“Dodge this!”
The ball came flying at me so fast I could barely see it. I tried to duck, but it was too late.
BANG.
The ball hit me square in the face.
And knocked me unconscious.
6.
The Web of Crime
I was on my way to the computer room when Chet told me the news.
“Joe is in the nurse’s office.”
What did my brother do now? Challenge Julian to a duel?
“Julian Sanders hit Joe in the face with a dodge ball,” Chet explained. “He was knocked out cold.”
“Is he all right?” I asked, gazing down the hall toward the nurse’s office.
“Yeah, he’s fine. Nurse Jones made him lie down and rest for a while. He said he felt fine and tried to put up a fight but she insisted.”
Yep, that sounds like Joe.
“Maybe I should go see if he’s okay,” I said, pushing past Chet. “Go to the computer room and tell Mr. Conner I had to cancel our appointment.”
“Frank! Wait!”
Chet grabbed me by the arm.
“Nurse Jones won’t let anybody see him right now. She said they’d have to get past her first.”
Yep, that sounds like Nurse Jones.
“Okay. If that’s the case, I might as well keep my appointment with Mr. Conner.”
I turned around and pushed past Chet—again.
And Chet tried to stop me—again.
“Frank! Wait!”
I spun around. “Now what, Chet?”
“Are you going to talk to Mr. Conner about—you know—downloading music from the Internet and burning CDs?”
“Yeah.”
“Do me a favor.” He lowered his voice. “Don’t mention my name, okay? I don’t want to get in any trouble.”
“Sure. I got you covered. Later, Chet.”
I headed for the computer room, still a little worried about my brother.
What am I worried about? Joe can handle anything. Cobras, iguanas, dodge balls. He’ll be fine.
I knocked lightly on the door to the computer room.
“Come in.”
I went inside. “Hi, Mr. Conner. Thanks for seeing me.”
Mr. Conner sat at his desk in front of a computer keyboard and screen. He looked sort of like a hippie from the 1960s, with a woolly beard, little round glasses, and long graying hair tied in a pony-tail. He always wore a tie and a suit that was two sizes too big for his tall, thin frame.
I guess he wore the suit to look more professional. Otherwise he’d look like a roadie for a rock band.
“Hi, Frank. What do you want to talk to me about?”
He offered me a chair. I sat down and made up a story.
“I’m writing a story for my journalism class about downloading music from the Internet. Do you know anything about that?”
Mr. Conner leaned back in his chair. “Well, the laws differ from country to country, but I know a little bit about it. What do you want to know?”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a notepad and pen. “Let’s see. I’ve noticed kids here at school sharing copies of music CDs. Is that legal?”
The computer teacher leaned forward and stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Well, it depends. You’re allowed to download music from a Web site directly onto your own computer or digital music player, as long as you’ve paid for it. But it’s illegal to share that file with someone who hasn’t paid for it. That’s breaking copyright laws.”
“I see warnings about copyright on CDs and DVDs and stuff all the time, but I’m not exactly sure what it is.”
“It’s legal ownership of creative property. Every songwriter has a copyright on the music he or she writes. Just like authors have copyrights for their books.”
I jotted down some notes and asked another question. “If you paid for the music download from a Web site, then can you burn it onto a CD?”
Mr. Conner raised an eyebrow. “It’s iffy,” he said. “Typically, you’re permitted to burn one legal download onto a CD if it’s for your personal use only. But if you burn a CD for a friend, then it’s illegal. The other person hasn’t paid for the copyright.”
I shook my head. “I think a lot of students are breaking the law and don’t even realize it.”
“You’re probably right,” he agreed.
“Here’s another question,” I continued. “What about the other way around? What if I bought a CD in a store and my friend copied it onto his digital player?”
“That’s also illegal.”
“Wow, those are pretty tough laws.”
“They were created to protect the copyrights, Frank,” Mr. Conner explained. “Think about it. A lot of people put a lot of work into every song you hear. Musicians, singers, engineers, production crews, record companies. Only a small handful of them get rich, mostly through tours and shows. Most recording artists don’t profit much from their albums. They get only a tiny percentage of every copy sold.”
“I never thought of it that way.”
“And besides, stealing is wrong. That’s what you’re doing when you copy a friend’s CD. You’re stealing.”
I stopped taking notes and gazed around the room. There were rows and rows of desks, each with its own computer terminal. On top of a file cabinet sat a stack of CD cases.
“Are those blank CDs over there?”
Mr. Conner turned and looked. “Yes. As you know, all students back up their work onto discs. If they didn’t, the hard drives of all these computers would be stuffed full.”
I surveyed the classroom.
“All of these are equipped with CD burners?”
Mr. Conner nodded. “I had to beg the school to get them. The old machines were so outdated they were useless.”
I stared at the computers and started thinking.
Anyone in the school can come in here and burn illegal CDs.
“You must go through a lot of blank CDs,” I said.
“Thousands.”
“Where do you keep them all?”
Mr. Conner seemed a little confused by my question. “I keep the supplies in the storage room. Back there.”
He pointed to a door in the corner.
“Could I take a look?”
He shrugged. “Sure. Why not? Though I don’t understand how it’ll help you write a story about music copyright theft.”
“I’m just curious.”
He opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a large ring of keys.
“You keep it locked?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said, standing up. “I store some valuable equipment back there… and thousands of dollars’ worth of blank CDs, software programs, and supplies.”
Mr. Conner walked to the corner and fidgeted with the keys.
“Are those the only keys to the room?” I asked him.
He stopped and looked at me.
“Well, no. There are spare keys in the main office. And the janitors have a set too. Some of the other teachers use this classroom, so I suppose they might have keys as well. Why do you ask?”
I didn’t know what to say. Why would I ask him about his keys?
Because I’m an undercover agent for American Teens Against Crime?
No, I had to think of something.
“Sorry to be so nosy, Mr. Conner. I’m writing another article on the subject of school security. I figured I could kill two birds with one stone.”
The teacher turned around slowly and pointed a finger at me.
“Very clever, Frank,” he said. “You always were one of my best students.”
“Thanks, Mr. Conner.”
He turned back to the lock, found the right key, and opened the door. “Here we go,” he said, flicking on a light. “Come take a look.”
I followed him into the small room—and almost bashed right into him.
“I don’t believe this!” he said, gasping.
“Believe what? What’s wrong?”
I glanced around at the steel shelves lining the room. Everything seemed normal—cardboard boxes stacked up on one side and a few dusty computers on the other.
Mr. Conner shook his head. “It looks like you’ve found your story, Frank.”
“What?”
“Your article about school security.”
He pointed at the empty shelves.
“What are you talking about, Mr. Conner?”
“They were here yesterday, but it looks like someone stole them. Every last one of them.”
“Stole what?”
“Twenty cases of blank CDs.”
7.
Money to Burn
Nurse Jones is trying to kill me.
That was the only explanation for all the cold compresses the school nurse piled onto my face and head. I swear the woman was trying to smother me to death.
“I can’t breathe,” I tried to tell her.
But my words were garbled, swallowed up by the wet towels.
Finally, after about two hours, she told me to sit up. “I think you’ll be all right, Joe.”
No kidding. I was hit by a dodge ball, not a school bus.
Pulling the compresses off my face, Nurse Jones examined me through her giant thick glasses.
“The redness is gone,” she observed. “You’re lucky your nose wasn’t broken.”
“I’ll feel lucky as soon as you let me out of here,” I said. “Can I leave now? I feel perfectly fine.”
She nodded reluctantly. I swung my legs over the side of the examination table and hopped off.
“Are you experiencing any headache or pain?” she asked for the millionth time.
“No, but you will if you don’t stop asking me that.”
Nurse Jones smirked. “Okay, wise guy. Get out of here. And be careful!”
Everybody keeps saying that to me. But do I listen?
“Oh, I forgot to tell you, Joe. Someone’s waiting for you outside,” she added. “And he seems very concerned about you.”
It must be Frank. Who else worries so much?
“Thanks, Nurse Jones,” I said, turning and opening the door to her office.
I started thinking of something funny to say to Frank—and then I got the surprise of a lifetime.
Frank wasn’t waiting for me outside the office. It was Julian Sanders.
“Julian?”
He pushed a lock of black hair away from his eyes—and revealed a face racked with guilt. “Look, Joe. I feel awful about all this. I don’t know why I got so mad. I guess I’m not used to one of the ’in’ crowd being nice to me.”
Suddenly I felt a little guilty myself After all, I was trying to gather criminal evidence from the guy.
“It’s okay, Julian. If it makes you feel better, you didn’t hurt me with the dodge ball. Actually, it hurt me more when you said that I’ve ignored you all semester—and you’re right.”
Julian didn’t respond.
“Look, I think you’re cool,” I continued. “I should have talked to you long ago.”
Julian sighed. “Thanks, man. What do you say I make it up to you? Come over to my house after school, take a look at my music collection, and I’ll burn a mixed CD for you. No charge. Deal?”
“Deal.”
We shook hands and parted ways.
Minutes later the afternoon bell rang and Frank spotted me across the hall.
“Joe! Wait till you hear this!”
He told me about his talk with Mr. Conner and the missing blank CDs.
“Well, wait till you hear this,” I said when Frank finished his story.
I told him about Julian’s surprise visit to the nurse’s office and his offer to show me his music collection after school.
“This is your chance, Joe. You’ve got to go with him and look around for evidence.”
Frank pulled a tiny object from his shirt pocket.
“What’s that?”
“The wireless microphone. Take it with you and I’ll record everything. Just in case.”
I took the microphone and slipped it into my jacket.
“And one more thing.”
Here it comes.
“Be careful.”
I met Julian in the lobby after school. He was waiting for me, leaning against the trophy case, bouncing his head to some music on his CD player.
He smiled when he spotted me.
“Hey, Joe. Ready to go?”
I couldn’t help but feel a little nervous. I mean, this was the same guy who tried to remove my head with a dodge ball this morning.
Maybe it’s a setup.
With a sinking feeling in my gut, I followed Julian out to the school parking lot. He led me straight to his car—a shiny red classic Corvette—and told me to hop in.
“I can follow you instead,” I said, nodding toward my motorcycle.
Julian looked a little disappointed.
Why? Is he planning something?
“First check out this stereo system.” Julian popped a disc into the car’s player and pushed a button. The whole Corvette nearly exploded with the sound of hard punk music. “The Cupcakes. Listen to that bass!”
“Sweet.”
While he revved up his engine, I walked back to my bike and whispered a quick message to my brother through the microphone in my pocket.
“All systems go, Frank. I’m following suspect Julian Sanders out of the parking lot.”
Julian lived on the other side of town, on a dark narrow street of brown faded row houses. His bright red Corvette stuck out like a sore thumb in a neighborhood like this.
Pretty fancy car for a high school kid.
We parked right in front of Julian’s house. The name Sanders was spelled out in stick-on letters on a rusty old mailbox.
I whispered the exact address into my microphone.
“Who are you talking to?”
“Oh, I’m just mumbling about my brakes. They’re sticking a little.”
“You should be careful.”
Oh, no, not another warning.
Julian led me up the concrete steps to the front door. He didn’t bother with keys. It was unlocked.
I hope he didn’t bring me here to finish off what he started in gym class.
He held the door open for me. I half expected to be jumped by a couple of thugs as soon as I stepped inside. My heart was pounding.
And Julian’s dodgeball threat echoed in my head. You’re going down, Hardy.
It was dark inside, except for the blue light of an old TV set and the hot pink nightgown worn by his mother.
“Hi, baby,” she said, not moving from the sofa. “Who’s your friend?”
“Joe Hardy.”
“Hardy? The policeman’s son?”
“Yeah.”
“Are we under arrest?”
“No, Mom. Go back to your game show.”
Julian looked at me and rolled his eyes, then led me up a narrow flight of stairs to his bedroom.
“Wow. This is a cool room, Julian,” I said.
And I meant it. The room was a cluttered mess, sure, but it was cluttered with very cool stuff: two state-of-the-art computers and flat screens, tons of stereo equipment, at least six massive speakers, shelves packed with CDs and record albums, and dozens of wild-looking concert posters.
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Julian said with a sneaky grin.
He flicked a switch on the wall, and the whole room transformed into some sort of crazy nightclub. Disco balls and strobe lights flickered and whirled, blurring my vision and making me dizzy.
He’s trying to blind me!
I braced myself for an attack. But then Julian snapped the club lights off and flopped down on his bed.
“Here. Check out these CDs. I think you’ll like them.”
I sat down and looked through his collection.
“Party Ghost, the Screaming Pickle, Greasy Kid Stuff, The Dog Ate My Homework… Man, I haven’t heard of any of these bands,” I said. “Are they any good?”
<
br /> Julian smiled. “They’re awesome. I’ll pick out some of my favorites for you.”
He grabbed a stack of CDs, crossed the room, and sat down at his computer. Flicking it on and inserting a blank CD, he went to work.
“Let me know if there’s anything else there you want me to burn,” he said.
I studied his gigantic collection of CDs. “Man, you have everything.”
Julian nodded. “I downloaded most of them from the Internet. I know it’s illegal to make copies for people—but you can’t buy this stuff at the local Mega Mart.”
So that makes it okay to rip off the musicians?
I didn’t say anything.
“Considering all the CDs I buy, I figure the record company won’t mind,” he added. “They’ve got money to burn.”
They’re not the only ones.
I stared at Julian’s sprawling assortment of electronic equipment. It must have cost him a fortune.
My eyes stopped at a large black notebook next to a pile of socks and T-shirts. It was opened to a page covered in writing and check marks.
One column was labeled “Blank CDs Received.”
Another was labeled “Number of Copies.”
The last column was labeled “Rate .50 Per Copy.”
This is it. Hard evidence.
I glanced up at Julian. He was busy at his desk, downloading songs into a music file on his computer.
I looked down again at the notebook. Dozens of album titles were handwritten next to the columns.
Those are the albums he’s burning.
Then I checked to see how many copies he was making of each.
500 copies. 1,000 copies. 2,500 copies.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
Julian Sanders is a one-man CD-burning factory!
“What are you looking at?”
I looked up to see Julian staring at me suspiciously.
“This Skunkcabbage album,” I answered, pulling a CD from the shelf. “I’ve never seen it before. I thought I owned all of them.”
With my left foot I closed the notebook on the floor.
“That’s a bootleg from one of their concerts,” said Julian, turning back to his computer.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Then I glanced back down at the notebook next to my foot. Something was written on the cover: “Jobs for C. D. Burns.”
Burned Page 4
