“Objection,” Mace calls out.
“Sustained,” Allerton says without pause. “Dr. Cassidy,” Allerton continues, “you will be better served in this proceeding if you keep to the facts and leave the advocacy and commentary to your counsel.”
“Yes sir,” Jaycee answers quietly.
“And Mr. Colden,” Allerton says, “we’re getting too far afield. Let’s get back to the point here.”
“Of course. Can you describe your methodology?” David asks.
“We got Cindy as an infant when we started. From day one, we treated her as if she had a concept of self, as if she could intentionally communicate and use language, and finally”—here Jaycee struggles to maintain her composure—“as if she were my own child.”
“What was the process that you used to teach Cindy?”
Jaycee then explains the painstaking technical steps through which Cindy learned to communicate with humans: how Cindy was taught American Sign Language; how the interstitial linguistic programming was refined and modified for ASL and then adapted to the primate hand; how the ILP-programmed gloves were created and Cindy was taught to use them; and finally how Cindy was taught to use the lexigraphic keyboard to supplement the ASL and to take the place of non-manual markers.
While this testimony provides an important foundation for the evidence that would follow, it is also dry, impersonal, and abstract. David marches Jaycee through it as quickly as he can with one eye on the jury to make sure he’s not losing them.
When Jaycee is done, David says, “Perhaps, Jaycee, you can give the jury a concrete example of what you’ve been explaining?”
“Of course. Take the sign for ‘play.’ You make the sign for two
p
’s—the tip of the thumb to the middle of the middle finger—and then swing the
p
back and forth.” Jaycee displays the sign from the witness stand for the judge. “Because of the placement of Cindy’s thumb in relationship to her other fingers, if she were to sign this, it might look like this.” Jaycee makes the sign, but it clearly appears different. “She could be trying to sign the word for ‘play,’ but she also could be trying to sign any number of other words. When we put the gloves on her, and thereby compensated for differences in physiology, it was clear that she was in fact signing the word for ‘play.’ We ran the gloves back through the programming and Cindy’s signs were converted into English words that appeared on my computer screen. Cindy also used her keyboard to add a mood or tone—like
play now!
” Jaycee says in a demanding tone, “or as a shortcut for a response—like a yes or no.”
“Do you believe that you succeeded in having Cindy acquire and use human language?” David asks.
“I have no doubt that we did.”
“Did you ever have Cindy independently evaluated?” David asks.
“Yes. Prior to the time that the project was terminated, we had Cindy’s cognitive age equivalent tested by the Language Institute at Cornell.”
“What do you mean by cognitive age equivalent?”
“It’s just what it sounds like. Using an assessment of the subject’s language acquisition and usage, the subject’s skill level is measured against the test results of other subjects in various age cohorts and is then placed in a similar grouping.”
David removes the document from a file folder and has it marked as an exhibit. He hands a copy to Mace, one to the clerk, and one to Jaycee.
“What did Cornell conclude?” David asks.
“When the project was terminated, Cindy, who was at this time four years and eight months old, had a cognitive age equivalent of a four-year-old.”
The sound of surprise spreads throughout the benches. Allerton bangs his gavel once in annoyance. “All right now. Settle down.”
David takes a moment for the room to quiet and to be sure that he has Allerton’s attention. “Can you explain what that result means?”
Jaycee takes a breath and turns her face so that she is looking directly at Allerton. “It means that as compared with other humans and as measured by humans, based on factors such as vocabulary, arbitrariness, semanticity, spontaneity, turn taking, duality, displacement, and creativity, Cindy has the verbal mind of a four-year-old child.”
This time there is a collective murmur from the audience that quickly expands to a dull rumble. Allerton bangs his gavel several times to establish order.
David turns to Chris and says, “Hand me the CD.”
Chris takes out a small, square white envelope and gives it to David. He, in turn, hands the envelope to the court clerk, and she removes the CD and places it into a small computer/projector in the front of the courtroom. The clerk hands David a remote control. Mace watches David’s movements, waiting for the correct moment to object.
“Dr. Cassidy, did you make a photographic record of any of your work with Cindy?”
“Oh, tons.”
“What happened to those recordings?”
“I don’t know. I tried to take a number of disks with me, but was
advised by Director Jannick that they were the property of NIS.” There is a noticeable stirring at Mace’s counsel table.
“Are you aware of any photographic recording of Cindy that is not presently in the possession of NIS?” David asks.
“I’d saved a few files because I forwarded them to my home computer.”
Mace stands. “We renew our objection to this evidence, Your Honor. Not only is this irrelevant, but any recording that Dr. Cassidy or her colleague made while working at CAPS is the property of NIS and was to be turned over to NIS before Dr. Cassidy departed. We cannot—”
“Your Honor, this is inappropriate,” David challenges. “You’ve already ruled during the break that this tape could—”
“Objection overruled, Mr. Mace.” Allerton doesn’t even wait for David to finish. “Proceed, Mr. Colden.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” David pushes a button on the remote control, and a large flat-screen monitor near the clerk’s desk turns on.
A few more seconds pass, but nothing happens. David pushes another button on the remote control, but the screen remains blank. The court clerk comes over and tries to help get things going without success. The jury members begin to shift in their seats—the sound of impatience—and it could not have come at a worse time.
“It was working this morning,” David says to Allerton.
“Another copy, perhaps?” Allerton offers.
“Just one moment, please,” David answers and heads back to Chris.
She gives David another disk. “This is the original,” she whispers. “I’ve only viewed the stuff we’ll be using. The whole file runs for almost an hour, so you’ll need to cut it off.”
David gives the second disk to the clerk and holds his breath. Images soon appear on the screen—Cindy in the Cube, wearing her gloves, the large lexigraphic keyboard in her lap, Jaycee in front of Cindy and adjacent to her own keyboard and oversize monitor.
David had always said that the best type of trial witness tells a story. But he also knew that no matter how good the witness is, no matter how well the witness has been prepared, and no matter how interesting the witness’s story may be, words cannot compare to a picture. Such are the limitations of human language.
David pauses the playback. “Can you tell us what we’re looking at here, Dr. Cassidy?”
“This is the main CAPS facility that we occupied during the four years. That’s me,” Jaycee says with a trace of humor, “the human one. Cindy, you can see, is wearing the gloves I discussed and has the keyboard we designed in her lap.”
On the monitor, Cindy watches intently as Jaycee signs to her, speaking at the same time. “Where is the milk, Cindy?” Jaycee asks. Cindy pauses for a brief moment on the screen and then pulls her lips back into what looks to be a smirk. She pushes several buttons on the keyboard and then signs. The words
IN THE COW
show up in large letters on Jaycee’s computer screen. There is some laughter in the courtroom and even Allerton smiles.
David pauses the playback. “Can you walk us through the process that we just saw?”
“It’s a typical communication-observation-response sequence. I sign the question to Cindy. Cindy observes the signing visually, thinks of an answer, and then, using the gloves and the keyboard, she responds. Cindy’s response is translated through the program I testified about earlier, and then it appears on my computer screen. You’ll note Cindy’s joke. We found that she actually had a sense of
humor and, like her language skills, her sense of what was funny—at least compared with my experience with my niece—was about what you’d expect from a four-year-old girl.”
David pushes
PLAY
on the remote. Back in the movie, Jaycee signs and says, “Funny. Very funny. But what is the true answer?”
Cindy signs and the answer shows up on the screen as
BOTTLE IN REFRIGERATOR
.
Jaycee signs and says, “Good, Cindy. Where is the refrigerator?”
Cindy presses a button on the keyboard and the word
KITCHEN
appears in large letters on Jaycee’s computer monitor.
“What color is the refrigerator?” Jaycee signs and says.
Cindy makes the ASL sign for “forgetting,” which is taking your hand and pretending to pull something out of your head. Even before the words
I FORGOT
appear on Jaycee’s computer screen, the gesture on the film is unmistakable.
“Think again,” Jaycee says and signs.
Cindy makes a gesture and it appears on Jaycee’s screen as
LIKE THE MOON
.
“Very good, Cindy,” Jaycee says on the recording.
David pauses the playback. “What’s that about?”
“That’s Cindy’s way of saying ‘silver’—like the moon. Colors tend to be a more abstract concept than we realize.”
The recording jumps to another segment. Cindy signs and punches a button on the keyboard.
WHERE IS FRANK?
shows up on Jaycee’s computer.
Jaycee responds in sign and voice, “Frank is sick today.” Cindy’s head drops to her chest in response. “What is wrong, Cindy?” Jaycee asks and signs.
Cindy looks up at Jaycee, and her eyes express something I recognize all too well. Cindy puts a finger below each eye—the ASL
sign for “crying”—and then signs something with both hands. Jaycee looks confused and then checks her computer monitor. The monitor shows that Cindy has asked:
WILL FRANK DIE LIKE MICHAEL?
David pauses the recording again. “Who was Michael?”
“He was another NIS chimpanzee at CAPS that Cindy used to have social time with. He was infected with hepatitis B and a few months later died from it.”
“How did you explain that to Cindy?” David asks.
Jaycee shrugs. “I mean, assuming for the moment that Cindy is capable of rational thought, how do you explain it in a way that makes sense? I just told her that he got sick and went to sleep and could not wake up.” The tremor in Jaycee’s voice is a warning sign, so David quickly starts the recording again.
In the recording, Jaycee assures Cindy in sign and voice, “No, no. Frank is just a little sick. Frank is not dying.”
Cindy signs back to Jaycee, and Jaycee reads off the monitor.
I AM GLAD FRANK IS NOT SICK LIKE MICHAEL
. Cindy’s hand hesitates in midair, as if she is thinking about saying something else.
“What is it, Cindy?” Jaycee signs and asks.
After a pause that stretches for a few long seconds, Cindy signs and touches her keyboard.
WILL I BECOME SICK LIKE MICHAEL?
In the courtroom, the recording goes blue and Jaycee covers her face with her hands. The courtroom is silent.
Whatever else my old friend might have done before, during, or since meeting Cindy, there could no longer be any serious question about the depths or genuineness of her feelings for this creature. Even the jury foreman seems disturbed by the scene unfolding before him.
David gives Jaycee a moment to compose herself before turning
her over to Mace for cross-examination. In the process, he forgets to pause the video.
There is something else on this disk.
I suddenly come into view on the monitor.
I’d almost forgotten what I sounded and looked like in life. I think that’s the way it’s meant to be. How else am I supposed to withstand my present state of being if I must compare it with the deep, resonant colors that come only through breathing real air and touching anything that offers even the slightest resistance to my fingers? I so miss the feel of everything.
Nevertheless there I am on that screen, and I reel under the weight of the disconnect.
That day on the recording floods my memory. I’d just learned of my disease, but I was still optimistic that we would come through it without any lasting consequence. I also was thrilled to be with Jaycee and meet this remarkable animal called Cindy.
I still had hope and it showed.
“Will she come to me?” I say on the recording.
Jaycee appears next to me. “I think so. Give her the present.”
I offer Cindy the doll I’ve brought. “Cindy? Would you like this?” I ask and sign as I hold the doll out to her. She takes it gently from my hand. For just one moment our hands touch. Then Cindy signs something.
The words
THANK YOU
appear on the monitor in the lab, followed by,
WHAT IS YOUR NAME?
“My name is Helena,” I say and sign.
Cindy signs again, and
COME PLAY WITH ME
immediately appears on the screen.
In the courtroom, David stands paralyzed before the monitor, the remote control raised but useless in his hand. I’m not the only
one who has been jettisoned from the safe harbor of numbness by this video clip.
“I would love to,” I see myself say and sign to Cindy on the screen. I approach Cindy, and for the next few moments of film we can be seen huddled together on the floor near her Cube.
“Mr. Colden?” Allerton asks quietly in the courtroom. Through some silent but shared language predicated on the syntax of grief and loss, Allerton knows the identity of this woman in the video. For Allerton, the missing explanation for David’s involvement in this case has clicked into place. “Is there anything else you wanted us to see?” he inquires.
David doesn’t respond. He can’t. It’s not just seeing my moving image and hearing my voice after these long months, it also is the fact that I’ve suddenly popped up in the middle of his courtroom—a place I would never be—like some misplaced but determined jack-in-the-box. My connection to Jaycee and Cindy is no longer amorphous and indeterminate for David, but instead is forever recorded and preserved in pixels, bits, and binary code.