“Sure. In my situation, I’ll take all the pub I can get.”
He was given an address in Woodward Park. When he looked it up on a street map, he discovered it was no more than three blocks from where the Garcias lived, in a solidly middle-class area of newer homes. An unlikely location, it seemed to him, for someone in a fly-by-night business.
The house was one of the more modest in the neighborhood. It stood on the corner. He drove by, continued to the end of the next block, hung a left, and came back up the side street. The backyard was fenced, but through a gap in the boards, he could see a blue expanse. Whoever lived there had a pool. He turned the corner and parked near a large boulder that had no doubt been trucked in by a landscaping service to keep the shrubs company.
The person who opened the door told him her name was S. J. She was only slightly shorter than Richard. She wore a light blue shift with a padded apron that had pictures of birds all over it, most of them perched on branches. Her handshake was bone-crunchingly robust. The house smelled like a freshly baked cookie.
She led him into the living room. Bookshelves lined the walls. No light reading fare for S. J. Her shelves fairly sagged beneath Russell and Whitehead’s Principia Mathematica, Dreben and Goldfarb’s The Decision Problem: Solvable Classes of Quantificational Formulas, Tarski’s Logic, Semantics, Metamathematics. “Can I offer you coffee?”
“Oh, no, thanks, I’ve already had three cups.”
She gestured at the couch, then seated herself in an adjacent armchair. “So what can I tell you,” she asked, “about my new profession?”
“So you’re new at this?”
“I’m new at almost everything. So far, you’re the only one to call about phone repair. I have another job in the evenings, but I’m even new at that.” She waved at the window. “Did you pass the 7-Eleven on your way?”
“The one near Von’s?”
“I’ve been working there since mid-August.”
She’d been turned down for tenure in the Philosophy Department at UCC. She was suing them, of course. Wouldn’t he rather write about that than iPhones? iPhones were trinkets, she informed him, superficial, transient objects based on technology that was all but obsolete before they developed it. She could build a better phone if she chose to, but the real problem was the notion of the cell phone itself. Did he realize it? Cell phones were already obsolete, though the average person lacked the necessary information to understand that. How much, for instance, did he know about implanted circuitry or open-source technology?
Nothing, he admitted.
“Because they don’t want you to,” she said. “And Microsoft and Apple represent only the tip of the conspiracy.”
For the sake of politeness, he remained nearly an hour, during which he might have spoken all of five words. When he rose to leave, she asked for his card. Would he like her to keep him abreast of developments in her lawsuit? Oh, most definitely.
At the door, a thought came to him. “Speaking of technology,” he said, “while I was in the shower this morning, I got a call from a mobile number that looked familiar, but whoever it was chose not to leave a message. As luck would have it, I’ve also been working on a story about some possible financial irregularities at UCC—forgive me for not being more specific—and I have reasons for thinking maybe it was in regard to that. I generally don’t like to return calls without knowing who’s likely to answer. You wouldn’t have any kind of cellular directory for the school, would you?”
“Not exactly. But what’s the number?”
He pulled his phone out and pretended to look at his call list. Then he recited the disconnected number from the Aguileras’ bill.
“Give me a second,” she said.
She left him standing there. From somewhere down the hallway came the sound of rapid keystrokes. It was three or four minutes before she returned.
“Sorry it took me so long,” she said. “They actually do a halfway decent job with their protected databases. Most of their cellular numbers have names listed by them. But for that one, it just says ‘HFC.’ And I can’t find anyone at the school with those three initials.”
Head Football Coach.
“You know what else is odd?”
“What?”
“That you’d be receiving a call from that number. Apparently, it was disconnected two months ago.”
He shrugged and shook his head. “Technology,” he said.
Armed with the knowledge that Nick Major’s phone was the disconnected number, they spent a couple of weeks going nowhere. A computer repair shop in Clovis worked on all kinds of damaged cell phones but shied away from iPhones because, according to the proprietor, the people they belonged to wanted them fixed immediately, whereas he was of the old school: first come, first served. You hand it over and wait your turn. “You ask me,” he told Richard, “we’ve created a couple of extremely impatient generations.” He had a protruding eye, the result, he said, of Graves’ Disease, and the longer he talked, the harder he was to watch.
While protective parents looked on, Richard spoke with a fourteen-year-old computer whiz from Edison Computech, who told him, as if it were an everyday occurrence, that he’d graduate from high school in December and enroll at Cal Tech in January. He hadn’t worked on iPhones for about half a year, he said. It just hadn’t proved that lucrative. He gave Richard the number of his Cal Tech sponsor, who he said was a security specialist in Sunnyvale and might be able to help.
Richard left several messages, invoking the name of his young “friend,” and after a few days, the guy called him back. “I can’t talk to journalists for attribution,” he said, “but I happen to know there’s a person down there who—let’s just put it this way—is doing some fairly creative things to certain of our products. Are you familiar with an establishment called Garabedian’s Bakery?”
“Absolutely. It’s on Van Ness.”
“The individual I’ve got in mind lives in a studio apartment above the bakery. I’ve got a feeling he might be the guy you need to talk to. And maybe you’ll let me know if you learn anything interesting?”
“I’d be happy to.”
The young woman behind the bakery counter recalled Richard from the days when he used to come in with Anna, who loved their little pastry horns filled with sweet cream. She told him the tenant wasn’t around much during the morning or afternoon, but they usually heard him up there after five. “Sometimes,” she said, “he can be kind of noisy.” She said the stairs were accessible from the alley.
Richard returned around six, walked into the alley, and saw a mud-spattered Harley parked near the steps. Mud being in short supply at the moment, this detail seemed worth remembering. Nobody answered his knock, though he was sure he heard somebody moving around inside. He went back again at nine, but the Harley was gone, the apartment dark.
He finally caught up with him a couple of days later. The guy who opened the door wore frayed jeans, no shoes, no shirt.
On his right biceps, several tattoos: an iron cross, a swastika, the legend White Pride, a coiled serpent.
On his left: the Stars and Stripes, billowing as if struck by a forty-mph gust.
Stringy hair more gray than black, a mustache that didn’t quite match. It had some red in it.
“Yeah?”
“A friend of mine told me you repair iPhones.”
“So?”
“I’m a newspaper reporter, and I’m working on an article—”
“Fuck you and your article,” the guy said and started to close the door.
“—about Apple’s plans,” he continued, changing course, “to prosecute people who are illegally altering their products.”
The progress of the door was thus arrested.
Over the guy’s shoulder, he could see into the apartment. It called to mind junk shops he used to visit with his father in his periodic searches for old 78s by musicians like Gene Krupa. Motorcycle parts and stereo equipment, circuit boards, laptops, desktops, TVs, LED m
onitors, and pile upon pile of cell phones mingled with empty bottles. How could anybody live in these surroundings?
“You stay right here,” the man said. “Let me get some more clothes on.”
He returned to the landing wearing a long-sleeved green tee shirt and a pair of unlaced boots. Closing the door, he said, “I don’t know who told you I’m doin’ anything illegal, but it’s a bald-faced lie. I’ve been where illegal can take you, and I don’t intend to go back.”
“Where’s that?”
“Corcoran.”
“You feel like a cup of coffee?”
“Not really.”
“Beer?”
They walked down Van Ness to a bar/pool hall. The Dead were playing “Ripple” when they entered. He bought his companion, who said his name was Bradley, a Bud Lite, and they sat at a table up front, where the guy’s nervous eyes could survey the street.
“I’m going to level with you,” Richard said, triggering twitches near both corners of the other man’s mouth. “I’ve got reason to suspect that a pretty streetwise individual has in his possession an iPhone that he wanted to get some information from. He wouldn’t know the passcode. I’ve had some contacts with security specialists up in Sunnyvale, and they told me exactly where to find you. They also asked me to let them know what I learned when we talked. By telling you that, I’m giving you some information that might be of use. Would you agree?”
“It could be. I’m not sayin’ it is or it ain’t.”
“So what I need you to tell me is whether this hypothetical individual, with this hypothetical iPhone, came to see you sometime between about mid-August and right now.”
Bradley took three or four swallows of his beer, then set it back down. “You payin’ anything for the info?”
“I just did.”
Bradley accorded himself a little time to consider that response. You could tell he understood that he’d acted too quickly too often, that even he was aware his first impulse was nearly always the wrong one. He took another couple of swallows of his Bud Lite. “What would that hypothetical person look like?”
Richard called upon his descriptive powers to evoke the presence of Joe Garcia.
A little puff of air left Bradley. He didn’t bother to conceal his intense happiness. “Ain’t nobody like that been to see me. I guaran-fuckin’-tee it.”
“So since the individual I just described didn’t come to see you, who might he have gone to see? Hypothetically, I mean.”
Slowly, Bradley said, “There’s this fellow moved to town a while back. I’m not exactly sure when. Coulda been as long as two or three years ago. I don’t know his last name. First name’s Rupert. He drives a red pickup.”
“What’s he look like?”
A shrug. “He don’t look that different from me. Good bit younger, though.”
“How old would you say?”
“Thirty-two. Thirty-three.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What else can you tell me?”
“This guy . . . this fuckin’ guy, he’s like . . . See, you come lookin’ for me. You don’t go lookin’ for him. You see what I’m sayin’?”
“Not entirely.”
“Life just ain’t fair.”
“That’s an indisputable observation, Bradley. Say more.”
“This guy, he’s got a house. His truck ain’t that old. He’s got a wife and kids. Regular job, with health benefits? He’s got that too. Works in the tire shop at Costco. You have any idea what it’s like tryin’ to find respectable employment when you been where I have? Whole fuckin’ system’s designed to make sure you go back to gettin’ mail through Write-a-prisoner dot com.”
“I understand, Bradley.”
“Naw, you don’t. How could you?”
“I understand in the way you can understand things that didn’t happen to you directly. If I told you I’d lost my wife and daughter, for instance, you could imagine how I might feel about that, couldn’t you? Even if it didn’t happen to you?”
“I never had a wife and daughter. But yeah, I can appreciate somebody dealin’ with divorce. You fuck around on your old lady or what?”
“No, they both died, Bradley. And generally speaking, I prefer not to discuss it. I’m just mentioning it now as a means of noting that we’ve all dealt with loss in one way or another. Some of us lose our freedom like you did. Some of us lose our loved ones. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah. I see what you’re sayin’. And, man, I sure am sorry about your folks. My momma died while I was in Corcoran. I didn’t even get to attend her funeral. But don’t get me wrong, I ain’t sayin’ I didn’t learn anything in there. My cellmate was in for doin’ stuff that involved cell phones and computers. And it wasn’t very nice stuff, either, but I liked him, and I learned a lot from him. When I went in there, I couldn’t do nothin’ but write an e-mail. He taught me some pretty amazing skills. Wasn’t for him, I don’t know what I’d be doin’ now. Livin’ under an overpass, I guess, and eatin’ out of the Dumpster.”
“What else can you tell me about this guy Rupert? Confidentially, of course.”
“Meanin’ you ain’t gonna write my name?”
“Or say it, either. The first article of the California state constitution contains a shield law.”
“Yeah, well, when you say ‘shield,’ I see a badge.” Nevertheless, he said that while he didn’t know Rupert’s actual address, word was he lived somewhere on East Balch, “closer to Cedar than First.”
Richard ordered them two more Bud Lights and let Bradley tell him a little more about his life, a tale of hopes dashed and dreams extinguished. Before saying good-bye, he reminded him that for the time being, he probably ought to shut down any Apple-related operations.
He waits until the guy with the big stuffed bear has been inside his house for ten minutes, during which time he and Maria say very little. Her beeper goes off again. Body shops around town are going to get some new business. In Fresno, after the first rain, they always do.
“Okay,” he finally says, “I’m going to see what’s what. If he’s not our man, we may have hit a dead end.”
“Dead ends only exist if you believe in them. I don’t.”
He climbs out, opens his umbrella, and walks across the street.
On the porch, he hears a radio voice: “KPFA. Listener supported, community powered.” In an effort to combat AIDS, he learns, the Kenyan government has announced it will conduct the first census of its gay population, though homosexuality is a criminal offense. There’s a doorbell, so he presses it. The radio, which was plenty loud a second ago, suddenly falls silent. A moment later, the door opens.
Up close, Rupert really doesn’t resemble Bradley. His hair’s much shorter and free of gray. He’s got a well-kept mustache. He’s wearing a white short-sleeved shirt with the Costco logo on the left side of the buttons and his first name on the right. “Hey,” he says. “What can I do for you?”
Richard hands him his business card. He glances at it. Then, before Richard can tell him why he’s there, he says, “Okay. Come on in.”
He leads him into the living room. It’s got a matching couch and loveseat, and there are toys on the floor: a Zagonauts launch pad, a house play set, lots of crayons and markers. “Sorry the place is a mess,” he says. He gestures at the loveseat, one-half of which is occupied by the white bear.
“Looks neater than my place,” Richard says and sits down beside the stuffed animal.
“Can I offer you something to drink?”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
The guy acts neither disturbed nor surprised to find himself facing a journalist who didn’t bother to get in touch ahead of time. That could mean a number of things. One possibility is that Bradley has alerted him, but given the animosity he expressed toward him, this seems unlikely. Another is that Garcia has indeed been here and that he’s warned Rupert a reporter might pay him a visit. Regardless of what the reason might be,
it calls for certain adjustments.
Rupert places himself on the couch. He lays one hand on each knee. He’s not wearing a wedding ring.
“I’ve heard you can do some amazing things with iPhones,” Richard says.
“It’s not really amazing if you know what you’re doing. Are you interviewing me?”
“I’d like to.”
“Could the interview be off the record?”
“It sure can.”
“So why don’t you go ahead and tell me what you want to know?”
“All right.” Richard says he has reason to believe that somebody in Fresno might recently have taken possession of someone else’s cell phone and that this person could, for reasons of his own, want to find out what was on it. “Things like text messages, voicemails, e-mails, call logs.”
“Or maybe photos?” Rupert says. “And videos?”
“Those too. Certainly.”
“It happens a lot, actually.”
“Really?”
“Say some guy thinks his wife’s screwing around on him. He swipes her phone, but he doesn’t know the passcode, so he takes it to somebody that’s got the right equipment. And that person needs about two minutes to copy everything that’s on it. He puts it on a memory stick, hands it to the aggrieved spouse, and out he walks.”
“After paying a fee, of course.”
Rupert spreads his hands, palms up. “Everything costs.”
“What kind of equipment might be required?”
“Your basic UFED.”
He asks what “UFED” means, though he already knows. Lately, he’s gone back to doing his homework.
“Universal Forensic Extraction Device,” Rupert says.
“Have you got one?”
“I might.”
“Is it legal to use it?”
“Depends who’s doing it.”
“Let’s say somebody like you’s doing it. Would that be legal?”
“Probably not.”
“What would happen if you did it and the police found out?”
“That’d probably depend on the circumstances. If somebody brought his wife’s phone in here and asked me to access her data for him, about the only folks that would most likely care would be her and her husband and whoever she was messing around with, if she was messing around at all. If she was, she probably wouldn’t ask a lot of questions about how her data came to light, because she’d most likely have worse things to worry about. And if she did ask, he most likely wouldn’t tell. Now, would he?”
The Unmade World Page 18