JUSTICE REBORN (A Charlie Taylor Novel Book 1) Read Free Page B

Division, she accepted immediately, only after did doubts resurface.
Her emotional churning should not have been a surprise because periodic
flashbacks had been with her for years.
      “Dr. Kate Martinez, Forensic Division
Head, March 29, 2021, I declare a Condition Confidential and request the
recording equipment be turned off during my presentation.”
    Her declaration brought even more focus to
the meeting.  Kate presented a grim and determined image. She had everyone’s
attention. A Condition Confidential signaled a serious issue and was only
invoked to ensure top level secrecy; anyone who leaked the discussion which
took place under a Condition Confidential would be immediately dismissed and
charged with a criminal offense. 
    Ann, on a signal from the Judge, pressed
the console button to stop the recording; Stephen turned back to Kate. “I
assume this has to do with what you observed during the S3 Interrogations at
White Rock prison.”
    “Yes, and I will get into the details in a
minute, but first let me give an overview. None of this is confirmed, and it’s
all highly speculative. But, it is my observation, and I stress only mine. It
appears the highly emotional events in a person’s life may be stored multiple times
in different locations.”
    Silence. The entire room stared at Kate.
Everyone afraid to ask the obvious question; the Judge asked.  “Kate, are each
of these different memory streams duplicates of the same event or does each
memory stream have a different interpretation of the event?”
    Jacob, the political appointee, regularly
last to understand implications, was fast enough on this one.
    “What the hell! White Rock has already
executed 155 convicts based on the infallibility of the damn memory streams.”

CHAPTER 4: CHARLIE’S LOG: The
Tipping Point
    It’s a shit-face job.
    I snuck away earlier this afternoon.
Another week in Records and the Chief and I will have our last conversation,
something along the lines of:
    “Duncan, there’s part of my anatomy which is
aching for a kiss, why don’t you pucker up?”
    Well, that’s for next week, now it’s a few
minutes after six. Monk and I are in my kitchen:  maple wood cabinets form a
semi-circle around a central work island. The blinds are only partially closed
and the warm spring sunshine makes dappling patterns around the kitchen;
actually it’s hot, too hot for spring.  Monk is starting to arrange the
ingredients he needs to prepare his ham on rye specialty, our supper before the
basketball game. This happens to be one of those very rare Monday night games,
due to some scheduling conflicts.
    Even his gentle smile cannot subdue his
menacing appearance, a tall man at 6”8”, just a fraction over 300 pounds, a
shaved head, and hands each the size of a small computer monitor. He got the
‘monk’ label at University when he was the only regular church attendee on the
team.  Monk is new to the priesthood, now Father Ed.
    We were both young kids when he arrived in
my neighborhood as an immigrant from some eastern European country, his
assimilation difficult because of language and cultural issues. He claims his
transition was facilitated by a friendship with me. The two of us romped
through elementary school, next did all the teenage crap, both good students,
and excellent athletes, our bonding continued to the University level.
    Injuries forced me to the sideline, but
Monk graduated to the pros and spent eight full seasons as a defensive tackle,
five times named all-pro. During those years, he was a typical young athlete
enjoying all the privileges that came with fame and adoration of the fans:
parties, women, soft drugs among the pastimes. He had his youth, and as long he
stayed away from the hard drugs, he could run and sweat out his indulgences. He
abruptly left it all behind and today a Roman Catholic priest.
    When he arrived earlier this afternoon, he
walked around the house looking for adjustments. On his last visit,