I set down my spoon. My normal routine was to bluff my way through conversations like this, especially when I didn’t know much. The other party would usually share everything, thinking I already had the information. With Razor, I told the truth.
“Benny is a talker,” I said, taking a sip of tea. “He brought up the porn thing. I was checking on something for a friend who made a mistake.”
Razor relaxed a little.
I asked, “What does a porn ring have to do with child predators?”
“A couple of girls taped are still in high school,” he said. “We’re close to shutting it down and don’t need any blog posts or news stories tipping them off.”
He explained to me how this operation was much bigger than just a few guys selling homemade porn videos on the web.
“They have set up a subscription-based website called ‘Deb’s Playpen,’ using Tor in the dark web,” Razor said.
He explained that Tor was software that enabled anonymous communication on the web. Created by Naval Research Laboratory employees to protect Department of Defense communication, The Onion Router, or Tor, later became available for free.
Computer geeks began to direct web traffic through the free worldwide, volunteer network consisting of more than seven thousand relays that concealed a user’s location and usage from anyone conducting network surveillance or traffic analysis. Hackers loved it.
“The website has over than twenty-seven thousand members and two thousand videos,” he told me. “Several feature children. The members not only download videos created by the website but also share photos and videos of the minors freely, thanks to Tor’s ability to conceal online users’ identities and locations.”
“Is the Pensacola crew a supplier for the site?” I asked.
“Most of the child porn has been supplied by users, but I think this area may be the headquarters, which is why we’re so sensitive to being exposed before we arrest anyone.”
“Can I get an exclusive?”
Razor laughed. “I will make sure you get a copy of the documents we file with the courts. That’s the best I can do.”
During a break in the conversation, Curtis poured us more tea and brought us the tab. Tyndall grabbed the ticket but he had something else he wanted to discuss before we left.
“Walker, I’m thinking about running for sheriff in 2012. What are my chances?”
“Let’s see,” I said. “A black Democrat—I assume you’re a Democrat”—he nodded yes—“with a very low public profile running against a two-term Republican sheriff that crushed his opponents the last two elections. Not good.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Bad but not impossible. The luster of Frost is wearing off. People are tired of his thugs and backroom deals. I just don’t know if they’re ready for a black sheriff.”
He said, “Raising money won’t be a problem. My friends around the country will write checks.”
“You need to start building some name recognition. The election is a little more than two years away.”
“I need to finish this operation first,” Razor replied. “Then I plan to join the Rockwell Theisen law firm.”
One of the top trial law firms in the state, Rockwell Theisen had three floors of Jackson Towers. T. A. Rockwell wasn’t a fan of Sheriff Frost.
“Nice career move,” I said. “Do they know you want to run for Escambia County sheriff?”
“Yes, the firm represented Aunt Joyce. Mr. Rockwell said he would do anything to help me. He’s onboard.”
“Well, that could alter the dynamics of the race,” I said. “When you make the switch to the firm, we’ll do a profile of you. You need to find a charity fundraiser to chair, and you’ve got to make the rounds to the black pastors.”
I finished my tea and Tyndall paid the bill. As we walked to our cars I told him, “This will be a long shot, and you might not win on the first try. But I will help.”
We shook hands and agreed to have beers again soon. Another crusade, I thought.
Mari would have been pissed.
17
When I got back to the office, Doug Yoste was huddled at his desk. Fittingly the rest of the staff had ostracized him. His excuse for missing the morning meeting was that his power had gone out, shutting off his alarm clock. No one bought it. His sunburned face and neck gave away that he had been fishing again.
After fifteen minutes of my third, and maybe final, “Come to Jesus” meeting with him about responsibility, deadlines, and teamwork, Doug filled me in on his research for the petition story. He had been busy calling all the principal players.
According to Doug, most of the Save Our Pensacola wackos were completely caught off guard when Wittman announced another petition drive. They saw the park project as a done deal, but right around when the police arrested Hines, Wittman fired up the PAC again.
“I got a hold of a Mrs. Ellis and her husband last night,” Doug said, reading from his notepad. “They say they are members of the executive committee of Save Our Pensacola. Mrs. Ellis hates you and tried to get me to understand how evil you really are.”
Yoste didn’t defend me, only asked questions. Mrs. Ellis was the lady with the orange hair who had run the meeting at New World Landing.
“Professor Ellis called you the ‘Spawn of Satan’ before he gave me a twenty-minute lecture on how the economic analysis for the park project was flawed,” Doug said. “Neither of them ever met Bo Hines before Monday night, but they were happy to have him and his money.”
The prior petition attempts had been underfunded. Wittman depended on free publicity from the daily newspaper, local talk radio shows, and anybody who believed in conspiracy theories, UFOs, and the Illuminati. He had never matched the money Kettler threw out for advertising and mailers to counter the naysayers. Hines’ money would be the great equalizer this time.
Wittman told Doug, “We must remember that the residents
