A Murder of Clones: A Retrieval Artist Universe Novel (30 page)

The major clone cases came through here. The fact that Clone Court Primary wasn’t near any of the maximum security clone prisons spoke to the lack of power that clones had, not the frequency of requests for a case review.

Only a few judges presided over these courts, and generally prevented the cases from moving to a district court or a Multicultural Tribunal. No one wanted these cases reviewed. No one wanted to think about what happened here. Most just followed the law, and stuck with what they knew.

Which was why, unlike the magistrates, the judges here were in their last years on the bench. The judges never had the careers they wanted, but if they served their time in Clone Court, they could retire on a head judge’s pay with their title intact. Most head judges spent two or three years in places like Clone Court or some other special circumstances court, and then went back to the center of the Alliance, as if they’d truly achieved something, rather than being shunted off to the bottom of the legal system.

Zhu was counting on all of this as he put together his case. He had even contacted Salehi to find out which judge was the least risk-averse in Clone Court Primary. Salehi had thought the request amusing.

Got your spirit back, huh?
he asked.

I feel like fighting again, yes
, Zhu said.
When I return, I’d like to talk about some of your ideas regarding clone law.

Salehi had laughed.
I’ll be here
.

And then, a little while later, he had contacted Zhu with a name.

It hadn’t been hard to get placement in that judge’s court. Zhu had thought he’d have to sweet-talk someone in the courthouse. There was no court “house,” just wings and sections of the base that operated as a unit. Zhu actually hated it when he had to use antiquated terms to describe something modern. But that was the law.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to sweet-talk anyone. He got a hearing the very next day.

Which was why he had focused so hard to finish the presentation, but not why he had contacted Trey at the very last minute.

The shuttle arrivals in Clone Court Primary looked nothing like shuttle arrivals in the two courts where Zhu had spent most of his time—the Impossibles and the courts of the Tenth District. In those two courts, the arrivals area was filled with disoriented people and, in the case of the Impossibles, disoriented species. A lot of lawyers threaded their way through the arrivals, ushering families about, gathering witnesses, finding assistants.

Families came to watch proceedings, friends brought bail money—which had to be presented in person—and there were all kinds of security personnel everywhere, obvious and not so obvious.

Most everyone in shuttle arrivals in the other two courts had a reason for being there, even if they didn’t know how to find their way to the proper courtroom.

But when Zhu stepped off the nearly empty shuttle at the Arrival Area listed for Judge Bruchac’s court, he found himself the only person on the platform. The air smelled faintly metallic, probably from the shuttle’s operating system.

As he turned to ask if he was in the right place, he discovered the shuttle’s doors had closed and it was already gliding down the path to the next shuttle stop.

This Arrivals area at least had the right number. But the area itself was tiny. The walls were covered with grime, and Zhu saw no security personnel at all. Just one of the mouthless androids like the ones he’d seen in the prison, leaning up against the faux brick wall.

Zhu’s stomach clenched, and for a moment, he felt out of his depth. But he’d been out of his depth in court hundreds of times; he couldn’t worry about that. He was all Trey had, and more importantly, he was all Trey would
ever
have.

Zhu took a step forward. Glowing signs appeared in front of his links, instructing him on how to get to Judge Bruchac’s court. For Zhu’s viewing pleasure, the instructions came with a three-dimensional map that overlaid his eyes and that, he knew from experience, would take some effort to shut off. And the instructions also came with a lovely timer, telling him how many minutes he had until he had to start his argument.

Fortunately, he had arrived early enough to get lost twice, just in case the map overlay was confusing.

He followed the red arrows that led out a side door. As he walked, he nodded at the android, mostly because Zhu had always nodded at security people and he was just superstitious enough not to want to blow this.

The nerves were because he was in a new place and in a new court, not because he lacked faith in his argument. He’d been there before; he’d lacked faith in both the argument and the client more times than he wanted to think about. When he defended cases at the Impossibles, he lost, but when he defended corporate clients in the Tenth, he won more often than not.

Money had talked throughout human history, and it still talked.

Which explained the sheer emptiness of this place. Not only were the clients indigent, they weren’t even human under the law. If a lawyer decided to defend some of these clones, he’d be taking on the rich, who either owned or created them.

But that was an argument for another time. This time, Zhu would simply discuss Trey—without Trey’s presence. Because Zhu worried that if Trey arrived, he would destroy the entire argument.

Zhu’s biggest worry was that Trey looking like the Anniversary Day assassins would count against him in court, no matter how fair the judge thought she was. Zhu himself had problems with it, which was another reason he did not want to see Trey during the argument.

Zhu wasn’t going to mention who Trey’s clone parent was. Zhu wasn’t going to say much about Trey at all.

The key thing for a lawyer in any situation was to focus on the facts he could use, not the facts that would harm his case. Since he wasn’t arguing
against
anyone—there was no prosecutor here—he didn’t have to worry about hiding information.

Still, Zhu’s heart pounded as he made his way through the maze of corridors leading to the judge’s chambers.

Zhu had sent the message to Trey by the slowest route possible, sending it not only with a packet of other materials for the prison itself, but also sending it directly to the warden. The warden’s office would funnel the announcement to some secretary who would examine it to make sure that the warden actually had to see everything in the packet. The warden (or most likely the secretary) would make note of Trey’s representation for his file, then send the notification to the correct wing. Someone there would send it to the cell block, and eventually, the notification would get to Trey.

Legally, all Zhu had to do was contact Trey before the arguments began. Zhu had to be the attorney of record the moment he walked into court—and Trey had to know that. Or, at least, Zhu had to have used best efforts to inform him.

If Trey later tried to argue that he didn’t want Zhu representing him, well, Zhu had footage of that moment Trey begged him to take the case. That would work.

Zhu had represented people on less.

The judge’s fiefdom was less of a slog than Zhu expected. He pulled open the doors and let himself in. The chambers contained a courtroom, a private conference area, and a private office for the judge. The visuals told Zhu that he was going to argue his case in the courtroom.

Which was empty.

He expected an audience. In the Tenth, the cases always had an audience—friends, family, reporters, historians, and hangers-on. Someone always cared about the outcome.

Judges never had an empty courtroom, because a judge’s decision was often the first step in a march to the Multicultural Tribunal. The cases judges saw dealt with complexities in the law, complexities that the lower level magistrates never even thought of.

But of course this courtroom would be empty. It had very few spectator seats—only two rows. There were two large witness stands, floating next to the judge’s bench, and two huge podiums where lawyers could argue their sides of the case.

Still, the courtroom was smaller than he expected.

At least the lights were on. He found that a little comforting.

A door on his left led to the judge’s personal chambers. A door on his right obviously led to the conference area. The lights were off there.

Zhu was about to contact someone on his links to make sure he hadn’t been given the wrong courtroom when another of those creepy security androids walked into the room, followed by two gigantic triangular robot units.

One of the robots had
court reporter
written on its side in Standard.

Then Zhu blinked and realized that the writing was yet another feature of that stupid map. Apparently, he wasn’t supposed to understand how a courtroom worked.

It truly was amateur hour here.

The second triangular robot stopped beside the entrance they had used.
Reporter backup
was written along its sides, at least in Zhu’s links.

He blinked hard, trying to shut off the stupid map. It would distract him.

He finally managed to shut it down, just as the door to the judge’s chamber opened.

A short, round woman entered, clutching a tablet and adjusting her black robe. Her hair was dark, her skin unlined. Zhu would have thought her young if it weren’t for the world-weariness in her eyes.

She mounted the steps to the bench, set the tablet down, and peered at Zhu. “I take it you’re Torkild Zhu?”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“What the hell is someone from a firm like S-three doing here?”

“It’s a long story, sir,” he said.

“I have time,” she said, as if her life were the most boring life in the history of the universe.

He didn’t want her to have time. He wanted her to be harried and inattentive, like all the other judges and magistrates he had known.

“Are we on the record?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. “Oh, you’re one of those.”

He didn’t like that characterization, but he wasn’t going to have a conversation that harmed his client if he was on the record. Not to mention the fact that he really didn’t want to have the conversation in the first place.

“Just tell me this before we turn on all the official recording data,” she said. “Who is paying for your services? Because my file says this clone has no resources.”

She had a file. That was one step forward at least.

“That is correct, Judge,” he said. “Prisoner Number 99373 has no resources. I’m handling this case pro bono.”

“How the hell did a clone get someone from a place as prestigious as S-three?” she asked.

“Honestly, sir, he petitioned for a lawyer and I was looking for something outside of my normal routine.” All of it true. None of it The Truth.

She narrowed her eyes and studied Zhu for a moment. Then she grunted.

“All right,” she said after a moment. “And now we’re on the record. Happy, counselor?”

“I’m pleased to be standing in your court, sir,” he said, and hoped it wasn’t a lie.

“All right,” she said again, a little sarcastically, peering over her bench again as if she were making sure the robot court reporter was actually recording the proceedings. “Now you can argue whatever the hell this clone thought he should bother me with.”

This
was the best judge that Salehi knew in Clone Court Primary? Zhu would have hated to have drawn the worst judge.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Zhu said. “The clone—”

And how he hated to refer to Trey that way. It dehumanized him. But Zhu was going to go with the judge’s language. It was better not to antagonize her.

“—wants me to argue a somewhat different case. I looked at it, and realized that since he—” Should Zhu have said “it” to square with the judge’s prejudices? He didn’t know, so he continued “—has no legal training and barely has an education at all, I figured I’d handle this my way.”

“Which is why he is not here beside you,” the judge said, answering his mental question with her pronoun.

“Yes, sir.”

“Cagey, Mr. S-three.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said, even though he wasn’t sure it was a compliment.

“What’s
your
argument?”

“Well, sir, this clone is imprisoned for being an illegal. He has no identifying marks and no Day of Creation Document, as required by Alliance law. He has no idea who made him.”

“Yeah, I saw that,” the judge said.

“The problem, judge, and I detail it in the brief I sent you just now, is that this clone was found through the Eaufasse. They contacted the Frontier Security Service because the clone made a request they didn’t understand. All of this occurred before the Eaufasse joined the Alliance.”

The judge’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Really, Mr. Zhu? You’re going to argue that he’s not illegal?”

“Yes, sir,” Zhu said. “The record clearly shows that he was raised on Epriccom in an isolated settlement. It also shows through a series of interviews that occurred at the time of the FSS’s first encounter with the clone that he had no idea that the Alliance existed. Nor had he encountered a human outside of his enclave before. Maybe not even then. The evidence suggests he was made on Epriccom, inside a domed enclave, along with dozens of other clones.”