The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(49)

It was his other chamber, his sanctum, his refuge, his cave. No windows, only one entrance, heavily alarmed, and watched around the clock by hidden cameras. There was no record of its existence, no business permits, no utility bills, no access by anyone other than him. Electricity, water, sewer, Internet, and cable were siphoned from the gym, on the other side of a thick wall, and the rent was adjusted accordingly by a handshake deal with the lessee. It was technically in violation of a few petty ordinances and regulations, and as a judge he didn’t like the fact that he was cheating a little. But no one would ever know. The privacy afforded by his other chamber far outweighed any nagging feelings of guilt.

He lived ten miles away in the town of Cullman, in a fine home with the usual busy man’s office, one that could be easily raided by men with warrants. And his professional office was his rather somber chambers on the second floor of the Chavez County Courthouse, a space owned by the taxpayers and, though not exactly open to the public, clearly susceptible to being searched.

Let them come. Let them seize all the files and computers in his home and his official chambers, and they would not find one shred of evidence against him. They could stalk him online, dig through his computers and judicial data server files, trace every email he’d ever sent from those computers, and they would find nothing.

He had lived most of his adult life in fear of arrest, of warrants, of detectives, of getting caught. The fear had so thoroughly consumed him for so long that his daily routines included all manner of cautionary moves. And he remained, so far, ahead of the bloodhounds.

The fear of getting caught was not driven by the fear of paying the price. Rather, it was the fear of having to stop.

His passion for technology, security, surveillance, off-the-wall science, even espionage, was rooted in a movie he had long since forgotten the name of. He had watched it as a frightened and damaged thirteen-year-old boy, alone in the basement one night after his parents had gone to bed. The protagonist was a scrawny misfit of a kid who was the favorite target of neighborhood bullies. Instead of lifting weights and learning karate, he delved into the world of weird science, spycraft, weaponry, ballistics, even chemical warfare. He bought the first computer in town and taught himself how to program it. In due course, he exacted revenge on the bullies and rode off into the sunset. It wasn’t much of a movie, but it inspired young Ross Bannick to embrace science and technology. He begged his parents for an Apple II computer for Christmas, and birthday too. Plus, he tossed in $450 of his own savings. Throughout high school and college, every paycheck and every spare dollar went for the latest upgrade, the latest gadget. In his younger days, he had secretly tapped phones, filmed frat brothers having sex with their girlfriends, recorded lectures that were off-limits, disabled surveillance cameras, picked locks, entered secured offices, and taken a hundred other stupid chances that he never regretted. He had never been caught, not even close.

The arrival of the Internet presented him with endless possibilities.



* * *



—

He took off his tie and jacket and tossed them on a leather sofa, a place he often slept. He had clothes in a closet in the rear, a small fridge with sodas and fruit drinks. There was a café a hundred yards away near the cinema and he often ate there, alone, when working late. He walked to a thick metal door, punched a code, waited for the lead bolts to release, then opened it and walked deeper inside his secret world. The Vault, as he proudly called it but only when talking to himself, was a fifteen-foot-square office that was soundproof, fireproof, waterproof, everything-proof. No one had ever seen it and no one ever would. There was a desk in the center with two thirty-inch computer screens. One wall was covered with IP cameras showing his home, office, courthouse, and the building he was in. On one wall there was a sixty-inch plasma screen television. The other two walls were bare—no ego puffery, no awards, commendations, diplomas. All that junk was preserved on walls that could be seen. Indeed, there was nothing anywhere in his other chamber that would indicate who owned the place. The name of Ross Bannick was nowhere to be found.

If he dropped dead tomorrow, his computers and phones would wait patiently for forty-eight hours, then wipe themselves clean.

He sat at his desk, flipped on his computer, and waited for the screen to come to life. He pulled the two letters out of his briefcase and placed them in front of him. The one in an envelope was postmarked pensacola and informed him of the BJC investigation. The other, a silly poem, was in the envelope postmarked montgomery. Both sent by the same person at about the same time.

He went online, activated his VPN to blow past security walls, and passworded his way into the dark web, where Rafe was always waiting. As an employee of the state, Bannick had long ago hacked his way into the data networks of Florida’s government. Using his customized spyware, called Maggotz, he had created his own data sleuth, a troll he christened Rafe, who roamed the systems and cloud with total anonymity. Because Rafe was not a criminal, was not stealing or holding data for ransom, but rather was only nosing around for esoteric information, his chances of being discovered were almost zero.

Rafe could, for example, observe internal memos between the seven members of the Florida Supreme Court and their clerks, and Bannick would know precisely how one of his cases on appeal would be decided. Since he couldn’t do anything about the case, the information was basically useless, but it was certainly interesting to know which way the wind was blowing.