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thewatercolours · 7 months ago

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King's Quest Fic: "Paths" (Part 3)

Previous instalments here

Perhaps a single sleep-in morning couldn’t fix everything.

In the three days after coronation, Graham racked up an impressive record as king. First, he managed to shatter an oil lantern in the oldest, yellowest, crispiest part of the castle archive, bursting with looseleaf waiting to be bound. They’d saved most of the stacks.

He’d written greeting letters to his fellow monarchs, including the queen of gigantic Serenia, the cloutiest player on the political stage. By some oblivious genius, he accidentally filled the whole thing with scathing double meanings about their countries’ future relationship, with a postscript that amounted to a casual declaration of war. The uncomfortable scribe had said nothing to Graham, but rushed off to check the letter with Royal Guard Number One. You could have knocked the new king over with a feather when the guard scornfully read the worst passages back to him.

Twice he groggily (and purely automatically) showed up for his old night shifts, embarrassing everyone. He was late for half the meetings on his agenda. One evening he signed nearly two hundred documents he was supposed to void, before someone stopped him.

But nothing compared with what came to be known in Mannerly Stove in years following as “The King Graham incident.”

Graham’s century old carriage rolled up the switchbacks. He drummed his listless fingers on the window. He knew at least two shortcuts he could have taken, if only they had let him ride his surefooted Triumph. But his old buddy was not a suitable steed for a king, or so they said.

He tugged at this collar. The carriage might have been spacious, if his honour guard hadn’t stuffed in with him. Did they think they had to form a defensive perimeter even inside the coach? The air outside was damply hot enough, more like the stillness before the summer storms than a September day. And inside with the five guards? Every inch of armour fogged up like a mirror after a bath.

“I’m not quite sure what the point of this is - ouch!” His temple struck the window as the carriage lurched wildly onto its two right wheels. The brow of his crown dug bluntly into the same place it dug every time.

“A little more caution on those sharp turns, Number Two?” the captain called, banging a fist on the ceiling.

“Righty-oh,” came their driver’s muffled voice.

The king groaned. He shoved aside his seatmate, who had toppled right over him. His sharp armour bits were all caught on Graham’s formal black and red outfit. “I mean,” he grunted, righting his crown, “I have been to Mannerly Stove. Every time I’ve been sent on a quest outside the kingdom, in fact. I get my lunch at the Olde Yarblesnoof. I know half the people by sight. Is this visit really necessary?”

Number One fanned himself with his notecards. His voice was flat and already tired. “Sir Graham visited. Sir Graham is not here today. You are Daventry.”

“Yeah, but, to an ordinary villager -”

The guard’s tone grew sharper. “Ever have the landlord knock on your door up in Llewdor?”

Graham swallowed. It had been a long time. Yet he was astonished how clearly he remembered his mother panicking, plastering on a smile for him and his sisters, rushing them out the backdoor, and telling them to play by the brook or in the woods. Just not near the house. She’d pat her hair and set her jaw, walking determinedly to the front door. He could not remember what the landlord looked like, except that he was really big. He had to stoop to get in the door. Graham frowned. “Yeah, occasionally.”

“It means a lot to an ordinary villager, wouldn’t you say?”

Graham didn’t answer.

Number One went on, a little less sharp, a little more didactic. “You are about a hundred times all that the landlord is, and more. So today you are going to calm their worries. You’ll smile and mingle, and let them show you whatever they’re proudest of - probably the Tickle Rock. You’ll declare three months’ tax forgiveness, and call for a cask of ale to be opened for the people. And all this will be code for, ‘You’re just as much a part of Daventry as the people down in the valley, Mannerly Stove. I’ll show you I’ll be good to you. You show me you’ll keep my mountain pass open, my only real road in and out clear of snow, catch my brigands, warn me of invaders, ensure food and tools and supplies flow into into my country without trouble, and keep me connected to the outside world.’ So yes, unless you fancy dining only on lavender for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the rest of your reign, we could call it necessary. ”

“But does that also mean - agh!”

The carriage slammed to an abrupt halt. Graham and all the guards on his side were thrown into the laps of the guards across the way. The coach became a writhing tangle of arms, legs, and everyone’s favourite curses. Graham’s boot toe somehow caught on the overhead luggage rack, while his nose wedged in the crook of Number One’s elbow. He thought he heard the captain mutter under his breath, “Really?”Then at the top of his lungs, “Open the door, for pity’s sake!”

Someone found the latch. Half the guards tumbled out in a dust cloud.. Graham could not look anyone in the face as Numbers Three and Five extricated him, and lifted him out of the carriage like a child - into the midst of a throng of chuckling onlookers.

Get it together. Think of lavender for every meal!

Graham stepped away from the guards. He reached desperately for his dignity, or even just his coaching. Something came to hand. He lifted his chin, clenched his teeth into the most carefree smile in his repertoire, and waved a great big wave at the crowd of a hundred or so. “What’s shakin’, Mannerly Stove?” he shouted cheerily.

Number One slumped, but the crowd whooped and applauded. Some were still laughing, but that wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Imagine if everyone had fallen silent.

A man of great girth, with a pentagonal hat and chain of office round his neck, strode forward importantly. As he stepped closer, Graham recognized him as Hector. He was more or less mayor, but spent most of his time selling artisanal cheeses over the border. Graham had stayed overnight at his house and beat him at hangman, back when King Edward had sent him to defeat a banshee.

Hector’s grin was enormous, but his eyes were humbly downcast as he swept off his hat with a flourish, and sank to one knee. “Majesty,” he boomed. “Here is a day that will not soon be forgotten in our lowly township.”

Graham sighed, wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his cuff, and pulled out formality. “The pleasure’s all mine, Lord Mayor. And thank you all,” he said, raising his voice, “for the warm welcome. It’s my honour to continue the strong relationship between the throne and this good village.”

More cheers. Well, that wasn’t too bad. Graham tried to resist, but he could not help sneaking a peek to see if Number One approved. But by this time, the captain was standing to inscrutable attention in a row with the other guards.

So they began. Speechlets, bouquets, a whirlwind tour of the town which Graham honestly could have led himself. A headache began as he boiled alive in his expensive outfit, but he soldiered on, oohing and ahhing dutifully.

At last they took him over the crest of the road and down into the mountain pass itself. In the distance, Graham could make out a colourful blur (zards, was his eyesight worse compared to his last visit? No, no, surely not,) which he knew to be the Serenian flag hanging over a small border fortification on the other side. Halfway between them, close to the mountainside waterfall, stood the first thing Graham did not recognize from before. Something glinting here and there with metal, and painted in red and blue.

“Er, what’s that?” he asked, as Hector led the way, walking backward.

“That,” said Hector with relish, raising his voice to be heard above the crash of the waterfall, “is the reason we insisted your people schedule your visit for today. We only finished putting it together last night. The pride of Mannerly Stove. This way, sire. Only, keep to the middle of the road. Safer.”

“Safer?” asked Graham, but the crowd was already bustling him down the slope toward the object. As it came into focus, he could make out sandbags, gears, a series of weigh scale bowls suspended from chains, and a long winding slide, about the right size for a marble. But none of the bells and whistles disguised the thing completely.

“A… tollbooth?”

Number One somehow shot him a pointed look, despite his eyes being disguised beneath his helmet. “A very fine tollbooth, I’m sure.”

“A groundbreaking tollbooth,” said Hector. “Like no one has ever seen before, my king. Let us demonstrate.”

To Graham’s annoyance, the excited mayor yanked him toward the window by the wrist, where a giggling assistant demanded five shiny gold coins. A scowl escaped him at the price, but Number Three leant over his shoulder and murmured something about how after all, he was really just dropping the money back into his own pocket. She asked whether he were smuggling anything, checked something off a list, and turned a crank.

The striped barrier began to rise. There was a shifting and creaking that didn’t seem to come from the mechanism, but out of the earth itself. Graham could have sworn he saw the pebbles on the road rolling slightly. For a moment, an unnaturally straight crack formed in a portion of the road, swallowing dust. Almost as suddenly it disappeared, and all went still. The barrier stopped, at full height.

“Have a nice trip!” the assistant rattled off. “Just have a word with the Serenians at the checkstop on your way through.”

Graham took a few wary steps over the invisible border, but it all seemed solid enough. He threw an uncertain glance back at the beaming group. “But I don’t actually, right?”

Hector chuckled. “Better not. We’d give the Serenians a good gossip if we sent the king himself through. On foot. All by himself and unprotected.”

Indignation flared in Graham's chest unexpectedly. He was seized by an impulse to power-walk over the frontier and give the people of Daventry something to gossip about. All by himself and unprotected, indeed. But he slapped that thought away, and ducked to slip under the re-lowered barrier.

The entire crowd gasped as one. The assistant’s mouth went round as an O, and the mayor waved his hands wildly. “No, no, no!” he cried. “Back up! Back up!”

Graham scooted backward, his black satin cloak billowing round. He instinctively checked the ground, but nothing seemed to be moving.

Hector placed a hand over his heart and heaved a sigh of relief. “Never,” he said, articulating every syllable, “ever try to pass while the gate is still shut. Or go around it. Or climb over it. There are weight sensitive plates everywhere, and if you did -"

“Raise that gate again,” commanded Number One with a firm nod at the assistant. She hurried to obey. The road began groaning again.

“- if you did,” Hector went on, “the entire border defense system would be triggered. Walls, saws, spikes, you name it. And if something of sufficient weight passes over one of those plates, like a cart, it can even set off two small landslides to block the pass on either side.”

“Retrieve the king,” said Number One hurriedly.

As the barrier locked into its highest position, Graham’s six guards charged forward. They seized him by the shoulders, and precisely maneuvered him to the very center of the road. They all but shoved him back to the Daventry side, even as they tiptoed, lightly as possible, on their curly boots. “Excuse me,” Graham growled so the crowd wouldn’t hear. “I am perfectly able to walk.” He dug in his heels before he could collide with Hector.

“Landslides?” Graham said aloud, righting himself and shaking off the guards. “That seems like a lot.”

Hector shook his head and waggled a sensible finger. “Nature’s trap for intruders. You see, a few months back, we had some trouble with bootleggers sneaking past this stretch of road. The late King Edward gave us a grant to tighten security. This Domino Effect Tollbooth was our most brilliant minds’ answer.”

Graham rubbed his chin stubble. “But I mean, smugglers aren’t limited to this route. You could actually sneak into the valley from any direction, right?”

“But NOT through Mannerly Stove,” proclaimed Hector, thrusting out his chest pompously, as though that settled the question. “But you haven’t seen the really droll part of it yet, sire. You might be thinking that an offender might get through the defenses anyhow. That’s why we installed these.” Hector indicated a row of thin, brass pipes protruding from the underside of the toll booth. “These swing out, and blast the scoundrel with sixteen bright colours of paint! Good luck blending in after that!”

“Wow.” Graham scratched his temple under his crown. “You figure it needs sixteen?”

“Naturally! Two or three colours could just mean housepainting, or an artist having a clumsy day. But the odds of sixteen? I think not. In fact, our designer’s original plan was for two-hundred-and-fifty-six colours, but there wasn’t room in the budget. But,” (his smile broadened again - how was that physically possible?) “if I may make so bold, things have been looking up since you got those treasures back. And we, we have full confidence you’ll make the very best use of them. You see, sire, the taxes your officials have us down for are shockingly heavy for such a small town. It's something I’d hoped we could chat about before you leave - possibly expanding the grant.”

“I see.” Graham couldn’t quite stop a smirk from creeping over his face. “So you can have the two-hundred-and-fifty-six colours.”

Hector bobbed the slightest of bows. “That would be a start.”

The smirk spread as he mirrored the mayor’s bow. “Of course. It’s so… great to know the kingdom’s money would be put to such excellent -”

A gauntleted hand clapped over the king’s mouth. “Bless you,” said Number One brusquely from behind him. “Just as you say, sire. Great to know security is being taken so seriously.”

Really? In what world did Number One imagine that was subtle?

Graham spluttered as the guard released him, but before he stepped away Number One poked him sharply between the shoulder blades. Muscle memory kicked in. Graham found himself straightening up and putting his shoulders back, as he always did on the training ground when Number One corrected his posture. Then he turned and glared, meeting the guard’s gaze. He deliberately slumped his shoulders and let himself fall into the easy bow-legged stance Number One was always giving him grief for. Zards; what was even the point of dragging him out here if they were just going to be embarrassed of his existence? Maybe they should just put the crown on Number One’s head and send him round to smile and wave at smug villagers. Stars knew he wouldn’t mind taking it off for a while. The headache was morphing from a gnaw to an ache.

Number One held his gaze. And Graham noticed suddenly that everyone had gone quiet.

Hector laughed nervously. “Perhaps your majesty is tired. The heat of the day, naturally. Maybe…” He glanced at the brook rushing by the wayside, and upward at the roiling foam of the falls. “I know just the thing to cool us all down. There’s a staircase carved into the rock that starts just over there. It leads up to a little cliff about halfway up the waterfall. The view is really spectacular.”

“Great idea!” Graham cut in. Anything to shift focus.

The slate-blue steps cut from the side of the mountain were puddle slick most of the way up, pooling mist into water.. More than once Graham nearly lost his footing and had to grab at the fiery-orange foliage of the bushes that lined the way. The second time, Number Two had to give him a shove to get his center of gravity back.

“You all right?” he whispered in Graham’s ear.

“I’m managing,” he said, trying to put some pep into it.

But Number Two didn’t pull back just yet. “Don’t think about who’s watching,” he murmured. “Not us, not them. Just think about one day when you’ll be old and stuck in bed all day, and can't climb mountains no more -and have fun with it now. That’s how it’s done.” He patted Graham lightly on the shoulder. “Sire.”

At length they reached the narrow shelf - Graham, the guards, and Hector, who immediately pointed out that you could see his house from there. In fact, Graham could see all of Mannerly Stove from there, and a good stretch of the kingdom below, decked out in autumn glory. He was fairly sure the shimmering bit of white light was the castle pinnacle. But it was the falls that really stole the show, rushing down in magnificent sheets, and casting up snowy white froth. Graham gratefully stepped into the spray and let it play over his face and hands. He rubbed the cool water into the corners of his eyes. Who cared that his good clothes got a trifle wet? Anyone with an ounce of compassion would give him this. He wondered what temperature the guards had reached in their armour, and whether they were envious.

Hector swept another needless bow. “I thought your majesty might find it refreshing. Now, while we’re up here, it would be a crime not to show you the Tickle Rock. How do you like that?” He pointed a brawny finger toward the cliff’s edge.

Perched near the brink sat the most top-heavy rock Graham had ever seen. As tall as he was, and rather wider than his arm span at the top, it dwindled to a narrow point at its base. He could have wrapped his fingers round the bottom. This, at last, was something to see.

“Perfectly balanced, as you see,” said Hector, taking a moment to hold his handkerchief under the waterfall and dab at his forehead. “It was the pride of our village long before the tollbooth. So, you see, it can never fall down. It’s been here as long as anyone knows. When the winds blow, it rocks a little, but it goes on standing.”

“And it can never fall down?” Graham asked, genuinely enchanted for the first time since his coronation.

“Never.”

“That’s incredible!”

“Miraculous,” the mayor agreed. He considered a moment, then seized off his hat and held it under the water to fill it up. “Stars bless us, but it is a hot day,” he muttered. “Yes, miraculous. It can never fall down, because if it did, we’d lose half our fame. Although if you come to think of it, the really miraculous thing, even more so than the Tickle Rock’s perfect balance, is that no idiot has ever climbed up here and given it a good…” He looked up from his hat, and froze. “Sir Graham! No!”

A shining-eyed Graham had closed the gap between himself and the rock. To Hector’s horror, even as the words formed on his lips, Graham raised his hand. Pointed a finger. And poked the stone.

It wobbled.

“What?” said Graham, glancing back over his shoulder in honest bewilderment. “Didn’t you say it can never fall?”

The rock lurched toward the precipice’s edge.

Hector screamed. The crowd below screamed. Nearly every guard screamed.

Graham’s blood froze, and his stomach turned a cat’s cradle. “No, no, no no no no no!” Without a thought in his head, except that the Tickle Rock must not fall, he clambered to get a hold of it, catching frantically at the air. His arms closed round its sides. He heaved backward, realizing just a moment later that if the stone came with him, it would land on top of him. But it didn’t. It wedged itself on the end of his boot, just a fraction away from his toes. It tottered - tottered further - and righted itself in his arms.

Oh, gods. Oh, merciful gods. That had been unthinkably close. He heaved a sigh of relief, and could have sworn that sigh echoed through the whole mountain pass.

Then something shifted, and Graham and the rock hurtled over the edge.

He cried out. For a moment someone seemed to be tugging at his cloak, but they must have let go. He pulled his arms free of the rock, and found himself spinning somersaults and cartwheels in freefall. The crown flew off his head. He reached, reached for something to grab hold of, but nothing met his grip.

Then he thudded into the earth.

The wind was knocked out of him, but his arm raised itself on reflex. With perfect timing, he snatched the crown out of the air. Well, at least he had that.

Five spinning skies resolved into one as he gasped breath back into his lungs. Dizzily, he raised himself on one elbow. He was laid out on his back, mere inches from the shattered chunks of the Tickle Rock. And on the other side of him, the tollbooth.

The ground began to creak and rumble under him.

Graham closed his eyes. “No…”

He launched himself into a roll just as the ground beneath where had been lying fell away. From the breach burst a circular saw, spinning so fast it screeched. He broke his roll just in time, for an identical saw split the ground and rose from the other side. Earsplitting bells and horns rang out. He staggered to his feet, only for something - a spinning jousting target? - to swing at his head. Throwing himself into the arms of instinct, he ducked and weaved as more and more threats appeared, some from the ground, some on metal fixtures that came out of the tollbooth, some from who could say where. He swerved to avoid a procession of five tremendous wooden mallets, any of which could have sent his head flying like a croquet ball. Finally, a great wall of black iron, lined at the top with vicious spikes, leapt out of the ground, cutting off his escape toward the Serenian side. Graham dashed wildly toward Daventry, even though the spikes of the second wall had already climbed a good three feet. Throwing all his momentum into it, he leapt wildly to clear the wall. But the spinning jousting target snagged his cloak, and threw him back into the middle of the fray.

He flattened himself against the ground, covering his head with his arms, and waited for something to squish or slice or stretch him. Somewhere, the rumbling grew even louder, until it roared.

Everything stopped.

He waited, then waited longer. But nothing more came. Slow as molasses in winter, he got to his feet and looked around. The saws were still, the mallets had fallen to the ground, inert, and the walls, while very much standing, seemed to have reached their full height.

He tilted his head back to look up at the cliff. Only Hector remained by the waterfall. His eyes goggled out of his head, but he said nothing. The guards were nowhere in sight, though he thought maybe he could just make out Number One’s voice raised above the crash of the water. “Pockets!”

“I’m -” His voice sounded weak and hoarse, and not nearly loud enough to carry. He tried again, a bit louder. “I’m here, Number One! I - think it’s all over.”

A blast of neon yellow splashed violently into his face.

He shut his eyes just in time. The paints soaked him with such force it was hard to keep his balance. He gritted his teeth, folded his arms, and leaned against the metal wall for support. Just stand and take it, and think what on earth you’re going to say to them all.

When at last the paint melee stopped, he cracked an eyelid and looked down at himself. If he hadn’t needed glasses before, he certainly would after an eyeful like that. Lime green, sherbet pink, tropical orange. This outfit was single handedly going to set the royal laundry on strike.

A helmeted head popped over the wall. “Sire!” cried Number One anxiously, already grabbing onto a spike to vault over. “Are you hurt?”

The ground had already spat so many things out; if only it could swallow him. He forced a limp, rainbow-coloured thumbs up.

Number One was there in a moment, seizing him by the elbows. “Are you hurt at all?” He sounded beside himself.

Graham shook his head, grateful that his sopping blue and white hair hung down over his face, so that his eyes were hidden too.

“Can you speak?”

“Uh huh.”

Number One’s grip relaxed, and if it was a wave of relief that washed over the guard, Graham could feel it roll over him too. Just for a moment. Because the next moment the grip turned severe. If Number One had been any stronger he would have crushed Graham's elbows as he leaned in and whispered furiously, “What in bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?” Then he stepped back, and shouted clearly, “His majesty is not seriously harmed. Numbers Two and Three, prepare the carriage to take him home at once. My lord mayor, on behalf of the royal guard, we are deeply, deeply sorry for this unfortunate accident. Numbers Four, Five, and Six, we’ll be here overnight to… deal with all this.”

Up on the clifftop, Hector shook himself from his stupor. “Uh - uh - uh, well,” he stammered, “well, I don’t think anyone’s heading home tonight. The, uh, the rock was, um, heavy. The landslides, they worked perfectly, on both sides. So you’re probably stuck here until, um, we can get the rubble crew in.”

Number One twitched, almost imperceptibly. “How long will that take?”

Hector began twisting his hat into a helix. “I don’t think the team has been, um, precisely organized yet. We - we only finished the tollbooth last night. Um, there’s a signup sheet on the town board. Can someone run and check on that?”

The last time Graham had stayed overnight at the mayor’s house, he’d slept on the sofa. This evening the two housemaids rushed about in a frenzy to get the master bedroom ready. They changed out the bedding, set up a side table with a pitcher of water, mints, and a bell, and covered the floor and armchair with towels and tarps, so the splattered king could drip as much as he liked.

Exhausted, he eased into the chair sorely. If his muscles were feeling that fall now, what would they be tomorrow? As for the headache, it had apparently decided to split expenses and housemate with a few other headaches. But a splitting head and aching muscles were things he could get over. He wasn’t sure about the rest.

The wash stand was just within reach. A linen towel hung over the edge. Improper it might be, but his handkerchief was a sodden mess of paint. Graham grabbed the towel and blew his nose hard. Even the mucus seemed to have all sixteen colours in it.

Number One marched into the room with the most precisely by-the-book march Graham had ever seen from him, but he only stopped the door from slamming at the last second. He stepped carefully around the colourful footprints, placed his helmet on the dresser, and stared at Graham. He didn’t exactly look angry. Graham didn’t quite know what that look was, except that it was intense. “What are you?” asked the guard slowly.

Graham shrugged. “An artistic masterpiece,” he said dryly.

“No. What are you?”

“I know. I know. I’m an idiot.” He dragged a weary hand across his face, and it came away purple and brown.

Number One took a step forward. “No!” He emphasized every word. “You are Daventry. Daventry! You cannot be Sir Graham any longer. You cannot be an island, or a maverick, or whatever you think you are. And you cannot be a rebellious schoolboy.”

Couldn’t he give it five minutes? “It’s just when he said it couldn’t fall, I took it in the sense that -”

“Daventry tumbled and scraped its way down a mountainside today. Daventry fell on its face in the dust.”

“I was actually on my back…”

“Daventry walked away wet, unsteady, and foolish, gagging up paint in front of the whole town, who will spread it round on our side of the border and over it. And the fault is completely mine.”

That got Graham’s attention. He looked up. “What?”

“You are as far from ready as you could be. And you nearly got yourself killed today.” Number One looked as though he might go on, but he abruptly stopped himself. He seized his helmet up, replaced it, and muttered, “I should be publicly flogged."

This time, he let the door slam.

#Pretty sure that tollbooth was made by the ACME corporation.#This story is all leading up to Chapter Two - so I canonically have to slam him with some disheartenment.#Don't worry - it's not the end of the story! I put characters through the wringer but I don't do it for nothing.#king's quest #king graham #my writing #fanfiction

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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year ago

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How Google’s trial secrecy lets it control the coverage

I'm coming to Minneapolis! Oct 15: Presenting The Internet Con at Moon Palace Books. Oct 16: Keynoting the 26th ACM Conference On Computer-Supported Cooperative Work and Social Computing.

"Corporate crime" is practically an oxymoron in America. While it's true that the single most consequential and profligate theft in America is wage theft, its mechanisms are so obscure and, well, dull that it's easy to sell us on the false impression that the real problem is shoplifting:

https://newrepublic.com/post/175343/wage-theft-versus-shoplifting-crime

Corporate crime is often hidden behind Dana Clare's Shield Of Boringness, cloaked in euphemisms like "risk and compliance" or that old favorite, "white collar crime":

https://pluralistic.net/2021/12/07/solar-panel-for-a-sex-machine/#a-single-proposition

And corporate crime has a kind of performative complexity. The crimes come to us wreathed in specialized jargon and technical terminology that make them hard to discern. Which is wild, because corporate crimes occur on a scale that other crimes – even those committed by organized crime – can't hope to match:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/10/12/no-criminals-no-crimes/#get-out-of-jail-free-card

But anything that can't go on forever eventually stops. After decades of official tolerance (and even encouragement), corporate criminals are finally in the crosshairs of federal enforcers. Take National Labor Relations Board general counsel Jennifer Abruzzo's ruling in Cemex: when a company takes an illegal action to affect the outcome of a union election, the consequence is now automatic recognition of the union:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/06/goons-ginks-and-company-finks/#if-blood-be-the-price-of-your-cursed-wealth

That's a huge deal. Before, a boss could fire union organizers and intimidate workers, scuttle the union election, and then, months or years later, pay a fine and some back-wages…and the union would be smashed.

The scale of corporate crime is directly proportional to the scale of corporations themselves. Big companies aren't (necessarily) led by worse people, but even small sins committed by the very largest companies can affect millions of lives.

That's why antitrust is so key to fighting corporate crime. To make corporate crimes less harmful, we must keep companies from attaining harmful scale. Big companies aren't just too big to fail and too big to jail – they're also too big for peaceful coexistence with a society of laws.

The revival of antitrust enforcement is such a breath of fresh air, but it's also fighting headwinds. For one thing, there's 40 years of bad precedent from the nightmare years of pro-monopoly Reaganomics to overturn:

https://pluralistic.net/ApexPredator

It's not just precedents in the outcomes of trials, either. Trial procedure has also been remade to favor corporations, with judges helping companies stack the deck in their own favor. The biggest factor here is secrecy: blocking recording devices from courts, refusing to livestream the proceedings, allowing accused corporate criminals to clear the courtroom when their executives take the stand, and redacting or suppressing the exhibits:

https://prospect.org/power/2023-09-27-redacted-case-against-amazon/

When a corporation can hide evidence and testimony from the public and the press, it gains broad latitude to dispute critics, including government enforcers, based on evidence that no one is allowed to see, or, in many cases, even describe. Take Project Nessie, the program that the FTC claims Amazon used to compel third-party sellers to hike prices across many categories of goods:

https://www.wsj.com/business/retail/amazon-used-secret-project-nessie-algorithm-to-raise-prices-6c593706

Amazon told the press that the FTC has "grossly mischaracterize[d]" Project Nessie. The DoJ disagrees, but it can't say why, because the Project Nessie files it based its accusations on have been redacted, at Amazon's insistence. Rather than rebutting Amazon's claim, FTC spokesman Douglas Farrar could only say "We once again call on Amazon to move swiftly to remove the redactions and allow the American public to see the full scope of what we allege are their illegal monopolistic practices."

It's quite a devastating gambit: when critics and prosecutors make specific allegations about corporate crimes, the corporation gets to tell journalists, "No, that's wrong, but you're not allowed to see the reason we say it's wrong."

It's a way to work the refs, to get journalists – or their editors – to wreathe bold claims in endless hedging language, or to avoid reporting on the most shocking allegations altogether. This, in turn, keeps corporate trials out of the public eye, which reassures judges that they can defer to further corporate demands for opacity without facing an outcry.

That's a tactic that serves Google well. When the company was dragged into court by the DoJ Antitrust Division, it demanded – and received – a veil of secrecy that is especially ironic given the company's promise "to organize the world's information and make it universally accessible and useful":

https://usvgoogle.org/trial-update-9-22

While this veil has parted somewhat, it is still intact enough to allow the company to work the refs and kill disfavorable reporting from the trial. Last week, Megan Gray – ex-FTC, ex-DuckDuckGo – published an editorial in Wired reporting on her impression of an explosive moment in the Google trial:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/03/not-feeling-lucky/#fundamental-laws-of-economics

According to Gray, Google had run a program to mess with the "semantic matching" on queries, silently appending terms to users' searches that caused them to return more ads – and worse results. This generated more revenue for Google, at the expense of advertisers who got billed to serve ads that didn't even match user queries.

Google forcefully disputed this claim:

https://twitter.com/searchliaison/status/1709726778170786297

They contacted Gray's editors at Wired, but declined to release all the exhibits and testimony that Gray used to form her conclusions about Google's conduct; instead, they provided a subset of the relevant materials, which cast doubt on Gray's accusations.

Wired removed Gray's piece, with an unsigned notice that "WIRED editorial leadership has determined that the story does not meet our editorial standards. It has been removed":

https://www.wired.com/story/google-antitrust-lawsuit-search-results/

But Gray stands by her piece. She admits that she might have gotten some of the fine details wrong, but that these were not material to the overall point of her story, that Google manipulated search queries to serve more ads at the expense of the quality of the results:

https://twitter.com/megangrA/status/1711035354134794529

She says that the piece could and should have been amended to reflect these fine-grained corrections, but that in the absence of a full record of the testimony and exhibits, it was impossible for her to prove to her editors that her piece was substantively correct.

I reviewed the limited evidence that Google permitted to be released and I find her defense compelling. Perhaps you don't. But the only way we can factually resolve this dispute is for Google to release the materials that they claim will exonerate them. And they won't, though this is fully within their power.

I've seen this playbook before. During the early months of the pandemic, a billionaire who owned a notorious cyberwarfare company used UK libel threats to erase this fact from the internet – including my own reporting – on the grounds that the underlying research made small, non-material errors in characterizing a hellishly complex financial Rube Goldberg machine that was, in my opinion, deliberately designed to confuse investigators.

Like the corporate crimes revealed in the Panama Papers and Paradise Papers, the gambit is complicated, but it's not sophisticated:

Make everything as complicated as possible;

Make everything as secret as possible;

Dismiss any accusations by claiming errors in the account of the deliberately complex arrangements, which can't be rectified because the relevant materials are a secret.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/09/working-the-refs/#but-id-have-to-kill-you

My next novel is The Lost Cause, a hopeful novel of the climate emergency. Amazon won't sell the audiobook, so I made my own and I'm pre-selling it on Kickstarter!

Image: Jason Rosenberg (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/underpants/12069086054/

CC BY https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

Japanexperterna.se (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/japanexperterna/15251188384/

CC BY-SA 2.0: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/

#pluralistic #secrecy #opacity #google #antitrust #trustbusting #wired #working the refs #megan grey #semantic matching

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