“What’s this about?”
Booger pointed at me. “We wanted to ask your son some routine questions about his movements, but he declined to answer them. We felt it might be best to bring him here.”
“Is he under arrest?” Mom’s accent was coming on strong. Good old Mom.
“Are you a United States citizen, ma’am?” Zit said.
She gave him a look that could have stripped paint. “I shore am, hyuck,” she said, in a broad southern accent. “Am
The two cops exchanged a look.
Zit took the fore. “We seem to have gotten off to a bad start. We identified your son as someone with a nonstandard public transit usage pattern, as part of a new pro-active enforcement program. When we spot people whose travels are unusual, or that match a suspicious profile, we investigate further.”
“Wait,” Mom said. “How do you know how my son uses the Muni?”
“The Fast Pass,” he said. “It tracks voyages.”
“I see,” Mom said, folding her arms. Folding her arms was a bad sign. It was bad enough she hadn’t offered them a cup of tea — in Mom-land, that was practically like making them shout through the mail-slot — but once she folded her arms, it was not going to end well for them. At that moment, I wanted to go and buy her a big bunch of flowers.
“Marcus here declined to tell us why his movements had been what they were.”
“Are you saying you think my son is a terrorist because of how he rides the bus?”
“Terrorists aren’t the only bad guys we catch this way,” Zit said. “Drug dealers. Gang kids. Even shoplifters smart enough to hit a different neighborhood with every run.”
“You think my son is a drug dealer?”
“We’re not saying that —” Zit began. Mom clapped her hands at him to shut him up.
“Marcus, please pass me your backpack.”
I did.
Mom unzipped it and looked through it, turning her back to us first.
“Officers, I can now affirm that there are no narcotics, explosives, or shoplifted gewgaws in my son’s bag. I think we’re done here. I would like your badge numbers before you go, please.”
Booger sneered at her. “Lady, the ACLU is suing three hundred cops on the SFPD, you’re going to have to get in line.”
Mom made me a cup of tea and then chewed me out for eating dinner when I knew that she’d been making falafel. Dad came home while we were still at the table and Mom and I took turns telling him the story. He shook his head.
“Lillian, they were just doing their jobs.” He was still wearing the blue blazer and khakis he wore on the days that he was consulting in Silicon Valley. “The world isn’t the same place it was last week.”
Mom set down her teacup. “Drew, you’re being ridiculous. Your son is not a terrorist. His use of the public transit system is not cause for a police investigation.”
Dad took off his blazer. “We do this all the time at my work. It’s how computers can be used to find all kinds of errors, anomalies and outcomes. You ask the computer to create a profile of an average record in a database and then ask it to find out which records in the database are furthest away from average. It’s part of something called Bayesian analysis and it’s been around for centuries now. Without it, we couldn’t do spam-filtering —”
“So you’re saying that you think the police should suck as hard as my spam filter?” I said.
Dad never got angry at me for arguing with him, but tonight I could see the strain was running high in him. Still, I couldn’t resist. My own father, taking the police’s side!
“I’m saying that it’s perfectly reasonable for the police to conduct their investigations by starting with data- mining, and then following it up with leg-work where a human being actually intervenes to see why the abnormality exists. I don’t think that a computer should be telling the police whom to arrest, just helping them sort through the haystack to find a needle.”
“But by taking in all that data from the transit system, they’re
“I understand that you don’t like that this system caused you some inconvenience, Marcus. But you of all people should appreciate the gravity of the situation. There was no harm done, was there? They even gave you a ride home.”
“Besides, you still haven’t told us where the blazing hells you’ve been to create such an unusual traffic pattern.”
That brought me up short.
“I thought you relied on my judgment, that you didn’t want to spy on me.” He’d said this often enough. “Do you really want me to account for every trip I’ve ever taken?”
I hooked up my Xbox as soon as I got to my room. I’d bolted the projector to the ceiling so that it could shine on the wall over my bed (I’d had to take down my awesome mural of punk rock handbills I’d taken down off telephone poles and glued to big sheets of white paper).
