No Way Out

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

AVON

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Copyright © David Kessler 2010

David Kessler asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9781847561831

Ebook Edition © JUNE 2010 ISBN: 9780007371747

Version: 2018-07-09

To Eran, my brother in all but name

‘He who fights with monsters should take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.’

Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good And Evil,

Aphorism 146

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Saturday, 4 July 2004 – 23.40

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 7.30

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 8.50

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 9.45

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 10.15

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 11.05

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 14.40

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 15.15

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 15.30

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 16.50

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 19.30

Saturday 6 June 2009 – 11.00

Friday 12 June – 9.40

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 10.30

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 13.00

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 14.30

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 15.40

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 16.30

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 18.10

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 19.45

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 21.15

Monday, 15 June 2009 – 10.25

Monday, 15 June 2009 – 13.00

Monday, 15 June 2009 – 16.35

Friday, 26 June 2009 – 11.20

Friday, 26 June 2009 – 12.05

Wednesday 15 July 2009 – 12.40

Wednesday 15 July 2009 – 15.15

Wednesday, 15 July 2009 – 16.30

Wednesday, 15 July 2009 – 18.05

Thursday, 16 July 2009 – 16.20

Monday, 17 August 2009 – 10.00

Monday, 17 August 2009 – 13.00

Monday, 17 August 2009 – 17.30

Monday, 17 August 2009 – 18.10

Monday, 17 August 2009 – 18.20

Tuesday, 18 August 2009 – 12.40

Tuesday, 18 August 2009 – 15.40

Tuesday, 18 August 2009 – 17.15

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 – 9.10

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 – 10.15

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 – 12.30

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 – 13.05

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 – 13.20

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 – 13.30

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 – 13.35

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 – 13.45

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 – 15.15

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 10.10

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 11.05

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 11.10

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 11.20

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 11.30

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 11.40

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 11.45

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 11.50

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 11.55

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 12.10

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 12.15

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 12.50

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 13.05

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 13.30

Friday, 21 August 2009 – 10.20

Friday, 21 August 2009 – 12.30

Friday, 21 August 2009 – 14.50

Friday, 21 August 2009 – 22.15

Saturday, 22 August 2009 – 09.00

Saturday, 22 August 2009 – 09.20

Saturday, 22 August 2009 – 09.30

Saturday, 22 August 2009 – 10.20

Monday, 24 August 2009 – 10.15

Monday, 24 August 2009 – 11.50

Monday, 24 August 2009 – 21.30

Tuesday, 25 August 2009 – 10.30

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 11.40

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 11.55

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 12.05

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 12.10

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 14.45

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 14.50

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 14.55

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 15.00

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 15.05

Wednesday, 26 August, 2009 – 18.00

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 20.30

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 21.05

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 21.30

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 21.35

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 21.40

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 22.30

Saturday, 29 August 2009 – 01.20

Sunday, 30 August 2009 – 9.50

Sunday, 30 August 2009 – 11.25

Sunday, 30 August 2009 – 14.50

Sunday, 30 September 2009 – 22.15

Monday, 31 August 2009 – 10.15

Monday, 31 August 2009 – 10.40

Tuesday, 1 September 2009 – 6.30

Tuesday, 1 September 2009 – 10.35

Tuesday, 1 September 2009 – 11.05

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 9.20

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 10.05

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 10.35

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 10.45

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 11.20

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 11.35

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 11.45

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 13.05

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 13.20

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 13.40

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 14.25

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 15.10

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 16.30

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 16.55

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 17.20

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 17.30

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 17.45 PDT (20.45 EDT)

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 18.00

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 18.20

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 18.30

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 18.35

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 18.40

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 18.45

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 18.50

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 18.55

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.00

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.05

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.10

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.15

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.20

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.25

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.30

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.35

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.38

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.41

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.44

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.47

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.50

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.53

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.55

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 22.00

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the same author:

About the Publisher

Saturday, 4 July 2004 – 23.40

It was only a set of fingers flying across a keyboard, yet they could work so much malice.

She watched in awe as her words appeared before her, the letters on the screen keeping pace with her fingers. What was so amazing was how little she had to change to wreak so much damage. All she had to do to alter the behavior of an entire computer program was make minor alterations to just two of the lines of the program. Hackers and ‘midnight programmers’ would laugh at the absurd simplicity of it. Some of them might even have been mildly amused by the sheer audacity of it. But few of them would have condoned her objectives.

So what?

She wasn’t doing it for fame or glory. She was doing it for justice – plain, old-fashioned justice.

As she continued her work, she glanced up and looked out through the window. In the distance she could see the flickering lights of the nocturnal city and they reminded her that there was a world out there beyond her private world of vengeance. But she forced herself to ignore the distraction. Her fingers continued to dance across the keyboard in the small pool of halogen light that fell upon the desk. The rest of the room was in darkness.

After a few more seconds she paused, satisfied with the results of her labors. Then, with a couple of clicks on the left button of the mouse, it was done. She had created a new version of the program.

And what a new version!

She thought about it now, almost wistfully. Getting the original source code had been rather tricky. She’d had to use some of her old contacts to break down the bureaucratic barriers. But many States had public records or freedom of information laws. She wished that she could infiltrate the altered program everywhere. That would be something of a coup. But she had to be realistic.

When she first started out, she had no idea that she would even be able to do it. It was more idle curiosity than a firm agenda that had prompted her to explore the possibility. But when she studied the documentation and asked a few questions of a professor to understand how the software worked, it suddenly dawned on her just how easy it would be.

Of course, slipping it in undetected would be the hardest part. There were various ways she could do it. One was to hack into the server computers and upload the new program. But that was risky.

There was, however, another way to infiltrate the new version of the software that didn’t involve hacking at all. That way was to get the systems administrator to install it themselves. The key to this method was to make it seem as if it were a modification of a current program that they were already using. By packaging the program complete with forged letterhead and then sending it out by special courier, she could trick their SysOps into installing the new version under the erroneous assumption that they were getting an upgrade from the software company. It would be the ultimate software hack followed by the ultimate in social engineering.

And now she was going to make the niggers pay.

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 7.30

Bethel was nineteen – too young to remember the Sixties and too bored to care about her grandparents’ reminiscences – like how her mother was conceived at the Woodstock festival.

But the sound of Buffalo Springfield’s ‘For What It’s Worth’ was ringing through her head, via the earphones of her iPod, as she stood by the roadside, waiting for help. She knew little of the context of the song and nothing about the closing of the Pandora’s Box nightclub or the Sunset Strip Curfew Riots. But the voice of Neil Young was haunting. It was easy to sleep through high school civics classes – even to sleepwalk through the assignments and exams. She knew a bit about the Vietnam War and the civil rights struggles of the Sixties. But it was all superficial academic knowledge, of the kind she picked up almost by default while daydreaming about the football team quarterback.

It stayed in her mind not as a coherent picture, but as a collection of sound bites: ‘We shall overcome,’ ‘I have a dream,’ ‘Power to the people,’ ‘Burn, baby, burn!’ The voice of anger still echoed across the decades. But it echoed faintly. A time gulf separated Bethel from the turbulence that had almost ripped her country apart. And the time gulf was ever widening, so all that was left of the ringing timbre of history’s voices were the fading reverberations of barely remembered heroes: Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, the Chicago Eight. Names and slogans to Bethel, but no substance.

But she liked the song. It had a pleasant hook that made it stick in her mind. What really sent shivers up her spine was that haunting phrase at the end of the chorus, urging the young listeners to pause and assess the situation. She had no more than the merest inkling of what it meant. Whatever it was had gone down already. It doesn’t really matter, she told herself. It belonged to her grandparents’ generation anyway. She belonged to another generation, the one that was more concerned with finding a job than changing the world.

Her full name was Bethel Georgia Newton and she was a mixed bag of human elements. In the looks department she was all bleached blonde and classic cheerleader figure, a carefully cultivated complexion and polished-tooth smile. Neither svelte nor buxom, a kind of perfect ‘in-between’ for her height of five foot six; athletic, but in that soft, not overdone sort of way, with well-toned leg muscles, but not rippling ones. She was middle class and far removed from the culture of the street, yet when it came to experience of life she wasn’t entirely naïve. She might not exactly have been streetwise, but she had tasted the bitter side of life.

She stood by the roadside in her tight-fitting white t-shirt and denim shorts that showed every curve of her firm body, holding out her thumb every time a car went by. She thought it would be easy hitching a ride, with her breasts thrusting out in front, straining against her t-shirt, and the perfect ripe complexion of her thighs showing like white silk in the California sunshine. But people were paranoid about helping strangers by the roadside, she realized now.

A few yards away, her car had broken down and she couldn’t even call for help because the battery of her cell phone was flat. She had made a half-hearted effort to fix the car herself, but she didn’t really have a clue when it came to car engines. So all she could do was flag down a Good Samaritan and ask them to take her to a garage where she could get proper help.

Secretly she was hoping that some good-looking man with technical skills and a cool family fortune would stop and rescue her, not just from the roadside but from the aimless drifting boredom that seemed to have engulfed her life lately. But she would settle for an elderly couple taking her down the road to a pay phone if necessary. Only she wasn’t even getting that. Life was unfair.

But then her luck changed.

An aquamarine Mercedes slowed down as it approached her. A recent model and from the up-market end of the European car industry, the owner was clearly affluent and probably young. By the time it had pulled over by the roadside she could see that the driver, in his late twenties, was a black man.

What would my parents think? she wondered with a smile at the fleeting fantasy of turning up on her liberal parents’ doorstep with this young man in tow.

Think rather than say. She knew that they’d be warm and welcoming. But she wondered if they were capable of walking the walk as well as they could talk the talk. It occurred to her that she didn’t really know her parents. And yet here she was away from home, trying to find herself.

As the young man leaned out, smiling, and asked if she needed help, she could tell from his confident voice that this was someone who was going places. She was drawn to his youthful good looks and quiet, cool self-confidence and she warmed to him instantly, even if his diction betrayed the lingering traces of a background that she half suspected he was trying to conceal – or maybe just forget.

He took a look under the hood and after about a minute shook his head and said, ‘I’m not really all that good with engines. I’m better with people.’ He won her over with that line and a disarming smile. Two minutes later she was in the Mercedes and they were rolling along down the road, getting to know each other better. Then, somewhere along the line, she noticed that he had turned off the main road.

She was about to ask where they were going when she caught a glimpse of his profile and saw his lips twist upwards into a smile. But she couldn’t tell if the smile was friendly. And as the first traces of apprehension formed into a knot in the pit of her stomach, she realized that she was too afraid to inquire further.

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 8.50

‘I’ve got butterflies in my stomach, Gene,’ said Andi as the car snaked its way through the streets of Los Angeles.

‘It’s too late to go back now.’

They both laughed. This was becoming a bit of an in-joke between them. They had both been nervous about leaving the Big Apple and crossing the continent to a new life on the West Coast. But Andi’s career had demanded it.

Andi Phoenix, sitting silently and brooding nervously, was in her late thirties. She had kept her looks through healthy eating, regular workouts and a bit of cosmetic surgery. Her breasts had been enhanced from 34B to 36D with silicone implants and she had taken a Botox injection to remove the first lines of age. But the rest was from hard work and healthy living. The blonde hair came from a bottle; the original had been a decent but boring mousy brown. Changing the color had been a form of therapy after the rough ride of her youth, but the enhancements as a whole carried with them the payload of attention from men that she could well do without. She was a few inches shorter than the black woman who sat next to her and in some ways felt in her shadow.

Gene touched Andi’s forearm gently. ‘Just remember this, honey: they don’t know you either. But they were ready to take a chance on you.’

In the driver’s seat, in more ways than one, was Eugenia Vance, the six foot, muscular black woman who had playfully wrestled with her in bed that morning, and won – as always.

They had met over twenty years ago, when Andi was still in her teens. Gene had helped Andi through her teenage crisis years, and they’d been together ever since. In all the time they had known each other, they never used the word ‘lesbian’ to describe their relationship. It wasn’t denial. It was just that their every instinct railed against categorization. Neither Gene nor Andi loved ‘women’, they simply loved each other.

‘I’m just wondering if this whole thing is a big mistake.’

Gene snorted her mockery at Andi’s self-pity. ‘You’ve picked a hell of a time to start wondering, girl!’

Here in California, Andi’s specialty was much in demand. She had majored in psychology before going on to get her Juris Doctor degree from the Northeastern University School of Law where she thrived amidst its progressive atmosphere that encouraged social responsibility. But after graduation she had found the law to be an irritating environment in which to work. Most of her criminal work involved plea bargaining rather than trial work and usually that meant helping criminals plead guilty to lesser charges – hardly the service of justice and way off from the ideals that had driven her into the legal profession in the first place.

Matters had come to a head after she contracted pneumonia, forcing her to take a prolonged leave of absence from the law firm that had initially hired her. But when she went back to work, she found herself welcomed with less than open arms. She was protected by labor laws from outright dismissal, but found herself increasingly sidelined. She joined another firm but then spent the next eight months playing catch-up.

It was in this period that her interest in the subject changed. Although there were innocent people out there who needed to be helped, criminal law meant – for the most part – helping the guilty. And that was not something she particularly enjoyed doing. So she did the old poacher turned gamekeeper routine and got herself a job with the D.A.’s office, in the domestic violence unit, where she thrived for a while. Starting at the bottom of the ladder meant that she didn’t get to do much courtroom work. Most of it involved working directly with victims, reading reports and collating evidence. But she was happy to do this. It gave her a sense of purpose.

Paradoxically, it was only when promotion gave her more courtroom work that disillusion set in for a second time. Because she found herself doing exactly the same thing as she was doing before, but from the opposite side of the table: plea bargaining with criminals. She found their lawyers to be vile, for the most part, and she realized how contemptible she must have seemed to the D.A. in her earlier days as a defense attorney.

At the same time, she had developed another interest: crime victim litigation. There was a growing industry involving the pursuit of civil remedies for crime victims and she very much wanted to be part of it. The only trouble was that she soon hit the glass ceiling and realized that this specialized field was more developed on the West Coast than on the East. She wasn’t altogether comfortable about moving out West. But that was where the work opportunity took her.

‘And what if I don’t make the grade?’ asked Andi, still seeking reassurance.

‘Hey, listen,’ said Gene firmly, ‘I don’t want to hear any of that. There’s nothing to stop you except fear – and if you let that get to you, I’ll be right behind you, ready to take a paddle to that cute little butt of yours.’

‘My butt’s not so little,’ said Andi, but this time with humor rather than self-pity.

In truth, Andi’s butt was fine, as any red-blooded male would have been only too happy to testify.