“Leroy Jameson was thirty-nine years old, a wounded veteran of the Nicaraguan War. He should have had help, but nobody gave him any help. For years he did menial work, washing dishes and busing tables, anything he could get. Finally he went to live in a tarpaper shack that he built in the woods, and he hunted and trapped to keep body and soul together. He was trying to keep alive the best way he knew. Then he was cut down by a man with a gun. Now he’s dead. Why?
“Think about your friends and neighbors. Some of them hunt and trap game. If they happen to offend the delicate sensibilities of Ivan Bolt, will he kill them too?
“In morality and in law, we are not allowed to take the life of another human being simply because we don’t like his habits, or his opinions, or the color of his skin, or the people he associates with. He may be a deeply troubled individual, he may be offensive to others, but even then there’s always a chance that he will change for the better. Ivan Bolt took that chance away when he shot and killed Leroy Jameson. ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’ That’s what the Bible says. But Ivan Bolt took that vengeance into his own hands. And for what? Because Leroy Jameson trapped animals for their pelts, as the law allowed him to do.
“Now I want you just to imagine for a moment what would happen if you set Ivan Bolt free. Anybody in this country who didn’t like somebody else’s looks, or behavior, or the way he smelled, could walk up and kill that person, and the law wouldn’t touch him.
“You have heard the testimony of the alleged symbiont, for whatever that may be worth, that these creatures want us to let them take over the administration of criminal justice—‘to save us the trouble.’ No more trials, no muss, no fuss—they’ll be judge, jury and executioner. I sincerely hope you find this as deeply offensive and disturbing as I do. What is even more disturbing is the suggestion that if they don't kill a murderer, we shouldn’t punish him either, because his victim is ‘better off dead.’
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, in this country we have a rule of law. If you commit murder, the most deeply abhorred crime that we know of, you pay the penalty. If that were not so, we would live in a world of chaos. We value every life. Not just the life of a person who is comfortable and happy and secure, but every life. That’s the way it should be—the way it must be.
“Sometimes we have to do something hard; we have to sentence a person to pay the penalty even though we may have some sympathy for that person. We do it because we remember the importance of law and justice in our society. That’s the choice you have before you now. I know you’ll do the right thing, not because it’s easy—it’s never easy. But because it’s right.”
After deliberating for seven hours, the jury returned a verdict of “Not guilty.”
Asked to explain the verdict on holovision later, the foreman said, “Well, I think we just felt there was no point in sending that man to jail. It wouldn’t bring anybody back to life, it would just make somebody miserable, arid it would cost the taxpayers a lot of money. So basically, we just said, ‘What do we want to do that for?’ And we couldn’t come up with any answer.”
The interviewer asked, “What about the argument that if you let him go free, he might kill somebody else? Did you consider that?”
“Well, sure, but then, either it would be somebody like this Jameson guy, or else he’d kill somebody he shouldn’t have, and then the symbionts would kill him. So it just isn’t our problem.”
“And you think we should turn the whole thing over to the symbionts?”
“Why not?”
Down the Piazza dei Cinquecento in the spring sunlight came a cheerful parade—several hundred people, not marching in step but simply walking along together. Some had badges and armbands; a few carried banners: the rest looked like ordinary people, perhaps neighbors on their way to a communal picnic. They were of both sexes and all ages, from the elderly to infants in arms.
From the head of the column, which appeared a little more disciplined than the rest, came a chant: “Si da, si prende, e nientesipretende!” Presently the whole column took it up.
“What are they saying?” an American tourist asked his Italian friend.
“You would say, hm, something like, ‘One gives, one takes, and no one claims anything.’ But it is not so poetic in English.”
“Si da, si prende, e niente—” The chant broke off; there were shouts, screams. The American craned his neck to see what was happening, but too many people were in the way. On the other side of the barricade, two mounted carabinieri trotted by; one of them was blowing a whistle. The American felt his arm being tugged. “I don’t think it is so good here,” said his friend. “Let’s go in that building, maybe we can see better.”
They started toward the entrance of an office building, but the Italian changed his mind. “Wait, there is a cafe, that’s even better.”
Inside, in the big holo over the bar, they could see an elevated view of the street. Here and there little knots of men with long padded poles were struggling with a confused mass of people. The poles wavered, fell one by one. The crowd seemed to lose its focus. People who had been struggling a moment ago began walking aimlessly back and forth. The carabinieri were trying to clear the piazza. Now there was a siren, and an ambulance came whooping majestically forward; people were getting out of its way, but without undue haste.
Now the American could see that the street was littered with bodies. Some were sitting up, holding their heads; one, with a tom blouse, staggered to his feet and fell down again. Another ambulance came up; attendants from the first one were helping people into their vehicle.
“Who are those men?” asked the American, halflistening to the rapid commentary of the holo announcer which he could not understand.
“They are ruffians hired to break up the march,” said his friend.
“Does this happen often?”
“Only once before, and it was just like this. You see, the ruffians can’t really hurt people, only push them off the street, but here in Rome we don’t even like that. We want them to march if they like to. So the people attack the ruffians and put them in the hospital. That is the way we do things.”
In Stuttgart, somebody smuggled in a big flatscreen to a rally for Deputy Ernst Schuplatt and opened it up in the middle of the Deputy’s speech, HAVE YOU BEEN IN SCHUPLATT'S MIND? said the letters on the screen.
YES.
IS HE TELLING THE TRUTH?
NO.
WILL HE DO WHAT HE SAYS?
NO.
SHOULD WE VOTE FOR HIM?
NO.
Schuplatt’s supporters surged inward toward the woman who was operating the screen, but a protective ring of bodyguards squirted them with green ink and ammonia.
WHY ARE THEY TRYING TO STOP US? said the screen, swaying before it toppled.
THEY ARE AFRAID OF . . .
In the ensuing riot, fifty people were injured and two were trampled to death; the podium was knocked over and Schuplatt’s chemise was torn off. Police got him away without serious injury, but the next time he appeared in public he was hissed.