“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.”
