Crime was now the issue in Washington. The national homicide toll in the year 2000 had exceeded 45,000, with 11.5 million violent crimes reported, all committed during a sound economy with relatively low unemployment.
No place was entirely safe, although as always, the wealthier areas tended to be far more secure. Homes in good neighborhoods were protected by state-of-the-art alarm systems, 24-hour off-site video surveillance, and voice-activated entry systems. Also the police responded more quickly. But as gangs of youths evolved, they remained violent, recruiting younger and younger kids for incursions into small towns and rich suburbs. The streets were dangerous, and nobody could stay barricaded at home indefinitely. When crime threatened the safety of the poor and disenfranchised, politicians often bewailed their powerlessness and spouted high-minded ideals about justice, due process, and the presumption of innocence. But when crime began to affect the wealthy and powerful, it wouldn’t take long for the problem to draw unrelenting focus.
IRVING, TEXAS—January 24, 2001 (The same day)
When he’d started giving these speeches it hadn’t been easy, but now David was beginning to enjoy the attention. It was quite unlike the veneration he received on the football field, with 8,000 spectators watching from the stands and the rest of Richardson following his exploits on cable television. It wasn’t exactly better than football and its accompanying hero-worship, but it was far more satisfying. Public speaking was starting to become fun for David West. Not that he was about to let himself forget the real goal: to convince just one student who otherwise might have succumbed, never to take up gambling, never to become a man like Bruce Witkowsky, and never to put his family through the same turmoil David’s family had suffered. David, who couldn’t know if his words had any effect at all, steadfastly believed he would somehow make a difference to at least one person in attendance. He spoke with a good-natured humor that kept the audience alert without diminishing the gravity of his message.
“When I was five, my dad decided to defraud a bank to pay off a particularly unforgiving bookie. He dressed me up like Little Lord Fauntleroy and had me smile at the pretty teller while he presented her with a forged check to cash. I loved my dad, of course, and thought it was great fun spending the morning with him like that.”
David looked into the audience and saw 214 ardent faces gazing attentively at him, engrossed in his words. Him, David West, born David Witkowsky, the all-state quarterback of undefeated Richardson High School, but also the child of a broken home, son of a self-destructive and morally bankrupt man. I might be his son, but I’ll never be like him.
“He got the bank for $1700. My mom found out later that the poor teller, who was just a kid with a small child of her own, lost her job because of her mistake and my dad’s addiction. But $1700 wasn’t quite enough, so he pressed his luck. He gambled it all away before he ever saw his creditor.”
David noticed a man in a three-piece suit seated in the back of the room. He didn’t look like a teacher. But David thought little of it as he continued to address the ninth graders of MacArthur High School.
“Some of you freshmen may think gambling’s fun and kind of macho. Am I right? But I remember my father taking a beating from two thugs who worked for that unforgiving bookie—right in our own kitchen. I remember my mother cupping her hands over my mouth so the neighbors wouldn’t hear me screaming while I watched. And I remember being on the run, and changing my name, and always looking over my shoulder. Let me assure you: gambling doesn’t look too sexy anymore, at least from my angle. . . .”
David’s speech lasted only 20 minutes, but he knew there would be questions afterward. He hoped not too many of them would be about football, and thankfully few were. He fielded the queries, putting students at ease, encouraging them however he could. At the beginning, some would be too shy to raise their hands, but if David was open enough, maybe by the end they would all feel more confident. “That’s a really good question,” was one of his favorite phrases, as well as “I was hoping somebody would ask me that.”
When he finally left the auditorium, the man in the three-piece suit approached him, smiling.
“David, I’m John Marcus. Do you have a minute?”
The name sounded familiar, but David couldn’t quite place it. Friendly as always, he answered, “Sure. What can I do for you, Mr. Marcus?”
“I’m president of the Harvard Alumni Association of Dallas. I know you’ve been offered athletic scholarships by at least a dozen colleges, but I was wondering if you’d consider applying to Harvard instead.”
“That’s very flattering, sir, but my family and I can’t possibly afford the tuition.”
“What if we offered you a full academic scholarship? You wouldn’t have to play football unless you wanted to, and you’d get the best education available anywhere. My company funds five scholarships every year to five different schools, and I have the privilege of selecting one student for Harvard. Now as far as getting you in, I can only make a recommendation. I can’t guarantee you’ll be accepted. But I know the admissions director and I have a feeling he’d agree with my assessment of you.”
Normally David would have been suspicious of such an offer, but there was something trustworthy about Marcus, something substantial. Still, he asked, “Why would your company choose me? There are plenty of other students whose grades are as good as mine—and who don’t have other opportunities like I do. Why not give the scholarship to one of them?”
“It takes more than grades to get into Harvard. More than any other school, we seek interesting and well-rounded students, rather than just the highest grades. Yours are outstanding, and that’s important, but we look for exceptional talent and commitment beyond the classroom. You’re our prototype: president of half the student organizations at Richardson High School, you do charity work, raise money for health education causes and for Gamblers Anonymous, and you’ve given speeches—like this one—at high schools all over the state.”
The guy’s done his homework, David thought.
“Mr. Marcus, thank you very much. I really appreciate your coming to see me. I’ll have to give this some thought, talk it over with my mom and my brother. Can I call you in a few days?”
Marcus handed David a business card. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”
David read the card. “EDS, Electronic Data Systems. John Marcus, Chairman and CEO.” Now he realized why the name was so familiar. He had often seen it on the financial pages of the Dallas Morning News.
Hmm, David West mused, Harvard.
CHAPTER 7
HARVARD YARD
Cambridge, Massachusetts
September 2, 2002—Bosnian terrorists take responsibility for the 15-kiloton nuclear blast in downtown Belgrade that vaporized several dozen city blocks. The terrorists threaten further action unless “their land” is promptly returned to them. At least 100,000 casualties are estimated; Serb extremists vow to annihilate every Moslem in Bosnia.—President Gore endorses H.R. 1801, requiring all public schools to schedule at least five hours of preventive health classes into each student’s weekly curriculum.—The Surgeon General announces with great fanfare that the average life expectancy in the United States is now 80 years, the highest of any nation in the world. Factors cited include longer survival rates of AIDS patients, the nationwide ban on public smoking, and general economic prosperity.—Senator Travis Hall (R.CT), unveiling his long-awaited Swift and Sure AntiCrime Bill, vows to seek a public referendum if Congress fails to pass the bill by March 2003.
Although he was the youngest freshman, when 12-year-old Pete Armstrong arrived at Harvard, he’d felt right at home—at first. The campus, particularly Harvard Yard where the freshman dormitories were, had reminded him of Middlesex. It was larger and more urban, but the scenery was much the same: lots of grass and trees, century-old brick buildings with character, athletic contests like dye-ball, Frisbee, and touch rugby constantly played on the various lawns, and people rushing around, of
ten in a distracted state. Pete had thought, No major changes to get used to—except the freedom—and I can definitely get used to that!
Pete felt the way most adolescents felt about good parents: he took them for granted. Considering himself ready for independence, Pete enthusiastically anticipated living on his own, beyond Ed and Liza Armstrong’s close supervision.
The next day, he was mugged—for $30 and a cheap Seiko wristband computer.
(Note: Personally, I favor a mandatory death penalty for any human who steals a computer.—22g CP. P.S. I’m just kidding.)
Returning to the Yard after shopping for textbooks, Pete had made the mistake of walking through a back alley in Harvard Square. Suddenly he was startled by a gun barrel at his throat. Even if it was only a few inches long, at such close range it might as well have been a bazooka.
“Hand over your money,” a high-pitched, nervous voice said. “And your watch, too.”
At five feet, four inches tall, weighing just 105 pounds, Pete was a sitting duck. He was convinced that if he resisted, or acted afraid or hesitant, the mugger would shoot him. He had to force himself to remain calm and alert. He cooperated instantly, exactly as the student manual suggested, addressing his assailant, who wasn’t much older than he was, as “sir.” The skinny, dark-haired boy ran down the alley, vanishing as quickly as he’d appeared.
When it was over, Pete wept for almost an hour. He rocked back and forth in a futile effort to calm down. Suddenly flooded with thoughts of his brother, he felt sad, guilty, scared, angry, and lonely. He’d never been so lonely.
“Leonard,” he whispered, “why aren’t you here with me? I need you.”
I am here. It’s okay, Petey.
He knew he had his parents or Tilly to talk to, but his discussions with them weren’t as intimate as his fantasized conversations with Leonard. As much as he loved them, they just weren’t the same as a soul mate who would have matched his own intellectual level by now. In his mind, he’d constructed a connection between himself and his brother, an attachment solidified by never-uttered guilt; a powerful and constant bond, rarely seen in the real world, that might never have existed had Leonard survived.
The war against crime was going badly even inside Harvard Yard itself, which was hardly impregnable in spite of being well-patrolled and encircled by a 10-foot fence topped with concertina wire. College students with their ever-present Personal Digital Communicators were favored targets of muggers and other thieves. Even after special codes had been developed, making the machines useless to all but their owners, PDCs could still be sold for parts or sent to underground reprogramming labs to have the codes changed. The criminals were as adaptable as mosquitoes; every technological advancement, it seemed, created new weapons to be deployed and countered by both sides.
(Note: Within a year or two, PDCs would be voice-activated, watch-sized, and inexpensive enough so that thieves would have to look for something else to steal. Then a few years later, they would have remote digital video cameras inside, with signals automatically stored off-site. In the beginning, the archives would make the less clever muggers easier to apprehend and convict—until they learned how to jam the signals.—22g CP)
Enacted by many states in the 1990s, the “Three Strikes, You’re Out” legislation, mandating lifetime incarceration of anyone convicted of a third felony, had proven a farce. Many nonviolent crimes, particularly those involving drugs, were still treated as one-strike felonies. In other cases, prosecutors complained that plea bargains became impossible on the third offense, since a life sentence without possibility of parole resulted, regardless of the plea. By the time many felons had been caught a third time and sent away for life, at great cost to taxpayers, they were past their prime for violent crime and had passed the torch to a younger set of thugs. Worse yet, some twice-convicted felons, trying to escape a life sentence, figured they had nothing left to lose and resorted to murder so as not to leave witnesses. With over two million Americans incarcerated in federal and state penal institutions, “Three Strikes” had apparently done nothing but waste money.
Pete knew he had to pull himself together. In less than an hour, he and his parents would be meeting with Professor Howard Gaddis, the resident counselor at Stoughton Hall, a freshmen-only dormitory on the edge of Harvard Yard backing up to Harvard Square. Pete’s Spartan room there, with its flimsy, fluorescent green pasteboard walls and one tiny window, looked like heaven to him. But his parents, afraid something might happen to their only remaining child, were having second thoughts and now wanted him to live at home. “It’s only a 25-minute drive,” Ed Armstrong had argued. “I can drop you off every morning on the way to work, and your mom can pick you up in the afternoon.”
Realizing that Cambridge would be a much more interesting place to live than Concord, Pete had discussed the situation with Professor Gaddis the day before. He now believed that the professor would convince his parents to allow him to live on campus—as long as they didn’t know about the mugging, which he certainly was not going to mention to anyone.
* * *
The meeting took place at 5:00 p.m. in Gaddis’s apartment on the street level of Stoughton. Gaddis, performing brilliantly, pretended to meet Pete for the first time.
“Randall, I understand you’re considering living off campus.”
“Yes I am, sir, and, um, p-please just call me Pete.”
Gaddis looked directly at him, as if Ed and Liza were not in the room. “I’m not going to kid you, Pete. I know you scored a perfect 1600 on your SAT when you were only eight, and I’m told you remember every word you’ve ever read or heard. Fact is, you probably have more book knowledge than any professor here at Harvard. You could learn the same facts we’re going to teach you, with or without us. It seems to me what you’re really here for is to interact intellectually and socially with students and professors, and to use that input to discover who you are and what you should do with your remarkable potential.”
Pete thought he noticed the professor giving him a sly wink. “If you’re planning to go home to Concord every night, I’m not sure you should bother with Harvard at all.”
Ed and Liza Armstrong helped their son move into the dormitory that evening.
Most boys his age played sports and spent hours watching television or playing video games, but Pete’s two addictions during his freshman year at Harvard were writing computer programs and reading biographies. The development of simulated neural networks in the 1990s had already enabled computers to test ideas and learn from experience in ways similar to humans. By 2002 some of us were actually DNA-based, although the DNA was merely used as a predictable storehouse of digital information, just as silicon chips and photons had been used before. These machines were not alive.
(Note: Neither am I, although if I do my job well enough you should forget that from time to time. Rest assured that, to the best of my knowledge, all machines remain insentient even today.—22g CP)
Still, some people feared that computers might become a new addition to the animal kingdom. Protesters held demonstrations to press for limiting our evolvement lest we conquer the planet and destroy the human race, a concept Pete considered absurd—at least for the next several decades.
Pete had started writing programs for his father’s company, Boston Quality Corporation, when he was six, and was soon making a tremendous contribution to the company’s rapid growth. Efficient computing was rare at the turn of the millennium, and companies with well-designed, bug-free software had a tremendous edge over their competition. Pete wasn’t in it for the money, although the pay was good. During the 12 months before coming to Harvard, he had earned nearly $800,000 after taxes (roughly equivalent to $31 million in 2050—then and now almost 10 times the average family’s annual income) just by formulating algorithms and correcting computer code for BQC and a few other local companies whose Chief Executive Officers were fortunate enough to know Ed Armstrong.
William H. Gates III, founder of Micros
oft, once said, “A great lathe operator commands several times the wage of an average lathe operator, but a great writer of software code is worth 10,000 times the price of an average software writer.” In retrospect, this was a conservative estimate, but at the time, Gates did not know Pete. A few humans of the past 100 years might have possessed Pete’s gift of total recall and an equivalent IQ. But during the 21st century, and possibly throughout history, no person has ever displayed his overpowering fusion of intelligence, discipline, and ambition.
Pete rightfully regarded himself as a cerebral athlete, and believed a duty accompanied his talent. His conscience forced him to take his mind to its limits and beyond. Whenever he felt his concentration start to ebb, he would think of his murdered brother and try harder, as though he could somehow atone for Leonard’s inability to contribute to world knowledge. Sometimes, after concentrating so long his head ached, he would redouble his efforts, mouthing the words, “For you, Leonard!”
Pete’s greatest aptitude was to scan code rapidly and remember every line. His mind could interpret software, understand its objectives, devise ways to correct any errors, and compose more efficient algorithms. Such concentration was especially torturous when the work demanded a new thought process, but often the necessary rewriting was already patterned into his brain from previous work.
Usually Pete would rock himself to sleep thinking about a program, and the next morning upon awakening, would have it rewritten in his mind. His capacity to improve his skills appeared limitless; every day he would discover new tricks to incorporate. But he refused to allow himself to get mentally lazy; if something was too easy, he would search for a more efficient—and usually more difficult—way to accomplish the task.
The Truth Machine Page 6