Mardock Scramble

In the elevator the DA spoke to the Doctor. “I have to say, you’re looking good, Mr. Easter! I wish you were always dressed like this—you’d put my mind at rest no end.”

The Doctor’s hair had been dyed back to its original black and was combed down and slick.

His suit looked good on him—it made him look gentlemanly, like a man of distinction. The Doctor gave a shrug and a little smile. The DA relaxed a little and then whispered in the Doctor’s ear.

“But for next time let’s rethink the girl’s outfit. We’re trying to show that she was a poor girl from the West Side preyed on by one of the East Side rich, and she’s a little too—elegant—for that.”

Balot could hear that too. Not the precise words, but a general sense of what they were talking about, by sensing the atmosphere. Unconsciously she folded her arms and wished for something to wrap around her tights. Her dress was dark, of course, just as the DA had specified, with the skirt hem coming down past her knees. She dealt with his request as she did with any of her clients who were fixated on her clothes.

Oeufcoque, still a choker, said nothing.

His existence was a secret to all other people, of course, but even if it hadn’t been, Balot wouldn’t have wanted him to say anything at this moment. There was still an egg-shaped crystal hanging from the choker, but this time there was a simple geometric pattern at its core, not a picture of a golden mouse.

09:25 hours. Balot sat at the plaintiff ’s desk.

On the defense side was the counsel, the accused man himself, and the Trustee for the defense.

Balot was very conscious of her own abilities. She didn’t have to look that way, but she knew where everyone was and what they were doing. The defendant was calm, composed. There was a very faint sign of fear, but it wouldn’t be this man doing the fighting in any case. And he wasn’t the one who was going to be hurt. That was the counsel and the Trustee’s job. And Balot’s job. The accused didn’t even look at Balot.

A number of reporters from the press—with their tags dangling from their necks—had firmly ensconced themselves in the front row of the spectators’ gallery, and all eyes were on Balot. They were here with a very different set of aims from Balot and the Doctor.

They were here, inevitably, to write up events as scandalously as they could.

They wanted to write about Balot as a modern-day Lolita. Someone who was all too aware of her sex appeal though still a girl, a girl who had seduced an important man from the amusements company, bringing him to ruin; that was how they were looking to make the story play out.

How had she become the lover of this important man? And how was the girl connected to the Trustee of her case? The girl must have known what she was doing, must have been well aware of her abilities.

This senior executive, Shell, was a foolish man too. Not only had he been deceived by this girl, he was now being forced to spend hours and hours in this place, time he should have been spending on important business.

Deceived. By a little girl. By anyone. Never mind what actually happened, the details were trivial—if the defense could twist the facts to this conclusion then they’d have it made, the perfect story. The best sort of copy.

The trial began, and the district attorney started off by stating in detail the injuries done to Balot. He explained how premeditated and how deliberate Shell was in inflicting these injuries. And what his aims were in doing so—what was he hiding?

At each stage the counsel for the defense interrupted with objections such as “Irrelevant!” and “Conjecture!” He rebutted the DA’s arguments, claiming that the whole story was a fabrication by the plaintiff, designed to steal Shell’s assets by improper means.

The defense counsel then pressed his case further, explaining in minute, piercing detail the track record of Balot’s dissolute and slovenly lifestyle, diligently arguing that Shell merely wanted to rescue Balot from her struggles. After all, Balot wasn’t forced to live with Shell in the first place—she’d gone there voluntarily, or would it be more accurate still to say that she’d forced herself upon him?

As he did this the DA resisted in turn with strong objections of his own: “Counsel is deliberately trying to shift the focus” or “Counsel is appealing to the emotions, not the facts!”

Now and then Balot was called on to testify, and at such times she pressed the buttons marked yes or no, or occasionally the no answer button. Whenever a more detailed answer was required of her she wrote her answer on a designated sheet of paper and handed it to the clerk.

The courtroom was not set up to be particularly sympathetic to those who couldn’t speak. Instead, everything was rather awkward, stilted. As if to say, What do you mean, someone who can’t speak is appearing at the trial? An uncomfortable atmosphere pervaded the courtroom.