered in Owen's ear. “Well, that's not feasible right now.”

“Well?” Owen said.

“Let's consider all options later. Upstairs then?”

“Upstairs,” Owen said.

On entering the courtroom, Dornan noticed that the number of Marshals on duty had been doubled. Alder and Wiggins were engrossed in heated conversation at counsel table, while their law clerks sat in the front row of the audience. The U.S. Attorney shot a glance over his shoulder as the team of Marshals escorting Owen moved toward the front. As soon as Owen reached the table, a voice said, “All rise!”

Alder and Wiggins stood, along with the spectators and press. The chambers' doors opened and Judge Wandright, a portly man with graying temples and a well-tanned face, strode to the bench. He tapped the gavel. “Be seated.”

Moments after settling in, Judge Wandright cleared his throat, smiling at the cameras. “This is the matter of Technology Licensing Commission versus John Owen. Good morning Dr. Owen.” Wandright smiled and John Owen nodded. “I am well acquainted with counsel. Can we skip the introductions? Thank you and good morning, gentlemen.” The lawyers nodded.

“Your Honor,” U.S. Attorney Gert Frame began. “If the court pleases, the government is requesting a brief continuance.”

“Really, Mr. Frame,” Wandright said with insincere surprise. “A delay? For how long?”

“Just a few hours, Your Honor. The Grand Jury is meeting as I speak. We expect an additional indictment by 2:00 P.M. The charge will be aggravated genetic engineering, in violation of Commission Criminal Regulation 2.446.”

“I believe that is a capital offense, Mr. Frame. If the government is seeking the death penalty, bail will not be permitted. Mr. Wiggins?”

“We will strongly object, Judge,” Wiggins bellowed on cue. “Dr. Owen's surrender agreement specifically allows my client full liberty before trial. This impliedly bars the government from seeking the death penalty. Moreover, we are confident that any showing offered as proof of the so-called genetic engineering charges will consist of tainted and incompetent evidence. To threaten Dr. Owen with custody in these circumstances—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Wiggins,” Wandright interrupted with exaggerated politeness. “This court does not make threats. And it does not make up the law. The offense that the U.S. Attorney says the Grand Jury is considering carries the death penalty on conviction. I am sure that if the allegation is founded in evidence that is ‘tainted and incompetent,' the Grand Jury will not return a true bill and your client will not be charged.” Judge Wandright knew otherwise, but was playing to the cameras. “On the other hand, if the charge is added to the indictment, and the government does not rule out the death penalty, I will have no discretion to grant bail.” He peered down from the bench like an overweight owl. “Mr. Frame?”

“We will seek the death penalty if the Grand jury indicts.”

“Well there you have it. Now, if that is all—” Wandright glared, while he paused for effect, “I will see everyone back here at 9:00 A.M. tomorrow. Court is adjourned until then.” The gavel slammed and Wandright disappeared into his chambers. The room erupted. Everyone stood up so quickly, that Karen, standing next to Cahoon, was unable to get Owen in view as he was swept from the courtroom surrounded by a brace of Marshals.

“If Dr. Owen goes into jail before trial, can we interview him?” she asked.

“Great idea,” Cahoon said. “…If he'll see us.”

“Can I bring the camera in the jail?”

“That's up to the Marshal's office. I'll find out first thing tomorrow,” Cahoon said.

——

The following morning, a special service took place on the steps of St. John's Church on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. Because the late Bishop Gardiner's covert Human Conspiracy Project was designed to insulate the Mother Church from retaliation, Snowfeather had quietly arranged to use a friendly, non-Catholic location to deflect undue attention on St. Patrick's Cathedral. The crowd filled the streets and intersection as far as the eye could see. Snowfeather's voice was amplified and carried on two networks.

“Bishop Gardiner was a simple man, a kind man, who followed his God and valued life over death, birth over destruction, re-birth over despair. He was a friend of humanity. He would not have favored revenge for this brutal murder nor any other. But he would have counseled us to
oppose evil
…to fight it with every fiber of our moral being. And this day, of all days, we are here to say: Bishop Gardiner, we are with you, and the Lord is with us.”

Standing in the back of the crowd, Cynthia Thomas hissed to a companion. “If Longworthy doesn't stop this display, we have resources.”

The companion nodded gravely. “If we have to, Tan can easily persuade Deputy Longworthy to help. His family may need medical attention, you see. But Longworthy may screw this up.”

“It will be simpler if we do it directly. After all, she was one of us. You will ask K to take care of it?”

“Of course, Sister Gloris, of course.”