“It’s not that. I don’t want Tim hurt.”
“Don’t duck the issue. You either want to fight Bahr, for what he’s done to you and the things you believe in, or you want to give up, let him take you like he’s always taken you.”
Libby flushed, and her eyes blazed with anger.
“No,” she said. “Hell never do that again. I’ll fight him.”
A clerk opened the door, and nodded to them. Alexander squeezed her hand, and she stepped to the door. A moment later they were walking down the hall and into the courtroom.
There was a hushed murmur across the room as she appeared, and the cameras of two continents swung toward her as she walked toward the long table near the front of the room. She saw Bahr’s eyes meet hers, contemptuously, and then widen. His face turned a sudden angry red and he almost leaped to his feet when he saw that her counsel for the trial was a lean, bronzed Harvey Alexander, in the uniform of a General in U.S. Army Intelligence, complete with combat braid and decorations.
Alexander took the opening advantage by putting Bahr on the defensive about the kidnapping.
First he asked Bahr’s attorney a few routine questions about why Bahr wanted the adoption, for which very reasonable and logical answers were presented. Then Alexander said, “And what was Mr. Bahr’s reaction to the attempted kidnapping of Miss Allison’s child?”
The attorney turned to Bahr, who indicated that he would answer without taking the witness chair. “I was naturally concerned,” Bahr said, “and I would like to add that I am exceedingly grateful to the Canadian authorities, who were alert enough to prevent what might have been an anxious . . . or even tragic . . . incident.”
“Can you think of any reason why someone should have wanted to carry out this kidnapping, Mr. Bahr?” Alexander asked, persistently ignoring Bahr’s title.
“I cannot, unless they knew he was my son and intended to bilk me for ransom. Certainly a ransom attempt would have been aimed at me,” he added, “because Miss Allison has no money at all.”
“Then someone must have been aware of your earlier attempt to negotiate with Miss Allison?”
Bahr reddened. “That’s possible. It was a domestic matter, I made no attempt at secrecy.”
Alexander’s voice was smooth. “Then possibly some over-zealous people attempted the kidnapping, thinking they were acting in your interests.”
“I think not,” Bahr said sharply. “My people know I don’t operate that way . . . and they are completely loyal.”
Alexander let that remark sink home; then he thrust the knife. “In that case, I’m sure you can explain,” he said, “why every member of the kidnapping group was an agent in the New York division of your own DIA.”
During the recess Bahr had a background check run on Alexander, on a crash priority, intent on discrediting him as an imposter. Alexander was a passed-over major in the Army, a deserter, and wanted by the DIA for stability check and alien contact. A General! Bahr snorted.
The background check altered his plans. The Army records were complete and perfect. Alexander, they said, had been on special CI assignment since the Wildwood raid; his promotion had been reconsidered, and he had been spot-promoted to General after directing a raid on Chinese Intelligence headquarters in Hong Kong two weeks before when an attempt had been made to blow up the White Sands rocket installation. Bahr remembered seeing the report on that raid, carried out with terrific daring and precision in Hong Kong and well publicized. He had even commended it publicly himself, though the names of the participants had not been noted. Bahr did not like it. It put Alexander in too strong a position, a military hero.
The escape from Kelley was no help, since Alexander had been registered there under a John Smith label, for Bahr’s convenience. As far as the records were concerned, the incident had never happened, and Alexander was legally scot-free. The recess was short, but by the time he went back into court Bahr was certain that some forgery and conniving had been carried out with the Army files. He smelled a rat, but he didn’t know what to do about it at that time.
After the recess, the unpleasantness of the opening session intensified. Bahr presented his claims for the boy. Alexander parried every inference against Libby’s character and qualifications, but felt that he was losing ground nevertheless. Bahr’s confidence was returning; he nodded to his counsel, and they began the long string of male witnesses testifying to Libby’s immoral conduct during the past weeks. Alexander appeared confused as the picture developed inexorably. Finally, as though at a loss, he put Libby herself on the stand.
She tensed herself for the ordeal, to do what she had to do. “I could deny what these men have been saying, but I can’t see what difference their testimony could make in this matter anyway,” she said sharply. “When DEPCO was closed down my apartment was looted, my bank account frozen, and I was turned out on the street and hustled around by the police for vagrancy. My education kept me out of low-skill jobs, and my red security card, a present from Mr. Bahr, kept me out of highly skilled jobs. When the currency was changed . . . well, show me one person in Federation America who didn’t go through hell during that changeover . . . .”
She saw Bahr’s face go red with anger, saw him lean over to whisper to Braelow, saw the camera eyes watching her from four angles across the room, and she went on. Her voice was low before; now she raised it so it carried clearly across the courtroom. “But we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about this man’s claim on my son, and there’s one thing I’d like to make clear, and it just makes me furious. I’ve been insulted, and attacked, and my private life has been put under the spotlight, all on the strength of sanctimonious claims that Julian Bahr wants to do the right thing by his son and take him away from my evil influence. Well, I would like to ask Mr. Bahr if he has one shred of proof, even a single scrap of paper, that will prove that he is the father of my child.”
There was a stunned silence. Then Bahr was on his feet. “This is ridiculous,” he roared. “There are the paternity papers . . . .” And then he broke off suddenly, staring at the cameras, his mouth still open.
He remembered then.
There were no paternity papers.
The judge adjourned for the day, to quiet the courtroom and give Bahr time to re-form his case.
The following day, a barrage of evidence: blood typing, flesh and hair tests, fingerprint whorls, eye color. Alexander dismissed it all, pleasantly but firmly. “Hundreds of men could have produced a child with these characteristics,” he said. “This is not conclusive evidence; it isn’t even evidence at all.”
More testimony, not in especially good taste, but Bahr was desperate. He was committed now, he would not turn back. He would not lose a public battle to that red-headed slut. He was Julian Bahr, he had dragged himself up from nothing to the leadership of a continent, and she was nothing more than a common whore, like . . . . A wave of anger shut his mind against the past. That didn’t matter now. All that mattered was that he was going to win.
He verified the skiing vacation they took when Libby had become pregnant. Witnesses testified that they shared the same room.
Libby shook her head. “What difference does that make?” she asked Braelow. “All you’re proving is immorality, not paternity.”