First, Kill the Lawyers, page 2
I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared at him because, honestly, in all the time we’ve known each other first as rivals and later as partners, that was the dumbest question Freddie’s ever asked me.
“Just checkin’,” he said.
“Okay.”
“So what are we gonna do?”
“First thing first, hire a hacker of our own.”
“Who?”
“Someone really good. I don’t know who the lawyers are working with, but I’d like someone I trust on the job.”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
“No. No, Taylor. Hell no.”
“Who do we know better than Sara?”
“Steve?”
I laughed because I thought it was funny. Freddie didn’t laugh, but then he was the one who tried to seduce Sara into bed back in the day, not me.
“For all we know she—he—whatever—they’re the ones behind it all,” Freddie said.
“Nah, they would have taken the bitcoins.”
“Yeah, that’s prob’ly true. But I’m gonna make the call, okay? Set something up for tomorrow A.M. And I’m callin’ Steve.”
“Whatever makes you comfortable.”
“There ain’t no reason Echo has t’ know anything about it, either.”
“Keeping secrets from your wife—how sad.”
CHAPTER TWO
Freddie hung on to the flash drive. I told him we should review its contents first thing since we were on the clock. He said, speaking of clocks, Echo was holding dinner for him. Mu shu pork. I asked if it was an old Chinese recipe. He thought Echo got it from Rachael Ray.
Neither of us returned to the office. Instead, we found our respective cars and drove home. Mine was on the second floor of a four-story brown-brick apartment building in St. Paul in a neighborhood known for Victorian manors, carriage houses, and converted mansions that harkened back to the days of F. Scott Fitzgerald and bootleg booze.
I was in 2A. I crossed the landing, though, and rapped three times on 2B before returning to unlock my door and step inside. I left the door open. A few minutes later Amanda Wedemeyer entered, still wearing her private school uniform.
“Hi, Mandy,” I said.
“Ogilvy,” she called.
My gray-and-white French lop-eared rabbit bounded into the room. He stopped and glanced from me to Amanda as if wondering whom he should greet first. Amanda sat on the hardwood floor and made a nest out of her skirt. She waved a leaf of romaine lettuce at him. Ogilvy hopped into her lap without giving me a second’s thought.
“How’s school?” I asked.
“Junior high is hard.” Junior high starts in the seventh grade where we live. “I have to take life science.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
Amanda closed her eyes. “Life science comprises the fields of science that involve the scientific study of living organisms such as microorganisms, plants, animals, and human beings.” She opened her eyes. “That’s all I know so far.”
“Every journey begins with a single step.”
“Is that a science thing?”
“Something I read in a fortune cookie.”
“I’ve got so much homework to do. It’s wrong.”
“So do I—have homework, I mean, so I’m going to have to shoo you out of here.”
“Okay,” Amanda said. She kept sitting on the floor, though, and Ogilvy kept sitting in her lap eating lettuce out of her hand.
“Where’s his brush?” she asked.
“On top of his cage.”
From the way Amanda looked at me, clearly it wasn’t the answer she was hoping for.
Ogilvy had a large wire cage with a permanently open door that he hopped into only when he needed to use the litter box or eat the alfalfa I fed him. Otherwise, he roamed the apartment like a cat and, also like a cat, slept anywhere he damn well pleased. I found his brush and gave it to Amanda. She used it to gently stroke Ogilvy’s fur while he nibbled the lettuce.
“Since you’re staying, can I get you something to drink?” I asked. “Root beer?”
“Mom says I drink too much pop; it’ll rot my teeth.”
“Water? I have some orange juice.”
“It’s unfair, Taylor.”
“That pop is bad for you?”
“That I have so much homework. Mom used to work so hard for us I hardly ever saw her and then she got promoted and I see her more than I ever did except now I’m the one who’s busy all the time with school and band and if I want to play soccer … I don’t even get to see Ogilvy hardly anymore.”
I came close to saying, “Get used to it, kid,” but the way Amanda hugged the rabbit, who didn’t seem to mind at all, I found myself agreeing—life isn’t fair.
I sat at the computer and checked my emails. There wasn’t much there to hold my interest. Next, I typed “Not in Minnesota” into my search engine and hit ENTER. Eleven results were posted on the first page. Before I could access any of them, I heard a voice coming from the open doorway.
“There you are, Mandy,” Claire Wedemeyer said. “I knew you’d be here.”
Claire was holding a stack of plastic storage containers that she kept stable with her chin. Like Amanda, she was still dressed in uniform—black suit coat and skirt, white silk blouse, black pumps. She smiled at me as best she could.
“Help,” she said.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Leftovers. I would have brought them over sooner, but you’re never around.”
Which was Claire’s way of asking where I’ve been lately. I had no intention of telling her about Alex Campbell.
I took half of the storage containers and led her into the kitchen area.
“You’re so good to me,” I said.
Claire stacked the containers on the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room.
“I have pasta sauce, but you’ll need to make your own pasta. It’s a sweet sauce. Not sweet like sugar, what I mean—sweet Italian sausage, sweet bell peppers, carrots, plenty of basil, tomatoes, red wine—”
“I really like it,” Amanda said.
We could see her on the other side of the counter.
“This is kung pao chicken,” Claire said.
“It’s spicy,” Amanda said.
“I might’ve used one Thai pepper too many. There’s white rice in the blue container. This is tortellini in a porcini mushroom sauce.”
“I don’t like mushrooms,” Amanda announced. “The rest of it is okay, though.”
“Don’t you kids ever eat, I don’t know, hot dogs and hamburgers?”
Both women smiled at me. Mother and daughter were opposites in appearance. Claire had a dark, brooding vibe, while Amanda was all sunshine and wheat fields. Except for their brilliant smiles. Their smiles were identical.
“If you insist on something unhealthy there’s a piece of red velvet cake with chopped walnuts,” Claire said.
“What do you mean, unhealthy? There’s milk in cake, isn’t there? Eggs? What’s healthier than milk and eggs?”
Amanda giggled.
“Honestly, Taylor,” Claire said. “Which reminds me, I need my other containers back.”
I fetched her used plastic containers—yes, I had washed them—and slipped them into a plastic bag and handed it to her.
“You guys are so good to me,” I repeated.
“That’s because you’re so good to us,” Claire said.
She hugged me then. The hug was just this side of something else, and I was anxious to keep it that way. She and Amanda were among the few unblemished fragments in my otherwise disjointed life, and I didn’t want to screw it up. Literally. Claire had already made it clear that she was willing. Friends with benefits. Relationships like that never last, though, and I wanted Amanda to come over and play with my rabbit whenever she felt like it. I wanted Claire to bring me leftovers. I wanted to help them out whenever I could. Without any awkwardness. So no, no, no, I refused to hug her too close.
“Time to go, Mandy,” Claire said. “Homework.”
Amanda sighed dramatically. “All right,” she said.
She gave the rabbit a gentle squeeze and slid him off her lap. He looked as if watching her walk out the door were the saddest moment in his life.
“See ya later, kid,” I said.
Amanda handed me Ogilvy’s brush.
“Bye, Taylor,” she said.
“Don’t be a stranger,” Claire said.
She gave me another quick hug, and then she was gone, too.
I closed the door. Ogilvy rammed my foot with his head, something he did when he wanted to be petted.
“Yeah,” I said. “I know how you feel.”
* * *
Not in Minnesota impressed me.
At first glance, it seemed to pattern itself on WikiLeaks, claiming it was a “state-wide media organization and library specializing in the analysis and publication of censored or otherwise restricted documents.” It proudly announced that it “has and will continue to resist all censorship attempts.” There was even a highlighted link that explained how it was able to thwart government interference.
Apparently NIMN was hosted by an internet service provider based in Sweden. The Swedish constitution forbids all administrative authorities including foreign entities from messing with any type of newspaper. Through some computer magic that Freddie probably would understand that I didn’t, it also employed an encrypted network that made it virtually impossible to intercept internet communications, guaranteeing that whistle-blowers would remain anonymous, even from NIMN.
The reason I was impressed, though, is that as I looked closer, I discovered the site wasn’t as irresponsible or partisan as WikiLeaks. It didn’t seem to have an axe to grind or an agenda to promote. It didn’t provide a single “disclosure” without also providing context the way any decent newspaper would.
The Police Are Recording Our Every Movement
Here is an interactive map showing the exact location of nearly 390 video cameras that the Minneapolis and St. Paul Police Departments are using to record the actions of private citizens. There are potentially hundreds more that they won’t talk about.
The Dirty War over Sulfite Mining in the BWCAW
1,287 documents showing how the Chisholm Mining Corporation is manipulating data to downplay the threat of pollution caused by sulfite mining operations on the southern edge of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness to state and federal government agencies.
Dunbar Emails
A collection of documents from Minnesota Department of Public Safety Director Monica Dunbar’s nongovernment email account. Dunbar occasionally used the account to discuss security-related projects, including keeping protestors away from the Minnesota Republican Party convention site.
Secret Reports from the State Senate
347 reports comprising over 2,500 pages of material concerning some of the most contentious issues in the state, from the expansion of Indian casinos to the taconite industry.
State Supreme Court Policies
More than 100 private or otherwise restricted documents and emails from the Minnesota Supreme Court covering the rules and policies concerning how justices decide which court cases to review.
Sexual Abuse Correspondence
Dozens of unredacted legal documents that passed between the office of the Ramsey County attorney and the Archdiocese of St. Paul and Minneapolis dealing with charges of sexual abuse in the church.
What’s more, the stories were presented as if they had been written by actual journalists instead of activists attempting to advance a cause or discredit an adversary. Given the decline of print journalism—the St. Paul Pioneer Press had become a mere sliver of its former size—I wondered if sites like NIMN weren’t becoming essential. Who was going to report the local news if they didn’t? Who was going to read the documents? Who was going to attend the city council meetings? Who was going to ask the county commissioner why his brother-in-law was awarded the trash-hauling contract over a less expensive competitor? The local TV stations? Puhleez.
Unlike WikiLeaks, though, NIMN didn’t list the name of a spokesperson or editor or provide any means to contact the organization. But it did claim that all documents were vetted before release; with investigators scrutinizing both the material and the source of the material if it was known to avoid printing misleading or fraudulent information.
“Investigators,” I said aloud. “Like me?”
My landline rang. Originally I kept it because I wanted a number that family, friends, and charities could use, leaving my cell strictly for business. The last thing I needed was to interrupt the close surveillance of some miscreant because my mom wanted to know why I never call. Except so many of those people have acquired my cell phone number over the years that I now keep it more out of habit than anything else.
The caller ID read DR. ALEXANDRA CAMPBELL.
I said, “Hello.”
She said, “Do you think college cheerleaders are hot?”
“Excuse me?”
“I have acquired a uniform. It’s very becoming, if I do say so myself.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Ski-U-Mah,” she said, a slogan used by sports teams at the University of Minnesota.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
CHAPTER THREE
The aroma of fresh coffee greeted me the moment I stepped through the office door, Cinnamon Sugar Cookie from Cameron’s Coffee. It came as a surprise. Not the coffee—it was one of Freddie’s favorites. The fact that he was in the office before me. The man was never early.
“Morning,” I said.
He replied without looking away from his computer screen. “Holland.” It was my first name. Freddie rarely used my first name. Hardly anyone did.
We had one of those expensive, high-tech machines that brewed one cup of coffee at a time. I popped in a canister and waited while it poured a mug of Chocolate Caramel Brownie. I sat behind my desk, swiveled the chair, and watched downtown Minneapolis come alive outside the window. Freddie and I had talked on and off for months now of reducing overhead, of finding less expensive digs outside downtown, except we both would miss the hustle and bustle of the city—and the view—so we hadn’t pulled the trigger yet.
Eventually Freddie ejected a flash drive from his computer and crossed the office with it, stopping at my desk.
“Sidney Poitier,” I said. I never used his given names, either, unless I wanted to tease him. He wasn’t in the mood.
Freddie dropped the flash drive in front of me.
“I started reading this last night,” he said. “Couldn’t sleep afterward. That’s why I came in early.”
“Does it have a happy ending?”
“Some fucked-up shit in there, man.”
I slipped the drive into a USB port, brought its contents up on the screen, and began reading. I could understand why the attorneys didn’t want this information falling into the wrong hands, especially the public’s.
Meanwhile, Freddie moved to the center of the room, his back to the windows. We had a combination dry board and cork bulletin board on the wall where we kept track of our open cases. There was a white curtain that we could close to hide our work from visitors.
Freddie moved to the bulletin board side and started pinning up index cards labeled MURDER, DIVORCE, CLASS ACTION, BRIBE, and RAPE using thumbtacks. He put up a sixth card labeled HACKER and ran a thin strand of red yarn from that card to each of the first five. Afterward, he pinned up a seventh card—NIMN—and used more yarn to connect it to HACKER.
“I spent some time on the site last night and again this morning,” I said. “I don’t think we can connect the hacker and NIMN yet.”
“NIMN contacted the attorneys.”
“Someone claiming they were from NIMN contacted the attorneys. Could be a bluff. Could be that you were right the first time, that it’s a shakedown and the blackmailer wants our clients good and frightened before he names his price.”
“Point.”
Freddie disconnected the yarn that linked HACKER to NIMN and let it just hang there.
I gestured at my computer screen.
“I haven’t had the time to study it like you did, just skimmed, but—some of it really is fucked up. I know I wouldn’t want it to get out, either. Would you?”
“How much of it is illegal, do you think?”
“What the lawyers did? That’s the thing. I’m not sure any of it is illegal, just—”
“Fucked up?”
“Yeah.”
“Read it more carefully,” Freddie said. “Afterward, I’ll tell you my theory.”
“Tell me now. That way I can poke holes in it as I go along.”
“Asshole.”
Freddie gestured at the bulletin board.
“Remember what Mickelson told us last night about this being a smash-and-grab?” he said. “About how hackers steal what they can and figure out later what’s valuable?”
“I do.”
“Here you got two famous cases, cases that were covered big-time in the local media.” Freddie tapped the index cards labeled MURDER and BRIBE. “This case—” He tapped RAPE. “This case had some attention, but nothing compared to the others. These—” He tapped DIVORCE and CLASS ACTION. “No media coverage at all.”
“Okay.”
“Two of the law firms deal mostly with local clients, one is regional, but both Stanislav Kennedy and Hannum, Hillsman, and Byers, they’re multinational. Are you telling me that of all the clients they have and all the business they do all around the world that this is the best the hacker could come up with? One specific case per law firm? Nothing else interested them? C’mon, man.”
“Maybe it is. Who were the lawyers? David Helin…”
Freddie wrote a name on each card: Kaushal MURDER, Helin DIVORCE, Puchner CLASS ACTION, Mickelson BRIBE, and Jernigan RAPE.
“I don’t think these cases were chosen based on whatchacall notoriety is what I’m sayin’,” Freddie said. “Or how fucked up they were or how damaging they might be t’ the law firms.”
“What’s your theory?”
