‘The location of this incident was a new town development just outside Hemel Hempstead,’ continued Jack. ‘The car is a Howley ET, a Level 5 autonomous vehicle manufactured like most, from graphene and carbon-reinforced plastic. One owner, no previous incidents recorded, the road tax and insurance details are up to date and the latest software had been downloaded.’
Libby watched her tablet’s screen as the car maintained a steady pace, travelling at 25 mph. The footage switched to a dashboard lens.
‘The temperature outside was a steady twenty-two degrees,’ continued Jack. ‘There was no precipitation, the vehicle was journeying five miles under the speed limit on a dry asphalt dual carriageway, which had seen resurfacing work three months prior. There is one Passenger inside and the vehicle has been on the road in moderate two-way traffic for twenty-two consecutive minutes.’
Out of nowhere, a white moped appeared and attempted to overtake the car. Libby pushed back in her seat, anxious at what was to come. Her eyes moved towards the hologram images and watched as the moped weaved its way into the gap between the Howley and the truck ahead, clipping the car’s front right bumper. Suddenly, the moped lurched to its left and as the motorcyclist attempted to take control of it, it spun around in a half-circle. Behind it, the autonomous car braked sharply but failed to swerve to avoid it. Then, as quickly as the moped appeared, it toppled to one side and both it and the rider slipped out of view and under the car.
Jack lifted his hand again to give a second signal. Without warning, the camera was replaced by another affixed to the car’s chassis. On the jurors’ tablets and thelargest of the wall screens, a young woman lay motionless on the road, her limbs protruding at awkward angles and the left-hand side of her skull crushed. Next to her was her helmet. Libby looked away from her tablet, only to be confronted by the same, much larger image, frozen on the wall.
She became overwhelmed by a feeling of nausea when, for a moment, she was transported back two years ago to Birmingham’s Monroe Street. She could see herself standing in the road, utterly helpless, inhaling the odour of rubber tyres, recalling the crunch of broken glass under the soles of her trainers and staring at her hands, wrists and shirt cuffs, all stained by blood. She blinked the memory away.
Of the six cases presented to the inquest yesterday, none had been as graphic as what she had just witnessed. She turned her head to look at her colleagues but their faces showed no flickers of emotion. They had been doing this for so long, they were immune to death. Libby was not. Especially as it had followed her all her life.
The dark-haired, dark-eyed man representing the General Medical Council rose to his feet and pointed a laser pen towards the wall. A red dot appeared as the clip was repeated in slow motion. Libby held her eyelids shut.
‘As you can see,’ he began, ‘when the motorcyclist appears, there is very little the vehicle can do to avoid it. It does as it is programmed to do and brakes sharply but a collision is inevitable.’
‘What was the cause of death?’ Jack asked.
‘The results of the autopsy reveal it was a result of severe cranial injuries to the brain stem, limbic cortex and skull. It’s likely her death would have been instant.’
‘What happened to her crash helmet?’ asked the woman in plaid. ‘Did the impact knock it off?’
‘Yes, it wasn’t fastened properly. It was independently tested and there were no hairline cracks in its shell, no issues with the chin strap or flaws in its manufacture.’
Jack sniffed sharply. ‘Vanity. That will be the root cause of this, mark my words. A silly girl less concerned with her own safety than her appearance.’
Libby opened her eyes and mouth to protest but quickly lost her nerve.
‘What do we know about the Passenger?’ asked the religion rep.
‘Male, thirty-seven years old, works in the financial district of London, has no criminal record or convictions,’ Jack explained. ‘He has two children under five years of age and is the sole breadwinner in the house. Obviously, he was left very shaken by this and out of pocket following the repairs that needed to be carried out to his vehicle.’
‘And the victim?’
Jack shot her a warning glance. ‘You know very well that we don’teverrefer to the deceased as “victims”,’ he said. ‘There are no victims here unless we judge they have been unlawfully killed.’ The religion rep’s head fell like that of a scolded dog as Jack continued. ‘The motorcyclist was nineteen years old, with a similarly clean criminal record, a theatre studies student in her first year of university. No dependents of note.’
Libby reflected upon her own late teenage years, specifically how her attitude towards her life changed the day her brother took his. Nothing would ever be the same again after she found Nicky’s body hanging from a light fitting in his bedroom. The cracks in her family were instant, then grew longer and wider as the years progressed. It was her fault that he had died and she would never forgive herself for letting it happen. Failure to use her voice and speak of her concerns would always be Libby’s biggest regret. She would not let it happen again.
Suddenly, the urge to defend the motorcyclist got the better of her. The girl’s life was worth more than a case number.
‘What was her name?’ Libby asked gingerly.
‘Does it matter?’ the woman in plaid replied, tilting her head forward so her glasses slid down her nose again.
‘Yes, because I’d like to know.’
She rolled her eyes and looked to one of the assistants in the corner of the room. He swiped his screen and something appeared on the plaid woman’s tablet. She was about to answer when Jack interrupted.
‘That’s classified,’ he replied.
‘What were her grades?’
‘Again, classified information, Miss Dixon.’
Libby was reluctant to give up. ‘You said she had no dependents of note. Precisely what relatives did she have?’
‘Classified.’
