Less than three hours after the motion was filed, Judge Ruhlin sent an electronic denial to all parties. She thanked the Masons for what she called a “novel” legal theory but quickly slammed the door on it, stating that the court would not be setting the precedent of granting an AI chatbot the rights and protections accorded human beings by the US Constitution.
I read a lot of sarcasm in the judge’s words. I was not sure how the Masons took it.
McEvoy and I took our last shot at Naomi Kitchens on the Friday before jury selection began. I needed to know whether I would start the trial without her records or testimony. We went up together again and followed the same route. We flew into Oakland, picked up a rental, and crossed the bottom of the San Francisco Bay on the Dumbarton Bridge. This time we were at a table at Joanie’s before Kitchens got there.
“What are you thinking?” I asked. “Are we going to get her?”
“I don’t know,” McEvoy said. “She definitely likes us, likes talking to us, even likes that the parents of the shooter have joined the suit. I think she just needs a little push, but I don’t know what that push is.”
“I’ve had witnesses like this before. They want to help and they know they’ll feel guilty later if they don’t, but there’s always something missing. The right words that get them over the hump. Sometimes it’s something else. I think this time let me take the lead, if you don’t mind. Maybe if she hears the pitch once more from the guy who will be questioning her on the stand, she’ll feel comfortable enough to say yes. Or, at the very least, give us what she’s got in her files.”
“Have at it. Here she comes.”
We were sitting side by side at a four-top in the back. I looked toward the restaurant’s front door and saw Naomi Kitchens hang a jacket on a rack. She reached into the pocket of the jacket and retrieved something before heading toward us. I couldn’t see what it was. McEvoy and I both stood and shook her hand when she got to the table.
“How are you, Mr. Haller?” she asked.
“I’m good,” I said. “Please, call me Mickey.”
“Okay, Mickey,” she said. “And you, Jack?”
“Good as gold, Naomi,” McEvoy said.
I could tell by their interaction that the frequent visits and phone calls had made their relationship more relaxed. We all sat down.
“Before we start, I’d like to ask you something,” Kitchens said. “Does either of you know when I was born?”
I hesitated. Was this a trick question or a test?
“Not off the top of my head,” McEvoy said. “If it was on TheUncannyValley résumé, I missed it.”
I shook my head. I didn’t know.
“January 28, 1986,” she said. “You know what else happened on that day?”
The date did seem familiar to me, but I couldn’t place it. I didn’t like the guessing game we had started with.
“Just tell us,” I said.
“The space shuttle exploded,” she said. “The Challenger. Remember? Exploded right after takeoff in Florida. Seven astronauts, including a schoolteacher, all died, their families right there watching when it happened.”
“I remember,” I said. “It was awful. But what does it have to do—”
“Everything,” she said. “I grew up knowing it happened on my birthday. Every big birthday — when I turned five, when I turned ten — there were always stories about the anniversary of the Challenger disaster. It’s part of my birthright. I was born when they all died. Next year, the day I turn forty will be the fortieth anniversary of the disaster, and you better believe there will be lots of stories all over again.”
I was sympathetic but couldn’t figure out where she was going with this. She spoke with such fervor that I decided not to interrupt, but apparently sensing my impatience, she got to the point.
“I pay attention when the Challenger gets mentioned,” Kitchens said. “It’s part of my life, you know? So, over the weekend, I’m at home and go on Netflix to see if there’s anything to watch — I know you’re the real Lincoln Lawyer and all of that but I already watched that show. So, I’m looking for something else and I see this documentary on the Challenger come up. It was a few years old but somehow I had missed it. Three parts. I started watching it and learned a lot about what happened that I never knew before.”
I suddenly understood where she was going with this, because I had watched the same documentary on Netflix with my daughter when she came home after the fires.
“There was a whistleblower,” Kitchens said. “They were going to bury the whole thing, but then this guy who worked for the O-ring company spilled to the New York Times about it. He sent them the documents that showed NASA had been warned that there could be a disaster if they launched in cold weather. They didn’t listen and they okayed the launch and that’s when the disaster happened.”
“I watched that documentary,” I said. “That guy probably saved lives down the line.”
“Of course he did,” Kitchens said. “Because once it was public, they had to fix the problem and then the rest of the launches after that went okay. The Columbia exploded on reentry, but that was another issue. Anyway, when I saw the doc, I felt like there was a reason I was born the same day as the Challenger: so I would know what to do.”
“Naomi, are you saying you’re going to help us?” McEvoy asked.
Kitchens reached a fist across the table, opened it, and dropped a thumb drive in front of me.
“That’s everything,” she said.
I picked up the drive before she could change her mind and handed it to McEvoy.
“What do you mean by ‘everything’?” I asked.
“Every report and email I ever wrote about Project Clair,” Kitchens said. “I saved it all. And there are also some email replies I got telling me to remember my place and back the fuck off.”
I nodded. It was what we had hoped for — half of it, at least. But, not wanting to settle for half, I started to press, even though I knew I risked angering someone who might have just handed me our whole case.
“Look, I’ve got to be honest,” I said. “You probably just gave us a gold mine. But in court, the door to the gold might be locked. I know that’s a mixed metaphor, but you’re the key, Naomi. You are the one who has to unlock the door.”
“What are you talking about?” she responded. “You told me they withheld my reports from the discovery. That’s why you came. You said you needed the documents, not me. You said you could make it work so they’d never know I gave it all to you.”
“Yes, the documents are important, and thank you for trusting us with them. But what would really work is if we had you too. Don’t get me wrong, what you’ve given us took a lot of courage. I just hope we can get it into court without having the writer of those reports and emails on the witness stand to verify them and say to the jury, ‘I wrote these. I warned them, and they ignored it.’”
McEvoy nudged my leg under the table, signaling that he thought I was pushing too hard. I pressed on.
“You remember in the Challenger documentary, the guy who gave the documents to the New York Times?” I said. “The whistleblower — they told him they couldn’t use the stuff without using his name. Remember? In the story, he had to verify the documents for them. This is sort of like that. We need you to verify, or the judge might not open the gold mine.”
That brought a silence to the table. I watched Naomi work through what I had said. She unconsciously shook her head. Before she could reply, McEvoy jumped into the conversation.