The Digital Dream

by Mike Cartlidge

  Her voice is quiet but she sounds in control. “I see. Yes. I’ll take the appropriate action here. Do you want me to notify the firm’s solicitors and get one of them to come and see you?”

  “Please. I think I’ll need all the help I can get.”

  “Very well. I don’t know when it will be, though. I’m not sure if we’ll be able to contact anyone on a Saturday.”

  I keep one eye on the cop, who’s obviously listening closely to what I’m saying. Now, the officer glances at his watch and raises his hand. “Time’s up.”

  I wave in compliance and return my attention to the phone. “I have to go. If you’d let Mr Langan and the other partners know...”

  “I will.” She sounds brisk and businesslike and not at all panicked.

  The officer walks over to the table and I say a hurried good-bye and hang up. On the way back to my cell, though, my spirits are a little higher and I feel better for having warned Kathleen—and, I realize, for just having heard her voice.

  ***

  The rest of the day passes quietly with insecurity and fear gradually being replaced by boredom. Then, at three o’clock, I am taken back into the windowless interview room. The lights seem to have been turned down and I blink, trying to see clearly. A uniformed officer pushes me towards a chair. It’s a few seconds before I realize that there are others present. For a moment, the shadowy shapes do not move. Then one of them steps forward and sits in the chair opposite me. I recognize the FBI man and the bloodhound face of the detective who was with him the previous night. His name comes back to me now. Crieff. In the dimness, both men seem grayer than ever.

  Maldini, the FBI agent, leans forward and starts to explain why I’m being interviewed. There is mention again of charges of fraud and conspiracy. My head is spinning and I have trouble taking in the rush of information. When he tells me that the interview is being recorded, I nod absently.

  Maldini continues to talk. He tells me how much trouble I’m in...how much the courts hate corporate criminals...proof of allegations and a long jail sentence...a long, long sentence...other inmates will hate me, too...white-collar crooks are only one level higher than the child molesters...you know what they do to them.

  The agent’s manner is close to being physically threatening. Clearly, he shares the views of the courts and the “honest” cons.

  The older man, Crieff, joins in. No good cop-bad cop routine here. They both seem to hate me. I peer at the sergeant’s face in the gloom. Isn’t there some rule, I ask, that I can have my lawyer present while they’re talking to me? They look at me as if the question is an admission of guilt. The sergeant softens slightly. Of course, I can have legal representation if I want. But if I’ve nothing to hide, why not just cooperate? Maybe, if they can tell the judge that I have cooperated, things will go better for me.

  I shake my head, confused. This isn’t like the movies. What happened to my rights? Finally, I admit that I worked with Malcolm McAllister and that I knew about the Sligo-McNeil investigation. That’s it, though. I am innocent of all other charges.

  Skeptical looks. Another question. Who else was involved?

  I think quickly. This is a key question, I guess. Kathleen is still free and I figure that they don’t know about her. There’s no one else, I tell them. I have the technical skill required for the investigation. After all, I started in the industry as a programmer. It’s a matter of record: they can check. I hope they won’t know that my programming skills have as little relevance to today’s computers as those of a Model T mechanic faced with a Ferrari.

  The two of them stare at me for a time. I resist the urge to squirm under their gazes. Eventually, they signal for the uniformed officer and gaze at me with contempt as I am led from the interview room.

  ***

  Back to my cell. Suddenly, boredom doesn’t seem so bad.

  Eventually, later in the afternoon, I force my mind to relax. I decide to lose myself in the play, running through as many of the lines from Antony and Cleopatra as I can remember, imagining myself standing on a stage with no worries beyond listening for my cue. I picture myself the center of attention as Enobarbus.

  Age cannot wither her, not custom stale her infinite variety;

  Other women cloy the appetites they feed,

  but she makes hungry where most she satisfies.

  When I finally drift off to sleep, it is not Cleopatra’s face that floats before my mind’s eye.

  2

  In the city, the cleaners have long since finished their work and the great office blocks are in darkness. The day’s thin warmth is gone and a narrow wind is blowing the biting Chicago northerly off the lake. If the chasms between the buildings seem frigid and empty, the well-lit displays in the store windows, frozen and immobile, only add to the chill. Homebound theatergoers and blues bar patrons keep their thoughts at street level and few look up at the cliff faces above them. Fewer still look high enough to wonder why, in a skyscraper just along South Wacker from the lurking giant of the Sears Tower, four windows shine with light while those all around are black and invisible.

  Eleven of the building’s twelve elevators stop at the ninety-ninth floor. A quarter of a mile into the sky, the remaining machine deposits its human cargo with a whisper that matches the church-like quiet of the penthouse office suite. The streets in the concrete canyons are a world away. In here, the carpet is dense and luxurious: it and the thickly papered walls deaden any sound. This is the sort of place where people speak sotto voce without realizing they are doing it. Even if there were more than two people on this floor, it would still have been as silent as space.

  The man with the strawberry-shaped birthmark next to his mouth gazes at his computer terminal, deep in concentration. He can see his own faint reflection in the screen, hair longish for a businessman, fringe over his forehead, strong nose and searching eyes.

  He started work at five-thirty this morning and he has worked through day and evening without a break. But if he’s disturbed by the darkness outside, he shows no sign of it. In fact, he’s used to long work schedules. He decided many years ago that he would adjust his working times to suit himself.

  After a moment, the man seems to become aware of the secretary standing discretely across the desk from him. She steps closer and whispers a message. He smiles winningly at her and shifts his gaze to her legs as she walks back across the shag-pile carpet to the door. As the door closes, he sighs softly, remembering his father. The old bastard was a crude man for all his upper-middle class upbringing. He imparted a firm code of business behavior to his young son, the first rule within it being to “never crap on your own door-step.”

  The man returns his attention to the terminal. Distractedly, he fingers the skin around the slightly raised birthmark as he reads through screen after screen of information. There is a plethora of data but, he accepts, he did ask for it. At least they are starting to get on top of the goddamned thing. And that has given him the chance to handle things properly. His way.

  He smiles again and turns away from the desk. He fingers a button. Across the room, the top of an apparently antique cabinet slides back and a television set rises into view. Another press of the finger and the device’s on light starts to glow. While he waits for the set to warm up, he turns to stare out of the window at the lights of the city.

  The Japanese have a saying. Problems are little boxes of opportunities. Kai Zen. Secretly, he thinks the Japanese are full of shit, lulling you with polite manners and tea ceremonies while they’re plotting to rip your lungs out. But he agrees that problems are to be welcomed, not feared. There is a solution to every obstacle. Sometimes the solutions require firm action. Decisiveness. An ability to act without hesitation or remorse. He fears nothing.

  ***

  The special late-night meeting does not require its five members to come together in person. Rather, each sits in his own place and watches a video display, segmented into four quarters, while a lens to the left of the screen watc
hes him. Each quarter of the display shows the image of one of the other men.

  The five men have long since decided that formalities should be kept to a minimum. It is an arrangement that suits this inner circle, a group that one of them once unofficially christened the Dream Committee. The name came about during an early planning session when one of the group’s more ironically minded members quoted Martin Luther King’s “I have a dream” speech. The name stuck.

  Since the committee’s earliest days, other attendees have been co-opted for only as long as they are required and none has ever seen enough of the group’s workings to divine its true scope. For all its informality, though, there is a position of Chairman, for which they take turns, meeting by meeting. There is no need for other offices. The position of secretary would hardly have been appropriate and, in any case, none of the men who attend these virtual meetings needs a paper record to assist his memory.

  Likewise, there is no official agenda. Had there been one, however, the last item on it would have been the technical report. This is presented by a sixth man, whose face appears in a small window in the center of the screen and who is listened to with varying degrees of interest, respect and impatience by the other attendees. At the conclusion of the report, the listeners all make appropriate noises of encouragement and congratulation and breath discrete sighs of relief while the intense young man excuses himself and his image departs from the system, leaving them to conclude their affairs.

  The man with the strawberry birthmark, taking the role of Chairman for this meeting, is the first to speak. He congratulates and thanks one of their number, a man he simply calls Phillip but who is addressed by other members of the committee, on the occasions when they talk to him, as Senator. This man answers the Chairman in an Ivy League drawl. His face is thin and ascetic and his upper lip is permanently creased in what looks like an expression of polite distaste. He is in his early fifties. A Hollywood producer might cast him as a member of an austere religious order, although, in real life, his tastes are far removed from those of any monk. The committee has reason to be grateful to him tonight. His intervention through his political allies has led through a complicated skein of cause-and-effect to the upper reaches of the State Department and favors-for-favors initiatives in the various law enforcement agencies. This gallant servant of the people was originally reluctant to use his influence, too concerned with keeping his activities carefully submerged. Now, as he accepts the congratulations of his fellows, he preens himself and disclaims with false modesty on the understated value of his high position and shrewd mind.

  The Chairman addresses another of the group’s members. “I hope, Peter, the discomfiture of our inconvenient investigator leaves your mind a little easier today.”

  In another part of the country, a short man squirms slightly in his seat: all the camera detects is his smile and there is little trace of concern in the East European-accented English. “Yes, I suppose I can say I feel happier. Which is not to say that my concerns are completely gone. This problem...”

  “There is no real problem, Peter. There never was.” In the ninety-ninth-floor office suite, the speaker lowers the nib of his gold fountain pen to the pad in front of him and continues to draw an unflattering sketch of the short man. All the camera sees is the amusedly tolerant twist of his mouth.

  “That’s hardly the way I see it. You think your computer people are the best money can buy and now we have heard that their wonderful system has been compromised by rank amateurs...”

  “These things happen.” The cultured voice is smooth and unconcerned. “We’ve taken care of it and we’ve learnt from what happened. It can’t recur.”

  “I do not like,” the little man says. “I did not understand when we started this that we would become involved in such matters...”

  “Aw, fuck it. Leave it, Peter.” The fourth man interjects. This time the accent is working class, Bronx, irritation obvious. “We always agreed that we’d let David handle things like this. If he says it’s okay, then it’s okay. Let it go.”

  For a moment it looks as though the man called Peter will argue. Then the others see him wave a hand across the screen. “Very well. We let it go this time. Let us hope you are right, David.”

  An arrow appears in the side of the head on the makeshift sketchpad but the Chairman’s face and voice betray no sign of any emotion he may be feeling. “Phillip, if we can return to you...tell us how the denizens of the corridors of power are faring.”

  “Continuing consternation in both the executive and the legislature at the disastrous leaks of information that they have suffered. As you might expect. On the face of it, the original exposure of Senator Francis’s wrongdoings was splendid news for the administration. But, in fact, we servants of the people dislike having one of our own, ah,” he searches for a word, finds one that appeals to him, “rumbled. It undermines public confidence in the established order. And, of course, it makes our politicians and civil servants nervous about what might come out about their own little ventures. Consequently, there are those in the corridors of power, as you put it, who were a little unsettled even before the more recent disclosures. Now, of course, their worst fears have been realized. They are confused and concerned.”

  “Poor souls. How do we think the press are coping with the situation?”

  “Enthusiastically.” The fifth man laughs. His distinctive Australian twang adds yet another variation to the group’s accents. “Anything like this has got to be good news for the media—it’s boosting circulation beautifully. As you know, there’s been a range of reactions. After the Francis episode, rags in favor of the administration generally had a field day, while the opposition’s supporters started damage control. Then the whole thing got turned around. The elements of the fourth estate who had been crowing about the opposition’s problems suddenly had to eat humble pie. Then those who had originally deplored the use of illicitly obtained information suddenly discovered moral justifications. Like the politicians, they’ve been getting real confused. All, that is, but those of us who has the good judgment and integrity to play it straight all the way through.”

  Another smile. “And the television people?”

  “Less tainted by editorial comment, of course. Some concerns raised. That guy Powell’s a pain in the ass. He’s coming on holier than thou at every opportunity.” The TV journalist Aidan Powell has continued to appear on current affairs programs, questioning the Garner juggernaut. “You know his line... ‘Concern about the democratic process,’ ‘men are innocent until proven guilty.’ Of course, not even Powell can believe any of that’s true in the age of trial by television.

  “Apart from that,” the Australian continues sardonically, “his main concern seems to be whether Garner’s popular appeal is matched by real ability. Some people seem to think our mate’s too good-looking to be taken seriously.”

  “I’ve wondered about that,” says the monk-like senator. “I sometimes wonder whether the image isn’t a little too good to be true.”

  “Never.” The Chairman lets his irritation show for the first time. “There’s no such thing. This is the TV age. People vote for image. Have done ever since the advent of television. Look at Kennedy in the early sixties. How did he beat Nixon? Image. Nothing to do with policies. Hell, Nixon was the better politician. And Garner’s now got the perfect situation. Fear and uncertainty over what the established parties have been up to, nothing but good news from his corner. It’s what wins in any situation. Give the people what they want.”

  “Still, I can’t help thinking...”

  “Phillip, I don’t want to be critical, but I sometimes think you Washington Mandarins are so far away from the rest of the population that you have no idea how real people think. Give them what they want. Any young boy who’s ever slid his hand up the inside of a fresh-faced maiden’s thigh knows you can control people far better with pleasure than with pain.” He smiles as the politician fails to hide a grimace. “Give ‘em what
they want.”

  3

  I’m awake before breakfast is delivered. I eat slowly, chewing at a sausage that’s burnt on the outside and pink in the middle, wondering what this Sunday will have in store. At least the gray cell walls have now assumed a sort of grim familiarity and are a little less frightening. I think about all the other men and women who have sat here as I do now. What offenses had they been charged with? Was my predecessor on this hard bunk a harmless drunk or a killer? What the hell, we have the comradeship of incarceration. It’s a cheering thought for us jailbirds.

  Time drags by. At nine o’clock, I get a visit from the weary uniformed sergeant. A lawyer called, he says. Told ‘em he’d been engaged by your employers and that he’d be here to see ya later in the morning. We’ll call ya when and if. He places a disposable razor and a half-used tube of shaving cream on the side of the washbasin. There’s no end to his hospitality. Guest Quarters and Four Seasons could learn a heap from this guy.

  Still, the news cheers me. At least the lawyer should be on my side and, despite everything, I guess I still have the average layman’s faith in the power and impartiality of the law. I get up and walk over to the washbasin, splashing cold water onto my face and examining the tube of shaving cream. When I think about it in the cold light of day, I decide that my main concern up to this point is the embarrassment that my arrest is going to cause in my professional and private lives: I am, after all, innocent of any real wrongdoing. I spread a thin lather onto my face and pick up the razor.

  ***

  In fact, when the lawyer finally arrives, he seems to be at pains to disillusion me. Spencer Dando is an earnest, prematurely bald young man with a habit of balancing his spectacles on the end of his nose as he speaks. It gives him the appearance of a startled owl.