3:00 P.M.
Megan Gunther stood in the lobby of the Sixth Precinct, fighting back the tears that were pooling in her eyes and threatening to roll down her reddened cheeks.
“What do you
She had never seen her father like this. Jonas Gunther was an insurance man. That wasn’t to say he was weak—quite the opposite, in fact. He was a man of principle, who valued character above all else. At work, he expected others to live up to their word. In his personal life, he expected people to do what was right. And he did not hesitate to stand up to those who failed to deliver on his expectations.
But Megan’s father, however forceful he could be about making a point, was always in control. Strong, but subdued. Emotions, he would tell her, got in the way of an effective argument.
Today, though, Jonas Gunther was emotional.
Megan’s mother, Patricia, placed a comforting arm around her daughter’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze. She stroked her straight blond hair and told her that everything would be all right.
“We don’t
Megan noticed a woman and her young son seated on a bench on the other side of the lobby watching them, alarm registered on their faces. The child dropped his gaze and burrowed his cheeks against his mother’s abdomen.
“Mr. Gunther, I understand your frustration, but I need you to lower your voice right now.”
According to the metal nameplate affixed to his uniform, the desk sergeant trying to calm Megan’s father was called Martinez. His words did nothing to mitigate Jonas’s anger.
“When I told my daughter to call the police two and a half hours ago, I expected an officer to go to her apartment to start an investigation. Then she tells me she’s required to come into the precinct, so her mother and I drove into the city from New Jersey, expecting something to be done about this. My daughter has done everything one could ask of her. She missed a biochem lab today. She found each and every mention of her name on this disgusting Web site. She printed out copies for you.” He shook the quarter-inch stack of paper for emphasis. “And now you tell us there’s nothing you can do to protect her?”
“Sir, I’ve tried to explain, we have received more than our fair share of calls in this precinct from other NYU students, all complaining about what people are saying about them on this very Web site. And we’ve run our options past the district attorney’s office, and the same problems are going to apply here. First of all, the site doesn’t require users to give a name, address—anything. It’s totally anonymous.”
Jonas was already shaking his head. “That’s not true, that’s not true. I called the IT person at my company, and they tell me there are options. There’s a way to track—you can track the IQ or something like that. What’s it called again, honey?”
“IP address, Dad.”
“Yes,” he said, pointing to Sergeant Martinez. “The Web site should have that information. You can use it to—”
“And that’s the second problem, sir. This company is not willing to release that information without a subpoena—”
“So go get a fucking subpoena.”
Megan flinched. Except for the time her cousin had head-butted her father with his first catcher’s helmet, she couldn’t remember ever hearing her dad use the F word.
“Let the man talk, Jonas. Please.”
Megan’s father set his jaw. He was clearly angry, but at least he was being quiet. For now. Sergeant Martinez gave Patricia Gunther an appreciative glance.
“We can only get a subpoena if we have cause. And, as difficult as I’m sure it is for your daughter—for you, Megan—to read something like this on the Internet, the posts are not directly threatening.”
“But my schedule. Someone’s watching me.”
“You said yourself that everyone who knows you knows your class schedule and your workout routine. Unfortunately, messing with someone’s head isn’t a crime. If you’ve had any disputes with anyone lately—a former friend, a boy—”
“There are no disputes, Officer.” Jonas was interrupting again. “My daughter has no idea who would do something like this. You have to listen to us.”
“That’s true, sir, and I have. I have listened now for more than twenty-five minutes. And I’m sorry, but that’s all I can do for you today. If it’s of any consolation, you might want to take a closer look at the other stuff on that site. A whole bunch of it is even worse than what your daughter’s going through.” He looked directly at Megan. “You can’t let this get to you.”
“You can’t just make us leave,” her father said. “You must—”
With just the placement of her hand on her husband’s forearm, Patricia Gunther silenced him. “Do you have a daughter, Sergeant Martinez?”
Martinez cleared his throat and then looked Megan’s mother in the eye. “I do, ma’am. She’s fifteen years old. So pretty, it scares me. And if you ask me as a father, I’d say the scumbags who run this Web site should all find Molotov cocktails in their cars tomorrow morning. But if you ask me as the desk sergeant of the Sixth Precinct, there’s nothing more I can do for you folks. I’m sorry.”
As Megan led the way out of the precinct, she reread the final page she had printed about herself from campusjuice.com. She had printed not just the original posts, but also the comments that had been posted by other users in reply:
POST
11:10 AM—noon Life and Death Seminar
12:10–3 PM Bio Chemistry Lab
3–7 PM Break: Home to 14th Street?
7–8 PM Spinning at Equinox
Megan Gunther, someone is watching
COMMENTS:
Seriously, Dude, what is up with you? I’m in Math 210 with her and she’s not even hot. Go have your rape fantasies on someone else.
