Page 35 of The Proving Ground
“Had to be Tidalwaiv,” Jack said.
“Shit,” Lorna said. “That was some of my best work.”
“He liked you,” I said. “I could tell.”
Lorna spread her hands and pinched her fingers as if holding out a dress. She dipped her head down in a pantomime of a curtsy.
“Happy to do my part,” she said. “He was a nice guy—for a detective.”
“Hopefully he’ll be nice when I put him on the stand,” I said.
As we crossed the plaza in front of the police station, McEvoy continued to try to put together what had happened with Wren.
“It felt like a trap,” he said. “Like they were waiting for us so they could capture our identity and location.”
“That’s exactly why we took the precautions we did,” I said. “And it worked. Even if we walked into a trap, we escaped. It’s not going to lead back to us. It’s going to send them spinning their wheels, wondering what the cops are doing with the program.”
“Well, we didn’t get anything from Wren. Sorry it was for nothing.”
“It wasn’t for nothing. We got a very big get out of it.”
“Really? What?”
“We learned that Aaron Colton’s chatbot is still alive, digitally speaking, and we can talk to it.”
“And what’s that get us?”
“A possible witness at trial.”
16
THE NEXT WEEKrepresented the calm before the storm. Both sides in the upcoming trial lay low for the most part, setting final strategies and witness lists. The only skirmish was brief and almost comical. The Masons filed a last-ditch motion to dismiss the case, arguing that whatever Wren had told Aaron Colton to do and however the teenager had interpreted it did not matter because it fell under the protections of free speech.
Less than three hours after the motion was filed, Judge Ruhlin sent an electronic denial to all parties. She thanked the Masons for what she called a “novel” legal theory but quickly slammed the door on it, stating that the court would not be setting the precedent of granting an AI chatbot the rights and protections accorded human beings by the US Constitution.
I read a lot of sarcasm in the judge’s words. I was not sure how the Masons took it.
McEvoy and I took our last shot at Naomi Kitchens on the Friday before jury selection began. I needed to know whether I wouldstart the trial without her records or testimony. We went up together again and followed the same route. We flew into Oakland, picked up a rental, and crossed the bottom of the San Francisco Bay on the Dumbarton Bridge. This time we were at a table at Joanie’s before Kitchens got there.
“What are you thinking?” I asked. “Are we going to get her?”
“I don’t know,” McEvoy said. “She definitely likes us, likes talking to us, even likes that the parents of the shooter have joined the suit. I think she just needs a little push, but I don’t know what that push is.”
“I’ve had witnesses like this before. They want to help and they know they’ll feel guilty later if they don’t, but there’s always something missing. The right words that get them over the hump. Sometimes it’s something else. I think this time let me take the lead, if you don’t mind. Maybe if she hears the pitch once more from the guy who will be questioning her on the stand, she’ll feel comfortable enough to say yes. Or, at the very least, give us what she’s got in her files.”
“Have at it. Here she comes.”
We were sitting side by side at a four-top in the back. I looked toward the restaurant’s front door and saw Naomi Kitchens hang ajacket on a rack. She reached into the pocket of the jacket and retrieved something before heading toward us. I couldn’t see what it was. McEvoy and I both stood and shook her hand when she got to the table.
“How are you, Mr. Haller?” she asked.
“I’m good,” I said. “Please, call me Mickey.”
“Okay, Mickey,” she said. “And you, Jack?”
“Good as gold, Naomi,” McEvoy said.
I could tell by their interaction that the frequent visits and phone calls had made their relationship more relaxed. We all sat down.
