One Good Juror

Illustration by Anthony Bari.

At first, it looked as if she had lost before she’d even started. The defense attorney finished his argument, took his seat at the opposing counsel’s table, looking relaxed and confident. For a moment, the courtroom was silent; Erin heard only the blood coursing in her own ears as she completed the download of her client’s e-files.

“Ms. Mendel?” the judge said. Erin rose slowly. She had commenced scanning the data, which made it a struggle to vocalize.

“Your Honor, a moment please. I’m still coming up to speed on the case.” She addressed a simulacrum seated behind a raised bench at the end of the courtroom. The judge’s image, of an elderly, bespectacled woman, was larger than life-size in order to increase her presence and authority in the courtroom. But factors like apparent sex and age were largely irrelevant for assessing the temperament of an artificial judicial intelligence. Much more important would be a knowledge of the early cases on which this judge had learned and evolved its decision-making ability. Erin didn’t have time to look up that information.

“The court permitted your last-minute substitution as counsel for the plaintiff,” the judge was saying, in a severe, schoolmarmish voice and diction, “but not at the cost of delaying these proceedings. Now, please respond to Mr. Clark’s points and advise the court of any reasons why your client’s claims should not be dismissed as a matter of law.”

Erin had barely heard defense counsel’s argument. All she had known when she’d walked into the courtroom ten minutes earlier was that she represented the plaintiff in a products liability case. A high-profile one, judging from all the media reps and curious citizens she had to squeeze past in the doorway and who now filled the spectator seats.

She cleared her throat. The judge wouldn’t wait any longer. She had to say something, right now, or she would be hit with time or monetary sanctions.

“Your Honor,” she began—the client, what was his name again? “Mr. Polk has suffered brain damage as a result of using the product manufactured and distributed by the defendant.” She hoped she was getting this much right. Yes—there it was in the medical records. “Permanent, steadily increasing erosion of long-term memory, loss of personality, as a direct and proximate result of—”

The judge interrupted. “Yes, Ms. Mendel. As I understand it, causation isn’t disputed. Is that correct, Mr. Clark?”

Good—if she’d pegged Clark right, he loved the sound of his own voice too much to stop at a simple yes or no. She might pick up another minute or two.

“Yes, Your Honor.” Clark gathered himself to his feet. “We don’t deny that use of our product can cause such injuries, but only in a statistically insignificant number of cases. This risk is outweighed by benefits to several million other users for whom the product is perfectly safe.”

“Then the only question is whether the product is defective. You should proceed to address that point, Ms. Mendel.”

What was the product? She accessed her predecessor’s discovery files. Design drawings, pages of technical specifications flickered through her mind. Come on, the common name is good enough for now…

My God. It was the cerebral implant made by NeuroTek, Inc.

The same implant she wore inside her own head, was using right now.

Erin had tried enough cases to let none of her shock come to the surface of her face; she recovered quickly, even as she became aware of the latest medical studies showing that Polk was far from alone.

“This injury has been reported in 987 other users of the NeuroTek implant,” she told the judge. “How could it not be defect—”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Clark said, rising to his feet. “Evidence of other product injuries is prejudicial, and not admissible in cases where causation is undisputed.”

“Correct,” the judge said. Erin realized why NeuroTek had not disputed that the implant had caused the brain damage. She would have to find a different approach.

“A moment, Your Honor, to confer with my client?” The judge might be impatient with the delay, but would not refuse her this.

The judge removed her spectacles and glared. “Please make it quick, Counselor.”

She leaned over to the man seated at the table beside her. Ephraim Polk had a slight, wiry build, good, disciplined posture, and a face that could not be called handsome but was striking nonetheless. She had seen his unsmiling photo somewhere before, she was sure, in a news clip or magazine perhaps, but it had given little hint of the impact he made in person, seated at close range.

“How long did you wear the implant?” she whispered. Erin turned an ear toward him and closed her eyes, as if listening. She did want to know the answer, but right now it was far less important than the few seconds she gained to scan the evidence offered to the court by the client’s former lawyer.

Polk’s features wrinkled in thought. “I’m… not sure.”

“Keep thinking about it, and say something back to me whether you recall or not.”

During this exchange, Erin accessed the depositions of both sides’ expert witnesses, including the neurobiologists. She was annoyed to find herself glancing sideways at Polk as she did.

What was the law here? She had never handled a products liability suit, on either the plaintiff’s or defense side; she had warned him of that. Still, he had begged her to represent him.

“I just can’t remember, for sure.” Polk’s head was bowed in thought. “Must have been around the time I started working professionally in news art. Whenever that was.”

She was nodding her head, but her attention had turned away from scanning her implant’s internal buffer to connecting to the Net’s law library.

“Ms. Mendel, the court is losing patience.” The judge removed her spectacles, shook them for emphasis at the side of her head; as she did so, the whole side of her face there twisted up, eyebrow rising, mouth half-grimacing into a smile, even an ear wiggling out, as if these features were connected by invisible strings to the spectacles. The effect was ludicrous, and Erin had to stifle a smile. Must be a glitch in the personality-to-image interface; or else the interface was simply attempting to manifest some quirk in the judge’s core personality.

Erin straightened, not yet having received a response to her legal search.

“Your Honor, I call the court’s attention to a factual dispute in the expert testimony. The defense expert does claim the product is reasonably safe for its intended use. But the plaintiff’s expert, Dr. Singh, opines that the NeuroTek implant is unreasonably dangerous, and that incorporation of a different wetware interface probably would have avoided the—Mr. Polk’s injury.”

“Yes, but what about the cost issue? As Mr. Clark has pointed out, the Product Liability Reform Act, as amended in 2034, was intended to free consumers of the unreasonable costs of safety measures that benefit only a minority of individuals. The NeuroTek product has received federal approval, and its safety warnings are adequate as a matter of law. The court has reviewed the recordings of Dr. Singh’s testimony—he nowhere suggests that NeuroTek could have used a different wetware interface without increasing the product’s cost, does he?”

The results of Erin’s own legal search had come back, and she confirmed that the law was indeed as unfavorable as the judge described. There had to be something more in Singh’s testimony…

“Yes, he does, Your Honor, he just uses different terminology. He says that alternative, safer interfaces are, quote, ‘readily available,’ and refers to several competing products manufactured in China and India that use these safer interfaces and are marketed at competitive prices.”

This had to be the way, she knew in her gut; the judge’s hesitation told her that much. A judicial intelligence had to be careful to avoid any decision that might depend even slightly on fine distinctions or idiosyncrasies in human spoken or body language. After all, the appeals court justices were human.

Clark was on his feet again. “Your Honor, if I may… Dr. Singh’s views are on the lunatic fringe of brain implant technology.”

“His views may be in the minority,” Erin said, “but even the defense expert has conceded that the issue remains unresolved to a scientific certainty, and that Dr. Singh’s views represent one possible valid approach.”

“That is correct,” the judge said. “The court finds that Dr. Singh’s opinions are based on valid science and are thus admissible evidence.”

Erin had shut-down her scans and now focused everything on her argument. “And the question of which of two competing but equally valid scientific approaches is more persuasive has to be resolved by a human juror, on the basis of the relative credibility of the expert witnesses’ testimony and demeanor.”

For a long moment, the courtroom was silent again. Erin knew the judge was reviewing all reported decisions and authorities related to the issue. In this instance, she hoped, the AI would act like a human trial judge and adopt the safest course. Finally, the judge ruled.

“The defendant’s motion for summary judgment dismissing the plaintiff’s claims is denied. The alternative motion for determination of law of the case is granted. This matter is hereby scheduled for trial commencing next Monday at 8:30 A.M. The juror shall be instructed that he or she may find that defendant’s product is defective only if the evidence shows that it could have been designed or manufactured to prevent this injury without a significant increase in the cost of the product.”

How in the world are we supposed to prove that? Erin wondered. “Counsel shall adhere to a three-day trial schedule. The case shall be given to the juror no later than 3:30 P.M. on Wednesday. Any delays or violations of the evidence rules shall be met with time or monetary sanctions.”

“What does this mean?” Polk whispered.

“It means you’ve won your right to a trial,” she told him. “But we’re in big trouble.”

Ephraim wondered if he had made a mistake in hiring Erin Mendel. Her office shocked him, and he let her see it.

“Come in.” She admitted him stiffly, squeezing up against the holo-window so that he could get around the end of her desk to the empty chair that was obviously meant for him.

There was no reason to spend money for the ostentation of expensive space if your reputation was made in the courtroom, Ephraim supposed. But after Derocher’s spacious office with its real window and woolen carpeting, this… closet seemed more symbolic perhaps than it should have.

“Mr. Polk.” She offered him a long-fingered hand. “I’m sorry that I had to literally rush in at the eleventh hour. But you didn’t leave me much time when you asked me to represent you.” She tilted her head, her eyes steady on his face. They were green, he noticed—the kind of green that could look cold as arctic seawater. “Suppose we talk about your case. Now that we have actually been awarded a trial.”

“Why did you say we were in trouble?” He tried to moderate his tone Ms. Mendel was the only lawyer who had been willing to take the case after Derocher dumped him, after all.

“You’re getting a trial because the AI deferred to the human ability to assess credibility and interpret nuances of human language.” She was still studying him. “That doesn’t mean you have much hope of winning. This kind of product liability case has been unsuccessful in nearly every instance in the last decade.”

“The judge said something about deciding if the cost of using a safer interface was significant. My God!” He unclenched his fists with an effort. “How can any amount of money be significant compared to what… what’s happening to me?”

“That is exactly what we need to convey to the juror,” she said crisply. “So talk to me, please.”

“What about? You got all the stuff from Derocher, didn’t you? He said he’d upload it.” Ephraim fixed his eyes on her holographic window. It was a cheap job—a flat and unreal vista of the Rocky Mountains. The last batch of images he had downloaded pressed against the wall in his brain like a flood rising behind a dam. Which was imagination, he knew. The storage area that had been created to hold the raw data from the Net was isolated by a barrier of individually destroyed neurons rather than any kind of physical structure.

It still felt like a dam about to burst. He could open the floodgates. If he chose. And if he did—he might end up with no memory of any moment before this one. Who would he be, with no past? “I’m sorry.” Ephraim turned his attention back to the lawyer. “I didn’t mean to…” He broke off abruptly.

She wasn’t listening to him. She was staring into space, her gaze unfocused, her posture alert and engaged. Her eyes moved so rapidly that her irises seemed to shiver, and her pupils had contracted to pinpoints. Like a sleeper in REM sleep, he thought. Like someone suffering a mild seizure. Sudden comprehension evoked the familiar ache in the muscles around his eyes. When you opened those floodgates—used your interface to its full capacity—the outside world ceased to exist. The brain sorted and filed the raw data you had downloaded directly from the Net, labeling it with sensory tags rather than words—so that you drowned in flashes of color and image, the sound of a tuba, a car starting, the scent of pancakes burning, or a whiff of garbage. He had videotaped himself in that state once.

It had frightened him. “You wear one,” he rasped. “Damn it!”

She blinked, startled, regaining focus quickly. “Excuse me?”

“You’re wearing an implant. NeuroTek?” He bolted to his feet, rage coursing through him. “What are you trying to pull here?”

“I’m trying to win a judgment for you,” she said coldly. “Yes, I wear a NeuroTek implant. A lot of people do.”

He felt… betrayed. There was no other word for it. “It’s a conflict of interest.” He glared at her. “How can you prosecute NeuroTek if you’re happy with their product?”

Her laugh caught him by surprise. “Mr. Polk, Ephraim, believe me, it was quite a shock to discover the nature of your suit. It was… disturbing.” She closed her eyes briefly, and let out a breath that was almost but not quite a sigh. “You can fire me, if you seriously believe that my prosecution of your case will be influenced by my use of a similar implant.” She shrugged. “At this point, it may be hard for you to find another good lawyer willing to handle this case.” She stressed the “good” slightly, without the least hint of false modesty.

She was right about that, Ephraim thought moodily. Which didn’t make him any happier. Her implant worked. He looked away, the words to end their relationship poised on the end of his tongue.

There was no time to find another lawyer.

She nodded briskly. “I need to take a look at what you do. I’ve never had much time to follow the art world, but you are quite the name.”

“For the moment,” he said between clenched teeth.

“If I am to convince a juror that you have lost something of value, I need to know what it is that’s valuable. So tell me.” She crossed her arms and perched on the corner of her desk. She seemed as much a stranger in this small space as he, Ephraim thought. This was not where she really worked.

“I do… newsmedia collages.” He frowned, wondering how much she would understand—or care. “I start with a theme—an idea that’s both intellectual and emotional. Then I search for images that—put together—convey that theme. Our news—what we think is worthy of attention—reflects our innermost self as a society.” Images from Children’s Crusade swept over him—half finished—and the stored download bulged against the invisible walls in his skull. “I sweep the media archives. I might sort through a million images to get the handful I need. It’s like… a chord of music. Only I’m dealing with millions of notes, instead of a handful of octaves. I render the final collage as holographic images. I add music, scent, heat or cold. And when it’s done, when it works, I am communicating to the person who stands on that stage beyond mere language. Words only skim the surface. This touches the soul.…” He broke off abruptly. He hadn’t intended this outburst, couldn’t read her expression at all. “People buy it.” He shrugged.

“That’s why you had the implant done? Just so that you could access more images?”

“Just?” Incredulous, he stared at her. “Just so—yes!” He balled his hand into a fist. “It takes the right images to make it work—a lot of the right images. If I could, I’d search every archive in the Net. To make it work. Did you have a dog when you were a kid?”

She blinked at him. “Yes.”

“Did you love it?”

Her expression was definitely wary now. “Yes, I did. I was very young.”

“I found a puppy when I was ten.” He looked back at the fake view of the Rockies. “Someone had thrown it into a dumpster. It was tiny—its eyes barely open—way too young to be away from its mother. I fed it canned milk with an eyedropper, and woke up every hour so that it wouldn’t get hungry. I wanted it to live. I had never wanted anything so much in my life. Later on, we had to give it away—we couldn’t keep pets in our apartment. But that wasn’t so bad. It was alive, and that’s what mattered.” He looked her in the face. “That week is part of what I put onstage. It’s part of what makes it come together the way it does—the echo of that kid wanting, those silent hours when everyone else in the whole damn world was asleep, and he lay there waiting for the alarm, just him and that squirming bit of life. Cut out that memory—take it away, and… it loses something.” Children’s Crusade. He swallowed. “It is lessened,” he whispered. “Shallow. Can you understand?” He got abruptly to his feet, needing to be out of this tiny office, away from this woman who would weigh his loss and maybe find it insufficient when weighed against significant cost. He was losing focus. The scene was unraveling into frayed and disconnected images. The implant was leaking again. If it was a bad episode, he might drool. “I’ll show you what I do.” He opened the door. “But not right now.”

“Wait!”

Not in front of her… He fled down the hall.

Erin stared at the closed door sifter he left, not reviewing the mass of information about his case now stored in her head or doing any of the other mental work she had to do before the trial began. The air circulation in her office was poor, and his scent still lingered; it was not unpleasant, she decided.

Was he more miffed about her having the implant or the fact that her office was so small and shabby? She looked around at the four little walls with the one holo view. No artwork or other decorations. None of the stacks of old lawbooks that most lawyers still kept as props to impress clients. She hadn’t even bothered to get her degrees framed and hung up. This was a place even smaller and emptier than where she lived.

Too much time and money spent on loser cases. A good trial lawyer could make a living, have a nice office, maybe even real human staff—but you had to be selective to live off contingency cases. Erin had pushed herself hard enough, often enough, to know her weakness: she loved the pressure, the all-consuming intensity of trial too much. The tougher the case, the more that was true.

She had some other work—paying, transactional work that would at least help her to meet her overhead. But none of that would put her in trial on Monday. She would probably lose, and Polk would walk away blaming her; but not as much as she would blame herself. Then she would be despondent for a few weeks, until she managed to latch on to the next loser case, and go through it all again.

Polk seemed different from her other clients, though. He was guarded, wary, maybe not just of her; it was probably his nature. But a few times there, when he had talked about his work, and especially the puppy, she had caught glimpses of a great depth and power of being. An inner charisma? Maybe he was someone who could only open himself up to others under cover of his art. If so, that made it even more imperative that she see and comprehend what he did.

Erin shook her head. She had too much work to do to waste time in reverie, and a lot she needed to do with him. She decided to spend half an hour reviewing the medical files, to give him time to get home before calling. There was no unanimity about the how, but the medical authorities agreed that the NeuroTek interface was erasing or over-writing established connections between the billions of neurons in the brains of some users. In that intricate webwork was stored a person’s memories from earliest childhood, memories that made up the very sense of self. Some users had been damaged to the point where they did not know who they were at all, would have to record messages to themselves before going to sleep every night. And a frequent secondary symptom, present in Ephraim's case, was occurrence of petit mal-like seizures, triggered by stress.

As she accessed this information, Erin realized that the same thing could be happening to her even now, insidiously, without her ever knowing until it was too late. But in her case, that might not be so great a tragedy. Some people never had a real childhood to lose. She could imagine worse things than forgetting the day one of the older kids had taken her street mutt away and killed it.…

The guarded expression was already in place when his face appeared on her phone monitor. She was right, then; it was habitual.

“Ephraim,” she said, before he could speak, “I’ll make you a deal. You won’t run out on me like that again, and I won’t run out on you. Okay?”

He wasn’t going to agree to anything that simply, she saw.

“We have to go over your testimony,” she began again.

“What’s the point? You said I didn’t have a chance.”

“I didn’t say that. I said it’s going to be tough.” She could not bring herself to tell him how tough. The class action had been abolished by statute two decades ago. Of the 163 individual NeuroTek lawsuits brought by mind-damaged users, seventy-eight had already been dismissed by summary judgment. This would be the tenth case to go to trial. NeuroTek had won the first nine. “We have to work really hard and hope for some luck. Everything depends on whether we can get a good juror.

“All that stuff I said to the judge about the credibility of expert witnesses… your expert isn’t enough to win this for you. The thing that counts most is your testimony. We have to make that juror understand what this has done to you, make that person feel what you’re going through.”

“I went through all that with Derocher. When I gave the deposition.”

“That was different—you were answering questions for NeuroTek’s attorney. Here, you’ll be talking to the person who’s deciding the case. We have only a short, short time to present your testimony.” It used to be that products liability cases were allowed weeks, even months of trial time, and that time-sanctions were not imposed for just a single improper question. She didn’t tell him that, either.

“A damn program is going to judge me! What the hell is an AI going to care if I remember my first day of second grade? I can look facts up, right? I can access news clips. We need a human judge, not a computer.”

“Blame the public,” Erin told him. “People got tired of paying the increasing costs of the legal system. An AI doesn’t require a staff, office, salary, healthcare, or retirement. And it isn’t the judicial intelligence that will decide here, Ephraim. It is our juror—our very human juror. Which is why we have to figure out what’s really vital to tell and decide how you’re going to tell it.”

He wasn’t even looking directly at her anymore. His face had lapsed into a glazed, lost expression that frightened her. At the same time, there was something compelling about those gray eyes…

“Look, we don’t have to talk about your art right now. Let’s go over your background. When you started using the implant and when you first noticed problems. Then we’ll talk about what kind of juror we should try to select. We don’t have to do it in my office. You name the place, and I’ll meet you there.”

He named a coffee shop near his own neighborhood, and she went there and waited for two hours, and he never showed up. She went to his residence in a high-rent tower, but there was no answer and the door would not admit her. She took the elevator to the underground, walked two blocks, and caught the mag-lev to the stop nearest her own apartment.

Erin worked alone all weekend. She finished reading the medical records and stored them in what she pictured in her mind as an old-fashioned paper-file drawer. She colored that drawer red, then linked it to the remembered smell of antiseptic and the sound of an ambulance siren. She did the same with the product designs, marking that drawer blue, cross-linked with the smell of motor grease and the steady hum of heavy machinery. The defense experts’ depositions and reports were colored black and linked to the bang and cordite smell of a gunshot. If she needed to find something fast, in the middle of a rapid cross-examination, she could access the files instantly by remembering the color, the smell, or the sound.

She prepared her opening statement, then worked on the expert examinations and thought about what kind of juror they wanted: which age, sex, occupation, ethnic, and other characteristics might be more receptive to Ephraim’s case. One more thing she needed to cover with Ephraim. She tried to call, wound up leaving messages. Her last message late Sunday night was abrupt.

“Ephraim, if you don’t at least show up in court tomorrow morning, the judge will default you. And NeuroTek will win. Is that what you want?”

She must have been out of her mind to agree to represent an artist. Especially in a case like this, she thought, as she broke the connection. It was his choice—it wasn’t her fault if he didn’t show. But she didn’t sleep well that night, even after she let herself go to bed, and when she walked into the courtroom in the morning, she didn’t expect to see him.

But he was there, sitting at their little table and carefully looking away from her. Clark had come with two legal assistants, several cases of paper exhibits and records, and a laptop Netlink. Was he just an old-style lawyer—or had all these trials taught him something about his client’s product?

Between the two counsel tables and the judge’s bench was an empty space, maybe four by seven meters, flanked on one end by the jury box. Erin thought of that space as the arena—which it had once actually been, centuries before, in medieval England, when trial had meant trial by combat, and justice would be dispensed only through divine intervention. It might take some of that to salvage this one, Erin thought grimly.

She started to explain the juror selection process to Ephraim, but the judge appeared, opened the day’s session, and brought in the jury pool, seating them in the twelve seats along the right-hand wall. The courthouse had been constructed almost fifty years ago, in the days when everyone had the right to a jury of twelve—before public concern about costs became the overriding tenet of the judicial system. After the selection process eliminated all but one from the jury pool, that single juror would sit alone among the eleven empty seats.

The jurors each gave their background information, then the two lawyers took turns asking them questions. Erin wanted to know if they or anyone close to them had ever been seriously injured. How about an injury to the mind? How did they think it would make them feel, if their memory was eroding, they were gradually losing their self? And if you were aware of it, and knew you were also losing the ability to do the work that was the most important thing in your life?

Clark wanted to know if they had read or watched any news reports of implant injuries. Did they know any implant users themselves? Were they aware of all the millions of users who had used the NeuroTek implant safely, for a number of years? Of how much some people relied on the implant to do their work or function more efficiently in today’s society?

“Ms. Mendel, I’ve noticed, is a user herself,” Clark said, as if in afterthought. “If not NeuroTek, then one of our competitors’ products.”

Erin raised her head. Oh, no—he wasn’t going to get away with that one! It meant little to ask the judge to tell the potential jurors to disregard Clark’s statement. She had to make them understand that it was outrageous.

“Object! What counsel do or don’t do themselves is totally irrelevant.” She was on her feet and could feel her voice quivering. It was no pretense; she was angry—she had a well of anger to draw on that had been growing deeper all weekend, she realized. “What’s worse, it’s unfairly prejudicial to Mr. Polk.” She touched her hand lightly to Ephraim’s shoulder; she could feel him begin to flinch away and squeezed her fingers to stop him. “Your Honor, Mr. Clark knows full well that remark was improper.”

“Sustained,” the judge said. “The court finds that defense counsel’s statement is a moderate violation of the rules of evidence. Defendant is sanctioned with removal of ten minutes’ time from its opening statement.”

As Erin regained her seat, she noticed that Ephraim was looking at her for the first time that morning.

One potential juror, an older woman, announced that anyone who would put something artificial in his head was assuming the risk of losing his mind. Erin convinced the judge there was legal cause for dismissal of this juror. Another juror had a brother who had been mind-damaged by an implant; a second admitted she could never be fair to a big corporation. Clark got them both dismissed, for cause. After that, three more potential jurors, who obviously did not want to sit through a three-day trial, claimed they could not be fair to a corporation either. The pool was thinning out rapidly.

It came time for Erin to exercise her first peremptory challenge. By tradition and court rule, each party had three such opportunities to dismiss a juror without legal cause, for any reason. It was each side’s chance to narrow the pool down to the one juror who might be most favorable and receptive to that side.

There was no more important issue than the person who would decide the case. She didn’t have the right to make the choice on her own; this was Ephraim’s trial. She conferred with him, recommending challenge of a middle-aged male who had only given them a single, contemptuous glance during the entire proceeding. Ephraim agreed.

It was Clark’s turn, and he bumped a young male college student. Erin and Ephraim agreed to dismiss the elderly man who had not seemed able to understand Erin’s questions, and Clark challenged a young female hospital nurse.

Erin had one remaining challenge. There were two people left in the jury box, a man who was a senior partner in a large structural engineer-ing firm and a young woman who worked in a body ornamentation shop. The man’s answers to both lawyers’ questions had been deliberate, thoughtful. The woman had answered more spontaneously; she definitely seemed more malleable and subject to emotional appeal.

“We should dismiss him.” Erin started to rise.

“No,” Ephraim whispered back. “I want to dismiss her.”

She stared at him, shook her head a minute distance. “You don’t want him, believe me.”

“Ms. Mendel?” the judge said.

“Yes,” Ephraim said, “we do.”

“I don’t have time now to tell you what occupational categories, body language, and personality types can mean to your case. It’s enough that he’s an engineer—all he probably knows is how to think logically. And he’s going to know it’s hard to make anything safer without spending money.” Ephraim was nodding his head as if he agreed.

“I think he’ll make a good juror,” he said as she started to rise. Then he looked directly at her, with those eyes that still showed no tint of blue to wash out the gray, even under the direct overhead lights. “Whose decision is this?”

She couldn’t believe it. Consulting the client was usually just a formality; none had ever overridden her recommendation on a point of trial strategy like this.

“Ms. Mendel.” The judge’s voice had shifted to the severe edge, and Erin saw her hand move toward the spectacles. The situation was already absurd; if Erin had to watch those waving spectacles contort that face again, she might not be able to stop from laughing.

Erin swallowed, stood upright, and dismissed the young woman. Please, please, bump that man, she prayed, as the judge looked at Clark. If Clark did so, the judge would have to bring in more jurors. No one could be as bad as this guy.

“NeuroTek waives its last challenge, Your Honor. We’re satisfied that Mr. Calendri is quite qualified to serve as the juror on this case.”

I’ll bet, Erin thought.

“Very well, we have a juror,” the judge said. “It is now 11:37 A.M. We will adjourn for lunch, reconvene here at 1:00 P.M. Counsel will then give opening statements, and we will receive the testimony of plaintiff’s expert, Dr. Singh.”

At lunch in an underground cafeteria, Ephraim wanted to talk but Erin cut him off.

“I have to work on my opening and questions for that neurobiologist your last lawyer hired,” she told him. “Believe me, we will talk at the end of the day.”

“Why do you say it like that? ‘Neurobiologist your last lawyer hired’? Derocher said Dr. Singh is a leading expert in his field.”

“Maybe he is. But one, he’s Indian, so he speaks English as a foreign language. Two, he’s never, ever testified in court, and three, I tried to work with him yesterday and he’s hopeless. I don’t think he gave a straight answer to a single question. He’s only any good to me—to us—if he can communicate his expertise to the juror.”

She turned from her work and looked fully at him. “You have to understand something, Ephraim. Derocher only hired Singh to get an opinion that might convince NeuroTek to settle. When NeuroTek didn’t blink, Derocher bailed out. A lawyer doesn’t make money on a contingency case unless he wins or gets a settlement. Do you understand exactly what I’m telling you?”

They were silent, and she was immersing in her work again when he said, “He said I should take their offer.”

“What?” Part of her attention came back to the table.

“Derocher. NeuroTek did offer to settle, but it wasn’t much. And they wouldn’t admit anything or agree to recall their product. I said no.”

“You turned down a settlement offer on this case?”

He nodded, with no trace of apology. “I’m pretty well broke, trying to pay all my medical bills, but I really don’t care about the money. Derocher once said that if NeuroTek ever loses just one of these cases, they would face unlimited liability because everyone else could use the defective product finding against them. So they’d have to settle with the other injured people and recall the implant to fix the interface. Is that true?”

“Yes, it probably is,” she told him. “But let me get this straight. You won’t settle for anything less than total victory—and you do just about everything possible to ensure that your lawyer can’t win? That’s wonderful.”

He started to speak, but she raised her hand and turned back to her work. Artists, she thought. Never again.

At 1:02 P.M., Erin started her opening statement of the case from the counsel’s podium, and she did not proceed far before she realized how inadequate it would be. This was her first and best opportunity to tell the juror Ephraim’s story and she could not even begin it because she barely knew it herself. Oh, she could talk about the memory loss and the medical cause and the grim prognosis. But she couldn’t talk about Ephraim or what the loss of himself really meant. Dr. Singh arrived and took his seat in the middle of her statement, and she was grateful for the interruption. She could tell the juror was too.

When his turn came, Clark talked about the law, the undisputed facts, then the law again. He reminded the juror that it would be his duty to follow the law, as the judge instructed.

Dr. Singh was a small, dark-complexioned man, whose eyes kept darting to the media representatives in the spectators’ seats, as if they were a firing squad. He did speak English, of a sort. The court translation program only had to explain his testimony a few times, in an androgynous monotone.

She tried to relax him by first covering his personal background, easy questions to start him talking; but he misstated both his marital status and the number of his children, correcting himself each time with profuse, stumbling apologies. She managed to pry out enough of his credentials to qualify him as an expert, but she had worse luck when she tried to elicit his key opinions. Again and again, she began over, rephrasing her questions; he would assume an air of authority and commence a lecture on some other point.

“Doctor,” she finally tried, in desperation, “don’t you believe that the wetware interface could have been designed to absolutely prevent any memory damage, without significantly increasing the product’s cost?” She was sure this leading question would earn her a sanction from the court, once Clark objected. But he remained seated, clearly enjoying the spectacle the way it was unfolding.

Singh peered at her. She hadn’t once managed to get him to look at the juror. “Of course, wetware interface can be designed in several ways, and, most unfortunately, I do not know how they all cost.”

They were going in circles. She would never get him to express clearly the opinion that was needed to keep the judge from directing a verdict dismissing their case. The juror was watching with an amused expression, and the judge wouldn’t allow this to go on any longer. She sat down.

Then Clark stood up for his cross-examination and—amazingly—saved them, from a directed verdict at least. He brought out a few minor points, showing that Dr. Singh was not board-certified in neurobiology in the U.S., how his views were in the minority of his field—and then asked the question he should never have asked.

“Just so it’s clear to the juror, Dr. Singh, you’re not actually saying that NeuroTek could have improved the safety of its implant at no additional significant cost, are you?”

Dr. Singh peered intently at Clark for a long moment. Erin felt her heart begin to seize up. Dr. Singh cleared his throat.

“No, that is not true.”

Clark knew better than to continue, but he couldn’t help himself. “You’re saying NeuroTek could have made its product safer? Without a significant cost increase?”

“Yes. Of course, that depends on what means ‘significant.’ But—”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Clark sat down before he did any more damage to his own case.

For a moment. Erin thought her sigh could be heard throughout the courtroom. She glanced quickly at the juror; he still wore an amused expression. He probably hadn’t even listened to the most critical testimony for their case.

The judge ended the day, and after they left the courtroom and had passed through the gauntlet of media people, Ephraim asked, “How did it go today?”

She looked at him without breaking stride. He was rubbing his shoulder, where she had squeezed him. He wasn’t stupid—he didn’t have to ask. Only Clark’s mistake had saved them from an outright dismissal. They had come in unprepared and wound up with the worst possible juror anyone could have imagined—a defense lawyer’s dream.

And it was his. fault.

She took his shoulder very deliberately, closing her hand—gently—on exactly the spot where she had gripped him before. “We are going to go to your studio,” she said. “Right now. You are going to show me what you do with your implant, and what NeuroTek has cost you. Or there is very little point in continuing.” He stiffened briefly, jaw tight, giving her a single brief glance from the corners of his eyes. Then he shrugged, his taut shoulders slumping.

“Give me an hour, okay?” A tiny muscle leaped along the side of his jaw. “I… I need some privacy, first.”

She stopped, facing him in the middle of the crowded sidewalk, struggling with her anger. “Are you going to let me in this time?”

“Yes.” Those clear gray eyes met hers without evasion. “This time I’ll let you in.” He turned on his heel and strode off down the street before she could stop him, never once looking back.

So he had been there, yesterday. Erin clenched her teeth. And now he was running away again. From what? Erin shook her head, wondering just how big a disaster this was going to be.

Slumped on one of his big floor cushions against the wall, Ephraim watched on the wall-mounted security screen as Erin rang his bell. Right on time. He glanced at his watch. One hour exactly. Anger stirred in his belly. This woman was pushy, demanding, invasive—utterly unlike Derocher. He was tempted to let her ring.

She wanted to win. Derocher had wanted the money. That’s why he had dumped the case—he wasn’t going to get paid. Ephraim wondered suddenly why winning mattered to her. He closed his eyes, his head bursting with the images he hadn’t dared to download, tempted to say the hell with it, open the interface, and finish Crusade. If he did, and the imperfect interface failed entirely, he would have no memory anymore. Crusade would no longer matter.

Suicide, he thought. Suicide of the soul, or merely of the self?

The door chime sounded again, and he pushed himself abruptly to his feet. His chin was wet. He wiped his face on his sleeve in disgust. “Enter,” he said, and watched her vanish from the camera eye as she marched into the building’s entry. He met her at the door, noticed that she was still furious, although she was hiding it well.

“Thank you for letting me in,” she said with some irony.

“I don’t normally invite people into my studio.” He leaned against the wall, watching her examine his small living space.

“This is a very expensive apartment complex,” she remarked mildly. Her gaze took in the two floor cushions on the oriental rug and the low birchwood table, the efficient kitchen wall with its built-in microwave and beverage units. It wasn’t much bigger than her office. “Real wood.” She bent to stroke the satiny grain of the table top. “Very nice. The carpet is handwoven, isn’t it?” She nodded appreciatively. “Other than that, this is a rather unpretentious room for this type of building.”

“I like real textures.” He wondered what she was getting at. “And I didn’t choose the building for its prestige.” He heard the defensive note in his voice and tried to stifle it. “It has state-of-the-art holographic and virtual capabilities built into it. I didn’t have to retrofit my studio.” He walked across the small room and palmed the studio door lock. “Would you… like some tea or something?” He wanted to delay this.

“No, thank you.” She walked through the door, her eyes sweeping the barren studio. The holo-stage took up most of the floor. Circular, it rose a bare fifteen centimeters from the polished tiles, off-white, its surface as pristine as a new snowbank. The directional speakers and scent generators were hidden in its base. She glanced at it, then walked around it to the small shelf on the far wall to stare at the single yellow rose in its cut-glass vase. “You like flowers?”

He lifted the rose by its stem, a thorn pricking his thumb. “We have yet to create something this complex and fine from scratch.” The thorn had drawn a tiny crimson bead of blood. He wiped it on his shirt and touched the delicate, creamy curve of a petal. “This keeps me humble.” He replaced the rose in its vase and turned his back on her. “System, on,” he said, and the room darkened. Light swirled and shifted above the stage, and he felt an illogical twinge of fear. “System, run Fields. Step up onto the stage,” he said as the shimmering holographic mist took on color and shape. “The system is focused on a participant. You don’t get the effect from outside.” And he climbed onto the stage without waiting to see if she would follow suit. He had meant to explain it to her—what he had attempted to convey here, how he had sorted through images of old battlefields and new ones, trying to find the echoes of violence past and present, and its segue from life to death to life—to capture the dark frivolity of human conflict against the vast landscape of racial memory.

But the words dried up inside him as the images formed—green fields where long spring grass didn’t quite hide the uniform crosses of military graves, overlaid with a young Asian man tossing a laughing child into the air, and a blonde girl giggling and wrestling with her lover, overlaid with a pool of drying blood beside a blooming dandelion. A sparrow pecked for crumbs among empty shell casings and crumpled candy wrappers. Buildings fell in static glimpses. Overlaid one on top of the other within the holographic field, the images sharpened and faded at seeming random to create a collage that drew the eye and mind from the past to the present and back into the past in startling leaps. Bleached stones tumbled amid ancient burial mounds and Ephraim smelled frost and wet wool. Trucks and tanks rolled, scented with gasoline and a whiff of peppermint, scored by percussion and bass oboes. Children played hide-and-seek beneath a summer sky marked with the white calligraphy of fighter jets and scented with new-mown grass.

Life, death, and laughter, the images came faster and faster—almost too fast for the surface mind to register, speaking to a deeper place in the human consciousness. The whine of shells falling became bird song. Someone cried in pain, overlaid with the soft flute notes of a lullaby. Then the sensory whirlwind stilled suddenly and a child emerged from a shimmering waterfall, her eyes grave in her thin face. She melted into a West African soldier who flashed a white grin even as his flesh faded from his bones and his bones crumbled, polished into pearls by the flowing water. The dark-eyed girl shook water from her hair, scooped up the gems, and laughed, and her teeth gleamed with the iridescence of the pearls. Finally the images faded, leaving only the lingering scent of rain-wet pine needles and twilight.

The room lights came on.

Erin was standing very still in the center of the stage, her eyes fixed on the child’s vanished image, her face utterly unreadable. For the space of a dozen heartbeats, she remained silent, then she turned slowly to face him. Her eyes were the color of the sea at sunset, shot through with hints of gold.

Ephraim found that he wanted to ask her what she had seen—if it was… significant. He didn’t. And he realized that he was afraid to.

“Thank you.” She looked away briefly, her profile stark against the bone-white of the blank walls. When she turned back to him, her manner was brisk and professional. “I’d like to see what you were working on when the implant began to leak.”

“No!” The involuntary syllable burst from him. “I… it’s not finished. I’d rather not.”

“Ephraim.” She touched his arm, and this time her touch was truly gentle. “I need to see it.”

He looked down at her long fingers and swallowed, wanting desperately to say no. But winning this trial mattered to her—perhaps in the way Crusade mattered to him. “System,” he whispered. “Run Childrens Crusade.”

He fled the stage and the studio. If he stayed, he would do it—download the stored images in his head—the ones that might make Crusade whole.

Or destroy him.

After a long time, Erin came into the main room to stand over him where he huddled on a floor cushion. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said briskly. “I will be examining you on the stand. Just relax and answer my questions. And we need to show your art to Calendri. The courtroom has holo capability for receiving demonstrative evidence—though nothing as good as the stage you have here.” If his work had meant anything to her, she was hiding it.

“Not Crusade," Ephraim whispered.

“Please be on time,” was all she said. She left, closing the door gently behind her.

He had wanted her to say that she understood. He realized suddenly that he had wanted it a lot. Getting stiffly to his feet, he took down the bottle of very old Scotch from the cupboard above the microwave, and poured himself a generous shot. The whiskey burned its way into his stomach and he stared into the amber depths of the bottle, tempted to just keep on filling up the glass until it all went away.

Tomorrow would still come. He put the bottle back on its shelf and went to stand in front of his studio door. He didn’t go in. The temptation would be too great.

On the mag-lev returning from Ephraim’s apartment, Erin could not keep her hands still. They fluttered and hopped about her lap like a sparrow feeding on a battlefield. Or a rooster beating its wings as its throat was cut.

This guy was no fad—Ephraim Polk was for real. What kind of mind could sort through the cacophony of media sights, sounds, and smells that humanity deluged upon itself daily, and find a theme, an elegant order that was invisible to her and almost everyone else? That could distill out of that mass of mostly trite and vacuous raw material an art that was as true and powerful as anything she had ever seen, that had moved her like nothing else had for a long time?

If a lawyer could only find a way to move a juror like that… That was what Ephraim needed, what he deserved. And what he didn’t have.

She saw her station approaching and got up. The car slid smoothly and silently to a stop, and she walked the length of the platform to an intersection with an underground walkway, turning left to go to her office, instead of going home for the night. If Ephraim didn’t have a lawyer who could move people as his own art did, at least the lawyer he had would work all night for him, to keep from losing his case.

But by the time she reached her office building, she wasn’t thinking anymore about his art, or her own work, but of the sight of his steady gray eyes, the shy hesitancy in his voice, and the smell of his hair as she’d stood close to him while he talked about a yellow rose in his hand.

Ephraim shifted on the hard wooden chair of the witness stand, watching Erin pace the empty space of floor that was really a stage, set for drama and tragedy. The juror watched, too, alone among empty chairs. Instead of diminishing him, the empty seats made him appear larger. Or maybe it was only his inner knowledge of how important this man was that made him seem large, Ephraim thought distractedly. Erin looked larger here, too—towering over him, although in reality she wasn’t that much taller than he. Power, he thought. He had never addressed the many ways that men and women assumed power, both great and petty. And was the small power of a domineering lover any less important than the power of, say, a major player in the world market? It would have made a good subject, he thought bleakly.

“Will the plaintiff please answer the question?” The judge’s voice managed to sound quite humanly severe. Ephraim started.

“I’m sorry.” He had disconnected again. At least he wasn’t drooling. Erin had to be furious behind her mask of patient tolerance. “I didn’t mean to… will you repeat the question, please?”

“Mr. Polk?” Erin stepped to the railing, her nearness forcing him to look up at her. “You have described your art as a collage—a compilation of images gleaned from decades of media videos and even still photographs. Why did you purchase NeuroTek’s implant?” She turned her gaze on their juror, although her words were still addressed to Ephraim. “Couldn’t you access those images just as well through the Net?”

“I could, but I couldn’t access as many,” he said urgently. “I’m trying to create a glimpse of… our soul.” Inadvertently, his eyes traveled to the nearest holo projection lens recessed in the ceiling overhead. “I’m searching for who we are as a race. I run through thousands of images and maybe one of them—a child’s face in a certain light, a flower growing up through a crack in an asphalt parking lot—one of them gives me the note that I need. And I need a thousand of those moments—those notes—to create something that speaks to participants. Don’t you see?” He leaned forward, willing her to hear him. “Each of us is so different, and I need to speak to everyone. The pieces wouldn’t be as good. They wouldn’t say… what they do.”

“So you risked the implant because without it, your art would have been less than it is,” she mused, turning again to the juror.

“Objection, leading,” Clark said.

“Sustained,” the judge said. “A minor violation. Ms. Mendel is docked five minutes from final argument.”

“Why did you risk the implant, Mr. Polk?” Erin asked.

“It was… supposed to be safe.” He had almost forgotten the juror. Calendri sat sternly upright on his uncomfortable chair, frowning as he listened. Erin hadn’t wanted him. Ephraim couldn’t remember anymore what had made him demand this man. That moment had fallen into the darkness that was eating him.

“How did you first realize that you were losing memory?”

“How? I… couldn’t remember things.” He blinked at her. “One day I was thinking about the… the apartment where I grew up. And I realized that I couldn’t remember the name of the street. Or which city we lived in. It scared me.” He drew a deep breath, reliving that terrible sense of absence and the panic that had seized him. “I spent all afternoon searching old records, but I don’t… I mean, my mother died years ago, and I didn’t have anything that told me what street we lived on, or what it was like. I remember the apartment. It was tiny. I remember her coming home late from her shift, but outside—the street, the buildings—it’s a blank.” He stopped for breath. Erin’s eyes had unfocused for an instant, as if she were accessing her implant.

“What about your father?” She nodded encouragingly. “Did he ever take you outside?”

“I don’t have…” He felt the blood draining from his face. “That’s not true. I do have a father. I think I got mail from him when I had my first show… I think.” He swallowed. “Is he… is he still alive?”

'“Yes, Mr. Polk.” Erin’s eyes glazed again for an instant. “He lives in the Palm Springs Oasis. I’ll be glad to give you his address after we’re finished here.”

“Thank you.” Eprhraim stared at the old dark wood of the railing in front of him. “I wonder how he felt about that show? I can’t remember that, either.”

“Ephraim.” It was the first time in her questioning that Erin had used his given name. She leaned against the railing, looking down at him, and her voice was coaxing. “Tell us about your work in progress. You call it Children’s Crusade, don’t you?”

“Yes.” The word came out a whisper.

“Will the plaintiff please speak so that we can hear him?” the judge demanded.

“Yes,” Ephraim said more loudly.

“What would happen to it when it was finished?”

“The Unwin Gallery in the New York Dome had contracted to show it.” He relaxed a little. “They showed my last three works.”

“Were they successful?”

“Yes.” He wasn’t sure where this was going. It wasn’t a matter of money, he wanted to tell her, and sensed that their juror was getting restless. “I get a royalty every time someone participates in the piece. And they sell virtual copies. Although you don’t get the same effect.”

“So Children’s Crusade would have made you a lot of money?”

“Probably.” He shrugged.

“You speak as if you can’t finish this piece.”

“I can’t.” He forced himself to speak up.

He thought she would ask him why—and he couldn’t tell her. But she didn’t ask; instead, she nodded, then looked up at the judge. “Your Honor, I would like to have the juror experience Fields—a piece that Mr. Polk finished prior to the malfunction of his implant. And then have him see the unfinished piece, Children’s Crusade—if we may?”

“Yes,” the judge said, “you may proceed.”

“Run Fields,” Erin instructed the system.

The holographic projection was focused on the jury box, but from his adjacent witness chair the images looked only a little distorted, the sounds and scents barely out of sync. Calendri sat very still, his eyes flicking from here to there to follow the kaleidoscopic images. The piece ended. Almost imperceptibly, Calendri seemed to shrug.

“Now this is the piece that Mr. Polk is unable to finish,” Erin went on doggedly. She had noticed that shrug, too, Eprhaim thought bleakly. “You can compare them directly. System, run Crusade.”

There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Ephraim watched, unable to stop himself. The images pierced him—children playing tag amidst the thornbrush huts of dying Africa, a girl with tawny skin and a round Asian face beneath a white headscarf carefully cutting the throat of a red and black rooster while its scarlet blood ran down her arm, a boy cradling a newborn kitten, two children peering through the glassless window of a ruined urban building, a young child fleeing through an open-air market with his arms full of stolen clothes.… The glimpses showered down around him like stinging rain, jagged and without power or cohesion. Flute and percussion notes whispered in his ears and a breath of icy air raised goosebumps on his skin. It didn’t work with the rooster’s bright feathers, and the thick, crimson blood.

“Thus we create ourselves eternally, in an innocence that evolves into good or evil, but is never lost,” Ephraim whispered. Those were the notes in his working file. He reached for that description, felt for the soul of this piece. It was gone. Forever. In his brain, the stored images pressed against the walls of his skull, and the access code was there, so easy to invoke. Grief pierced him. Release them, he thought. Let the darkness eat it all, eat all that was left of him—water of Lethe. At least he would no longer care. He began to shape the code images.

“System, endit.” Erin’s words were close and loud in his ears. “Ephraim, don’t.”

The anguish in her voice reached him. Ephraim let the code fade, and buried his face in his hands. The pressure of those images threatened to burst the walls of his skull, scatter shards of bone like shrapnel, and maybe it would be the best thing. “It isn’t finished.” He pressed darkness into his eyes with the heels of his hands, wanting to blank those incomplete images forever. “I knew how it was supposed to work. I knew what I wanted. I knew how to finish it." He drew a sobbing breath. “And now… it’s gone. I don’t know… what I meant to do here anymore.” He raised his head slowly and met Calendri’s impassive stare. “I just don’t know.”

“What don’t you know, Ephraim?” Erin’s quiet words prodded him mercilessly.

“Playing on the street, going to school.” The words tore their way free. “It’s gone. Wiped out. My father, and how he talked to me, how he felt when I passed an exam, or when I got hurt. Don’t you understand?” He clutched the railing, his nails biting the wood. “Did I tell you about a puppy I had? I think I did, but I don’t remember what I told you. You can remind me, but can you make it part of me again?” He closed his eyes briefly, his hands shaking. “How can I finish a piece about the child that we were and are? I never was a child." He bowed over the smooth wood. “I am not even sure that I am human anymore,” he whispered.

Silence filled the courtroom. And for nearly a minute, no one said anything.

“That’s all I have, Mr. Polk,” Erin said, and there was a roughness in her voice that he hadn’t heard before. She turned to the judge. “Is it about time for lunch, Your Honor?”

“Yes,” the judge said. “At 1:00 P.M. we will reconvene for Mr. Polk’s cross-examination.”

Slowly, Ephraim straightened, and his eyes met those of the juror. A brief emotion moved across the man’s face, but it vanished too quickly for Ephraim to identify it. Pity, he thought bleakly. Pity for a loser. Then Erin’s hand was on his arm and she was guiding him back to his seat.

“Just a few more questions, Mr. Polk.” Clark studied his paper notes at the podium. Erin thought he would not keep Ephraim on the stand much longer. This was a case where every “I don’t remember” answer only served to illustrate the loss.

“You wouldn’t have been able to make your art without the implant. Isn’t that true?”

“What?” Ephraim looked so exhausted and vulnerable. Erin had to restrain herself from leaping to her feet, rushing forward to interpose herself between Ephraim and his attacker. But any objection to questions that were entirely proper on cross-examination would only earn her a sanction from the judge.

Clark repeated his question, and Ephraim replied, “No. I still could have done it. When I still had my memories.”

“But you couldn’t have done it as efficiently? It would have taken a lot longer, right?”

“That’s true.”

“And your work might not have been as good?”

“Yes.”

“Now, you did receive a copy of NeuroTek’s disclosure statement and product warnings before you had the device implanted, didn’t you?”

Ephraim’s face showed that lost, perplexed expression that had become to him almost as habitual as his guarded one. Once again, Erin found herself poised on the edge of her seat.

“Let me help,” Clark went on quickly, displaying a document on the exhibit monitor. It was two pages long and had a lot of words. “I won’t waste the court’s time by reading this now. Mr. Calendri, I’m sure, is quite capable of reading it for himself. And the judge will instruct the juror that these warnings are legally sufficient under federal regulations. But to sum it up, this does reveal the risk of memory damage to certain users, doesn’t it?”

“I guess… if that’s what it says.”

“And there, at the bottom of the second page, that’s your signature, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Indicating that you had received this copy of the warnings, had read them, and understood them?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. I have nothing more.” Ephraim’s face showed relief as he came down from the stand. Funny, Erin didn’t have any trouble reading his expressions anymore.

“Is that it for me?” he whispered, as soon as he sat at their table.

“Yeah,” she told him. “Now it’s NeuroTek’s turn.”

Clark proceeded to call a progression of expert witnesses—a neurobiologist, a product safety warnings expert, an implant design expert, and a production cost analyst. By now they, along with Clark and his legal assistants, were a smoothly running litigation team. They had all been through this many times before, and each expert made his or her points quickly and clearly.

On cross, Erin brought out how much they were being paid by NeuroTek, how many times they had worked for that company before, how even the foundations or institutions that employed them were partly funded by NeuroTek. As she inquired, she scanned thousands of lines of their prior deposition and trial testimony, looking for any inconsistency she might use to undermine their credibility. But there were no major discrepancies, and explanations for the minor inconsistencies had all been ironed out in the previous NeuroTek trials.

“NeuroTek’s commercials don’t make any mention of the risk of memory loss, do they?” she asked the safety warnings expert. She displayed a series of holo images from the implant’s advertising: a stockbroker calling up quotations by the second, students cramming for exams, a couple blissfully engaging in sex from hotel rooms in different cities, with none of the encumbering hardware.

“No,” the witness conceded.

“And these fine-print warnings didn’t do much for a thousand other NeuroTek users who have been mind-damaged by the implant, did they?”

For the space of a heartbeat, the expert looked at her. Then he raised his eyebrows. Erin had gone too far; and in that strange, involuntary communion that sometimes forms between lawyer and hostile witness, they both knew it.

“Objection!” Clark shouted. “That’s irrelevant and highly prejudicial!”

“Sustained.” The judge looked at Erin, and the waving spectacles now did not make her face look funny, only grotesque. “Ms. Mendel, this is your second violation, and a serious one: that remark also violates the court’s pretrial order. You are personally fined five thousand dollars, and the plaintiff is sanctioned with removal of your final rebuttal argument.” The judge turned toward the juror. “You are instructed to disregard Ms. Mendel’s remark. The only injury at issue in this case is the plaintiff’s.” Then the judge adjourned for the day, and Ephraim looked at her, eyes open wide.

“It went a little better today,” she said. “You did great. I’m the one who screwed up.” He had actually done better than great. His testimony had been the most compelling she had ever seen from the witness stand. She could only hope that Calendri, the juror, had seen it the same way.

Erin closed her eyes. She hadn’t slept more than three hours a night since taking this case. Today she had not done much, if anything, to shake NeuroTek’s expert testimony. And she had lost one of the few plaintiff’s advantages, the opportunity to address the juror last. Tomorrow would be her final chance.

Ephraim cleared his throat. She came back to awareness, realized they were still at their table, alone in the now-empty courtroom. How long had he been sitting there quietly beside her?

“I… didn’t think you understood when you walked out yesterday,” he said. “But you did. And you made me… say it. I didn’t want to—at first I was angry. I’m not anymore.”

“I think I do understand, Ephraim. The problem is I just don’t know how to put it into words. Maybe if I tried what you do… scan all night, find the right images…”

He was shaking his head, then smiled wryly. “A little late to be learning new tools.” His smile faded. “If you hadn’t stopped me out there… I would have evoked the interface.” He paused, his eyes on her face. “You have everything you need,” he said finally. “But it doesn’t just come from here.” He pointed to his head. “It comes from here, too.” He touched her lightly, just below her collarbone, and that brief contact ran through her like an electrical current.

“Maybe so.” She managed to smile. It would be nice to be able to talk to him about something beside this case. “This is my problem from here on. You should go home, get some rest. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

“I think we both should get some rest. No more working most of the night, okay?”

How had he known that? “Sure,” she lied. “I’ll go home and get some sleep.”

Ephraim didn’t go home. Instead, he rode the mag-lev out into the countryside beneath the darkening sky, getting off finally at a deserted ag platform far beyond the urban lights. The leaves of tall crop plants whispered in the night breeze beneath billions of stars. The green-scented darkness between the plants was the darkness that lurked inside his head, waiting to eat him. He summoned the access code images, and then, face turned to the stars, he banished them. Forever.

He had made a promise to Erin, in that moment on the stand when she had cried out to him to stop. He would go on. The stored data would leak slowly through the faulty interface, taking a birthday here, overwriting a moment of love or laughter or loss there, until it was all gone. Then, the process would end. He would be left with whatever scraps of yesterday remained. Enough to know how much he had lost.

He wondered if he would remember Erin.

The lights of the city-bound mag-lev appeared on the horizon, sliding across the flat land toward him. It was time to go back, if he was going to be in court on time. Ephraim turned his back on the beckoning darkness and trudged back to the platform.

Erin closed her eyes and went somewhere else. In bed, sleeping gloriously late, in a cabin somewhere in the countryside with real windows. The sun is shining outside and quail are calling and a slight breeze lifts the drapes. The breeze carries the faint scents of wildflowers and pine needles, and from beside her comes the smell of a man and recent sex, how a certain man might smell after sex. Ephraim…

She raised her head, opened her eyes, and checked the time: 12:47 P.M. She had no time for fantasy. Her chin was wet, there was a sour taste in her mouth, and it was not wildflowers nor pine needles nor man-scent she smelled, but vomit. She flushed the toilet and went to the sink, wiped off her face, rinsed her mouth. She hadn’t thrown up like that for years, not since right before her first trial.

God, she was a mess! A good thing she kept her hair so short; long hair hanging into the toilet bowl while you’re puking your guts out could really spoil the appearance. She checked: 12:52.

The testimony of NeuroTek’s last two experts that morning had gone no better for Ephraim than the day before. Afterward, they had gone to lunch; she had just lost what little she had been able to eat. And now, in five minutes, she had to go in and give the final argument she was nowhere near good enough to give.

Erin wanted nothing so much as to run—down the hall, into the elevator, out of the building. They couldn’t catch her and make her come back to do this. But Ephraim would be left sitting in that courtroom by himself.

12:58. She had to go now. She walked into the courtroom and when the judge called her name she got up and stumbled to the podium, leaned on it for support. They were all waiting for her to speak—the juror, the judge, Clark, the media reps, a million viewers, Ephraim. Why would any sane person put herself through this? It was, like his art, nothing but an act of blind and unreasoning courage, like diving from a cliff into a dark, unfathomable sea. And all she had were her words.

It comes from here, Ephraim had said. What does? Then in her mind she heard another voice saying, “How do you feel, Erin?”

It was a question she had asked many, many times of others—jurors, clients, witnesses—“how do you feel about…?” Now someone was asking her, in a man’s voice that was not Ephraim’s. “How do you feel, Erin?” A flash of memory… years ago… sitting across a restaurant table, her answer coming to her lips even before that man who had been her lover finished his question. “It doesn’t matter.” He had walked out of her life two days later.

She looked up from the podium and tried to start again. Calendri was watching her with an amused, slightly quizzical expression. The vidcams in the back of the courtroom rolled on; she was making a fool of herself in front of millions of viewers. Letting Ephraim down.

It comes from here… and yes, she could feel something building with tremendous pressure in her chest, pushing up at her throat. There must be a deep well inside her, she realized. She had thought it had gone dry long ago, and then she had backfilled it in with rock and debris. But the cavity was still there, under the surface, and it had grown so full that it was about to burst. It was pressing on her all around from the inside, and now it had to go somewhere…

“The truth is, I’m standing up here scared to death.”

Who said that? Was that her voice? What was she doing?—this was no way to start a final argument.

“I’m so scared, Mr. Calendri, because I’m not the kind of lawyer Ephraim Polk needs. The kind he deserves. Because there are only a handful of lawyers in the whole country who might be good enough to stand up to NeuroTek and all its lawyers and experts and other resources. And I’m not one of them. But I’m all he has.”

The words seemed nonsense, drivel. Yet somehow, in speaking, she found the strength to stand upright and step back from the podium.

“And I’m scared of the law—that you might think that the law requires that you let a corporation escape liability for the injury it caused. That Mr. Clark might convince you that the law says it’s impossible for Ephraim Polk to win against NeuroTek, Incorporated. But the truth is, the law says it’s up to you to decide if NeuroTek’s implant is defective.”

As she spoke she walked slowly around the podium to the center of the courtroom, into the arena itself, where she had nowhere to hide and carried no arms but her speech and gestures. She stopped two meters from the jury box and looked Calendri in the eye.

She wanted to tell the juror how she had at first been angry about this case, because it seemed impossible, and at Ephraim. Tell him how she had grown up without parents, surviving on the streets in an urban kid-pack; how fear had been so much a part of daily existence that she learned to survive by converting fear into anger. So that anger became the substitute, the crutch, for every other strong emotion. Until she had met a certain man, a client. But if she said those things, Clark might well object that her own experience and feelings about her client were not relevant, and the traditional leeway given to lawyers in final argument might not be enough to prevent the judge from sanctioning her again.

So she could only draw upon her old experience and new knowledge of her feelings to talk about Ephraim. Through his testimony, Ephraim had done that himself, far better than she could do. So she told how Ephraim’s art had affected others, how he had, through his images and his own unfailing courage and honesty, brought out the true emotions that lay inside every human and which we could all share. She talked about the tragic, unfulfilled promise of Children's Crusade, how that work above all could have cut directly to the heart of each human being’s past.

And so she tried to make the juror see how the loss of a person’s past, the story of who that man really was, affected not only him, but the people who knew him. And in so doing, she made him not merely Ephraim Polk, famous artist, but Everyman.

Time passed without her noticing. The words came to her mouth as if they had sorted themselves; she had no sense of selecting them or arranging them into sentences. They only came—and they seemed to be the right words, and true. And when she again looked at Calendri, he was following these words. She had his full attention. Perhaps he even looked spellbound.

But her allotted time was almost up, and this was not enough. She could not ask for his verdict out of sympathy. Sympathy was the final appeal of the truly desperate. Ephraim deserved better, and this juror would need a rationale for finding the implant defective. He was, after all, an engineer. His emotions might move him toward a decision, but he would only make that decision if he felt good about it intellectually, as well as emotionally. He would want to feel good about it himself, and in the deliberation room he would also think about whether he could explain his verdict to friends and colleagues. So she would have to offer a rationale—even if it was not as solid as the NeuroTek rationale, with all those experts and the law standing behind it.

She realized all this instinctively, without consciously working it out, within the space of a pause that lasted no more than a second. She also sensed that whatever instinct or… feeling had led Ephraim to choose this man, Calendri might have at least one thing they needed to win this case: strength, perhaps even courage, of his own.

“Mr. Clark has made a big point out of NeuroTek’s product warnings, how Mr. Polk signed the disclosure. Ephraim did sign up for a NeuroTek implant, but does that mean he signed up for memory loss? That he agreed to trade the core of himself away, for a few years of doing his art more efficiently?

“NeuroTek’s counsel also suggested—improperly, as the judge said—that I use an implant. Well, let’s be honest: I do, and it’s NeuroTek’s, all right.” She was taking a risk here, but gambled that Clark wouldn’t have the nerve to object, after having opened the door on the subject himself. “I obtained an implant because I thought it would help me try cases better—and I, a lawyer, signed one of those disclosures too. Unless you sign, they won’t give you one of these magic implants they advertise, that will make your whole life better. And you think, those injuries are rare, bizarre accidents. It won’t happen to you.”

Let the juror draw his own conclusions why Clark had not signed up for an implant himself.

“So what NeuroTek has done, you see, instead of making a safer product, they’ve tried to insulate themselves with a scrap of paper. It wouldn’t have cost much to eliminate the risk of memory loss to users. But it costs them almost nothing to circulate a disclosure.”

There—this was the right track to take with this juror. Now, if she could find a finish that blended the emotion and the reason. And the words came:

“NeuroTek’s experts claim that it would take a ‘significant’ amount of money to produce an implant that didn’t cause these memory injuries. But the key testimony came from Dr. Singh, when Mr. Clark asked him, and he said, yes, but that depends on how you define ‘significant.’ The judge will give you legal definitions of ‘significant.’ It’s come to the point where we rely on a judicial program to tell us our law. But the law only defines the word in abstract terms. It’s up to you to decide whether the amount of money NeuroTek talks about is significant in comparison to the cost of the story of a human life.”

Erin did not tell the juror to ignore the law. If she tried to do that, the judge would cut her off, make her sit down—tell Calendri to disregard her argument. So she had to make the juror understand his own power by inference.

“At least that’s one point we haven’t passed yet. At least we don’t trust that program over there to dispense justice. Dispensing justice has always been an awesome responsibility, but, back in the days when we had juries of twelve, it was at least not such a lonely one. That responsibility now rests on you and you alone, Mr. Calendri.”

Her time was almost up; less than a minute left.

“Ephraim Polk doesn’t want your sympathy. We ask you for justice. And since justice is never served by the weak or the cowardly, it will take courage for you to do justice, all by yourself. It will require you to show as much courage as Ephraim Polk showed on the stand here yesterday. Maybe more.”

Then Erin was done. She took her seat, utterly drained. The courtroom remained silent for what seemed hours. Finally, Erin glanced up at the juror. He was not looking at her or Ephraim, he was staring at the wall behind the judge’s image. She looked at Clark, who was immobile, reading the papers in front of him. There was no sound from the media people behind her either, not the usual rustle of clothing or rattle of equipment.

Why wasn’t anyone looking at her? Were they all embarrassed for her? Had she made that much of a fool of herself?

“Interesting summation,” the judge finally said. She had removed her spectacles and held them in front of her chin, which only seemed to pull her features into an expression of thoughtful repose. “I have never before had counsel refer to me as ‘that program over there.’ It may border on disrespect for the court, but I cannot find any precedent that holds it improper. And it cannot be said that your words were untrue.”

Erin thought the judge's own comment was unprecedented, at least in her experience. The judge’s visage turned from Erin to Clark. “Very well, then. Mr. Clark, you may proceed.”

Clark commenced his own summation from the podium in a steady, wooden voice; she knew he would talk about the law and interface designs and relative costs, but Erin could not follow his words. She noted only that as Clark proceeded, his voice and gestures gained conviction, and that Calendri seemed to be following the defense argument with close attention.

I am finished, Erin thought. There is nothing more I can do. It was not enough. Yet, it was all I had. And I don’t know if I can ever do that again.

She looked at Ephraim, who was paying no attention to Clark, only watching her. Their eyes connected and she could feel the well start to fill again.

I know I could never do that again, by myself.

“I’ll have to go visit him after this is over. My father. I… I want to know what he thinks of me. Who we were—father and son.” Ephraim spoke to the cup of tea in front of him, noticing with one part of his mind the tiny hairline fractures that had begun to craze the white ceramic. Across the table, Erin remained silent, toying with one of the small fruit-filled muffins that the waitress had served with their tea.

She believed they had lost. Derocher had been right to drop his case. Ephraim turned his cup slowly on its saucer, watching her surreptitiously. Her face had taken on a gaunt quality, as if she had lost weight in the last forty-eight hours. She looked exhausted and… beautiful. Last night’s sadness pierced him and he covered the moment by sipping at his cooling tea. In an hour, maybe less, it would be over, one way or another. Success or failure, she would put this trial behind her and go on to the next case. She would forget him. He would forget her.

He didn’t want to forget her.

“I thought lawyers played tricks with words and laws.” His words limped, rough and halting. “I thought that was all… there was to it. I didn’t realize… what you could do. You made Calendri hear it, I think—what it means to me. You made him understand.” He spread his hands, shaken by a sudden sense of impending loss. “Whether the decision goes for us or against us, it was… art. I just want you to know that.”

She looked up, finally, her sea-colored eyes flecked with gold in the light from the window, a similar sadness shadowing her face. “Thank you,” she said. “Whatever happens this afternoon, don’t stop creating your collages. No, wait.” She leaned forward to lay two fingers against his lips, stilling the denial he had been about to utter. “Even if you have no past, you are still human. You still have a soul. You told me about raising that puppy the day you came to my office—how much it mattered to you that it live. What you said moved me, in a way I… don’t usually let myself be moved.” A faint blush tinged her pale cheeks and she shook her head. “That passion is still part of you, Ephraim. You still have your vision and your drive to make it live. You simply see things from a different perspective than before. I know this,” she said urgently. “Your strength is still there, even if you have to use fewer images. Trust yourself, Ephraim.”

She took her hand away abruptly, her pupils contracting, eyes fixing on the wall behind him. “It’s time to go back. The judge says the juror has reached a verdict.” She held out her hand with a wan smile. “Wish us luck. We sure did our best.”

He took it, trapped by the formality of dishes, and table linens, and the other diners. “Thanks,” he said hoarsely. “Win or lose… thank you.”

They got to their feet in unison and filed between the tables, barely noticed by the incurious diners.

Word had spread that a verdict was being returned, and Erin and Ephraim had to shove through an even larger crowd of media people at the courtroom door. They took their places in silence before the bench. Clark was already in his seat, managing to look triumphant in spite of his businesslike demeanor. Ephraim stifled a brief anger against the man who wouldn’t take any risks himself but was willing to defend the companies that took advantage of those who would. The judge was waiting for them to be seated, peering over her old-fashioned glasses. “That program,” Erin had called her. Remembering her defense of the AI system in her office, Ephraim stifled a smile. The judge raised her eyebrows at Ephraim and cleared her throat.

“Counsel for both parties are present, and we are back on record in the matter of Polk v. NeuroTek, Inc!' She called in the juror, and everyone waited for Calendri to resume his seat.

“Have you reached a verdict?” the judge asked.

Calendri’s expression remained serious and unreadable. Ephraim had meant to watch him as Erin delivered her final argument, but her words had caught him up and he had forgotten Calendri entirely.

Ephraim found himself holding his breath. If they lost—it would be Erin’s failure. She would never let it be anything else. That smug bastard Clark would smile at her, and that smile would pierce something vital inside her—maybe cripple it forever. For one brief moment, he wished he had taken Derocher’s advice and settled out of court. Wanting to take her hand, Ephraim scrubbed his sweaty palms on his thighs instead. Calendri stood slowly and deliberately and faced the judge, not immune to the drama of the moment.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Calendri replied. With his notepad, he uploaded his verdict to the judge.

The judge seemed to study it for an eternity before speaking. “The verdict is in proper form. I will now publish it: ‘I, Peter G. Calendri, the juror duly empowered to decide this case, make the following verdict on the issue submitted to me.’ ”

Ephraim glanced at Erin; she had her eyes closed and head bowed.

“Question: ‘Was the NeuroTek cerebral implant defectively designed or manufactured?’ Answer: ‘Yes.’ Is that your verdict, Mr. Calendri?”

“Yes, it is,” Calendri said, without a trace of uncertainty.

Defective. For a moment, no one seemed to understand. Then the hiss of indrawn breath sounded from behind and all around Ephraim, as if the courtroom itself were sighing. And it hit him—they had won! Erin had won. At his table, Clark made a sudden sharp gesture, his face briefly darkening. Erin let her breath out in a tiny, nearly inaudible sigh as a buzz of conversation filled the back of the courtroom. From the bench, the judge continued, using her severe tone for silence.

“Causation and injury having been stipulated by the defendant, final judgment is hereby awarded in the amount of plaintiff’s stipulated and statutory damages for medical expenses, lost income, and pain and suffering. Proceedings are now concluded.”

Ephraim barely heard her. “You did it!” He flung his arms around Erin, grinning at her startled expression. “You won this, because you made him listen beyond the mere words.” And he kissed her. Hard. For real.

For an instant, she stood stiffly in his embrace, then, suddenly, her posture softened, and she was kissing him back. That knot of sadness in his gut rose up inside Ephraim like a wave, bittersweet and piercing. And he hid it. It would be unfair to her to let her see it.

Someone cleared their throat behind them, and Ephraim released Erin, his face heating. “I’m sorry,” he said. She was smiling faintly, but it was a crooked, almost pained smile.

“I wanted to shake your hand.” Calendri was standing there, a slightly amused expression on his face. “I don’t care much about art, but I’ve worked hard all my life, and I make a good living. I’ve taken a lot of chances to get where I am.” He nodded. “If you’re willing to risk yourself for what you believe in, you don’t need somebody stacking the deck against you.” Calendri shrugged. “I had trouble following Dr. Singh’s testimony the first time, but I’ve worked with enough scientists to know that a lot of good ones can’t communicate worth a damn. So in the deliberation room I reviewed the court recordings a couple of times, and finally decided he knows his stuff better than those experts hired by NeuroTek.” He held out his hand. “Good luck. I hope you make out okay.”

“Thank you.” Ephraim returned the man’s firm grip.

Calendri nodded again, turned on his heel, and strode briskly up the aisle.

“Congratulations, Counselor.” Clark paused on his way out of the courtroom, briefcase under one arm, assistants lined up behind him, and his mouth twitching as he spoke. “Though I doubt that verdict will stand on appeal.”

Ephraim decided that comment had really been aimed at him, and it sounded none too confident. “Why not?” Ephraim met his eyes. “I have the best lawyer.”

Clark grunted, shrugged, and marched up the aisle. The courtroom was empty now, except for the two of them. The judge’s image had vanished. Erin was looking at him oddly, and he felt himself blushing again. “I’m sorry,” he said again. Lamely. “What about their appeal? What do we do now?”

“I don’t think NeuroTek has a chance. The judge didn’t make any legal errors, and the appellate courts are doing all they can to protect what’s left of the jury system.” She looked away, her eyes focused on the empty bench. “I can refer you to a colleague of mine. She’s a marvelous appellate lawyer. She’ll…”

“Wait a minute!” He seized her arm, felt her flinch. “You’re quitting? Why?” His sudden anguish roughened his voice. “I didn’t mean to get so… physical just now, if that’s the trouble.”

“That’s not the trouble.” She smiled crookedly, still refusing to look at him. “I let myself… get emotionally involved. I’m… not objective anymore. I just can’t continue to represent you.”

Not objective anymore. He looked down at his hand on her arm, pulled her gently around to face him. “What are you saying?” he asked softly.

“I…”

“No, forget it. Don’t say anything.” He laid his fingers on her lips, grinning like an idiot. “Words don’t mean anything. Not yet, anyway.” Then he took her face between his hands and kissed her again. Slowly.

And felt her smile.