able to get into the Spa network. You’d have to have an entry point, like having access to a computer that has access to the Spa. Chris did.”
“Allegedly,” Kevin prompted.
“There’s evidence.”
“Allegedly,” Kevin insisted and scowled at Jimmy. “You’re becoming as absolutist as the rest of the force. You’re supposed to keep their minds open. Isn’t that the point of your being there?”
“The point of my being there is to be paid,” Jimmy shot back. He and Kevin often bickered. I typically ignored it, even though it was sweet. Silence had pounded a nail in the coffin of my marriage—well, along with other nails—but communication was key. I appreciated that Kevin and Jimmy could do it freely, not to mention that this time I had a stake in the discussion.
“I don’t have your fancy art degree,” Jimmy was saying, making art aht and drawing it out. “All I did was go two years to tech school, so I know how to use machines, and I know social media because there are plenty of times when I have nothing to do, so I play. I’m just saying what they’re saying.” After a short huff for Kevin, he faced me again. “Sorry. This may not be what you want to hear, but it doesn’t look good for the kid.”
“But he is just a kid,” I argued.
“He’ll be tried as a juvenile.”
“And put in prison?”
“A juvenile facility.”
“But what harm did he do?” I asked, bewildered on behalf of my friend’s son. My crime involved death, which was the ultimate in harm. But here? “The high school records have been straightened out. And the Spa, what harm there? Okay, a crime is a crime, but how serious could this be? Devon isn’t the Pentagon.”
“He got into Twitter.”
“And did what harm?” I had a Twitter account. I used it to promote my work at the Spa. I couldn’t imagine harm that a hacker could do that would justify imprisoning a fifteen-year-old boy.
“It’s Internet fraud,” Jimmy said. “That’s a Federal charge. The arraignment is Monday. We’ll have to wait ’til then to know about other charges. They could charge him with wire fraud, too.”
“Isn’t that the same as Internet fraud?”
“They’re different statutes. Add one to the other, and the penalty gets worse. They could also charge him separately for each post he made, so that could be a dozen counts, maybe two dozen counts.”
“Chrissake, Jimmy,” Kevin said.
“Okay, okay, let’s assume they leave it at Internet fraud. The government has to prove deliberate deception, which there was if he hacked into school accounts to change grades. They also have to prove he used someone else’s computer without permission.”
“The school will never press charges,” I said. I knew many local teachers through Alex, and each one had struck me as kind. I was sure they would prefer counseling or an internal school punishment rather than incarceration.
“Twitter’s the problem. The victim is Ben Zwick.”
Kevin and I exchanged blank looks. “Who is Ben Zwick?” we asked together.
“Benjamin Zwick,” Jimmy said with relish. He drew a sharp line between what was confidential police business and what was not, and while he might slip with small details once in a while, this wasn’t small. Given how brashly he said the name, I assumed that the identity of Benjamin Zwick was public knowledge to anyone who had watched tonight’s news, which neither Kevin nor I had done. “He’s an investigative journalist with The Washington Post. He has credits a mile long. He’s always showing up on shows like Washington Week and Meet the Press. And he wrote a book.”
A silent bell rang. Maybe I recognized the name, after all. “On antisemitism in Scandinavia?”
“That’s it.”
“Oh God. He won a Pulitzer Prize.”
Kevin directed an unimpressed, “So?” at his partner.
“So our friend Chris,” Jimmy quickly corrected himself, “allegedly Chris, hacked into Zwick’s account and made posts Zwick claims hurt his career.”
“Like how?” I asked.
“Like saying there’s proof the last presidential election was rigged by the Republicans. Like saying the Secretary of Defense is supplying guns to whoever wants to organize a home militia. Like saying the Prime Minister of Norway is a second or third cousin to Hitler, and then calling his editor at the Post an asshole for refusing to let him print that in a story.”
“Those posts are over the top,” I said. “Anyone can see that.”
“Not anyone. The retweets were even worse, haters from every side coming out. It took Zwick a couple days to realize what had happened and close down his Twitter