Intentional Acts

by Melissa F. Miller

  Hyacinth, as it happened, had both. In one convenient package.

  Leo stopped at the town’s lone gas station, bought some more water, a bag of pretzels, and a candy bar, and asked for directions to the town library.

  The young guy behind the cash register squinted at him. “Sorry, library’s closed Tuesdays through Thursdays.”

  “Really? Completely closed?”

  “Well, yeah. Because the police station’s open.”

  “Okay.”

  The cashier wasn’t making any sense. But, judging by the thick layer of dust on the counter, the gas station didn’t get much traffic. Maybe the guy got high to pass the time. Whatever the story was, he clearly wasn’t going to have any useful information to offer. Leo scooped up his change and his snacks and turned to leave.

  “Wait, don’t you want directions to the police station?” the man called after him.

  Actually, he did.

  “Sure.”

  “Go to the corner and turn right. It’s halfway down the block on your right. Next door to the library. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks,” he called back in a cheerful voice. Then he pushed the heavy glass door open and hurried out into the parking lot. He found himself wishing Sasha was there so they could laugh together at the weird encounter.

  He pulled out, turned right, and, as promised, spotted two twin brick buildings sitting side by side. Hyacinth Public Library was emblazoned on the awning over the door of the first building. A closed sign hung in the door’s small window with the following note scrawled in marker under the word ‘CLOSED’: Return books and DVDs next door when closed. The neighboring building’s awning read Hyacinth Police Department in the same font and color. An ‘OPEN’ sign hung in the window set in its door.

  There appeared to be a shared parking lot behind the two buildings, but there was an empty space right in front of the library, so he pulled into it. No meters. He liked Hyacinth already, its odd gas station attendant notwithstanding.

  He locked the car and hurried inside. An older, African-American woman with short white hair and perfect posture looked up from a tangle of yarn she was working on and eyed him over a pair of eyeglasses.

  “Can I help you, son? Library drop box is over there.” She waved a knitting needle toward a short hallway behind her.

  “I’m looking for the chief.”

  She placed the knitting on her desk. “You found her. You’ve also found the town librarian and one half of the volunteer fire department.”

  He grinned and stuck out a hand. “Ma’am, I’m U.S. Marshal Leo Connelly,” he lied smoothly as he flashed his old ID.

  “Violet Lincoln.” Her handshake was firm and brisk. Her eyes searched his face. “A marshal, huh? You don’t mean to tell me we’re harboring a fugitive here in Hyacinth, do you?”

  “Not to my knowledge, chief. But I was hoping you could give me some information on a resident—well, a former resident—of Bendville.”

  Her eyes dimmed. “I’m afraid all of Bendville’s residents are former. Harvey didn’t leave much behind when he swept through there.” She waved him toward a seat. “I’ll help you if I can.”

  “Much obliged.” He hesitated near the chair and swiveled his head around the lobby. “Do you have a gun locker or anything? I’m carrying.”

  She waved the question away. “If I stopped what I was doing to lock up every concealed firearm someone carried in here, that’s all I’d get done every day. Just keep it holstered. So, which of Bendville’s fine citizens are you interested in?”

  “A guy by the name of Essiah Wheaton. Ever heard of him?”

  She pursed her lips. “Yeah. I know Mr. Wheaton.”

  “I get the sense you’re not a fan.”

  She moved her knitting to the side and propped her feet up on her metal desk. “I’ll be frank, Agent Connelly. Folks around here didn’t shed many tears when that storm swept through Bendville. Now, I know that sounds cold, but lots of people thought Harvey destroying that dang town was God’s wrath.”

  “Because of the Heritage Brotherhood?”

  She blinked then covered her surprise. “That’s right. Bendville is—was—an unincorporated community. They didn’t have a police force of their own, which meant some of their people viewed obeying the law as an optional activity. The Heritage Brotherhood started out like lots of groups do. A bunch of loud-mouths getting together and spouting off, having rallies, and whatnot. That’s their First Amendment right, and more power to them.”

  “But?”

  “But, a fellow by the name of Fletcher Lee Holden rose through the ranks of their little club. And the more powerful Holden grew, the bolder and more violent the Brotherhood grew. By the time that hurricane flattened Bendville and scattered them to the four corners, they were stalking Mexican immigrants, blowing up apartment buildings, and amassing an arsenal that was outsized even by Texas standards. They were bad news.”

  “How’s Wheaton fit in?”

  “As I understand it, he was their money man. He was a banker with some online bank. Bendville didn’t have a community bank, see. But Wheaton could get the Brotherhood lines of credit, working capital, personal loans through his virtual bank. There was talk that he laundered some money for them, too. I don’t know the details.”

  If Wheaton had been financing the Heritage Brotherhood, the FBI’s Financial Crimes Division or the Treasury Department or both would have a file on him. Either one could’ve sent a team out to Mars.

  He snapped his attention back to the police chief. “Did the Heritage Brotherhood survive? Are they still active?”

  She made a low noise in her throat. “They’ve been weakened, for sure. They’re spread out, now, and they seem to be keeping a low profile in their new communities. But as long as Holden’s around, they’re a danger. He’s quietly rebuilding them. I have no doubt.”

  He stood up, thinking. They’d need access to capital to rebuild. So why was their banker holed up in a small town in western Pennsylvania?

  “Thanks for the information, Chief Lincoln.”

  “My pleasure. You run across Essiah Wheaton, do me a favor and aim a kick square to his teeth. Oh, and tell him he has a sizeable outstanding library fine for that DVD collection he lost.”

  She nodded a goodbye and picked up her skein of yarn as he let himself out of the building.

  He suppressed a laugh as he noticed the marker-scrawled message on the reverse of the ‘OPEN’ sign. Under ‘CLOSED,’ handwritten letters advised the residents of Hyacinth to Report crimes and malfunctioning fire alarms next door when closed. Violet Lincoln was one busy woman.

  He mulled over the new information about Wheaton during his short walk.

  He was most of the way back to the rental car when his phone buzzed. He fumbled it out of his pocket with one hand while he unlocked the car door with the other.

  “I was just about to call you,” he told Hank.

  “Did you find your exculpatory evidence?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Hank’s voice was heavy. “I leaned pretty hard on Ingrid. Your boy Wheaton was mixed up in some plot to kill the Governor of Texas.”

  “I don’t recall an attempt on the governor’s life.”

  “Bad timing—well, good timing, for the governor. The hurricane hit and the Heritage Brotherhood had other priorities—like rowing themselves to safety.”

  “And Wheaton was part of the plot?”

  “He wasn’t going to be the shooter or anything, but evidently these bozos engage in the illegal weapons trade to finance their extracurriculars and—”

  “Let me guess, Wheaton laundered their money.”

  There was a loud silence on Hank’s end. Finally, “Well, yeah … what did you learn?”

  “Essiah Wheaton was—or possibly still is—some kind of internet banker. According to local law enforcement, he handled the Brotherhood’s financial matters.”

  “Are you on your way to the airport?”

 
; “Yes.”

  “You might as well go straight to Wheaton’s and take care of things.”

  He clenched his jaw. He knew Hank was right. The decision had been made several pay grades above his, and his independent snooping supported the order. But still, killing a U.S. citizen rankled.

  “Leo?”

  “I’m here. I heard you. I’m just … thinking.”

  “You’ve got until you’re back in town to wrestle with your conscience. After that …”

  “I know. I gotta go. I need to make an airline reservation.” He heard squealing and giggling in the background at Hank’s. “Wait—how are the kids doing?”

  “They’re having a ball. I’m gonna go out on a limb and say naptime is not happening today.”

  Leo chuckled, but his stomach felt as if it had been hollowed out. The conversation seemed surreal, as if it were happening in a dream. He was calmly discussing an assassination in the same breath as his kids’ nap schedule.

  He glanced at his watch. If the flight worked out, he could fly back to Pittsburgh, kill Wheaton, and be home for lunch. He turned the key in the ignition and started the car.

  21

  Sasha’s stomach hurt. Too much coffee and angst and too little sleep and food. She’d end up with a stomach ulcer at this rate.

  She was reaching for the phone to see if Naya had any interest in an early lunch. It lit up and beeped before she touched it.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Gella again,” Caroline informed her.

  “Thanks, put her through.”

  “Will do. Um, Sasha?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  She smiled to herself. Caroline, the soul of discretion, sounded so hesitant. Sasha knew what she was asking. Unlike Will or Naya, she very rarely set her phone to ‘do not disturb’ and let the reception desk field her calls. But, today, she had no desire to speak to Connelly—assuming her wayward husband even planned to call her. So she’d sent her work calls to Caroline’s desk and disabled the notifications on her cell phone.

  “Yep. I have to get some things done this morning, so I don’t want any unnecessary interruptions,” she lied.

  “Of course. Here’s Gella.”

  “Gella, hi. Did you get in touch with Mr. Wheaton?”

  “No, I’m afraid I didn’t. I left another voicemail message. But that’s not why I’m calling.”

  “Oh?” Sasha braced herself for the inevitable. If fifteen years of practicing law had taught her anything, it was that clients never called because things were going swimmingly. With precious few exceptions, all news was bad news.

  “I’ve got good news.”

  “Really?” Maybe she should consider a specialty in representing charitable organizations.

  “Yes. The board voted unanimously to authorize litigation against Asher Morgan and his new employer. The directors agree that taking swift, decisive action against Asher and Sentinel Solution Systems will show how very seriously we’re taking this privacy breach. How quickly can you file a complaint?”

  She calculated, letting the dream of lunch slip through her fingers like a balloon tied to a ribbon. She could draft a serviceable complaint by the end of the day. But she couldn’t pull an all-nighter finalizing it. She had a hunch Hank didn’t offer overnight child care. And who knew when Connelly planned to grace his family with his presence?

  “I’ll have a draft for you to review later this evening. We’ll file electronically, so assuming you don’t have a lot of comments, it could be docketed before lunchtime tomorrow.”

  “That’s perfect. I’ll clear my schedule and will be available all evening.”

  “Did you and the board discuss the possibility of naming the NCTC as a defendant, depending on how the facts shake out?”

  “We did. And it’s something we’ll need to give careful consideration to at a later time with the benefit of more information.”

  “That seems sensible. I should get started.”

  “I’ll call if I have any luck with Mr. Wheaton.”

  “Great.” Sasha hung up, her hunger forgotten, the mess with Connelly forgotten.

  The familiar buzz of hyperfocus and adrenaline was already building in her veins. She closed her eyes to center herself, cranked up her music, grabbed a legal pad from the stack on her shelf, and started writing. Twenty minutes later she had a list of research questions she needed to answer before she started writing the complaint.

  She stood, stretched her back, and peeked out into the hallway.

  “Psst, Jordana.”

  The firm’s part-time intern wheeled around at the sound of the loud whisper.

  “Hey, Sasha.”

  “Hi. Could you do me a huge favor and run down to Jake’s and get me a refill, please?” She shot the girl a high-voltage smile, pushed the door open another couple inches, and thrust her mug out.

  “No problem.”

  “Awesome, thanks.” She pulled the door most of the way closed and returned to her desk.

  By the time Jordana returned with a fresh coffee, she’d plowed through her list of research issues.

  The girl placed the mug on the desk near Sasha’s left elbow and put a package of Jake’s homemade granola and a container of yogurt next to it.

  “Thanks, but you didn’t need to get anything to eat.”

  “Um … you look really busy.”

  Sasha opened her desk drawer and removed a spoon.

  She ripped off the lid to the yogurt and dumped the granola on top. As she stirred it up, she said, “I am. I need to draft a complaint by the end of the day. But it’s not your job to feed me.”

  She held the spoon in her mouth and reached for her wallet.

  Jordana shook her head. “No, it’s okay.”

  “Jordana, I’m not letting you pay for my food.”

  “I didn’t. Caroline said whenever it looks like you might work through lunch, we should get some money out of petty cash and buy you a high-protein, moderate fat snack that you can eat easily … otherwise you get cranky.” She shifted her weight. “Sorry.”

  Sasha scooped out the last of the yogurt and swallowed it before responding. “Caroline’s a perceptive woman. Thanks for the coffee and the snack.”

  Jordana exhaled and laughed at the same time. “Oh, wow. I was afraid you might get mad.” She loosened her shoulders and leaned over to peer at Sasha’s laptop screen. “You’re doing legal research, right?”

  “I just finished, actually.” She doubled-checked the items on her list. Yep, each entry had a line drawn through it.

  “How’d you do it so fast?”

  She laughed. “The magic of computers. When I started practicing, we still used physical books to do research—there were rows and rows of digests in this enormous library at Prescott & Talbott. Research took ages.”

  “That can’t be right. Didn’t you graduate from law school in 2003 or something?” She shot Sasha a skeptical look.

  “Oh, computerized research existed. It wasn’t as advanced as it is now. We were stringing together Boolean searches when I was in law school. And don’t even get me started on Shepardizing cases.” She shuddered.

  “Boo-hoo what with a shepherd now?”

  Sasha laughed. “Exactly. But relying on computerized legal research simply wasn’t the Prescott way. Lawyers who started practicing when secretaries still took shorthand and pounded out briefs on manual typewriters didn’t exactly trust the notion of feeding a string of words into a database and having it spit out an answer.”

  The digital native managed a hesitant nod and started to back away. “Riiiiight. Did you guys use leeches and stuff when you got sick, too?”

  “Get out of here, already,” Sasha shooed her. “You’re distracting me. Leeches.”

  As Jordana slipped out into the hall and closed the door behind her with a soft click, she returned her attention to her caselaw.

  The causes of action against Asher Morgan and Sentinel Solution Sy
stems should’ve been clear cut. Of course, they weren’t.

  Morgan had made public information that his employer had promised to keep private. But it would be a stretch to characterize a list of names and zip codes as trade secret or proprietary information. And the man hadn’t violated a nondisclosure or noncompetition agreement because he hadn’t signed one.

  Not to mention, a government contractor specializing in the interception, collection, and analysis of digital intelligence was in no way, shape, or form even remotely a competitor to a charitable crowdfunding community. Sentinel Solution Systems and DoGiveThrive were as unrelated as two entities could be.

  She sipped her coffee and moved on to the statutory provisions she’d printed. Pennsylvania’s Breach of Personal Information Notification Act sounded promising. Although the purpose of the statute was to require the company in question to notify its customers of the breach, she hoped there’d be a hook she could use to snare Morgan and his new employer, as well.

  She traded her pen for a highlighter and turned to the definition section. Morgan’s action met the definition of a ‘breach.’ Good. The definition of a ‘business’ included nonprofit corporation. Even better. Maybe she’d found her angle.

  She read on, but her optimism was short-lived. The act defined ‘personal information’ as a person’s first initial or name and their last name in combination with or linked to a slew of possible information, including such items as unredacted social security numbers or credit card information. In fact, the act specifically excluded addresses and telephone numbers from the definition of personal information.

  She tossed the now-useless statute to the side of her desk and turned to the federal law. The Computer Fraud and Abuse Act’s focus was on criminal penalties, but it also provided for civil liability against a former employee and/or his new employer for damages arising from the unauthorized use of information from the former employer’s computer system. Although the CFAA had been used civilly mainly to address the theft of computer information to gain a competitive advantage, she saw enough wiggle room in the definitions of ‘damage’ and ‘loss’ to hang her hat on. A federal statute would hold more sway over Sentinel Solution Systems, anyway.