by Hulden Morse
Character Hacker
Los Angeles, CA
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events
or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Hulden Morse
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author at the address below.
Hulden Morse
[email protected]
Ordering Information:
Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the author at the address above.
Printed in the United States of America
Print ISBN: 978-1-54394-178-4
eBook ISBN: 978-1-54394-179-1
To
Jeannine
for always teaching me
Table of Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Introduction
What you’re about to read should never have happened. As someone who participated in the events detailed throughout this book, I deserve to be sitting in my jail cell, eating food I cannot stomach, staring at a wall for hours on end. Yes, I regret the crimes I committed (which makes me one of the few), but in no way am I at risk of being labeled a good person.
You see, I’m a monster. For years, I inflicted horrible pain on innocent people and thought nothing of it. However, I am not the only bad guy! Many of us are incarcerated, but so many others will never be brought to justice because our world is inherently soulless. Some may go so far as to deem it cruel. And I have written my story to show the population just how heinous we have become. You may know this story well, or it may be a faint recollection—either way, most likely the happenings I outline have faded from your memory thanks to the efforts of big business and your own government. Oh yes, this tyrannical, treacherous, controversial government that reigns over The Divided States of America is doing its best to suppress the story you are about to read.
The news stories originally broke in 2017, outlining in exhaustive detail the secrets uncovered by investigators. And now, all those developments and expert commentary have mysteriously disappeared from the public’s attention, never to be spoken of again, buried in the latest pile of seductive news vomited on the hour, every hour, by each of the remaining and reigning media agencies. This is why I have written these words.
Cell block four is my current residence. As such, this has not been an easy book for me to write. Given that I am a convicted felon and that no authoritative power wants this book published, I was never granted access to images taken by investigators or private organizations, nor was I permitted to conduct any interviews with persons beyond the walls of this prison. Therefore, all images you see are either my own or in the public domain, and any conversations or events in the book are recorded to the best of my recollection based on public interviews, personal experiences, and video recordings from my time in the facility.
Oh, and if you’re curious, I was a security guard before being arrested. I took the job because it paid well, which was the recorded reason given by all my friends and coworkers, though this does not excuse our actions. In a way, it makes them even more perverse.
Please remember this story for what it is: a plea to the nation. This incident should not be forgotten. The world must be reminded what happened beyond the public’s view. Never again, never again should so many people die beneath the greedy gaze of those in power.
Forgive me,
Hulden Morse
Chapter 1
It all started with Louisa.
She had traded in her high-rise apartment in Manhattan, with its marble entryway and Central Park views, for a studio apartment in Baltimore, complete with faulty wiring and cockroaches for roommates. She relinquished her thirsty Mercedes to the bank and took up walking instead, a much healthier alternative to sitting on her ass in traffic. And she left her high-stakes desk job at Linkwell S. Bank to spend more time on busy street corners with a cardboard sign in her hand and a plastic cup to stick in the faces of passersby.
None of those changes were by choice. Louisa found her once plentiful opportunities quickly slipping away as the economy burned in 2008, a recession of the times that targeted those living lavish lifestyles devoid of any financial buffer. As the unsolicited keeper of the keys to failure, Louisa had no choice but to accept the understandably low rent of her zero-bedroom, half-bath, insect-infested apartment that sat directly above her drug-dealing landlord’s locus of operation. She needed the roof, she hoped for a chance to leap back onto her feet, yet when the pawnshop money ran out as her store of belongings was depleted, Louisa was forced to either move to the streets full-time or accept the offer of pleasuring her crackhead landlord in lieu of rent.
With naught but a pocket full of coins and a fading suit clinging to her unshowered form, the thirty-one-year-old tried her hand at begging for leftovers outside a backstreet burger joint. People would glance at the thin, toned woman, noticing her tailored suit and unkempt hair, and attempt to categorize such a character in their minds. The body and clothes screamed success, exuding an aura of power and dominance, yet the stains and drooping face cried collapse, leading the onlooker to read the handwritten sign in hope of a caption that would shed some light on this strange character. And it did. “Lost all in market crash. Anything helps. Please.” Some would dig out change to place in her cup, and some would politely wish her unrelenting luck. Others did their best to ignore the depressing spectacle, grateful that they had been spared the wrath of a brutal economy.
It wa
s a Tuesday when Charles Pearson met Louisa. He was visiting a friend in Baltimore, having arrived from Los Angeles two days prior. His friend, Albert, had heard of a great hole-in-the-wall restaurant that served burgers and chips, insisting that the two of them wander over there before hitting some bars.
While waiting outside the small, brick building for a table to vacate, Charles noticed a woman hovering in the entrance of an alleyway. The curves of her body accentuated the black pantsuit she wore. However, it was the sorry state of her seemingly pricy clothes that caught his attention. The hem along the pants had come undone, revealing an unfinished edge that was slightly torn, crumpled, and matted in dirt from being stepped on numerous times by its owner. The jacket was no better, with a tear in the right sleeve and several buttons missing as if they were ashamed to be associated with such neglected apparel. The white shirt beneath the suit—or at least what he could see of it—was covered in sweat stains and red streaks. The outfit looked to be an expensive garment that had not been washed in months, yet worn everyday like an athlete’s lucky pair of socks. As Albert chatted away about a girl he had met, Charles motioned to the woman holding the sign and a paper cup, both clutched in her hands as a boy would grasp the collar of his dog for the last time, with total devotion yet utter deflation, a tight grip in muscle-less hands.
“What do ya think her story is?” Charles asked his friend, fixated on the out-of-place beggar.
“I don’t know, dude. But you gotta hear what we did. I got the matches and—”
“No, I’m serious. That’s so sad. She doesn’t look homeless. And yet here she is.”
“Charles, people end up on the street for so many reasons. I hear it’s getting worse. Let’s just be thankful that it’s not us. Anyway, her toes—”
“I’m gonna talk to her,” Charles said as he walked away from the smell of burgers.
“Dude. Why? She doesn’t want to talk. She wants money.”
“I’ll be quick.”
The woman did not notice Charles as he nonchalantly walked her way. She kept her head bowed in a kind of vertical stupor, one that invited no direct interaction. He could see her face and that her eyes were open, yet they did not focus on anything in particular. In fact, he sensed that merely traces of life were left in those eyes. It was like she had nowhere to go, nothing to say, and nothing to see. Charles didn’t understand why he had such an overwhelming urge to speak with the woman, but he felt that his purpose in that moment was to understand her life, her choices, and the circumstances that led her to panhandling for survival.
“Um, excuse me?” he said to the woman quietly so as not to alarm her. But her gaze remained fixed on the ground, her body unmoving.
“Miss? Excuse me? I just want to talk,” he stated with as much warmth in his voice as he could summon.
The figure blinked a few times, as if she were bringing herself back to the present and away from a fantasy world that existed only within her mind. She then lifted her head to look into Charles’s eager eyes, noticing his dark, brown hair slicked back with care, and his buttoned-up shirt tucked neatly into dark jeans. The man was tall, handsome, the kind of guy she would have no challenge seducing when she lived in Manhattan. But now . . .
“Hi there,” he said with a smile. “Um, what’s your name?”
The woman hesitated for a second, judging the intentions of a complete stranger, before cautiously responding, “Louisa.”
“Ah. Louisa. Well, I’m Charles. It’s very nice to meet you.” He waited for a response but was met with a confused look. “Do you mind if I talk to you for a bit?”
“Oh. No. I guess not,” Louisa said as she looked around nervously, unsure of how to handle such an uncommon interaction.
“Thank you. Um, I just noticed that you seem to have a very professional look. Not what I would have expected for, well. . . . Do you mind if I ask how you came to be here?” He was nervous about the inquiry. He didn’t know if a beggar would consider it rude to be asked such a personal question without any lead-up. He had never communicated so directly with someone who looked homeless. He would give them money and wish them well or utter a quick “God bless,” but this was a true, serious conversation he was starting. With a stranger. And he was getting so personal. Was that inappropriate?
“You want to know why I’m begging for money?” the woman said in surprise.
“Yeah. Well, if it’s okay with you.”
“I guess so.” Louisa set her cup on the ground and leaned the cardboard sign against it. She then braced herself against a wall and stared into Charles’s brown eyes. He could tell that she was once a powerful person. The woman used to have confidence, strength, the ability to manipulate and lead. It was something about her stance. She held herself as if ready to close a deal. Her posture was fantastic, her body seemed loose with a comfortable self-assurance, and she moved with definitive, calculated motions. Yet her face gave away the pain and failure that had riddled her life. Something had happened not long ago, and he wanted to know what it was.
“Well, I lived dangerously. I, um, made a lot of money and spent a lot of money. When the job disappeared, I lost it all. I’m a banker. I shouldn’t be here. But without friends or family to help me, I-I ended up here. Sucking melted cheese from burger wrappers. Do you know what that feels like? To fall so hard and so fast? I was a fuckin’ shark! I had it all! People respected me. Feared me. And now what? What am I now?”
Charles looked at her in shock. He did not expect the stranger to be so forward with him. It was as if that story had been caged inside her, waiting to be released, banging against a door that could only be opened from the outside, and he had just released it without any consideration.
“Have you tried to find a—”
“A job? Find a job? You think I just gave up and accepted a life of panhandling and digging for scraps? Of course I fuckin’ tried! Have you seen the damn unemployment rate? I’m educated! I went to college! That doesn’t mean shit anymore!”
Conversations around them faltered as people turned their attention toward the screaming beggar. They watched with curiosity as angry words were thrown in Charles’s direction, not necessarily aimed at him, but lobbed at a representative of the country that had let so many of its citizens down.
“I’m a goddamn failure! 300,000 dollars a year and now I’m lucky to make ten dollars a day. I hate fast food! I fuckin’ hate it! But do I have an option? No! I’m stuck with microwave burritos and deep-fried shit on a stick!”
“Louisa,” Charles said, putting his hands up to calm the screaming woman. “I want to talk with you, but you need to take it—”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was disturbing you. Hear that, everyone? I’m disturbing him! If you didn’t want an answer to your condescending question, then why the fuck did you ask it?”
She stared at him with a cold intensity, waiting for a response from the wide-eyed man, but Charles didn’t know what to say. He had just witnessed firsthand the angst and frustration that was accumulating within the growing population of homeless people. They were failures at the game of life. They had no comfort, no stability, and were even more forgotten than usual as government attention was turned toward bailouts and plummeting stocks. Charles was one of those who were lucky enough to still have a job and a roof over his head, while standing before him was someone who represented just how low a human could go. And she was a former banker, still wearing a suit in which she had made multimillion-dollar deals, yet it boasted the stains and tears of months passed in poverty.
“I’m sorry, Louisa. I’m so sorry.”
“The hell you sorry for?”
“I’m sorry that you feel trapped. And that you feel like there’s nothing you can do.”
“I’m not one to give up,” she said sincerely, “but I must look at the facts. No one’s coming to help me.”
Albert appeared
from amongst a gathering crowd and placed his hand on Charles’s shoulder, waving awkwardly at the woman.
“I’m sorry my friend’s bugging you,” he said quickly. “I’ll spare you the annoyance. Let’s go, dude.” He whispered the last sentence at his companion, pulling him away from Louisa. As the two men hurried toward the restaurant, Charles glanced back at the former banker, expecting to see evidence of her relief after he had left. Yet what he saw was far from the expected expression.
He saw fear. Charles saw so much fear. The woman watched him walk away as if he were her dearest friend and she knew they would never speak again. She had no one to comfort her, no one to help her. He wanted nothing more than to take her hand and show her that the lives of the less-fortunate still mattered, and that people had not forgotten about Louisa just because she was poor. The issue wasn’t a lack of care, but a lack of knowledge concerning how to best assist someone in desperate need of so much aid. How does one rebuild an entire life? The donation of material items—food and clothing and shelter—would not sustain those people throughout their future. They needed someone who could instill confidence in them. They needed direction and a group that would offer support. Charles knew he could not singlehandedly solve a problem so colossal, but what if he had help? He could find people to help.
On April 2nd of 2009, Charles Pearson founded the nonprofit organization Reaching Dreams. The morning the company commenced operations, Charles relayed a message to his employees that they were to never forget: “You have chosen to be a part of something that is bigger than any one of us. You have chosen to help people who are complete strangers. I have dedicated my life to providing a second chance to anyone that needs it, and I ask that you do the same. These are good people who have lost their way. Your job, your purpose, is to be their guide, almost like a guardian angel, and lead them in the right direction. Everyone deserves the opportunity to reach their dreams.”
As the president and CEO, Charles took $800,000 worth of investments, ten employees at an East LA office, and grew it into a nationally recognized organization that lifted homeless people from the streets of American cities and led them along a rigorous path, tailored to each individual, that would ultimately end with their establishment as an integral member of society.