Black and White [2]

[1]One

[2]Two

[3]Three

[4]Four

Black and White [2]

The bags under her eyes told of sleepless nights gone by. She’d lie there, until it was too late for sleep and too early to get out of bed, counting her mistakes. And she’d counted four of them. Four moments in the last six months that should have happened differently.

-----

Two.

“A wiring cabinet?”

“Yeah. A telephone and networking closet,” Aaron said, a hint of pride in his voice. He had his hands burrowed into the pouch of his hoodie as he gazed blankly out the window through his thin, rounded glasses. The clouds were streaks of white chalk against the pale blue slate of the sky, swirling away as the minivan cruised down the city streets. “Controlled by MIT’s Information Services and Tech department.”

This had been the first time in months that Quinn had heard anything about the matter. She was the nosy reporter, persistently trying to get things out of Aaron, but he wouldn’t talk. He had never even told her how much he made with the success of Reddit, and he hadn’t said a word about his arrest until this. There were things that he’d keep to himself, and his reticence had slowly become something of a joke. Quinn would pry and Aaron would never give in, that was just how it was.

Quinn looked over, and then back at the road, both hands firmly on the wheel as she steered. “And you figured that you’d just waltz in there?”

“Well, there were a lot of loopholes in their security system.”

JSTOR was an online repository of archived journals, licensed mainly to public libraries, or academic institutions like MIT. And MIT prided itself on operating as an “open campus,” Aaron explained, authorizing access to JSTOR through its computer network. He told her that he had written a script to relentlessly download journals from the database, which apparently crossed a line.

What troubled Quinn was that a large number of these online journals were publicly funded work. You would think that the taxpayers themselves had a right to access the academic research that their money went into, but that wasn’t how it worked. If the information was free, she imagined, it would facilitate the advancement of technology and scientific undertakings.

“How many papers are we talking?” she asked, “A thousand? Two thousand.”        

“Four million.”

 Four million papers. Quinn could see their issue with Aaron, now. The journals were all made available online by independent publishers for purchase through JSTOR. And at the prices they charged, Aaron had technically stolen millions of dollars worth of material.

“Why did you do it?”

Her question went unanswered.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the rear view mirror as she brushed her ash blonde hair out of her face and over her shoulders. In the backseat was Ada, staring into the display of Quinn’s camera as she sifted through all the photos. White earphones hung loosely from her ears, and her frizzy pigtails bounced as the minivan rolled down the street.

“It’s impossible to be completely moral,” Aaron said, finally. “But you can do the best you can.”

 “You didn’t kill anyone.”

 “Not yet,” he quipped, a smirk flickering across his face.

“You’re not a bad person, Aaron,” Quinn assured him.

“Animals are conscious and eating them leads to them being killed,” he said to her, something she’d heard from him before. He’d read her books about animal rights, theories in animal liberation, moral philosophy. He’d written about it in his public blog, too. “It’s not all that different from killing people, really.”

“You’re vegetarian.” Quinn wasn’t exactly sure where he was going with this.

The Harvard campus was a short drive from the playgrounds at Cambridge Commons. She would have stayed at the park all day if she could, but Ada had tired herself out, and Aaron needed to catch up on some important work. Even with the investigation overshadowing his every move, he still found time to work on his projects.

“And I suppose you don’t drive for ethical reasons?”

“By driving a car, I’m pouring toxic fumes into the air and sending money to foreign dictatorships.” Aaron preferred to bike and walk.

“Well, your bike seat is sewn by children in foreign sweatshops,” Quinn countered. “And the tubing is derived from metals that are mined by tearing up the Earth.”

“See, it’s impossible.” Everything you do, and everything you don't, had the potential to cause harm, he said. Anything can be justified or unjustified. “It’s not easy to see what’s right and wrong.”

Quinn stopped along the curb just outside the Edmond J. Safra Centre for Ethics at Harvard, where Aaron’s office was located. She kissed him briefly before he reached for his messenger bag in the back seat.

“Ew,” Ada squealed, “Bye, Aaron!”

“See ya, monkey,” he said, pinching Ada’s foot as he grabbed his bag. She snapped a picture of him as they stuck their tongues out at each other, playfully.

“Hey,” Quinn whispered. She caressed his forearm with her fingertips, and he turned to face her. “Don’t stay too late.”

His stubbly cheeks stretched as he grinned his usual I’ll-think-about-it-but-not-really grin. Quinn looked at him seriously, trying to penetrate deeply into the black voids of his eyes. She couldn’t always see through them, she couldn’t say for sure what was going on in his head. But she didn’t believe that he was as laid-back as he made himself out to be, not with all his projects and research work, and especially not with the investigation at his back.

“It’s not healthy.”

Before she could say another word, he pecked her on the lips again and pulled away, pushing open the passenger-side door. He climbed out of the minivan with a laugh, and hurried across the street with his bag slung over his shoulder.

The drive back to the apartment was a short one.

“How come Aaron didn’t go home?” Ada asked when they had arrived in the basement parking lot.

“Maybe he really likes working in his office,” Quinn lied. She’d rather not give Ada any reason to be afraid, if even the slightest.

When January had gone by, neither she nor Aaron seemed to believe that any of this – the arrest, and the slowly proceeding investigation – was serious. But they soon began to expect raids, surveillance, and threats from powerful men who couldn’t tell the good from the bad.

And then February came, along with the inevitable. The Secret Service forced their way into Aaron’s home, waving warrants at him as they seized his phone, his computers, and his external hard drives. He’d found it difficult to work at his own place after the raid, suspicious that his apartment had been wire-tapped, that he was being watched, or that another raid was coming. He was lucky to have an office where he could work. Of course, he'd be working in a jail cell if they hadn't managed to post bail. 

Quinn and Ada shortly found the basement elevators and headed up to their level. The doors chimed upon arrival. One, two, three, four, fifth level.

They weren’t expecting to see anyone when they turned the corridor. The dark figure of a man and a woman emerged ahead of them, surrounding the apartment door under the dim lighting of the hallway. The two of them wore chalked-lined blazers with unmatched trousers, and they turned to face Quinn and Ada as they approached.

The man had broad, flat shoulders, and a young, tanned face, but his short hair was speckled with grey. The woman must have been a couple of heads shorter than him, and her shoulder-length hair fell about her in dark brown waves. They had the dowdy cleanliness of law enforcement.

“Mrs. Norton,” the woman greeted, sullenly. She introduced herself as Michelle Pickett, and her partner, Carmello Ortega. The two of them produced their badges, Secret Service. “We just have a few questions we’d like to ask.”

Quinn was in shock, and unsure of herself. She could feel Ada’s grip tighten around her arm as she cowered behind.

And then she made her second mistake.

“We’d prefer to talk to you inside,” Agent Ortega added.

She let them in.

Ada hid away in her bedroom, cautiously poking her head out of her door, trying to catch fragments of the dialogue. Quinn invited the agents into the living room, uneasily huddling herself into the corner of the couch on the opposite side. The room was heavy with an unsettling silence, save for the rustling of thick paper as Agent Pickett produced an unmarked file from the leather briefcase that she had with her.

“We understand that you’re close with Aaron Swartz,” Ortega stated, which did little to dispel the lingering discomfort.

“We’ve been seeing each other for over a year, so yes.”

"Then you're aware of the investigation surrounding his arrest at MIT?" The subtle severity of their tone didn’t go unnoticed as they asked her to shed any light on Aaron's personal projects.

“I don’t know anything,” Quinn asserted.

“Well, we’re here because our records indicate that Aaron called you soon after he was apprehended,” Pickett pointed out, “And you’re saying that he didn’t tell you anything about his arrest?”

“Nothing.”

There was a pause.

“And you weren’t curious at all?” Ortega questioned, “You must have asked him.”

“I didn’t.” Not during that phone call, at least.

Incredulous, they pressed on, trying to get Quinn to divulge any details that Aaron may have revealed about his motivation. But the truth was, Quinn knew nothing other than exactly what was stated in his arrest record. Aaron had kept her in the dark about it for months.

The conversation became repetitive, and Quinn began to run out of things to say.

Pickett had finally heard enough, and handed over the file that she had been holding. It became clear that this was the real reason that they’d showed up at her doorstep.

“I suggest you review this document carefully with your attorney,” Pickett advised as she and Ortega heaved themselves from their seats.

Quinn remained on the couch, her lungs deflating as she looked over the pages in the file. It was a federal court-ordered subpoena. The prosecution wanted all records of her communications with Aaron, everything that they shared in their private life, especially anything related to JSTOR or MIT. They wanted all her equipment – hard drives, USBs, DVDs, CDs. They’d take her camera, they’d search through all their personal photos. They wanted every important electrical or optical storage device that Aaron may have had contact with, including all the files and documents stored on them.

“We’ll be in touch,” Ortega assured her, as he and Pickett saw themselves out.

Quinn’s head throbbed as she feebly lifted herself from the couch, several long minutes after they had left. She ambled over to her desk where she had left her handbag, pulling out her phone from its outer pocket.

She stared blankly at the damaged black screen of the device as she considered who to call. Hiring a powerful lawyer was out of the question; she didn’t have the money for that.

The lock-screen flashed on at the touch of a button, and Aaron smiled back at her, his sepia brown hair gleaming in the daylight. And she was there too, with her chin rested on his shoulder and arms thrown around him, embracing him from behind. A thin, jagged bolt of fractured glass sliced the image into several pieces.

She’d have to call in another favour.

Continued -->