The Digital Dream

by Mike Cartlidge

  “I’m still awaiting formal notice of charges and so I’m working off what I’ve been told verbally so far,” the lawyer says. “I’m afraid the situation is considerably more serious than you may have first realized, Mr Ross. The police seem to be determined to press increasingly heavy charges against you.” He sits down opposite me in the gloomy interview room, pushing his specs back and then forward again on his nose. “The most serious of the original charges are the fraud and criminal conspiracy allegations. However, I understand that the police are also now going to charge you with offenses under the insider trading legislation. And there may be more. At present I don’t know what all the charges will be or even when they will be made. We may have to wait until you’re arraigned.”

  “What?” I can hear the blood pounding in my ears. “I don’t understand all this. What am I supposed to have done?”

  “According to the charges, you have acted in conspiracy with others, with the aim of defrauding the Sligo-McNeil Corporation. The police are claiming that you were acting in accord with...” he extracts a yellow-paper pad from his briefcase and reads from an inside page, “the late Malcolm McAllister. They say that you used an illegal computer access to pay money from the company’s accounting systems into your own bank accounts. They claim to have computer records relating to the transaction and that a sum in excess of three million dollars was involved. They go on to allege that you used this money, in conjunction with other information that you obtained from the computer systems, to trade shares in a corporation called Watling Timber, which Sligo-McNeil was intending to take over. Frankly, at this stage, the charges become very complicated.”

  The lawyer tuts and shakes his head. He’s disappointed, like he’s a tolerant father and I’m an errant schoolboy. “Not a good sign. The judge will probably have trouble following some of the technical details and that’s bound to work against us. Although it does improve our chances of being able to plea-bargain or go for a retrial, assuming you’re convicted.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Yeah, I’ll accept that I found a way to penetrate one of Sligo-McNeil’s computer systems, but it was in the course of a security investigation. My actions were intended to protect people like Sligo-McNeil. And as for stealing money, nothing could be further from the truth.”

  “Hmmm.” Even my lawyer sounds as though my denials are hard to believe.

  “And I don’t have anything like that amount of money. You can check my bank records.”

  “No doubt they’ll simply say that you’ve spirited it away somewhere and that it’s sitting in a numbered Swiss account, or under your mattress or something. As I say, they seem to have evidence that the money was paid into a bank account with your name on it.”

  “If they’ve got evidence like that, it’s been falsified. Look...” I’m about to tell the lawyer about the other modified records that Kathleen and I discovered in the ring of computers attached to the phantom network. Something makes me stop. I have no idea whether this room is free from electronic listening devices. In fact, I am not even sure about this lawyer, whom I have never met before, now that I come to think about it, and sure as hell isn’t making like those guys from LA Law. I decide that it might be better to keep silent for the time being, rather than risk alerting my enemies to the extent of my knowledge—and, possibly, leading them to Kathleen. More paranoia: I reflect again on the insidious nature of my faceless adversaries.

  Dando sits watching me assessingly for a few moments, then continues to speak. “You probably know that the majority of corporations prefer not to press charges in situations like this, because they fear that the publicity will affect their credibility with customers and the market-place. Sligo-McNeil, apparently, are an exception. I gather that their chief executive himself insists on prosecution.”

  I have to scratch around in my head for words. “What’s likely to happen to me?”

  The lawyer leans back and removes his glasses. “Frankly, if they have the sort of evidence that they claim to have, defense is going to be very difficult. If you are found guilty, the sentence will depend on the judge’s view of the proceedings. I can’t offer you too much hope there, I’m afraid. Fraud is being viewed in an increasingly serious light by the courts, particularly since so many cases of white-collar crime have come to light in recent years. Computer fraud is even worse news, as the courts equate it with the destruction caused by all these worldwide viruses in the last few years. The judge may decide to make an example of you. You may well be sentenced to many years in a state penitentiary.”

  Dando puts his glasses back on and goes on to explain various technical issues involved in the pending court action. I’m too shaken to take any of it in. I sit, stunned, surveying the prospect of my entire life lying in ruins, until the man opposite me rises to leave.

  “One other thing.” The lawyer removes his glasses again and polishes absently at the lenses. “The police are particularly anxious to know if anyone else has been involved in this business. If there was someone else, and you come clean, it may go well for you with some of the charges. Perhaps it will help us with bargaining...”

  Oh no, I think. Aloud, I say, “no, there’s no one. Mac and I decided to keep the whole thing to ourselves until we had firm evidence.”

  The man sniffs. “Pity. Well, I’m going to go back home and I’ll stand by until I receive the formal charges. Then the next step will be the preliminary hearing. That should be scheduled for some time tomorrow. We’ll need to talk in more detail when I get the date and time for it.”

  As Dando moves to the door, I come out of my reverie and grab at his sleeve. “Wait a minute. Are you just going to leave me rotting here? Can’t I get bail or something?”

  The lawyer shuffles his feet and looks embarrassed. “I’m sorry, did I forget to mention it? The police have told me that they will oppose bail on the grounds that, if free, you may again penetrate the computer systems concerned and try to change information contained in them. I’ll have a try at getting you out when we have the preliminary, of course, but I wouldn’t build up too many hopes.”

  ***

  I try and fail to eat lunch. It isn’t that I’m not hungry: in other circumstances, even the greasy eggs and wet-looking mashed potato would have been appetizing. But the meeting with the lawyer has flattened my already deflated morale and I find myself sinking into an apathetic depression.

  That afternoon, I’m again taken to the dark interview room where the FBI man and the local detective are waiting for me. This time I refuse to say anything unless my lawyer is present. I mention Dando’s name. The policemen look at each other and then at me. We ain’t been told nothing about no lawyer, the detective says. Anyway, this is off the record. We’re just trying to help you, he says. Considerate. They reckon they can see how upset I am. Maybe they were wrong to come on heavy yesterday. Maybe if I give them something more to go on, they’ll be able to scratch around and find something that will prove I’m innocent.

  I fold my arms and say nothing. The older man, the sergeant, still seems more sympathetic. But the FBI man loses his temper and leans close to me, shouting in my face that I’d better loosen up and tell them what I know or things would be going very, very badly for me. Like, did I know what a state pen was like? In with murderers and rapists? The gangs? The blacks and Hispanics? Did I know how many sweet white boys like me spend their entire term getting gang-raped? Yeah, man, I saw the Shawshank Redemption. I’m cool. I keep my arms folded and try to hide my shaking legs under the table. I seal my lips until they call for the guard and the uniform clutches my elbow and escorts me back to my cell.

  They leave me alone for the rest of the day and evening. I lie on the uncomfortable bunk, my thoughts full of Kathleen, what she is doing, whether she is all right. I get disturbed from time to time by the cheery cries of my fellow houseguests. One seems to find solace in screaming “fuck, cunt, fuck, cunt” at the top of his voice. More emotion than articulacy there, I think. A
nother seems to be having nightmares about gigantic phalluses and green elephants, until he’s taken from his cell and amuses himself by starting a fight with what sounds like a small army of cops. The guy next door whispers through the occasional quiet spells, describing what he’d like to do if he could gain access to my white butt. It’s great to have companionship. We’re an odd little community but a close one.

  Somehow I finally sleep.

  4

  Crieff lingers on at the precinct house even though his shift ended hours ago. Sunday night. He’s listed for duty most weekends these days. Fuck, who cares? Nothing to keep him at home and the only thing he misses is the odd ball game. He can’t even take much joy in baseball nowadays. He hates the electronic scoreboards and the players that earn more in a single game than he gets in a year and shift allegiances like the team owners change shirts. It’s not like when he was a kid and his old man used to take him along to stand on the terraces and they’d eat popcorn and talk about the great days and the likes of Lou Gehrig and Joe Di-M and the Babe.

  After the interview with Ross, he spent hours out on the street. He was called out to an armed robbery in an Asian shop in the suburbs. Broad daylight. Vietnamese proprietor beaten up and in hospital with a cracked skull. Shotgun blast through a window, Molotov cocktail thrown into the storeroom in back, the family just escaping from their apartment over the shop before the whole lot went up in flames. Welcome to America, the land of the free. Nobody sees a fuckin’ thing, of course. And the victims are too scared and too suspicious of the cops to talk. Detection? They have more chance of catching Jack The Ripper.

  His mind returns to Ross. This case is supposed to be priority. Typical. Families being burnt out of their homes and a computer fraud case is more important. Fuck ‘em all.

  He sighs and turns on his angle poise lamp, sits at his desk and leafs through the file. Something nags away at the back of his mind. The evidence seems to be clear-cut, as far as he can tell. Talk of computers and networks leaves him cold. He’s a man who has trouble working the remote control for his video recorder. Too old, he thinks. Wrong side of fifty-five, hair starting to fall out, back aching at the end of each day. His feet are a corn-infested mess. He doesn’t understand what’s happening to society today. At heart, he’s just an old-fashioned street cop. He wonders why they assigned him to this case. And why the ground-rules for their interrogation of the suspect are so clearly defined...

  He reads the charge sheet once more, as if the bland legalese might speak to him of events in the flesh-and-blood world. Something doesn’t fit. The man, Ross, is nervous, as are most ordinary citizens in an interview room. Especially when they get yelled at by some college-educated FBI cunt who’s learnt all he knows about interrogation from watching old episodes of Miami Vice. But he’s sticking to his story and his body language gives nothing away. Crieff has seen them all, all the liars and con artists in creation, and he figures he can pick ‘em, all but the best. Either Ross is an actor to beat De Niro or something is wrong.

  He notices a shadow from the corner of his eye. The Captain, also arriving back at the office late, hours after he’s meant to be off-duty. Another old-fashioned cop. Crieff watches as he walks into his office and takes off his coat, waits while he gets himself a cup of coffee and smokes an illicit cigarette, in contradiction of the no-smoking rule they brought in a couple of years ago. Crieff sighs and wanders in to see him.

  The Captain speaks. Orders came from above. Somewhere above. So far above, the orders have fuckin’ snow on them. No, fuck knows who. Just some DC at HQ and that should be enough for us. He should take it as a compliment. Don’t try to work it out. Greater minds than our own have already done that. We know what information we want from them. Break the man down if you can, get a confession if you can, though it doesn’t really matter a good goddamn. The evidence is incontrovertible. Just get the additional information. Don’t waste time thinking. Get a fuckin’ result. Clear it and move on.

  Crieff returns to his desk. His young partner will be back soon from the hospital where he has, no doubt, been interviewing the Vietnamese bashing victim with all the empathy of Hitler proposing the toast at a bar mitzvah. Another worry. Crieff’s long-time partner retired last month. This new guy’s just out of uniform and energetic and fuckin’ aggressive. He gives Crieff heartburn.

  The old cop ponders again on the significance of the orders they’ve been given. Find out who else is involved. Find out who else knows. And what they know. Almost like this is the only thing that really matters.

  A long time ago, he realized that it don’t pay to rock the boat. He does like he’s told, keeps his head down, makes his arrests quota and asks no questions about department politics. It’s only on the TV shows that the lone-star heroes buck the establishment and hold their job simply because they crack each case at the end of each episode. Crockett and Tubbs, fuckin’ chocolate-box faggot cops. Not so squeaky-clean Crieff. He’s seen men broken and assigned to a beat for life simply for saying the wrong thing. His inner thoughts are kept carefully to himself.

  He still has his own thoughts, though. What people see on the outside ain’t necessarily the same as what’s going on on the inside. He wonders for the dozenth time who the orders came from. And why they keep so well hidden, letting bust-up has-beens and ambitious gung-ho no-brain FBI fuckers do their dirty work for them. Something doesn’t fit.

  He decides to keep his thoughts to himself. He’ll see how Ross handles it when they talk to him again tomorrow. And, maybe, if he gets time, he’ll have a sniff around.

  5

  Monday lunchtime. Another interrogation this morning. Another hour when I sit silently and plead the fifth until they give up in frustration and have me thrown back into the pit. I feel as though I’ve been abandoned by the world. No word from Kathleen. Or my lawyer, if that’s who the bastard really was. Shouldn’t he have been saying more about my rights? What about the constitution? Doesn’t that say something about them having to charge me or let me go? Guilty until proven innocent? Fucked if I can remember. I place the plate on the ground next to my bunk and check my watch. One o’clock. How much longer will I be left to sit here alone? I figure the cops are probably leaving me isolated to break down my morale and I suppose it’s something I’ll have to get used to. Suddenly the situation overwhelms me. Tears sting my eyes and there is a constriction in my throat. So much for the Steven Segal self-image.

  The door handle clicks and the door swings open to reveal the figure of a youthful uniform.

  “All right, buddy, on your feet. The desk sergeant’s asking for you.”

  I groan. “What now?”

  The policeman shrugs and gestures impatiently. “Just move it, okay?”

  I drag myself upright and follow the officer out. My friendly neighbor hears us and shouts a few affectionate comments about reaming my ass. We walk along a corridor and up a flight of steps towards the front of the station house. My apathy starts to give way to a flicker of surprise and interest. As we turn another corner, I find myself walking into the precinct front office. A long desk faces the wide entrance: opposite it is a line of chairs and a couple of small tables. People and police officers mill around. Posters line the walls. Lock your car, make sure your windows are closed when you leave the house. I follow as the officer walks towards a rosy-cheeked desk sergeant.

  “Mr Ross?” Kathleen’s voice comes from the other side of the room. I freeze to avoid showing the shock I feel.

  She carries on quickly. “Don’t say anything now—I’m sure you must be feeling very bewildered. I’ve come to arrange your release on bail.”

  “What?” For a moment I wonder if the strain has finally driven me crazy. Before I can speak, she continues, brisk and efficient.

  “The sergeant here has received formal advice of this morning’s bail hearing and checked the details against the computer system. Bail is set at one thousand dollars, which I have now paid.”

  I half-turn towards the
sergeant, who is nodding his head. “You’ll need to sign for these.” He pushes a plastic bag containing a wallet, credit cards, my cell phone and keys across the desk. “Check ‘em before you leave.”

  I shake my head dumbly: if I can walk out of here, I’m not about to waste a second in case they discover that the whole thing’s a mistake. I hurriedly sign a form and pick up the bag.

  “Right. Let’s go. I’ve got my car outside. It’s probably best if I take you home.” Kathleen touches my arm to guide me towards the door and we walk side-by-side out of the building.

  After the gloom of the police cell, the bright sunshine is almost blinding. I think crazily that I should have brought my sunglasses when I was arrested. Kathleen’s car is parked a block down the road. I save my questions until I’m sitting in the passenger seat. She starts the engine, signals and pulls out into the traffic, heading towards the lake.

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “The lawyer told me that bail would be refused.... And how can there have been a bail hearing this morning when I didn’t know a thing about it?”

  She glances a nervous smile at me: suddenly I can see the fragility and fear beneath her apparent confidence.

  “I kind-of arranged the bail hearing myself.”

  “What?”

  “I found out that the phantom network could take me into the computer files covering court proceedings. I created a new record to show that you’d had your hearing and that bail had been granted. It was quite simple really. I copied similar records for other cases that I found in the system. I was also able to print off a copy of the new record so that I could bring it in with me. I found out what time new shifts came on at the police station—so that I could talk to people who wouldn’t know that you’d been in your cell all morning—and marched down to get you out.”

  I shake my head: I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “But I still don’t see...”