by Jack Davis
At the same time his wife, while seated, lashed out and kicked Murray.
Seeing his partner struck Kruzerski had enough. He grabbed Nathanial Lake and half lifted, half dragged him up the stairs toward Anthony’s room.
“Let go of him, you have no right to touch him; that’s police brutality! Where are you taking him,” yelled Sue. Then loud enough for anyone outside to hear, “WHERE ARE YOU TAKING HIM? YOU’RE HURTING HIM! STOP HURTING HIM! POLICE BRUTALITY! POLICE BRUTALITY! I DEMAND YOU LET HIM GO!”
Murray had reached his limit. He lifted Sue off the ground by her collar and belt and followed Kruzerski.
After a brief shock—never as an adult having been touched without either permission or without the ability to strike out—Sue started yelling even louder.
As both parents were “bum rushed” into Anthony’s room, Agent Fatchko was kneeling in the corner finishing the cataloging of evidence.
“Steve, you done in here?” Kruzerski growled.
The tone of the question made Fatchko stand. “Yeah, close enough.”
As Fatchko left the room, Murray followed Kruzerski’s lead and shoved his charge onto the bed. Then he picked up one of six boxes with Dell stenciled on it. “Do you know what the fuck is in this box?”
Sue sneered. “It’s a laptop or something like that.”
He picked up another box and tossed it on the bed. “And what about this one?”
“The same. Are computers illegal to own?” Her tone was contemptuous.
“How many laptop computers does your son need?” asked Kruzerski.
“They may not all belong to him; he may be holding them for someone else, or he may have bought them for someone else. There are a thousand reasons for him having these here. I’m not going to just assume that my son has done something illegal to get them,” said Sue diffidently.
Murray smirked. “I’m holding it for someone else. Yeah we’ve never heard that from a criminal before. Completely fuckin’ original!”
Kruzerski picked up the laptop that Agent Fatchko had been inventorying the evidence on. “Do you realize how much shit your son has in here?”
Nathanial Lake finally realized where the agent was going and tried to cut off his wife before she answered. “Anthony has a job; he also just had his eighteenth birthday and got a lot of money from relatives.”
“Did he get thirty thousand fuckin’ dollars for his birthday? You stupid piece-of-shit excuse for a parent! Your kid has been doin’ this for at least a year that we can prove. He has about forty thousand dollars’ worth of gear here and receipts for thirty thousand more that he’s been sellin’. What the fuck were you doing all this time? The good thing is, you’ll save a shitload of money on an attorney, because all he is gonna have to do is plead him guilty ’cause we’ve got Anthony by the balls.”
With the last surge of emotion, Kruzerski grabbed a wireless keyboard off the bed and after a second’s hesitation, broke it over his head.
As the pieces of the disintegrating keyboard sprayed the room, Murray jumped in. “Little Anthony’s goin’ to the big house. He’s gonna have a nice felony record that’ll follow him around like a shitty shadow for the rest of his life.”
Then, without knowing it himself, he hit on the real reason behind his rage. He leaned in close to and yelled loud enough to make the handcuffed man flinch and try to back away. “I ALMOST KILLED YOUR SON! OVER FUCKING COMPUTER EQUIPMENT! IF YOU’D HAD ANY CLUE WHAT WAS GOIN’ ON WE WOULDN’T BE HERE. NOW STOP PLAYIN FUCKIN’ GAMES! WHERE’S ANTHONY, SHITHEAD!”
Morley had briefed Carpenter and was updating Kensington when he heard Sue screech.
He reached the bedroom just ahead of Tate and at the tail end of Murray’s outburst. “Guys, that’s enough!”
The former Marines turned quickly.
Morley’s tone softened. “Step outside. Get some fresh air.” The tension in the room was cut.
“Yes sir,” was the immediate response.
Tate walked them from the room, Kruzerski still holding half of the keyboard in each hand.
Once out of earshot of the Chin-Lakes, Tate smiled. “While the keyboard breaking thing is impressive, next time let’s remember that this,” he pointed to the keyboard halves in Kruzerski’s hands, “is evidence.”
There was a pause as Kruzerski looked from one hand to the next before Tate added, “Oh, and next time use your knee, not your head.”
Back in Anthony’s bedroom, Pencala had joined Morley. The senior of the two walked over to the couple, who were sitting on the bed in front of their son’s computer-filled closet.
“Nathanial, isn’t it?” PJ’s voice was low and quiet, in sharp contrast to that of the last two agents.
Nathanial Lake, visibly upset, shook his head weakly but never looked up.
“Do you prefer Nathan, Nate, Nathanial?” Morley helped him stand and removed the flex cuffs. He continued to focus on Nathanial as he nodded to Pencala. She moved over to Sue and removed her restraints.
Being an expert in reading people, Morley knew full well the man now standing in front of him was not a threat. He also knew that he was definitely a Nathanial and had never been known as Nate. Most importantly Morley knew the man was broken. He had been humiliated in front of his wife and son when he was effortlessly manhandled up the stairs by Kruzerski. Emotionally he had been broken when the stark facts had been thrown in his face. He could not deny what was so obvious. Nathanial had reached the point where he was malleable and could be used.
“Have a seat.” Morley motioned to the bed. He pulled up a desk chair and sat.
“Agents Murray and Kruzerski are good agents. They are passionate about what they do, and the last thing in the world either one would want to do is hurt someone unnecessarily. Especially a child. That almost happened tonight in Tran’s room. He had his Xbox controller under the covers. We didn’t know what it was, it could have been a gun based on its size and color. We could have easily shot him, and over what?”
Morley motioned around the room. “This? I’m just telling you this so you can see why Brian and Lionel are upset.”
Morley paused to let the lethal ramifications of what could have happened sink in. Then he switched gears. “We can look around and tell that you have tried to be good parents. You have a beautiful home. You have given your sons all the advantages they could ask for. The problem isn’t you. It probably isn’t even Anthony. He’s probably a good kid. He’s just made a few bad decisions that have taken him down a dark road. That road has come to an end. The end is right at the edge of a cliff and you have to help your son back away from the edge.”
Morley inhaled deeply and tried to let his last sentence hit home before continuing. “Anthony’s life has changed dramatically today, but it’s far from over or irredeemable. The worst thing would have been if he had kept this up. You can ask any one of the agents here and they’ll tell you that there are much worse places your son could end up than in our custody. We’ve seen kids killed for this type of crime when they get caught up with the wrong group.”
Another pause for effect. “We’re not here to hurt Anthony. None of us wants to punish him, or your family. Like I said, he’s probably a decent kid. He’s young; he’s made a few mistakes. We’ve all made mistakes.”
By now Nathanial was looking up occasionally. Morley had given him an out, knowing he would take it. What choice did he have?
Morley continued, “We understand things started off awkwardly here. For our protection we have to come in as if every house contains dangerous people; it’s standard procedure, to keep us safe. From your perspective we bust into your house and your first reaction was to protect yourselves and your family. That’s only natural.”
Sue tried to defend her actions. “It’s a natural maternal instinct to try to protect my children.” She looked for acknowledgment first from Morley and then Pencala before she continued, “When I thought you might hurt my family, I lashed out. I really didn’t mean any harm to anyon
e.”
Still trying to defuse the situation, Morley gave her a lifeline. “I don’t think we need to press charges for assault, but I’ll have to ask Agent Tate.”
Sue seemed to realize how serious her situation was. She softened her tone. “Please tell him I didn’t mean to hurt him. I was just acting like a mother lion when her den is in danger; my instincts just took over. Please explain that to him.”
“I’ll talk with him; he’s been on plenty of raids and has seen people react violently before. He’s a professional and doesn’t take things personally. Still, we can’t have people assaulting law enforcement officers. I’ll recommend Agent Tate talk to you before we make a decision on the charges.”
“Please let me talk with him for just a minute, to apologize in person.”
Morley had her, she was scared enough to apologize. Wanting to keep the momentum going, he moved on without giving it up altogether.
“I’ll talk to him, but now we have to get past that and think about what is best for Anthony. He has some difficult decisions in front of him, and he really needs your guidance. He needs you to look out for him. A lot of what is going to happen to him today, and for the rest of his life, is going to be decided in the next couple of hours. If you know where he is, you have to tell us, and now.”
Anthony Chin-Lake took his phone from his pocket and looked at the caller ID. The call was from his mother. He rolled his eyes, hit ignore, and put it back in his pocket.
25 | The Left Bank
Brooklyn, New York, 09/26/09, 0117 hours
Most people who were told exactly where The Left Bank was couldn’t find it. It epitomized the term hole-in-the-wall. That was one aspect the clientele liked most about it. Located in what looked like an abandoned storefront on 8th Avenue in Brooklyn, the building had previously housed a small Hispanic check cashing store. It was just to the left of a closed Chase Manhattan Bank branch; hence the name.
The Left Bank, or The Bank as it was known to the regulars, collected a steady stream of business from around four p.m.—four hours after it opened—until just about four a.m. The owners, two business majors who had only recently graduated from the State University of New York (SUNY) at Brockport, knew their patrons. They calculated that if the atmosphere was right, one part college dorm room, one part gaming convention, they could attract their target audience. They were right. Gamers, stoners, and Goths showed up in droves, along with an occasional old beatnik.
The clientele gladly paid a small a cover charge and stayed an average of two to five hours, eating (Hot Pockets, Doritos, Snickers, etc.) and drinking huge quantities (Red Bull, Mountain Dew, Coke, etc.) the whole time.
One of the aspects that made The Bank unique was the doorman. He stood behind the now-defunct check cashing solid steel door. He decided who was or wasn’t allowed inside. And while access wasn’t necessarily exclusive, not everyone was allowed in. In this establishment, the nerdier the person looked, the better; sort of a reversal from most other clubs, the clubs that didn’t accept people like those who frequented The Bank.
As much of a draw as the faux doorman was, the main reason people kept coming back to the 8th Avenue location was lightning-fast access to the internet. Originally The Bank had one big OC-48 pipe and a T1 line, which was better than most actual bank branches. In addition, there were other wireless access points belonging to nearby local businesses. The unwritten rule for using these was not until after ten p.m. At that time no businesses would be using them, so nobody would complain.
Anthony Chin-Lake, ACL to his friends, had been at The Bank for three hours when he saw two men who were obviously cops walk in. This was the first time he had ever seen a cop in his cybercafé, and it bothered him. He regarded The Bank as a place of refuge from almost everything establishment, most especially five-O. Surprised they could find the place, he wondered how they got past Paul at the front door. Anthony would later learn that Paul, the stoned doorman, had opened the sliding security screen and leaned close to see what was being held up. It turned out to be a badge. Before he could react, a powerful hand came through the opening, grabbed him by the throat, and started choking him until he opened the door.
After the initial shock of two unwanted outsiders inside his sanctuary, ACL decided to put on a show of bravado for his two friends. While everyone else was shutting down their computers as quickly as possible, but ACL just kept typing. He had hacked into a used bookstore’s customer mailing list and was looking for personal data to use on some re-embossed cards he believed he still had at his house. He kept searching, only occasionally looking up to see the progress of the two intruders. They were shining small flashlights in everyone’s faces, obviously looking for someone in particular.
Finally, when the two were at the next table, Anthony hit a hot button that switched to a different virtual machine on his laptop. He planned to get back to the hack as soon as the invasion of his privacy ended.
The sudden jolt of light made Anthony recoil and squint in the same instant. To his amazement he heard, “It’s him.”
Still blinded by the light, the same powerful hand that had choked Paul into opening the door lifted Anthony off his chair.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” said ACL, still playing tough for his friends.
A deep voice responded, “Anthony Chin-Lake, you’re under arrest.”
“What? You can’t arrest me. I wanna see a warrant.”
There was a laugh from the white agent, and as ACL was spun around, his hands were brought behind his back and cuffed. He heard another voice. “He don’t know anything about the system. This should be fun.”
Anthony was initially surprised by how easily he was manhandled. Trying not to cooperate, he went limp. This only brought powerful direction, often painfully, and Anthony thought intentionally, into furniture. Anthony resumed walking.
Within a short time, he was outside and heaved into the back of a dark four-door car. The black agent read him his rights. Anthony noticed he was reading from a card. Not even bright enough to memorize six simple lines? He’s as dumb as he looks.
Anthony’s misread of this simple process was based upon two factors: his mother’s insistence that he should always question authority and his supreme arrogance. The two combined and helped Anthony come up with a plan during his thirty-minute ride to the New York Field Office. By the time he arrived, the majority of the plan was fleshed out; he was only missing a few details. He would work them out on the fly; it wouldn’t be too difficult, after all, he wasn’t facing academic overachievers.
Charging Past Each Other (09/26/09 0230 hours)
In the world of cyber criminals, Anthony fell into the category of a novice hacker, or script kiddie; pseudo-hackers who use real hackers’ scripts or code to illegally gain access into other people’s computers. Hackers with real skills look on them with mild disdain.
Anthony had neither the talent nor the desire to learn to write code. At the beginning of his hacking career, he tried, but found it more difficult than he thought. So, he went to one of the dozens of sites on the internet that housed other peoples’ hacking tools. From there, he could pick and choose, not unlike a buffet. It was also the same way he wrote most of his papers in high school, copying someone’s work off the internet. He felt he was working smarter, not harder.
Another area within the hacking community where Anthony was remarkably average was his attitude. Like every cybercriminal ever arrested, Anthony knew, without even talking to the investigators, that he was their intellectual superior. When the agents started talking, it just confirmed his belief. His opinion of himself, while rather inflated, was based upon school and work, where he knew more than all his friends, coworkers, and most of his teachers. The fact he had been committing various types of cybercrime for four years without ever having been caught had solidified the impression in his mind. Once the surprise and fear of being arrested had worn off, he had been contemplating how he would outwit the agents who had
arrested him.
His initial thought was to ask for a lawyer. That was until the black agent told him, “Soon as you ask for a lawyer, we can’t talk to you anymore. Any chance of cooperation and stayin’ outta jail today is over. We’ll have to process you and take you over to the MCC for booking.”
I guess I’ll wait on the lawyer. I can always get one later. I’ll see what they have first.
“So how ’bout it, you want a lawyer?” asked the white agent.
“I haven’t done anything wrong; what do I need a lawyer for?”
The black agent was quick to respond, “I agree, but we have to ask.”
Anthony could see the relief on their faces.
Murray and Kruzerski expected a quick confession from the young man. They knew he was guilty; he knew he was guilty. He should just man up, sign a confession, and admit to everything. It should have been just that simple. Anthony’s hesitance to sign anything cast doubt on resolving the matter quickly.
It was at this point that both sides charged past each other on the chess board going after the other’s king.
Kruzerski and Murray, realizing that their suspect was not a real criminal, felt their best approach was to use the threat of jail to frighten the slightly built bespectacled teenager.
The fact Anthony had never been arrested added the fear of the unknown to the equation. He wasn’t like the Dominicans or gangbangers they had arrested prior to coming over to the cyber side of the NYFO. Those kids couldn’t be bluffed; they knew the system and were much more frightened by what would happen if they talked than by this civilized process.
In this instance, both agents were sure they could dangle the idea of Anthony avoiding jail, if he was willing to cooperate. He was a middle-class kid who probably wanted to go to college. He should jump at the chance to avoid two days in jail and a criminal record that would follow him for the rest of his life.