ExLibris: excluded from social networks Read online

ExLibris: excluded from social networks

  By Alex A. Lidd

  Copyright 2014 Alex A. Lidd

  Prologue

  Greetings! My name is Simon Parker and I live in New-York! I was born and raised in this city and until recently never travelled outside of it. To me New-York is something more than just buildings, which make it up, or the people living there. It is an organism within which every single cell – an inhabitant interacts with other similar cells, this interaction being at once both a method and a purpose, trying to find for himself or herself a place in the sun, inadvertently making this serve as the heartbeat of the entire city. It is a method because communication allows us to express our desires, requests to and expectations of other people. It is a purpose because communication is a basic and primary need of all humans. Every day we need somebody to talk to, to exchange thoughts, to express and share our opinions, and it is so pleasant when that somebody proves to be a kind red spirit, a friend. But spiritual liaison does not necessary require geographical proximity. Sometimes our friends are too far from us to keep us company.

  The progress of humanity in that respect zips along alright. At first people send each other letters, spending weeks or even months waiting for an answer to come. More than one hundred years ago the invention of Alexander Bell – the telephone – allowed people to instantly share thoughts over a distance. This was a fantastic break, but it wasn’t the end. At the beginning of the XXI century, with social networking websites becoming part of our lives, we learned not only to communicate over a distance, but also to express ourselves and even to be friends. Facebook, Instagram and Twitter have entered our lives one and forever and became habitual. Can we image the modern world without them?

  I have a lot to say on that matter to those who might think this question is purely rhetorical because I myself was excluded from social media and despite all that had become the most popular person there. Sounds strange?

  Well…?

  Chapter I

  *****

  “Wait, aren’t you that hacker that everybody is after?” a thin guy who was wearing a white singlet, which did little to hide tattoos on his arms and neck, asked me with a mischievous grin.“Though what with your being here, they’ve already caught you!”

  I was at a place that was anything but common for a seventeen-year-old guy who was living a fairly commonplace life in New York only a week before, – a cell at the San Diego pre-trial detention facility, CA. Although it wasn’t all that bad compared with the stereotype which had been living inside my head before I was given a chance to experience it all first-hand. My imagination had been offering a picture of a big packed room. And, of course, by “packed” I meant full of criminals. But, as it was, I had only one cellmate, Ben. He had been eyeing me steadily for a solid hour, lying on a bed with his right hand behind his head. Honestly, I also gazed at him, examining his tattoos, because we were just opposite each other and there wasn’t much else to look at.

  The cell also didn’t quite come up to my expectations as to its size: it was actually small. Three red brick walls formed a space filled with two iron beds, which looked (and felt) like benches, an iron table with a pair of chairs and the toilet. In the back wall, just under the ceiling, was a window, so small in size that it resembled a medieval castle’s loophole.

  Our “room” was central in the line of cells. Ben intermittently communicated with the inmates, putting his head through the metal bars and turning it in different directions as if he wasn’t able to hear something without seeing who he was talking to. By the way, we had the best view in the whole cell block, because through the bars we were able to contemplate the long straight white corridor, leading to the big metal door. And it was surely more enjoyable then the gloomy walls which were the only sight for the inmates in the cells on both sides of us. And we were also aware of anyone getting in or out of the block through that only door connecting the cells with the other parts of the building.

  I wasn’t in the least surprised that Ben finally remembered me. For some time, and long enough it was, his mimicry evidenced concentration, which was the consequence of intensive brainwork while searching for the answer “Where did I see this guy before?” And, in the end, inspiration graced his mind with its presence as a reward for his tenacity and, with a gesture of triumph, he exclaimed “But sure thing!”, his intonation being somewhat similar to the one with which Archimedes once proclaimed his famous “Eureka”, as he sat up, demanding confirmation of his guess from me.

  I didn’t answer him. Partly because I had seen too many movies in which a cellmate was supposed to be a whistler, and Ben did not look like a trustworthy person at all, but mainly because I didn’t feel like sharing my story with anyone at all. Or, at least, with somebody wearing a singlet with traces of dirt from yesterday’s party – he was detained for disrupting public order the night before.

  Honestly speaking, I personally hadn’t had enough time to properly size up what had happened to me in the last few days. One thing only did I know for sure – I had changed. And this change was not external, – my countenance remained what it used to be, so to speak, – I was a tall dark-haired guy with a sporty body and, as was claimed by far too many, very expressive eyes. One minor novelty was that I had changed my hairstyle to a short one; another was that easily detectable traces of sunburn had surfaced on my customarily pale skin – the consequence of having been exposed to the hot Californian sun for several days in a row. The crucial changes were basically the ones that had taken place inside my mind and soul and affected primarily my perception of myself and my attitude to people around me.

  My silence was interpreted by Ben as teasing.

  “Yeah! You are that guy!” He appeared to be overcome with emotions. A second later, hearing the scratching noise of a key turning in a keyhole (which could mean only one thing: that a policeman was unlocking the metal door at the end of the corridor), Ben cast a glance at me, grinned and jumped up. When he reached the bars, our unexpected visitor was standing some thirty feet away from him.

  My cellmate yielded “Officer, give me my smartphone back, I want to make a photo!”

  “Shut up!” The policeman answered with a lapse of several seconds, as he was going through a bunch of keys, obviously searching for the one with which he would be able to unlock the cell he needed.

  “Get me back the smartphone that was taken away when I was arrested! I want to make a photo; or nobody will believe that I saw this dude!” Ben went on yelling, casting eyes on me again and again. But the policeman totally ignored him and continued to do his thing that had brought him into the cell block. He got somebody responding to the name Campbell out of his corner, which was evidenced by the unlocking clang of the barred door and the loud order “Campbell, for interrogation!”

  “I have the right to make a phone call!”

  Trying to catch the policeman’s attention, Ben squeezed his head through the metal bars, turning it to the left where the Campbell’s cell was. “Screw it! Give me the right to use Instagram instead!”

  “I’ll give you the right to get a closer acquaintance with my cudgel if you don’t shut up!” the policeman said coolly as he passed him, leading the handcuffed Campbell, who proved to be a corpulent man who seemed to be serenely indifferent to the surrounding world. There weren’t any traces in the policeman’s voices showing his inclination to humour, and a black cudgel of an impressive size was hanging from his belt. So Ben decided against checking whether the officer was as good as his word and returned to his bench.

  The policeman and Campbell disappeared behind the door at the end of the corridor.

  “Well, you have been up to
making so much noise!”My cellmate addressed me, obviously intending this to be a conversation starter.

  “Yeah, and you are making too much noise now!” I said, half-turning away, showing that I had no intention of chatting with him.

  At that moment the door at the end of the corridor opened again, and a second later the already familiar policeman stepped into the block, accompanied by a grey-haired man wearing a black suit and holding a leather bag of the same color. The man looked very confident, giving the impression of a person in charge. The policeman muttered something indecipherable to him and pointed at me. They came up to the cell and the man addressed me “Are you Simon Parker?”

  “Actually, I am…,” I answered. “And who are you?”

  “I am your attorney Richard Johnson.” He paused as if pondering over something. “I was hired by your parents, and we have a lot to discuss.”

  Matter of fact, despite my young age, that was the second time I found myself in need of legal assistance, but the first impression this attorney made was rather positive. Although the first attorney in my life I met not in the pre-trial center – I was free then, and that fact maybe made the comparison of impressions somewhat inadequate.

  The policeman swung the barred door open. I got up and left the cell. The officer stopped me and stretched his hand to the handcuffs hanging from his belt.

  “That is not necessary,” Mr. Jonson arrested his movement.

  “According to the instruction, I have to…,” the policeman put on the “nothing-personal-it-is-just-my-job” air.

  “I will be responsible for that!” the lawyer interrupted him, his voice showing tangs of steel.

  The policeman hesitated for a second, while Mr. Johnson was eyeing him, and then gave up. “Well, OK”.

  “Let’s go!” Mr. Jonson said, motioning towards the door, leading me out of the cell block.

  The policeman took me and Mr. Johnson to the spacious room with blue walls, which was located in another part of the building. A wooden table and two chairs were all the furniture there. It reminded me of the interrogation room that I was inside some time before, except one detail. There was no giant one-way mirror covering one of the walls. And it seemed pretty logical because conversations with one’s defense counsel aren’t intended for any ears that have no business hearing them. The same could not be said about interrogations. As we sat down, I heard the lock cling. The attorney put his black bag on the table and got some papers out of it, instantly spreading those before him in designated order. Among them was a thick folder.

  “Mr. Parker, first of all, I want to say that your parents are very concerned about your situation, especially your mother, she is really worried about you. You can pass anything you’d like to tell them through me. The second thing, I want to assure you that I will do everything I can to help. But it won’t be possible, unless you first help me. You have to tell me the truth about what happened. And you must understand that I am the only person, except your parents, whom you can trust,” Mr. Johnson told me in a confident and calm voice, looking straight into my eyes. “So, tell me what happened to you.”

  But I was still unsure whether I was going to tell him something or not – it was all way too complicated.

  “Oh, that’s a very long story, I do not even know where to begin,” I said, looking at him the same way as he was looking at me. I was never afraid to look someone straight into the eyes, so I wasn’t afraid of doing this at that moment. Sometimes eyes tell you much more than words.

  “Begin with the moment which you consider critical in your actions and please do not omit any smallest detail. I need to know everything – literally everything – especially where, when and with whom you were. Any trifle can become crucial in our line of defense in court.”

  “You know, a lot of people are involved in my story and they must not be held responsible for my actions,” I paused and added. “Even for the sake of protecting me!”

  “Mister Parker, I got your point. If you want to protect your friends from the negative consequences of their acquaintance with you, then rest assured, they are under no threat. I’ll keep everything you tell me confidential, unless you give me your permission to do otherwise.” The lawyer took one paper out of the thick folder. “These are the names that I learnt from the case materials: Mandy Turner, Henry Hall, Clark Atwood, Alberta, Sean and Laura Martin, Samantha Collins, Ryan and Donovan Roberts, Joshua Miller and some others. All of these people were interrogated and qualified as witnesses in the case. But this list is not exhaustive, and new names maybe added. Moreover, the procedural capacity of some persons can be changed, if CCIA agents happen to find out something new. And be sure, they do not tire of looking for something new. So, if someone or something remains unknown for me, and they are the first to learn about it, I won’t be able to help either you, or your friends for that matter. You should tell me about every aspect of your relationships and meetings with the said people and every other person that may have been involved in your story, but still remains unknown to special agents. And then we will together decide what should be deemed as pertinent to the case and what should not.”

  Honestly speaking, Mr. Johnson totally got my point, he obviously realized that I was very concerned about the future of the people who didn’t abandon me in spite of the danger and still tried to help.

  “I am on your side and if you want to protect your friends, I will help you, but I need to know the whole truth first. And, mind you, something that might seem unimportant to a lay person, well, in the world of jurisprudence this inconsequential something could literally turn the tide. Even your thoughts, incentives and attitude towards your own actions and the actions of other people now constitute mens rea – an element of criminal intent. Friends who had helped you with something might be treated by the investigation as mere witnesses, or they might be qualified as accomplices. So, it all depends on you… whether you allow me to understand the circumstances of the case or not. Help me and I help you.”

  I listened to him with utmost attention and carefully analyzed every sentence he said. His words, coupled with his intonation and the manner of conduct betrayed him as a remarkable orator. Moreover, in his eyes I saw a passion shine, that passion one encounters in professionals who always bring matters to the end. I thought that he was just the man whom I wanted to see as my lawyer, he was very convincing. And it seemed to me that this trait was crucial in his job. Besides, he wasn’t wearing a dirty singlet.

  So, I began my story.