Every once in a while, a troubled child will decide to stop living for today, and at that moment, a different person emerges. This day in court had been David Witkowsky’s moment. His first letter to the judge demonstrated that.
(Note: The letter, now on permanent display at the Smithsonian Museum of American History, is reproduced here with original spelling preserved.—22g CP)
January 30, 1997
The Honorable Stanley L. Norris
132nd Juvenile Court
Los Angeles, California
Dear Sir:
I have taken to heart what you said about redirecting my energies into legitamate enterprise and have started two of my own businesses. After I heard my mother complain that the newspaper delivery man wouldn’t bring the paper up to the door, I asked some neighbors if they would pay a small sum for me to collect the paper from their yard and place it at their doorstep. I only charge $1 per week but already I have 30 customers.
Next week I am attaching a flyer to each newspaper offering my services to clean the sidewalks in front of their homes for $3 per week. My brother Philip says he will help me, and we are hopefull of building this enterprise and fitting it into our daily routines.
The one thing that makes this business hard is that we have to move a lot. But I think no matter where we go I can offer these services and help my mom out with some of her expenses. Thank you for your encouragement. It was just what I needed.
Yours truly,
David Witkowsky
David had also begun attending Gamblers Anonymous meetings, more to understand his father than to help himself. He even convinced Bruce to show up for one session. He had watched that night while Bruce took over the meeting and told everyone that his father had been murdered when he was still a baby and about his own attempts to go straight. David had watched his dad cry and hug all the participants after the meeting. But he knew if there was a fast horse running at Santa Anita, his dad would steal the credit cards from those he now embraced and turn them into cash.
David took the sweatshirt he’d just purchased with part of his $20, and slipped it on as they left the convenience store. “Thanks a lot, Dad,” he said. “I gotta go.”
“Really,” his father answered. “And just where d’ya think you’re goin’?”
“I started a new business putting together bikes, stereos, computers, and things like that. All you have to do is follow the directions. Tonight’s Christmas Eve and I got six clients to take care of.”
With that, he was gone. Bruce would not see him again for over 16 years.
When David arrived home around 9:30 on Christmas Eve, with $540 in his pocket, Bruce had already gone out to play poker, as David had assumed—and prayed—he would. For several weeks he and his mother had been planning the family’s escape. It was a very basic plan; they would simply drive east. It didn’t matter where they went, as long as his father couldn’t find them. They didn’t even tell Philip where they were going until they were all on the road. Soon they would change their names and start a new life, free of Bruce.
On December 30, 1998, the three Witkowskys literally quit running; their car stalled in Richardson, Texas, a suburb north of Dallas. Deciding to remain there, Joanne found work as a medical secretary and both boys enrolled in Richardson public schools for the second semester—as Philip and David West.
CHAPTER 6
JUDGMENT DAY
Washington DC
January 24, 2001—North Koreans invade South Korea, capturing Seoul only days after Albert Gore’s inauguration as President of the United States. Premier Kim threatens to use nuclear weaponry if other countries interfere in what he calls “an internal Korean matter.” Gore immediately schedules a summit meeting with leaders of Russia and China to discuss their options, which appear limited.—A major earthquake rocks Bombay, leaving tens of thousands dead or missing.—As the New Millennium celebrations wind down, race riots erupt in Cicero, Illinois; at least 340 are dead, thousands injured.—The gp 120 vaccine developed by Hoffmann-LaRoche’s Genentech unit finally receives full approval from the FDA. In clinical trials conducted by the World Health Organization in Thailand and Canada, the vaccine has been proven 96 percent effective at preventing HIV infection. Scientists predict that the AIDS infection rate in the United States will decrease dramatically as a result of the preventative. But those infected still await a cure.
* * *
“They didn’t exactly linger over us, did they, Tilly?”
Randall Armstrong was expecting the ceremony to be more elaborate. Tilly had flown from Denver (almost a four-hour flight), and Randall, who now preferred to be called “Pete,” had taken the shuttle from Boston that, at the turn of the millennium, required nearly an hour. All this for a 10-minute award ceremony at an FBI training facility in Georgetown, and a few minutes photographing the two computer-whiz crime fighters with the Vice President. Big deal.
“It’s just a photo-op, Pete. You should be happy we got out of there so fast.” Tilly started laughing. “It was worth the trip to see the look on your face when Fullman tried to get you to shoot that pistol. For a second, I thought he’d just placed a glob of bird droppings in your hand.”
They both chuckled at the image. Pete, now 11, considered Tilly radically amusing. He never thought it unusual that his best friend—his only friend—was a beautiful, 33-year-old woman.
“Fullman” was Acting FBI Director Hugh Fullman. Pete had been flabbergasted when Fullman tried to get him to pose firing one of the FBI’s newest 57-caliber no-recoil handguns. Apparently he thought a child like Pete—11 years old, 83 pounds—would make the ideal video-bite candidate to help publicize the weapon.
The ceremony was for a vice-presidential award, originally intended to be presented to Tilly alone, for designing a software system that had revolutionized information-sharing among law-enforcement agencies nationwide. The system stored knowledge about accused criminals including fingerprints, photographs, descriptions of their alleged methods of operation, blood types, partial DNA patterns, and other useful data. Not all of the data could be used legally, especially if the subjects were juveniles; the tricky part was making sure that only authorized information was accessible. But even when data couldn’t be used to track individual criminals, the system searched it for crime patterns, suggested detailed experimental methods to reduce specific crimes in specific areas, and tracked the results of those programs. That element was more successful than the first, as it filled a previously gaping hole in law enforcement.
“Pete,” Tilly asked, now completely serious, “why wouldn’t you shoot that pistol?”
“I hate guns.”
“I could tell. Why? Do they scare you?”
“I don’t know, Tilly. I just don’t like them.”
She tried a different tack. “When I was a little girl, my parents repeatedly told me about my six-year-old cousin Richard, who’d died playing with matches. They never mentioned it happened about 30 years before I was born. I guess they figured if they told me about him often enough, it would give me respect for fire. It worked, too. That story really personalized the danger for me, y’know what I mean? I wouldn’t even light a match until I was 20. I was practically the only girl in my entire high school who never smoked and I’m still uncomfortable lighting matches.”
“It’s nothing like that. I just don’t like guns. Handguns are only made for one reason. At least matches have uses other than killing.”
Tilly smiled warmly. His statement wasn’t exactly a Freudian revelation, but she gave herself a pat on the back anyway. That’s about as soul-baring as Pete gets.
Pete Armstrong, currently attending Middlesex School, was one of only six “day students” enrolled that year. Academically it was one of the finest prep schools in the country. Pete was notable as the youngest junior in Middlesex’s 100-year history. He had taken his college SAT back in November 1998, achieving perfect scores. His attendance at classes was now optional, but his parents pus
hed him to participate in the social aspects of the school. They worried that their son might grow up to be a bit weird.
Ed and Liza Armstrong’s concerns were well-founded. Although fairly athletic and rated “quite passably cute” by most of the female students, Pete didn’t interact well with his schoolmates of either gender, most of whom regarded him as an oddity. He had those strange nervous habits: stuttering, rocking himself when seated, and biting his tongue, which stuck obtrusively out of his mouth whenever he was thinking.
In addition, his social skills were minimal. Comfortable with animals and computers, Pete also loved humanity—as a concept. Unfortunately most individual humans made him feel uneasy, especially his fellow Middlesex students. He longed for their acceptance (for no reason he could rationally explain), but refused to reach out to them. In part this refusal stemmed from fear of rejection, but at the base of it was a fear of involvement. After the loss of his brother five years earlier, Pete did not intend to risk closeness with anyone again. He was a classic loner.
Also, his astonishing intelligence notwithstanding, Pete was the only person in his class who had not yet reached puberty, and was therefore unique in his lack of obsession with the opposite sex. Occasionally girls would try to flirt with him, but he suspected their attention was more teasing than actual interest. In at least one instance it wasn’t true.
A beautiful and bright 14-year-old freshman named Jennifer Finley, assigned to his table at lunch, found herself intrigued and strongly attracted by his brilliance. She chased Pete doggedly for several months, telephoning him, showering him with cards and notes, even hitch-hiking to the Armstrong house one Saturday. Although Pete enjoyed the attention and considered her quite pleasant, he couldn’t deal with his own fear and shyness, and didn’t respond.
On the day she showed up at the Armstrongs’ house, he came to the door and said, “Er, w-what are you d-doing here?”
“Just thought I’d drop by to see you.”
“Jennifer, I’m, uh—I’m really busy right now.”
“What are you busy doing?”
“Um, sof-s-software.”
“When d’you think you’ll be finished? I could come back later when you’re not so busy. I just wanted to see you. I really like you.”
“Uhh, look, you just can’t keep chasing me like this. I, er . . . I d-don’t have t-t-time for a girlfriend.”
“You mean you don’t have time for me. You would if I was the right girl.”
That wasn’t true. Pete wasn’t ready—period. But he was too flustered to think straight, so he took the easy way out. “Uh, I g-g-guess th-that’s right.”
He regretted his answer as soon as she started crying, but didn’t try to take it back. His relief at extricating himself outweighed his guilt. By the time he realized how insensitive he’d been, any friendship was beyond salvaging. She would barely speak to him. For months, he hated himself whenever he thought about it.
His problems with the males at Middlesex were more straightforward; as in most turn-of-the-millennium high schools, there was a sociological trial by fire. Many of the female students would act catty and phony when they felt another student was beneath them, but the boys were as subtle as a train wreck. An unpopular or otherwise vulnerable male could anticipate considerable verbal (and occasional physical) abuse from some of his peers, especially if they saw they could “get a rise” from him. Pete hated bullies, finding such behavior despicable. He tried to be especially civil—even friendly—toward the least popular students.
Pete wasn’t an outcast so much as an enigma; nobody really knew what to think of him. Some were jealous of his intellect. A few boys had tried picking on him, which hurt, but he was smart enough to hide his feelings and therefore was generally left alone. Still, one of the crueler teenagers, a bully named Kevin Moffat, discovered his hot button. Pete despised Moffat to begin with, having witnessed his cruelty toward students below him on the pecking order, and once he had even seen him kick the assistant headmaster’s dog, a trusting animal who would never hurt anyone. That had made Pete’s blood boil.
One day during tennis practice, Moffat started taunting Pete loudly enough that other students could hear him. “Hey, Armstrong, is it true your little brother got bumped off?”
How the hell did he find out about that? “None of your business, Moffat. Just b-back off.”
But the boy wouldn’t let up. “I think I deserve to know.”
Pete said nothing, trying to ignore his tormentor. He knew he had to appear unfazed.
Moffat continued, “It affected me too, y’know.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I couldn’t stand having two assholes like you around here. Maybe I oughta send the guy who did it a thank-you note.”
Get him, Petey! said a voice Pete often heard, a voice that only he could hear.
He dropped his racket and ran toward Moffat. He had never been in a fight before, and Moffat stood ready, fists raised, eager to teach this pint-sized sucker a lesson. But Pete was not intimidated; he attacked viciously and fought with unrestrained fury, now envisioning his antagonist as Leonard’s killer. Seeking revenge, he remembered everything he had ever read about fisticuffs.
The silent voice encouraged him. Hit him hard, Petey, below the solar plexus. Watch his left hand.
Both boys wound up in the infirmary that day, Pete with a split lip, Moffat with a broken nose and two cracked ribs. Nobody at Middlesex ever teased Pete about his brother again.
* * *
Pete still didn’t dream of flying over his rustic Concord neighborhood, nor did he revisit other childhood dreams. He told himself it was because he was more efficient these days; he had important things to achieve, not so much for himself as for his country. Convinced that intelligently devised computer programming could improve people’s lives in monumental ways, all he dreamt about were algorithms and software code. In fact he seemed to accomplish much of his best work in his sleep.
But when awake, he had a rich fantasy life. He imagined being able to stop time, thinking to himself, If I could have blinked my eyes so everyone else stopped moving, but I kept doing whatever I wanted, would I have walked away from the fight or beaten that jerk into a coma?
He knew he would have walked away, but it was fun to think about the alternative. Pete had frequent fantasies like reading people’s minds, going backward or forward in time, and living forever. Not to mention conversing with his dead brother. It’s often said that there’s a fine line between genius and madness, but Pete regarded his fantasies as normal. And fortunately he had plenty of interesting and important work to fill his days, particularly his government work with Tilly.
Tilly may have been Pete’s best friend, but only once had she managed to get him to share his inner feelings. It was a few weeks earlier, on a Saturday afternoon; they’d been working at her office in Boston, and neither had said a word for two hours. Finally she had pulled back from her computer screen and asked, “What are you thinking about?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what were you thinking about right then, when I asked you the question.”
“Nothing. I was working.” He barely looked up.
Tilly walked to his desk. She intended her body language to convey the expectation, unrealistic as she knew it was, that he would now stop working.
“You don’t think when you work?”
Pete continued to stare at his screen. “I think, but I don’t think about anything. I just calculate.”
“What’s the difference between thinking about something and calculating?” Tilly sat on his desk, waiting for a real answer. She decided she would sit there all day if she had to.
Finally he said, “When I work, I get into a ‘zone.’ My parents say a bomb could go off next to me and it wouldn’t break my concentration.”
“Does that make you happy?”
“I guess so. When I’m in the zone, it’s the only time nothing hurts me. I’m c
ompletely comfortable when I work.”
The only time he doesn’t hurt is when he’s working? Tilly thought sadly. But he’s only 11 years old.
“What kind of hurt do you feel when you’re not working?”
Pete hated talking about this, but apparently Tilly really wanted him to. “It’s not physical or anything. It’s just that everything in life’s so . . . uncertain. Y’know? It’s hard to take.”
“And the work?”
“The work is pure. I just focus on it and eventually solve the problem. When I write code or design algorithms, I can make computers do exactly what they’re supposed to do. I can make everything perfect.”
Pete had reflected for a moment. That must be why I’m so relaxed with animals. I just observe them and remember everything they do. I can figure out what they want and learn how to make them happy, but I could never understand people that way. Leonard tried—and look what it got him. Animals are pure, like software. People are unpredictable, erratic, unfathomable.
But it would be several decades before he would ever share these thoughts with Tilly. Or anyone else.
About a week before the ceremony, Tilly had insisted to her boss, “Pete Armstrong developed most of the algorithms and edited every line of code. He made a much more important contribution to the project than I did. I won’t accept the award unless he shares it with me.”
Tilly’s boss had relayed the ultimatum and Fullman was delighted to accede. An 11-year-old genius who had edited and perfectly debugged 60,000 lines of software code (and reduced it to less than 47,000 lines, making it 30 percent faster) would receive “a hell of a lot more press coverage than some 33-year-old female FBI agent who merely designed the damn thing.” And press coverage was what this was all about. People needed to know the government was doing something about crime.
The Truth Machine Page 5