“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
HOLDING CELL, LOS ANGELES COUNTY CENTRAL JAIL
DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
SATURDAY, JULY 5, 2014, 9:20 P.M.
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!
With mounting horror, George hung up the phone and eyed his three cellmates. One was passed out on the floor in a pool of vomit. Another was obviously an addict, his fingers heavily stained with the black tar of heroin. The third was a massive biker with tattoos running down each arm and a mass of ink climbing up his chest. He was watching George with a bored look.
George gave him a tentative smile and quickly turned away.
“Hey!”
George felt a flash of panic. He was pretty sure the biker was talking to him. Having no real choice, George turned to the man. They stared at each other for a good ten seconds. George wasn’t sure if he was expected to talk or what. Finally, the biker reached over and hiked up one of his orange shirt sleeves.
George slowly shook his head in confusion. “I don’t—”
The biker reached down and tapped his finger on a tattoo on the inside of his massive, hairy forearm.
George took a tentative step toward the man. He had no idea what the guy had in mind: Was he showing off the quality of his ‘inkmanship’? Or luring George closer to grab him? George carefully leaned closer for a better look, ready to raise holy hell if necessary. But it wasn’t. He realized that the guy was pointing to a phone number tattooed on his arm.
“He’s a lawyer, and he’s good.”
• • •
How’s your bank account?”
George had the holding cell’s reeking phone away from his face to avoid whatever germs were on it. He hoped to take away nothing more than horrendous memories from this hellhole. The lawyer’s name on the other end of the line was Mario Bonifacio, and after he had quizzed George about the particulars of the case and how George had gotten his number, he had gotten right to the point: He asked George about his financial resources.
“It’s . . . I don’t really have a whole lot of money.”
“Credit cards?”
“Yes. Visa.”
“The credit line?”
“Pretty high, I think. About ten grand.”
“Okay. I’ll take a credit card. My fee will be twelve hundred dollars. That’s for my work today and tomorrow. I can’t get you out of there tonight, so you’ll have to cool it until morning. And smile, you’re getting a discount on my fee because you’re a referral from a trusted client.”
George glanced at the biker, whose name also turned out to be George. He could overhear the conversation since George was holding the phone receiver away from his ear. The biker grinned upon hearing of the discount and gave George a thumbs-up sign.
“Will that be a problem?” Bonifacio inquired.
“No. That seems fair.”
“It is fair. Now bail, that will be the big hit. A bondsman will want ten percent of the amount set by the judge. That is their fee, which you will not get back. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t suppose you know any bail bondsmen?”
“I don’t.”
“No problem, I’ll take care of it. One thing I have to warn you about up front: Your charges are serious felonies, so they will come at you with a big number. But I know the filing deputy and can maybe get it reduced. You have no priors, so that’s a plus.”
“When will my arraignment take place?”
“In the morning. I’ll be making calls to the jail after we hang up. You’re going to need to pay me and the bail bondsman prior to the hearing. I assume you have a Visa card with you?”
“They have it with my personal effects.”
“That’s fine. No problem. Okay. Try and relax. I’ll speak to you in the morning.” Bonifacio ended the call abruptly, leaving George with a dial tone.
George hung up the phone and thanked the biker for the referral.
The biker nodded back and turned his attention to his fingernails.
George scanned the room for a place to sit. It hit him that he was stuck here for the whole night! Abandoned, how would he manage? He located the cleanest-looking spot he could find on the floor at the front of the cell and eased down into it. He closed his eyes and shuddered. He was square in the center of society’s garbage can. He had officially reached a new low in life, wondering what additional disaster the morning would bring.
46
LOS ANGELES CRIMINAL COURT
DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
SUNDAY, JULY 6, 2014, 9:45 A.M.
George was ushered into the courtroom along with three other men. A cramped seating area with a thick glass partition running up to the ceiling separated him from the courtroom proper. A narrow opening
ran the length of the glass at face level so that the imprisoned men could be heard by the judge and attorneys.
George had met with Bonifacio and a bail bondsman early that morning in an interview room to take care of the necessary financial transactions after the lawyer had secured George’s credit card. George thought both men had been sent from central casting. They were tall, overweight, and practiced marginal personal hygiene.
George was more exhausted than he could ever remember being in his life, which was saying something after slogging through four years of medical school and three of residency. During the night he had been joined by a number of other cellmates, and their activities squashed any hopes of getting even the briefest spell of shut-eye. One man had tried to “cuddle up” to George. The biker, apparently not concerned with politically correct attitudes toward gay men, had put an end to that in a terrifying flash of homophobic violence.
The topper for George had been when stomach cramps necessitated his use of the toilet. It was so filthy, he refused to sit down and tried to suspend himself in midair. As if he hadn’t been self-conscious enough, his antics made his cellmates burst out laughing, taunting him as a “fucking aristocrat.” Even the experience of obtaining toilet paper had been humiliating. The jailors literally made him beg for it.
George was a physical mess. He hadn’t showered or brushed his teeth. Neither had the three men standing next to him. Their stench was nauseating, and he imagined he might not be much better.
Bonifacio, as big and beefy a man as the fellow who had recommended him, made his way over to George. The one thing he had going for him was that he was obviously very familiar with the goings-on.
“Doing okay still?”
George nodded.
“Good. I talked with the prosecutor. The deputy DA has assigned your case to a guy I know. He can be a dick, but the judge isn’t so bad, so we might be okay. With your credit card limit, anything under seventy-five grand is good.”
“What’s the likelihood of that?”
Bonifacio shrugged. “Like I said, they got a lot of counts against you. We could be talking as much as a couple hundred Gs plus. But don’t despair, I’m pretty well connected around here.” The man smiled. From the looks of his teeth, George understood why he had such bad breath.
• • •
In keeping with his luck of late, George had to wait while the other three men were called before him. George’s nervousness mounted as none of them made bail, which suggested that the judge was not in the best of moods. When George’s name was finally called, Bonifacio and the deputy district attorney assigned to the case stood and announced their credentials. Then Bonifacio waived a prolonged reading of the charges and told the judge that his client pleaded not guilty on all counts and wanted a speedy trial to prove it.
The judge looked up, obviously surprised, and stared at George. “You don’t wish to waive your right to a preliminary hearing within ten days?”
All three of the previous prisoners had waived their right to a speedy trial in the hope that by extending the process to the maximum, the DA might reduce the charges to get the case off the books. Bonifacio had explained to George that by insisting on his right it sent a psychological message to the judge that he was innocent, a ploy that enhanced his chances of being offered bail at a lower rate. Bonifacio insisted it was a strategy he had used to great effect. George hoped he was right. Getting released on bail was George’s number one goal. His only chance to defend himself from the charges against him was to substantiate that iDoc was being sabotaged, which wouldn’t happen if he was sitting in jail. There was no plan B.
“Your Honor, my client is absolutely not guilty. We believe these charges will not survive a preliminary hearing, and we want to move quickly. We do not waive.”
The judge looked down and studied his calendar, looking for the appropriate date, while George watched, his mind spinning. His eyes anxiously scanned the room as the seconds ticked by. Then by chance, he noticed a copy of the L.A. Times sitting on the corner of the attorney’s table. Under a headline George couldn’t make out was a headshot of Zee. What the hell?
George pressed his head into the slot to get a better look. It was Zee! And from this angle George could decipher the headline, too: “Unemployed Gamer Killed in High-Speed Crash.” The subtitle read: “Yet Another Runaway Accelerator Suspected.” George’s body went numb with fear. Could Zee’s death be just an awful coincidence? He sincerely doubted it. Remorse at possibly involving Zee in something that led to his death overwhelmed him almost as much as his fear.
“George? George, you paying attention?” It was Bonifacio. He was looking at George with concern.
“Sorry,” he managed. “What?”
“Your court date is set for July eighteenth,” Bonifacio whispered. “Pay attention or you are going to irritate you know who. Jesus . . .”
The deputy DA was standing now and addressing the judge. “Due to the seriousness of the charges, the people urge the court to set bail in the amount of five hundred thousand dollars.”
George’s mouth dropped. Such an amount was far beyond his credit. On top of his fear and remorse was a sense of near-incapacitating anxiety that spread through him like wildfire. Was he doomed to stay in jail? How would he ever survive it? After the experience of the previous night, he didn’t know. And after what had apparently happened to Zee, George felt as a matter of survival a need to get away from the clutches of the authorities.
The judge looked up at the deputy DA. “That seems excessive, Counselor. Why so high?”
“Because of the seriousness of the charges, we believe the defendant to be a flight risk.”
Bonifacio cleared his throat. “Your Honor, Dr. Wilson is a fourth-year resident doctor at L.A. University Medical Center. He’s always been an upstanding member of the community and has never been charged with any crime, not even a speeding ticket.”
“What kind of bail were you seeking?” the judge asked Bonifacio.
“Sir, considering my client’s blemish-free record, twenty-five thousand dollars would be more than enough.”
“This was an assault on both corporate and federal government entities involving health care records, sir,” the deputy DA countered.
The judge looked at George, evaluating him, and then began scribbling on the court documents in front of him. He looked up. “Bail is set at fifty thousand dollars.”
George’s knees buckled in relief.
Bonifacio turned to him and winked. “I’ll have you out of here in an hour.”
• • •
George was released and given back all his clothing and personal items, including his cell phone. He stepped out into the bright, hot sunshine. Oh, God! What relief! But then his mind returned to Zee.
George hustled down to the street corner and found a newsstand. He bought a copy of the L.A. Times and sat on the curb to read the article. Zee’s car had apparently been going over a hundred miles per hour when it veered off the road and struck the concrete abutment of an overpass. The reporter believed it was another Toyota accelerator crash. George finished the article and sat staring into the gutter, his hands still trembling. It was definitely too much of a coincidence for the crash to have been an accident. There had been a number of such accelerator incidents in the past, sure, but what were the odds of it happening now? And if it wasn’t an accident, it was murder. George had never been a conspiracy theorist, but this was turning him into one.
As he sat on the curb, George’s mind went into high gear. He didn’t see the traffic going by or the pedestrians who eyed him as they passed. He had started thinking something else. What if Zee had been killed not by the government, an idea that had been fostered in his mind by Zee’s government paranoia, but rather by the individual or group of individuals behind the iDoc death panel conspiracy. In many respects this made more sense. After all, iDoc and Ama
lgamated were private entities.
George breathed out forcibly, unaware he had been holding his breath as his mind pondered this new concern. In many respects it was even scarier than worrying about the government, especially since the idea suggested he might have been safer in jail than out on the street.
Scrambling to his feet, George nervously looked around. He felt a bit of relief seeing that no one was paying him the slightest bit of attention now that he was standing. But this new line of thought evoked another worry: Maybe he shouldn’t go back to his apartment, or at least not stay there. If the authorities knew he had been involved in hacking into the iDoc servers, then there was reason to fear that the person or persons responsible for the iDoc subversion knew as well.
Dusting himself off, he hailed a cab, giving the driver his address. He decided he wasn’t going to stay there but needed some things, and reasoned that being there for a short time would be safe. After riding for a few minutes and allowing himself to calm down, he dialed Paula’s cell. If he was to learn anything more about iDoc, he needed her help. Would she? He didn’t know, but she was his only recourse.
As if expecting his call, she picked up on the first ring. “What the hell! You stood me up! I sat at that coffee shop for an hour texting you.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. My day didn’t go as planned.” Understatement of the year.
“You’d better explain, and it better be good.” She was all business.
“I was arrested.”
Silence. George gave her a minute for his comment to sink in.
“You’re joking.”
“I wish I was. The last twenty-four hours have been the worst I have ever spent. I knew you were waiting, but I couldn’t call. I couldn’t text. And, on top of being arrested, I’ve been placed on administrative leave from my residency, which is the equivalent of being fired, unless I’m acquitted, which probably won’t happen, since I’m guilty as charged.”