“Don’t gloss over that so quickly, Mr. Gillett. The Secret Service does indeed deal with cases of identity theft.”
He slipped his phone into his breast pocket. “But no one here has committed any such crime, have they?”
“Not yet, but they’re all surely capable of it now. They know every personal detail, every possible answer to any security question—mother’s maiden name, first-grade teacher, what have you.”
“This is the United States of America, Agent Dawson, not some third-world police state. You can’t imprison people because you think they might someday commit a crime; indeed, you slander them by suggesting they might do so.”
“I’m not talking about imprisoning,” Susan said, folding her arms in front of her chest. “I’m talking about, well, protective custody.”
“What for?” demanded Gillett.
“We simply don’t know what’s going to happen to you, to me, or to anyone else who has been affected. Our brains have been messed up; we might have seizures—anything could happen.”
“For your own part, you may take whatever personal precautions you see fit,” Gillett said. “And you may certainly advise all affected parties of the potential dangers. Indeed, I urge you to do so. But you also have to be honest with them: you have to say you have no reason whatsoever to think people will undergo seizures, lose touch with reality, or otherwise have any difficulties beyond the ones they’ve already experienced.”
“This is a medical matter,” Susan said.
“Indeed it is,” replied Gillett, “and Luther Terry’s lawyers will certainly advise people to stay under medical supervision and get them to sign waivers should they decide to leave, but there’s no infection here. They can’t compel people to stay; there’s nothing that justifies an involuntary quarantine. And, besides, given that the linkages may be permanent, you’re talking about what amounts to life sentences without due process. No court will stand for that.”
Susan knew she was fighting with Gillett for the sake of fighting; he was probably right legally—and he might well be right morally, too. She exhaled and tried to calm down.
Professor Singh spoke up. “Mr. Gillett, since you’re a lawyer, may I ask you a question?”
Gillett had been glaring at Susan, but as he turned to look at the Sikh’s kindly face, his features softened. “Who are you?”
Singh stood up. “I’m Ranjip Singh, a memory researcher.” He paused, then: “You see that?” He pointed to the padded chair and the stand with the geodesic sphere on a multi-jointed arm. “That’s my equipment; it was involved in the linking of memories.”
Susan noted that Gillett was as quick on the draw as she herself was: he had his business card out in the blink of an eye. “Have you retained counsel?” he asked.
Singh’s eyebrows shot up. “What for?”
“As it happens, Mr. Singh, I’m not at all upset about what has occurred, but others doubtless are. You can count on lawsuits.”
Singh looked aghast, Susan thought, but he took the card and slipped it into the pocket of his lab coat.
“You had a question?” Gillett prodded.
“Um, yes,” said Singh, still flustered. “It’s this: do we let people know who they are being read by?”
“In many cases, those of us who have been affected already know,” replied Gillett. “For instance, I’m being read by Rachel Cohen.”
“How do you know that?” Singh asked.
“Besides looking at that whiteboard, there, you mean?” Gillett replied with a wry smile. “She told me.”
“Oh,” said the professor. “But what about those who don’t already know? Do they have the legal right to know who is reading them? After all, it’s an invasion of privacy of rare proportions.”
Gillett spread his arms. “It’s not just those who are being read who have rights, Mr. Singh. Those who are doing the reading have rights, too.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, suppose someone decides he can’t abide the notion of somebody else knowing his innermost secrets, and so he tracks down the person who is reading him and kills that person. If you reveal who is reading whom, you might be putting the person doing the reading at risk. Are you prepared to take responsibility for that?”
“I—I don’t know,” said Singh.
“What about you, Agent Dawson?” asked Gillett, swiveling his chair a bit to face her.
“I don’t know.”
“No, you don’t. You’ll need a legal opinion from the Secret Service’s counsel, and that will take days to research and render. There are no exact parallels, of course, but I suspect your attorneys will advise against revealing what you’ve uncovered, just as they’d advise against revealing anything the government discovers in its normal operations; there’s an implied covenant of confidentiality when speaking to a government employee, and without signed waivers from those you’ve interviewed, you’d be on very thin ice legally if you divulged anything you learned.”
“But what about the threat Agent Dawson mentioned of identity theft?” asked Singh.
“Advise people to take suitable precautions without revealing who they are being read by.”
“And then just let them go?” asked Susan, resting her bottom now against the edge of a desk.
“It’s a free country, Agent Dawson. The affected individuals are entitled to make their own decisions about what they want to do. You cost one of my clients enormously when you detained me earlier today, preventing me from getting to a crucial meeting. He may well direct me to file suit over that. Are you prepared for other lawsuits for wrongful imprisonment? Are you going to pay the people who have jobs if you don’t let them go perform them, or compensate them for missed vacations? I want to leave, Miss Cohen wants to leave, and I’m sure many of the others want to leave, especially given today’s horrific events. They want to get back to their families, their children, their careers, their lives. And you have no legal option except to let them do that.”
Chapter 21
David January was pleased that the bitch from the Secret Service had let him go. He was even more pleased that she’d believed him when he’d said he’d hidden being linked to Mark Griffin because accessing Griffin’s memories would give him an advantage in negotiating the new collective agreement.
But that wasn’t the real reason; not at all.
No, what had come to David, just after the operation on the president, was something far more interesting.
He’d been cleaning up, throwing his bloodied gloves and gown into the disposal unit. Other members of the surgical team had been there, too, including his wife Annie. And Annie had made a joke, saying she wondered who was going to pay President Jerrison’s hospital bill.
Christine Lee, the anesthesiologist, had quipped, “I don’t think he’s quite old enough for Medicare.”
And—bam!—it had come to him, the first foreign memory he’d accessed. It was crazy, bizarre—but the memory was vivid, and he knew in his bones that it was true.
Ten years ago, long before he’d joined LT, Dr. Mark Griffin had worked for a health-insurance company. And that company had bilked Medicare out of close to a hundred million dollars, with claims related to a worthless pharmaceutical that supposedly treated Alzheimer’s. Griffin, who had been in charge of government billing for the company, masterminded the whole thing.