“They work,” said Cassandra. “No one argues balls and strikes anymore.”
“Exactly,” said Cervantez. “Took away all nuance. We keep wanting everything to be black and white, but everything isn’t black and white. Like the strike zone, there are edges. Humans understand edges are not clear-cut.”
“Which is why people make mistakes,” said Cassandra.
“Yep, they do,” said Cervantez. “But isn’t that what they say? To err is human. What if that ability is humanity’s defining asset? We’ve spent thousands of years trying to eradicate human error. What if when we finally stamp it out for good, poof! No more humanity.”
“That’s probably a ways off,” said Cassandra.
The walkway lit up green and they started to cross.
“Might be closer than you think,” said Cervantez.
The restaurant was crowded with other court employees. At the order counter, Cassandra swiped her hand over the UR? reader and the vegetarian options were displayed on the menu screen in the countertop.
“Hello, Cassandra,” said the menu. “What would you like for lunch?”
She ordered the grilled tempeh sandwich with avocado, roasted red peppers, and sprouts on ciabatta bread.
“Good choice, Cassandra,” said the menu. “Enjoy.”
Beside her, Cervantez ordered the BLT platter.
“This sandwich has 1,094 milligrams of sodium, Lawrence, which will exceed your personal recommended daily allowance,” said the menu. “Perhaps you would like to omit the bacon or make another choice?”
“It’s not a BLT without bacon,” said Cervantez. “And no, I do not want to make another choice.” He turned to Cassandra. “I hate it when it tries to tell me what to eat.”
“It’s just giving good advice,” said Cassandra. “Too much sodium’s not healthy for you.”
“So I’ve been told,” said Cervantez. “But it’s my call.”
“Your health insurance company may think otherwise,” said Cassandra.
“Yeah, yeah,” said Cervantez. “I know. So my insurance rate just ticked up. But a BLT is worth it.”
They found a table along a back wall. Cervantez bit into his sandwich. “Mmm,” he said. “Good bacon.” He wiped at his goatee with a napkin. “All right. I guess we’re doing this. So, jury consultant, tell me how the hell this works.”
“You have an aunt?” began Cassandra.
“I have many.”
“Well, pick one.”
“My tía Mayra. Salt of the earth.”
“Okay, picture your tía Mayra. Imagine all you know about her. Her likes, her dislikes. Her tendencies and quirks. Her experiences, her worldview. Technology now allows us to render all of those traits and qualities digitally.” Cassandra concentrated on keeping her voice clinical, despite her enthusiasm for the revolutionary work. “Over the past decade, building on personality tests such as the Enneagram model or the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator, which we now recognize as primitive but at the time was highly influential, personality psychologists have developed a comprehensive — I’ll call it a questionnaire — that assembles an individual’s personality with such accuracy that we can extrapolate decisions and judgments the person would make in real-life situations.”
“Uh-huh,” said Cervantez. “My tía Mayra in a computer.”
“Essentially, yes,” said Cassandra, having forgotten her food. “Personality neuroscience has mapped the six major personality traits to regions of the brain. That’s the foundation. Through a simple MRI we can identify the building blocks of an individual’s personality.”
Over the next half hour, Cassandra explained how through using intensive Likert-scale surveys, personality mapping, and inclusive mining of personal data from e-life platforms, Real Thought Analytics had developed the Surrogate program.
“As an early application of the technology, jury duty is particularly apt,” she said. “Think of it. Almost everyone hates jury duty. No one has the time. Juries are costly, cumbersome, inefficient, and unreliable. The Surrogate system fixes all of that. We can employ a person’s surrogate easily and without hassle. What’s more — and this is critical — we’re able to modify individual surrogates to compensate for biases and prejudices. Surrogates finally allow for an impartial jury in a way never possible before.”
“By impartial you mean emotionless,” said Cervantez, folding his napkin.
“Objective,” clarified Cassandra.
“So much for a jury of your peers.” Cervantez stood up.
“No,” said Cassandra. “This is exactly a jury of your peers. Don’t you see? Just with all the hate, suspicion, and prejudices stripped out.”
“But also all empathy, compassion, and mercy, right?” asked Cervantez. “Hate to tell you, Ms. Howard, but my ability to access those emotions in jurors is often the only shot I have at an effective defense.” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “Because, unfortunately, a good number of my clients are guilty.” He pulled back, his voice returning to regular volume. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?” Cassandra grabbed her purse.
“To see the human being your surrogate jury is going to judge.”
The County Detention Facility, a cement box the color of sand perched on squat posts, was a short walk back up Clinton, across from the Hall of Justice. A tunnel under the street connected the two buildings, making it easier to transport inmates to and from trial. Drone perches hung from every side of the building like hornets’ nests. Cervantez ushered Cassandra through the security checkpoints. Her short heels clopped on the industrial gray tiles of the beige-painted hallway as a guard led them to the attorney meeting room. The air smelled of an unpleasant combination of urine, body odor, disinfectant, floor wax, and mold.
“Here you go,” said the guard, unlocking a cell door. “You’ll all fit if you squeeze in.”
The tiny space was featureless except for a brown metal table and two chipped metal chairs bolted to the cement-block wall. Ammie Moore sat on one of the chairs, spastically kicking her crossed leg and knocking the silver tracking bracelet around her wrist against the tabletop. Cassandra thought the young white girl looked small and thin in the yellow jumpsuit. She was probably in her mid-twenties. Her unwashed blond hair hung in strands and her skin was blotchy with a red rash. She blinked erratically and her lips twitched, evidence, along with the rash, of regular khem use.
“Hey, Ammie,” said Cervantez, taking the other chair. “How you doing? This is Cassandra Howard. She’s going to be helping with the case.”
“You got a little something?” asked Ammie, ignoring Cassandra. Her voice was pleading.
Cervantez shook his head. “You know I don’t, Ammie. You’ve been getting your script, though, right?”
Ammie snorted. “Yeah. I been getting it. But it’s only enough to keep me from throwing myself out a goddamn window. Can’t you get them to up it? Even a little?”
“I’ll talk to the doctor when I leave.” Cervantez reached into his briefcase and withdrew an e-folder carrying links to the case files. “Do you remember digistamping an agreement to take part in a pilot jury program, Ammie?”
“I don’t know, maybe,” said Ammie. “It sounded cool.”
“Well, I wish you hadn’t done that. Because now I have to defend you in front of a jury I have no experience with. And we already had plenty stacked against us. I want to encourage you one more time to consider a plea deal.”
“But I didn’t kill that guy.” Ammie’s soft voice rose. “I ain’t saying I did it when I didn’t. I’ve done plenty of other stuff, but not this.”
“I know,” said Cervantez, “but with the evidence the state has, I’m not certain I can convince a jury — any jury — that you’re innocent. You’re looking at life without parole. You know that, right?”