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Authors: Wayne Gladstone
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of humor would have quipped something about the Yellow Brick Road, but Rowsdower seemed to have removed any trace of the impractical by sheer force of will. He unzipped my backpack and tossed my journal on the table.
“Oz,” he said with a smile. “Would that be the Australian webcam girl you write about?”
“What gives you the right to read my journal?”
“What gives me the right? What’s the matter, Gladstone? Bright guy like you doesn’t read the papers?”
“I used to get my news online.”
“Right. Of course you did. HuffPo? Slate? Oh, probably something international for a less biased point of view. BBC. Al Jazeera, perhaps? Anyway, you might want to acquaint yourself with the NET Recovery Act.”
He pulled my flask from the bag. “Here. Go ahead,” he said. “You’re not gonna like this.”
I took a swig and felt the numbing warmth tingle to my arms while Rowsdower proceeded to tell me about the National Emergency Technical Recovery Act. Drafted by Obama’s White House and passed by an overwhelming majority in both houses across party lines, the government had been granted additional state of emergency powers if used “in the direct furtherance” of restoring the Internet. This power allowed officials to interrogate and even detain “persons of interest” indefinitely without charges or representation by counsel.
“And how the hell did I become a person of interest?”
“Well, you tell me, Gladstone. Do you think in the last few days most New Yorkers have been consorting with Anonymous at covert 4Chan gatherings and visiting downtown mosques amid rumors of terrorist Internet chatter emanating from downtown?”
“Still doesn’t make me a threat to national security.”
“The government, not you, decides what makes you a threat.”
I wasn’t naïve. I’d worn a suit. Worked in an office. Voted in several elections. I knew the way the world worked and the dark things people accepted in silence. But Rowsdower was talking about them in a brightly lit room without a trace of shame. I must have looked very young to him.
“By the way, this Oz,” he said. “You wouldn’t happen to have her real name, would you?”
“No.”
“Well, don’t worry, Mr. Gladstone,” he said, turning vaguely avuncular with his established power. “The government tends to believe you. I ran your background check. Law school dropout. New York Workers’ Compensation employee out on psychiatric disability for the last two years. Not exactly the prime suspect for hijacking the world’s technology.”
“Two years? Check your stats. More like two weeks. No wonder Anonymous kicked ass in your counterintelligence wars. You guys are a mess.”
Rowsdower remained calm. I was fairly certain everything he’d ever attained in life was gained from this ability not to react. To not say the things a more honest man would say. But there was something else at play I couldn’t discern. Not quite empathy, but something. He took a breath.
“Am I correct, Mr. Gladstone, that you wouldn’t want to talk to me about your wife, Romaya?”
I thought of Romaya in the hospital. An IV in her arm and red and wet eyes that dripped tears each time she blinked. Somehow, I got it in my head that pulling the IV could stop the tears, but I didn’t do it. I just held her in the bed and placed my face against her wet cheek so she could hear me whisper, “I’m so glad I married you.”
“Gladstone,” Rowsdower repeated. “Am I right, you don’t want to talk about your wife?”
“I’d prefer not to,” I said.
“And why’s that?”
“My wife is dead.”
A pulse rippled across Rowsdower’s face, beneath the skin.
“Right. That’s what I thought,” he said, zipping up my bag. “You’re free to go, Mr. Gladstone. I’m sorry for the disturbance. I’ll let you find your own way out.”
“Out of a prison?” I asked.
“Prison? You must have noticed this is just an office building. Under the NET Recovery Act,
“Oz,” he said with a smile. “Would that be the Australian webcam girl you write about?”
“What gives you the right to read my journal?”
“What gives me the right? What’s the matter, Gladstone? Bright guy like you doesn’t read the papers?”
“I used to get my news online.”
“Right. Of course you did. HuffPo? Slate? Oh, probably something international for a less biased point of view. BBC. Al Jazeera, perhaps? Anyway, you might want to acquaint yourself with the NET Recovery Act.”
He pulled my flask from the bag. “Here. Go ahead,” he said. “You’re not gonna like this.”
I took a swig and felt the numbing warmth tingle to my arms while Rowsdower proceeded to tell me about the National Emergency Technical Recovery Act. Drafted by Obama’s White House and passed by an overwhelming majority in both houses across party lines, the government had been granted additional state of emergency powers if used “in the direct furtherance” of restoring the Internet. This power allowed officials to interrogate and even detain “persons of interest” indefinitely without charges or representation by counsel.
“And how the hell did I become a person of interest?”
“Well, you tell me, Gladstone. Do you think in the last few days most New Yorkers have been consorting with Anonymous at covert 4Chan gatherings and visiting downtown mosques amid rumors of terrorist Internet chatter emanating from downtown?”
“Still doesn’t make me a threat to national security.”
“The government, not you, decides what makes you a threat.”
I wasn’t naïve. I’d worn a suit. Worked in an office. Voted in several elections. I knew the way the world worked and the dark things people accepted in silence. But Rowsdower was talking about them in a brightly lit room without a trace of shame. I must have looked very young to him.
“By the way, this Oz,” he said. “You wouldn’t happen to have her real name, would you?”
“No.”
“Well, don’t worry, Mr. Gladstone,” he said, turning vaguely avuncular with his established power. “The government tends to believe you. I ran your background check. Law school dropout. New York Workers’ Compensation employee out on psychiatric disability for the last two years. Not exactly the prime suspect for hijacking the world’s technology.”
“Two years? Check your stats. More like two weeks. No wonder Anonymous kicked ass in your counterintelligence wars. You guys are a mess.”
Rowsdower remained calm. I was fairly certain everything he’d ever attained in life was gained from this ability not to react. To not say the things a more honest man would say. But there was something else at play I couldn’t discern. Not quite empathy, but something. He took a breath.
“Am I correct, Mr. Gladstone, that you wouldn’t want to talk to me about your wife, Romaya?”
I thought of Romaya in the hospital. An IV in her arm and red and wet eyes that dripped tears each time she blinked. Somehow, I got it in my head that pulling the IV could stop the tears, but I didn’t do it. I just held her in the bed and placed my face against her wet cheek so she could hear me whisper, “I’m so glad I married you.”
“Gladstone,” Rowsdower repeated. “Am I right, you don’t want to talk about your wife?”
“I’d prefer not to,” I said.
“And why’s that?”
“My wife is dead.”
A pulse rippled across Rowsdower’s face, beneath the skin.
“Right. That’s what I thought,” he said, zipping up my bag. “You’re free to go, Mr. Gladstone. I’m sorry for the disturbance. I’ll let you find your own way out.”
“Out of a prison?” I asked.
“Prison? You must have noticed this is just an office building. Under the NET Recovery Act,
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