Coming of Age: Volume 1: Eternal Life

by Thomas T. Thomas

  He passed her the folder containing copies of her faxes from Harold Cromwell at the Denver Art Commission, her note to Julia Schottlander, and highlighted extracts from the accounting system. Also included were printouts of software diagnostics, the paper trail of scheduled project milestones and Callie’s authorization to issue the missing invoice, and the company’s telephone logs showing the date and time of all calls among Cromwell, Schottlander, and Callie. “These are certified copies of everything,” he explained. “The Legal Department is keeping the originals for now.”

  She studied the material, flipping methodically through the pages, and once backtracking to check something. He studied her face as she did so and saw her beetled eyebrows and compressed frown relax into a smile as she looked up.

  “Oh, good!” she said. “This explains where the money went. For a while I thought someone had snagged the art commission’s check and cashed it. They couldn’t possibly afford to pay that whopper twice.”

  “The money has now been properly distributed,” he said quietly.

  “Then why bring me back in such a rush? I’ve got a job—”

  “Because everyone thinks you took it in the first place.”

  “What! That’s nonsense! Why would I do that? How would I do that?”

  “Temptation? Insecurity? Greed? The money ended up in your account.”

  “You mean, I just put it in there and hoped no one would notice? Like ‘finders, keepers’?” She riffled the pages. “Look, even with the recent inflation, that amount is a hundred times my usual quarterly statement. And without a line of code to explain it, that entry sticks out by a mile. Does everyone think I’m stupid?”

  “No, not stupid. But we’ve got Schottlander’s analysis and the software diagnostic saying somebody moved the money. If not you, then who else?”

  “But … I don’t even receive the checks. I didn’t know anything was wrong until Harold Cromwell called me. I’m on the construction end the business—pushing dirt, concrete, and steel—not in accounting. I never handle the money.”

  “You initiated that invoice.”

  “Because it’s part of my job.”

  “Look, dear, I believe you. I wish that settled it,” he said with a sigh. “I wish I could just wave a hand and make this go away. But we’re an international company with financial regulators tracking our every move in sixteen different languages. I have to tell you formally, the Legal Department will be coming after you.”

  “So I’m going to need an attorney?”

  “I think so. But I know a good one.”

  “Better than our handpicked crew?”

  “Someone who’s beaten them before.”

  * * *

  Before she would put her fate in the hands of her father’s lawyer, Callista Praxis decided to do some research on her own. Before trusting what everyone else was saying about the company’s accounting software, she wanted to hear the expert view. But she had not been present—or even in the country—when the system was installed five years ago, so she knew none of the people who had done the work. She only knew the name of the installation contractor, Intelligeneering Systems Inc. So she started there.

  As with all corporate contacts, it took five layers of phone tree, buffered by four bad choices which dumped her back to a dial tone, before she could speak with a representative from Technical Support. It was a young man named “Andy,” who spoke with a lilt that reminded her of Ballywood movies.

  “How may I help you today?”

  “I’m calling from Praxis Engineering and Construction. I’m a vice president with the company. And I want your advice about a clerical error that the accounting package your people installed seems to have produced.”

  “Oh? Would you give me the error code, please?”

  “Um, I don’t have that information.”

  “Did you run a diagnostic?”

  “I believe they did.”

  “And what were the results?”

  “I don’t have them in front of me.”

  “Are you not the system administrator?”

  “No, I’m—well, I’m kind of on the wrong end of this,” Callie said. “You see, the program has made a huge error. The software itself—or someone using it—secretly moved a large amount of money, forty million dollars, out of one account and into another. I want you to tell me if that’s possible.”

  “The system does not make decisions or transactions on its own, ma’am, unless they are written into the logic of the code,” the rep replied with perfect, almost inhuman courtesy. “No one can make such a transaction without having the right kind of access and without leaving a time stamp linked to their authorization.”

  “I understand all that. But aren’t there secret ways—back doors and Easter eggs—that would let someone do this without—”

  “No, ma’am. Such things are fairy tales. They would undoubtedly call into question the integrity of your system and permit doubts about the accuracy of its results. Trapdoors are highly illegal and would create for you many problems with your Internal Revenue Service, Securities and Exchange Commission, and other fiduciary regulators.”

  “So there’s no way anyone could move the money secretly?”

  “No, ma’am. And if there were, it would be highly improper for me to tell you. You must not think of doing such things.”

  “No, I’m not trying to—”

  “Thank you for calling Intelligeneering Systems. Remember, my name is Andy. If you need to reference this call in the future, please use transaction number four-two-two …” And he recited a string of ten meaningless digits that she didn’t have time to write down. “Have a nice day,” he concluded, and the line went dead.

  * * *

  The young woman sitting in Antigone Wells’s office bore a strong resemblance to the father. She had the same shape of face with high forehead, straight nose, wide jaw, and full mouth. But where John Praxis’s hair was cut short and silvery white, giving no clue to its original color, Callista’s was dark brown, almost black, flowed in waves around her face, and touched her perfect cheekbones. Also, where his eyes were brown, kindly, and wise, hers were green, sharp, and watchful. But that sense of lizard-like watchfulness might well be due to her present circumstances.

  Wells had met the sons, Leonard and Richard, when she was taking depositions and conducting negotiations during the St. Brigid’s case. Neither had impressed her as being very intelligent nor half as quick-witted as the elder Praxis. If asked, Wells would have guessed that the family had finally passed over from its days of growth and glory as entrepreneurs, empire builders, and risk takers into the long days of decline and dwindling fortune as administrators, conservators, and trust-fund beneficiaries. But now, seeing the daughter, she wasn’t so sure of that assessment.

  John Praxis had already briefed Wells on the situation and confirmed his belief in his daughter’s innocence, although he remained frankly perplexed by the whole affair. Now Wells made Callista describe her predicament as she understood it. The young woman did so, retelling her interview with Praxis and her own call to the system integrator, and concluded by saying, “I didn’t do any of this. I wouldn’t even know how to begin faking a thing like this. But, of course, I can’t prove that.”

  Wells finished taking notes before she would speak. “In a court of law, you wouldn’t have to,” she said. “The evidence against you is purely circumstantial—if we can really believe they don’t have a link between your logon access records and the transfer event itself.”

  “There’s no time stamp on the transaction at all, they say. And none on deletion of the invoice.”

  “So, not your fingerprints. Not anyone’s fingerprints. And the software people say a system error is simply not possible.”

  “So God did it?” Callista asked angrily.

  “I don’t think you want to take that line of defense,” Wells replied. “It didn’t work so well last time. If I could break it in court, so can others.” She though
t for a moment. “No, it seems like the entire case against you is cui bono—who benefits?

  “In dealing with a case of employee theft like this,” Wells went on, “we operate with something called the ‘fraud triangle,’ or three elements necessary to explain the act. First is motive—the pressure that might have driven you to commit fraud in the first place. It had to be strong enough to overcome your sense of responsibility to your employer. For example, did you need the money to support a drug habit? Do you have an extravagant lifestyle? Are you in debt?” She paused.

  “None of the above,” Callista said. “I’m doing fine. I have a stake in the company—ten percent of shares. And if I wanted money now, why would I put it into a retirement account?”

  “Of course,” Wells said. “The second element is means or opportunity—your ability to commit the fraud. But that remains gravely in doubt, doesn’t it? Third is your rationalization—what you would tell yourself to justify stealing from your clients or your employer. Have you been passed over, say, by your brothers? Has someone wronged you? Do they not appreciate you?”

  “No, I’m good. I’m doing what I want, which is building big projects. I don’t want power over people—which I guess is Leonard’s thing—and I’m not an administrator like Richard.”

  “So it’s a mystery all around. Tell me, has your legal staff preferred charges or brought a suit against you?” Then she answered herself immediately. “Oh, of course not. If they had, you’d have the documents in hand, wouldn’t you?”

  “All I know is what my father tells me,” Callista said. “I haven’t even talked to the company’s lawyers yet. They have me in some kind of quarantine.”

  “Now isn’t that odd?”

  “You tell me.”

  “If I were to guess, I’d say they won’t go to court, won’t inform the authorities, won’t move on this at all. They’ve put the money back where it belongs, so your client is not damaged. And now they have you dangling over a pit. Tell me, do you have any enemies in the company? Any reason for them to hurt you?”

  “No, I’m just … Of course, being a member of the family, holding shares and all, makes me different from the regular employees around me. My career path is assured, where other people have to scramble.”

  “Any particular hard feelings? Dirty looks? Threats?”

  “No. I go out of my way to be nice to people, try to treat them fairly.”

  Wells thought for a moment, tapping her pen on her notepad. She didn’t believe for an instant that someone could not have secret access to the accounting files. Human beings were always smarter than any machine or system. So … Wasn’t it Conan Doyle who said that once you eliminated the impossible, whatever remained, no matter how improbable, had to be the truth? As soon as they took the one technical impossibility out of Callista’s story, the inviolability of the system, the answer became obvious. Someone was seeking advantage, creating a pressure point. But to achieve what? And how could she and Callista use that knowledge?

  “If they never formally charge you,” she asked, “what happens?”

  “I suppose they could still terminate me, for cause.”

  “We could challenge that with a lawsuit.”

  Callista shook her head. “A lot of bad publicity there.”

  “Exactly what you don’t want, for professional reasons, and neither do they. They want you to plead nolo contendere and go quietly.”

  “Who is ‘they’?”

  “Whoever set this up.”

  “And why would anyone do that?”

  “I don’t know. But my guess is someone—someone with a lot of access—wants you out of the company. They’ll offer you the chance to quit quietly in exchange for their not lodging a complaint with the Board of Professional Engineers and getting your license revoked.”

  The young woman thought with her eyes closed. Then she opened them. “I could fight that—”

  “—but it will be messy. If they won’t throw the stink bomb of a lawsuit, you’d have to. So tell me, what are your goals here?”

  “To clean up this mess and put it behind me.”

  “And if that’s not possible, will you do what’s best for yourself, or for your company?” Wells asked. “Which comes first?”

  More thinking. This time her eyes were squeezed shut. When she opened them, they were filmed with tears. “The company, I guess. … I can always find other work.”

  “Then I’ll help you negotiate a deal.”

  * * *

  The meeting took place in a conference room on the thirty-eighth floor. As a precaution, John Praxis had ordered the building’s security team to sweep it that morning for listening devices. Half an hour beforehand, he met with Leonard and Richard, as well as Vice President and Chief Counsel Winston Burke, to finalize their negotiating position.

  “I want it understood,” Praxis told them, “that my daughter is to be treated with respect. She is still a member of this family and this company. I believe the principle of ‘innocent until proven guilty’ still exists in this country.”

  “This is not a court of law,” Burks pointed out.

  “We will still hold to that standard,” Praxis insisted.

  “Very well, but it makes our position somewhat weaker.”

  Richard twisted in his chair. “I’m afraid we have more proof at this point, rather than less,” he said. He dug another folder full of printouts with yellow highlighting out of his briefcase and laid it on the table. “I asked Julia Schottlander in Accounting to check on Callie’s other projects. And this morning she brought me evidence of more irregularities, although in smaller amounts and older accounts. These establish a clear pattern of theft and deceit—almost as if Callie was practicing for stealing the Denver Art Commission’s check.”

  Praxis was dumbstruck. “But … I thought you said you ran a system audit.”

  “Only of the Mile High project,” Richard said. “But then I thought we should dig deeper, to make sure that was not just a fluke.”

  Praxis’s heart sank, but he tried to rally. “And is her time stamp on any of them?”

  “No, not a one,” Richard said. “It looks as if she’s found some way around the firewall and password system. I didn’t think that was possible, but there it is. I really should take responsibility for letting this happen—”

  “It’s not your fault,” Leonard said quickly.

  “Of course not,” Burke said.

  Praxis kept quiet.

  “So …” Leonard said. “Do we all agree she must leave the company, one way or another?”

  “I think it’s for the best,” Richard said. “We can then plug the cash flow and keep publicity to a minimum.”

  “I still believe we have enough evidence to prosecute,” Burke objected.

  “That would not be a minimum of publicity,” Richard said.

  “What do you think, Dad?” Leonard asked quietly.

  “I want to hear what Callie has to say.”

  “You know she’ll just protest her innocence,” Richard said.

  “And that just might be the truth,” he replied.

  “She always was your favorite.”

  A soft knock on the door interrupted their discussion. Ivy Blake opened the door and escorted Callie and Antigone Wells into the room. As his executive assistant withdrew, Praxis said, “Please wait outside and see that we’re not disturbed.”

  Ivy nodded somberly and closed the door behind her.

  Antigone and Callie moved to the empty side of the table, across from his sons and Burke, leaving Praxis at the head in the dubious and undeclared position of arbitrator or moderator. That suited him fine, as he wanted to be fair to his daughter but also to the facts. He nodded at Antigone to speak first.

  “Let me begin by saying that my client and I want what is best for this company,” Wells said quietly. “While we dispute the evidence that has been made available to us and the interpretation you gentlemen are placing on it, we have no intention of dragging
the Praxis name, either as family or corporation, into a public scandal.”

  When it was clear she had finished, he nodded for his sons to make their case.

  “About that evidence,” Richard began. “We have conducted a more thorough audit of all Miss Praxis’s earlier work and uncovered even more irregularities.” He lifted his folder and shoved it halfway across the table to a point equidistant between Callie and her lawyer.

  Callie grabbed it, spun it around, opened it, and began poring over the details. By the third page her face was bright red. “Oh, come on!” she exclaimed. “Where did all this come from? What’s happening here?”

  Antigone laid a hand upon his daughter’s arm. It looked like gentle restraint, but her fingers were arched and her grip taut to prevent another outburst. Callie subsided. Antigone casually drew the folder in front of her, glanced at the first page, and flipped it closed. She looked across the table with a serene expression.

  “We’re prepared for you to stipulate,” she said, “that one or more unexplained computer errors have embarrassed my client and even cast doubt upon her professional reputation. We don’t require an apology at this point, but we would have the company’s commitment, in writing, to root out and fix the source of these errors.”

  Burke laughed out loud, but he was alone in doing so.

  Antigone’s expression did not change. Her eyes were as opaque as stones.

  “We have enough to show fraud and grand larceny,” Burke said. “Not to mention a pattern of previous criminal behavior.”

  “And it benefits you to disclose this—how?” Antigone asked.

  “We don’t want a scandal, either,” Leonard said quietly, more to Burke than to her. “In fact, we’ll withdraw all charges if Callie will simply admit her guilt and leave the company.”

  Richard and Burke frowned at this but nodded their agreement.

  “We will admit nothing,” Antigone said. “However, my client feels that her services may no longer be appropriately valued at Praxis Engineering. She is eager to be released from her contract and try her hand at new endeavors.”

  “Fine by us,” Leonard said. Richard, and then Burke, nodded.