Soulminder (24 page)

“Doubt it’s the same one,” the tech at the MiNex terminal shook his head. “This one’s named Jack, fifty-one, works at Caltech—”

“You can get all the details from Thornton himself later,” Blanchard cut the tech off, throwing a warning glare in his direction. There was still a fair chance Thornton’s brain had gone too long without neuropreservatives to be savable, and if that happened she’d rather Lamar have known the man only as a faceless shadow. “For now, I really think you ought to go to bed,” she added. “Don’t forget we’re due in court at ten tomorrow morning.”

Lamar’s lip twitched, just a bit. “Yeah. Right.”

Blanchard squeezed his hand again. “Okay. So, I’ll see you then. Sleep well.”

“Sure.” Lamar seemed to brace himself, then lurched forward, landing on only slightly unsteady feet. With a vague sort of wave over his shoulder, he shuffled to the door and left.

Blanchard took a deep breath, exhaled it silently. She’d been with Lamar ever since he’d joined the LA Pro-Witness program eight months ago … and much as she hated to admit it, down deep she knew that McGee was right.

Lamar was starting to lose it.

“I think maybe we ought to recommend to the D.A.’s office that they pull him off,” McGee said quietly from behind her. “Whether he likes it or not.”

Blanchard turned to face him. “We can’t do that,” she said. “If he quits in the middle of a case, they won’t let him come back.”

McGee snorted gently. “I submit that his mental health is more important than his job.”

“I submit the two aren’t separable,” she countered tartly. “I don’t know if you’ve read his file, but this is the first job Walker’s ever had that’s had even a scrap of public dignity associated with it. You tell him he can’t handle it and throw him out, and his wallet won’t be the only thing that suffers.”

“Fine,” McGee said. “Then just get him a leave of absence or something. I mean, we
are
Soulminder. The right word to the right person ought to be able to bend city policy a little.”

Blanchard shook her head. “Not this time. The D.A.’s office is very jealous of its turf here. And very sensitive to suggestions that Soulminder might be quietly running their Pro-Witness program for them.”

McGee sighed, his gaze flicking over her shoulder to where Lamar had exited. “I don’t like keeping him on, Doctor,” he said quietly. “Not in the shape he’s in. I really don’t.”

“He’ll make it,” she said, forcing conviction she didn’t feel into her voice. “As soon as the Holloway case is wrapped up I can get him some off time.”

“You really think he’ll last that long?”

“Of course he will,” Blanchard growled. Abruptly, she was tired of this conversation. “All the pre-trial stuff is over. Holloway will testify and be cross-examined tomorrow, and that’ll be it until he comes in for the verdict and sentencing.” And then, she reminded herself with a sort of dull bitterness, his soul would be released from the trap and go … wherever it was souls went. That wasn’t something she liked to think about. She certainly didn’t want to talk about it. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to be in court tomorrow.”

“You want me to wake you if Thornton makes it?” McGee called after her as she headed for the door.

“Don’t bother—I’ll read about it in the morning.”

She was still awake an hour later when the news came over the MiNex console that the team had indeed gotten to Thornton’s body in time.

The line went flat, and Walker Lamar was dead. Again.

“It’ll be just another minute,” the doctor told the assembled officials.

“Fine,” Judge Harold Grange nodded, his face and voice glacially calm. In contrast, Assistant D.A. William Dorfman looked almost bored, while Defense Attorney James Austin seemed hawk-eyed alert. Watching for a mistake, Blanchard decided, some legal technicality he could use in his appeal.

At least she assumed that was his strategy. From what she’d heard of Holloway’s discussions with the D.A. that was probably the only chance Austin’s client had.

“Ready,” the doctor said briskly. “Here we go.”

The indicator lights changed colors, the biotrace lines became squiggly again, and on the transfer table Lamar’s body came back to life.

The judge took a step forward. “Michael Holloway?” he asked.

The eyes had been gazing at the ceiling, studying it as if he’d never seen self-cleaning ceramic tile before. Turning his head, he looked at the judge, the same oddly rapt look in his eyes. “Yes,” he murmured. He licked his lips, first the upper and then the lower; licked them both again as if savoring the experience. “Yes,” he repeated, louder this time.

“It’s time.” The judge turned back to the two lawyers. “Let’s go. Get everything signed,” he added to the young clerk standing over by the readout console, a sheaf of legal papers clutched in her hand. Without waiting for a reply, he strode to the transfer room door and headed out.

Ten minutes later, in the new courthouse that had been built next door to Soulminder Los Angeles for just this purpose, the case of People v. Battistello was reconvened.

“The people,” Dorfman announced, “call Michael Holloway to the stand.”

Beside him, the witness got to his feet and stepped to the stand. His eyes, Blanchard noted from her seat behind the prosecutor’s table, continued to dart all around the room as he was being sworn in.

“State your name for the record,” Judge Grange said.

He settled himself gingerly into his chair, leaned forward toward the microphone. “Michael Andrew Holloway.”

Judge Grange shifted his attention to Dorfman. “Are the people prepared to prove that this is indeed Mr. Holloway speaking?”

“Yes, your honor.” Dorfman half turned. “The people call Katherine Holloway Ross and Lisa Holloway Davis.”

Two well-dressed women in their forties stood up and came forward, and Blanchard felt a little of the tightness go out of her stomach. She’d argued strongly with Dorfman that he use Holloway’s sisters rather than his brothers, but up until now she hadn’t been at all certain the prosecutor would follow that recommendation. The confirmation procedure could be devastating for everyone involved, and in her admittedly limited experience she’d found that women tended to handle the emotional trauma better than men.

The two women had arrived at the bench now, flanked by the opposing attorneys. “As per federal statute concerning Professional Witness testimony,” the judge said, his gaze shifting back and forth between the women, “the first three questions from each of you will be public, and on the public record. All others may, if either or both of you so choose, be confidential between yourselves, the witness, and the court. Those questions and their answers will be sealed by this court against any and all public disclosure, except in extraordinary circumstances. Do you both understand?”

They nodded. “Then you may proceed,” the judge said, swiveling his microphone around to face them.

There was a second of hesitation. Then, the elder of the two women stepped up to it. “Mike,” she said, her voice trembling just a bit. “When you were ten, we all drove to Florida—do you remember? What did Jonathan say that had all of us in hysterics, and where was he when he said it?”

A wistful, almost ghostly smile touched his face. “He was sitting in the far back seat of the station wagon,” he said. “The way-back-in-the-back, we called it. And he was calling, ‘Get off our road!’ at the cars behind us.”

A quiet chuckle ran through the jury box. The woman stepped back, her eyes suddenly tear-bright, to be replaced at the microphone by the younger woman. “Mike, what pet did I have when I was in fourth grade?” she asked.

His forehead creased. “You had a
lot
of dumb pets when you were little, Lise.”

“This one died the day after it bit me.”

The frown cleared. “Ah. Well,
that
would have been your hamster.”

Another ripple ran through the jury, but to Blanchard’s ears this one sounded strained. As if the mention of death had reminded them that they were not, in fact, merely here to witness a genial family reunion.

She looked over to where the defendant was sitting, his face carved from frozen stone as he watched the proceedings. He, certainly, hadn’t forgotten why they were there.

The questioning lasted almost twenty minutes. When it was over, both women agreed that it was indeed their brother sitting in the witness chair.

“Let the record show,” Dorfman said as the sisters returned to the spectators’ section, “that personal identification, plus signed affidavits from Soulminder authorities, have established that the soul of Michael Andrew Holloway currently resides in the body of Professional Witness Walker Lamar.” He let his eyes sweep the jury, then turned back to the witness box. “And now, Mr. Holloway, would you please relate to the court the events of the evening of January 27 of this year.”

He seemed to brace himself. “I left my office about six-thirty,” he said, his voice almost too low for the microphone to pick up. “I was walking to the car when I heard footsteps coming up behind me. I turned around, and there was a kid behind me with a gun.”

He paused, tongue flicking across upper and then lower lip. “He told me to give him all my money or he’d blow my head off.”

“Did you comply?” Dorfman asked.

“Yes, right away,” he nodded, a jerky movement of his head. “I tried to, anyway. I reached into my coat pocket for my wallet—” He took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Did he say anything else, Mr. Holloway?” Dorfman asked into the momentary silence. “Warn you not to make any sudden moves, or anything like that?”

He shook his head. “He didn’t say anything at all.”

“Nothing?”

“No. He was as cool as if he’d done this a hundred times.”

“Objection,” Austin said, half rising from his seat beside the defendant. “The witness is speculating.”

“Sustained,” Grange nodded. “Please confine your comments to answering the questions, Mr. Holloway.”

The lips puckered slightly. “Yes, sir,” he muttered.

“So,” Dorfman continued, “you reached for your wallet. Did you bring it out?”

“I didn’t get a chance,” he said bitterly. “My hand was still inside my coat when he shot me.”

Dorfman let the words hang in the air for a moment. “How many times did he shoot you?” he asked.

“Objection.” Austin was on his feet again. “More speculation.”

Grange nodded. “Sustained. Rephrase your question, counselor.”

“How many bullets did you
feel
hit you, Mr. Holloway?”

“I felt two,” he whispered. “Both in my chest. And I think I heard a third one after I fell on my back, but I don’t remember feeling it hit me.”

“Two shots, both in your chest,” Dorfman repeated. “And yet, the coroner reported finding
eight
bullets—”

“Objection,” Austin called indignantly.

“Sustained,” Grange growled. “Save the summing-up for your closing, Mr. Dorfman.”

“Yes, your honor. Tell me, Mr. Holloway: do you see the man who shot you anywhere in this courtroom?”

“Yes.”

“Will you point him out?”

The witness took another deep breath, his eyes shifting from Dorfman to Battistello. “He’s right there.”

Dorfman nodded, his expression theatrically grim. “Let the record show,” he intoned, “that Michael Holloway has identified the defendant, Mr. Battistello, as the man who assaulted him on the night of January 27.

“The man who murdered him.”

There was more, of course. Much more.

Dorfman walked the witness through the murder in carefully precise detail, focusing a large percentage of his attention on Holloway’s recollection of the assailant’s clothing, expressions, and actions. The exercise was obviously a painful one, and more than once Blanchard felt herself wincing in sympathy with the terror and anger and helplessness boiling quietly out of the witness box. It was a straightforward enough strategy: Dorfman was bidding for jury outrage while simultaneously going for a preemptive blunting of any future attempts by the defense to cast doubt on the victim’s memory. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier to take.

The direct testimony was hard enough to sit through. Austin’s cross-examination, urbanely hostile and subtly condescending, was even worse. By the time the defense attorney sat down Blanchard’s stomach was a mess of churning acid.

“It is now five minutes until twelve,” Judge Grange announced as the witness left the stand and made his way back to the prosecutor’s table. “We’ll take a ninety-minute recess for lunch, and reconvene precisely at one-thirty.”

He banged his gavel and headed for chambers, and the courtroom participants and spectators began to break up into movement and the buzz of conversation.

“So what happens now?” the witness asked as he and Dorfman stood up. “Will I need to come back for more testimony?”

“Unlikely,” Dorfman said, the bulk of his attention on the papers he was shoveling into his briefcase. “Unless Austin decides to recall you, your part in this is pretty well over.”

The other licked his lips, his gaze fluttering around the courtroom. “Any chance I can come back this afternoon and listen to Austin’s case?”

Dorfman looked at Blanchard. “Doctor?”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr. Holloway,” Blanchard told him. “You’ve been using Walker Lamar’s body for just under two and a half hours, and the legally allowed maximum is three hours per day.”

“The closing arguments, then?” he persisted, a strangely yearning expression in his eyes. “Can I at least come back for the closing arguments?”

“I can ask,” Dorfman shrugged, snapping the locks on his briefcase with a sharp double click. “But Austin’s bound to object, and since the judge will be denying his motion to dismiss he’ll likely let him have that one.” He glanced at the other; took a second, closer look. “You’ll be coming back for the verdict, though,” he added. “That one’s guaranteed by law.”

“I know,” he sighed. He looked around the courtroom again—almost, Blanchard thought, as if committing it to memory. “I just wish … ”

“I wish, too,” Dorfman grunted. “Having the victim in the courtroom usually helps the prosecution, which is why Austin will fight it. Not that we’re going to need any help in this particular case,” he added reassuringly. “Look, I’ve got to get going—Austin’ll be filing motions with the judge, and I need to be there to argue against them. See you later.” With a nod to each of them, he strode off toward the judge’s chambers.