Modus Vivendi by John Berryman (chrysanthemum read aloud txt) 📕

"And without you," I growled at him, "I might still have a law practice."

"So you're helping them find Mary Hall—to embarrass me?"

"I've already found her," I said. "Feel embarrassed?"

"Not yet," he conceded. "What are you planning to do?"

"We've accepted a fee to turn her over to a client," I revealed. "I guess that's not unethical to tell you."

"And you'll do that?"

"After one more step."

"And that is?"

"Prove that she hasn't got the Stigma."

"Hasn't got it!" He hopped out of his chair and pressed his knuckles on my desk.

"You'd better do a little more research, if you're going to let your black heart bleed over these Stigma cases, Judge," I grinned at him. "All this talk about Mary Hall using HC on your vision. That will never embarrass you. There isn't such a thing as HC—hallucination is an old wives' tale. It was sleight of hand, in the bank and in your courtroom. Don't stand still for that noise about HC."

"I'll be switched," he said. "You're serious?"

"Sure."

He frowned at me. "She's still in trouble," he reminded me. "The Federal Grand Jury—"

"Restitution ought to cure that," I said. "Especially if we threaten a lawsuit for slander—I think it's libelous to claim a Normal has the Stigma. Mutual release all around."

"You'll represent her?" he asked.

"Would you consider it ethical? I don't see how my assignment to turn Mary Hall over to your political opponents will stop me from representing her in a lawsuit, do you?"

He shook his head, straightening up. "I don't see how," he agreed. "I hope you do defend her, Maragon. The Courts have had to be pretty tough on these pathetic people. If they had reputable representatives, I for one would be a lot more ready to suspend sentences and find other ways to help them out of the jams their weird powers get them into."

"I'll think about it," I said. "In the meantime—stay away from me."

"We're both poison right now," he agreed. "And thanks."

Mary Hall was still at T-shirted Elmer's when I dialed his phone, and she agreed to meet me on the street in front of the Moldy Fig. My 'copter had barely settled to the pavement when she came running from the doorway to the stairs and hopped into the bubble with me.

"Columbia University," I told the hacker. "Rhine Building."

Professor Lindstrom was waiting for us in his laboratory, in carpet slippers and without his tie. "Laboratory" is a perfectly silly term. The "apparatus" in any Psi lab is no more complicated than a folding screen, some playing cards, perhaps a deck of Rhine ESP cards and a slide rule. This place went so far as to sport a laboratory bench and a number of lab stools, on which Lindstrom, Mary Hall and I perched. My egghead Psi expert was barely able to restrain himself—he had some bitter things to tell me.

I beat him to it. "Take that injured glower off your puss," I snapped. "Your business is testing people for their Psi powers. Why shouldn't I call on you for help? What are friends for?"

"For a friend I might," Lindstrom said. "You don't rate that well with me any more."

"I'll try to bear up under it," I told him. "In the meantime, this is Mary Hall, a reputed Psi. Her power is HC."

He was interested in spite of himself. "Hallucination?" he said. "We don't see much of that, Miss Hall. And you claim you can demonstrate this power under controlled conditions?" These eggheads all talk alike.

Mary shook her head. "No, I certainly do not. I'm as Normal as you are, Professor." He sagged slightly in disappointment.

"Well," Lindstrom said. "This is going to be difficult to prove, Miss Hall. Merely by withholding your HC ability, you can act Normal—but what would that prove?"

She turned to me. "I thought you said you had a way to get me off the hook," she protested. "How are we—?"

"Quiet," I told her. "I didn't come up here for a lecture in logic. Especially from a dumb blonde." She started to bristle, but thought better of it.

"It goes like this, Prof," I said. "This innocent looking piece of fluff was caught slipping a five-dollar bill to a teller at a bank down town, and asking for change for a hundred dollar bill. She says it was nothing more than sleight of hand. You are an experienced observer. I want you to watch her work her little trick. If she can fool us, and not use Psi, the legal position is that she didn't need Psi to fool the teller." I turned to her. "And the logical principle, Miss Aristotle," I told her, "is equally simple: Occam's Razor. Prefer the simpler explanation. Can you show us how you palmed the hundred and slipped the teller a five?"

"You'll be watching for it," Mary protested, letting those ripe lips pout.

"I suppose the teller wasn't? It's his business to watch the bills when he's making change." I took out my wallet and handed her a one and a five. "Hand me the one and make me think it's the five," I said.

Lindstrom leaned his elbows on the black composition top of the lab bench, watching her narrowly. Mary got down off her stool and came over closer to me, smoothing the two bills in her fingers. The five was on top.

"I'd like change for a five," she said, handing it to me. She worked it three times while we watched.

"Utterly smooth," Lindstrom said. "I didn't see her make the switch."

"Me, too," I agreed. I could see the tension drain from Mary's face. She was prettier when she wasn't worried. She was pretty all the time, when you got right down to it. No wonder she could fool a teller. He probably hadn't taken his eyes off that dazzling smile.

"Is that all?" Lindstrom asked.

"Would you certify that you saw her make these switches, and that Psi was not involved?" I asked him.

"Of course. I don't want to, but, if you call me as a witness, I'll testify to what I saw," he said glumly.

"It may not be necessary," I said. "I really ought to call you, just to teach you some manners, Prof. But then, we all have a right to be a little yellow."

Mary would have preferred to remain in silence as we rode a cab back to the Moldy Fig, and huddled over in her corner of the bubble. There wasn't enough light, that high over the city, to read her expression.

"Here's the strategy," I said, about midtown. "If we can get the Bank to agree to restitution, and to sign an admission that you did not use HC or any other Psi powers to work your theft, I think you'll be off the hook. I doubt the Federal Jury will listen to an information."

"I hope you're right."

"This is my business," I growled. "Do you want me to represent you?"

She didn't answer that until the 'copter had grounded in front of the Fig. "All right," she said. "I don't know what you're so mad at all the time, but it doesn't seem to be me. I'd like you to represent me."

I watched her scoot across the sidewalk and run up the stairs to Elmer's place. For some screwy reason I hoped she had another place to hole up for the night. I was getting as bad as Renner—looking lecherously at the raffish display of shapely leg as the blond bombshell beat it.

I directed my hacker to my apartment, and grabbed the phone in the bubble. The Mobile Operator got me Vito Passarelli at his home. He sounded as if he had already retired.

"This is you know who," I said. "It's late, I know, but we'd better talk before morning. My apartment is the safest spot I can think of. I'm in the Directory."

"Now?"

"Now."

I beat His Honor to my apartment by long enough to hang up my jacket, turn the ceiling on to a dim but friendly glow and get out a bottle of Scotch. Judges don't drink bourbon.

I let Passarelli in when the buzzer sounded. "I'm reasonably sure there are no microphones in this place," I said. "This Mary Hall thing is getting hot—we'd better start taking precautions."

"Always," he said, running a hand over his balding head. His eyes saw the bottle and asked me a question. I threw some of the Pinch Bottle over ice and handed it to him, taking mine neat.

"Here's to crime," he said, sipping the liquor. "What happened?"

I poked a finger at my favorite easy-chair, which Passarelli took. I stood in front of him, still holding my drink. "I got myself in a jam."

"You're talking to the wrong man," he said coldly. "Get yourself a lawyer—a good Lawyer."

"You're in it with me, Passarelli."

"Never met you," he said, getting up. "Thanks for the drink." He started for the door.

"That witch has the Stigma after all," I said to his back. That stopped him. He came back and poked his angry face into mine.

"You had her tested?"

"Professor Lindstrom, at Columbia," I told him. "She is slick as a whistle. Lindstrom fell for her yarn that it was sleight of hand—but it was HC. I'd have sworn it didn't exist."

"Well," he said. "Well, well. All right, Maragon. What's the jam you're in?"

"You suggested I should represent her, and I'm going to. But with the Stigma? That's more than I bargained for. You know no reputable attorney can afford to represent a Psi. Not if he wants any Normal business. Too much feeling."

"Going to duck out on her?"

"Damned if I'll welch!" I said, more hotly than I had meant to. "You sure don't seem very shaken up by the news."

"It's not any news to me," Passarelli said tightly. "You forget that I've had first-hand experience with that little lady. She gave me the business right in my courtroom. I'm no credulous egghead like Lindstrom. I know the difference between sleight of hand and an hallucination. She made me see just what she wanted me to see."

"Now you know why I think you're in the same jam, Judge," I said. "You'll look great running for office, with your opposition telling the public how a Psi foozled your vision. They'll stomp on the loud pedal about how you let her get away with it and wangle a 'Not Guilty' verdict when she was guilty as sin."

"Yes," he agreed. "It's a hot potato, all right."

"There's just one out," I insisted. "That girl would have made restitution long ago if the Bank would have permitted it. And I've been asking myself how come—why should the Bank get sniffy and not want its money back?" That was the right question. He went back to the easy-chair and sat down. His eyes came up to meet mine, and then he held out his glass. I splashed some more Pinch in it.

"Politics, politics," he mourned. "The social workers are after me on this thing. They want that girl to be in a jam. They've asked me to work on the Bank, asked that I make sure restitution can't be made. They want the