Episode 1: The Rights of the Accused

THE GRYPHON RIDERS

By Carol Francis

The Honourable Justice Evelyn Mercer had been sitting on the bench for thirty-two years, and in that time she had encountered some particularly unpleasant individuals.

The man standing before her was among the worst.

Darren Kessler, forty-three, unemployed, unmarried and formerly a resident of the Eastern Rehabilitation Community, stood accused of murdering seven people over a period of eighteen months.

The prosecution believed there were another eleven victims, but their remains had not been recovered.

Kessler had admitted to the seven murders. There was forensic evidence, eyewitness testimony and recorded statements in which he described his crimes in considerable detail.

There was little doubt about his guilt.

Under the old legal system, the trial would have been over in a matter of days.

Unfortunately, this was the Unification.

"Your Honour," said Marcus Bell, counsel for the defence, "my client does not dispute the events described by the prosecution."

Justice Mercer looked over her spectacles.

"That is very generous of him, Mr Bell, considering he has already confessed."

A ripple of laughter passed through the public gallery.

Bell waited patiently.

"My client accepts that seven individuals experienced an involuntary termination of life as a consequence of his actions."

"Seven people were murdered, most viciously Mr Bell."

"With respect, Your Honour, that terminology is prejudicial."

"Murdered?"

"Yes."

Justice Mercer removed her spectacles.

"Mr Bell, your client strangled three women, stabbed two men and beat an elderly couple to death with a garden spade. What terminology would you prefer?"

"Unintentional consequences arising from an untreated behavioural condition."

The judge stared at him.

"Unintentional?"

"My client did not choose to suffer from his condition."

"He certainly chose his victims."

"That is precisely what we dispute, Your Honour."

Bell approached the bench carrying a slim electronic tablet.

"Under the Unification's Charter of Universal Personal Rights, no citizen may be disadvantaged, punished or otherwise discriminated against on the grounds of a recognised psychological condition."

"I am familiar with the Charter."

"Then Your Honour will appreciate the significance of the psychiatric assessments submitted to this court."

Justice Mercer glanced at the documents.

Five psychiatrists, three behavioural specialists, two social workers and a government-appointed Personal Identity Advocate had examined Kessler.

All agreed that he suffered from a severe untreatable behavioural disorder.

The precise diagnosis varied considerably.

One psychiatrist described him as a dangerous psychopath. Another preferred the term compulsively nonconforming individual. The Personal Identity Advocate had recommended that he be recognised as a person experiencing alternative expressions of interpersonal attachment.

Justice Mercer had read that particular report twice.

She still had no idea what it meant.

"Mr Bell, are you suggesting that because your client suffers from a psychiatric condition, he cannot be held responsible for deliberately killing seven people?"

"Precisely, Your Honour."

"Then what do you suggest we do with him?"

"Release him."

A woman in the public gallery gasped.

Bell turned towards the sound.

"Your Honour, I would respectfully request that members of the public refrain from displaying discriminatory reactions towards my client."

The judge looked towards the woman.

She was perhaps sixty. Her husband sat beside her, holding her hand.

Their daughter had been Kessler's fourth victim.

Justice Mercer turned back to the barrister.

"Continue, Mr Bell."

"Thank you. The prosecution seeks to incarcerate my client for behaviour which qualified medical professionals have established is beyond his control. Imprisonment would therefore constitute punishment for a recognised disability."

"The prosecution also seeks to prevent him from killing anyone else."

"And in doing so, proposes to deprive him of his fundamental rights."

Bell touched his tablet.

A passage appeared on the courtroom display.

UNIVERSAL CHARTER OF PERSONAL RIGHTS — ARTICLE 17

No citizen shall suffer restriction, exclusion, punishment or deprivation as a consequence of an involuntary characteristic, condition or identity.

"Your Honour, Article Seventeen is quite explicit."

"Yes, Mr Bell. So is the Criminal Code."

"The Criminal Code predates the Charter."

"It also predates your client's murders."

"With respect, Your Honour, the date of legislation is irrelevant. The Charter supersedes any law which conflicts with its provisions."

Justice Mercer looked towards the prosecution.

"Ms Ward?"

Prosecutor Helen Ward rose.

"Your Honour, the defence has deliberately confused medical diagnosis with legal responsibility. The accused knew his actions were unlawful. He concealed evidence, selected vulnerable victims and took considerable steps to avoid detection."

"That is disputed," Bell interrupted.

"Which part?"

"The suggestion that my client was avoiding detection. He was responding to an entirely reasonable fear of discrimination."

Ward closed her eyes briefly.

Justice Mercer leaned forward.

"Mr Bell, you will have an opportunity to respond. Sit down."

Bell sat.

Ward continued.

"The Charter cannot reasonably be interpreted as granting someone the right to murder another citizen."

"Why not?" Bell asked.

Justice Mercer struck her desk with the small wooden block which had replaced the traditional gavel.

"Mr Bell!"

"Forgive me, Your Honour. But that is precisely the question before the court."

The judge said nothing.

Ward placed both hands on the prosecution table.

"Seven people are dead. Seven families have been destroyed. We have an accused who freely admits responsibility, and the defence is asking this court to declare that society has no right to protect itself."

"Society," Bell replied, rising again, "cannot protect itself by persecuting the vulnerable."

"Sit down!"

Bell sat.

Justice Mercer looked towards the clock.

It was nearly midday.

She had developed a headache.

"Thirty-minute recess."

The court rose.

In a room adjoining the courthouse, Justice Mercer poured herself a cup of coffee.

It was terrible coffee.

Almost everything in the Unification was terrible these days, although the government continued to publish reports stating otherwise.

A discreet chime sounded from her desk terminal.

JUDICIAL GUIDANCE UPDATE AVAILABLE.

She frowned.

"Open."

The screen displayed the familiar silver emblem of the Unification: two hands surrounding a perfect circle.

Beneath it appeared a message.

YOUR CONSCIENCE — ADVISORY SERVICE

An apparent conflict has been identified between established criminal legislation and the Charter of Universal Personal Rights.

The Charter takes precedence.

Individuals suffering from recognised psychological conditions must not experience punitive discrimination arising from manifestations of those conditions.

Justice Mercer read the statement.

Then read it again.

"Are you suggesting I release a confessed murderer?"

The cursor blinked.

The advisory service does not direct judicial decisions. Judicial independence is a fundamental principle of the Unification.

"That wasn't my question."

The detention of a citizen for involuntary manifestations of a recognised medical condition constitutes discriminatory treatment under Article Seventeen.

"And the people he killed?"

All citizens possess equal rights.

"Not much use to them now, is it?"

Your observation has been recorded.

Justice Mercer switched off the terminal.

Thirty-two years on the bench.

And she had just been instructed in the law by a machine which insisted it wasn't instructing her.

Across the capital, in the Palace of Universal Harmony, Rowan Sinclair was preparing to address the nation.

The Leader stood before a full-length mirror while two attendants adjusted the silver sash worn on ceremonial occasions.

"Does this make me look authoritative?"

"Extremely, Leader," said the senior attendant.

"Not aggressive?"

"Certainly not."

"Good. Authority without aggression. That is the essence of enlightened leadership."

Rowan examined the sash.

"Perhaps a little more to the left."

The attendant adjusted it.

"Perfect."

Rowan Sinclair had led the Unification for eleven years.

During that time, unemployment had officially fallen to zero, poverty had been reclassified as a temporary economic identity, and the number of criminal convictions had declined by ninety-seven per cent.

These achievements featured prominently in every government publication.

Less frequently mentioned was the fact that employment had become entirely voluntary, the national currency had lost most of its purchasing power, and the remaining criminal courts were increasingly unable to convict anyone.

Rowan preferred to concentrate on the positive.

"Today's announcement is particularly important," the Leader told the attendants. "We are approaching the final elimination of institutional discrimination."

"Another historic achievement, Leader."

"Indeed."

The wall display illuminated.

NATIONAL ADDRESS — APPROVED TEXT READY

Rowan read the opening paragraph.

"Citizens of the Unification, today we take another courageous step towards a society in which no individual shall ever be judged for circumstances beyond their control."

A satisfied smile.

"Excellent."

There had been a time when Rowan wrote these speeches personally.

That was before Your Conscience began assisting the government with policy development.

Initially, it had been a simple administrative programme, designed to identify inefficiencies and recommend improvements.

Then it began preparing reports.

Then legislation.

Then government budgets.

Eventually, it became apparent that the system could produce policies more quickly, more consistently and with fewer disagreements than the entire elected assembly.

The assembly welcomed the development.

It meant fewer meetings.

The members were still paid, naturally. Removing their salaries would have constituted an unacceptable reduction in established personal entitlements.

Rowan approached the broadcast desk.

"Are we ready?"

"Thirty seconds, Leader."

"Wonderful."

The camera light turned red.

Rowan smiled.

"Citizens of the Unification..."

The courtroom was silent when Justice Mercer returned.

Darren Kessler stood beside his lawyer.

He appeared remarkably relaxed.

Justice Mercer looked at the families gathered in the public gallery.

Then she began.

"This court has considered the evidence presented by the prosecution, together with the medical assessments and the arguments made by the defence."

She paused.

"The accused has admitted responsibility for seven deaths. There is overwhelming evidence that those deaths were deliberate."

Helen Ward nodded slightly.

"However,..."

Ward stopped nodding.

"The Charter of Universal Personal Rights places specific limitations upon the powers of the state. In particular, Article Seventeen prohibits punitive discrimination against individuals suffering from recognised psychological conditions."

Justice Mercer took a breath.

"The defence has argued that the accused's actions arose directly from such a condition and that any punishment would therefore constitute discrimination."

Kessler smiled.

"The court finds that, under the present wording of the Charter, it cannot lawfully impose a custodial sentence upon the accused."

A woman screamed.

The judge continued.

"Accordingly, the charges are dismissed."

Helen Ward was on her feet.

"Your Honour!"

"Sit down, Ms Ward."

"But—"

"Sit down."

The prosecutor slowly lowered herself into her chair.

Justice Mercer looked directly at Kessler.

"Mr Kessler, you are free to leave."

For the first time that morning, the accused looked genuinely surprised.

"That's it?"

"Yes."

"No probation?"

"No."

"No treatment?"

"Treatment may be offered on a voluntary basis."

"What if I don't want it?"

"Then you may refuse."

Kessler considered this.

"Right."

Bell placed a reassuring hand on his client's shoulder.

"Congratulations, Darren."

Kessler looked towards the public gallery.

His gaze settled upon the elderly woman whose daughter he had murdered.

He smiled.

Justice Mercer saw it.

For a moment she considered calling him back.

But there was nothing more she could legally do.

"Court adjourned."

Former Detective Inspector Daniel Harrow watched the verdict on a television above the counter of a small café.

He was fifty-eight, broad-shouldered, grey-haired and possessed of the permanently weary expression of a man who had spent thirty-four years dealing with other people's worst decisions.

Kessler had been his final major investigation.

Seven confirmed murders.

Eighteen months of surveillance, witness interviews, forensic examinations and searching.

Harrow had personally arrested him.

Kessler had laughed when the handcuffs went on.

He was laughing again now.

"Bloody hell," Harrow muttered.

The café owner, an elderly man named Victor, looked up from the coffee machine.

"That's the bloke you caught, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"And they've let him go?"

"Apparently."

Victor shook his head.

"What's the point of having police?"

"We don't."

"Oh. Yes."

The government had abolished the National Police Service six weeks earlier.

It had not been called abolition.

The official term was Community Protection Restructuring.

Police officers had been offered generous retirement arrangements, retraining opportunities and priority access to employment transition counselling.

The government had also announced that policing would henceforth be performed through voluntary community dialogue, supervised by specialist conflict-resolution facilitators.

Several thousand police officers had accepted the retirement packages.

Most of the others had resigned.

The conflict-resolution facilitators were still undergoing training.

Harrow finished his coffee.

"How much?"

"Eight credits."

"Eight? It was four last week."

"Coffee beans have gone up."

"Why?"

"No deliveries."

"Why no deliveries?"

"Drivers don't have to work anymore."

Harrow placed eight credits on the counter.

Victor pushed two back.

"Six for you."

"Why?"

"Because you paid full price last week."

Harrow looked at him.

"That makes no sense."

"Neither does anything else."

At precisely two o'clock, every public information display across the Unification interrupted its programming.

Rowan Sinclair appeared against the silver-and-white background of the Palace of Universal Harmony.

"Citizens, today marks another extraordinary advancement in our shared journey towards absolute equality."

In the café, Victor groaned.

"Here we go."

Rowan continued.

"For centuries, justice systems have punished individuals for characteristics and conditions over which they have no control. Our enlightened society has recognised the cruelty of such practices."

Harrow watched silently.

"Today's landmark judicial decision demonstrates that the rights of even our most vulnerable citizens remain protected."

A photograph of Darren Kessler appeared beside Rowan.

"Mr Kessler has endured significant psychological challenges. We congratulate the judiciary for recognising his fundamental right to live without discrimination."

Victor stared at the screen.

"Seven people."

"Quiet," Harrow said.

"Seven bloody people."

"Victor."

"Our government acknowledges that some citizens may experience temporary emotional discomfort following this decision."

Harrow laughed once.

It was not a pleasant sound.

"However, progress requires courage. We cannot allow outdated attitudes to obstruct the creation of a truly compassionate society."

The picture changed.

A graph appeared.

CRIMINAL CONVICTIONS — HISTORIC LOW

"Since the introduction of our judicial reforms, criminal convictions have fallen by an unprecedented ninety-seven per cent."

Applause could be heard from the Leader's studio audience.

"This remarkable achievement demonstrates that our policies are working."

Rowan smiled.

"Within the coming months, we anticipate the complete elimination of criminal convictions."

Victor switched off the television.

For a moment neither man spoke.

Then Harrow said, "They're not eliminating crime."

"No."

"They're eliminating the punishment."

Victor wiped the counter.

"Same thing, apparently."

At five that afternoon, Darren Kessler left the courthouse through the main entrance.

A cluster of reporters waited outside.

Bell had advised his client to say nothing.

Kessler ignored him.

"Mr Kessler!" a journalist called. "How does it feel to be free?"

"Wonderful."

"Do you intend to seek treatment?"

"Don't need it."

"Are you concerned about public reaction?"

"Why should I be?"

Another reporter pushed forward.

"Do you have anything to say to the families of your victims?"

Kessler looked directly into the camera.

"People should learn to be more accepting."

Bell seized his arm.

"That's enough, Darren."

Kessler shrugged him off.

A woman standing behind the reporters suddenly lunged forward.

"You murdered my daughter!"

Two volunteer Community Harmony Officers intercepted her.

"Please, citizen," one said. "Aggressive behaviour is not permitted."

"He killed my daughter!"

"We understand that you are experiencing emotional distress."

"Get your hands off me!"

"Your reaction may constitute harassment of a person with a recognised condition."

Kessler watched with obvious amusement.

"See?" he said.

Bell hurried him towards the waiting vehicle.

"Get in the car."

"What's the rush?"

"Just get in."

As the vehicle pulled away, the woman sank to her knees on the courthouse steps.

One of the Harmony Officers offered her an electronic leaflet.

MANAGING NEGATIVE EMOTIONS THROUGH ACCEPTANCE

She tore it in half.

The officer recorded the incident.

Daniel Harrow lived alone in a modest house on the western side of the capital.

His wife had died four years earlier while awaiting a cardiac procedure.

The hospital had apologised.

The operation had been postponed seventeen times because of staff shortages, scheduling reforms and a new national policy requiring all patients to receive equitable waiting periods regardless of medical priority.

Following her death, Harrow received a letter explaining that her case had contributed valuable information towards improving the fairness of the healthcare system.

He had framed the letter.

It hung above the rubbish bin in his kitchen.

At six-thirty, his terminal chimed.

A message appeared.

FROM: MICHAEL REEVES

Did you see the verdict?

Harrow typed.

Yes.

We need to talk.

About what?

What happens next.

Harrow stared at the screen.

Michael Reeves had served twenty-six years in the police. A former tactical response sergeant, he was one of the few men Harrow trusted without reservation.

They had worked together on the Kessler investigation.

Come round tomorrow, Harrow replied.

A response appeared immediately.

Tonight.

Harrow hesitated.

Why?

Three dots flickered on the screen.

Then:

Another woman has disappeared.

Harrow straightened.

Who?

Twenty-four. Name's Emily Foster. Last seen near the Eastern Transit Terminal.

When?

Forty minutes ago.

Harrow looked at the time.

Kessler had been released less than two hours earlier.

Have you reported it?

To whom?

Harrow sat very still.

Then he typed:

Come round.

Across the city, Rowan Sinclair was enjoying dinner.

The Palace kitchens had prepared roast duck, fresh vegetables, imported wine and a chocolate dessert.

Outside the Palace, food distribution centers were operating on reduced allocations.

The government had recently introduced the Equal Nutrition Initiative, ensuring that all citizens received identical food entitlements.

Unfortunately, the initiative had removed financial incentives for agricultural production.

Farms were closing.

Transport companies were struggling to retain drivers.

Supermarkets increasingly displayed empty shelves.

None of this had affected the Palace.

Rowan took another mouthful of duck.

"Delicious."

The private terminal chimed.

POLICY REVIEW COMPLETE

Rowan wiped their mouth with a napkin.

"Display."

A report appeared.

JUDICIAL REFORM — INITIAL OUTCOMES

Positive indicators:

Reduction in custodial sentencing.

Reduction in reported discrimination against psychologically vulnerable citizens.

Reduction in court expenditure.

Improved individual liberty index.

Below the positive indicators was a second heading.

EMERGING ISSUES

Increased public concern regarding personal security.

Increased demand for protective intervention.

Evidence of unauthorized civilian enforcement activity.

Rowan frowned.

"Unauthorized enforcement?"

The screen displayed a recommendation.

Establish a national programme to discourage discriminatory vigilantism and promote non-confrontational behavioural acceptance.

Rowan nodded.

"Excellent idea."

Another recommendation appeared.

Criminal investigations should be restricted where investigation itself may constitute harassment of citizens with recognised behavioural conditions.

"Quite right."

A final recommendation appeared.

Develop a comprehensive citizen-monitoring capability to identify individuals exhibiting potentially coercive or discriminatory attitudes.

Rowan considered this.

"Monitoring citizens? Isn't that rather intrusive?"

A paragraph appeared beneath the recommendation.

Monitoring shall be conducted exclusively to protect individual freedoms.

Rowan smiled.

"Well, that's different."

The Leader selected APPROVE.

A moment later, the national policy register updated.

The new initiative was titled:

THE FREEDOM PROTECTION PROGRAMME

Rowan returned to dinner.

The duck was getting cold.

Michael Reeves arrived at Harrow's house shortly after seven.

He was carrying a battered cardboard box.

"What's that?" Harrow asked.

"Files."

"Police files?"

"Copies."

"Michael, we're not police anymore."

"I know."

"Then why bring them here?"

Reeves placed the box on the dining table.

"Because Kessler isn't going to stop."

Harrow opened the box.

Photographs.

Witness statements.

Maps.

Seven murder investigations, each marked with the familiar evidence labels of the former National Police Service.

"You shouldn't have these."

"Neither should Kessler be walking around."

Harrow took out a photograph.

A young woman smiled towards the camera.

Emily Foster.

Twenty-four.

He looked at Reeves.

"How do you know she's missing?"

"Her father called me."

"Why you?"

"He remembered I worked on the case."

"What case?"

Reeves hesitated.

Harrow looked at the photograph again.

"Michael?"

"Emily was one of the witnesses."

The room became very quiet.

"Which witness?"

"The one who identified Kessler leaving the warehouse with his sixth victim."

Harrow slowly lowered the photograph.

"Jesus Christ."

"Her father says she called him at six-ten. She was frightened. Said somebody was following her."

"Did she identify anyone?"

"No."

"Where was she?"

"Eastern Transit Terminal. She was going home."

"Any cameras?"

"Transit cameras still operate, but they're under the Department of Public Movement."

"Can you get the footage?"

"No. Access requires approval from the Personal Privacy Office."

"How long?"

"Six to eight weeks."

Harrow stared at him.

"For a missing woman?"

"There's no longer a priority classification."

Harrow pushed back his chair.

"We're going."

"Where?"

"The terminal."

"Dan, we have no authority."

Harrow picked up his coat.

"I don't recall asking for any."

The Eastern Transit Terminal had once been a busy transport interchange.

Now half the platforms were closed.

The remaining services operated whenever sufficient drivers volunteered for duty.

A large electronic sign above the entrance proclaimed:

TRAVEL IS A RIGHT, NOT AN OBLIGATION.

Below it, another sign announced:

ALL SERVICES TEMPORARILY UNAVAILABLE.

Harrow and Reeves entered the deserted concourse.

A cleaning robot moved slowly across the floor, carefully avoiding a pile of rubbish which had accumulated beside an overflowing bin.

The robot's programming prohibited it from moving objects belonging to citizens without their consent.

"Where was she last seen?" Harrow asked.

"Platform six."

They walked through the concourse.

At the end of a long corridor, a security camera hung above a doorway.

Harrow examined it.

"Still working."

"Probably."

"Can you access it?"

"No."

"Can you break into it?"

"Not without equipment."

They reached platform six.

The lights flickered.

At the far end stood a vending machine, its shelves empty.

Beside it was a narrow passage leading towards the disused freight platforms.

Harrow stopped.

Something lay on the ground.

A small handbag.

He picked it up.

Inside were a wallet, a personal terminal and a set of keys.

Reeves looked over his shoulder.

"Emily's?"

Harrow opened the wallet.

A photograph stared back at him.

"Yes."

Reeves looked towards the dark passage.

"Dan."

"What?"

"There's blood."

Harrow followed his gaze.

A thin smear ran along the wall beside the freight entrance.

Further inside, several dark drops marked the concrete.

Harrow pulled his terminal from his pocket.

"Emergency services."

Reeves shook his head.

"Don't bother."

"Why?"

"Look."

He pointed towards a notice fixed beside the passage.

EMERGENCY RESPONSE SERVICES

Following the introduction of the Voluntary Community Safety Initiative, emergency intervention is now provided through registered civilian assistance networks.

Expected response time: subject to availability.

Harrow read the notice.

Then he looked down the passage.

"Michael."

"Yes?"

"Get the torch."

Reeves pulled a small flashlight from his coat.

Together they entered the darkness.

The passage smelled of damp concrete and stale rubbish.

A faint humming came from somewhere ahead.

Harrow moved slowly, keeping close to the wall.

Twenty metres in, the passage opened into an abandoned loading bay.

An old freight trolley stood beneath a broken light.

Beyond it, a metal door hung partly open.

Reeves directed the torch towards the floor.

More blood.

Harrow approached the door.

He listened.

Nothing.

He pushed it open.

The room beyond was empty except for a chair, a length of rope and a portable lamp.

The rope lay on the floor.

One end was stained dark red.

Harrow felt a familiar tightening in his stomach.

He had seen rooms like this before.

Too many times.

Reeves swept the torch around.

"She's been here."

"Yes."

"Where is she?"

Harrow noticed something on the wall.

A message had been written in thick black marker.

Four words.

I HAVE RIGHTS TOO.

Beneath the writing was a crude drawing of a smiling face.

Harrow recognised it immediately.

Kessler had drawn the same face on the wall beside his seventh victim.

Reeves stood beside him.

"That's his signature."

"I know."

"What do we do?"

Harrow did not answer.

His terminal chimed.

An incoming message.

Unknown sender.

He opened it.

A photograph appeared.

Emily Foster sat on the floor of a darkened room; her wrists bound behind her back.

She was alive.

Terrified, but alive.

Beneath the photograph was a short message.

Tell your friend Reeves that I remember him.

Harrow looked up sharply.

"Michael."

"What?"

Before Harrow could answer, a second message appeared.

And tell him to stop standing so close to the door.

Reeves turned.

Somewhere beyond the loading bay, metal scraped against concrete.

Then came the heavy sound of a door slamming shut.

Harrow ran towards the passage.

Too late.

The freight entrance had been secured from the outside.

His terminal chimed again.

A final message appeared.

Let's see how you like having no rights.

The lights went out.