I was thrilled to hear it, of course. But something heavy and dark came with the words. From the time I was a little kid, I sort of felt responsible for her. Maybe all children feel like that. I wouldn't know, since I've only been me. But I realized I was more than important to her. I was her lifeline. I knew that the only time my mom felt completely right was with me, tending to me, talking to me, thinking about me. The only time she was balanced in the world was then.
Looking back, I think it's obvious that my biggest issue once I reached my teens was about the consequence of leaving her. As I watch the cars course down U.S. 843, I suddenly realize something I haven't faced before. I blame my dad for her death, because I don't want to blame myself. But I always knew that when I left home, something like this might happen. I knew it and went anyway. I had to. Nobody, least of all my mom, wanted me to give up my life for hers. But still. My dad acted like an asshole. Yet I also need to forgive myself. When I do, maybe I'll be able to start forgiving him.
"Now let's turn to the subject of computers," says Marta when the trial resumes. My dad's PC has been set up on a table in the middle of the courtroom, and Marta points to it. "Over the years, Nat, have you seen your father use a computer?"
"Sure."
"Where?"
"At home. Or when I visited him in his chambers."
"How often?"
"Countless times."
"And have you talked with him about his computer?"
"Often."
"Have you helped him use his computer?"
"Naturally. For people my age, that's sort of the reverse of having your parents help you ride a bicycle. We all help our parents with computers."
The jurors love this. So does Judge Yee, who more and more I am beginning to see is kind of a cool guy.
"And is your father computer literate?"
"If knowing the difference between on and off makes you literate, then yes. Otherwise, not so much."
There is loud laughter from the jury box. Everybody in this room feels sorry for me, so I am Mr. Popularity.
"And what about you? Are you computer literate?"
"Compared to my father? Yes. I know a lot more than him."
"What about your mother?"
"She was like a genius. She was a PhD in math. Until my friends started doing PhDs in computer science, she knew more than anyone I knew. And even those guys sometimes would call her up with questions. She was way inside the machine."
"Did you know the password on your father's computer?"
"I think I did. My father used the same password on everything."
"Which was?"
"Let me explain. His proper name. Rozat. It has that little mark over the 'z' when he writes it correctly, so in English sometimes he'd spell it R, O, Z, H, A, T. That was the password on our voice mail at home. On the burglar alarm system. The ATM. On bank accounts. Always 'Rozhat.' He was like everybody else. How can you have sixteen different passwords and remember what they are?"
"And did you ever discuss this fact-that your father used only one password-with your mother?"
"A zillion times."
"Do you specifically recall any occasions?"
"I can remember two years ago, I was visiting my folks, and my dad got a new credit card in the mail and he had to call in to activate it, and they asked him for the password on his account and he actually covered the phone and asked my mom, 'What's my password?' And she rolled her eyes and was like, 'Oh, for God's sake,' and she just turned to me, you know, this kind of hopeless look, and I about fell off my chair, and my dad still was bewildered, and then we both said to him at the same time, 'Rozhat,' and he was like, 'Oh, shit.' And when he put down the phone, he was just shaking his head at himself and we were all hysterical."
Across the courtroom, my dad is actually laughing. He smiles now and then, but this may be the first outright laughter I've seen since the trial started. The jury too is enjoying the story, and so I say to them, "Excuse me, you know, for using that word."
"Now, Nat," says Marta. "Are you aware that I am going to ask you to do a demonstration with your father's computer?"
"Yes."
"And do you know what I am going to ask you to demonstrate?"
"No."
"Now you've heard some testimony about shredding software, is that right?"
"Sure."
"Have you ever downloaded shredding software?"
"No."
"Have you ever known your father to download shredding software?"
"It's impossible."
Brand objects, and my answer is stricken.
"Sorry," I tell the judge.
He raises a hand obligingly. "Just answer question," he says.
"All right, Nat," says Marta, "I'm going to ask you to come down from the witness stand to start your father's computer. I'll ask you to enter the password, Rozhat, and if it works, to download the shredding software mentioned by the prosecution to see if you can use it."
"Objection," Brand says.
The jury has to leave again. Brand argues that because I know the password doesn't mean that my mom did, and even if I have difficulty using the shredding software, that doesn't mean that my father couldn't have practiced.
Judge Yee rules for Marta. "First, let's see if password is right password, because Mrs. Sabich knew that password. And since prosecutors say the judge use this shredding software, defense has right to show what it takes to do that. If young Mr. Sabich got problems doing that, defense can't argue that proves judge would have problems. But defense can argue this is too hard for the judge. Prosecutor can argue otherwise. Okay, bring in jury."
I am standing in front of the computer by the time they're all back in their seats. Judge Yee has come down from the bench to see, and everybody from the prosecution table is standing around me as well. Marta asks the judge if she can turn the monitor toward the jury, which he allows, although it is also projected on the screen beside the witness stand. Then I push the on switch on the tower, and the machine purrs to life and cycles through. The sunny screen comes on and prompts for the password, at which point Marta speaks.
"Judge, if I may, I'm going to ask Mr. Sabich to type in the letters R, O, Z, H, A, T, for the password, with the Court's permission."
"Proceed," says the judge.
It works, of course. There is that canned musical tone, and then, to my amazement, a Christmas card appears, addressed to my dad. I become aware of how quiet the courtroom has suddenly become.
The card says, "Seasons Greetings 2008," and within the borders an animated script becomes visible line by line, the murmur growing among the spectators with each word. Roses are redViolets are blueYou're in trouble againAnd I did it to you.Love, You Know Who.
CHAPTER 35
Tommy, June 24, 2009
In the moment, Tommy's first sensation was like realizing a pipe has burst inside the wall or that the guy on the other end of the phone has had a heart attack. It isn't working; that's all you know for a second. Regular life has stopped cold.
As Tommy read the message on the screen, he felt a flurry of motion beside him. The jurors, already leaning forward to view the computer, had left their seats to get closer, and once they did, several of the reporters edged across the imaginary boundary line to the well of the court so they could see, too. That in turn led a number of spectators to crowd ahead to find out what had occurred. The bailiffs rushed toward everyone, yelling for them to get back. Only when the sound of Judge Yee's gavel snapped through the courtroom did Tommy realize that Yee, who had come down to witness the demonstration, had resumed the bench.