Chapter 1

Hacked

If I have to write one more YA news story, I swear to God, I’m going to—

“Not a novel, Joshua! Just five paragraphs and a lead, move your booty!” yells my city editor Jacqueline Guild from across the newsroom floor. “You have three minutes!”

 It’s six p.m Friday of Memorial Day weekend and the setting sun blasts me through the floor to ceiling windows of our offices atop Rockefeller Center in New York City. Deadline for tomorrow’s early edition just expired. 

 I look over from my desk at Strump’s mug floating across the layout editors’ monitors, the 72 point headline for tomorrow’s front page screaming, “THE DICTATOR STRIKES BACK. THE LAST PRESIDENT WE WILL EVER ELECT. CAN BLAZE SAVE THE REPUBLIC?”

Now that’s the Red Meat I’m talking about—stories worth coveting, stories worth covering, not this baby pablum sh—

My desk chimes— One…two…three rapid-fire text notifications. I turn back and reach for my phone. Must be urgent. Wonder if  my mother’s favorite uncle passed? He’s been in hospital under a DNR order the past week. 

My phone unlocks and…caller name 44687?  6:01 pm, 6:02 pm, and 6:02 pm. What the hell? I check the filter heading—KNOWN. No, no, not known. I sure as hell don’t know anyone named 44687!  Chime again. A fourth pops up. 6:03. I check my desktop time. Fri May 31 6:03 PM 

6:01—Dear Mr Thompson…I work at Delmarva State Police HQ…Operation Cobra set for next school year…need your help, every high schooler in the state needs your help…

6:02—The greatest sin…abuse of power.

6:02—Accusation is not proof…conviction depends upon evidence…We shall not walk in fear…into an Age of Unreason…

6:03—Will call tonight at 8:15.

“JOSHUA!”

 “In a minute!” I toss my phone to the desk,  lock in, and type.

“While their father announced his surprise candidacy for president today, Mayor Blaisedale’s three young daughters stood offstage and decried the bid. Nine year-old Antonia scowled, “Let someone else save the country! We want our daddy home.” Six year old sister Danielle seconded the motion, “Home, and making pancakes.” Four year old Margaret hugged her Winnie the Pooh Bear tighter and started balling —

I push send.

Jacquie gives a thumbs up from behind her screen. “Finally,” she shouts.

I grab the Starbucks by my keyboard and gulp down what’s left—cold, bitter, sludge.

Four years of Columbia Journalism School and I’m interviewing little girls and teddy bears! Where’s Snowden? Where’s Xi? Where’s Jennifer Lawrence!

When I graduated last year and the New York Post-Examiner ran my senior project—an expose on human trafficking and sexual exploitation of Manhattan’s runaway youth, I was on top of the world. Jacquie even came to my graduation and offered me a job while I was still in cap and gown. Flash forward twelve months as Youth Beat editor, and now platform diving off the George Washington’s lookin’ pretty good—Jacquie stops at my desk on her way out. “You missed a quotation mark,” she says, “Otherwise outstanding. We scooped everyone in town.”

“Jacquie, when…” When are you and the chief going to throw me some red meat?

“When what, Sport?”

I sigh. Low man on the totem. “Nothing. Have a nice Memorial Day Weekend.” 

“Thanks Sport, I will. Any plans?”

“A.C. with friends I guess.”

“Well win big, just know when to fold em! Good night, Joshua.”

“Night, Jacquie.”

The elevator doors ding open, the elevator doors ding shut.

Alone in the newsroom now, I gather my phone and revisit the impossible texts again. 

Impossible because this is my personal phone for family, friends and Jacquie. If your number’s not on that list, you’re deemed an unknown sender and go straight to the Unknown Senders folder, notifications for that folder have been turned off, so I never hear those chimes, but more impossibly, how can an unknown sender end up in the known sender folder as KNOWN, ergo the chime?

 I sit down again, check iMessage preferences and my contact list again to make sure I’m not going crazy.

Yes of course I’m not. Every toggle is right and correct. There is no 44687 in my contact list. 

Was my phoned just hacked!

I go back to the texts.

Delaware I know. Operation Cobra I don’t.

Greatest sin is the abuse of power. 

That’s nice, but so?

An Age of Unreason.

 Every journalism student knows this one. It’s a quote from Edward R Murrow, the father of broadcast journalism, about McCarthyism trending at the time.

Operation Cobra is the only thing that peaks my curiosity, that and the plea for help, but how can the editor of the Post Examiner’s Teenybopper News help every highschooler in the state of Delaware, except maybe to suggest a better zit cream?”

Think! Who could this unknown sender be? I have no family, no friends, no acquaintances, no foes in Delaware. No one here at the paper far as I know has any connections or dealings with the state police there. The sender must be a stranger then.

Delaware. Delaware. Wherefore art thou Delaware?

Bethany Beach. Blue Claw Crabs. The first state to ratify the Constitution. Great place to incorporate. No personal income tax. No sales tax. Oh and retired President Biden. Wait, isn’t that abuse of power quote his? Yes, it is.

I draw a blank on anything else, having been to Delaware only once in my life during Spring Break and—most of the time, sloshed. 

But more important and puzzling right now is how did the sender get my private number? I’ve never made it public anywhere on-line or in my by-line description and all us reporters use the Post-Examiner landlines for communication with the outside. I guess if the sender can hack my phone, my unlisted number would be cake.

I glance at the menu bar of my I-Mac. “Fri May 31 6:44 PM.”

An hour and thirty minutes till 8:15. I’ve just enough time for three Manicotti’s with meat sauce, breadsticks and a salad from Caruso’s around the corner.  Oh and one Heineken. 

Well maybe two.

The unknown sender, hacker whoever on the other end of the line doesn’t even give me a chance to say hello.

“Thank you for taking my call, Mr Thompson,” a woman’s voice says, the timber strangely amped, almost if it’s being altered electronically. But then again, maybe she’s just a high talker naturally.

“Thank you for your texts,” I say, “Miss—?”

“Is this call being monitored, recorded or listened to by others.”

“No.”

“Is your phone on speaker?”

“No. I’m using AirPods.”

“Good.”

“I have some questions first too,” I say.

“Go ahead.”

“May I ask how you obtained my unlisted phone number?”

“You may ask,” she says.

The line is silent and its meaning—not going to tell you.

Cloak and dagger okay. I can dig it—for now. I pull over a note pad and pen and scribble Peep Throat. “This…this help you need—I’m assuming it’s journalistic. And you’re not going to tell me your name?”

“I can’t. Yes. Investigative,” she says. 

“I see.” Let’s get on with this then. Blackjack tables and free alcohol await. “Why contact the Post Examiner, why me? The Wilmington News Journal is an excellent paper, wouldn’t they—”

“The Journal’s too close to home, and might succumb to political pressure. So I thought an out of town paper.”

“Okay, understand. But why me specifically?”

“Because I read your newspaper series on runaway youth.”

“You read that?”

“I bought two copies of every issue the installment appeared in. I was very impressed by your tenacity and fearlessness, living on the streets for a month, and surviving, but even more impressive was how your writing showed a real empathy and concern for those street kids.You should have won a Pulitzer or at least the Murrow Award.”

“Have you ever thought about of being a literary agent?”

She chirps like a Cardinal, which I assume is a laugh.

If she’s trying to butter me up, she succeeded.

“Well thank you for the compliments, Miss, but I still don’t understand what relevance—”

“I’ve seen your byline photo, Mr Thompson.  You look young enough to pass for a high school student.”

“I don’t understand what that means. Pass as a high school student?”

“Mr Thompson, I work in the Juvenile Narcotics Division, my position I must keep secret. 

“We plan a series of undercover operations for the coming school year across the entire state. Young looking police officers will go into high schools, pretend to be students, attend classes, make friends, gather intelligence and execute arrest warrants. I know the officers involved. Their tactics and attitudes are dangerously reckless, their oversight insufficient, their contempt for the rule of law appalling—our work has degenerated into mere entrapment scams for publicity and increased federal money.

“Two minors entrapped by a similar operation earlier this year, were coerced into making confessions and are currently serving sentences in our adult prison in Smyrna. Both boys come from low income working class families.

“Someone needs to observe these operations first hand, detail how the undercover officers are abusing police powers and violating the civil rights of these students. So I thought, you could—”

I process silently…Oh I get it. It took a few seconds. “Pose as a student to see what’s going on for myself.”

“Yes. Isn’t that what you did for your homeless youth expose?”

“But I’m twenty three years old, hardly a high school teenager, and—”

“But neither are our undercover officers. They do it, they pass, so why can’t you? By and large they’re older than you, by five or six years.”

“The students don’t catch on?”

“These are fourteen, fifteen, sixteen year old teenagers, Mr Thompson, pre-occupied with girls, boys, sex, sports, hair, clothing, music, video games and Tik Tok. Hardly Einsteins. And the investigative targets, not only deal, but also use, which affects judgement and acumen. They’re all very easy to fool.”

“You sound as if you’ve done this before. Are you an undercover narcotics agent?”

“Please don’t ask me such questions Mr Thompson, I don’t wish to lie to you, but I can’t tell you the truth either. I must remain opaque to protect my identity. I like my job and need my job and want to continue serving the People of Delaware, and if my superiors knew I was talking with you, I’d lose everything.”

I still wish she’d tell me her name. Hasn’t she heard of source confidentiality? The Supreme Court has.

“Mr Thompson? Are you still there? Did our connection drop?”

“No, no, I’m still here. I’m thinking.” 

“Well, what do you say then, Mr Thompson? Are you interested in proceeding further with this conversation.”

“I say…I don’t have a clue about how to do this. How would I even enroll in a high school? And then there’re the legal issues—”

“Don’t worry, I can help you with enrollment. It’s not as difficult as you think. The most complicated thing will be that you’ll need an older looking adult to play your parent when you register.  As far as the legal issues, do you wish to see such injustice continue? The fraud you’d commit is only a misdemeanor. Lives are being wrecked here, innocent lives, and no one in government seems to care, so it falls to us the People,” she says, quoting a line from my homeless youth series.

The quotation hangs in the dead of the call.

“Let me check with my editors,” I say finally, “and I’ll get back with you. Miss, Mrs, Ms…? Oh sorry, forgot, can't ask.”

“I’ll call you again after the Memorial Day holiday, Mr Thompson, thank you for your time, Happy—.”

“Wait, wait, please don’t hang up just yet.”

“What is it Mr Thompson?”

“How do I know you are who you say you are with the Delmarva State Police?”

“Are you online?”

“Yes.”

“Then go to the DSP website and scroll down to News Room.”

I type into the address bar, “Delmarva State Police.” Google search results appear, I click on the website link scroll down to the News Room section. “I’m there.” 

“Good. See in the middle column, the article about a traffic stop resulting in a drug seizure?”

“Yes.”

“Take a snapshot of your screen.”

I hold down Shift, Command, 3. “Done.”

“Come back in five minutes and compare the text. I’m going to remove the hyphen from the suspect’s age. Instead of thirty hyphen one years old, it will just read thirty one. It will remain so for sixty seconds. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” 

“Then Happy Memorial Day, Mr Thompson. Till our next conversation.”

 Call ENDED.

End of Chapter 1

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