The Year's Best Science Fiction, Vol. 20

National Data sent me to Billings to follow the trial. It wasn’t going to take long. All eleven cams had caught the killing, not to mention the cams carried by the tourists. Bernard’s father was a retired software engineer and his mother had been the financial officer of a Boston HMO. Environmental considerations aside, they were out for blood. On the other side, public sympathy was with Jack. The picture of Bernard killing the pup was everywhere. I found unofficial support funds for Jack’s defense that seemed to be legitimate and a lot of scams. With this sort of money, Jack could pull an O.J. and get off scot-free.

The tours had stopped but I saw twelve more cams added onto the feeds. At least half of them were handhelds. Everything about him, everything about the wolves attracted attention. The publicity of the trial had generated more interest in the wolves but no one event drove the feeds any longer. The feeds drove the attention which then drove the feeds which then drove the attention. Jack and the wolves had become a self-perpetuating lightning rod.

I checked into Billings the night before the trial. I was tired. I was by myself; I’d left Goldie at home. There were going to be enough cameras here. I was discouraged. The South Africa story wasn’t going anywhere. I’d taken the National Data job to get my head clear. I was watching the coverage of Jack’s impending trial when someone knocked on the hotel door.

I know. I should have checked first. I can only say I was too tired to think. I opened the door and Sam Orcutt was standing there. He didn’t say anything. He punched me in the side of the head and I went down seeing things in different colors and mixed up. He yelled at me while I tried to uncross my eyes.

After a minute or two, my own personal color separation came back into focus and I saw he was standing over me. Drunk, maybe, but certainly confused. “Why the hell didn’t you leave us alone?” He yelled as he stood over me. “Why did you have to stir things up? What the hell were you thinking?” I punched him in the balls.

He went down, moaning. I staggered out into the hall and got some ice for my face. He was still moaning when I got back. I sat down on the sofa and watched him for a minute.

“Nice to see you, too,” I said. My ear was hot and swelling and I heard a crack every time I worked my jaw.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” he whispered, holding himself.

“You throw up, you clean it up.” I put the ice on my forehead. I still felt dizzy. “What are you doing here, Sam?”

“He’s my friend,” he coughed. “That’s more than you are.”

“You hit me out of your friendship with Jack?”

He pulled himself onto his hands and knees and made his way to a chair. “I wanted to pay you back.”

“What did I ever do to you?”

“For what you did to him. To us. To me.”

“Yeah.” I wasn’t surprised. I’d been in the business a while. “That’s the way it goes. You should have protected him better. Kept those nasty tour groups away from him. I could have helped if you’d dropped me a line.”

“ You’re a bastard.”

“I’d sure like to continue this great conversation but I’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

For a minute, he looked like he was going to try again. I picked up the table lamp and watched him. He thought better of it and staggered out into the hall.

“If you’re ever in New York, look me up!” I shouted after him.

I shut the door and leaned against it. I felt terrible.

All bruises and bad feelings, I showed up the next day at the Billings Courthouse ready for a show. It didn’t happen.

All across the feeds, Jack’s attorney had described their case. They were going for insanity. They had statements of several psychiatrists to prove their point. One of their doctors had modified himself to be eight feet tall. Not that it would have made much difference. Jack had spent nearly ten million dollars to look like the star of an old horror movie. Who wouldn’t be inclined to think he was nuts?

Instead, Jack pleaded guilty.

It dawned on me the prosecution was smarter than they looked: they’d plea-bargained with him. The trial was over before it began. I couldn’t figure it out. With the public sympathy and the money, Jack could have gotten a complete acquittal. Hell, he could have ended up suing the State of Montana for libel and won.

Once he had entered his plea, the prosecutor, a hard-looking woman named Warburg, recommended the standard sentence of not more than ten years and not less than seven. The defense agreed. Agreed. Now I was really confused.