by Ray Daniel
“Then why are we here?”
“Because if that video comes out, Betty will kill me. I promised her that I’d never share it, and I never did.”
“But it went into the cloud without you knowing it would,” I said.
“Yes,” Endicott said. “How did you know?”
“It’s happened before. Somebody tricked you into giving them your password—through an e-mail, for example. Did you ever get an e-mail asking you to fix your account?”
“I don’t read my e-mails.”
Kamela said, “Oh, no—”
I nodded toward her. “Looks like you did.”
“I’m so sorry, Senator. The e-mail said your phone would be cut off if I didn’t confirm your information.”
“That’s the usual ruse,” I said.
“I was so busy that day, a thousand things going on.”
“They wait for that.”
Endicott patted Kamela’s hand. “I understand—”
Kamela pulled her hand away. Pounded the table. “I feel like an idiot!”
“It’s easy to get tricked,” I said.
“I should have been smarter.”
Endicott said, “I need you to find that video in the next two days and destroy it.”
“It may be impossible to destroy all the copies. There is probably a copy in your backup system right now, and there are probably backups online, and the person who took it probably has several copies.”
“So what can we do? Betty will be mortified. She’s very private. It embarrasses her to think that anyone believes we have sex, let alone—”
I said, “I think the only thing we can do is make sure that the person who has the video is as motivated as you to make sure it never gets out.”
“How would you do that?” asked Endicott.
“We find the person who has the video and—”
Kamela said, “I think it’s time you left the room, Senator.”
Jael said, “Yes. That would be best.”
“You need plausible deniability.”
Endicott rose. Turned at the door. “Nobody gets hurt.”
“Okay,” I said.
The four of us sat in embarrassed silence.
Finally Kamela spoke. “Will you help us?”
I pointed my chin at Special Agent Hunter. “It depends on her.”
“What does that mean?” asked Hunter.
I said to Hunter, “I’ll help, on one condition.”
“Really? A condition?”
“Only one.”
She gave me an eye roll. I was starting to like it. “What is it?”
“I get to call you Mel.”
Thirty-One
Sitting at the head of the conference room table, Kamela Jones gave a start and looked at her Apple Watch. She tapped the watch, futzed with the crown, muttered, and stood.
“I have to go,” she said.
“Pressing affairs of state?” I asked.
“My daughter threw up on her teacher.”
“Or that.”
“Keep the room,” she said, hurrying out.
“So, Special Agent Hunter?”
“So what?”
“Do I get to call you Mel?”
“Fine. Whatever,” said Mel, crossing her arms and rolling her eyes. She was cute when she was adolescent. Actually, she was cute regardless, a fact that had just started to worm its way into my consciousness.
“Bringing you into this was the senator’s idea,” said Mel. “I think it’s stupid.”
“How did the senator know about me?”
“Bobby had to explain why we were talking to you, a known hacker—”
“White-hat hacker.”
“Right. White-hat.”
“What, you don’t believe that?”
“More like a dingy-gray hat, given what I read on Twitter.”
I looked at Jael. “Can you believe this?”
Jael had been looking into her smartphone. “There is a lot on Twitter. More death threats.”
“We told you to stay away from Peter,” said Mel. “If you’d listened to us, none of this would be happening to you.”
“Why did you tell me to stay away from Peter? Did you think he stole the senator’s video?”
“We know he stole the senator’s video. There was a clear trail from the link in Kamela Jones’s e-mail to Peter’s machine in East Boston. We had a warrant to watch his online activities to see what he did with the video. We told you to stay away from Peter because we didn’t want him spooked. But you screwed that up, and now he’s dead.”
“So you’ve got his computer now?”
“Yes.”
“And you found the video on it.”
“No, they didn’t,” said Jael.
“How do you know?”
“Because if they had found the video, then we would not have been summoned.”
“And you’d still be calling me Special Agent Hunter,” said Mel.
“How could all the signs have pointed to Peter and then he doesn’t have the video?”
“We think he handed it off to someone else in PwnSec.”
“What is PwnSec?” asked Jael.
“The group of idiots who keep pushing #TuckerGate,” I said.
“They were also Peter’s online friends.”
“With friends like that,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“I think we’ll find that a guy named Earl Clary is in PwnSec.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He’s the guy whose Facebook comment linked Peter to his nickname, Runway. Earl accidentally doxed Peter.”
“Why do you think he’s in PwnSec?”
“I don’t know. It’s a hunch. It was a really familiar comment, something that a friend in both the online world and the real world would say.”
Mel said, “And that’s why you are in this meeting.”
“I’m sorry, why was I in this meeting?”
“It took the cooperation of the FBI, Homeland Security, and a judge for us to dox Peter. You did it in an evening on Facebook. Clearly, you’re good at this.”
“I’m also outside legal authority.”
“That too. You’re a private citizen. You can do whatever you need to do to dox someone, no warrant necessary.”
“And then I can report back to you.”
“Exactly.”
“So I’ll be kind of a spy.”
Mel looked at me, lips pursed, eyes narrowed. She stood, walked to the credenza, and poured herself a glass of water. She wore nicely-
fitting black pants, a blue shirt, and a brown leather jacket. Her brown shoulder-length hair rested on her shoulders and down her back. But her shoulders were hunched. She was clearly angry, settling herself.
She sat down across from me. “What is your problem?”
“My problem is that I’ve got an Internet shitstorm accusing me of being in cahoots with the FBI, and you’re asking me to be in cahoots with the FBI.”
“You said they were all idiots.”
“They are all idiots.”
“Then what do you care what they think?”
“I don’t care what they think.”
“Then what’s your problem? Why won’t you help us?”
“Because I don’t want to see the FBI screw anybody el—”
Jael, who had been sitting next to me the whole time listening, placed her hand on mine. I stopped, my train of thought interrupted by the rarity of the event. I looked from my hand and up to Jael’s gray eyes.
“You should help them,” said Jael.
“Help who?”
“The FBI. You should find these people with the video.”
“But you saw what happen
ed with Peter. You see what’s happening online.”
“Are you afraid?”
Was I afraid? Of a Twitter storm? “No.”
“Then you should help this woman.”
“Mel?”
“No. The senator’s wife.”
“Betty?”
“She allowed herself to be recorded in order to please her husband. She trusted him. He was ignorant and foolish, and her trust was broken. If the video becomes public, she will be shamed.”
“Yes, but—”
“She is the innocent one here. She should be protected.”
Landon, you’re sure nobody will see this?
Jael’s moral clarity stopped me cold. Who was I defending here? A bunch of kids who thought pranking people was fun, who would drive a girl to suicide for the lulz? Was the FBI so terrible for catching them before they hurt someone else?
I looked toward the glowering Mel, then back at Jael.
“You’re right,” I said to Jael.
“So what does that mean?” asked Mel.
“It means I’ll help you dox PwnSec.”
“Because of Betty?”
“Yeah,” I said, “because of Betty.”
Mel stood, walked around the table. Stuck out her hand. I looked at it.
“Partners?” she said.
“So you don’t want to arrest me anymore?”
Mel left her hand out there. “No. I was wrong.”
I ignored the hand. “Apology accepted.”
“I haven’t apologized.” The hand stayed out. “Partners?”
“Sure, Mel, we’re partners.” I shook her hand.
“Good! What’s our next step?”
“You said you had Peter’s computer?”
“Yup.”
“Let me know if you find anything funky on it. Any malware.”
“Got it.”
With that Mel left, apparently happy to have a specific assignment. The door clicked shut behind her.
“Thank you,” I said to Jael.
“Thank you?”
“Thank you for helping me see the bigger picture,” I said, “and for getting me to think about Betty.”
Jael said nothing.
“What’s next?” I asked.
Jael took out her smartphone, opened the Twitter app, and handed it to me. The invective continued to stream.
@PwnSec: It’s time to do something about Tucker. #TuckerGate
@Eliza: Got a plan coming together #TuckerGate
I knew what I had to do next.
Thirty-Two
Some personal problems lend themselves to long walks in the country, heart-to-heart soul barings, or howls at the moon. For everything else, there’s beer.
The Bell in Hand Tavern juts into the corner of Union and Marshall Streets like the prow of a ship. I carried my Sam Adams and Jael’s Lagavulin Scotch to the table at the prow of the building. I sat waiting for Jael, who had gone off to do something. I got bored and opened the Twitter app on my finally charged smartphone.
You can avoid an Internet fight simply by not participating. If you delete the Twitter app and go about your life, you can happily ignore the fact that countless trolls are dragging your name through the mud.
The problem is that you kind of want to know what the countless trolls are saying about you. Hence, I found myself searching for and reading tweets with the #TuckerGate tag. For example:
@PwnSec: Read the papers! @TuckerInBoston comes from a Mafia family. #TuckerGate
@NotAGirl: It’s not the first time a connected guy had the FBI covering for him in Boston. #TuckerGate
Right. Now I was Whitey Bulger.
@PwnSec: It’s time that we had some justice. You’re a dead man, @TuckerInBoston. #TuckerGate.
@CapnMerica: #Doxed! Here is @TuckerInBoston’s address for when the time comes.
And then he printed my Follen Street address again.
The wise thing to do was ignore all this, but I had had enough. I tweeted:
@TuckerInBoston: Hey @CapnMerica, my address is in the phone book, you dipshit. Why don’t you publish yours? #TuckerGate
The effect was like taking a baseball bat to a log full of angry yellow jackets. The creatures swarmed, and it was a tribute to the IT skills of the folks at Twitter that their servers held up. Random trolls took up the tweets:
I’m going to cut out your fucking liver. #TuckerGate
You’re what’s wrong with the world. #TuckerGate
A white man gets away with murder, what a surprise. #TuckerGate
My cell phone rang. Caroline.
“What are you doing?” asked Caroline.
“I’m drinking a beer at the Bell in Hand with Jael. Want to join me?”
“What are you doing on Twitter?”
“Watching the mob.”
“More like tweaking the mob.”
“The mob is harmless.”
“The mob tarred and feathered people right outside that window.”
“Yeah, in the eighteenth century.”
“You’re going to see it in the twenty-first century if you don’t stop tweeting, you idiot.”
“I’ve got a right to tweet.”
“No. You’ve got a right to remain silent, because anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. And that includes tweeting.”
As Caroline continued her harangue, an Asian guy on the street caught my eye and made a motion that seemed to say Stay there. I’ll be right in. I nodded and he set off toward the door.
“ … because I’m not going to lose you to diarrhea of the thumbs,” Caroline said.
“Jesus, could you be more graphic?”
“I’m serious. Stay off Twitter.”
The Asian guy was standing next to me now.
“I’ll stay off. I gotta go.” I broke the connection.
The guy asked, “Mr. Tucker, may we talk?”
“Sure.”
He looked out the window. “This is a nice view,” he said.
I looked out the window. The ghostly smokestacks of the Holocaust Memorial exhaled steam into the afternoon gloom. “If you say so.”
“It certainly lends perspective. It provides the big picture.”
Creepy dude.
“You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“Exactly.”
“Then I guess we’re done talking.”
“No,” he said, “we’re not.” Leaning close, the guy snicked open a knife and touched it to my chest.
I backed away. He leaned in closer, hemming me against the window. The knife edged through the fabric of my shirt.
The guy said, “You need to stop your investigation.”
“What investigation?”
“Do not toy with me.”
“You can’t believe everything you read on Twitter.”
The knife slid along my torso, opening a tiny cut. “I’m not talking about Twitter.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about—”
Jael’s voice broke in. “I will put my knife through your kidney.”
She stood behind the guy, who had suddenly developed excellent posture. Still, his knife touched my skin.
He said, “Jael.”
“No names.”
“Of course.”
“Put your knife away,” said Jael. “Experience tells me that you will bleed to death three minutes after I puncture your kidney.”
The guy pulled his knife away, folded it, dropped it into his pants pocket, and raised his hands.
“Yes,” he said. “Three minutes is about right.”
“Get out.”
“Wait!” I said. I pulled out my phone, flipped open the c
amera app.
The guy started to move. Jael leaned closer, getting out of the picture, but also using her knife to straighten the guy up. I took the picture.
“Now, you can go,” I said.
He said, “I will get your phone.”
“Picture’s already in the cloud. No getting it back now.”
The guy stared hatred at me, turned, and walked out of the bar. Jael’s eyes tracked him until he strode out the door, head high, making no eye contact. She placed a butter knife on the table.
“A butter knife?”
“I improvised.”
“He knows you. How?”
Jael looked around at the bay window jutting into the street corner. “You have an instinct for finding the most insecure location in a room. We could be shot here from three sides.” She picked up her drink and walked into the bar, selecting a table with a good view of the doors. I followed.
“How does that guy know you?”
Jael said, “Now is not the time. #TuckerGate on Twitter is getting worse.”
“Do you know him?”
“You should look at Twitter.”
I opened my app. The vitriol continued its sewer pipe flow. For every fifty tweets calling me a “cocksucking fbifag” or a “fucking snitchtwat,” one promised to “cut off your balls and shove them down your throat,” “feed your liver to the sea gulls,” or “stick your severed head on the Public Garden fence.” At least fifty death threats.
I drank my beer, but I’d given up on the idea that it would bring me any comfort.
Thirty-Three
An avalanche starts as a tiny thing, a little bit of snow sliding down the mountain. Then it catches some more snow, gains some weight, catches more snow, gains more weight, then it really gets going and it’s gone from a little thing to a big thing.
It’s the same with meetings.
I had e-mailed the picture of the Asian guy to Mel, who showed it to Kamela Jones, who called the CIA, who contacted Lieutenant Lee, who harassed me, which caused me to call my lawyer, Caroline Quinn. I sat at one end of the table. Jael sat next to me. Caroline on the other side. Then Lee. Then Mel. Then the hook-nosed Pat from the senator’s office, and finally some guy from the CIA.
“You know what this meeting needs?” I said. “More people. We don’t have nearly enough people.”
