Sweat (26 page)

Tony stopped the car near the south end of the Mall, and Jake said goodnight to Kate and the three goons. He had thought long and hard about Al's advice.
Be careful. Watch your back. Vary your routine. Stay away from your girlfriend. Lay low.
There was one way to do all of the above.

With a light breeze coming off the water hitting his perspiration-drenched shirt, Jake unfurled his sleeping bag and shivered for the first time since March. The flattest terrain he could find was still mountainous compared to his mattress, and Jake knew he was in for a long night. The addition of scrap cardboard boxes did little to absorb the undulations of the ground beneath his spine. Jake “princess-and-the-pea” Patrick flopped around until Al couldn't take anymore. “What is your problem? Haven't you ever been camping?”

“Not recently.”

“Well the earth's composition hasn't changed much since the last time you went, this much I am sure of.”

“I just can't get comfortable.”

“I know, and as a result, neither can I.”

Jake sat up and crossed his legs. He looked out at the Kennedy Center, the top of the white marble structure adorned with lights like the jewels on a crown. Al looked over at the silhouette of Jake's head. “Do you know what used to be there before they built the Kennedy Center?”

“Swamp,” Jake answered with definitiveness.

“Good guess, but wrong. It used to be the Foggy Bottom Brewery. Founded by a German immigrant named Christian Heurich who died in the 1940s at the ripe old age of one hundred two. The beer is rumored to have preserved him quite well, and on his deathbed he was said to have looked younger than his eldest son. The brewery shut down during prohibition, but it came back to life when it was repealed.”

“Must have been an interesting period in history. A country full of drinkers trying to find an illegal drink.”

“Yeah, illegal is always more profitable than legal, all things being equal.”

Jake paused at Al's statement. “Speaking of illegal, I've got a question for you.”

“Shoot,” Al answered. It was dark enough that Jake couldn't really see Al. He was hidden in the shadows, stuffed in the corner of his worldly possessions.

“Hypothetically speaking, how could someone export illegal goods for years without being caught?”

“Well, it's not as clear cut as you think. Look at the mob. Investigations into the mob went on for decades and some of them didn't yield any prosecutable information. And I'm sure during those investigations the mob was still making money. It wasn't until the mid-nineties when mafia members started ratting out one another that the FBI made real progress bringing the mob to justice. Up until that point, it was just faster to wait for mobsters to kill each other than to build a case against them.”

“And if they're not the mob?”

“Are we talking about a crime that the FBI knows was committed, or investigating the possibility of illegal acts without a defined crime?” Al asked.

“The latter, I guess. Or the possibility of a crime at all.”

“Does this have something to do with your father?”

“Maybe.”

“Your father is very clever Jake. Very clever, very well connected.”

“How about wiretapping, informants, all that good stuff?”

“Wiretapping an American citizen is a myth, Jake. I mean from a technical perspective, it's easy. Nothing could be easier. But even the FBI can't just slap a wiretap on your phone. They need a reason. A good reason. And if you are an upstanding American citizen with political pull, they need a really good reason. They need to have a defined period of time to use the wiretap, and it needs to be for the express purpose of a defined investigation. They need to document this and prove that traditional forms of investigation and surveillance have failed before they can wiretap. Then they need a judge who will look at the case and grant the wiretap. On top of that, wiretaps are granted for specific phone numbers. So if a company has a hundred lines, the investigative authority needs to specify which line they want to tap, and why. And if you have a suspect who changes phone lines regularly, the authorities will always be playing catch-up.”

“Not like on TV. Sounds like it is a miracle they ever catch anyone.”

“Proactively, yes. Reactively, the FBI is good. That is what they were designed for. I mean if you leave a footprint behind at the scene of a federal crime, chances are good the FBI will catch you. But if you ask them to prevent a crime, well, they don't have manuals for that.”

“So, theoretically, is there any way to avoid a wiretap if the FBI has proof against you?”

“There are some things you can do. Have well-connected lawyers, preferably a few who have personal relationships with federal judges. Buy the clerk at the federal courthouse…”

“Buy the clerk?”

“Yes, every wiretap has to be approved by a judge and filed with the court. The clerk will handle the actual filing of the documentation.”

“How does that help you?”

“If you have the clerk on your payroll, you will know the FBI has tapped your phones, and for how long. Then all you have to do is modify your behavior until the wiretap expires. Repeat this exercise a few times and it will get harder to find a judge to approve future wiretaps.”

“So the clerk is like a last minute warning system.”

“Exactly. But the Golden Rule still applies.”

“The Golden Rule?”

“Don't use the phone, fax or computer for illegal transactions. Keep it all face-to-face.”

Jake thought about the strip club and the evening with Hasad. No one was going to be wiretapping in a basement filled with loud music and gyrating naked women. Jake paused and listened to the cars rumble over the bridge, their suspension softening the bumps from the seams in the concrete above.

“Jake, I assume that you have some dirt on your father?”

“Yes and no, I guess. Nothing definite.”

“That's an easy call, Jake. Call the FBI and tell them what you know. Help the FBI investigate your father and Winthrop Enterprises.”

“I guess I'm still hoping it isn't true, that my father is just posturing.”

“You're a piece of work, Jake. You're interested in saving a girl you don't know because it is the right thing to do, but you aren't willing to help the FBI even though it is also the right thing to do. Sounds like a moral dilemma to me.”

“It's different with the girl. She is an innocent victim. I'm not.”

“And neither is your father.”

“I guess it goes deeper than that. If I admit that my father is involved in sweatshops, illegal exports, whatever, then I have to admit that I potentially have the same genetic tendencies.”

“You need to look beyond yourself, Jake. This isn't just about you.” Al shut his eyes and then opened them again. “The decision to report your father is a decision that you have to make. If you go to the authorities to have your father put in prison, you can probably forget about any inheritance,” Al joked.

“Not sure I'd get anything anyway. Not after I wrapped his favorite toy around a telephone pole.”

Al continued. “The girl is a separate problem. A bigger problem. A political problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when it comes to third world populations, America sees lower life forms without seeing the human side.”

“That's a broad generalization.”

“I'm not talking about you and me, Jake. I'm talking about America, from a policy-making standpoint. From a policy standpoint the U.S. government supports this. We allow jobs to go overseas, particularly in the manufacturing area, for what? The U.S. government claims it's better for everyone. U.S. companies lower their costs and foreign workers receive an increase in pay from a penny an hour, to a dollar a day.”

“I don't see where this is going.”

“The problem is that before these companies decide to close their plants in the U.S., they are paying their American workers minimum wage—six or seven bucks per hour. The U.S. government doesn't see anything wrong with paying foreign workers a dollar for a full day of labor. These are American companies exploiting people.”

“I don't know if I would call it exploitation.”

“Jesus, Jake, maybe you are like your father. It is racial exploitation. Is there any place in the world where American companies are exploiting the white race? Anywhere?”

“I guess not.”

“Of course not. But if these companies are exploiting the less fortunate in Latin America, Asia, India or Africa, it is fine.”

“But the workers are better off. They are making more money.”

“The average salary of the average worker in these locations is low because they are employed by domestic companies, which in most developing countries are corrupt and inefficient. They pay their workers crap because they make crap, goods you couldn't sell at a yard sale. American companies can afford to pay these workers a lot more than they do. Hell, these American companies aren't looking for cheap labor—they are looking for free labor. If America and its companies wanted to make a difference in these people's lives, pay them a couple of dollars an hour. See what it will do to the standard of living. Don't insult these people with what equates to an increase in hay rations for human donkeys. When it comes to American companies, American policy is the most racist machine on the face of the earth.”

“I don't know,” Jake said.

“Jake, what is the greatest manmade tragedy you can remember, outside of war?”

“9/11.”

“Fair answer. And how many people died?”

“Just under three thousand, give or take. I'm not sure of the final number.”

“Three thousand innocent people.”

“That's a lot.”

“You ever hear of a place called Bhopal?”

“Yeah, it's in India.”

“What is it famous for?”

“Some gas leak.”

“Very good. Not many people your age have ever heard of Bhopal. Union Carbide built a plant in India in the early eighties claiming they were going to bring jobs to a city teeming with potential. A year later, a chemical leak occurred in a densely populated area. Any idea how many people died in Bhopal?”

“A thousand?” Jake guessed.

“Twenty thousand, though the official number is up for debate and always will be. Union Carbide was built a couple of miles from the central train station in the middle of the city. Between the plant and the train station was one of the largest squatters' villages in India. When the gas leaked from the facilities, it crept over the squatters and smothered them while they slept. There was no way to accurately count the bodies. Internal estimates at the State Department, from people on site, put the number at close to twenty thousand. That is seven World Trade Centers. Put another way, imagine one hundred loaded 747s crashing in a single night. A U.S. company killed twenty thousand people and no one can remember it today. Why?”

“Because they were Indian.”

“Exactly. They weren't people. Hell, they weren't even numbers. At least numbers get counted. These people were inconsequential nothings. And that is what is wrong with American policy.”

“The world is screwed up.”

“Yes it is. And that is the political level, which spills over into the personal level. Mail-order brides, prostitution, pornography, sex tours. These are all the same, all exploitation. Asia is the center. The conduct of companies and individuals, backed by policy or no policy, perpetuates looking at these foreigners as objects, not people. That is the end result. And Chang Industries, your father, Senator Day, they are a combination of all of these. A sweatshop using their employees as labor, selling them out as prostitutes at night. They are the scum on the inside of the outhouse shit-tank, Jake.”

Heavy silence fell on the two.

“So what do I do?”

“I have an idea. But it is going to take a little luck and a lot of guts.”

When Al finished telling Jake his plan, one thing was clear. They were going to need help. Jake's first thought was his friends. Friends who were currently in Europe, bouncing around Prague, Budapest, and Rome. Jake needed help, and for the love of God, only one thing came to mind.

“Try to get some sleep, Jake,” Al said, interrupting his visitor's introspection. “You're going to need it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, if you manage to save this girl, things are likely to get hot around here.”

“You mean if
we
manage to save this girl.”

“Jake, I would love to go with you, but I don't fly. Not yet. I'm crossing one bridge at a time, and that one is a little longer than I am ready for.”

“Al, you can't leave this all to me.”

“I'll do everything I can, but getting on an airplane isn't on the list.”

“If we do this thing, how long will it take you to organize it?”

“Couple of days.”

Jake felt like hiding, but he already was. He was under a bridge, sleeping with the homeless. He had one idea and admitted to himself that it wasn't a good one. “Maybe I'll bring some people with me. Some muscle,” Jake said, trying to convince himself he wasn't crazy.

“You have muscle, Jake? You didn't tell me that you have muscle,” Al said, ribbing his friend.

“You know how you said fear is a good emotion?”

“Yes.”

“Well I am tingling with it.”

“Just remember, Jake. If you want to take on a senator, don't whisper it. Yell it from the tree tops.”

With that thought, Jake got up from his uncomfortable sleeping nest and walked out from under the bridge. He waited for his cell phone to connect and when three bars indicated ample signal strength, he made the call.

Mr. Sorrentino was in bed with his wife. After apologizing profusely for the late call, Jake spoke nervously. “Mr. Sorrentino, I will agree to stop seeing Kate…”