Programmed for Terror, page 9
“Have you ever done anything political?” Paul asked.
“No.” And then Jessica realized that the whole notion of some sort of government harassment was absurd. She’d never even so much as put a political bumper sticker on her car, much less done anything that would interest the CIA or the FBI.
She sighed. “We always run up against the same thing, Paul. It’s impossible for anyone to do all this, and yet it’s happening.”
Suddenly Jessica felt like crying, but she held the tears back. A killer, she thought. A murderer of children. Uttley and Zecker believed it. And Paul’s boss. And …
And again the ugly thing in her mind was agitating for her attention. She resisted it.
“Another thing that fits,” Paul said, “is this business with your name having been Gordon. I’d be willing to bet that according to the rumor, Russell is the name you adopted so you could hide your past.”
Jessica didn’t reply. She was wondering how many people thought of her as a murderer of children. If Paul’s boss had heard the story, half of Mayfield might be aware of it. Did people recognize her when they passed her on the street? Did they yank their children away to safety? Did they talk about her, call her a monster?
And then she found herself staring at Paul. The ugly thing had suddenly crashed into her consciousness, and now she would have to deal with it.
“Paul …”
He looked at her expectantly, his eyes full of concern, his face revealing some of the strain this had been on him.
“Paul, do you believe the rumor?” And that was the ugly thing, the nagging fear that somewhere in Paul’s mind lingered doubts, that at least a part of him would always wonder whether she really was a monster who had slain two children.
He looked surprised. “You mean, do I believe that you murdered two kids?”
She nodded. “Do you? Maybe just a little?”
“Of course not, Jessica.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Not even a lingering doubt?”
“Not even a lingering doubt.”
They looked at each other without speaking until Jessica broke the silence. “I’m not going to cry,” she said.
And then she did.
The next morning, after Paul had gone to work, Jessica sat at the large kitchen table, watching her cornflakes grow soggy. The modern kitchen was well equipped and spacious. Paul had remodeled it. Knocking out the wall between the kitchen and dining area, he’d created one large room, in which he’d installed new counters, cabinets, and appliances.
She and Paul had talked for hours last night, again and again going over the questions of who and how and why. When they gave up and went to bed they had no answers.
What do I do now? she wondered. I need more information, and I have no idea where to get it.
And then a name popped into her head. Brian Mackey. She hadn’t tried to contact him because she had no reason to think he might know what Uttley or Jerry Pushman knew. The bosses and the account executives were the inner circle; none of them confided in clerks or artists or the like. Still, whatever Brain did know he would most likely tell her.
Abandoning her soggy cereal, Jessica went into the living room, where she picked up the phone and carried it to a small easy chair. Resting the phone in her lap, she dialed the number from memory.
“Art department, Mackey.”
“Brian, this is Jessica. Uh, can you talk?”
“Sure. I’m all alone at the moment. How are you?”
“Well, I’m alive.”
“I’ve been trying to call you, to see how you are. I was completely flabbergasted when I learned what happened to you. I just couldn’t believe it.”
“Neither could I.”
“I’ll bet. Listen, are you okay, really?”
“I’m fine. And the reason you couldn’t reach me was that I’ve moved. I’m staying at Paul’s place temporarily.”
“I see.” He was silent for just a moment; then he said: “Oh, by the way, did you hear about Jerry Pushman?”
“Yes, I know what happened. It was quite a shock.”
“The whole place here was stunned.”
“Uh, Brian, have you heard anything about me, any rumors or anything?”
“Rumors?”
“I heard that there were some stories going around about me, and I was wondering whether you’d heard anything.”
“No, not really. I heard a couple of things, but I wouldn’t exactly call them rumors.”
“What did you hear?” Jessica had been nervously twisting the phone’s curly cord; it was a hopeless tangle.
“Well, I heard that you were fired for falsifying something on your employment application. I think that was sort of the official explanation Uttley put out.”
“What was the other thing?”
“Uh, that one of those credit rating agencies had provided the information that, uh, that confirmed the error on your application. That’s it, I’m afraid. Was that any help?”
“It might be. Thanks for telling me.”
“They haven’t replaced you yet. I’ll tell you, the work has been piling up so fast I’ll never get it done. I really wish they’d change their minds and hire you back. Do you have another job yet?”
“I almost got hired at Cast, Grimsley, and Associates, but it fell through.”
“I heard they just hired someone, a kid fresh out of college. I can’t believe they’d have chosen a kid over someone like you, who’s both experienced and good.” Jessica heard a voice in the background; then Brian said: “I’ve got to run. Keep in touch, okay?”
“Okay, Brian. Bye.” Hanging up, Jessica stared across the room, thinking. She had a pretty good idea what Uttley thought she’d falsified on her employment application. Her name. Her background. The line that asked whether she’d ever been arrested.
Why had he simply accepted her guilt in the matter without asking her about it, without checking? The information must have seemed irrefutable. But how, when it wasn’t true?
Wait, she thought, wait. Brian said something about a credit rating outfit.
Putting the phone on the floor, she hurried across the room and grabbed the phone book from the end table by the couch. In the yellow pages she found Credit Rating Agencies, discovering there was only one in Mayfield. Mayfield Credit Research, Inc. Setting down the book, she dashed upstairs to get her purse.
Mayfield Credit Research was on Charles Avenue, a four-lane thoroughfare that cut across the western side of town. As Jessica neared the address of the credit rating firm, she was gripping the steering wheel so hard her fingers hurt. Something told her this was it; this was the source of the crazy story about her. She passed a place that sold tires, a grocery store, and then she saw the firm’s sign in front of a cream-colored building.
Parking her car on a side street, she walked back to Charles Avenue, her anger building with every step. A part of her was urging her to calm down, but she didn’t want to hear that. She had something to blame now, something definite she could point to and say: You did this to me!
You’re just guessing, another part of her warned. You have no proof. But Jessica wasn’t listening.
Opening the glass door, she stepped into a room in which a number of people were working at Fifties-style gray metal desks. She marched up to the one closest to her.
“Can I help you?” a dark-haired young woman asked.
“My name is Jessica Russell, and I have reason to believe that you’ve been issuing false and very damaging information about me.”
The woman eyed her warily.
“Show me my file,” Jessica said. It was an order.
“Uh, just a minute.” The woman quickly left her desk and disappeared through a door at the back of the room. She reappeared a moment later, accompanied by a man who walked purposefully up to Jessica.
“I’m the manager,” he said, his manner making it clear he had no time for people’s petty complaints. He was a short chunky man with reddish-blond hair, and his attitude further infuriated Jessica.
“What’s your name?” she demanded.
He hesitated, his eyes narrowing. “Helms,” he said. “Phillip Helms.”
The woman who’d gone to get him was no longer involved.
Having returned to her desk, she busied herself with papers. “My name’s Jessica Russell, and I want to see my file.”
He gave her a smile that seemed to say: Silly woman, don’t you know any better than that? “Our files are confidential.”
“Not to your clients they’re not.”
“No, not to our clients. But I can’t show confidential files to anyone who just walks in off the street.”
Hoping she was correct, Jessica said: “I have a legal right to know what you’re saying about me so I can point out any errors.”
Although Helms gave her another silly-woman smile, it lacked confidence this time. Before he could speak, Jessica said: “You can either let me see my file now, or you can do it after we go to court and the judge says you have to. It’s your choice.”
Helms looked upward as if pleading for divine intervention. “Come on,” he said, clearly annoyed. “I’ll show you what you want to see.”
He led her to an unoccupied desk and sat down. As did most of the desks, this one had a computer terminal. “What is your name?” he asked.
“Jessica Russell.”
“Your complete name.”
She gave it to him, and his fingers began operating the keyboard. RUSSELL, JESSICA MARIE appeared on the screen, then DISPLAY. Suddenly the screen was full of words.
“Press this to make it move up, this to make it move down,” he said. Before Jessica could ask for any further explanation, he stalked off.
Jessica sat down at the desk. Before her on the screen was her name, date of birth, Social Security number, along with her mother’s name and address. She touched the key Helms had indicated, and the words jumped upward, similar to the way credits roll at the end of a movie. The credit rating firm knew that she’d attended the University of Missouri and Mayfield High, that she worked at Swanson and Uttley. It didn’t know that she’d moved or that she’d been fired, although she suspected it would find out before long.
Next came a credit history, listing her charge cards and any loans she’d made. Seeing all these things on the screen made her feel uneasy, especially considering that all this information about her was for sale.
Jessica rolled the words on the screen upward again. Suddenly she leaned forward, her eyes fixed on the words that had just appeared before her. The last entry in her credit history was a loan from a finance company. A loan she’d never made.
Quickly scanning the details of the entry, Jessica discovered that she’d supposedly borrowed one thousand dollars on a signature loan. And when she read what came next she had to suppress a gasp. On the screen were the words:
IN ARREARS REF MF COLLEC AGCY
Staring at the screen, Jessica tried to understand how something like this could be in the firm’s computer. The last part of the entry apparently meant the matter had been turned over to a collection agency. It was false, all of it, every word in the entry. All lies. But it explained why the bank had turned down her loan.
Her anger once more simmering, Jessica looked for Helms, seeing no sign of him. She wanted an explanation of how this got there, and she wanted it removed from the record immediately. She stood, intending to ask someone where he was; then she hesitated. First she should see the rest of her file, find out how many more lies it contained.
Sitting down again, she touched the key that advanced the words. As her eyes fixed on the next entry, she stiffened, her mind trying desperately to comprehend what was on the screen. Even though it was what she’d thought she might find, to actually see the words on the screen was a jolting experience. The entry began:
!!!!CONVICTED FELON!!!!
Dazed, she was unable to take her eyes off the exclamation points for a few moments, and then she began to read. According to her file her real name was Dianne Gordon of St. Louis. Having been found guilty of two counts of murder, she’d served five years of a twenty-one-year sentence. This was what Uttley had learned, and why he’d fired her. He thought she’d lied about her entire background, including her name. He thought she was a murderer. No wonder he’d simply said, We know, and refused to discuss the matter further.
Jessica read on, discovering that she was in for yet another shock. She’d known that the victims—the alleged victims—were children because of Paul’s conversation with his boss. But what she hadn’t known was that the two children were supposedly hers. According to her file, Dianne Gordon, teenage mother, had suffocated both her children while they slept. While she was in prison, her husband had divorced her. It was also where she’d learned to draw and paint.
And that was all. The next word on the computer was:
(END)
The end of the entry, the end of the file, the end of her career. For a while she simply gazed at the word. Abruptly she stood up, turned, and walked to the closest person, a young man with sandy hair who was sitting at one of the gray desks.
“Where’s Helms?”
“In his office.” He motioned toward the door in the back of the room.
Jessica strode through the door and into the somewhat spartan office. Helms, who was sitting behind an old wooden desk, looked up.
“My file contains inaccurate and extremely damaging information. I want it changed.”
Helms sighed. “What damaging information?”
“It says I killed two children.”
Helms’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Really.” She glared at him.
Helms turned his attention to the computer terminal that occupied one side of his desk. After a few moments, he leaned back in his chair, frowning.
“Did you see it?” she asked.
“I saw it.”
“It’s false. All of it.”
“How do I know that?”
“Because I just told you.”
“In other words, you want me to change my files based entirely on your word.”
“That entry, Mr. Helms, has cost me my career, among other things. If you don’t put it right, I’m going to sue, and I’ve got a hell of a case.”
“Not unless you can prove negligence or malice, you don’t. Both of which are very hard to prove.”
Suddenly uncertain of where she stood legally, Jessica stared at the man, momentarily feeling alone and vulnerable; then she lost her temper.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” she demanded, her voice rising. “You’ve ruined my entire goddamned life with your lies, and you sit there talking to me about malice.” She could feel the anger in her eyes as she stared at him.
“So why the hell should I believe you?” Helms snapped. “You want your file changed, then prove it’s wrong. Until you can do that, stay the hell out of this place. I’ve given you all the cooperation I’m required to.”
For an instant Jessica had the urge to find something heavy and smash him with it. Then she wheeled around and stormed out of the office. When she reached her car she sat behind the wheel, waiting for her anger to subside. Finally feeling she was capable of driving, Jessica started the engine.
As she drove, Jessica reviewed what had just transpired. She’d handled it poorly. Had she been less pushy, more polite, more reasonable … and then she realized that had she done those things, she never would have seen her file at all. The gentle approach didn’t work with people like Phillip Helms.
She saw the words on the screen:
!!!!CONVICTED FELON!!!!
If the story were true, she would have been about seventeen when she was sent to prison, and no more than fifteen when she’d given birth to the first child. It was possible, Jessica supposed. She’d heard of girls thirteen getting married in rural Missouri. Still, applied to her, a college-educated, career-oriented young woman from suburban Kansas City, the notion seemed preposterous.
And what about the rest of the story? Was twenty-one years an appropriate sentence for someone who’d killed two children? Did people get released after serving only five years of a twenty-one-year sentence? She didn’t know.
Suddenly it occurred to her that a lot of the information the credit rating firm had concerning her was accurate, which meant it contradicted the entry that labeled her a convicted felon. How could she be in St. Louis as a married teenager named Dianne Gordon at the same time she was attending Mayfield High as Jessica Russell? How could she have been serving time in prison while she was attending the University of Missouri? Helms had indeed been negligent; neither he nor any of his employees had bothered to read the company’s own file. Except, of course, for the part introduced by the exclamation points—and the entry concerning her failure to pay back a loan from a finance company. The credit rating outfit was in the business of telling its customers the bad things about people. It sold nasty gossip.
Again she saw the words on the screen, the lies rolling upward like movie credits. And then:
(END)
Which meant that the computer had spewed out all its gossip, that it knew of no further nastiness to report.
Slowly a new realization settled over her. Every place she’d been in her attempt to straighten things out used computers. The bank’s computer had lost her money. Computers at the phone and power companies had prepared her bills. The computer at the credit rating company had spread its lies.
Was this what linked everything that had been happening to her? She turned the question around and around in her mind as she drove back to Paul’s house.
NINE
“Everybody uses computers these days,” Paul said. “It’s almost like saying that everyone you’ve dealt with breathed air. I don’t think it means that much.”
