“State your full name, age and address, for the record.”
The mannequin-like robo-bailiff sounded real enough as it hovered directly in front of the defendant, its transcription sensors on, doubling as court recorder.
The small, nearly empty courtroom was housed in a brightly-lit partition of an old space freighter converted into a municipal building in Armstrong City. Moon-dust covered everything from the floor to the judge’s bench to the synthetic bailiff itself – but not for lack of cleaning; it just seemed impossible to keep the stuff outside.
The black-haired man on the witness stand looked nervously at Judge Armando Hawkins – a tanned, white-robed man in his late twenties with white, slicked-back hair – and back at the bailiff. “Albert Reginald Pope. Thirty five years old. 741-B Apollo Boulevard, Armstrong City, Luna 57JH.”
The robo-bailiff’s face was impassive. “You are charged in the death of Fawn Redding. Aggravated murder. How do you plead?”
Pope licked his lips and scratched absently at a scab on his right ear. “Um, not guilty.”
“The court will hear evidence,” said Judge Hawkins. “Mr. Quince?”
Rufus Quince, the young, blond District Attorney for Luna North, stood up from behind a small plastic table and stepped to the center of the room, his scuffed brown cowboy boots leaving footprints in the powdery dust. He looked like he’d seen too many late nights or too many hardened criminals. Or both. “Your honor, there is ample evidence to convict Mr. Pope. Blood was found on the victim, under her finger nails. DNA tests are pending from Earth Genetics. But the wound on his ear was no doubt sustained in a struggle with the victim. And the victim’s prize collection is gone. I have-”
“Please specify,” said the judge. “Are you stating that robbery was the motive? And what exactly are you alleging the defendant has stolen?”
Quince turned to the table and picked up a clear plastic file folder. He pulled out an eight by ten photo. “These.” The image was of three very large postage stamps. “This is a photo, enlarged, of course, of the late Ms. Redding’s philately collection. These stamps were, together, worth nearly five million credits.”
“For three postage stamps?” Judge Hawkins asked incredulously.
“Yes,” said Quince, stepping to the bench and handing the photo to the judge. “Mr. Pope learned of their existence and their value, attempted to steal them, was caught in the act, struggled with Ms. Redding, strangled her to death, and then absconded with the stamps. He smuggled them back to Earth where he sold them on the web for a cool two million credits – less than half their worth, but it was all profit.”
“Do you deny these accusations, Mr. Pope?” asked the judge, turning to the defendant.
“Absolutely. I have no idea what the D.A. is talking about.” Pope rubbed at his ear again and sniffed sharply.
“The witness is lying,” said the robo-bailiff, carefully monitoring Pope’s bio-rhythms. Robo-bailiffs were notoriously unreliable lie detectors, but there was no way to switch off that function in the older models, so judges took their “advice” with a grain of salt.
“Mr. Quince – what else do you have, besides your own idea of what happened?” said Hawkins, frowning impatiently.
“I’ve traced an anonymous transaction from Earth into Mr. Pope’s account at the Bank of Luna. The amount was two million credits. It occurred four days after the crime.” Quince sat back down and leafed through some papers. “Further, surveillance video from the day before the transaction – three days after the robbery and murder – show Pope shipping a small envelope at GlobEx. I’ve traced the shipment. It went to Earth, where it changed hands several times in the first day of its arrival – and then I lost track of it. That kind of activity is common among smuggled items.”
“Circumstantial,” said Judge Hawkins. “Any witnesses to the actual crime?”
Quince looked down. “No.”
“Mr. Pope,” said the judge, “How do you explain the large sum of money deposited into your account?”
Pope shifted in his seat. “An old friend of mine died. He left it to me.”
“Anonymously?” asked Hawkins.
“Apparently.”
“Why would he deposit the money anonymously?” asked Hawkins.
“Search me. I’d ask him, but he’s dead.”
“The witness is evading,” said the robo-bailiff.
“Mr. Pope,” Quince interjected, “the day before your arrest, you withdrew a half million credits. What did you do with that money?”
“Spent it.”
“On what?”
“This and that. What’s it matter?”
“Answer the question, Mr.Pope,” barked Hawkins.
“I loaned it to an acquaintance.”
“The witness is being truthful,” announced the bailiff.
Quince flipped open his cyberpad and tapped the screen a few times, then stood. “Your honor, I have one final piece of evidence. I’ve just received confirmation that Mr. Pope’s recent web browsing history includes several sites that focus on stamp collecting. My assistant, Miss Waverly, is uploading the records to your cyberpad right now.”
The judge flipped open his device and scanned the information. Then he looked up and scrutinized Pope. “I don’t need to wait for the DNA results. The evidence Mr. Quince has presented is good enough for me. Albert Pope, you are hereby convicted of the aggravated murder of Fawn Redding, and the theft of her rare stamp collection, as well as smuggling and resale of stolen goods. The standard sentence is death, to be carried out in seven days.”
Justice was simple and swift on the Lunar frontier.
A defendant received legal counsel, if they wanted it and could afford it. But the man on the bench was literally judge, jury, and executioner. He didn’t wield a giant axe, but he was the one responsible for administering the death pill.
While the robo-bailiff dragged Al Pope from the courtroom, Rufus Quince nodded his farewell to Judge Hawkins and made his way out to the street.
He headed down Armstrong City’s main thoroughfare, a dusty drag that led to the suburban housing domes in one direction, and the seedier side of the settlement in the other. Quince headed for “seedy” and stopped at a saloon called the Crater’s Shadow.
“The usual, Bob,” he said, taking a seat at the counter and placing his cyberpad and file folder beside the squat glass of Purple Slush that had arrived before his butt had settled onto the tattered stool. Bob the auto-tender was remarkably efficient for a thirty year old Servomatic robot with a gimp leg.
The room was dimly lit, and the sound of American music played on an old juke machine, punctuated by the sound of billiard balls smacking against each other. It smelled vaguely of puke.
Quince felt right at home.
He hadn’t always been a lawyer. Young Rufus had wanted to be a farmer, like his father – one of the first men to begin farming in the Secondary New Tranquility Biosphere. But after his family was killed by bandits along the Discovery Highway outside of Armstrong City, the eighteen year old Rufus went on a major drinking binge, picking fights with every criminal he could find (and finding them was easy where Rufus hung out). After nearly dying in three separate bar fights, he finally decided he could best avenge his parents and sister by becoming a prosecutor.
So, he cleaned himself up, spent his meager inheritance to attend Aldrin University, and worked his way up to D.A. in a matter of months after graduating. Apparently, District Attorneys didn’t last too long on the moon – too much work, not enough pay. Most moved back to Earth within a year of taking the job.
Quince had been at it for three years now, and had no plans of giving it up.
“One more,” he said to Bob, who served it up within a few seconds.
After sipping down the second drink, he grabbed his things and started to leave the Crater’s Shadow. As he reached the door, an older man – maybe 55 or 60, it was hard to tell in the dim lighting - stepped in, temporarily blinding Quince with the light from outs
ide. As his eyes quickly recovered, the man spoke to him in a hoarse voice.
“Excuse me, are you Rufus Quince, the prosecutor?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Name’s Vernon Phillips. I need to talk to you. You just sent an innocent man to death row.”
Quince was immediately skeptical. It wouldn’t be the first time that a felon’s friend had come claiming that Quince’s last prosecution was some kind of mistake. Quince had little patience for these types. “Excuse me,” he said, pushing past the older man.
Phillips grabbed him by the arm with surprising strength. “You don’t understand.” He leaned in so close Quince could feel the man’s stale breath on his cheek. “I did it. I killed Fawn Redding.”