Second You Sin (29 page)

I grinned, too. I kind of expected to hate everyone here, but Jason didn’t seem too bad. “Wel ,” I said, “I left my walker and colostomy bag at home today.” Jason threw back his head and roared with laughter. You could see he didn’t get much chance to cut loose much around here. A few heads turned toward us, their attention drawn by the unusual outburst.

Jason leaned back toward me. “That was a good one, chief. I needed that.” He darted his eyes around the room. “Some of the folks around here,” he whispered, “seem to think they’re in church. That’s why it’s so darned quiet around here al the time. My Lord, I’ve been to funerals more lively than this place.”

It was my turn to laugh.

Jason looked down at my volunteer form. “Now, let’s see, Kevin Johnson. I know you can make me laugh. But who are you, real y?”

30

Don’t Believe Everything You Read

Watching Jason read over my application was a little like listening to his phone cal . “Uh-huh,” he mused to himself. “OK. Wel , wel . Look at that. You don’t say . .

. huh.”

None of the comments were directed toward me, but they were about me. Wel , not about
me,
exactly.

Kevin Johnson may have had my face and my first name, but after that, the similarities ended. Kevin Johnson was the brainchild of my friend and former client, Marc Wilgus, who created him out of imagination, technology, and a strong desire to discover the truth about Jacob Locke.

“You know I’m a hacker,” Marc had explained to me earlier that day at the coffee shop, “so you probably think what I do has a lot to do with computers, right?”

I nodded.

“And it does. But you know what the most vulnerable part of any system is, Kevin?”

“The Internet connection?” I guessed.

“The people. A big part of my job isn’t finding the holes in the software, it’s finding the vulnerabilities and desires of the people who operate it.”
Huh,
I thought.
Kind of like my job.

“Have you ever heard of ‘social engineering’?” Marc asked.

“Nope.”

“Social engineering is the act, wel , the art real y, of manipulating people into doing things that divulge personal or sensitive information about themselves or the companies they work for. It’s a kind of con game, a way of establishing confidence with your target and exploiting his weaknesses for personal gain.

“Computer programs have bugs, right? So do people. In the biz, we cal them ‘cognitive biases.’

People are programmed to respond to certain things in certain ways.

“Let me give you an example. Let’s say you take a group of people and put them in an art gal ery. You show them a canvas of some red splotches of paint and ask them to rate it. Most would say it’s terrible, that it looks like something a child would do.

“But what if, just before you ask them for their opinions, you arrange for them to ‘accidently’

overhear an art critic describe it as a work of great value. Now, the same people who dismissed the painting as a piece of junk rate it much higher. That’s cal ed the ‘authority bias.’ People unconsciously al ow their own common sense and perception of the world to be altered by a perceived authority on a topic.

“Here’s another example of cognitive bias. Let’s say I flip a coin five times and it comes up heads.

What are the odds that the next flip wil turn up tails?”

“Math isn’t real y my strong suit. Do you have any questions about fel atio?”

Marc gave me a stern look.

“OK,” I said, “wel , since the last five times were heads, let’s say six to one you’l get tails.”

“Nope.” Marc smirked. “It’s stil fifty-fifty. You’re assuming that future probabilities are altered by past events, but they’re not. The coin doesn’t know it’s

‘due’ to be tails. You just exhibited what we cal ‘the gambler’s fal acy.’ ”

“Told you I wasn’t good at math.” I pouted.

“OK, so we know that people have flaws, right?

Wel , social engineering exploits those flaws. For example, let’s say I want to get into the computer systems at a local bank, OK?”

I nodded.

“So, I get a phone directory and start cal ing people randomly. Whenever I get someone on the line, I tel them that I’m cal ing from technical support about the ticket they sent in. Ninety-nine percent are going to say they didn’t submit anything, right? But eventual y, I’l find someone who says, ‘Oh yeah, thanks for cal ing back.’ The game is on.

“I ask them to tel me what the trouble is, and then tel them to connect to a Web site I’ve set up with a file that wil fix their machine. Of course, the file they download and instal isn’t a fix at al —it’s real y a keystroke capturer that records everything they do on their computers and sends it to me. Or, it’s a virus or malware or some other destructive program. In any case, it’s the person who was to blame, not the software. Make sense?”

“Perfect.”

“So, we’re going to social engineer the Locke campaign. We know what they want, right? A bright young guy with solid conservative experience and credentials. That’s going to be you.”

“How?”

“I do this kind of thing al the time, Kevin. Just give me some information, send me a picture or two of yourself, and I’l e-mail you your new identity in a few hours.”

After a few more minutes reviewing my paperwork, Jason looked at me with love in his eyes.

Not the kind of love I’m used to getting from a man, mind you, which usual y involves a desire to get me naked as quickly as possible, but with genuine respect, curiosity, and admiration for my intel ectual achievements.

It was a nice to be looked at that way for a change.

“Wow, you certainly are an impressive young man.

President of the Student Republican Club at your col ege? An article in the
Philadelphia Bee
on ‘The Tyranny of Political Correctness’?”

I tried to look humble.

“It says here you started a Facebook group cal ed Generation Sane: Young People to Protect the Sanctity of Marriage. Do you real y have over one thousand five hundred fol owers signed up there?”

“Check it out,” I said.

“I think I wil ,” Jason said, setting his fingers on the keyboard. A minute later, he was on what looked like an official Facebook page, complete with friends, comments, and events. My picture was in the corner, along with a biography that conformed to the information I’d put on my application. If he clicked on something, it would take him to a similarly realistic link that made the whole thing appear on the up-and-up.

Similarly, if he Googled Kevin Johnson’s article on political correctness, it would lead to a reprint of an article Marc had found somewhere, replacing the real byline with Kevin Johnson’s.

In his note to me, Marc explained that he created fake identities for himself al the time. He had completely convincing Web sites for schools that didn’t exist (like the one where I was the leader of budding conservatives), newspapers that were never printed (the
Philadelphia Bee
?), and pages on social networking sites for al kinds of people who existed only in cyberspace. He just plugged “Kevin Johnson’s” information into one of his dummy sites and, al of a sudden, I had a virtual identity that was every bit as convincing as a real one.

Social engineering. Find out what someone wants and give it to him. Play into his insecurities and biases. Be endorsed by authorities—if Kevin Johnson was good enough to be published by the
Philadelphia Bee
and had one thousand five hundred fol owers on Facebook, he must be a pretty smart kid, right?

While I watched, Jason read through some of the incredibly supportive comments on “my” Facebook page and clicked through to read Kevin Johnson’s thoughts on why we needed to return to the traditional values that made this nation great.

If Jason looked in love before, he was now ready to marry me. “You should have
my
job,” he said.

“You, young man, are the kind of person this campaign needs to reach. Smart, articulate, and committed to the issues.”

I blushed. Even though the person who so impressed Jason wasn’t real y me, I felt absurdly flattered by this attractive, sincere man.

“And you know what I like?” Jason continued.

“There’s none of that ‘us versus them’ in your writing.

Those people who go on about a ‘culture war.’ I hate that kind of talk. Who are we at war with? Our neighbors? The guy at the gas station? I have a sister who’s a lesbian; am I supposed to hate her?

It’s like the left hand fighting with the right. It’s crazy.

We’re al people. We just have to get along.” If ever there was a speech I didn’t expect to hear from Jacob Locke’s chief of staff, that was it. I must have looked surprised, because Jason started to chuckle again.

“Now, don’t get al skittish on me, boy. I’m not saying there’s no ‘right’ and ‘wrong.’ I’m just saying it ain’t the same as good versus bad. We’re al God’s children. I love my sister, and I wish her the best, but I don’t want to have to explain to my kids that Auntie Bess and Auntie Mimi got married. I love children, but I don’t want my tax dol ars teaching sixth graders how to use condoms. I love my country, but . . . Aw, why am I tel ing you al this? You could probably say it better than me.”

I was blushing again. OK, I didn’t agree with everything Jason Carter said, but he wasn’t the awful bigot I’d expected.

“That’s the thing that gets to me.” Jason slumped his chair, looking exhausted. “Here we are, in New York City, trying to build bridges, but everyone around here treats us like we’re hateful zealots. They act like al we do is sow discord and fight, but Jacob Locke’s message is real y one of love and healing.

Maybe we don’t do such a good job putting it out there, but, Lordy, why else would we be here? We go on the Sunday talk shows, and we want to talk about Locke’s positive vision for our country, but they only want to focus on the most divisive issues. Get that sound bite. It’s like we keep getting tricked, and I don’t know why.”

As someone pul ing one of those tricks even as he spoke, I was starting to feel guilty.

“You’ve done campus organizing—you must know how those of us who support traditional values are always being tarred and feathered. How did you do it?”

“I just put myself in His hands and do whatever the man wants from me.” I was describing what I did in my real job, but they say it’s always best to speak from experience.

Jason looked at me intently. Studying. Then he jabbed his finger at me. “You have to meet him.”

“Who?”

“Jacob Locke, of course. He needs to see there are young people like you, supporting him, believing in him. You know, it’s always the lead horse who has to suffer the burden of the herd, and Locke’s burdens are heavy, indeed. You want to help the campaign?

Meet Jacob Locke and tel him what you just told me.”

“Wow,” I said. “Sure. I mean, that’s great. I’d love to meet Mr. Locke. It’s why I’m here.” This was going better than I’d hoped. I owed Marc big.

“Great. He’l be in the office tomorrow. Can you come by around noon?”

“Absolutely.”

“He’s going to be pleased as a pig in poop to meet you, chief.”

I bet.

“I can’t tel you,” Jason said, looking genuinely relieved, “what a pleasure it has been to make your acquaintance. In a town where we’ve had such a harsh welcome, to meet a young man like you, wel , it’s pretty much restored my faith for the day, it has.” If I felt any lower, I could play handbal off the gutter.

I came here looking for something that would expose Jacob Locke as a murderer. Now, the whole thing seemed like a ridiculous fantasy and I was the one feeling like a criminal. Jason seemed like a real y nice guy; it was hard to believe he’d be associated with the monster I imagined Locke to be.

“Now, I’m just about to take this stack of media requests”—he pointed to a large pile on his desk

—“and go through them to see what our man should be doing. You seem pretty savvy. How about you sit with me and we take a look at them? I’d like to hear your thoughts.”

“I’d love to,” I said.

Strange thing is, I wasn’t lying.

31

What Are You Doing the Rest of Your Life?

I stayed at Locke’s office for another couple of hours, helping Jason with the media requests and getting to know him better. At seven, he asked if I wanted to grab a bite with him, but I’d figured I’d done enough sleeping with the enemy for one day. I told him I had to go and decided to walk home, even in my uncomfortable shoes.

I needed to think.

It was a perfect fal night, the air crisp and clean.

Leaves and litter crunched under my feet.

As much as I hated to admit it, I real y enjoyed working with Jason. It made me feel good.

I liked him. He was a total y decent guy who came up to New York because he sincerely believed Jacob Locke was a good man who could lead our country to a better place.

Jason had a sweet sense of humor, worked eighteen hours a day for a cause he passionately believed in, and was committed to making a positive difference in this world.

He inspired me.

OK, maybe the specifics of his vision were different from mine, but at least he had one.

What did I have?

When Jason was reviewing “my” application, and praising “my” accomplishments, I couldn’t help but feel proud, even if it was al a lie. To be admired by a good man like Jason felt affirming.