by Rich Foster
The party hung up, which prevented Hill from saying anything. Being ordered irritated him. He was accustomed to giving, not receiving. At the prison he was in control, but callers like Van de Meer reminded him he was not.
Chapter 30
Al Hernandez turned on his computer. From the kitchen came the aroma of tamales. On the floor his three kid’s toys formed an obstacle course with their toys. Dinner would be up in a few minutes.
He had mail. One came from the IRS. Like all Americans Al dreaded dealing with taxes and the government. The e-mail told him that one of the 1099-interest filings on his previous years tax return carried an incorrect social security number. He could correct this by going to the attached link. Failure to respond might result in an audit.
Fearing the worse he opened the file attachment but it was a simple declaration that the social security number was wrong and that the one on his tax forms was correct. He did not need to even enter his social security number, which would have made him nervous. He clicked the box, hit send and forgot about it.
*
The Web site for Paragon Partners, an architectural and engineering firm was impressive. The site listed numerous civil engineering projects as photos scrolled by, dams, bridges, causeways, and other government buildings. Striking angular, photos showed skyscrapers and captions lauded their architectural division.
A pull down link listed the firm’s directory by departments. Ziegfeld copied down four names from the list. He chose people who were least likely to be at their desk all day. Most workers grew tired of logging in and out of a system; those who were mobile usually chose simple passwords. Despite endless memos about corporate security most firm’s computer servers remained extremely vulnerable.
A moment later he ordered a background check on a half dozen people. Shortly he knew martial status, birth dates, maiden names, addresses, and often children’s names.
Forty-five minutes later, Ziegfeld was into the Paragon Partner’s system after entering, “Shelly”, the name of the eight-year-old daughter of Frank Murcheson, a twenty-nine year-old, divorced draftsman.
Ziggy began downloading blueprints from the corporate archive files. Even with his high-speed server it would take a while. He got up to make coffee.
*
The Bureau of Prisons computers at ADX Praxis were well defended against external attacks. They were poorly protected from internal snooping.
Al Hernandez worked in the Records Division. When he logged on during the night, his after hours work did not trip the computer system’s internal security precautions. Diligently, file after file was accessed, then downloaded. The problem for the prison was that Al Hernandez was in bed asleep.
The week before when he innocently opened the IRS attachment he unknowingly downloaded a Trojan Horse into his computer. Within the electronic files Ziegfeld accessed Hernandez Turbo Tax folder for the previous year.
Going online, at Praxis, Ziegfeld clicked on, “Forgot your password?”. By using Al’s social security number to identify himself, Ziggy changed the password..
The next morning Al sat down at his desk, logged on and was denied access to the system. “A typical glitch,” he thought. Without any more consideration he reset his password. Three days later it happened again. He would have called I.T. to check it but a phone call distracted him. By the time he handled the call he’d forgotten about it.
Chapter 31
Dirk went to an independent mailing center. It was a non-descript shop located in an aging strip mall off the main drag through town. A gray haired woman who had no interest in who he was took his money for a month’s rent on a postal box.
Three days later box 247 contained a yellow notice that there was a package at the service counter, awaiting pickup.
In the cabin of his boat, Harry turned on the radio. Music wafted from the deck speakers. If anyone was listening with a parabolic mike the sound would mask conversation. He swept the cabin with an r.f. scanner, searching for electronic bugs. The boat was clean.
It was a chore he began to do everyday because shortly after Gaines visited the docks someone let themselves into Harry’s office. Unfortunately, the vent grates hid the face of one of the two men, but watching the video clip Barton was positive from the posture it was the man he spotted on Paula’s roof. The other man’s face matched with Gaines’s description. Both Harry and Barton filed the face away in their memory.
They opened the package on the table. Inside was a portable hard drive. Harry plugged the device into his laptop. The screen fluttered and a directory opened.
My Videos
Zhou.mpg
Abdul.mpg
Nadim.mpg
My Documents
Praxis.pdf
Records
Abdul
Darwin
Nadim
Zhou
Notes.doc
Programs
CAD-PP.EXE
Harry opened the file; notes.doc.
“The Engineering plans are saved in a proprietary system to Paragon Partner. To access the files you must use the CAD-PP program otherwise the files are inaccessible
The entire records file for all four inmates is there but I see damn little of interest.
I hacked into the closed circuit system for the prison and have attached several video clips. There isn’t one for Edwin Darwin since he is dead.
At this time there is no signs of someone is trying to backtrack my incursion.”
Barton and Harry opened the documents folder. There were files within folders. Under Abdul’s name were documents for Medical, Dental, Visitors, Disciplinary, and Department of Prison Identifiers. The same set-up was found the other inmates.
Harry clicked on the Medical file for Abdul.
“Look at the last modification date for this file, Harry,” Barton said as he tapped the screen.
“That’s after Ames died.”
In the file he found Abdul-Alim Khalili saw a doctor every six months since his incarceration. His condition was listed as good. The man had no prior conditions, allergies, or complaints. The doctor’s signature was illegible.
His visitor’s file showed nothing. No family, lawyers, clerics, or media persons were in contact with him.
“That seem peculiar? “A radical Muslim and no Imams visiting?”
“Maybe they’re afraid of being seen with the brother? Maybe the Feds don’t let them in?”
“Check out the Dietary section of the BOP intake form.
Harry worked the keys. Under dietary restrictions there were no entries. “The guy’s a Muslim. How come there’s no ban on pork?”
“Maybe he’s a progressive radical?”
Barton laughed. “Looks like someone was sloppy. They never expected anyone to see these files. Check out the other ones.”
Darwin and Zhou ZhengZhong’s medical files had data. Both files were modified after Eddie Ames’s death. The other files in their folders were blank. Darwin’s file included a death certificate signed by the Canaan County Coroner.
“Be nice to talk to him.”
“Darwin or the Coroner?”
“Whichever would talk,” Harry said, as he chuckled.
“I think Darwin’s gonna be the silent type.”
Only Wafi’s record seemed complete. His file had culinary restrictions. A cleric’s visit was entered twice. The intake medical report was complete.
He even had a filling on a bicuspid.
Harry closed document files, then typed run:CAD-PP.exe. When it was running he opened the file for ADX PRAXIS. It contained the construction plans for the prison. They spent the afternoon looking at the blueprints.
“Can scarcely read this they’ve got so much stuff.”
“We need to turn off some schematic layers.”
Harry worked through each layer one at a time.
“We need an electrical engineer to look at these plans.” Barton said as they clicked through wiring diagrams. Maybe they can figure out where
the CCTV controls are?”
“Look at this.” Harry’s finger tapped at a hallway on the blue print. “This is the level below the D block. A hallway runs under the cells on one side of the block. But it dead ends at the end of the block.”
“Is it a service chase?”
“Could be, but why are the other utility chases half the size and not as deep?”
“You lost me, Harry.”
“Look at the finish floor elevations of the chase under this side of D block or either side of C block. This one side is deep enough to be a service hallway. Also, if you look at the typical detail for G-4 it is an access panel made out of steel and concrete. Why the hell would they put trap doors in the floor of a super max cell?”
“So they can get in?”
“Or what if they want to get out?”
“You think this is like Hogan’s Hero’s where the dudes come and go to town?”
“I don’t know what I think but a hatch is for going in or going out. Now there is a door into the cell from the hallway, and the back wall has a door into the exercise pen, why not use one of those?”
“Cuz..” drawled Barton, “Maybe someone don’t want anyone to see who or what is coming in and going out?”
“Bingo. We know something is going on at Praxis that they are willing to kill for and I’ll bet that it has something to do with this. Let’s check the records and see to which cells our guys were assigned.”
Two beers later they knew that three of the four were housed in cells with floor hatches. Only Nadim was housed on the other side.
“I want to look at the video. Lets see if we can see the hatch on the floor,” said Barton.
For the next half hour they viewed the footage. It was difficult to be sure but it appeared the floor was divided into squares by score marks in the concrete. One of the squares would be the trap door. It was dull watching as inmates lay on their bed or took a drink, or paced the floor.
“God, I’d hate to sit and watch this all day.”
“Guess you ain’t cut out for prison work Harry.”
“But what did Eddie Ames see watching this that got him killed?”
“What was on that list on his flash card?”
Harry spread out his notes on the galley table.
Shadow in upper left corner.
Glass gone.
Shower dry.
Toothbrush moved.
Spot on floor.
Shading shift.
Button on cuff.
“These things made Eddie think something was up. It also made him think a newspaper would be interested. So obviously he figured his employer was up to something illegal.”
“Covert is more likely the word you be looking for. This is all spook shit. People be trying to kill you and they ain’t afraid to call on the Sheriff. The only thing they seem to fear is people asking questions.”
“So lets ask some. If they are afraid of bad press lets use the media to get into the prison.”
“You ain’t getting me inside that place.”
“No, and I doubt they would let us, but what if a reporter made very noisy demands to do an interview with one of the D block prisoners?”
“What makes you think they would talk if something weird is going down?
“I don’t know we can only ask.”
Chapter 32
Lou Harding was a thirty-year veteran of journalism. Age was showing on him like worn cuffs on a tired sport coat. The hair on his head was thin and dominated by gray. His long thin fingers, still light on a keyboard were tending toward arthritis in the joints.
In his younger days he worked for the Miami Herald and later the Chicago Tribune. During those early days he dreamed of a Pulitzer Prize. Woodward and Bernstein inspired him. However, the years slipped uneventfully by and he never came close.
He worked hard at his craft. Seldom were the times over the years where a correction on an item in one of his stories needed to be run. He resigned himself to being “good”, instead of one of the “greats,” willing to do a decent job another decade or so until it was time to quit.
But then he did the story on the Chicago mob. One morning his wife took his car to work so he could drop hers off at the shop. The bomb meant for him left a small crater in his driveway and killed his wife. After the funeral he packed it in telling his editor he was taking early retirement.
Lou sold his house in Oak Park and left the Chicago area. He traveled around for six months until he pulled into Red Lake. It felt as much like home as anything he had found. He bought a place on the mountainside overlooking part of the town and lake. He opened escrow and sent for his furniture. Three weeks later the deal closed and his furniture arrived.
A month went by as he settled in. Then he bought a small boat and fished. There months later he was bored and fearful of filling the last ten, twenty, or thirty years of his life.
While taking his coffee and reading the local paper he saw a “Help Wanted” ad for the Red Lake Clarion. He applied. The editor was delighted to have a vetted professional. Lou took over covering the rodeo, public affairs, and an occasional story on the City Council or County Board of Supervisors.
He could knock out a story in minutes yet tell it in a manner that captivated the reader. Soon he was given his own column for opinions, news, or whatever scuttlebutt he cared to write about.
A cigarette dangled from his lips as he banged out his weekly column. The phone rang.
“Harding, speaking.”
A voice said, “Yeah. I may have a story for you. Can we meet?”
What Lou heard from Harry Grim was intriguing even if it failed to make sense. On the other hand, he figured Grim was not sharing all the facts.
The salient points were, one; something odd was going on at Praxis. Two; an employee died in a crash that only Harry thought was intentional. Three, Harry’s house blew up soon after he started to ask questions.
Harry hinted there was more to the story but he was not forthcoming. What he did want was for Lou to interview a few prisoners at Praxis.
Rumors had come to Lou in the past of shady transactions at the prison. A supplier over the hill in Beaumont made accusations of fraud in the letting of a contract but offered no proof.
Then a small time dealer claimed to have supplied drugs to a guard. After being reported by the local newspaper the man unexpectedly withdrew his claim and left town. But that did not stop stories of guards smuggling in drugs or other contraband. Lou knew a couple prison employees who owned boats at the marina; whose vessels seemed in excess of their pay grade. Perhaps they were frugal. When he asked around, no one would go on the record with him.
Without any facts to substantiate them, Lou dropped the story, but kept these rumors in the back of his mind for a future piece.
The more he thought about Harry’s suggestion the more he liked it. Even if there were nothing to it, a visit to the prison would make an interesting column.
Seeking an interview, he wrote letters to Nadim Wafi, Zhou ZhengZhong and Abdul-Alim Khalili. He copied their attorneys of record. Only Wafi’s lawyer, John Cornfield responded. His client would be pleased to see him.
Chapter 33
Lou Harding interviewed Nadim Wafi. His piece ran in the Red Lake Clarion’s weekend edition. The story read,
“After the noise of the main hallways, D block was disarmingly quiet. No sound emanated from the other doors on the block. I heard no televisions or radios, it reminded me of a sensory deprivation experiment.
The guard did not speak but opened the door. Nadim sat on a metal cot, mounted to the wall. When I entered he did not stand. This surprised me until I realized his wrists were cuffed to the frame.
He is a wisp of a youth. His dark skin is sallow from months out of the sun. His eyes darted nervously around the small cell. Across the top of one wall a six inch slit permits natural light to hit the wall, but the Nadim has no way of seeing out. The pane is too high and the glass opaque.
“My
client has been isolated since he arrived. It may take some minutes for him to become adjusted to talking with you,” his lawyer had warned me.
I sat down on the wall-mounted stool by the desk.
“What is your life in here like?” I asked.
“It is not a life, it is hell.”
“Are you abused?”
“No, I am nothing! Today is the first time I have seen another person since I came here.”
“Really? What about the guards? Who brings your food?”
“I do not see the guards. I suppose they are watching.” Nadim nodded toward the cameras in the ceiling. “I am let out that door once a week, into the exercise yard. I can only see the sky. After a time a voice tells me to return to my cell.”
“And if you don’t come in?”
“They threaten to release the dogs.”
“What about your food?”
“It comes on the track over there. I eat, and when I am done I send the tray back. If anything is missing from the tray I get an empty tray at the next meal and the next until I return whatever is missing.”
“How do you know this?”
“I tried to keep a fork. After two days without food I returned it.”
Our conversation turned to his crime.
“Why did you bomb your own apartment building?”
“I never bombed anything. As Allah is my witness, I am innocent.”
“A jury of your peers thought otherwise.”
“They were wrong.”
The story went on at length, but revealed nothing untoward about life at Praxis.
Chapter 34
Harry hung out at the Corral. It was a bar down the road from Praxis where many guards drank after their shift. Barton Dirk did not go with him, his skin color would work against Harry.
The place was dark. The crowd was mostly men with a few women who were hanger-ons. The men came in to drink and to avoid going home. Together they bitched about the economy, their job or their wife.