iTrial

A challenge to Mazer Rackham Jr. First featured in The Double Dealer Issue 10

iTrial

John got a court summons in the mail. The charges weren’t specified, there were two spelling mistakes that he recognized, and when he searched the address on Maps, rather than a traditional court house, he was directed to a multipurpose housing project, where the next-door tenants were a pawnshop on one side and a tax agency on the other. He’d heard on the news of the large, sweeping changes to the justice system, but had also heard of a rise in mail scams.

John ignored the mailers for a few weeks until a representative from the DA’s office came to his apartment to explain the whole ordeal. He dressed in Bermuda shorts and tennis shoes and a golf polo with a patch of the New York District Attorney’s Crest over the left breast and the shirt’s manufacturer’s logo over the right.

“There’s a new resurgence of mail fraud in the city, and we’ve been trying to account for that with these at-home visits. When you get to the Justice Center, just make sure to bring this code with you. There’s a bench warrant out for you at the moment for missing several court dates, but with these extenuating circumstances, the DA is allowing leniency.”

His court date was the following afternoon, and John folded the piece of paper the representative gave him, reading the code “j%3!LKWoYf0Rw%eU4T5$ac”. At the bottom was the new motto of the New York Justice Department, “Law & Order in the 21st Century." He put the slip in his wallet and put the wallet in the dish near his front door with his keys and loose change.

The next day, John dressed in his funeral suit, and it was a bit tight around the waist. He was thankful that it had been sometime since he’d needed it, but worried that his muffin top would stand out, and he felt self-conscious. His jacket was also tight when buttoned, so he resigned to keeping it unbuttoned the whole time. He wore a skinny tie to create the illusion that he was skinny, too, though the small strip of fabric laying across the vast stretch of shirt created the opposite effect.

He called into work, though there was little protocol for that sort of thing. As long as he had his cell phone and as long as Slack was working, he could go where he pleased, more or less. He saw his neighbor, Matt, moving his car. He waved and Matt waved, and that was the most they’d ever interacted. Just a wave between neighbors. He only saw Matt when he was moving his car. John shook his head. “Who owned a car in the city?” He thought.

John boarded the subway and entered a car packed on one end and empty on the other. It seemed that an unhoused person had defecated on one side of the car. At the next stop, he and several other commuters exited the subway and made for another car, but they too were completely full, and by the time the doors were closing, John was half way out of the car, and the doors could not close and the train could not move until the doors were closed. The grumbling of the other commuters was getting more and more restless, though no one offered to move to allow John on the train; instead, several people suggested he get off and wait for the next one. He did so, and as the train crawled away from the station, countless glaring faces passed him by, all annoyed at the inconvenience his antics cost them. The next train was ten minutes away, and John worried he’d be late. He wished he hadn’t spent as much time picking out a tie as he did.

He arrived at the Justice Center a few minutes late and sat in the waiting area with a pile of old magazines and several other defendants who were dressed more casually than he was. He noticed the lawyers were also dressed much like the DA representative was and wondered if he was too overdressed and was uncomfortable in the ill-fitting suit and worried that he’d start sweating and make the suit even more unbearable for himself.

“John Krakowski,” the receptionist called twenty minutes after he’d arrived, and he stood, holding his finger in the air like he were bidding for John Krakowski at an auction house. He noticed the ridiculousness of the whole thing and returned his arm to its rightful place next to his torso, stepping to the receptionist, who pointed him over to a young man in a t-shirt and jeans and boat shoes with a paper name tag that read “Hello, My Name is Tad.”.

“Hey there, John. Tad  Peterson", he said in a California Valley accent. John shook the man’s hand and found the grip wanting, but was comforted by the casualness of his tone. “I’ll be prosecuting you today. Why don’t you follow me back to my desk and we’ll get this mess sorted out?”

John followed Tad to his cubicle, which he adorned with Yankees paraphernalia, capstoned by a Derek Jeter bobblehead. John was not much of a baseball fan, but it was impossible to not know the team living in the city. John liked to fish, even though he didn’t get to go very often. He lived next to a river that fish abandoned long before. He lived closer to the New York Yankees than any fish. There was a jersey behind Tad’s chair with the name Peterson on the back.

“Is that a custom jersey?” John asked.

“Oh yeah," Tad replied, nodding his head. “I don’t actually play for the Yankees. My brother got that for me last Christmas. I think it’s a knock-off from China. But let’s keep that in these walls, okay?” Tad winked.

John nodded, and Tad started into his spiel. 

“Okay, John, so I’m a junior prosecutor here at the JD. Justice Department, but we like to keep it casual over here. Nice suit, by the by. Anyway”, he turned his computer screen towards John and started a presentation. “Says here on my computer that you’ve been accused of littering. April Twelfth of this year. Any recollection of what happened that day, John?”

John was annoyed that all his effort to look nice and be on time and the wasted postage was over a $50 littering fine.

“Yes, I had an allergic reaction to a bee sting and injected myself with an epipen. It was all very scary, and in the chaos, I must have forgotten to clean up after myself.”

“Right, right,” Tad nodded along. “And this is the container that Epi-Pen came in?” And the slideshow changed to a picture of John’s former “LifeSafe Epi-Pen case” that he was accused of littering.

“That looks like it, yes.”

“Right. Totally. We found this at the crime scene and took some photos, but you weren’t there to question at the time. Is this your epic-pen container?”

“Crime scene?”

“Technical term, John. I have to use it.”

“Wait a minute, is this the trial? Where is the judge? Where is my lawyer?”

“Take it easy, John. This is the new system. I’m not some overeducated lawyer. I don’t even have a college degree. There is no man in a robe with a gavel. This isn’t TV. Before I did this job, I sold property insurance. It’s a lot like that. We go over the facts of the case. You get a ruling from our algorithm. Then, the algorithm quotes you a sentencing. It’s a fifteen-minute process, and you’re on your way. Okay?”

“Alright, fine. I just wish I’d known this was the trial.”

“I apologize; I should have been clearer. Now, is this your epipen container that we found at the scene?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Thank you. Since that is technically an admission of guilt, we can go ahead and put that in the system.”

“Wait, admission. Hold on.”

“Again, just a technical term, John. Relax. This will play out in your favor once we put all your information in the algo. Remember, we keep it pretty casual around here. Anyway, let’s move on to sentencing. You see, Law-Fair, our new Justice suite, uses a machine learning algo to determine a person’s guilt, which you’ve already admitted to, and then uses several factors to determine your sentence. It takes all your records, your history of offenses, your tax history, and your demography, and then we put in whatever information here that may be germane to the case at hand. Okay?”

“Fine, I suppose.”

“Great… great. Okay, so right now I’ve got you at 35 years of age, no history of any criminality, and a credit score of 835. Good for you, John. Hmm, tax records show several donations to St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital; that’ll be helpful. And you were born under a full moon with stars shining a blood red. Ha, just kidding you there, John. We don’t take that kind of nonsense into account. Just trying to keep it light; we like to keep it casual around here. Now, for the bad news. Because you ignored all the official mail we sent you, you do have a bench warrant on this whole littering mess, and that will affect your sentencing.”

“Oh, the DA representative gave me a code for that yesterday.”

“Sweet, that’s awesome, John; let’s have it then.”

John reached into his suit jacket pocket and grabbed for his wallet, but it wasn’t there. He was sure that he grabbed it from the dish before he left and reached into his pants pockets, feeling the keys to his apartment but no wallet. He must have had it picked off of him on the subway. He usually wore it on a chain attached to his jeans, but felt it was silly in a suit.

“I think my wallet was stolen. I had the code in it.”

“Oh man, I’m sorry, John. That’s a major bummer, seriously.”

“Can I get a new one?”

“No, sorry. Those codes are specially created for each offense, and the DA is pretty anal about these kinds of things. We like to keep it casual here, but I still have a boss, and I can’t go breaking the rules. You get it, right?”

“I suppose-“

“Cool. Cool. Okay, well since we can’t get rid of that bench warrant here, let’s go ahead and get you sentenced, shall we?”

The computer screen had both a large spinning wheel in the center of the screen and a loading bar at the bottom. The screen shrank into a small picture in picture frame, and an ad came on the screen.

“Are you tired of human error getting in the way of your legal settlements? Do you wish that you could get the money you’re entitled to when it comes to your personal injury lawsuits? Text ‘Money’ to (555)-0505 today, and our team of dedicated legal consultants will get you the judgments you deserve.” 

A sped-up voice at the end said something about only pertaining to the State of New York, and John could not hear the rest. When the ad finished, the Picture in Picture frame grew back to cover the whole screen, and the judgment flashed onto the screen: “Death by Lethal Injection.”

“What?” John shouted.

“Oof, that’s a problem. Hold on, John, let me see if I can do something on my end real quick." Tad turned the screen back around to his view. He typed away at the computer, and as the minutes passed, his resigned, carefree disposition gave way to a nervous, desperate malaise. “John, let me go ahead and get our in-house counselor to take a look. The algo may be on the fritz, okay? Don’t worry.” He picked up the phone at his desk. It was a baseball-shaped phone.

“Don’t worry? Your algorithm sentenced me to death, and you don’t want me to worry?”

“Can you please keep it down a smidge, John?" I’m on the phone.”

John wiped his face from his upper lip down to his chin and tried to process what was going on. A mistake. A mistake has been made, and this in-house lawyer will fix it. Mistakes happen all the time. John comforted himself with that iron law of humanity in the face of a death sentence. Tad spoke on the phone for a minute or two, nodding the whole time without saying much, giving John a thumbs up before thanking whoever was on the other line and hanging up.

“Okay, John, good news. Our in-house lawyer is just about to head to lunch, but in an hour or so, she’ll see you right away and get this whole thing sorted out. Isn’t that great?”

“An hour or so?”

“Well, yeah. People have to eat, John.”

John went back to the waiting room and grabbed a bag of chips and a bottle of water from the vending machines nearby. There was a guard at the front door who wasn’t there before, and he wore a bulletproof vest and a pistol at his side and looked like he was some kind of soldier at some point in his life, standing up perfectly straight with his shoulders back. Two hours passed before the receptionist called for John again, and he made sure not to raise his hand like he’d done before. Tad walked him back to the attorney’s office and knocked on the door, and they both entered. There was a woman behind the desk in a smart business suit who looked more like how John imagined lawyers looked. 

“Tracey, this is John. He’s the one I was telling you about. We were hoping to get to the bottom of what happened.”

“Right. Hello, John. Please have a seat. Thanks, Tad. Could you give us the room?”

“Sure thing, Tracey. Catch you later, John. You’re in great hands.”

John couldn’t feel at ease, as much as he tried. Tracey did not look at him for a few minutes, instead focused on her computer screen, typing and clicking, not saying or doing anything else. Sweat stains were definitely all over him, and John wanted to remove his jacket but was worried about how he’d appear. If he was too off-putting, would this woman not help him?

“Okay. I’m all up to speed. Thanks for waiting, John. I’m sorry about all the inconvenience, but people have to eat lunch. Have you eaten anything?”

“Well, I-“

She pressed the button to her intercom. “Janice, could you grab John something to eat and some water, please? Not long after, an older woman came in with a bag of chips and a bottle of water. John accepted them without a word.

“Great. Go ahead and have that while we talk. Keep the blood sugar up. Says here you’re pre-diabetic.”

“I am? It does?”

“Oh yeah, this algorithm is great at stuff like that. Anyway, I’ve cornered the problem down to the bench warrant. See, if I simulated a judgment for a man just like you with all things being the same except for the bench warrant, you’d pay a $50 fine for the littering. But, because that warrant exists, the algorithm determined what it did. Does that make any sense, John?”

“No. No, it doesn’t. How does a bench warrant escalate a $50 fine to execution? I had a code to get rid of the bench warrant, but my wallet was stolen on my way here. Why don’t you guys have that code here?”

“That was a courtesy, John. Our representative gave that to you to bring to the trial.”

“What trial? I met with Tad and came away with a death sentence.”

“Well, you did admit to the crimes, so I doubt you can get the case re-tried, but we can go through the appeals process.”

“I don’t understand any of this. What happened to a jury of my peers?”

“Well, John, it’s like this. The old justice system is still used for capital crimes. Murder, rape, arson. That kind of thing. The new system is here to take care of small problems. Traffic, public indecency, jaywalking, littering. You get the picture. Real judges and most trained lawyers are too busy dealing with the bad crimes that this system was built to ease their burden. Juries only are convened when necessary. For now, you’ve got the algo. We call it that for short, but it’s an algorithm-“

“I know. Is there anything I can do to appeal the decision? I’m not going to die because of litter.”

“Well, to be fair, it’s the bench warrant that-“

“I shouldn’t die for that either!”

The security guard entered the office. “Everything alright in here?”

“We’re fine, Billy. John here is just a bit excited. A lot on his plate. Thanks.”

The security guard looked John over before leaving.

“So what now?”

“I assume you’re going to want to appeal the decision.”

“Yes. Definitely.”

“I understand, totally. Thing is, the algo is not allowed to pass judgment on the same person within the same week. A lot of crazy things happened when we tried that.”

“I can’t imagine," John said, oozing sarcasm.

“Oh, it was the worst," Tracey replied, immune to his disappointment. “We had a guy we stopped for stealing ten pairs of Air Jordan’s. He appeals. He gets let go. He leaves, gets hit by a city bus, and the Algo determined he should get $25 million. Insane, right?”

John had an uneasy feeling that he was not going to get out of this. So, you’ll need to wait a week for the appeal. However, since you’re in the system, your execution could be scheduled before then.”

“But can’t we put a hold on that or something?”

“Only the DA can bring your case before a judge, and only the judge can stay your execution until your appeal.”

“That makes no sense.”

“I know it doesn’t right now, but in time, you’ll see this is for the best," she said as if she’d rehearsed that line for thousands of convicted men. “Why don’t you go home and get some rest? You’ve had a long day.”

“Go home?”

“Yeah. It’s not like you’re dangerous or anything.” She paused, tapping her finger on her desk. “I’ll tell you what, John. Here is the number for the DA’s office. He’s a very busy man, but you might be able to get a few minutes to talk this whole thing over with him. I know it’s not everything you wanted, but it’s something, right?”

She spoke to him like he was getting a divorce, which was true in the sense that he was divorcing his soul from his body. He took the DA’s card and put it in the breast pocket of his sweat-drenched suit and was escorted out of the Justice Center by the guard, who gave him a look that said, “I’m watching you, buddy.”

John went home and tried to make sense of the whole day’s ordeal. He hadn’t checked his phone at all, and there were tens of messages in Slack asking when he’d be available. He ignored the messages and figured they could wait until the morning. He peeled off the sweat suit and showered, contemplating the life he’d led until that point. It was only then that he considered this to be some kind of elaborate practical joke.

If he was convicted of littering and sentenced to die, then surely he would be in jail. Why would they let convicts walk the streets with the rest of the population? After he got out of the shower, John found the humor in the whole charade and began laughing, laughing so uncontrollably in fact that when he tried to stop, he found he could not, and he laughed for so long that several of his neighbors began yelling for him to shut up. John laughed for so long that he started crying, and he looked in the mirror with a wide grin undulating with the sounds of laughter while the top half of his face was full of tears and the sorrow of a man destined to die without ever having lived. John woke up with his face buried in his pillow, still wearing the suit, which was now starched with the sediment his body excreted in his sweat.

John showered, ate a bowl of cereal, and signed on for the day’s work and got an email from HR, requesting a meeting before his usual morning meeting. He never met with HR and assumed they’d heard about the conviction and were going to fire him for being a convicted felon. He hoped he’d have a chance to explain the situation and keep his job, which he did not much care for except that it provided him the funds he used to live. He joined the HR meeting and turned on his camera, wearing his usual graphic tee and sweatpants, noticing that the rest of the participants did not like to keep it casual on their official calls.

“Good morning, John. Thanks for joining us. This is Alice from HR with your manager, Tim, and my manager, Gordon.”

John had no idea that Tim was his manager. He probably wouldn’t have complained so much over their calls if he’d known that Tim was actually in charge. They usually got their marching orders via email from the new company Scrum Master, ScrumMaster AI. Tim didn't do much at all, and John thought he was just one of the guys.

“John, this is Gordon. We heard the news, and I just want to say, from everybody in HR, I’m so sorry to hear that this happened. You try to take human error out of the mundane, and you end up with these kinds of insanities.”

“Hey, John, Tim here. Just wanted to add that the whole team has your back and will take care of your projects going forward. Don’t worry about them at all.”

“Oh wow, that’s so great to hear. I was worried that you were going to let me go.”

There was a long silence. Tim coughed, and then Alice spoke up.

“Well, you see, John... The thing is, we can’t have you working here anymore. You’re a convicted felon. Hard to explain that one to the board or our clients. So we are going to be letting you go.”

“But you just said you had my back.”

“Yeah, sorry," Tim chimed in. “I meant that in strictly a work and project sense. We’ll take care of all the work you were doing.”

“I was never really concerned with that, Tim. Plus, I’m going to meet with the district attorney and get this all sorted out.”

“Hey, Gordon here. That’s great to hear. I hope that works out.”

“And if I do, I can keep my job.”

There was another long silence.

"Well," Alice said, “you might have if you hadn’t just admitted you don’t care about the projects your teammates will now have to cover. We’re trying to build a cohesive team structure here, and that kind of 'me’ attitude isn’t great for synergy.”

“Hey, Gordon again, we are going to send you a severance package, which we think is pretty generous. You’re going to get $2000 if you return your company-issued laptop to the main office by close of business Friday. Sound good?”

It did not sound good to him, but then very little sounded good to John in the face of his eventual execution.

“We're going to keep you on payroll for the rest of the week," Tim assured. “But you won't be doing any more work for us now or in the future. Thanks for understanding, John, and good luck with the trial.”

Tim and Gordon hoped off the call; Alice meanwhile gave him the cold HR smile as she twisted the knife with her eyes.

“Okay, so let's do the exit interview, shall we?”

John nodded for a half hour while she explained COBRA insurance and what would happen to his 401k. There were a few loaded questions about how the company could have foreseen this kind of situation, and John shrugged. It was about the time he'd start working usually, and instead, he logged into his bank account. After all that had happened, he forgot that he’d been mugged. He checked his balances and found his checking account was now overdrawn. His credit was maxed out. He had a few thousand dollars in his savings account that was now locked out for the next week due to suspicious recent activity. He had not one cent to his name that wasn’t already in the apartment, which was just a dish full of loose change. He called the bank and explained, and they were apologetic and could do nothing about the debit card but could dispute the credit card charges, which could take a few days to overturn. Suddenly a few days felt like no time at all and also the rest of his life.

After he got off the phone, John got back to his computer to look up the DA and this new justice system he was swallowed up in. He spent the whole day searching, there being no precedent for such a ruling under the AI system. All he could find were people praising the system or complaining about the incompetent humans who ran the flawless system.

He did not eat anything all day, and by Three AM, he'd exhausted himself beyond feeling. John crawled into bed and hoped that the morning would reveal the whole strange trip to be just a nightmare.

John slept in for the first time in several years and only got out of bed to pick up his ringing phone in the next room. It was an unknown number with a New York area code, and John picked it up, hoping it was someone at the Justice Center.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Mr. John Krakowski?”

“Yes. Are you with the DA's office?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. My name is Cliff, and I built the algorithm that sentenced you the other day.”

John said nothing.

“I'm calling because I had a few questions about your experience and I wanted to see what I could do to get the whole mess sorted out. Would you mind meeting me down at our office and having lunch with me? It'll be a very good lunch, I assure you.”

He figured it was worth a shot and accepted the invitation. They sent a car for him at his apartment in the northernmost part of Manhattan. There was a stocked minibar, and while he rarely imbibed, John figured he was a dead man walking and should live a little. He wore a polo, slacks, and an old pair of tennis shoes to the meeting. The receptionist looked him over before Cliff came and guided him to their executive conference room.

“John, I want to thank you for coming down here today. Can I get you anything before we have lunch? Water? Some chips or something?”

“I’m okay for now, thanks.”

“Alright, well, let me know if you change your mind.”

The conference room was beige except for the fake leather chairs and the long, wooden table that stretched from one end of the room to the other, with a large television mounted to the opposite wall and several webcams pointed towards the table, capturing every inch of the room.

“John, I spoke to three statisticians, and they all came to the conclusion that the sentencing for your infractions is so unlikely; it is actually more likely that you are imagining this entire reality. Though I can assure you, you’re not, and this is all happening, which is unfortunate but also incredibly interesting.”

John tried to think away reality, but instead only gave himself a small headache that went away after he finished trying to master time and space. It was worth a shot, in his estimation.

“So when do we get to the part where I don’t have to die for littering?”

“Why don’t we have lunch first?”

A Japanese man was rolled into the room on a steel gurney, naked, save for a loincloth made of leaves and pieces of sushi covering him from head to toe. John was never much for raw foods, a lifetime of gastrointestinal issues preventing him from enjoying the finer points of Japanese cuisine along with most dairy products. Even if he could, there was little appeal in dining off of the middle-aged man.

“This is called ‘Nantaimori’. Great, right? It means ‘body sushi’. Daisuke here lays completely still while we eat the sushi off of these leaves that lay across his body. Most of the time, you can’t even tell he’s breathing.”

The stoic Daisuke had his eyes open and his chest did not move from respiration, and though John was at first uninterested, after a few minutes of staring, he’d noticed that Daisuke had not once blinked. When it finally happened, John was able to breathe once more, even if he was not sure that Daisuke would.

“Did I not promise the best lunch you’ve ever had? Let’s dig in.”

A few more people came in the room to help themselves to the buffet, and John requested the chips that had been offered earlier. He crunched aloud while Daisuke was feasted upon, and by the meal’s end, it was back to the three of them. Daisuke hopped off the table, bowed to Cliff, then bowed to John, who did an awkward wave with his greasy, salty hand that he regretted half-way through the motion. Daisuke moved the gurney out of the room, and it was back to John and Cliff and the promise of more time on Earth.

“Well, that was spectacular. Sorry you couldn’t partake. I now see that your file includes that little GI issue. Boy, you ever just have one of those weeks?” He laughed one of those half-hearted, business laughs John was familiar with whenever his old bosses were in town to boost morale around the office. “But at least you have a funny story to tell the grandkids.” There was a brief pause. “Or at least your friends at work.”

“I lost my job yesterday.”

“Oh, right. Convict and all that.”

“So what can you do to help me here, Cliff? I’m getting desperate. I don’t even know when my ‘execution’ is.”

“As far as help goes, I don’t really know what I can do for you. See, this whole kerfuffle leaves us in a pretty hefty moral and legal quandry. We promised this sort of thing wouldn’t happen, and we were certain the odds were so astronomically high that we’d at least have a thousand years without incident before we had to worry about it. So I was hoping you would sign this waiver and accept our generous lunch as a sort of quid pro quo in regards to our oversight.”

“I could sue you.”

“Oh, most definitely. We’d even go to a real court for it. Conflict of interest and all that. Yup, that is probably one of the most airtight legal cases I’ve seen, and I make my living off of them more or less."

“So then I can ask for a half million dollars, and you’d give it to me to not go to court?”

“Normally, yes. God yes. But, given your... expedited departure from humanity, we really could just wait you out and we’d be fine. I already closed the rather large loophole in the system. People have to sign an additional waiver giving us immunity in these kinds of instances. Plus, we have a pretty good legal team. Even if you lived long enough to have grandchildren, we’d postpone any sort of court date so far in the future, and you’d die twice over by the time a jury heard the case. They’re really spectacular.”

John thought his options over. If he couldn’t get that much, maybe he could at least get something.

“How about $10,000? Can I get that?”

"Well, John, it’s like this. See, I was given a budget of about that amount to make you go away and sign the contract. Given the whole nature of your situation, it’s not really necessary, but I’m a stickler for these things, and I really don’t want to have your situation haunting me. I used those funds to pay for Daisuke. And I think we both agree the man earned it, right? I mean, I didn’t see him blink, did you?”

John shook his head.

“Exactly. So while I could go ahead and cancel the check I made out to Daisuke, that would breach our contract with him, and he’s more likely to get to the end of that legal battle, so in the calculus of all this, I’d say no. No, I can’t give you any amount of money.”

“Then why should I sign?”

“Well, there was the lunch, but I guess if that’s not enough... It would be helping me out a lot," he laughed again. “Tell you what I’ll do, though. Just to show you that I really am very sorry for all this, I’m going to put in a call with the District Attorney. See if he can see you and get this whole thing put to bed. If you sign, that is. If you don’t, then I’d be leaving myself open to a pretty big lawsuit if I called him without it. Not good for my future here, you know?”

John nodded his head, half listening to Cliff go on about whatever it was that he was talking about. He didn’t care anymore. There was nothing about the situation that made any sense, and John felt paralyzed with indifference. He signed the form, and Cliff did a small dance to celebrate. He then pulled out his phone and called the DA, setting up a meeting for John the next morning. He gave John a thumbs up and a wide grin as he said goodbye to the District Attorney and then had security escort John out. These security guards were just as militaristic looking as the previous, though they carried no weapon and treated John with some basic human decency. He liked that. It was the first time in a while he’d gotten that.

When John got in front of his building, he saw Matt parking his car. Matt waved, and John, for the first time, went up to Matt and spoke to him. Matt looked around as John approached, looking for another person that John might be showing interest in. He smiled as John approached.

“Hey there, neighbor," Matt said. “How’s it going?”

John wasn’t sure how to answer that. He thought about explaining the whole thing to Matt. He hoped that if he plead his case, Matt could drive him out of New York and out of the algorithm’s jurisdiction. He decided that he was better off with a white lie.

“It’s going well, more or less. Say, Matt, I was wondering if you could give me a ride to New Jersey. My mother’s in a nursing home there, and she’s in rough shape. I’d take a bus, but I’m a little short money-wise at the moment. Can you help me out?”

Matt gave a puzzled, awkward look, looking around to see if there was anything at all that could change the conversation.

“Um, I don’t know. I mean, I don’t even know your name. We just wave to each other on the street from time to time.”

“Please, please. My name is John Krakowski. I like to fish. I used to think having a car in the city was silly until I really needed one. I’ll do anything for a ride. It’s a matter of life or death.”

Matt shook his head and relented.

“Alright, sure. Of course. Hop in and we’ll get over there.”

John was not a praying man, but he thanked God that he knew someone with a car in New York. The two set off, and John let down the window, letting the sweet air of freedom fill his nostrils, though he could admit that the air was less sweet than in his mind. He closed the window and turned on the A/C, letting the sweet air of Matt’s air freshener hit his nostrils. Matt turned off the AC. It was a cold November evening.

The car went down the Henry Hudson Parkway until they hit the exit for the George Washington Bridge. As they turned onto the freestanding, steel structure, John felt the car jump and heard a loud pop from the back of the vehicle. They’d hit something; that much was obvious, and as Matt drove a few more feet, John could hear the torn rubber shredding as the wheel spun and the car now coasting on the rim. Matt pulled over.

“Bad luck. I’ll have to put on the donut and turn back. I need to get to a shop asap.”

“What? No! We have to get to New Jersey.”

“Sorry, Jim… Joe… I can’t go driving around on the donut. The tread on my other tires will wear weird.”

“Who gives a shit about the tread?”

“Woah, easy there. I know your mom is sick, but I care about this car. I hand rotate the tires every three months. I do my own oil changes. It’s not a Ferrari, but I love this car.”

John screamed, getting out of the car, and started running across the bridge. There was a large line of cars behind them, honking at Matt to get off the bridge or pull over enough to let traffic go through. John was more or less in the clear. He ran across the mostly empty bridge as fast as he could, running faster than he’d ever run in his life. He could see New Jersey; it was so close. He started reaching out his hands and felt lightheaded.

When he awoke, he was being loaded into an ambulance. “Don’t worry, buddy, a police officer was saying to him, “It’s going to be alright. You’re not alone. Your life has meaning. I love you.”

John was bewildered and noticed he was strapped in tight to a gurney as the ambulance doors were being shut. The police officer rode with John and the paramedic in the back. He saw out the window Matt working on his car. Matt waved. John tried to wave back out of habit.

“What’s going on?” he asked the cop.

“I saved your life, pal. I heard you scream and saw you running headlong into traffic. Not very fast, mind you, but it was clear that you were determined to end it all. So, I gave you a little bump on the head and called the medics.”

“Am I in New Jersey?”

The officer laughed. “No, Sir. You’re in New York City. Capital of the world. No one should have to die in New Jersey. And now you don’t have to. Thanks to me. Officer Artie Fleming from Midtown. You remember that for the rest of your life, okay?”

John got to the hospital and was kept overnight, despite his pleas that he was sane and wanted very much to stay alive. He told the orderlies the whole story, which did not convince them of his sanity. He was given a light sedative but was then woken up and let go shortly after the system showed he had no medical insurance to speak of. Apparently convicted felons do not get access to emergency psychiatric help. Eases the burden on the taxpayer, it was explained to him as they led him out the front door.

The next day, John dressed in cargo shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and flip-flops. He didn’t bother showering and let the scruff that had built up on his face over the last few days remain in place. He took the subway downtown, though he had to jump the turnstile; his metrocard lost in his stolen wallet. John got a whole car to himself due to the rankness of his rampant body odor let loose on his fellow citizens. Perhaps there was something to being a vagrant. When he arrived at the DA’s office, the security guards looked him over and turned him away. John took this in stride and told the men who he was, why he was there, and that he had an appointment. These guards, who had even more humanity than the day’s previous guards, were sympathetic and agreed to check out his story, believing that events so extraordinary had to be the truth but recommending that he wash himself somewhat in the public bathroom in the coffee shop across the street.

John went to the coffee shop across the street, being denied entry into the bathroom due to his appearance and because he did not order anything. Deciding that he was likely to die soon anyway, John ordered two black coffees for the security guards who showed him the slight kindness, and while they were being prepared, he was allowed to use the bathroom, being a paying customer. The coffees cost four dollars each, which he paid in loose change from the dish that he stored his keys in. It was the only liquid capital John had access to after losing both his wallet and the contents therein.

He returned to the District Attorney’s office to meet two new security guards, John having been gone long enough to miss their shift change, it seemed. Since he was now more kempt in his appearance and holding a tray of coffees, the new guards assumed he was some sort of delivery man and was allowed inside. John promised himself that if he lived through this whole ordeal, he would personally shake the hand of every security guard he met from that day forward. John was rushed past the DA’s secretary, who also thought he was there to bring the DA coffee, and John entered the office of the District Attorney with a glimmer of hope he thought he’d lost days ago.

"Marilyn," the DA called over his intercom, “Where the hell is my 9:30?”

“I’m your 9:30, sir," John responded.

“You’re Krakowski?”

“Yes."

He called in to intercom again. “Nevermind, thanks.” The DA turned his attention over to John. “So, you’re the man everyone’s been crapping bricks over the last few days? Is that coffee for me? I don’t normally accept gifts from constituents, especially the convicted ones, but I do need my caffeine or else I don’t function at all. One time, I agreed to let a four-time convicted rapist plead out on indecent exposure. Good thing it wasn’t an election year. But, now, with the algo, algorithm, that is, I don’t make those kinds of careless mistakes, especially if I’ve had my coffee.” The DA took the cup out of the tray.

John was processing all the motormouthed DA had said and did not have anything to add.

“You left the house like that?”

“I like to keep it casual.”

“Well, I’d say your situation deserves a bit more seriousness, especially if you want me to do something about it.”

“Not much I can do about it now.”

“I could say the same thing to you, Mr. Krakowski.”

“You wouldn’t be the first.”

The DA took a sip from his cup.

“You get this from across the street? Good choice. I’ll give you that; you’re like a bean-sniffing hound. I’m a coffee fiend myself; I just have to find the best spots. Across the street is one of the best places in the city.” John wanted to mention that it was a chain but did not want to ruin the DA’s fun. It felt wrong to him.

“Anyway, as far as your case, bad luck. That's all. Just bad luck. These things run on probability. You just hit the exact opposite of a jackpot.” He kept sipping his coffee.

“Is there something you can do to help me?”

He thought for a moment, drinking the coffee.

“John, I'm going to be straight with you. The system says you have to die. It's not a perfect system, but it's better than what we had. The Federal Courts want this experiment in speedy trials to fail. They're stuck in the past and afraid of the future. Your case is the red meat they're looking for.”

John nodded and handed over the second cup of coffee. The DA took a sip.

“Your case is so unlikely to have happened; it's almost not even happening, from a statistical point of view. If I went down to a judge to get this ruling overturned, there'd be papers and press, and this whole thing would be a black eye for not only me but the idea of criminal justice reform. But if I let things play out, everybody wins. Except you, of course.”

“Of Course. So I could leave the city and tell someone about this and get you and everyone else involved in a lot of trouble.”

“Probably. If you could leave the city. Pretty hard to do that without money. No bus, train, or plane could get you out of here. I can't just walk across the Lincoln Tunnel. You already tried the GW, and I've put a BOLO, that's ‘Be on the Lookout bulletin’ for you to stop that sort of thing from happening. And since you've decided to be so flamboyant and casual, it's not hard to pick you out wherever you go.’

John kept nodding along, seeing the logic of the DA's rationale. Maybe that was his problem; maybe he was too empathetic. Or maybe he used empathy to justify never doing much of anything at all.

“I've read your file. Not much of a life there, anyway, huh?”

John considered this. He wanted to be insulted. He wanted to jump up from his chair and beat the DA to death. At least he'd earn his death sentence then. But after more consideration, John decided that the DA was at least partially correct. A more vivacious man would have found a way to live. Someone with more to lose would have had the whole thing quashed from the beginning. He wished he had a cat or a dog or something. A fish. Something he was responsible for that would have helped him fight the encroaching inevitably that everyone treated him with.

“I mean, I gave you an out, didn't I? My representative gave you the access code. Why didn't you use that?”

“My wallet was stolen.”

“Did you file a police report? Not that it would do much good. Guy who stole it is probably homeless. We're supposed to say unhoused these days. Ridiculous.”

“What does it matter if he's homeless?”

“Can't send him a mailer if he doesn't have a mailbox, Mr. Krakowski. You think an unhoused person has enough information for the system to judge him accurately? You're a smart fellow; I thought you'd get that.”

The DA finished the second cup of black coffee and threw both cups away. John saw this getting him nowhere and shook hands with the DA, who he promised would get him a speedy execution.

“Nothing worse than just waiting around, I figure.”

He was right in a way. They were all right in a way. John had no money to get home and walked from downtown all the way up Manhattan to the northernmost part of the island, where his apartment was. By the evening, he'd walked over 200 blocks, and he collapsed in front of his building, unable to make it up his six-story walkup.

In the morning, two policemen picked John up off the stoop in front of his apartment. They wore suits and identified themselves as detectives. They asked if he was John Krakowski. He waited a moment to answer. He could say no. He could say he was the King of Spain or some nonsense about voices in his head, and the police and the rest of the world would ignore him, and he could go on living like that. If one could call it living it all. He doubted he’d last two months. He’d die of the cold, and that sounded much worse than an injection. But it was life. Damn, if it wasn’t just more breath in his chest. The police did not let him answer. They took out a photograph and compared it to his face. They scanned his fingerprint on some kind of device. It was him alright.

They all got into a car and drove to the Bronx, where John was met by several men in surgical masks and scrubs. Everything was white and bright, and John felt a crick in his neck from lying on concrete all night. He was glad there was no one at home waiting for him. It was Friday, and John was unlikely to receive his severance.

There was a coffee cup and a note from the DA. “From one bean hound to another. Sorry.” John drank the coffee, and it tasted terrible. He laughed at how awful it really was and didn’t finish it. He wanted to keep the note, even if it stayed with him for only a short while longer.

There was a large plastic menu with many different last-meal options. John saw there were chips and water, and he laughed to himself a bit. He ate salmon in a butter sauce. He wished he’d done more fishing.

They asked him how he’d like his remains disposed of. He mentioned the funeral suit in his apartment and how it was too small and how he was embarrassed by it. He changed out of his clothes and into a hospital gown. The clothes were bagged and taken away, and John doubted he’d see the bag again.

“Cremation then," the guard assumed.

John affirmed the decision. A priest came by, and though John wasn’t religious, he asked to be blessed.

“Does God punish the innocent?” he asked the priest.

“No, my son," the priest replied. "But then there are no innocents.”

John nodded his head. The doctor who walked him into the execution room had a soft voice, though he was a large man.

“This is the scariest part, John. In a moment, you’ll try to break free; you’ll writhe with desire for life. But then you’ll fall asleep, and it’ll be over.”

“Why me?”

“Why anyone, John? Why do I have to do this right now? Why can’t someone else do it? In a sense, I’m not doing it; I’m pressing a button, and the machine is killing you. Or the state is killing you. Or the algorithm. It’s a lot easier to do when you’re not the one doing it. I’m very sorry, but in a moment, I promise you won’t care anymore.”

There were tears in John’s eyes, and his arms were strapped to the bed, and he couldn’t wipe them, and the last things he saw before he closed his eyes forever were filtered through the drops of water. He remembered swimming as a boy and he liked it. He remembered his childhood dog, Joey. Joey bit another little boy and had to be put down. It wasn’t his fault either; the boy was being mean to John. John was at the veterinarian’s office, holding Joey, petting him, and telling him how good he was. The dog gave small wags of his tail until he fell asleep. John wished he could die like a dog.