Disclosure: A Novel (22 page)

"About forty. Black. Very slender, gray hair, sort of curly."

"Tall? Short? What?"

He shrugged. "Medium."

Herb said, "That's not much. Can you give us anything else?"

Sanders hesitated. He thought about it. "No. I didn't really see her." "Close your eyes,"

Fernandez said.

He closed them.

"Now take a deep breath, and put yourself back. It's yesterday evening. You have been in Meredith's office, the door has been closed for almost an hour, you have had your experience with her, now you are leaving the room, you are going out . . . How does the door open, in or out?"

"It opens in."

"So you pull the door open . . . you walk out . . . Fast or slow?"

"I'm walking fast."

"And you go into the outer room . . . What do you see?"

Through the door. Into the outer room, elevators directly ahead. Feeling disheveled, of balance, hoping there is no one to see him. Looking to the right at Betsy Ross’r desk: clean, bare, chair pulled up to the edge of the desk. Notepad. Plastic cover on the computer. Desk light still burning.

Eyes swinging left, a cleaning woman at the other assistant desk. Her big gray cleaning cart stands alongside her. The cleaning woman is lifting a trash basket to empty it into the plastic sack that hangs open from one end of the cart. The woman pauses in mid-lift, stares at him curiously. He is wondering how long she has been there, what she has heard from inside the room. A tinny radio on the cart is playing music.

"I'll fucking kill you for this." Meredith calls after him.

The cleaning woman hears it. He looks away from her, embarrassed, and hurries toward the elevator. Feeling almost panic. He pushes the button.

"Do you see the woman?" Fernandez said.

"Yes. But it was so fast . . . And 1 didn't want to look at her." Sanders shook his head.

"Where are you now? At the elevator?"

"Yes."

"Can you see the woman?"

"No. I didn't want to look at her again."

"All right. Let's go back. No, no, keep your eyes closed. We'll do it again. Take a deep breath, and let it out slowly . . . Good . . . This time you're going to see everything in slow motion, like a movie. Now . . . come out through the door . . . and tell me when you see her for the first time."

Coming through the door. Everything slow. His head moving gently up and down with each footstep. Into the outer room. The desk to the right, tidy, lamp on. To the left, the other desk, the cleaning woman raising the

"I see her."

"All right, now freeze what you see. Freeze it like a photograph." "Okay."

"Now look at her. You can look at her now."

Standing with the trash basket in her hand. Staring at him, a bland expression. She's about forty. Short hair, curls. Blue uniform, like a hotel maid. A silver chain around her neck-no, hanging eyeglasses.

"She wears glasses around her neck, on a metal chain."

"Good. Just take your time. There's no rush. Look her up and down." "I keep seeing her face . . ."Staring at him. A bland expression.

"Look away from her face. Look her up and down."

The uniform. Spray bottle clipped to her waist. Knee-length blue skirt. White shoes. Like a nurse. No. Sneakers. No. Thickerrunning shoes. Thick soles. Dark laces. Something about the laces.

"She's got . . . sort of running shoes. Little old lady running shoes." "Good."

"There's something funny about the laces."

"Can you see what's funny?"

"No. They're dark. Something funny. I . . . can't tell."

"All right. Open your eyes."

He looked at the five of them. He was back in the room. "That was weird," he said.

"If there was time," Fernandez said, "I would have a professional hypnotist take you through the entire evening. I've found it can be very useful. But there's no time. Boys? It's five o'clock. You better get started."

The two investigators collected their notes and left.

"What are they going to do?"

"If we were litigating this," Fernandez said, "we would have the right to depose potential witnesses-to question individuals within the company who might have knowledge bearing on the case. Under the present circumstances, we have no right to interrogate anybody, because you're entering into private mediation. But if one of the DigiCom assistants chooses to have a drink with a handsome delivery man after work, and if the conversation happens to turn to gossip about sex in the office, well, that's the way the cookie crumbles."

"We can use that information?"

Fernandez smiled. "Let's see what we find out first," she said. "Now, I want to go back over several points in your story, particularly starting at the time you decided not to have intercourse with Ms. Johnson."

"Again?"

"Yes. But I have a few things to do first. I need to call Phil Blackburn and arrange tomorrow's sessions. And I have some other things to check on. Let's break now and meet again in two hours. Meanwhile, have you cleaned out your office?"

"No," he said.

"You better clean it out. Anything personal or incriminating, get it out. From now on, expect your desk drawers to be gone through, your files to be searched, your mail to be read, your phone messages checked. Every aspect of your life is now public."

"Okay."

"So, go through your desk and your files. Remove anything of a personal nature."

"Okay."

"On your office computer, if you have any passwords, change them. Anything in electronic data files of a personal nature, get it out."

"Okay."

"Don't just remove it. . Make sure you erase it, so it's unrecoverable."

"Okay."

"It's not a bad idea to do the same thing at home. Your drawers and files and computer."

"Okay." He was thinking: at home? Would they really break into his home?

"If you have any sensitive materials that you want to store, bring them to Richard here,"

she said, pointing to the young lawyer. "He'll have them taken to a safe-deposit box where they'll be kept for you. Don't tell me. I don't want to know anything about it."

"Okay."

"Now. Let's discuss the telephone. From now on, if you have any sensitive calls to make, don't use your office phone, your cellular phone, or your phone at home. Use a pay phone, and don't put it on a charge card, even your personal charge card. Get a roll of quarters and use them instead."

"You really think this is necessary?"

"I know it is necessary. Now. Is there anything in your past conduct with this company which might be said to be out of order?" She was peering at him over her glasses.

He shrugged. "I don't think so."

"Anything at all? Did you overstate your qualifications on your original job application?

Did you abruptly terminate any employee? Have you had any kind of inquiry about your behavior or decisions? Were you ever the subject of an internal company investigation?

And even if you weren't, did you ever, to your knowledge, do anything improper, however small or apparently minor?"

"Jesus," he said. "It's been twelve years."

"While you are cleaning out, think about it. I need to know anything that the company might drag up about you. Because if they can, they will."

"Okay."

"And one other point. I gather from what you've told me that nobody at your company is entirely clear why Johnson has enjoyed such a rapid rise among the executives."

"That's right."

"Find out."

"It won't be easy," Sanders said. "Everybody's talking about it, and nobody seems to know."

"But for everybody else," Fernandez said, "it's just gossip. For you, it's vital. We need to know where her connections are and why they exist. If we know that, we have a chance of pulling this thing off. But if we don't, Mr. Sanders, they're probably going to tear us apart."

He was back at DigiCom at six. Cindy was cleaning up her desk and was about to leave.

"Any calls?" he said, as he went into his office.

`Just one," she said. Her voice was tight.

"Who was that?"

"John Levin. He said it was important." Levin was an executive with a hard drive supplier. Whatever Levin wanted, it could wait.

Sanders looked at Cindy. She seemed tense, almost on the verge of tears.

"Something wrong?"

"No. Just a long day." A shrug: elaborate indifference.

"Anything I should know about?"

"No. It's been quiet. You didn't have any other calls." She hesitated. "Tom, I just want you to know, I don't believe what they are saying."

"What are they saying?" he asked.

"About Meredith Johnson."

"What about her?"

"That you sexually harassed her."

She blurted it out, and then waited. Watching him, her eyes moving across his face. He could see her uncertainty. Sanders felt uneasy in turn that this woman he had worked alongside for so many years would now be so openly unsure of him.

He said firmly, "It's not true, Cindy."

"Okay. I didn't think it was. It's just that everybody is-"

"There's no truth to it at all."

"Okay. Good." She nodded, put the call book in the desk drawer. She seemed eager to leave. "Did you need me to stay?"

"No."

"Good night, Tom."

"Good night, Cindy."

He went into his office and closed the door behind him. He sat behind his desk and looked at it a moment. Nothing seemed to have been touched. He flicked on his monitor, and began going through the drawers, rummaging through, trying to decide what to take out. He glanced up at the monitor, and saw that his e-mail icon was blinking. Idly, he clicked it on.

NUMBER OF PERSONAL MESSAGES: 3. DO YOU WANT TO READ THEM NOW?

He pressed the key. A moment later, the first message came up.

SEALED TWINKLE DRIVES ARE ON THEIR WAY TO YOU TODAY DHL. YOU

SHOULD HAVE THEM TOMORROW. HOPE YOU FIND SOMETHING . . . JAFAR

IS STILL SEVERELY ILL. THEY SAY HE MAY DIE.

ARTHUR KAHN

He pressed the key, and another message came up.

THE WEENIES ARE STILL SWARMING DOWN HERE. ANY NEWS YET?

EDDIE

Sanders couldn't worry about Eddie now. He pushed the key, and the third message came up.

I GUESS YOU HAVEN'T BEEN READING BACK ISSUES OF COMLINE.

STARTING FOUR YEARS AGO.

AFRIEND

Sanders stared at the screen. ComLine was DigiCom's in-house newsletter-an eight page monthly, filled with chatty accounts of hirings and promotions and babies born. The summer schedule for the softball team, things like that. Sanders never paid any attention to it and couldn't imagine why he should now.

And who was "Afriend"? He clicked the REPLY button on the screen.

CAN'T REPLY - SENDER ADDRESS NOT AVAILABLE

He clicked the SENDER INFO button. It should give him the name and address of the person sending the e-mail message. But instead he saw dense rows of type: FROM UU5.PSI.COM!UWA.PCM.COM.EDU!CHARON TUE JUN

16 04:43:31 REMOTE FROM DCCSYS

RECEIVED: FROM UUPS15 BY DCCSYS.DCC.COM ID AA02599;

TUE, 16 JUN 4:42:19 PST

RECEIVED: FROM UWA.PCM.COM.EDU BY UU5.PSI.COM

(5.65B/4.0.071791-PSI/PSINET)

ID AA28153; TUE, 16 JUN 04:24:58 -0500

RECEIVED: FROM RIVERSTYX.PCM.COM.EDU BY UWA.PCM.COM.EDU

(4.1/SMI-4.1)

ID AA15969; TUE, 16 JUN 04:24:56 PST

RECEIVED: BY RIVERSTYX.PCM.COM.EDU (920330.SGI/5.6)

ID AA00448; TUE, 16 JUN 04:24:56 -0500

DATE: TUE, 16 JUN 04:24:56 -0500

FROM: CHARON @UWA.PCM.COM.EDU (AFRIEND)

MESSAGE-ID: <[email protected]. COM.EDU > TO: [email protected]

Sanders stared. The message hadn't come to him from inside the company at all. He was looking at an Internet routing. Internet was the vast worldwide computer network connecting universities, corporations, government agencies, and private users. Sanders wasn't knowledgeable about the Internet, but it appeared that the message from

"Afriend," network name CHARON, had originated from UWA.PCM.COM.EDU, wherever that was. Apparently some kind of educational institution. He pushed the PRINT SCREEN button, and made a mental note to turn this one over to Bosak. He needed to talk to Bosak anyway.

He went down the hall and got the sheet as it came out of the printer. Then he went back to his office and stared at the screen. He decided to try a reply to this person.

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

ANY HELP GREATLY APPRECIATED.

SANDERS

He pushed the SEND button. Then he deleted both the original message and his own reply.

SORRY, YOU CANNOT DELETE THIS MAIL.

Sometimes e-mail was protected with a flag that prevented it from being deleted. He typed: UNPROTECT MAIL.

THE MAIL IS UNPROTECTED.

He typed: DELETE MAIL.

SORRY, YOU CANNOT DELETE THIS MAIL.

What the hell is this? he thought. The system must be hanging up. Maybe it had been stymied by the Internet address. He decided to delete the message from the system at the control level. He typed: SYSTEM.

WHAT LEVEL?

He typed: SYSOP

SORRY, YOUR PRIVILEGES DO NOT INCLUDE SYSOP CONTROL.

"Christ," he said. They'd gone in and taken away his privileges. He couldn't believe it.

He typed: SHOW PRIVILEGES.

SANDERS, THOMAS L.

PRIOR USER LEVEL: 5 (SYSOP)

USER LEVEL CHANGE: TUE JUNE 16 4:50 PM PST

CURRENT USER LEVEL: 0 (ENTRY)

NO FURTHER MODIFICATIONS

There it was: they had locked him out of the system. User level zero was the level that assistants in the company were given.

Sanders slumped back in the chair. He felt as if he had been fired. For the first time, he began to realize what this was going to be like.

Clearly, there was no time to waste. He opened his desk drawer, and saw at once that the pens and pencils were neatly arranged. Someone had already been there. He pulled open the file drawer below. Only a half-dozen files were there; the others were all missing.

They had already gone through his desk.

Quickly, he got up and went out to the big filing cabinets behind Cindy's desk. These cabinets were locked, but he knew Cindy kept the key in her desk. He found the key, and unlocked the current year's files.