As I set the photograph of Abuela back on the workbench, a memory beckoned. “Hijo. You must promise me that whatever happens, you will go to El Yunque. Promise me!”
I had not paused long enough in the last few days to respond to my mother’s demand. But the voice was insistent, and I had promised my mother. I would go to El Yunque.
37
MEA CULPA
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
SATURDAY, MARCH 8, 2045
Sean Doyle was summoned by state capital security officers to appear ‘forthwith’ at Governor Mariana Azevedo’s home near the State House on Beacon Hill. Azevedo wished to avoid the press, and the Massachusetts Constitution does not provide an executive residence for the governor, although Part the Second, Chapter II, Section I, Article I, of that document invests the state executive with the title, “His Majesty.” Azevedo briefly considered reinstating the title after her election but considered the gender reference to be a demotion.
A hand at each of Doyle’s elbows guided him gently but firmly to the governor’s home, six blocks from the press room at which Doyle had been speaking. The streets were cleared of P-cabs and private cars, and they arrived in minutes.
“Why are we meeting here?” Doyle blurted out when he stood in front of her desk.
Azevedo wore her trademark white baiana dress and turban, the traditional garb of the Bahia region of Brazil. Brazilian immigrants to Massachusetts had become the second-largest voting bloc in the state, and the occupant of the governor’s seat was likely to be determined by the Carioca and Baiano population for many elections to come.
“Sit down, Sean,” Azevedo ordered. “What are we going to do with Eva Rozen’s message?”
“What’s to decide? A full holographic confession? Details on how she triggered the Washout? Where’s the issue?”
“It’s perfect for you as Special Prosecutor, but what will it do for the Commonwealth?”
“You mean for your reelection,” Doyle replied.
“Sean, are you planning to run in ’48?”
“Well, a confession, a conviction of a mass murderer, etc., etc., Madame Governor—I’m not going to waste that kind of political capital.”
“For chrissakes, Sean. Drop the formalities. Do you see any cameras in here?” Doyle looked around and then shook his head. “Then let’s not dance around this. If we release Rozen’s message, how do we both manage to get what we both want? You’ve been drooling over my office for years, and I just fought tooth-and-nail to win it. What will you take instead?”
“Why do I have to take anything if I have her confession?”
“Simple. I fire you on the spot for malfeasance and appoint one of my own people as Special Prosecutor. A few years ago, this nobody, this—what’s his name?—this Jim Ecco character gets off with a disorderly instead of a felonious assault. You screwed up the prosecution, Sean. Now he lands in a pile of bodies with the worst mass murderer in U.S. history. How’s that going to play to the voters?”
“I did no such thing. It was a routine plea bargain.” Doyle’s pale Irish features reddened. He shouted, “And that was years ago!”
“Calm down, Sean, or you’ll bust a blood vessel and trigger a med-alert. That won’t play well with voters.”
Azevedo watched as Doyle grew still. He looked dangerous. When he spoke again, she heard control return to his voice. “Attorney General in ‘48,” he said, “and I want your support in ‘52 if I run for governor or for the senate.”
“I’ll support you for AG. Unless you screw this up or cross me, you’ll pretty much run unopposed. You can have the AG’s office in ’48 but you support me for the senate. You can look at a senate seat after a couple terms as governor—hell, you could try for the Oval Office then. But I announce Rozen’s statement. Deal?” asked Azevedo.
Doyle rose, his pinstriped blue suit following him as carefully as a diligent mother of a two-year-old child. His club tie remained perfectly knotted. He offered his hand. “We have a duty to the people. You announce and then I’ll take questions.”
Azevedo winced inwardly at Doyle’s pompous rhetoric, then smiled. Her political future was secure, at least for the next eight years. After that? Well, she just might see Doyle again, likely on the hustings during a presidential primary race some years from this day.
Azevedo’s flowing white dress and Doyle’s pinstripes made an unlikely diptych as the two politicians addressed the press. As agreed, she announced and played Eva’s confession and then handed Doyle to the media.
Eva Rozen had recorded a holograph. She stood life-size, four feet, four inches tall, wearing her trademark black cargo pants and a black work shirt. Her hands trembled as she spoke. Her accent, gone since childhood, had returned.
“I have nothing to do with Rockford. You want to know how that happen? Go to Texas to find out. Look at results of tests. Look at containment building. Data is no good. I warn you and you ignore me. You cheer when they finish ahead of schedule. You know how they finish early? Sloppy science. That’s why building leaks and explodes. Okay, you pay for that in blood. But then you accuse me of murder? You say I trigger Rockford?”
“Nobody accuse me. You are fools. You will pay. I do not attack you. But I stop my charities. Nobody make me do them. I do myself, I pay for myself, and I stop them myself. You call it public health. Except I pay, not the public. If I cancel anybody by mistake, don’t worry. I give refund. All is fair. Nemo me impune lacessit.”
The conference erupted. Doyle took his time fielding questions, while Governor Azevedo looked on, looking solemn for the vidbots, and left when the obvious question, “Why did she make a confession?” caught the Special Prosecutor by surprise. “I think she was bragging,” Doyle managed, “It was her way of going out with a bang.”
In fact, her confession exonerated Marta and Jim. Doyle did not consider that loyalty might be a part of a mass murderer’s emotional inventory.
A reporter cornered Azevedo backstage and asked how she felt. She peered at the reporter and noted the presence of vidbots. “How do I feel? Terrible! Thousands of people died. However, I am satisfied because a killer will be brought to justice, if posthumously. Her presumed accomplices were cleared of wrongdoing. In fact, I am going to issue a proclamation honoring the memory of Dr. Maria Cruz, who was a hero.”
“What about her husband, Jim Ecco?” the reporter asked.
“Yes, him too.”
Dana Ecco’s datasleeve was the third human target of the kill switch’s transmissions. It activated a series of commands that had lain dormant in the sleeve. There followed hundreds of electronic conversations. These flashed from Dana’s sleeve to financial institutions targeted earlier by Eva Rozen. Data sped back to his sleeve. One by one, Eva Rozen’s assets were transferred to her only beneficiary, Dana Rafael Ecco, along with additional software that prevented the transfers from being traced. By the time the claims and counterclaims among Doyle, Governor Azevedo and the United States government were resolved, there would be no financial assets remaining over which to bicker.
38
EL YUNQUE
FROM THE MEMORIES
OF DANA ECCO