in sum, Detective Hatcher, would access to the financial and business records we are requesting from Mr. Sparks assist you with your investigation?’ Donovan asked.
‘We believe so,’ she said, now looking directly at Judge Bandon. ‘Mr. Sparks is, as we all know, an extremely successful man. A break-in at one of his showcase personal properties would send a message to him. If he has financial or business enemies, we need to look into that.’
‘And to be clear, is Mr. Sparks himself a target of your investigation?’
‘Of course not,’ Ellie said.
If she were revealing the whole truth, she would have told Judge Bandon that at one point they of course had looked at Sparks as a suspect, but had quickly cleared him.
‘Is there anything you’d like to add to your testimony, Detective Hatcher?’
In polite courtroom discourse, ADA Max Donovan referred to her as Detective Hatcher. But this was not the whole truth, either. If courtrooms had anything to do with the whole truth, he would call her Ellie. And one of them might have to disclose the fact that, just that morning, the testifying detective had woken up naked in the assistant district attorney’s bed.
‘No, thank you, Mr. Donovan.’
11: 45 a.m.
Megan Gunther rolled her fingertips lightly over the keyboard of her laptop computer. It was a nervous habit. If her typing fingers were positioned at the ready, she had a tendency to keep them moving – tiny little wiggles against the smooth black keys.
She remembered begging her mother to teach her to type at the age of six. Her parents had just purchased a home computer, and Megan would eavesdrop as they sat side by side at her father’s desk, marveling at the wonders on the screen, all attributable to something called the Internet. But Megan had marveled at the speed of her mother’s fingers as they flew across the keyboard.
She glanced at the round white clock that hung above the blank blackboard behind Professor Ellen Stein. Eleven forty-five. Fifteen more minutes. Thirty-five minutes of class had passed, and the only words on her laptop screen were ‘Life and Death’, followed by the date, followed by a single question: ‘Are all lives equally good?’
Megan had enrolled in this seminar because the catalog description had piqued her curiosity: ‘Is life inherently worthwhile, or only if the life lived is a good life? Is death necessarily negative? Is a life not lived superior to a life lived in vain?’
Megan was no philosophy major – she would declare biology next year, and her curriculum was designed specifically for premed. But that course description had grabbed her attention. She figured that it could only serve the medical profession well if a future doctor took the time to contemplate the larger meaning of life and death in addition to learning the science that could extend one and forestall the other.
She should have foreseen, though, that a philosophy seminar with no prerequisites would devolve into a series of free-floating chat sessions during which unfocused undergrads – the ones who would eventually wind up behind a Starbucks counter, or perhaps in law school – attempted to show off their mastery of the most reductionist versions of the various branches of philosophy.
Today’s class, as was often the case, had held momentary promise when Dr. Stein posed the question that was still staring at Megan from the screen of her laptop: ‘Are all lives equally good?’
Unfortunately, the first student to respond immediately played the Hitler card. As in, ‘Of course not. I mean, who here mourns the death of Hitler?’ After just three weeks of a single philosophy course, Megan was convinced that the quality of the national civic dialogue would be noticeably improved by a voluntary prohibition against all analogies to Nazi Germany.
Poor Dr. Stein had done her best to steer the conversation on track, but then the girl who always wore overalls and patchouli oil had set off another frenzy of mental masturbation by wondering aloud whether the mentally disabled enjoyed their lives as much as ‘regular’ people.
Megan found herself contemplating her fingers jiggling on the keyboard again. Not her fingers as much as the keyboard itself. The layout. She understood why the Q and the Z belonged to the whim of her left pinky; Hitler analogies were more common than the use of those letters. But what criteria had been used to determine the keys that would qualify for ‘home base’, as her mother had called it during her early touch-typing training? A, S, D, L – those she understood. But F and J? And the semicolon? How often did anyone use semicolons?
She forced herself to tune back into the conversation around the seminar table. She gathered that the patchouli girl’s comment about the mentally disabled had set off a larger conversation about the value of knowledge when a guy with a paperboy hat and a beatnik growth of hair beneath his lip retorted, ‘Please, go read more Ayn Rand. You’re asked about lives without value, and you pick on the retarded? Of much more questionable value is a life spent absorbing knowledge but then doing absolutely nothing with it.’
At that, Megan thought she noticed a twitch in Dr. Stein’s left eye. Twenty minutes later, the class was still debating whether knowledge was worthy for its own sake, or merely as a means toward practical ends.
‘But even to differentiate between knowledge for its own sake and for its pragmatic import is a fiction,’ the patchouli woman insisted. ‘It assumes an objective reality that stands alone, independent of our own cognitive responses to it. We have no measure of reality other than through our own thoughts, so what precisely do you mean when you say “knowledge standing alone”? Knowledge is reality.’
‘Only if you’re an epistemological idealist,’ the soul patch argued. ‘Maybe Kant would agree with that kind of logic, or even John Locke. But a realist would maintain that there is an ontological reality that is independent of our own experiences. And if we can set aside our narcissism for thirty seconds and accept that premise, then it’s not a lot to ask of the privileged elite that they use their knowledge to make a concrete, objective difference in that reality.’
‘This might be slightly off topic –’
Megan felt her eyes rolling involuntarily away from the speaker, the decent-looking guy who always wore concert T-shirts.
‘This might be slightly off topic, but has anyone else wondered why John Locke on Lost is named John Locke? It explains the inconsistencies in the various narratives. The writers are telling us to take all those flashbacks and flash-forwards with a grain of salt; they are each filtered through the lens of the characters’ personal experiences.’
‘Oh, my God. Did he really just say that?’ The whisper came from the student sitting next to Megan, a guy in a Philadelphia Flyers jersey with a serious case of bed head. ‘I should have saved my trust fund and gone to Penn.’
‘Okay, people, time out.’ Stein rapped her knuckles against the tabletop to call the class to order. ‘Let’s get back to the original question.’
Megan wished she had a dollar for every time Dr. Stein had taken them ‘back to the original question’. The woman no doubt knew her shit, but she had to stop treating these morons as intellectual equals. If this group could be trusted with the amount of guidance provided by the original question, they wouldn’t be talking about Hitler, the mentally disabled, and a television show about island castaways.
She finally caved to temptation and opened Internet Explorer on her laptop. Almost all of the university’s buildings were equipped with wireless Internet access, but a serious professor like Dr. Stein certainly expected her students to refrain from partaking during class time. Barely veiled surfing ran rampant, however, and to Megan it was no surprise. The university’s current regime was, in her view, no different from cutting lines of cocaine on the desktop in front of addicts and telling them not to snort.
She