Bend, Oregon
April 18
It had been a late night. After Gary retired, Peter took the memory stick and approached the bookcase. He pulled a horizontal latch underneath a low shelf in one panel, unlocking a secret doorway. He swung the panel open and entered his safe room. Except for the vintage weapons displayed artfully on wall mounts, it could almost pass for a modest armory. His eyes skimmed over the replica flintlock and percussion rifles, muskets, and pistols hanging from brass hooks. In another era, these weapons were state-of-the-art and represented formidable firepower. But those days were gone.
His eyes settled on a Brown Bess musket. The smooth-bore weapon, so named for the corrosion-resistant brown patina on the long barrel, was the standard gun by which the British Army once controlled a far-reaching colonial empire. The large flintlock held a square flint the size of a postage stamp, and if Peter chose, he could load and fire a .75 caliber lead ball. With one hand he removed the long weapon from its mounts and held the memory stick in his other hand. Tonight, he had a different use in mind for the antique musket.
The last thing Peter did before retiring was to throw the paper copies he and Gary had been studying onto the glowing embers in the fireplace.
The black sheet-like ash was still visible in the morning, though none of the writing was discernable.
“Coffee?” Peter said by way of greeting Gary as he wandered into the kitchen. His eyes were a little puffy, no doubt a result of too much Scotch and not enough sleep.
“You need to ask?”
Peter smiled and then sipped from his mug. He enjoyed Gary’s dry, sometimes sarcastic, way of communicating. They had met in high school and spent a good portion of their youth together camping, fishing, and hunting. For several years, before either settled down and married, they were inseparable and often confused as brothers.
“The cups are in the cabinet,” Peter motioned with the mug in his hand.
After Gary filled his cup, Peter asked the obvious. “Any new thoughts about our discovery last night?”
Before Gary answered, there was a knock at the door. Mug in hand, Peter passed through the great room, Diesel at his side. Ten feet from the door, he commanded his pit bull to stay.
When Peter opened the front door he was surprised to be greeted by Detectives Colson and Nakano, plus two other police officers in uniform. Detective Colson thrust folded sheets of paper at Peter. “We have a warrant.” She started to push in, and then abruptly stopped when she saw Diesel, muscles tensed and ready to spring, eyes locked on her.
“Is that dog safe?” she asked.
Peter turned and said, “Diesel. Fireplace. Stay.” Obediently, the dog sauntered to his spot in front of the hearth and dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
“What is this about?” Peter asked.
Colson, followed by Detective Nakano and the two patrol officers brushed past Peter and entered the great room. They turned around, taking their bearings. Detective Nakano directed the patrol officers to explore through the kitchen. She noticed the black ashes from burned paper in the fireplace and turned to Peter. “Looks like you burned some documents.”
“So what?” he replied. “Old tax returns.”
“Carefully collect what you can,” Colson instructed her junior partner.
As Detective Nakano proceeded to collect evidence, Colson addressed Peter. “What’s upstairs?” indicating the spiral staircase reaching upward from the great room.
“A game room, and the master bedroom.”
“This warrant authorizes our search of your residence and car, plus your business—EJ Enterprises.”
Gary had left the kitchen and was standing next to Peter. “Search for what?” he asked.
“What is your name and relationship to Mr. Savage?” Nakano asked.
“Gary Porter. I’m his friend. And who are you?”
“Let’s see your ID.”
“You first,” Gary said waspishly. “We have rights, you know.”
Detective Nakano rolled her eyes. She and Colson extended their shields for Gary to inspect, which he did in a most methodical fashion, serving only to further irritate the detectives.
“You still haven’t said what this is about,” Peter said, his voice even.
“Computers, data storage devices. We have a federal warrant for your arrest on charges of espionage and violation of the Computer Fraud and Abuse Act.”
“What? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Save it—not my call,” said Colson.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Nakano was reciting Peter’s Miranda Rights when the patrol officers emerged from the guest rooms with Gary’s laptop and another laptop taken from Peter’s office.
“Didn’t find any portable memory devices—no server either,” one of the officers reported.
“Okay,” Colson said. “Search upstairs. When you’re done here we’ll move on to his business. It’s on the ground floor below the residence.”
“Hey, that’s mine!” Gary said, referring to one of the laptops in a black nylon carry case. “You can’t take that!”
“This warrant says we can. Now, Mr. Porter, stand aside or I’ll arrest you for interfering with police business.”
“Relax, Gary,” Peter said. “I have no idea what this is really about, but we both know I didn’t break any laws. Call Martin Hanson; he’s my attorney. You’ll find his card on my desk. Tell him about our conversation last night.”
“What conversation?” Colson asked. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
“Dream on, Detective. Looks to me like playing nice is over.”
It took all day, but Martin Hanson had bail posted shortly after 4:00 p.m. An hour later, Peter was released from detention with orders not to leave Bend.
“The charges are serious, Peter.” Martin leaned back in his chair. His office was across the street from the jail. “I had to call in a huge favor from Judge Sullivan just to get you bailed out today. Fortunately for you, the jail is full and since you are a first-timer and non-violent, the judge agreed to expedite my request. The espionage charge is the most serious. The Government alleges you accessed secured data files and removed highly classified information. For the moment, they only filed charges for one count of espionage. But, in theory, they could charge you separately for each document that was illegally taken. If convicted, you could be sent to Federal Prison for the rest of your life.”
Peter’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“This is usually where my clients tell me they didn’t do it, and explain why.”
“Of course I didn’t access classified documents. I wouldn’t even begin to know how to do that, even if I wanted to.”
“That’s well and good, but you did end up in possession of the documents. Gary Porter explained everything to me this morning after the police arrested you.”
Peter shook his head. “That’s the weirdest part of this. We didn’t see those files until last night, about 11:00 p.m. or so. We were still reading them into the early morning hours.”
“You didn’t access those files from a government site? Gary Porter said he hacked into the email server and recovered deleted messages between Emma Jones and a Mr. Jon Q. Is that what happened?”
Peter told his story, confirming what he was certain Gary had already shared with Martin. “So, how come the police are knocking on my door with a warrant less than 12 hours after we gain access to these files from a deceased person’s deleted email? How did they even know that we were reading them? I’m not the one who stole them from a government website. That was probably Jon Q—whoever that is.”
“Is there a copy of those files on your computer?” Martin asked.
“No. And before you ask, Gary doesn’t have a copy either. We printed out copies and read those, then burned them in the fireplace.”
Martin folded his arms. “Well, if you didn’t make any electronic copies, and the only paper copies have been destroyed, the DA won’t be able to prove possession. And since you didn’t hack into whatever site was breached, it doesn’t sound like they’ll have a case. In the morning, I’ll file a motion to dismiss. The judge won’t rule on the motion until the DA has enough time to review the evidence. That could take a few weeks.”
Peter felt a pang of guilt for not telling Martin the whole truth. Sure, the files were not on his computer, but he did have a copy hidden away on a memory stick.
“In the meantime, stay out of trouble. And don’t leave town. If something comes up—family emergency or something—talk to me first. Understand?”
“Sure. Thank you Martin; I appreciate your help.”
Martin wrote a number on the back of one of his business cards. “This is my cell phone. If anything comes up—day or night—call me. That’s my job.”
“Thank you. Look, there’s one more thing.”
Martin raised an eyebrow.
“If anything should happen to me, contact Gary Porter. There’s an item hidden away—think of it as an insurance policy—anyway, Gary will tell you where to find it.”
“And what am I supposed to do with this item?”
“If it comes to that, you’ll know.”
Martin leaned forward, hands folded on his desk. “Peter, is there something you’re not telling me?”
Peter looked at his attorney, but decided not to voice his thoughts. There were far too many pieces missing from the puzzle, and even he wasn’t sure any of it made sense.