Page 84 of Hacking the Holidays
The last thing I saw before the Suburban pulled away from the library was her face. She stood there, mouth slightly open, her expression caught somewhere between fury, devastation, and guilt.
I wanted to tell her it wasn’t her fault, that Beverly had outmaneuvered us both, but mentioning that while two federal agents were within earshot would have been foolish.
The warrant and the arrest were obviously bogus. Every piece of evidence that could connect me to Good Sam’s activities had been scrubbed, sanitized, or hidden so deep it would take years to uncover. There was no way they hackedinto my computer, but even if they did, the self-destruct protocol was in place to obliterate all my files before they could see a thing.
No, the only logical explanation was that Beverly had illegally planted physical evidence at or around my desk when she had broken into the library to access my computer. But what could she have planted?
The thought wasn’t a pleasant one, so I shifted my focus to the scenery outside as we headed east on the highway toward Wenatchee. Through the window, I watched the snow-covered landscape blur past, with thousands of pine trees on both sides. It was absolutely beautiful, even under my current circumstances.
“Where are we going?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure I knew the answer.
The agent in the passenger seat glanced back. “Chelan County Regional Justice Center. You’ll be processed there and placed on a federal hold until you’re transferred to the Federal Detention Center in Seattle. From there, you’ll face a U.S. Magistrate Judge for your initial court appearance.”
The Suburban slowed as we entered Wenatchee’s city limits. Strip malls, traffic lights, and fast-food restaurants replaced the rural landscape. We pulled into the Justice Center’s secure entrance. The gate rolled open, and we drove into a garage-like area designed to prevent escapes during prisoner transfers. The engine cut off.
“Okay—let’s go,” the driver said.
The agents got out, then opened my door. I stepped out carefully, my balance slightly off with my handscuffed behind my back, and let them guide me toward the intake entrance. The fluorescent lights inside were harsh after the natural daylight. Everything was concrete and metal.
A correctional officer waited at a desk behind bulletproof glass, already pulling up forms on his computer. The booking was exactly how I’d seen them in movies: fingerprints, photographs, property inventory. They took everything that connected me to the outside world, sealed in a plastic bag with my name and booking number written with a black permanent marker.
The charges against me were wire fraud, bank fraud, computer fraud and abuse, conspiracy, and money laundering. I was told more could be pending, although I thought they’d already thrown everything at me. On paper, they made me sound like a selfish, calculating, and dangerous criminal. Someone who’d exploited vulnerabilities for personal enrichment.
They had no idea.
The door clanged shut behind me in the jail cell—a sound that seemed designed to strip away hope. I sat on the metal bench and stared down at the floor, avoiding eye contact with the other inmates.
This was the price for playing Robin Hood, but even now, even sitting in a county jail cell, I couldn’t bring myself to regret it. I thought about the countless families I’d helped. The children who’d gotten Christmas presents. The elderly people who’d stayed warm through brutal winters. The medical bills that had been paid. The evictions that hadbeen prevented. The new cars that would get people to their jobs.
Whatever happened next—whatever evidence Beverly had manufactured, whatever deals the prosecutors would try to force—none of it could undo the good I’d done. I had no regrets.
Deputy Edgar Grant—the one on the scene at the library after Beverly’s break-in—pushed through the secure door into the holding area, a stack of paperwork tucked under his arm. He glanced toward the cells and stopped mid-step when he saw me. Edgar glanced back at the booking desk, then walked in my direction. He stopped in front of the bars, and I stood and moved closer.
“Sam,” he said. “Never thought I’d see you in here.”
“That makes two of us,” I said, keeping my voice equally quiet. “Although I’m surprised to see you since you’re always out patrolling Leavenworth.”
“I had to file some paperwork for an arrest,” Edgar said, then shifted his weight, his hand resting on his duty belt. “Is it true? Are you Good Sam?”
I would not answer that.
Whatever I said could be used against me.
Edgar waved his hand before I could say anything. “Actually, don’t answer that—it wasn’t right of me to ask. But if you know Good Sam, please pass a message along to him. Tell him I’m grateful for helping my son, Jacob. I had gotten into serious financial trouble after my divorce and didn’t have the money to pay for his final year of medical school. Thank God, Good Sam stepped in to help. Jacobgraduated with honors in June and got a job two weeks later as an ophthalmologist in Tacoma. That education changed everything.”
I remembered processing that donation, routed through a nonprofit medical education fund. Something warm settled inside of me despite the cold concrete and metal bars between us.
“Good things happen to good people,” I said. “Hey—I know you can’t do anything for me since this is an FBI case, but I’m certain that evidence was planted at my desk at the library the morning you came to investigate the break-in.” I continued to keep my voice barely above a whisper. “Since the network and security were both cut, and there were no witnesses, are there any ways to figure out who it was? Are there any leads?” I paused, weighing my next words carefully. “I know who it was, actually, an FBI agent. Of course, I have no proof.”
Edgar’s expression darkened. “Those are some serious charges, Sam. Don’t go talking about that publicly, or you’ll get yourself in more trouble than you’re already in.” He glanced over his shoulder again, then leaned closer to the bars. “Just between you and me? We had orders to stop the investigation of your break-in at the library, even though we hadn’t finished.”
I froze. “What? Why?”
“Orders from the top. They told us to close the case, file it as unsolved, and move on.”
“Who would do such a thing?” I asked.
Edgar’s jaw tightened. “You know I can’t tell you that.”He was quiet for a moment, then asked, “As for falsified evidence, are you familiar with the term ‘flaking’?”
