Then she inhaled deeply and exhaled. It would be fine. She hadn’t had time for a relationship in school and she certainly didn’t have time for one now. She would put it out of her mind. Focus, she thought. She had more important concerns. The newly formed Federal Association of Court Management wanted to start implementing the Jury Surrogate system nationally within eighteen months, but everything hinged on this and the other pilot programs in St. Louis, San Diego, Charlotte, Boston, and Seattle succeeding.
Judge Cameron O’Connor was outside his chambers with Jessica Blick, one of the assistant prosecuting attorneys assigned to the initiative. Blick was a short white woman with closely clipped red hair gelled to sharp peaks so that at the right angle it looked as if small flames flickered atop her head. The distinctive hairstyle along with her explosive temper tagged her with the nickname “Firecracker,” though no one used the name in her presence.
“Ms. Howard,” welcomed O’Connor, whose deep, resonant voice reflected his ego but belied his stature; he resembled a cherub in black robes. Broken capillaries marked his full nose and flushed cheeks.
“Judge O’Connor,” said Cassandra, shaking hands. “Ms. Blick.”
“We’re just waiting for—”
“I thought that was you,” called a voice from down the hall. Cassandra turned. Forrest came toward them, dressed in khakis and a blue suit coat, carrying a coffee in one hand and a leather laptop satchel in the other. He grinned widely. His blond hair was strewn across his forehead and his beard needed a trim. “How are you?” he asked as he leaned in to kiss Cassandra on the cheek. She smelled chicory coffee and cinnamon on his breath.
“I’m good,” she said. “How’re you?”
“Great,” said Forrest, still smiling. “It’s good to see you again.”
“I’m surprised,” said Cassandra. “I thought you’d be working out of D.C.”
“Nah, headquarters is boring,” said Forrest. “I wanted to be in the field. This is great that we’ll be working together.”
“Not exactly working together, Mr. Latham,” interjected Judge O’Connor. “Ms. Howard is advising the defense. You’re advising the prosecution.” He introduced Blick and then said, “Mr. Cervantez is waiting for us in my chambers. Shall we?”
Forrest bowed and waved the women ahead of him with a grin. He directed a wink at Cassandra.
The walnut-paneled walls of the chief judge’s chambers were decorated with pictures of him posing with politicians and celebrities dating back twenty years. One shelf held awards from dozens of organizations, both local and national; another shelf held editions of the two books he had written, on the Sixth Amendment and juries (he was inclined to present guests with autographed copies). A third shelf held biographies of Winston Churchill (whom O’Connor was fond of quoting) and framed pictures of his family.
A slender man with thinning dark hair, a silvering goatee, and black-framed glasses turned from the bookshelf as O’Connor and the others entered. Cassandra noticed his ears were disproportionately long and his brown suit was ill-fitted, perhaps a size too large. She put him in his late fifties.
“Mr. Cervantez, this is Cassandra Howard from Real Thought Analytics,” said O’Connor. “She’ll be your jury consultant for the trial.”
“I’m looking forward to working with you,” said Cassandra as she crossed the room to shake Cervantez’s hand.
“So you’re to blame for this miscarriage of justice,” he said, his hands remaining in his pockets.
“In small part,” said Cassandra with a slight smile. “In very small part.” She had become practiced in absorbing outrage and blowback over the Surrogate technology. People were resistant to change, and she had learned to put off any attempts at reasonable persuasion until emotional temperatures cooled. Cervantez was clearly still hot.
“Never mind him, Ms. Howard,” said O’Connor. “He’ll come around. Lawrence, behave yourself.”
“But Judge, this is preposterous.” Cervantez brushed past Cassandra. “A robot jury? How have we come to this?”
“They’re not robots,” said Forrest.
“Artificial intelligence then, whatever,” said Cervantez.
“We call it replicate consciousness, actually,” said Cassandra gently. “There’s a marked difference.”
“Artificial intelligence implies independent sentience,” said Forrest. “The Surrogate program employs technology designed to replicate a specific consciousness.” He grinned broadly.
Cervantez stared at Forrest a moment before turning back to O’Connor. “I have real problems with this whole idea, Judge.”
“I know you do,” said O’Connor, taking a seat behind his desk. “And you’re not alone by a long shot, but the ABA and even the ACLU have both agreed to take a wait-and-see approach with the pilot program. So that’s what we’re here for. To show it can work.”
“I understand this is the first live case?” asked Blick.
“Yes,” said O’Connor. “Other actual cases will begin soon in the other pilot courts, but we are the first, and you should know I intend to stay first. I won’t tolerate any delays. Jury selection starts day after tomorrow.”
“Day after tomorrow?” Cervantez threw his hands in the air. “Judge, that is way too soon. How can you expect us to be ready for voir dire in a day and a half ?”
“Relax, Larry,” said Blick. “You’ve had two months to prepare your case. And you know as well as I do this isn’t the one to go to the wall for.”
Cassandra sensed the assistant prosecutor was keen on the prospect of being at the forefront of a technological — and legal — revolution, which meant Forrest was likely to encounter far less contention from her than it appeared Cassandra was going to get from Cervantez.
“So my client gets to be the victim of us working out the bugs,” said Cervantez. “Terrific. How is that remotely fair?”
“Your client signed off on it, Mr. Cervantez,” said O’Connor. “She’s waived her right to procedural due process. Everything was explained to her.”
“She’s a khem addict, Your Honor. She’ll sign anything for a fix. I have to say for the record that this is an outrage. I’ve been a public defense attorney for over twenty years and I’ve never seen anything this grievous.”
“Mr. Cervantez, you can spare me the rhetoric. We’re not in the courtroom yet.”
“But Judge, how is this even constitutional?”
“Ah,” said O’Connor. “That is yet to be determined. But there’s certainly a legitimate path to constitutionality. The court recognized legal constructs as having the same rights as persons in Citizens United, and Greene v. Osbourne found sufficient digital data could be used to construct a personal value system and ascertain intent. The concept of a surrogate jury is just building on the evolving definition of person in a technological age. Welcome to the future, Mr. Cervantez. Kicking and screaming as you may choose.”
The Full Belly was two blocks from the Hall of Justice down Clinton Street. The judge had strongly encouraged Cassandra and Cervantez to have lunch together. Unmanned electric cars traveled the streets at uniform speeds and distance. Drones flew between the buildings as though through canyons, delivering packages, auditing pedestrian traffic, and carrying air boards advertising insurance or pharmaceuticals.
“You know where this all started?” asked Cervantez as he and Cassandra stopped at the corner of Clinton and Beaubien to wait for the LED-lit walkway across the street to turn from red to green.
Cassandra spread her hands in question.
“When they replaced umps behind the plate with those pitch monitors,” said Cervantez with disgust.