“And what did you learn?”
“In person,” George said.
There was silence for a moment. “I would prefer to meet someplace public.”
“Wherever you want.”
“There’s a place called Caffe Luxxe on Montana Avenue in Santa Monica.”
“I’ll find it. What time? Sooner the better.”
“Ten.”
“I’ll be there.”
44
George took a quick shower. After sleeping in his clothes, getting clean felt particularly good. He dressed rapidly. With more than enough time before he had to leave to make it to the Santa Monica coffee shop well before ten, there was something he wanted to do. He took down the cardboard box that contained Kasey’s personal effects.
After smoothing out his bedspread, he spent a few minutes carefully taking Kasey’s items out of the box and arranging them on the bed. It was his way of communicating with her, wondering what life would have been like dealing with her illness — the one that neither of them knew she had. How would they have coped? Would the illness and treatment have drawn them closer? Would she have wanted to go through with the marriage? Many questions popped into his head. But few answers. There was one thing for sure. He felt a deep, abiding anger. With what he knew now, there was a chance that someone had denied him the chance to say good-bye to her, to tell her how special she was, and how she had changed his life for the better.
The sudden crash of his front door splintering made George’s heart leap in his chest. In a second he was on his feet, aware of a commotion in his living room. A second later George was confronted by a horde of people in ski masks charging into his bedroom, most in black uniforms but others in brown, all carrying weapons, serious weapons. And all the guns were pointed directly at him.
There were shouts: “Hands in the air! Now down on the floor! Now! Now! Down! Spread your arms! Spread those legs!”
Dazed and terrified, George did as he was ordered. More uniformed people swarmed in. He could feel bodies on top of him, pressing him to the floor. He was roughly searched by a dozen strong hands. Then his arms were yanked back painfully and his wrists snapped into handcuffs. It was like what had happened in Sal’s apartment, only worse, much worse. In the next instant he was hauled to his feet, wincing at the pain in his shoulders.
Then the shouts from the various personnel that had swarmed him went completely quiet, like the sudden calm after a summer storm.
George warily looked at the faces of the people surrounding him. Some had removed their black balaclavas but not all. Their affiliations were emblazoned on their bulletproof vests: FBI, Secret Service, and LAPD SWAT. The guns had been lowered, but not put away.
Then a man in a black suit walked into George’s bedroom. Members of the combined task force silently gave way as he entered. The man’s expression was neutral and calm. He held out a badge for George to read.
“I’m FBI Special Agent Carl Saunders,” he said. “You’re under arrest for fifteen counts of computer and wire fraud.” He held an official document close to George’s nose. “This is a warrant for your arrest.” He then quickly changed documents, bringing one out from behind the other. “And this is a warrant to search your apartment.” He glanced at a subordinate, saying: “Read him his Miranda rights.”
When George was led out of his bedroom, he saw several CSI people packing up his computer and the disassembled mobile phone from the dining room table.
At first George was tempted to blurt out what he had discovered. But, having been read his Miranda rights, he decided that it might be best to just say nothing. None of these people were friendly and they treated him as if he were a dangerous, hardened criminal. He remained silent as he was frog-marched out of his apartment.
A number of his fellow tenants had gathered outside, having been roused by the law-enforcement invasion that had arrived in a fleet of vehicles, including an armored personnel carrier. No one spoke as George was forced into a paddy wagon.
Special Agent Saunders got in with him and they sped off.
George rode in silence, staring out the vehicle’s tiny window as it sliced through L.A. traffic with its siren going. He looked over and studied his captor’s profile. “You people don’t waste a lot of time.”
“You’re in deep shit, my friend,” Agent Saunders replied, glancing at him. “You’re looking at twenty-five to thirty years in prison as well as a multimillion-dollar fine. Do you have anything you want to say about the charges?”
“I watched enough police procedurals to know it’s probably best to wait until I’ve talked with a lawyer.”
Agent Saunders looked at him with a mocking expression. “TV shows? You’re something of a smart-ass for a doctor.”
“How did you know I was a doctor?”
“We know a lot about you. We’ve even been in contact with your superiors at the medical center. It appears they intend to press charges on you in addition to the federal government’s charges. You’re in deep shit, my friend. On top of everything else, the hospital wants to prosecute you for HIPAA violations. As you might imagine, you are officially on administrative leave from your residency.”
Oh, my God! George thought. What had he done to himself? Overnight he had become a total pariah and was on his way to jail. He glumly looked back out the window, wondering what would happen if he was wrong and his suspicions about iDoc somehow proved to be only circumstantial.
45
It had been a terrible day for George. Maybe the worst of his life, outside of the day Kasey had died. He was taken into custody and processed. Zee’s concern about some sort of government involvement in a possible death panel conspiracy terrified him, now that he was in the hands of the authorities. As the day progressed he felt the urge to blurt out what he believed he had learned, and to explain why he was involved in hacking Amalgamated. But he held himself in check, afraid that if he talked he might get himself in even worse trouble, if such a thing was possible. He had the very real fear that his life as he knew it was over, having heard that he already had essentially been fired since that is what “administrative leave” meant. On top of that was the knowledge that if he was convicted as a felon, as the FBI agent confidently predicted, he would never be able to get a DEA license to prescribe controlled substances, making the practice of medicine, most any kind of medicine, difficult if not impossible.
Throughout the whole process, which had taken the entire day, George felt that he was already being treated like a dangerous criminal. Everyone he came into contact with was either curt or rude, or both. The entire booking process was humiliating: the mug shot, handing over all his belongings, being fingerprinted, enduring a full body search, a warrant search for possible pending charges, a health screening, including blood tests for sexually transmitted diseases. The whole rigmarole made him think that he was perceived as guilty until proven innocent rather than the other way around.
At last, at nine P.M., George was ushered into a small fifteen-by-fifteen-foot cell that smelled of urine and disinfectant, where he was finally allowed to call an attorney. An old-fashioned punch dial phone hung on the cell’s wall. George picked up the receiver and wondered whom he would call. The trouble was, he didn’t know any criminal attorneys. Hell, he didn’t know any attorneys. And this was a holiday weekend! The thought went through his head that he very well might be held in this black hole of Calcutta for the rest of the weekend!