The Stringers, page 16
“No. We’re the law.”
“I have a right to a jury trial.”
“Under normal circumstances. But these aren’t.”
Staring at him, I leaned over the table, pointing at him to demonstrate I was unafraid of them or the guns they held. I spoke slowly and clearly, though inside I was terrified of what was to come when I was finished.
“I won’t sign this document or any other like it saying I lied or was uninformed. I wasn’t. Everything I wrote in it is true and would be verifiable if your people hadn’t destroyed my evidence. I can’t be held liable for that. And as to the burden of proof, you’re correct. But that’s not what this letter says. I will apologize for writing the column without the ability to prove what I said. But I will not recant what I said. My father was arrested by the ISA and there is a waiting room on the first floor of this building. If you haven’t seen it yourself and don’t believe me, go down there and look. But don’t call me dishonest because of a technicality.”
The first officer gaped at me. A thin line of perspiration trickled down the side of his head. He let it drip onto his suit.
Then, abruptly, he lunged out and slapped me across the face. The blow stung my cheek like a dozen hornets’ stings. I covered my face and ducked as he tried to hit me again, cowering as I stumbled out of my chair. He reached for his gun and attempted to bring it out, but his partner grabbed his arm and pulled it away. They argued under their breaths and it didn’t seem as hostile as it appeared, for the first officer’s eyes remained fixed on me. I stared at the handgun partially holstered on his hip and the muzzle pointed at the ground and what might happen if he managed to pry it out and fire off a shot.
The second officer got his partner to calm down and was returning him to his seat when the door opened and a man promptly walked in. Everyone in the room except me stood up and faced him, while I gazed at him from the floor. As he came closer I recognized his shuffling stride. He was the same man who had led the raid on our house and searched through Father’s study.
With a limp accompanying each step, he unbuttoned his suit jacket covering his slender frame and smiled at the officers, shooting a glance at the officer’s handgun. He raised an eyebrow slightly.
“Thank you, gentleman,” he said. “I can take this from here. Would you please allow Mr. Farrington and I the pleasure of conversing alone? I’m sure you will understand the delicacy of the situation and extend us the necessary cordiality.”
His tone was kind and gentle and disarmed them of their stern demeanors. The officers bowed their heads as though he were royalty and kept them tilted downward as they exited. The man turned to the security guard still standing at attention right outside the door and informed him that his presence was not needed. The guard looked at me as if to determine how much of a threat I posed, but the man cut off his introspection and ordered him to leave. The door swooshed shut and we were left looking at one another, he next to the table and I on the floor.
I got a much better look at him now that we were closer. I couldn’t see why anyone would be afraid of him. He had a gaunt face and string-like hair and low cheekbones. His eyes were a stormy gray, his mouth a small line. In his double-breasted green-and-brown striped suit, he looked more like a shrewd businessman than an ISA officer.
The man walked over to me and offered his hand.
“How do you do?” he said.
I stared at his hand and then at his smile and knew it was genuine, albeit I didn’t care for it. I reluctantly shook his hand. He had a powerful grip, but it wasn’t violent or rough.
“Are you allowed to tell me who you are now?” I asked sarcastically. “Or is it still a security matter?”
He smiled. “I am. My name is Kenneth Cutman. Pleased to meet you.”
“I would say the pleasure is all mine, but it isn’t. Come to think of it, none of it is.”
Had he possessed the same temperament as the officers before him, he would have struck me across the mouth. Instead, he helped me to my feet and assisted me over to the table and sat down at the other end. His behavior was eerie, like a long lost relative of mine who had seen me as an infant and had come back to find me all grown up, impressed by the great change that had occurred in between those times.
He asked me if I would like some breakfast and before I could answer he called out to the hallway and a man brought in a tray containing eggs and bacon and coffee. He placed the tray in front of me and had it not been for my manners I would have eaten it all in a few handfuls, but I took my time.
Cutman randomly chuckled. I looked up at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But you truly are like your father.”
“Thank you…I guess.”
“No, I do mean that with full honesty. And as a compliment. I’m sure you don’t quite understand why I would want to tell you this, but you are very much like him.”
“How? Because I’ve gotten in trouble with the ISA for no reason, just like him?”
Cutman folded his hands as he laughed.
“Come now, Roy,” he said. “That’s how you are like your father. You wrote that column specifically to incite this agency, and it responded as you hoped it would. You knew as well as I do what was going to happen after you published it. It is why you tricked the ISA officer in charge of the news site by substituting it for another story you had written. You knew it would never have seen the light of day otherwise.”
“Why would I want to get arrested and detained and held in a cell an entire night with nothing but AIs to keep my company?” I asked.
“Because you want answers. You’re too curious to let the unknown go without trying to discover what it is.”
“Wouldn’t you do anything you could to find out what had happened to your father?”
“I would,” he said. “I can’t say I blame you. But it is the law.”
“Did you come here to remind me of that?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I came here to speak to you like a human being,” he said as he gestured at the door behind us with a dismissive hand. “Those gentlemen you just met…well, let us say they are accustomed to dealing with an entirely separate class of individuals whose manners are not nearly as refined as yours, and as a result they often have to resort to less than civil means of restraining and controlling them.”
“Very well,” I replied, still skeptical. “What do you want?”
Cutman eased back against his chair, the light from the ceiling emphasizing the deep white scars that ran down his neck and disappeared inside his shirt collar. Up at the top of his hairline, another tapered scar was visible as he brushed his thin hair back.
“We need your help with your father,” he said.
“I don’t understand!” I exclaimed. “How can you think he did anything wrong? I don’t know if you are aware of his background. He was an editor until recently, but he also worked as an undercover law enforcement officer a long time ago. I don’t know which agency; he wasn’t allowed to tell me, which speaks to his character. But I’m sure if you check it out, you’ll find I’m telling the truth.”
Cutman folded his hands, rolling his shoulders a bit as he sighed quietly.
“We’re fully aware of your father’s past work in law enforcement,” he said. “But he wasn’t arrested without cause. I can assure you of that.”
“Why, then?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“For ‘security reasons,’ I’m sure,” I answered sarcastically.
“Don’t be so flippant about it, my boy. Security is our primary objective. We have trillions of terabytes of data that are created, copied, transferred, deleted, and published on the Net, and we are tasked with monitoring it and preventing misinformation from spreading and causing irreparable harm. Yes, people have to publish all content through their IGPs, which makes it easier for us to monitor and safeguard, but there are those who are technically proficient enough to bypass this or create fraudulent IGPs. It’s a great responsibility for us all.”
“And you think my father is one of them?” I asked.
“No. I can’t tell you exactly, but I can say he got himself involved with individuals we have linked to criminal activity.”
My patience gone, I slammed the table and yelled.
“My father is no criminal!”
Cutman remained calm as he replied. “I didn’t say he was. I said he got involved with criminals. He was working with them. In what capacity we aren’t sure.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Tell me, Roy; did you notice your father ever do anything strange?”
“Strange?”
“Yes.”
Several thoughts immediately came to mind. The flashlight. The long evenings spent in the study with the door closed. The unidentifiable clacking sound that accompanied his daily period of isolation.
Cutman’s grin grew larger, his face full of self-confidence. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“What if I did know?” I asked. “Suppose I did. Do you expect me to testify against him?”
“No. I wouldn’t ask that of you. Besides, we don’t expect to prosecute him. Indefinite detention at some point will get him to speak, once he realizes he’s suffering for the sake of men who are not worth it, nor would they do the same for him.”
“You talk as if you know my father. You don’t know him. My father is a good man.”
He delayed his answer as he picked at his fingers and then wiped them with a handkerchief from his front lapel pocket. He then picked up his right leg with both hands and winced while adjusting it. His eyes wandered as he looked over at the wall, and then he grumbled and ripped his Prizm off his temple and thrust it into his pocket.
“You don’t like them, do you?” I said.
“No. It’s one thing I appreciated about your father, which is why I’m here speaking to you now rather than allowing those officers to harass you about that apology letter I knew you wouldn’t sign in a thousand years. I’m here to offer a better deal.”
“I’m listening.”
“Your father isn’t my primary concern. The men he is associated with are. As far as I’m concerned, your father got involved in the situation based on deception and was tricked or manipulated, whatever you prefer to think. It really doesn’t matter from my end. As it is, we have evidence of him engaging in illegal activity by association with these men, all of whom have warrants out on them. Legally, I have the authority to hold your father as long as I please or until I decide to officially charge him with violating the Cyberspace Freedom Act, which will be run in all the major news sites. Everyone will know about it. I don’t know you too well, but it isn’t too presumptuous on my part to think you’d rather avoid that unpleasantness.”
I said nothing, and he continued.
“However, for the moment, none of this is official, and it doesn’t have to be. All I want is for your father to tell me who he was working for and where I can find them. I know he has that information. He must have it. If he agrees to talk to me, and this information he provides allows us to arrest these criminals, he will be released as soon as I can arrange it. No charges, no prosecution, no trial, no public humiliation, and no blemish of any kind on his record.”
“What does this have to do with me?” I asked. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
Cutman’s features tensed as he pushed against the table and moved his bad leg again.
“We already did,” he said. “He told us he wouldn’t. But I know he would talk to us if you asked him to.”
“How can I talk to him?” I asked.
“I can get him on the phone as we speak, or video if you’d like. If you were able to convince him to cooperate, of course, we would be very generous to you as well. This whole mishap with that column you wrote would be forgiven and also wiped from your record. We will even provide you with a clarification statement in the event anyone should have doubts about the matter.”
I crossed my arms.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“Who are you to make these kinds of orders? You’re making promises you can’t deliver. You can’t just tell the officers holding my father to let him go. You need authorization from the deputy director himself. I know the ISA’s chain of command. I have a friend who is an apprentice here. He told me how it works.”
Cutman’s grin vanished, a stern expression replacing it.
“I am the deputy director.”
I looked at him for a long time in silence, finding none of the qualities in him that I would have assumed the deputy director of the ISA’s Bellevue Office to possess. He smiled at me again as he lifted himself up from his chair, bracing his leg as he brought it out in front of him.
“I’ll let you think about it,” he said. “But I thought you might want some company while you do so.”
He hobbled over to the door. It opened. Casey stepped in and stood beside Cutman with a timid expression. He then looked at me like I had betrayed him. I returned his gaze like a mirror.
“I’ll come back in a while,” Cutman said as he walked out. I thought he would say more, but he didn’t.
The door swooshed shut.
Casey stood motionless, his hands buried in his coat pockets. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes red. His breathing was slow and deliberate. His hair had fallen over the front of his face.
He brought one hand out and rubbed his eyes with it and brushed his hair back over his head and then held it at his side. He tried to speak, but when his mouth opened nothing came out. I didn’t need to hear him speak the words. I could read his face well enough.
I had much to say to him, but I couldn’t decide what to start with.
Finally, he found his voice, albeit it was cracked.
“We don’t have much time,” he said.
“No, we don’t.”
He walked over to the table and stared down at the chair, then at the wall to his left. He gestured with his hand and then took Cutman’s chair and sat in it. He looked up at the intense lights blazing down at us from the ceiling as he folded and unfolded his hands before finally leaving them at separate ends of the table, gripping the edges.
“I’m not going to ask why you did this,” he said. “And I’m not going to tell you all the trouble I’ve been through trying to get a chance to speak with you. I used up all my grace with Officer Abela. Really, you have Cutman to thank for this. Had he not agreed, we wouldn’t be speaking.”
I yawned and covered my mouth and rubbed my left eye, which was open partially.
“You look exhausted,” he said.
“At least my appearance still doesn’t deceive.”
He glanced at the remains of my breakfast on the tray, the lingering drops of coffee in the ceramic mug. He sighed and rested his head on his hand, his elbow bent on the tabletop. He ran his fingers through his uncombed hair again.
“Listen to me carefully, Roy. You have to listen. Cutman has offered you a great deal. Take it. It’s more than you could have hoped for.”
I worked hard to keep my eyes open as I looked at him. I felt like weights hung from my eyelids and my mouth and my head and my neck, tugging at me to rest, or do whatever it took to get some rest. Cooperating with them would allow me to rest.
“It is a great deal,” I replied. “If my father had actually committed a crime.”
Casey appeared as if on the verge of tears.
“Roy, don’t do this! I told you before. Why didn’t you listen?”
“I had to do something. I couldn’t sit there and not act. You would have done the same for your father, wouldn’t you?”
Casey rubbed his arm and coughed. “I…couldn’t say. I’d like to think I’d do anything for him.”
“Then you understand.”
“You want to help your father? Then get him to cooperate. What does he have to lose? He’d just be turning in several criminals, real criminals.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t even know what he was involved in or if he even was.”
“That’s what they told us.”
“My father would never do anything like that. He’s a good man. He spent a career enforcing the law, just like your father.”
“Which is why they are giving him this deal, if he takes it. And you have to tell him it’s a good deal.”
I started muttering and rambling, all of it incoherent as I looked at the wall and pictured the man I knew was observing us behind it. I was certain they had watched me throughout the night when I had cried out for relief and none had come and when I begged for mercy and the suffering had continued. Anyone with a shred of compassion would have stopped it. But it had not stopped.
“If it’s a good deal, then why doesn’t my father want to help them?” I asked. “He must have a reason.”
His tone trailed off.
“It doesn’t matter…”
I turned my head and looked at him, but his eyes avoided me.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Why are you giving me that look?”
“What?”
“Guilt. It’s written on your face.”
Casey said nothing.
“It’s not mine,” I said. “It’s yours.”
“Roy…”
My mouth opened slowly.
“You knew…you knew they were coming for my father, didn’t you?”
Casey sighed and stared at the wall again and then up at the ceiling as if pleading for assistance from a higher being.
“How…how could you?”
“They didn’t tell me they were going to arrest him like that!” he protested. “I overheard Officer Abela speaking with someone on the phone and then he questioned me about my friendship with you. I told him we were friends and I trusted you. He then told me to be careful, because of what they were going to do to your father. I didn’t have the pleasure of being informed about it further. All he told me was our office was monitoring your father and he was a person of interest and we were going to visit your house that night and I wasn’t to say anything to you.”
“You couldn’t have warned me? Or given a hint?”
