As it turns out I wasn't thrown in prison. The FBI certainly had enough evidence against me to convict me of telephone fraud and tampering with money transfers, but they were more interesting in finding the man behind the money mill attack. Of the three crimes that were committed on July 11th, the money mill was by far the most serious.
The FBI released me late that same night. Instead of arresting me they struck a deal with me; I would be working with them now, however reluctantly. As the person closest to events on the 11th, I was in the best position to assist them. I would remain the prime suspect, but I was free to move about. I could not leave the country and I had to inform them of any travel outside of Chicago.
As I plodded through the door I could not help but think that it seemed an eternity since I had last walked out that same door on my way to dinner, having obtained what I hoped would be the key to unlocking the mystery of the money mill. I had been optimistic that the X9 documents would hold the information I needed to block the flow of money going through the mill.
Exhausted, I slumped in the chair by the TV; not the broken chair but the other one. As I sat there listening to the incessant sound of the leaky faucet in the kitchen, I recalled the conversation I had with Rudy the night before. I had stopped at his apartment on the way home. There was no need to be concerned about being followed now; I had already been arrested. I had nothing more to hide.
After I had told Rudy what happened, he explained that he too had been arrested. They held him overnight but eventually released him for lack of evidence. Apparently the FBI wasn't ready to start going after the ``check is in the mail'' variety of crimes.
Rudy explained that his interrogation had not been pleasant. ``They did not break any laws,'' he said, ``but they were still rather menacing: bright lights in my eyes; six hours of questioning with no interruption; verbal abuse...'' He sighed deeply. ``One of the agents --- a large gentleman, must have weighed 250 pounds, all muscle --- was quite overbearing and for a full hour shouted continuously. I think they were disappointed I do not have family here in the States; they insinuated that they would not hesitate to inconvenience my family. I honestly believe they were disappointed to learn that I have no strong attachments.''
I looked down at my sneakers and said nothing. I began to feel guilty for complaining about my own less extreme treatment.
Rudy continued. ``My father grew up under the Nicolae Ceausescu regime in Romania. He used to tell me frightening stories. My brother was in Timisoara during the demonstrations. During the FBI questioning I actually experienced flashbacks to their accounts of Romania.'' He shuddered visibly as he said this. We did not talk long after that. Rudy let me sleep at his apartment that night. By the time I awoke the next morning, sore from sleeping on the floor, Rudy had already left for work. I scribbled a short note thanking him and left for my apartment.
Now, back in my apartment, I pulled myself out the chair and walked over to the Alpha to check my mail. I had two e-mail messages from Lisa. They said she wanted to get together and talk. This angered me. I didn't send a reply. I didn't have anything to say to her. I deleted the messages, took a quick shower, and left the apartment to go for a walk and blow off steam.
I couldn't decide if I was angrier with her or myself. I had misjudged her. I had been under the impression that there was a bond between us and that we understood each other.
Why would she turn me in? Yes, I was engaged in illegal activity, and yes, I had tampered with her financial transactions. But she was not adversely affected by this --- other than the rough treatment by the bank executives, and she had forgiven me for that (supposedly). Suddenly I wondered what had transpired behind the closed doors of the meeting she had at First Chicago on the day I had my first glimpse of her. Or what about the interval between our meeting in her apartment lobby and our dinner conversation later that day? Had she called the police then? Had she been in contact with the FBI all this time? Had she been a spy? Working directly with Rudy and I as she had, she was in the perfect position to spy.
Surely Lisa realized that I was not an evil person out to do real harm. Surely. Surely? Was it possible that she actually suspected me of the other EFT crimes?
Again I found myself wondering if I had crossed the line and fallen into the sleazy side of computer security. I recalled the accusations of the wiry fair-haired FBI agent from the day before. Suddenly I felt more like a modern-day Al Cappone than a modern-day Ralph Nadar. Once I fancied myself as a consumer advocate, but perhaps I was only a menace to people that would use computers benevolently and courteously.
As if to dampen my mood still further, rain-drops began pelting down on me as I walked. They were fat heavy drops, the sort of rain-drops that are never followed by anything less than a torential downpour. I needed to find cover quickly if I was going to avoid getting drenched. I turned into the nearest store, which happened to be a liquor store. I hesitated. As depressed as I was feeling, a liquor store probably wasn't the best place to end up. I wondered if I could make a dash for the pool-hall down the street without getting too wet. I do not go to the hall often, but I have found that on occasion it can be a great place to forget about mundane troubles. For one thing, many of the other people at Jake's Pool Hall have larger problems than I do. Also, it is precisely because I don't go there often that I have such a good time when I do go. The atmosphere is a nice change of pace from my usual academic, high-tech, puzzle palace, techno-geek environment. On more than one occasion that pool-hall has revived and refreshed my spirits. A long night of drinking cheap beer and breathing stale smoke-laden air, squinting down the length of a pool cue in dim light through tired and stinging eyes, as loud rock music blares out of over-strained speakers in the corner of the room, is a great way to lose oneself. The conversations I've had with the regulars --- I'm convinced I've seen the same faces each time I've gone, despite the long intervals between visits --- are refreshing too. When I'm feeling burned-out, challenging and thought-provoking debate is not what I'm after. And of course the fact that I shoot a mean game of pool also plays a part in my reasons for liking the place. I had met my first steady girlfriend in a pool-hall. It was freshman year of college at Berkeley in a pool-hall close to campus. She was a physics major. Gloria was her name. She frequented pool-halls mainly because she was an extremely good pool shooter. Her political views were further to the left than mine, which is unusual. Gloria and I had dated for a little over a year, and it was politics that eventually came between us. Too bad too, because I really liked her. I recalled her long wavy black hair. Her bangs used to hang down over her left eye. I wondered what Gloria would think of me now. Here I was, steeped in economic intrigue and high-stakes bank robberies. At least she could no longer complain that I lead a complacent and boring life. On the the other hand, she would be disgusted that I was now working for the FBI.
I sighed. The rain was already coming down harder and the thought of standing in the dank smokey pool-hall with wet clothes did not appeal to me. That diversion would have to wait. I entered the liquor store and wandered up and down the aisles staring absently at the rows of bottles. Should I get beer or wine? Whiskey?
Annoyed, I looked out the window. The rain was letting up. Apparently this was going to be a hard but short rain. Disgusted with myself for thinking about buying booze just to have something to do, and then even more disgusted with myself for not being able to decide what to buy, I turned for the exit and headed back home.
When and how had I let myself fall into the underside of computer security? My tampering on the 11th had been innocent enough, but it was also illegal. My intentions were harmless, but the result was not. Ultimately, my actions had lead to my arrest. I was now finding it difficult to justify those actions. Yet just a few weeks ago I had been comfortable with my own ethics... where had I gone astray? Had I lost perspective? What made me believe that the banking infrastructure was a game, with the innocent participants my pawns? The EFT protocols are not a puzzle to be solved. They are a critical component to a vital part of our economy. This is why tampering with EFT's is illegal. I recalled again the accusations made by the FBI. I had become a nuisance and a criminal. When had I crossed that line? How far had I slipped? I fretted over these questions as I trudged down the wet streets and skirted the water along the curb.
I stared at the sidewalk beneath my feet. The rain had stopped entirely now. It had been a heavy rain and the gutters beside the sidewalk were still streaming. There were puddles littering the path and I was wearing only sneakers. My socks were soaked through despite my efforts to avoid the deeper puddles. I turned onto the front walk leading up to my apartment building. I dug into my pocket for the key to the door to the building, and as I looked up I nearly bumped into Lisa.
Startled, I nearly dropped my keys before regaining my composure and looking into her eyes with what I hoped was a cold glare. Her eyes met mine and she was not happy. For one thing she was completely drenched. Her face and hair didn't look any different from usual --- her hair is too short to be affected by rain --- but her clothes looked as if she had just stepped out of a swimming pool. She had the wrong clothes for it too. She was wearing long royal-blue pants that should have been loose but due to the rain were clamped to her thighs and shins, with thick wrinkles around her knees. The bottom of the left pant-leg was clinging to her calf about mid-way between her ankle and knee, leaving the bottom half of her leg exposed. She wasn't wearing stockings. On her feet she wore white sandals that were spattered with mud.
``I'm sorry,'' she said simply and softly.
Not good enough.
Dammit, I had trusted her. I had not needed to help her; I could have left her to fend for herself. Instead I had chosen to help. In return all I had asked is that she provide me with a little information and that she give me some time to sort things out before she went to the police. She re-neged and went to the police anyway.
``Yeah, well I'm sorry too,'' I said as I side-stepped around her and unlocked the door. I opened the door and closed it behind me in one motion, leaving her outside. As I walked down the hallway toward the stairs I felt a rage surging. Her betrayal was nearly tangible. The wave of anger traveled swiftly upward through my frame, beginning in the pit of my stomach and ending in my head, right behind the eyes. My vision was blurred and my forehead was burning. I could taste bile in my mouth. Not only had she betrayed our trust, but worse, she had caused me to question my own morals. That I found my morals lacking made me all the angrier. Perhaps it was unfair to blame her for the last part... but I did. I clenched both my fists and jammed them into my pockets. I hadn't stomped very far down the hallway before the air was filled with the din of the doorbell ringing continuously and furiously.
Ling-pong! Ling-pong! Ling-pong! ...
I whirled around and stamped back toward the front door, letting my temper fly. If she wanted to talk that badly, then I was going to give her an ear-full. Suddenly I had lots to say to her, and it would not be pretty. I threw the door open, nearly tearing it off the hinges. But I said nothing; Lisa was in tears. My anger ebbed as abruptly as it had risen. I stood there in silence for a time. She said nothing, but her shoulders fluttered gently as she stood shaking her head back and forth. She choked back more tears.
``C'mon in,'' I offered softly.
She said nothing as she crossed over the threshold and followed me down the hallway and up the staircase. The hallway echoed with our footsteps. I opened the door to my apartment, gestured toward the sofa, and went in search of a tissue. When I returned to the living room moments later with a box of kleenex, Lisa had already composed herself and had already gotten a tissue from her purse and was wiping her eyes. She accepted my kleenex anyway, thanking me.
``What was I supposed to do?'' she asked beseechingly. ``I don't want to go to jail. I explained to them that you were not the hacker they are after, that your hacking is harmless. But they would have none of it, Carl.''
``When did this happen?'' I asked.
``The day before yesterday. They know about BIF and deep-throat. They knew all about everything that had transpired in Rudy's office. They threatened to throw me in jail and basically gave me no choice but to cooperate.
``Carl, I was scared. You have to understand that.''
I did. I had to concede that she had not done anything unreasonable or unfair. Nor particularly harmful. It sounded like the FBI already knew all about me and what I had done (I wondered if they had bugs in Rudy's office). Lisa only confirmed what they already knew. What she did not do, indeed could not do, was implicate me for anything more than harmless tinkering. Despite the fact that my tinkering was highly illegal, it would not be of great concern to the FBI. They had their hands full trying to find the real EFT criminals, the ones making money. By substantiating my story, and by doing it before I was arrested, Lisa had probably helped my cause considerably.
It was at this point that my manners finally caught up with events. Lisa's clothes were still soaking wet, even to the point of forming a large wet area on the carpet beneath her feet.
``I'm sorry, I should have offered sooner: is there anything I can do to help you dry off? Let me get you a towel.''
I left her there as I went down the hallway to the linen closet. I dug down to the bottom of the stack of towels to get one of my rarely-used guest towels. Poor Lisa; she was soaked. I returned with the towel and she stood up to take it.
``Lisa, I was quick to jump to conclusions when I saw you in the FBI offices. I'm sorry. How long were you waiting outside the apartment before I got back.''
``I don't know... a while I suppose. It didn't rain long, but it sure did come down hard. I had no umbrella and there was no place to take cover.'' She was patting herself with the towel as she spoke.
``I'm sorry,'' I said again.
Having rubbed her clothes with the towel, she now stood with her arms spread wide to show me the results. ``Ta da,'' she said, ``dry as can be.''
We both burst out laughing as she slowly turned, with her arms still extended. Her clothes looked no dryer than when I had first walked up the path to the front door. True, they no longer dripped, but they still clung to her body and were badly wrinkled.
``I think I'll be needing about ten more towels, Carl.''
``Maybe I can find some clothes you can borrow,'' I suggested. ``We can put your clothes in the dryer.''
``Thanks.''
Not really sure what to offer her, I set out for the bedroom to look through my closet. As I rummaged through my clothes in search of something appropriate, I mused over Lisa's story. I had to admit to myself that I would have behaved the same way if the FBI had gotten to me first. It wasn't as if she and I had a long history. I had been very quick to suspect the worst when she walked into the interrogation room. We did not really know each other. Sometimes it was easy to forget that.
Hmmm. The pair of pants most likely to fit were a pair of old blue corduroy pants. They were badly worn; I had held on to them this long only because they were useful for painting and other messy work. I wasn't sure if they would fit Lisa --- she has wide hips --- but they were the best I could find. For a top I chose my biggest dress shirt. I was confident it would be long enough, and the tapered cut wouldn't be a problem for Lisa's narrow waist. The only question-mark was the chest. Would she be able to button the front around her breasts?
When I brought my choices back, Lisa looked them over with a critical eye. I pointed her toward the bathroom and she went to try them on. I went to the refrigerator and got two cans of iced-tea. I set the iced-tea down on the coffee table and sat down on the sofa. Oops... sat down where Lisa had been sitting. I got up and moved to the other end of the sofa where it was dry.
Shortly afterwards Lisa opened the bathroom door and stepped out. She was wearing only the white dress shirt and carrying my pants in one hand and her wet clothes in the other.
``The pants didn't fit,'' she informed me. ``Where's the dryer?''
I tried to hide my surprise. Then I tried to hide my interest. I'm not sure I succeeded at either effort. The shirt came down low enough to cover her about as well as a short dress might. A very short dress. It covered her front and rear well. On the sides, where the bottom of the shirt arches upward, the upper part of her legs were exposed up to above her hip bones, like a French cut bathing suit. Her skin, smooth and dark, was beautiful. Her legs, sleek and firm, were more shapely than I had realized; the stretch pants she is fond of wearing do not do them justice. As I'd guessed, the shirt was straining to cover her chest, with the button directly between her breasts threatening to burst at any moment.
I collected myself and nonchalantly (I hoped) accepted my corduroy pants and showed her where to find the dryer. She tossed her wet clothes in the dryer and started it up. We both went back into the living room. I sat on the dry end of the sofa and, warning her that the sofa was damp, suggested she sit in the easy-chair on the other side of the coffee table. She did so, sitting down very gingerly and being careful not to show any more than necessary.
``So what did they do to you?'' she asked.
I described the events at the FBI building. Lisa listened with few interruptions... until I described the mild-mannered agent that kept fidgeting with his pencil.
``Oh, that would be Jonny Carter!'' she announced excitedly. ``He is their computer crime expert. Did he tell you that he solved the MetroSavings case? That was a $4 million case. Jonny is a nice guy; went to college at Georgia Tech. He majored in Political Science, but has slowly moved progressively deeper into computer crimes.''
She acted as if the FBI guys were old friends, or co-workers. I had not found them to be so chummy.
``Jonny is taking the lead on this investigation,'' Lisa continued.
``Well, I guess that means I'll have a chance to get to know him better tomorrow then,'' I said. ``I have to go back to get my assignment. The conclusion of yesterday's `meeting' was that I would assist the FBI in their investigation. I am now a technical consultant to the FBI. They are going to pay me, but at the same time I remain a suspect. If we don't find the real bad guys then I will take the fall. They actually told me that... said that might give me the `incentive' I needed to solve this case.''
``When do you go?''
``Tomorrow.''
``I'm going with you,'' she announced.
``Why?''
``Because you are their prime suspect and need help clearing yourself. You offered your help to me when I was in a similar situation.''
``Yeah, and I was also the one responsible for your situation.''
``As I am for yours now. I implicated you,'' she said. ``Now when do they expect us?''
``They don't. They expect me tomorrow at 9:00.''
``OK, I'll be ready.''
She made it clear that there would be no further negotiation; she was going. I changed the subject.
``So you like Agent Carter?'' I asked.
``Yeah,'' she said. Then she paused and then added, ``He's married; has two kids.
``You will like him too, Carl,'' she informed me, ``after you get a chance to know him better. He seems to know his stuff. Agent Brown, Jonny's boss, is nice too. A no-nonsense person. She also seems to know her stuff.''
Lisa's clothes had long since finished drying by the time we finished our conversation, and she got dressed to go home. She did not apologize again before leaving. There was no need to. My anger had long since subsided and there was a new level of understanding between us. She had done what she had to do. We were still very much in this together. Lisa had implicated me under duress and with great reluctance. The end result had been harmless. I not only forgave her; I understood and sympathized with her.