Cell (26 page)

SUV SURVEILLANCE VEHICLE

WESTWOOD, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

SATURDAY, JULY 5, 2014, 6:29
A.M.

T
here he is,” Michael Donnelly said, pointing to Zee's car making its way up the entrance to the northbound 405 Freeway. Michael was riding shotgun.

“I see it,” Andor said. He backed off to put more room between the Cadillac Escalade and Zee's car so that Zee wouldn't suspect he was being followed. Then they, too, headed up the entrance ramp and accelerated onto the highway. Both men relaxed to a degree. Despite the early hour there was considerable traffic on the road to use as cover.

When they had first started out on the relatively empty city streets, it had been more difficult. Andor had to stay way back to avoid giving himself away. Whenever Zee's Toyota disappeared from view, Andor was forced to race ahead until Zee's vehicle was back in sight. Andor was experienced. He was careful to keep at least one car in between so as not to be too obvious.

Zee's earlier panic was mirrored by the occupants of the SUV. When things started happening in Wilson's apartment after a long, quiet night, they were caught off guard by the explosive activity. Overnight the home office had done a lot of research and they discovered that Zee Beauregard was a savvy computer programmer who had once been prosecuted for hacking. If Zee was helping George, he would probably need to be watched as well.

The technicians had listened to what conversation there had been that morning and assumed that something specific had ignited Zee's panic. The problem was that they could not figure out what it was, since conversation in George's apartment had been limited. When they told Andor and Michael, they had also been at a loss as to what to make of it. Andor and Michael had originally been tasked to follow George Wilson and handle him if need be, depending on developments, but now there was the issue of the neighbor who they assumed also needed to be watched.

While Andor and Michael had been hopefully waiting for more information from the technicians to understand what was going on, Andor had called Butch Gauthier, who was not excited about being awakened so early on a Saturday. His temper cooled as the reasons for the call unfolded. When he heard about Zee Beauregard's involvement, he told Andor that his instincts were entirely correct and to keep Zee under surveillance as well as George.

Andor had hung up with a twinge of relief, but the relief had been short-lived when Zee had come out and thrown his bags into his car. When Andor had called Butch again, the chief of security told him to follow Zee and that he would have another team sent to cover George Wilson in the interim.

Suddenly Zee's car shot ahead, zooming up a line of semi rigs, catching Andor by surprise.

“What the hell!” Andor griped. He sped up as Zee's car disappeared in front of the line of large trucks. When Andor passed them there was no sign of Zee. “Shit!” Andor said. “Where the hell is he?”

Michael twisted in his seat, looking back the way they had come. He was as confused as Andor. “He just vanished. I don't get it.”

The road straightened out but there was still no sign of Zee. They sped up and passed another line of trucks. Still no Zee.

Suddenly Michael twisted around again and looked back. “Holy shit! How the fuck did he get behind us?”

“The bastard must have dropped back on the other side of that line of trucks we passed.”

The next minute Zee was riding alongside them, obviously trying to peer in through the tinted windows.

“I think he's on to us,” Michael said, stating the obvious.

Zee's Toyota sprung ahead, defying its age. Andor and Michael looked at each other.

“We don't have any choice,” Andor said.

“I agree,” Michael said. “I'll call Butch just to be sure.”

Andor sped up, intending to keep the Toyota in sight while Michael hit speed-dial on his phone.

GEORGE'S APARTMENT

WESTWOOD, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

SATURDAY, JULY 5, 2014, 8:00
A.M.

G
eorge decided to call Paula. He knew that there was a three-hour time difference between Los Angeles and Hawaii and had actually made himself wait for a time before calling. But the wait had been excruciating, and he couldn't hold off any longer. From the moment Zee had left, he'd thought about his course of action, and his conclusion was that Zee was correct. He had to call her. There simply was no other alternative, especially since he would probably become the focus of a criminal investigation due to the hacking that Zee had carried out.

He dialed Paula's mobile phone. As he waited for the call to go through he wondered how long it might take the authorities to come knocking at his door. With what he knew about government bureaucracy he sincerely doubted that Zee's panic was justified, at least not for a few weeks, at a minimum. By then George fully intended to have some verifiable answers about iDoc or at least an explanation of why the hacking had to be done. His knowledge of five deaths made George wonder how many deaths there had been in total out of the twenty thousand people in the iDoc beta test. There had to be more. Maybe a lot more.

As George listened to Paula's phone ring, his thoughts strayed. He had wanted to talk with Paula about his suspicions from day one, certainly not for “sour grapes,” as she had intimated, but because he cared about her hard work being distorted by some unethical person or persons.

There still was no answer on the fourth ring. George progressively became convinced that he would have to be content to deal with voice mail and began to wonder if he should leave a message or just call back later or maybe text. After all, five
A.M.
Hawaii time is pretty damn early, especially for someone on vacation. He wondered if she was alone or sleeping with some guy. Then he wondered why such a thought even occurred to him.

Then to his shock the phone was answered.

“Hey, George! Good morning!” Paula said. Her voice didn't sound sleepy or gravelly. In fact, she sounded a bit out of breath.

“I'm sorry for calling so early and waking you up. I realize that it's only five o'clock in Hawaii.”

“It's all right. No problem. I wasn't asleep. I was on the exercise bike getting in a little workout before breakfast. And I'm not in Hawaii. I'm home in Santa Monica. I changed my mind about the trip.”

“You're here! That's great!”

“What's up? I'm surprised to hear from you this early.”

“We need to meet ASAP! I'm afraid I've discovered something rather momentous. You'll want to hear this.”

“Then tell me now.” Her voice had become wary.

“I don't want to talk about it on the phone. Someone's having iDoc do something you didn't ever intend. I'll come to your house. I'd just as soon get out of my apartment anyway. I may be in trouble for some illegal computer hacking.”

“What computers did you hack, George?” Suddenly she was dead serious.

“None. I'm not capable of it. It was someone I hired.”

“And what did you learn?”

“In person,” George said.

There was silence for a moment. “I would prefer to meet someplace public.”

“Wherever you want.”

“There's a place called Caffe Luxxe on Montana Avenue in Santa Monica.”

“I'll find it. What time? Sooner the better.”

“Ten.”

“I'll be there.”

GEORGE'S APARTMENT

WESTWOOD, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

SATURDAY, JULY 5, 2014, 8:20
A.M.

G
eorge took a quick shower. After sleeping in his clothes, getting clean felt particularly good. He dressed rapidly. With more than enough time before he had to leave to make it to the Santa Monica coffee shop well before ten, there was something he wanted to do. He took down the cardboard box that contained Kasey's personal effects.

After smoothing out his bedspread, he spent a few minutes carefully taking Kasey's items out of the box and arranging them on the bed. It was his way of communicating with her, wondering what life would have been like dealing with her illness—the one that neither of them knew she had. How would they have coped? Would the illness and treatment have drawn them closer? Would she have wanted to go through with the marriage? Many questions popped into his head. But few answers. There was one thing for sure. He felt a deep, abiding anger. With what he knew now, there was a chance that someone had denied him the chance to say good-bye to her, to tell her how special she was, and how she had changed his life for the better.

The sudden crash of his front door splintering made George's heart leap in his chest. In a second he was on his feet, aware of a commotion in his living room. A second later George was confronted by a horde of people in ski masks charging into his bedroom, most in black uniforms but others in brown, all carrying weapons, serious weapons. And all the guns were pointed directly at him.

There were shouts: “Hands in the air! Now down on the floor! Now! Now! Down! Spread your arms! Spread those legs!”

Dazed and terrified, George did as he was ordered. More uniformed people swarmed in. He could feel bodies on top of him, pressing him to the floor. He was roughly searched by a dozen strong hands. Then his arms were yanked back painfully and his wrists snapped into handcuffs. It was like what had happened in Sal's apartment, only worse, much worse. In the next instant he was hauled to his feet, wincing at the pain in his shoulders.

Then the shouts from the various personnel that had swarmed him went completely quiet, like the sudden calm after a summer storm.

George warily looked at the faces of the people surrounding him. Some had removed their black balaclavas but not all. Their affiliations were emblazoned on their bulletproof vests: FBI, Secret Service, and LAPD SWAT. The guns had been lowered, but not put away.

Then a man in a black suit walked into George's bedroom. Members of the combined task force silently gave way as he entered. The man's expression was neutral and calm. He held out a badge for George to read.

“I'm FBI Special Agent Carl Saunders,” he said. “You're under arrest for fifteen counts of computer and wire fraud.” He held an official document close to George's nose. “This is a warrant for your arrest.” He then quickly changed documents, bringing one out from behind the other. “And this is a warrant to search your apartment.” He glanced at a subordinate, saying: “Read him his Miranda rights.”

When George was led out of his bedroom, he saw several CSI people packing up his computer and the disassembled mobile phone from the dining room table.

At first George was tempted to blurt out what he had discovered. But, having been read his Miranda rights, he decided that it might be best to just say nothing. None of these people were friendly and they treated him as if he were a dangerous, hardened criminal. He remained silent as he was frog-marched out of his apartment.

A number of his fellow tenants had gathered outside, having been roused by the law-enforcement invasion that had arrived in a fleet of vehicles, including an armored personnel carrier. No one spoke as George was forced into a paddy wagon.

Special Agent Saunders got in with him and they sped off.

•   •   •

G
eorge rode in silence, staring out the vehicle's tiny window as it sliced through L.A. traffic with its siren going. He looked over and studied his captor's profile. “You people don't waste a lot of time.”

“You're in deep shit, my friend,” Agent Saunders replied, glancing at him. “You're looking at twenty-five to thirty years in prison as well as a multimillion-dollar fine. Do you have anything you want to say about the charges?”

“I watched enough police procedurals to know it's probably best to wait until I've talked with a lawyer.”

Agent Saunders looked at him with a mocking expression. “TV shows? You're something of a smart-ass for a doctor.”

“How did you know I was a doctor?”

“We know a lot about you. We've even been in contact with your superiors at the medical center. It appears they intend to press charges on you in addition to the federal government's charges. You're in deep shit, my friend. On top of everything else, the hospital wants to prosecute you for HIPAA violations. As you might imagine, you are officially on administrative leave from your residency.”

Oh, my God!
George thought. What had he done to himself? Overnight he had become a total pariah and was on his way to jail. He glumly looked back out the window, wondering what would happen if he was wrong and his suspicions about iDoc somehow proved to be only circumstantial.

HOLDING CELL, LOS ANGELES COUNTY CENTRAL JAIL

DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

SATURDAY, JULY 5, 2014, 9:20
P.M.

I
t had been a terrible day for George. Maybe the worst of his life, outside of the day Kasey had died. He was taken into custody and processed. Zee's concern about some sort of government involvement in a possible death panel conspiracy terrified him, now that he was in the hands of the authorities. As the day progressed he felt the urge to blurt out what he believed he had learned, and to explain why he was involved in hacking Amalgamated. But he held himself in check, afraid that if he talked he might get himself in even worse trouble, if such a thing was possible. He had the very real fear that his life as he knew it was over, having heard that he already had essentially been fired since that is what “administrative leave” meant. On top of that was the knowledge that if he was convicted as a felon, as the FBI agent confidently predicted, he would never be able to get a DEA license to prescribe controlled substances, making the practice of medicine, most any kind of medicine, difficult if not impossible.

Throughout the whole process, which had taken the entire day, George felt that he was already being treated like a dangerous criminal. Everyone he came into contact with was either curt or rude, or both. The entire booking process was humiliating: the mug shot, handing over all his belongings, being fingerprinted, enduring a full body search, a warrant search for possible pending charges, a health screening, including blood tests for sexually transmitted diseases. The whole rigmarole made him think that he was perceived as guilty until proven innocent rather than the other way around.

At last, at nine
P.M.
, George was ushered into a small fifteen-by-fifteen-foot cell that smelled of urine and disinfectant, where he was finally allowed to call an attorney. An old-fashioned punch dial phone hung on the cell's wall. George picked up the receiver and wondered whom he would call. The trouble was, he didn't know any criminal attorneys. Hell, he didn't know any attorneys. And this was a holiday weekend! The thought went through his head that he very well might be held in this black hole of Calcutta for the rest of the weekend!

With mounting horror, George hung up the phone and eyed his three cellmates. One was passed out on the floor in a pool of vomit. Another was obviously an addict, his fingers heavily stained with the black tar of heroin. The third was a massive biker with tattoos running down each arm and a mass of ink climbing up his chest. He was watching George with a bored look.

George gave him a tentative smile and quickly turned away.

“Hey!”

George felt a flash of panic. He was pretty sure the biker was talking to him. Having no real choice, George turned to the man. They stared at each other for a good ten seconds. George wasn't sure if he was expected to talk or what. Finally, the biker reached over and hiked up one of his orange shirt sleeves.

George slowly shook his head in confusion. “I don't—”

The biker reached down and tapped his finger on a tattoo on the inside of his massive, hairy forearm.

George took a tentative step toward the man. He had no idea what the guy had in mind: Was he showing off the quality of his ‘inkmanship'? Or luring George closer to grab him? George carefully leaned closer for a better look, ready to raise holy hell if necessary. But it wasn't. He realized that the guy was pointing to a phone number tattooed on his arm.

“He's a lawyer, and he's good.”

•   •   •

H
ow's your bank account?”

George had the holding cell's reeking phone away from his face to avoid whatever germs were on it. He hoped to take away nothing more than horrendous memories from this hellhole. The lawyer's name on the other end of the line was Mario Bonifacio, and after he had quizzed George about the particulars of the case and how George had gotten his number, he had gotten right to the point: He asked George about his financial resources.

“It's . . . I don't really have a whole lot of money.”

“Credit cards?”

“Yes. Visa.”

“The credit line?”

“Pretty high, I think. About ten grand.”

“Okay. I'll take a credit card. My fee will be twelve hundred dollars. That's for my work today and tomorrow. I can't get you out of there tonight, so you'll have to cool it until morning. And smile, you're getting a discount on my fee because you're a referral from a trusted client.”

George glanced at the biker, whose name also turned out to be George. He could overhear the conversation since George was holding the phone receiver away from his ear. The biker grinned upon hearing of the discount and gave George a thumbs-up sign.

“Will that be a problem?” Bonifacio inquired.

“No. That seems fair.”

“It is fair. Now bail, that will be the big hit. A bondsman will want ten percent of the amount set by the judge. That is their fee, which you will not get back. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“I don't suppose you know any bail bondsmen?”

“I don't.”

“No problem, I'll take care of it. One thing I have to warn you about up front: Your charges are serious felonies, so they will come at you with a big number. But I know the filing deputy and can maybe get it reduced. You have no priors, so that's a plus.”

“When will my arraignment take place?”

“In the morning. I'll be making calls to the jail after we hang up. You're going to need to pay me and the bail bondsman prior to the hearing. I assume you have a Visa card with you?”

“They have it with my personal effects.”

“That's fine. No problem. Okay. Try and relax. I'll speak to you in the morning.” Bonifacio ended the call abruptly, leaving George with a dial tone.

George hung up the phone and thanked the biker for the referral.

The biker nodded back and turned his attention to his fingernails.

George scanned the room for a place to sit. It hit him that he was stuck here for the whole night! Abandoned, how would he manage? He located the cleanest-looking spot he could find on the floor at the front of the cell and eased down into it. He closed his eyes and shuddered. He was square in the center of society's garbage can. He had officially reached a new low in life, wondering what additional disaster the morning would bring.