And gods, how am I going to bring a white girl home to Mother?

A sharp rap brings her suddenly to her feet. The Bailiff’s face, florid under its blond buzz cut, appears in the door. “Doctor Rivers, you’ve been called to the stand.”

Setting her book down, she follows the uniformed Sergeant out of the witness room and through the double doors of the court. Spectators fill two-thirds of the seats on the public’s side of the rail, a respectable crowd for all but the most notorious cases even in the time before the uprising. Some she recognizes as women liberated from the prison; one is Millie Buxton, her thin face drawn and pale with sleeplessness. Her fingers, clasped in her lap, writhe incessantly. She sits somewhat apart from the rest, toward the back. Also toward the back, Koda notes a large man wearing dark glasses, one foot on the floor and a fold of his jeans over the stump above his knee. His crutches lean against the back of the bench. She casts him a sharp glance, trying to place him, though she is certain she does not recognize him.

The second bailiff swings the gate open for her, and she approaches the dais with the judge’s bench and the witness stand. Harcourt fills his high seat as though he has grown there, inseparable from the black robe of his office or the gavel laid ready to his hand. He gives no sign of recognition—no fear, no favor from this one, ever—and says simply, “Madam Clerk, swear the witness.”

The Clerk steps from behind her desk, raising the Bible there slightly with an inquiring look. Koda shakes her head and lays her hand on the medicine bundle around her neck instead. In a low but clear voice, she swears to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, “so help me, Ina Maka.”

Alderson leads her steadily, step by step, though the events of the raid on the Rapid City jail. At his prompting, she recounts the initial attack on the facility, the wounding of Larke and the deaths of Johnson and Reese. The hush in the courtroom deepens as she tells of leading her squad through the crawlspace above the cells; grows deeper still as she recalls, keeping all emotion from her voice, the joy of the released prisoners, their anger and hatred for their captors, their grief. From where she sits, she can see that even Millie Buxton’s fingers have fallen quiet, caught up as she perhaps is in the recollection of her own and her daughter’s ordeal.

Not so the man in the sunglasses. His lips move constantly, as though praying or conversing earnestly with himself, and his fingers curl and uncurl, sliding up and down the invisible length of some unseen measure.

As if playing something. . . . An image tickles at her memory. . . .a guitar. That’s it! That’s him, the blind singer Kirsten and Maggie met at the census. My god, he’s the press!

When her narrative is at an end, a bare armature of facts, no more, Alderson turns back to the prosecution’s table. “Pass the witness, Your Honor.”

As Bourdreaux rises to take his place in the well of the court, Koda studies the defendants. McCallum has tipped his chair back on its hind legs so that it rests almost on the rail separating the defense table from the audience. Kazen studies the papers before him, as if searching for some unrecognized word of release; beside him, Petrovich stares at the jury, his hostility palpable. Buxton, though, sits with his elbows propped on the table, his forehead against his folded hands, apparently oblivious to the proceedings around him. His skin, pale when Koda saw him first at the jail, has grown grey and lusterless.

Like a mushroom, something that lives in the dark. Like a corpse. A man dead inside, too numb even to lie down.

Boudreaux clasps his hands in front of him, then looses them and clasps them behind his back instead. His nervousness shows in other ways, too, in the lines between his brows, just visible over the rims of his glasses; in the faint sheen of sweat slicking his scalp below his thinning hair. His job is an appalling one; to defend, and if he can, save the lives of, four men who are guilty far beyond a reasonable doubt, knowing that he may have a chance of success with only one of them. Knowing, too, that that chance hangs by a thread thin as spider silk.

“Dr. Rivers,” he begins, “do you recognize the four men seated at the defense table?”

She nods. “Yes, Major. I do.”

“You have already told the Court how you found these four men imprisoned in the Rapid City facility operated by Corrections Corporation of America. You found each in a separate cell, is that correct?”

Alderson is on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor! Leading the witness.”

Harcourt regards the prosecutor for a moment over the rims of his half-glasses. “Leading Dr. Rivers, is he?” He lets the pause speak for the absurdity of the idea, then says, “Sustained. Rephrase your question, Counsel.”

“Of course, Your Honor.” The flush of embarrassment spreads over Boudreaux’s neck above his tie and into his face. “Dr. Rivers, can you tell us how you found the four defendants housed in the CCA facility?”

“Each was in an individual cell.”

“Were they in contiguous cells within the same block?”

“They were in the same block, but not in adjoining cells.”

“When you entered those cells, did you observe any means by which an occupant might communicate with the occupants of other cells or with prison personnel?”

Silently, Koda gives him full marks despite his initial blunder. He is creeping up slowly on the conspiracy charge, obviously hoping at least to reduce the charges to rape with no conjoined felony or “special circumstances” that will trigger the death penalty. “Each cell contained a metal cot, a latrine and one stool. No communications devices of any kind were visible.”

“Any writing materials?”

“None.”

“Did subsequent search of the defendants turn up, say, cell phones, beepers, walkie talkies, notes or notepaper, anything of that nature?”

“None.”

“Did you ever, at any point, observe the prisoners to communicate with each other?”

“I did not.”

“Did you ever, at any point, observe the prisoners to communicate with any of the androids at the CCA facility?”

“I did not.”

Boudreaux gives a satisfied nod, then steps back behind the defense table. He shuffles several sheets of closely written yellow paper. “Tell me, Dr. Rivers, did the defendants come with you willingly when you opened their cells?”

Alderson pops up again. “Objection! Calls for a conclusion, Your Honor.”

The stare over the tops of his glasses is prolonged this time. At length Harcourt says dryly, “Sustained.”

“Let me rephrase: Did any of the prisoners refuse, or attempt to refuse, to leave his cell when your squad opened their doors?”

“One did.”

“Which one? Can you point him out to the court?”

“Mr. Buxton indicated that he did not wish to leave his cell.”

“And how did he do that?”

“We found him on his cot in the fetal position. He did not answer us at first when we spoke to him, then begged us to leave him.”

“What was his physical condition, Dr. Rivers?”

Movement to one side catches her eye, as Alderson pushes back his chair and begins to rise. He pauses for a moment, his backside canted awkwardly at the audience, then flushes and sits down abruptly. One juror covers her mouth with her hand, her black eyes sparkling. Koda glances down at her hands, making a note to ask Harcourt exactly how he has intimidated the prosecutor out of his objection. Then she says, “He was dehydrated and thin bordering on emaciation. When he stood, his feet were unsteady, and he had to be assisted to walk.”

Boudreax gives a clearly satisfied nod, then asks, “Dr. Rivers, have you ever attended human beings as well as your more accustomed four-footed and winged patients?”

“I have.”

“Under what circumstances?”

Briefly Koda recounts her service as unofficial Air Force medic to the Bobcats and their allies, both before and after their return to the Base. “I’ve also set the odd bone or two on my ranch or my parents,’ and given a good many insulin and B-12 shots to older folks in the neighborhood.”

“I see. So you could be trusted to know that when someone’s ribs are showing, he’s underweight, even though he’s not a horse?”

With an effort, Koda keeps her face straight. “I do believe so, Major.”

“No further questions.”

“You may step down,” Harcourt says, bringing his gavel down resoundingly on its holder. “Court adjourned until two o’clock.”

On her way out, Koda pauses at the rear bench where the blind man sits. She says, “You’re Harry the singer, aren’t you?”

“I am.” His face turns toward her, his head angled to hear more clearly. “You just testified. You’re Dakota Rivers.”

“Yes. I understand you sang a fine song at the census.”

Harry grins hugely. “I had some good material. Good story, good tune. Maybe you’ll let me sing it for you, sometime.”

“Maybe. Meanwhile, thanks.” Koda gives his hand a squeeze, unobtrusively palming a a folded piece of paper. “This will get you onto the Base and to the infirmary if you ever need anything. Don’t be shy about using it.”

Not waiting for thanks, she slips quietly from the room. Outside, she checks her watch and turns down the path that leads to the officers’ housing. If she hurries, she can make a brief lunch with Kirsten before returning to the clinic. She smiles at the thought, and quickens her pace.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

TACOMA SNEAKS A LOOK in his rearview mirror as the caravan snakes its way back toward the base. Two armored patrol carriers are followed by two flatbed eighteen wheelers which carry two gigantic fans they have appropriated from OverDale Windfarm, Inc. All seems clear, but something is niggling at the back of his neck, making the hairs there stand up stiffly. The road they’re traveling on is little used, and there are no trees or other sightline obstructions to block the view.