Revenge of the Cube Dweller (25 page)

There is no one left on the executive floor this Tuesday evening as I take a moment to survey the territory and sit at Marla’s desk. There is a security camera, but it is pointed toward the elevators. While security might see a cleaning lady get off on the floor, they will not be able to see me at Marla’s desk or in Baldwin’s office now or later if they decide to pull the tapes.

My hands are shaking as I log in using MWALTERS on Marla’s computer and upload LEAR_2008_17_Houston_Gas into her file. I save a backup copy in the 2005 folder and leave a hard copy among some other paperwork she keeps in the one unlocked file cabinet drawer I found previously. I also upload the recorded meeting from the other night onto Marla’s machine, stored in a file labeled Misc. If the Department of Justice does a sweep, surely they will find these files. I look under Marla’s pen set and almost fall over laughing. Baldwin’s new password is recorded there, right next to the old one. GOJayhawks!18—he only changed one digit in response to a security breach. Why am I surprised? This is unexpected, and I can’t help myself as I look around the abandoned floor. With Raj on my tail, accessing Baldwin’s computer remotely will leave a trail, but it certainly won’t if I use his desktop. I smile at the many possibilities circulating in my brain as I sit in Baldwin’s enormous leather chair.

In less than five minutes, I reconfigure his date/time function to a week ago. I quickly compose the following e-mail:

Send
. Done. When the “could not deliver” notification chimes because of the slight difference in Sullivan’s address, I quickly delete it. If Baldwin checks his iPhone, there will be no trace of this correspondence. I print out a hard copy and slide it behind his credenza. The same investigators who will find the files I left in Marla’s office and on her computer will certainly find this smoking gun.

I change back the date on the computer and re-sort his sent file. The e-mail is there, but Baldwin would never think to look in his sent file from a week ago. I compose a couple new e-mails, deleting all of them from the sent file almost immediately after they are sent. One brings me great joy: I email Rosie Daugherty, the Accounts Payable Director, asking her to make some sizable donations to Planned Parenthood, the Urban League, and the Sierra Club. I finish up that e-mail with:

I would give anything to know what the donation chairs of those charities will think when they open their envelopes containing $250K from the Bishop Group.

I take a moment to read today’s e-mail but get interrupted when I hear the elevator chime. In my panic, I cannot remember if Baldwin’s computer was completely turned off or only logged off when I arrived. I decide just to shut the computer down and get the hell out. I hear voices coming my way and take a deep breath. I am in Marla’s office dusting when Baldwin and another man enter her vestibule.

“Where’s Gloria?” Baldwin asks in a friendly tone.

“No English, señor,” I reply, keeping my head down, focused on getting every inch of Marla’s desk lamp cleaned.

“Must be new,” I hear Baldwin say to the other pear-shaped man as they go into his office and shut the door.

I am shaking by the time I make it to the elevator but thrilled just the same. I am good at this, and it is a blast.

For my next task, I change elevator banks and take the car up to the eighth floor where the rank-and-file HR folks work. This is a dangerous move, but if I can pull it off, it will be well worth it. The elevator opens onto steadily humming and clicking office activity and plenty of movement by employees walking in and out of offices and leaning in doorways to ask questions. I am surprised at the activity but then remember how busy the HR folks are getting ready for Friday.
Abort
is my immediate inclination. This is way too dangerous an environment in which to implement my new plan, so instead of getting out, I remain in the elevator and ride down to the lobby.

Driving home, I realize that this has become sort of an addiction for me. The thrill becomes greater each time I am able to
get away with my clandestine activity. It began on Easter Sunday, and it increased with hacking into Baldwin’s files, then spying on Mazie, breaking in the other night, and then again this evening. I love it. It is better than sinking a killer putt to win a championship. I do not want it to end, ever.

And with what I am now planning, it will never have to.

I
am pretty sure that no one other than department heads, HR, and I know that the Project Titanic layoffs are scheduled for tomorrow. Common practice among large companies is not to fire people on a Friday, since they have the whole weekend to sulk and are unable to take any proactive measures in their job search until the following Monday. The hopelessness can result in depression, spousal abuse, and even suicide. Once again, Bishop is behind the curve of best practices.

The prevailing rumor is that the layoffs are scheduled for next Wednesday. Moe and Frank spend most of their days visiting with each other like a couple of old hens, speculating about organization changes. Other managers on the floor visit them, and then they all disappear together for hours on end. No work will get done until the axe falls.

I take the opportunity to clear out what few personal items
I brought to the office: a mug, my Windows XP bible, and an extra cigarette lighter. Without a family, there are no framed pictures, finger paintings from children, or doodads that people bring to make their workplace more like home. My cube reflects how truly temporary Tulsa is for me.

It is only 9:00 a.m. If I think strategically and focus on a clean execution, I can get everything I am planning done by lunch. I can feel my excitement building once again; most likely it’s pretty similar to any addict anticipating the next hit.

I open up Word, goof around with fonts and formats until I achieve the desired results. I make a quick checklist of what has to be done and the information I will need in order to do it. I cannot forget a single thing or I will be in big trouble. On this one, I can’t hide behind the cover of an auditor just doing my work.

I wander down to IT and find Todd at his terminal, talking some bewildered employee through a password change. He looks up and gives me the “just a minute” gesture.

“What can I do for you?” he asks. “And are there cupcakes involved?”

“Actually, yes. I think I still owe you from two weeks ago.” I laugh, producing a small white box sealed with a golden bee sticker. “I didn’t make these, but they’re probably better anyway.”

“Beehives! That is a treat.” Todd beams. Beehives is a tiny restaurant bakery near my condo that produces first-class treats. I didn’t have time to bake with all my snooping and my sister visiting, so I picked up four cupcakes this morning before work.

I watch as Todd opens the box and gingerly selects a cake with his thumb and index finger.

“I didn’t have breakfast. I’m starving,” he says, biting into his treat. “Want one?”

“Oh, no thanks, Todd. These are all for you.”

“I’m having dinner with my parents tonight. I’ll save the rest for them,” Todd says, wiping his hand on a paper towel salvaged from his desk drawer.

I wonder about Todd and what will happen for him after tomorrow. IT is usually in demand even during hard times, so I suspect Todd will find something else fairly quickly. I hope so.

“Now how can I help you?”

“I have been asked to do a count of the cell phones turned in by the executives terminated on Monday. Do you know who I should talk to?”

“Yeah, follow me.”

He introduces me to Sophie, a just-out-of-college type who is in charge of phones, laptops, and other small hardware items. I tell Sophie who I am and that Internal Audit is doing an inventory to make sure that all the company cell phones have been turned in by the former executives.

“I will need a list of names and phone IDs,” I explain. “And then I will need to actually see each of the phones.” This really is bullshit, because any auditor would have come with her own list, but Sophie doesn’t know that. I can tell she is nervous about an auditor making sure she’s done her job correctly.

“The phones are kept in this closet over here,” she says. Quickly, she prints out a schedule of fifteen or so names, and then she walks me over to a closet door and unlocks it.

She watches me as I look at the list and dig through the shelves, looking for the corresponding phone. “It’s better if I
work alone on this,” I say in the most authoritative tone I can muster. “I will let you know the results when I am finished.”

“Yes ma’am,” Sophie says, and she leaves. I quickly look through the list, find Hal’s phone, and put it in my pocket.

After about twenty minutes or so, I return to Sophie’s desk.

“I found all but this one,” I say, pointing to Hal’s name.

“I was sure I had them all.” Sophie looks upset.

“Maybe it’s just misplaced,” I say. “Please just follow up and let me know if you find it. It’s not a big deal, Sophie. I won’t write it in the report.”

“Oh God. Thank you,” she says. She is almost in tears when I leave her for the stairwell.

There are only a couple of bars of reception on Hal’s phone and the battery is weak, but I have what I need.

“Bishop Group,” the cheerful receptionist answers.

“I have planted bombs on three floors of your building,” I tell her using a fake voice. “They are set to go off at exactly eleven o’clock today. Fuck your company and everything they stand for.” I hang up.

I know what the protocol is on something like this, as I audited the very process earlier in the year. The receptionist is supposed to call 911 immediately, followed by Building Services. A floor-by-floor evacuation then commences, and each department meets at a predefined location a block away from the building. Floor wardens and safety marshals wearing lovely orange vests will have checklists to make sure that all employees are accounted for and follow up on the ones they can’t find. I have about five minutes before the process starts.

“Frank,” I say, poking my head in his office, “I’m going up to the twentieth floor to find some files.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t even look up from his desk.

I take my things and go to the ninth floor. I use my janitorial keys to let myself into a locked supply closet and wait, putting on the orange vest I took from my neighbor’s cube before she got to work.

The alarms sound. I am sure most employees think it is a drill. I can hear the sound of orderly footsteps headed to the stairwells, just as they had been prepped in the annual rehearsals supervised by the Tulsa Fire Department.

“Please go to the lobby exit and meet at the northwest corner of the garage,” the warden repeats over and over.

It takes about five minutes for the ninth floor to get to the stairwell and begin the long march down to the street. When I hear the all clear from the safety warden, indicating that there is no one left on the floor, I emerge from my hiding place and go to Mazie’s cube.

It is still logged on, and I access the vendor maintenance screen, where I change the Cayman account number that receives the payments for Larson Consulting to my own.

I move over to Amy’s cube. Her automatic logoff has kicked in, so I use the parsley password I found last week to gain access. I enter my invoice data and note that the wire has been put in the final approval queue. I log off and drop my self-constructed pre-approved invoice into one of the baskets in a neighboring cube.

I quickly hurry to the stairwell and join the parade of employees, which has thinned to a trickle. The Tulsa bomb squad and K-9 unit pass by us on the other side, going up. Outfitted in my official vest, no one notices as I enter the eighth floor, where I’d had to abort my mission last night. With the
floor empty of its perky occupants, I go immediately to the comp file room and locate the stack of rate change authorization forms, taking two, in case I make a mistake later on. I place the forms in a manila folder to keep them from getting creased and head down the stairs.

My last stop is on six. Frank’s office. From there, I log in to Baldwin’s computer and download six or seven folders onto Frank’s hard drive. This access will show up on Raj’s radar screen like a giant red flag, and he will probably figure that Frank is responsible for the hacking. Raj doesn’t know that Frank isn’t capable of something like that. There won’t be any reason to get court orders for the other access attempts. Again I head to the stairwell, dumping my vest in an empty cube on the way. Then I go to the designated meeting spot and check in with the safety representative.

“We were getting worried about you,” Frank says.

“I was up on the twentieth floor and the stairwell was packed, so I thought I’d wait and get some of the files I needed.” I gesture to my manila folder. “This is a drill, right?”