“I’m not quite sure how I fit into this plan.”
“We want to do it right. Trademarks, copyrights, patents, whatever you need to protect our idea. This is a hot property, and we certainly don’t want someone stealing it. The Chinese are horrible about stealing intellectual properties. You can’t, because of client-attorney privilege and all that.”
“You have certainly thought this over.” Dupree wished he was fishing. And he didn’t fish.
“In today’s internet world nothing is safe. What with the Russian’s stealing the election from Hillary and all.”
“Do you have a publisher for your novel?” Dupree asked.
There was an uncomfortable silence. Reggie looked at Roland. Roland looked at Dupree.
Dupree leaned forward. “What?”
“Well, it’s not quite…”
“He hasn’t written it yet.” Reggie used an accusing prissy scolding tone.
“Me? You said you would write it!”
“OK, OK so we have an unwritten book. Is that right?” Dupree took charge, again.
The pair nodded sheepishly.
“Do we have a song written?” Dupree said sarcastically.
“Well of course!”
Without missing a beat, the pair broke into song.
“There is a place in Walla Walla,
Where a boy met a fella.
They fell in love singing Dorothy’s Song,
You know it, sing along,
Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high
And the dreams that you dream of, once in a lullaby”
“Hold it, hold it.” Dupree interrupted. “Are you about to sing Over the Rainbow?”
“Some of it.” Reggie frowned defensively.
“There is an ending after the rainbow part.” Roland snapped, beginning to sing.
“Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high
The dreams you dare to dream, Can and do come true.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes,” the pair proudly said together.
“Couple of things you may not be aware of. You can’t just give an existing song an introduction, and a different wording at the end and claim it. You certainly can’t copyright it.”
“Why not? It’s different, it’s our story, it’s our song.”
“The guys who wrote the original may beg to differ.”
“Oh,” Reggie broke into a relieved laugh. “They’re dead! Have been for years, I looked it up. There’s no problem, they’ll never know.” replied Roland grinning like he broke the Da Vinci Code.
“Hold on a second.” Dupree hit the space bar on his keyboard. “Here we go, Over the Rainbow will enter the public domain in 2034 at the earliest. If you wait a few years you can do your song, maybe. Let’s see here, one, two, three, four,” Dupree ran his finger down the monitor. “I see four pending lawsuits from using the song without permission, and I’m not even to the bottom of the page. Sorry guys.”
Dupree looked from the monitor to see Reggie’s face buried in his hands, his shoulder shaking.
“Oh, look what you’ve done!” Roland stood. “You’ve broken his heart. This was our future, our fortune, our dream, and you have smashed it.”
“Sorry, but the law is the law, and what you’ve done, or were trying to do, violated it.”
“You’re just a mean old Grinch!” Roland put his hands on his hips and stomped his foot.
“I’ve always seen myself more as an Abe Lincoln kind of guy.” Dupree couldn’t help but play into this camp farce.
“Come on sweetie, we’re going home.” Roland took Reggie by the arm and helped him to his feet.
“But what about the cups and stuff?” Dupree asked, finding he just couldn’t help himself.
Reggie burst into a redoubled dramatic burst of emotional sobbing. Roland scowled angrily and led him from Dupree’s office.
“Have a nice day,” Tomi said as they made their way out the door.
“You’re out of the woods, you’re out of the dark, you’re out of the night, step into the sun, step into the light,” Dupree sang between chuckles.
CHAPTER 8
Dara glanced around the Quarter Moon. The morning rush was over. Three older couples Dara referred to as “The Old Sweeties” were scattered across the dining area. They come in every morning after the rowdy breakfast crowd goes to work. They have coffee and share a slice of nut bread to save money. About once a week Dara would “accidentally” bring two slices to each table, claiming the loaf was sliced too big or too small and asked if they would like it. They would eat their nut bread, finish a second cup of coffee, leave a fifty-cent tip, and promptly at eleven o’clock take their leave until tomorrow.
So, it surprised Dara to see a man sitting alone facing the back wall, as far from the nearest couple as possible.
Pot of coffee in hand Dara made the rounds of the tables. As she approached the man sitting in the booth, she recognized Mike Potter. Elbows on the table, head resting on his fists, his eyes were forced closed by his pushed cheeks. Potter didn’t notice Dara approaching the table.
“Hey, all the other kids have gone on to school.” Dara was giving him a big smile when he looked up.
Potter looked around the café. “What time is it?”
“Little after ten. You OK, Mike?”
“Sure.” There was no conviction in Potter’s answer.
Dara slid into the booth. Mike Potter was a regular ever since the Quarter Moon opened. This morning the usually jovial cable repairman was having trouble making eye contact.
“Anything you need to talk out?” Dara was a sounding board and confidential advisor to a lot of her customers. People always find it easier to talk to a stranger than a friend or family member, like a stranger on a plane who tells the poor trapped person next to them their life story and details of their private lives. The “secrets” of a person’s life can be exhaled, and they may never see the person again.
Many customers here spoke for the first time about a life-threatening medical diagnosis, death of a loved one, financial disaster, marital problems, wayward teens, and a host of problems that changed the course of their lives, or in fact, were only a small pothole on life’s road.
Today was Mike Potter’s turn. He looked up. His face was void of emotion. “You ever wish things were different?”
“I think one time or another everyone does.”
“I have a degree in electronics you know. It’s an AA from the community college but it’s a degree. I should have transferred to a four-year college. I had good grades; I could have done it.” Potter really wasn’t speaking to Dara. His words were escaping self-talk.
“So, what happened?”
“The cable company came into town to wire us up. I got a summer job. I figured I’d save up for UDub. The end of summer came, they offered me a full-time job. Pay was good, even had health insurance back then. I figured another year of savings in the bank and I would really be set. Then I met Roxxy.”
“Your wife?”
“Yeah. She was fun. I was lonesome. One thing led to another.”
“So, if you had a magic wand, what would you do?”
“I would leave this town. I’d get a real job, maybe in Seattle in the tech industry. A job I could be proud of. Find a woman who wants or has kids. Roxxy hates kids.”
“What does she think about leaving?”
“Won’t discuss it. We live in the same house but we’re not really husband and wife, if you get my meaning. Haven’t been in five years or more.”
“Seems to me you know the answer.” Dara’s answer was matter of fact, and nonjudgmental.
“What do you mean?”
“Sounds like one of you left five years ago, and just forgot to go.”
Potter’s face turned slowly from a gravely serious frown to a smile. “Good one.” The cell phone in his shirt pocket buzzed. “Yeah?” Potter looked down at the tabletop. “Alright. Got it. On my way.” Potter put the phone back in his
pocket.
Dara slipped out of the booth. “Duty calls?”
“They don’t even know I’m an hour late. That’s how important my job is.” Potter left the booth. “Thanks for the advice.”
Dara gave a slight chuckle. “Mike, I just asked questions. You already knew the answers.”
Potter nodded and made his way out of the café. As he passed the counter, he dropped his check for a $4.85 breakfast and a twenty-dollar bill.
* * *
Phillip McCourter took a deep breath and went through the door of the Administration office at Mountain Valley High.
“Good afternoon, Detective. Mr. Bishop is at the bus loading area, you can join him there or you’re welcome to wait in his office.”
“Will he be long?”
“About another ten minutes.”
“I’ll wait.”
The detective took a seat on the blond oak bench across from the secretary’s desk. As he went down, he leaned back a bit too far and thumped his head on the wall. He checked his phone for messages and shifted his weight on the hard, unwelcoming bench. No messages.
“When do most of the teachers leave campus?”
“By contract, they have to be here until 2:45. A few sneak away when the bell rings. Some stay until the custodians kick them out.” The secretary shook her head. “Teachers are a funny bunch. If their students broke as many rules as they do, their rooms would be empty from kids being sent to the office.”
McCourter smiled and raised his eyebrows. He hated high school. He hated his teachers. They were snide, condescending, and always ready to make him feel like an idiot if he couldn’t solve (x–2) (x+6) ≥0 or explain what John Donne meant by, ‘Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die’. Still remembered twenty years later, but still no clue of the answers.
But not all classes were despised. McCourter loved history, or at least, Mr. Calvin, his history teacher. He considered himself one of the luckiest kids on campus when he not only was scheduled for his World History class, but a year later was privileged to get Calvin for American History as well.
This odd little potbellied man wove tales of mystery and adventure, love, betrayal, honor, fact, myth, and insights as to why and how history was the today of the people who lived it. ‘History is written by the winners’, he was fond of telling his classes and then would go into the story of the side that lost and how, in some cases, it affected history just as much or more.
This marvelous teacher made McCourter a lover of history. He fully credits Calvin for implanting a curiosity and love of research that made him want to become a detective.
The fact that he spent more than his share of time on a similar wooden bench outside the principal’s office waiting for a scolding was not lost on McCourter either. He remembers telling a friend, ‘I would rather put people in jail than be in there myself’. A short time later he did his first ride-along with the Sheriff’s office. He was never to occupy the bench outside the principal’s office again.
“Good afternoon, Detective.” Principal Bishop’s welcome was less than convincing.
“Probably not.” McCourter followed Bishop into his office and closed the door behind him.
“The IT folks have, with all probability, traced the source of the pictures. It is one of your teachers, David Weston.”
Bishop dropped into his chair. “That’s impossible.”
“Is he still on campus?”
“I’m sure he is. He is always the first to arrive and the last to leave. He has taught here over twenty years. You have the wrong guy, Mr. McCourter. I’ve known him since the sixth grade. He mentored me when I came here. There is no way.” Bishop’s breathing was shallow and rapid. “Can you double-check before you…”
“Let’s start with an informal chat. The techies are still looking into the various sites he has visited, emails and messages sent. I have officers at his home, with a search warrant.”
“What for?” Principal Bishop was still reeling from the McCourter pronouncement. He was an intelligent man and knew exactly what they would be looking for.
“With your permission, I would like to use your office for the interview. I don’t want to create a scene or take him downtown if I don’t have to. From here we will go to his house. From there… well, we’ll see what we find.”
“You realize I will have to suspend him. This is horrible. Are you absolutely sure about all this?”
“If I was, he would already be in cuffs and sitting downtown in a cell. I realize there are procedures and protocols you must abide by. For my part, I will be as low key as possible until we have conclusive evidence. There are some anomalies our people are looking at. Until we have more this is an inquiry, nothing more.”
Bishop rubbed his eyes with both hands. He pulled out the small pullout shelf in his desk and ran his finger down a list of names and phone numbers. He punched the four-digit number into the phone. “David, I need to see you in my office, please. I’ll tell you when you get here. Fine. Thank you.” Bishop looked up at the detective. “He’s on his way.”
“You can stay or go, it’s up to you.”
“I’ll stay. I will need to make a report to the Superintendent.” Bishop fidgeted in his seat, stood twice, sat back down, and repeatedly arranged the things on his desk.
“OK, but I must ask you not to interfere, or add to the questioning, or interrupt in any fashion. Agreed?”
“Agreed. Here he comes.” A man walked passed the window facing the interior of the school.
“What can I do for you?” David Weston spoke directly to the stranger.
“I’m Lieutenant Detective Phillip McCourter of the Sheriff’s Department. Please have a seat.”
“What’s this all about, Chuck?” The principal didn’t answer.
“First of all, you are David Weston of 1018 Aspen Drive in White Owl, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Weston, as part of an ongoing investigation, I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Am I under arrest? Do I need to call a lawyer? What about my Miranda rights?”
“Do you need a lawyer?”
“I don’t know.” Weston wasn’t the least bit intimidated by the detective. He was indignant and it appeared to McCourter he was on the verge of hostility.
“I don’t see any need at this point. This is an informal chat. Like I said, a few questions.”
“About what?”
“Mr. Weston, do you own a cell phone?” McCourter reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small spiral notebook. He flipped a few pages and gave Weston a phone number. “Yours?”
“I’m sure you know it is.”
“Again, is that your phone number?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. May I have it please?”
“No, you may not!”
“Mr. Weston, we have had numerous complaints from male students here at the school about receiving texts of pornographic images of older men engaged in sexual activity with teenage boys. It seems they came from your phone. It would be in your best interest to turn over your phone voluntarily.” McCourter put his hand out, palm up. “Do you know anything about this?” The detective continued unfazed as he waited for the phone.
“This has nothing to do with me.” Weston jumped to his feet. “How dare you! I will not stay here and listen to this rot.”
“Sit down, Mr. Weston. I really don’t want this to get unpleasant.” McCourter was all business, yet nonthreatening. He gave his hand a slight jab in the teacher’s direction and Weston placed the phone on his palm. “Thank you. You know, White Owl is a small town. The county is White Owl for the most part. Cybercrime is an anomaly, an oddity, something that happens in Seattle or Tacoma, and is pretty much unheard of around here, until the last few days.”
“So? Again, what has this to do with me?”
“The pictures, it would seem, all originated from your phone.”
“That’s absurd!”
McCourt
er took a folded slip of paper from his jacket pocket. He slowly began to read a list of boy’s names.
“Mr. Weston. Do you recognize any of these names?”
Weston’s tone turned a little less defiant. “Yes, they are all boys in my class.”
“Thank you. I need you to come with me. I have a team at your house waiting for you and me to arrive.”
“What in heaven’s name for? I have done nothing!” Weston’s voice was deafening in the confines of the principal’s small office.
“As I said, we can be calm and continue our casual chat, or we can go to the next step. I will read you your Miranda rights and take you away in cuffs. Franky, Mr. Weston, Methinks thou doth protest too much. Shakespeare, right? You’re an English teacher, right?”
“The quote is ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks’ and is from Hamlet. And yes, I do teach English and, as Mr. Bishop can tell you, I have done so for twenty-two years here at Mountain Valley. I have never been the subject of any kind of investigation; civil, criminal, or scholastic. So, no detective, I do not think I protest too much when I say, this is an incomprehensible accusation!”
“We need to go to your home and let the team serve the search warrant.”
“If I refuse?” Weston broke in.
“Then they will break down your front door, post the warrant and enter the property. That can all be avoided if you will simply take a deep breath and come with me. Otherwise, I will cuff you. That will not look good if, in fact, you say you are innocent. Now, do I read you your rights or do we walk out of here as civilized adults and proceed with the investigation? Your call.”
Weston stood. He started for the door, then turned. “Thanks for the support.”
“I’m sorry this has happened. But you know under the circumstances, I am obliged to place you on administrative leave until this is all cleared up.” Bishop explained.
“Et Tu, Brute?” Weston sneered.
“Julius Caesar,” McCourter said under his breath. “I guess I learned more than I thought.”
“I am not your enemy, David,” the principal said sorrowfully.
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