Mindscan

23

Deshawn and Lopez spent the morning arguing more motions; I’d had no idea how much time could be wasted on that. But finally, after lunch, we got down to the main show.

“Please state your name for the record,” said the clerk.

Karen was wearing a simple, inexpensive beige suit. “Karen Cynthia Bessarian,” she said.

“Be seated.”

Karen sat down, and Deshawn got up—almost exactly like a seesaw.

“Hello, Karen,” said Deshawn, smiling warmly. “How are you feeling today?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“I’m glad,” said Deshawn. “I suppose health concerns aren’t a major issue for you anymore, are they?”

“No, thank God.”

“You sound relieved. Have you had health problems in the past?”

“No more than anyone my age, I suppose,” said Karen. “But they’re no fun to go through.”

“I’m sure, I’m sure,” said Deshawn. “I don’t want to pry, but might you share a few of them with us?”

“Oh, the usual litany—everything from tonsillitis to a hip replacement.” Karen paused. “I suppose the worst thing was my bout with breast cancer.”

“My God, that’s awful,” said Deshawn. “How were you treated?”

“Initially with radiation therapy and drugs. The tumor was destroyed, but, of course, I was still at risk of future tumors. Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

“Because you’ve uploaded into this durable body?”

“No, no. Because I had genetic therapy. I had two of the key genes that predispose a woman to breast cancer. About twenty years ago, I had gene therapy to eliminate those genes from my body. That cut my likelihood of ever having another breast tumor to a very low level.”

“I see, I see. Well, I’m delighted to hear that. But let’s move on. Karen, have you been outside the U.S. since you became a Mindscan?”

“Yes.”

“Where have you been?”

“Canada. Toronto.”

“And that means you’ve crossed over the U.S.-Canada border since uploading, no?”

“Yes, by train going into Canada, and by car going back.”

“And have you taken any flights recently?”

“Yes.”

“Where from?”

“Toronto’s Lester B. Pearson International Airport, to Atlanta, Georgia.”

“Why?”

“To attend a funeral.”

“Not your own, I hope!” A few jurors laughed.

“No. In fact, the funeral of my first husband, Daron Bessarian.”

“Oh, my God,” said Deshawn, with appropriate theatricality. “I’m so very sorry to hear that. Still, when crossing the border between—what, Windsor and Detroit?—you had to speak with customs officials, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And when you flew from Toronto to Atlanta, you also had to deal with customs officials, correct?”

“Yes.”

“So, in fact, you’ve dealt with both United States Customs and Canadian Customs, correct?”

“Yes.”

“In these dealings, were you asked to provide identification?”

“Naturally.”

“What ID did you present?”

“My United States passport, and my U.S. Homeland Security personal-identity card.”

“And do you have both of these documents in your possession?”

“Yes, I do.”

“May the court see them?”

“Of course.”

Karen had a small purse with her. She removed the passport, and the smaller personal-identity card.

“I’d like to enter these as exhibits,” said Deshawn, “and have the court note that they were indeed in the possession of the plaintiff.”

“Ms. Lopez?”

“Your honor, just because she has physical possession—”

Herrington shook his long head. “Ms. Lopez, don’t argue your case. Do you have an objection to the exhibits being entered?”

“No, your honor.”

“Very well,” said Judge Herrington. “Continue, Mr. Draper.”

“Thank you, your honor. So, Karen, as you’ve just demonstrated, you possess the identification papers of Karen Bessarian, correct?”

“Of course,” Karen said. “I am her.”

“Well, you’ve certainly got Karen’s ID documents, but let’s see if it goes further than that.” Deshawn took an object off his desk and held it up. It was about the size of a deck of playing cards; parts had a shiny silver finish and the rest were matte black.

“Do you know what this is?”

“A transaction terminal,” said Karen.

“Exactly,” said Deshawn. “Just a common, garden-variety wireless transaction terminal. The kind you encounter in stores and restaurants—anywhere you might want to access the funds in your bank account and transfer some amount to someone else, correct?”

“That’s what it appears to be, yes,” said Karen.

“Now, please let me assure you that this isn’t a mockup; it’s a real, working unit, hooked into the global financial network.”

“All right.”

Deshawn pulled a golden disk out of his pocket. “What’s this, Karen?”

“A Reagan.”

“By which you mean a ten-dollar United States coin, correct? With the American eagle on one side and former president Ronald Reagan on the other, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Now, do you have access to your bank accounts currently?”

Karen’s tone was measured. “In his wisdom, until this matter is cleared up, Judge Herrington has put a cap on how much of my money I can take out. But, yes, I should be able to access my accounts.”

“Very good,” said Deshawn. “Here’s what I’d like to do, then. I’d like to give you this ten-dollar coin—good for all debts, public and private. In exchange, I’d like you to transfer ten dollars from your principal bank account into mine. Would you be willing to do that?”

Karen smiled. “By all means.”

Deshawn looked to the judge, who nodded. He then crossed the well and gave Karen the coin. “Don’t spend it all in one place,” he said, and a couple of jurors chuckled; Deshawn was warm and witty, and slowly but surely I think he was indeed winning them over. “Now, if you please …?” He handed her the transaction terminal.

Karen placed her thumb against the little scanning plate, and one of the green lights came on. She then held the device up to her right eye, and the other green light came on.

“Wait!” said Deshawn. “Before you go any further, will you read to the court what the transfer terminal’s display is currently saying?”

“With pleasure,” said Karen. “It says, ‘Identity confirmed: Bessarian, Karen C.’ ”

Deshawn took the device from her and walked over to the jury box, showing the display to each juror in turn. The implication was clear: the device had recognized Karen’s fingerprints and her retinal scans.

“So at the border stations, you proved your identity on the basis of what you had—specifically, on the basis of documents in your possession, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“And the transaction terminal has identified you based on who you are—that is, based on your biometric data, correct?”

“That’s my understanding, yes.”

“All right.” Deshawn fished into his jacket pocket, and pulled out his ident. “This is the account I’d like you to transfer ten dollars to,” he said, proffering the card.

Karen took the card and held it near the device’s scanner. Another LED came on.

Karen tapped out something on the keypad, and—

“Wait!” said Deshawn. “What did you just do?”

“I entered my PIN,” said Karen.

“Your personal identification number?”

“Yes.”

“And did the terminal accept it?”

Karen held up the unit. The green LED was surely obvious, even in the jury box.

“Who else beside you knows this PIN?”

“No one.”

“Do you have it written down anywhere?”

“No. The bank says you aren’t supposed to do that.”

Deshawn nodded. “You are wise. So this terminal has now recognized you not only based on your biometrics, but also on information you possess that only Karen Bessarian could possibly know, correct?”

“That’s exactly right,” said Karen.

Deshawn nodded. “Now, if you’ll just finish the transaction—I don’t want to lose my ten bucks…”

The jury enjoyed this comment, and Karen tapped several keys. “Transaction completed,” she said, and held up the terminal, which was showing the appropriate pattern of illuminated LEDs.

It was a simple, elegant demonstration, and it looked to me like at least some of the jurors were impressed by it. “Thank you,” said Deshawn. “Your witness, Ms. Lopez.”

“Not right now,” said Herrington. “We’ll pick this up in the morning.”