“What three things?” asked Jim as they began walking. Dried leaves crunched under their feet as they crossed the park to the busy street. There was just enough light from Tremont Street’s shops and streetlights to cast shadows across their path. The hum of traffic and voices on the sidewalk grew louder as they approached the park’s end. Jim heard something different in Marta’s voice, a new vitality that animated her words. He tuned out all of the night’s sounds to concentrate on Marta.
“Well, first of all, there’s a curfew and we’re violating it. You two might feel immune, but I don’t.”
“Okay. What else?” asked Jim.
“This is taking a lot out of me. My legs hurt. And I have a ton of schoolwork. Premed’s tough, and I’m swamped. I’ve got an organic chemistry project due. Eva’s the chem whiz. It’s no picnic for me.”
“Oh, jeez, I’m sorry. Right. Let’s go,” Jim said.
They walked across the Common, headed for the bright of the Park Street station of the underground transit line.
“You said there were three things. What’s the third?” he asked.
Marta beamed. “I’m pregnant.”
The assault came, vicious and unexpected, just fifty feet from the lights, clamor, and activity of Tremont Street. Hooting in surprise and congratulations, the three friends failed to hear running footsteps behind them. Then Eva tumbled to the ground.
At his trial, Eva’s assailant Brian Coogan would testify under a forensic dosage of TrueSpeak that he wanted to reach her before she was out of the park. He was furious. Eva had embarrassed him and the money she’d given him was gone. He would state that he thought that somehow she’d taken the money back. (She had.) He would tell the court that when Eva fell forward, he believed that his knife had penetrated her heart.
Eva survived Coogan’s knife attack with deep bruises but no other injury. Her snappy little outfit included magnetic shearing fluid within woven carbon fibers. Iron nanoparticles, suspended in the fluid, solidified in a microsecond when subjected to stress. It was an old technology, first deployed with mixed results in the early years of the U.S. wars with Iraq and Afghanistan. A quarter century of development, and the armor was more effective than Kevlar or spider silk. The principal customers for this class of smart textiles were police and military organizations…and Eva Rozen.
Perhaps Juricán did indeed walk with Jim Ecco that evening. When Eva fell, Jim reacted instantly. He pushed Marta out of the way and turned to Coogan. The attack reanimated Jim’s rage. His vision narrowed uncharacteristically. He missed seeing Eva roll on the ground, bloodless and then struggle to her feet. He missed the sight of two Boston police officers running to their aid.
Jim continued his turn and lashed out with a kick that landed on the side of Coogan’s left knee, just below the patella. Coogan crumpled in pain. In their statements, the patrolmen would report that they ran to protect the three victims when they saw Coogan fall and hold his left leg. They saw Eva begin to rise. Then they saw Jim turn and stomp on Coogan’s right foot.
Two things happened. The fifth metatarsal bone at the base of Coogan’s little toe cracked apart, producing a crippling break called a Jones fracture. Despite nanoputty surgeons applied to the bone, Coogan would wear treatment cloth for three weeks. The second result was Jim Ecco’s own arrest: assault and battery with a deadly weapon. The weapon was, in the language of his indictment, a shod foot.
Within the space of a minute, Jim Ecco found that he would be a father… and a felon.
8
TWO VERDICTS
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
APRIL 1, 2030
Sean Doyle rose for his opening statement on behalf of the People of Massachusetts. His navy pinstriped suit clung to the contours of his six-foot frame and fell from broad shoulders to hug a trim waist. Doyle’s red and blue striped club tie fastened itself into a perfect Windsor knot and bisected an unblemished white shirt, stopping precisely at the top of his beltline. Doyle’s head was adorned by thick curly blond hair, augmented eyesight, and a surgically-crafted cleft chin. Here stood a man the jury could trust on sight, a man who could lead them to discover justice on a spring morning in the Suffolk County Municipal Court in Boston, Massachusetts.
The People’s representative addressed the presiding judge, the Honorable Chris McClincy. Doyle stated his name for the record. He was given leave to begin his opening statement. He stood without notes and faced the jury. These six men and women took in his self-confidence and beamed with reflected pride. Ordinary men and women, working people, retirees, salt of the earth now stood shoulder to shoulder with this mighty champion. They would join him in a pact to protect the Commonwealth, to honor the Law, and to send that son-of-a-bitch in the defendant’s chair to whatever dark corner of the penal system he deserved, God have mercy on his contemptible soul.
Doyle spoke. Twelve ears edged forward to listen. Twelve eyes focused to watch their prophet. Six hearts readied to be blackened. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury, this is Case 260093, the Commonwealth v. James Bradley Ecco. The defendant is charged with having committed an intentional assault and battery by means of a dangerous weapon, his shod foot. Section 15(b) of chapter 265 of our General Laws makes this act unlawful.”
Assistant District Attorney Sean Doyle was ambitious. Step One in the Doyle Plan: District Attorney. Then Attorney General for the Commonwealth en route to Congress. Or to the governor’s office. Then, who knows? Presidents have been created from similar pedigrees.
Seniority granted him the ability to choose cases that bolstered his conviction rate. This case was a prosecutor’s dream: an injured victim and two unimpeachable witnesses, sworn officers of the Boston Police Department. Doyle was cultivating a tough-on-crime reputation and had refused the defense offer of a plea bargain.
Doyle’s pinstriped suit followed him faithfully as he paced behind his lectern. Two steps to the left; two steps to the right, the pendulum in God’s hypnotic metronome. Left, Right. Tock, tock. Left, right. Tock, tock. Gazing into an unseen vision, he became a Loa-possessed demon, Michael the Archangel and Skadi, the Norse paladin of Justice, Vengeance, and Righteous Anger. Turning to his jury, his jury, he was holy, fair, and humble. “Ladies and Gentlemen, there are rules that I must follow, and you must hold me accountable.”
These words elevated the panel and he was rewarded with six faces set with grave dignity. The prosecutor paused before them, arms outstretched, an Old Testament prophet. If he could embrace them, he would.
“The Commonwealth must prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant intended to touch the victim with a dangerous weapon. You must require, no, demand proof from me that the defendant intended the touching to occur, that it was no mere accident.” The jury leaned forward as if to lay their hands on the trailing hem of his pinstriped garment.
“Let’s talk about what the law does not require. First, the Commonwealth is not required to prove that the defendant intended to injure Mr. Coogan—only that he did cause harm. Next, it is true that the victim is a criminal, but the victim is not on trial. Finally, it is also true that Mr. Ecco at first acted in self-defense. But he did not stop when his victim was helpless and that, ladies and gentlemen, is Mr. Ecco’s crime.”
Doyle filled the jury with glowing comprehension. They were clay and he would breathe life into them, endue them with holy purpose: to perform their duty to convict.
“What about the ‘dangerous weapon’? A shoe? Not a gun, knife, or club? Well, the law says that even an innocent item is a weapon if you use it in a dangerous way. Your old-fashioned pencil is an innocent item if you are writing a grocery list. But if you poke me in the eye, then it a dangerous weapon. When the defendant used his shoe, not to walk away from a helpless man, but to stomp on a helpless man, then his shoe became a deadly weapon.”