Attorney-Client Privilege in a Dystopian Future

“Either charge him or release him. You know the rules.”

I tapped my nails on the wood of my desk, the sticky cracks of the varnish catching my fingerprints. In some places, you can be more careful about where you leave a record of your presence. There is little point in facing an LAPD custodial sergeant acting as your representative in court while being monitored by a competing company’s AI-powered fortune-telling tools.

Behind the scenes, the detectives reach an inevitable conclusion.

Release.

My client staggered out of his restraints half an hour later—25 minutes after I had been waiting in a mopping-blue chair—after receiving a carefully calculated insult from his captors. He bears the flashes of a drunken tank, the dripping sweat of fear, and the smell of his own filth. The left side of his face is sagging, loose like an ill-fitting suit. Thick, milky drool flows from the curls of his lips and drips onto his shirt.

“He’s yours, Counselor.”

He cannot sign his name. I carefully push his thumb into the ink, making his mark. Then I coax him into walking past Auntie Annie’s kiosk, which wafts the enticing scent of cinnamon and sugar into the lobby, and down the stairs at the front of the precinct to where Shelby is waiting.

The Ride Away from the Precinct

I was ready. Big Citrus had covered the back seat with a sheet of plastic, the type favored by industrial building painters and home decorators. I have to work in this car. There is no need for any odor to remain.

Big Citrus unfolded his phone, and a piece of WLFI $2 fell into my cryptocurrency wallet.

“How fast should I drive, Boss?”

“I don’t recommend breaking the law.”

According to the Rao court’s most recent ruling, this payment and advice make at least the next two miles subject to attorney-client privilege. Big Citrus pressed the pedal to the metal, and the steel of the car shook like a horse swarming with fire ants. It wasn’t very comfortable, but it was American-made and older than spyware.

Ignore the first red light, reach the speed limit on the boulevard, and continue accelerating. Overhead, a drone marked our progress and served us a court citation for speeding.

“You should pay for it,” I advise.

This is considered legal advice, and the gauze veil of the Sixth Amendment is pulled back from our journey.

His giant thumb activates the phone’s functionality, and the API pays the fine. It will be added to future bills as a tax-deductible pass-through fee from my driver’s LLP to my LLP.

We swung around the carcass of a fire engine, its frame rusted where it wasn’t charred. It had been there since the last riot, the precious metals picked clean by magpie addicts and the rest rotting in the dead. Passengers were shaken, and ropes of spit swung out and slammed against the driver’s seat back. It gets dirty where you touch it.

A Dystopian Shopping Street

The destination is a dilapidated shopping street. Vape shops, massage parlors, and barbershops cling to life like commercial barnacles on the sinking ship of 21st-century capitalism. One of the units has a dark kitchen, but if the local rats win the battle with the coyotes that come down from the hills at dusk, the next victim will be left with a minimum level of food hygiene.

The Chapel

As we parked in front of the chapel, a large man came over and helped usher our client through the door. The words of Mark 16:18 beckon us in with a neon brightness that belies their surface.

Armenians are waiting. He’s hunched over, gray, and dangerous like a viper with a hangover. One of his ears is shaped like a brawler’s bulbous cauliflower, matching the swollen joint that keeps the thick ring in place. It would be a terrible mistake to mistake him for an old man because of his white beard, or for a soft man because of his shop-bought tailoring.

“He’s my delivery man. And my lawyer.”