Superposition Read Free

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    He held the gyroscope upright on the tabletop. Without the string, there was no way to set the gyroscope spinning. When Brian let go of the wheel, however, it started spinning on its own. He removed his hand, and it kept going, precessing with a slight wobble, but otherwise stable. My practical mind looked immediately for the power source, thinking that he might have switched the gyroscope for one with an ingeniously hidden battery and motor, but as far as I could tell, it was the same steel and plastic model, simple and cheaply made. There was no room for a power source. Despite this, the gyroscope kept spinning.
    Elena started to say something, but Brian held up his hand, and we kept watching. Two minutes went by, and it didn’t slow down. Not even a string-pulled gyroscope went on for that long without losing momentum. Three minutes went by. Four.
    Finally, Elena reached out and snatched the gyroscope, her fingers stopping the spinning wheel. Her breathing was hard, and her eyes bored into Brian’s.
    â€œMaybe it’s better if you tell us,” she said.

CHAPTER 2
    DOWN-SPIN
    â€œAll rise!“
    The court officer bellowed the phrase, which he’d probably been calling for most of his adult life. “Court is now in session for the People versus Jacob Kelley, the honorable Ann Roswell presiding.”
    The federal courthouse in Philadelphia was a beautiful building of stone pillars and balconies, only slightly marred by the more functional modern office buildings grafted onto the back. A similar fusion of old and new reigned indoors, with marble staircases adjoining handicapped-accessible elevators. Courtroom five, where the marshals had led me and then removed my handcuffs, was a high-ceilinged space with wood paneling, tall windows, and oil paintings on the wall. After months of procedure by lawyers on both sides, my trial for the murder of Brian Vanderhall was finally about to begin.
    I missed Elena. I missed my children. I wished there was someone in the packed courtroom viewing area who was on my side. I was also tired of waiting, and I was glad it would soon be over, one way or another. It had been four months since Brian had first appeared at my front door in his flip-flops and ruined my life. Now, finally, we would see what a jury of my peers would think of my story.
    My lawyer, Terry Sheppard, sat next to me at the defense table. He had a handlebar mustache and wore leather boots. He looked like he’d be more at home on a horse than in the courtroom, and the truth was, I had no idea if he was any good or not. I’d picked him because, of all the sharply dressed sharks that had paraded through the prison meeting room to show off their sleek folios and tailored suits, Terry Sheppard stood out. He didn’t try to impress me with his resume or his Harvard vowels. He was simple; a straight shooter. I trusted him.
    Judge Roswell was in her sixties, with a kind face and pleasant manner. I wanted to think that was a good sign, but I doubted it. Terry said Roswell had a reputation for being tough, and as a former prosecutor, she wasn’t inclined to sympathize with the defense. For nearly an hour, she talked to the jury about their responsibilities, introduced the two sides in the courtroom, and explained to them that only what was spoken into the record by sworn witnesses—not the opening or closing arguments by counsel—was to be considered as evidence in their deliberations. She was articulate and engaging, but also severe in her warnings that they were to avoid the media in this highly-publicized case.
    Finally, she addressed the prosecutor. “Mr. Haviland,” she said. “Your opening statement.”
    David Haviland stood and faced the jury. Camera flies hovered not far from his face, and I wondered how he resisted the urge to swat at them. He was well-dressed, at ease in a suit, with the voice of a newscaster. Worse, he had the air of a principled man, a