AT A LITTLE AFTER nine the next morning, Glenn Hollow rose to his feet. “I’d like to call to the stand Dr. James Pheder.”
“Objection, Your Honor.” Bob Ringling was on his feet.
“Reasons?”
“We received notice of this witness last night at eight P.M. We haven’t had adequate time to prepare.”
“Where were you at eight?”
Ringling blinked. “Well, Your Honor, I…the wife and I were out to dinner.”
“At eight I was reading documents in this case, Mr. Ringling. And Mr. Hollow was—obviously—sending you notices about impending witnesses. Neither of us were enjoying the buffet line at House O’Ribs.”
“But—”
“Think on your feet, Counselor. That’s what you get paid those big bucks for. Objection overruled. Proceed, Mr. Hollow.”
Pheder, a dark-complexioned man with a curly mop of black hair and a lean face, took the oath and sat.
“Now, Mr. Pheder, could you tell us about your credentials?”
“Yessir. I have degrees in psychology and biology from the University of Eastern Virginia, the University of Albany, and Northern Arizona University.”
“All of which are accredited four-year colleges, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And what do you do for a living?”
“I’m an author and lecturer.”
“Are you published?”
“Yessir. I’ve published dozens of books.”
“Are those self-published?”
“Nosir. I’m with established publishing companies.”
“And where do you lecture?”
“All over the country. At schools, libraries, bookstores, private venues.”
“How many people attend these lectures?” Hollow asked.
“Each one is probably attended by four to six hundred people.”
“And how many lectures a year do you give?”
“About one hundred.”
Hollow paused and then asked, “Are you familiar with the concept of neme?”
“Yessir.”
“Is it true that you coined that term?”
“Yessir.”
“What does it refer to?”
“I combined the words ‘negative’ and ‘meme.’ ‘Negative’ is just what it sounds like. ‘Meme’ is a common phenomenon in society, like a song or catchphrase, that captures the popular imagination. It spreads.”
“Give us the gist of the concept of neme, that’s n-e-m-e, if you would.”
“In a nutshell?”
“Oh, yessir. I got Cs in science. Make it nice and simple.”
Nice touch, Hollow thought of his improvisation. Science.
Pheder continued. “It’s like a cloud of energy that affects people’s emotions in destructive ways. You know how you’re walking down the street and you suddenly feel different? For no reason at all. Your mood swings. It could be caused by any number of things. But it might be a neme incorporating itself into your cerebrum.”
“And you say, ‘negative.’ So nemes are bad?”
“Well, bad is a human judgment. They’re neutral, but they tend to make us behave in ways society characterizes as bad. Take a case of swimming in the ocean. Sharks and jellyfish aren’t bad; they’re simply doing what nature intended, existing. But when they take a bite out of us or sting us, we call that bad. Nemes are the same. They make us do things that to them are natural but that we call evil.”
“And you’re convinced these nemes are real?”
“Oh, yessir. Absolutely.”
“Are other people?”
“Yes, many, many are.”
“Are these people scientists?”
“Some, yes. Therapists, chemists, biologists, psychologists.”
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
“Your witness, Mr. Ringling.”
The defense lawyer couldn’t, as it turned out, think on his feet, not very well. He was prepared for Hollow to introduce testimony by experts attacking his client’s claim of insanity.
He wasn’t prepared for Hollow to try to prove nemes were real. Ringling asked a few meaningless questions and let it go at that.
Hollow was relieved that he hadn’t explored Pheder’s history and credentials in other fields, including parapsychology and pseudoscience. Nor did he find the blog postings where Pheder claimed the lunar landings were staged in a film studio in Houston, or the ones supporting the theory that the Israelis and President George Bush were behind the 9/11 attacks. Hollow had particularly worried that Pheder’s essay about the 2012 apocalypse might surface.
Dodged the bullet there, he thought.
Ringling dismissed the man, seemingly convinced that the testimony had somehow worked to the defense’s advantage.
This concluded the formal presentations in the case and it was now time for closing statements.
Hollow had been writing his mentally even as he’d fled the courthouse yesterday, in search of Pheder’s phone number.
The slim, austere man walked to the front of the jury box and, a concession to camaraderie with the panel, undid his suit jacket’s middle button, which he usually kept snugly hooked.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. I’m going to make my comments brief, out of respect to you and respect to the poor victim and her family. They—and Annabelle Young’s spirit—want and deserve justice, and the sooner you provide that justice, the better for everyone.
“The diligent law officers involved in this case have established beyond a reasonable doubt that Martin Kobel was, in fact, the individual who viciously and without remorse stabbed to death a young, vibrant schoolteacher; widow; and single mother, after stalking her for a week, following her all the way from Raleigh, spying on her, and causing her to flee from a restaurant while she waited to meet her son after school. Those facts are not in dispute. Nor is there any doubt about the validity of Mr. Kobel’s confession, which he gave freely and after being informed of his rights. And which he repeated here in front of you.
“The only issue in this case is whether or not the defendant was insane at the time he committed this heinous crime. Now, in order for the defendant to be found not guilty by reason of insanity, it must—I repeat, must—be proven that he did not appreciate the difference between right and wrong at the time he killed Annabelle. It must be proven that he did not understand reality as you and I know it.
“You have heard the defendant claim he killed Annabelle Young because she was infected by forces called nemes. Let’s think on that for a moment. Had Mr. Kobel been convinced that she was possessed by aliens from outer space or zombies or vampires, maybe that argument would have some validity. But that’s not what he’s claiming. He’s basically saying that she was infected by what he himself described as a virus…not one that gives you a fever and chills but one that makes you do something bad.”
A smile. “I have to tell you, when I first heard this theory, I thought to myself, brother, that’s pretty crazy. But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if there wasn’t something to it. And in the course of this trial, listening to Mr. Kobel and Dr. Pheder and spending all last night reading through Mr. Kobel’s lengthy writing, I’ve changed my mind…I too now believe in nemes.”
The gasp throughout the courtroom was loud.
“I’m convinced that Martin Kobel is right. Nemes exist. Think about it, ladies and gentlemen: what else can explain the random acts of violence and abuse and rage we find in people who were previously incapable of them.”
Yes…some of the jurors were actually nodding. They were with him!
Hollow’s voice rose. “Think about it! Disembodied forces of energy that affect us. We can’t see them but doesn’t the moon’s gravitation affect us? Doesn’t radiation affect us? We can’t see them either. These nemes are the perfect explanation for behaviors we otherwise would find impossible to understand.
“There was a time when the concept of flight by airplane would have been consid
ered sorcery. The same with GPS. The same with modern medical treatments. The same with lightbulbs, computers, thousands of products that we now know are rooted in scientific fact but when first conceived would seem like black magic.”
Hollow walked close to the rapt members of the jury. “But…but…if that’s the case, if nemes exist, as Mr. Kobel and I believe, then that means they’re part of the real world. They are part of our society, our connection with one another, for good or for bad. Then to say that Annabelle Young was infected with one is exactly the same as saying that she had a case of the flu and might infect other people. Some of those infected people, the elderly or young, could die. Which would be a shame, tragic…But does that mean it would be all right to preemptively murder her to save those people? Emphatically no! That’s not the way the world works, ladies and gentlemen. If, as I now believe, Annabelle Young was affected by these nemes, then as a trained professional, Martin Kobel’s responsibility was to get her into treatment and help her. Help her, ladies and gentlemen. Not murder her.
“Please, honor the memory of Annabelle Young. Honor the institution of law. Honor personal responsibility. Find the defendant in this case sane. And find him guilty of murder in the first degree for taking the life of a young woman whose only flaw was to be sick, and whose only chance to get well and live a content and happy and productive life was snatched from her grasp by a vicious killer. Thank you.”
His heart pounding, Glenn Hollow strode to the prosecution table through an utterly quiet courtroom, aware that everyone was staring at him.
He sat. Still, no voices, no rustling. Nothing. Pin-drop time.
After what seemed like an hour, though it was probably only thirty seconds, Bob Ringling rose, cleared his throat, and delivered his closing statement. Hollow didn’t pay much attention. And it seemed no one else did either. Every soul in the courtroom was staring at Glenn Hollow, and, the prosecutor believed, replaying in their minds what was the most articulate and dramatic closing argument he’d ever made. Turning the whole case on its ear at the last minute.
If, as I now believe, Annabelle Young was affected by these nemes, then as a trained professional, Martin Kobel’s responsibility was to get her into treatment and help her. Help her, ladies and gentlemen. Not murder her.
Glenn Hollow was inherently a modest man but he couldn’t help but believe he’d pulled off the coup of his career.
And so it was a surprise, to say the least, when the good men and woman on the jury panel rejected Hollow’s argument completely and came back with a verdict finding Martin Kobel not guilty by reason of insanity after one of the shortest deliberations in Wetherby County history.
Three
I AVOIDED THE SUNROOM as much as I could.
Mostly because it was full of crazy people. Lip-chewing, Haldol-popping, delusional crazies. They smelled bad, they ate like pigs at a trough, they screamed, they wore football helmets so they didn’t do any more damage to their heads. As if that were possible. At my trial I was worried that I was overacting the schizo part. I shouldn’t have worried. My performance in the courtroom didn’t come close to being over the top.
The Butler State Hospital doesn’t include the words “for the criminally insane” in the name because it doesn’t need to. Anybody who sees the place will get the idea pretty fast.
The sunroom was a place to avoid. But I’d come to enjoy the small library and this was where I’d spent most of my time in the past two months since I was committed here.
Today I was sitting in the library’s one armchair, near the one window. I usually vie for the chair with a skinny patient, Jack. The man was committed because he suspected his wife of selling his secrets to the Union army—which would’ve been funny except that as punishment for her crime he tortured her for six hours before killing and dismembering her.
Jack was a curious man. Smart in some ways and a true expert on Civil War history. But he’d never quite figured out the rules of the game: that whoever got into the library first got the armchair.
I’d been looking forward to sitting here today and catching up on my reading.
But then something happened to disrupt those plans. I opened this morning’s paper and noticed a reference to the prosecutor in the case against me, Glenn Hollow, whose name, I joked with my attorney Bob Ringling, sounded like a real estate development. Alarming Ringling somewhat since I wasn’t sounding as crazy as he would have liked—because, of course, I’m not.
The article was about party officials pulling all support for Hollow’s bid for attorney general. He’d dropped out of the race. I continued to read, learning that his life had fallen apart completely after failing to get me convicted on murder one. He’d had to step down as county prosecutor and no law firm in the state would hire him. In fact, he couldn’t find work anywhere.
The problem wasn’t that he’d lost the case, but that he’d introduced evidence about the existence of spirits that possessed people and made them commit crimes. It hadn’t helped that he was on record as stating that nemes were real. And his expert was a bit of a crackpot. Though I still hold that Pheder’s a genius. After all, for every successful invention, da Vinci came up with a hundred duds.
In fact, Hollow’s strategy was brilliant and had given me some very uncomfortable moments in court. Bob Ringling, too. Part of me was surprised that the jury hadn’t bought his argument and sent me to death row.
These revelations were troubling and I felt sorry for the man—I never had anything personal against him—but it was when I read the last paragraph that the whole shocking implication of what had happened struck home.
Before the Kobel trial, Hollow had been a shoo-in to become the attorney general of the state. He had the best conviction record of any prosecutor in North Carolina, particularly in violent crimes such as rape and domestic abuse. He actually won a premeditated murder case some years ago for a road rage incident, the first time any prosecutor had convinced a jury to do so.
Reading this, I felt like I’d been slugged. My God…My God…I literally gasped. I’d been set up.
It was suddenly clear. From the moment Annabelle Young had sat next to me in Starbucks, I was being suckered into their plan. The nemes…they knew I’d take on the mission of trying to become her therapist. And they knew that I’d see that the neme within her was so powerful and represented such a danger to those around her that I’d have to kill her. (I’d done this before, of course; Annabelle was hardly the first. Part of being a professional therapist is matching the right technique to each patient.)
And where did the nemes pick their host? In the very county with the prosecutor who represented perhaps the greatest threat to them. A man who was winning conviction after conviction in cases of impulsive violence—locking away some of their most successful incarnations in the country: abusers, rapists, murderers…
Well, that answered the question that nobody had been able to answer yet: yes, nemes communicate.
Yes, they plot and strategize. Obviously they’d debated the matter. The price to eliminate Glenn Hollow was to get me off on an insanity plea, which meant that I would be out in a few years, and back on the attack, writing about them, counseling people to guard against them.
Even killing them if I needed to.
So, they’d decided that Glenn Hollow was a threat to be eliminated.
But not me. I’d escaped. I sighed, closing my eyes, and whispered, “But not me. Thank God, not me.”
I saw a shadow fall on the newspaper on my lap. I glanced up to see my fellow patient Jack staring down at me.
“Sorry, got the chair first today,” I told him, still distracted by the stunning understanding. “Tomorrow…”
But my voice faded as I looked into his face.
The eyes…the eyes.
No!
I gasped and started to rise, shouting for a guard, but before I could get to my feet, Jack was on me, “My chair, you took my chair, you took it, you took it!…”
But the
n, as the razor-sharp end of the spoon he clutched slammed into my chest again and again, it seemed that the madman began to whisper something different. My vision going, my hearing fading, I thought perhaps the words slipping from these dry lips were, “Yes you, yes you, yes you…”
PARALLEL LINES
Tim Powers
IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN THEIR BIRTHDAY TODAY. Well, it was still hers, Caroleen supposed, but with BeeVee gone the whole idea of “birthday” seemed to have gone, too. Could she be seventy-three on her own?
Caroleen’s right hand had been twitching intermittently since she’d sat up in the living room daybed five minutes ago, and she lifted the coffee cup with her left hand. The coffee was hot enough but had no taste, and the living room furniture—the coffee table, the now-useless analog TV set with its forlorn rabbit-ears antenna, the rocking chair beside the white-brick fireplace, all bright in the sunlight glaring through the east window at her back—looked like arranged items in some kind of museum diorama; no further motion possible.
But there was still the gravestone to be dealt with, these disorganized nine weeks later. Four hundred and fifty dollars for two square feet of etched granite, and the company in Nevada could not get it straight that Beverly Veronica Erlich and Caroleen Ann Erlich both had the same birth date, though the second date under Caroleen’s name was to be left blank for some indeterminate period.
BeeVee’s second date had not been left to chance. BeeVee had swallowed all the Darvocets and Vicodins in the house when the pain of her cancer, if it had been cancer, had become more than she could bear. For a year or so she had always been in some degree of pain—Caroleen remembered how BeeVee had exhaled a fast whew! from time to time, and the way her forehead seemed always to be misted with sweat, and her late-acquired habit of repeatedly licking the inner edge of her upper lip. And she had always been shifting her position when she drove, and bracing herself against the floor or the steering wheel. More and more she had come to rely—both of them had come to rely—on poor dumpy Amber, the teenager who lived next door. The girl came over to clean the house and fetch groceries, and seemed grateful for the five dollars an hour, even with BeeVee’s generous criticisms of every job Amber did.