Justifiable Homicide

By Jeffrey Warren

The $500 billion-a-year illegal-drug-trafficking business has a secret relationship with seemingly legitimate bankers and mainstream financial markets which is exposed by a story in the press that reverberates on front pages around the world.

The question that even legitimate investigators seem not to be asking is: "Where's the Money?"

Unlikely partners Jon Reynolds, PhD (computer-encryption wunderkind who has a personal, vested interest in the outcome), and Katie Ruiz, a talented investigative reporter with a checkered past, devise a dangerous and clandestine plan to expose the business and the players in it — as well as to reveal to the general public the staggering proportions of the scheme. Implementing it means Jon and Katie will face cartels, violence, corruption, and an inept DEA — in addition to their own fears and demons.

This is a story grounded in real facts that exist in the real world — our world. It is also a telling statement about the impact that ordinary citizens can have on world events — an unlikely "Power of One" tale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffrey Warren
• Release date: Mar 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9780998589114

Jeffrey Warren

Jeffrey Warren is a retired Professional Engineer and longtime entrepreneur having founded, operated and sold four businesses from aircraft design and manufacturing, furniture manufacturing, software architecture with database applications to an RV park. He is the author of several technical, non-fiction papers and books. He began writing fiction for a family audience during an interlude between companies. His first published work was an illustrated collection of musings and short stories entitled, Stages of Life. An avid sailor, he lives with his wife, eight horses, a donkey, and rescue dog Scout, on a mountain ranch in Idaho. He has followed a lifelong belief that wherever the wind may blow, you will find opportunity and gain valuable experience.

Book preview

Part 1

How It Began

Chapter 1

February 2, 2004, Palm Springs, California

The new distribution center in Cathedral City was ready for business. Enough coke, marijuana, and black-tar heroin had been unloaded to satisfy Coachella Valley dealers for several weeks; more was in route. The man overseeing the setup, satisfied with each aspect of the facility and organization, ordered the warehouse closed and locked. He was hungry and decided to walk a block and a half to a restaurant on Ramon Road, accompanied by three other men.

Teresa Reynolds was trying to decide if jumping the red light would be a smart move. She was late. Her daughter Jennifer, age six, was in the seat next to her; son Jeremy, age three, was behind her, securely fastened in a child restraint carrier. The live Disney show in Palm Springs was scheduled to begin in twenty-four minutes. She was driving her father’s vintage Buick, and his insistence on giving her a complete pre-flight check was the reason she was late.

Leaving Rancho Mirage, she raced down Bob Hope Drive, pushing over the speed limit before turning left onto Ramon Road, where she ran into one unsynchronized traffic light after another. As she inched the car across the painted line, the light finally turned. She pushed the pedal down, and the large straight 8 with Hydra-matic transmission accelerated. Her focus was on the next light at Eljay Avenue. Oblivious to her surroundings, she saw that light change to yellow; hitting the brakes again, she mouthed, Shit.

It happened so fast there was no chance to understand or assimilate the events that followed.

Her eyes moved from the traffic light to the intersection, where a number of men in police SWAT gear were moving toward her with guns pointed. Teresa reached over and flipped Jennifer’s lap belt buckle, intending to push her to the floor, when gunshots sounded behind her and the passenger-side doors opened. A man got in, pushing Jennifer against her. More men entered the back seat. She started to turn toward the back seat when a steady stream of gunfire erupted. The side windows and windshield exploded in a shower of glass. The last things she heard were someone yelling Drive! and Jeremy screaming before the impact of bullets ended their lives.

______________________________

His emotional and physical withdrawal began when a handful of sandy soil landed on the coffin lid. Standing over the center of three side-by-side graves, palm of his right hand open, Jonathan Reynolds silently whispered, Goodbye, Teresa, goodbye Jennifer and Jeremy. A cold drizzle from grey clouds hovering over the Evergreen Cemetery in north Seattle defined his feelings. The people who had gathered there, most of them with umbrellas, to pay their last respects, waited patiently for Jonathan to say or signal something indicating the burial was over. He stepped back from the grave, turned, glanced briefly at Teresa Reynolds’ parents, and with shoulders hunched and head down, walked slowly out of the cemetery through its iron gates. His ensuing aimless walk lasted until near dark. At one point he raised an open palm to let the rain wash away the last of the soil.

The previous twelve days had been spent first identifying and then claiming the bodies from the Riverside County morgue, transporting them home, followed by organizing a memorial service and the subsequent burial. He went through the process with rote efficiency. Now that it was over and he was walking alone, he was left with only a feeling of numbness covering a cauldron of boiling anger.

Never one to cultivate many friendships or let anyone except Teresa inside his wall of invincibility, Jonathan’s hastily assembled support system quickly evaporated. Their suggestions were well meaning: Don’t try to understand such a senseless act of violence — accept the randomness of it; don’t blame the police or other authorities; they were only trying to do their jobs — accept the world we have become; let the memories of your family be the good ones; they’re in God’s arms — don’t focus on the circumstances of the tragedy; you must go on with your life for their sake; ad nauseam, ad nauseam.

______________________________

Three days after the funeral, a Coroner’s Inquest began at the Riverside County Courthouse in Palm Springs, California. Retired Judge Dominici from Palm Desert was requested to preside.

Judge Dominici banged his gavel and addressed the courtroom. "Please be seated. First I want to explain to those gathered that this inquest is unusual for several reasons: a) it is a procedure seldom used anymore, having been supplanted by investigative teams from the District Attorney’s office working with forensic experts, b) a Coroner’s Inquest is presided over by the county coroner, and so shall this one be, however, I have been requested by the AG to provide oversight and decide any questions pertaining to the rules of procedure due to the unique nature of this case, and c) because the officers to be questioned here are from both county and federal jurisdictions, the jury’s findings are not binding — they will be forwarded as a recommendation to the District Attorney of Riverside County and the U.S Attorney’s office in Los Angeles.

Coroner Luna, you may proceed.

Miguel Luna was short and squat, with deep-set black eyes and overhanging eyebrows. An untrimmed, bushy black moustache and the lack of a definite chin gave him the look of someone right off the Hollywood set of some B-rate horror film. However, his voice was light — even melodious.

He began, "Coroner’s Inquest, number 04-154661, into the shooting deaths of Ricardo Ortega, Emilio Montoya, Carlos Garcia, Jose Padilla, Teresa Reynolds, Jennifer Reynolds, and Jeremy Reynolds, occurring February 2nd last, is hereby opened for inquiry.

While California code allows for between 9 and 15 jurors for this inquest, I have elected to empanel the standard 12 from our jury pool — my thanks to the jurors for serving. The first witness I would like to call is Sheriff Delbert Stone. Sheriff Stone, please come forward and be sworn.

Stone was the epitome of the stereotype sheriff: beefy to the point that his carefully pressed uniform strained at every seam and button. His wide leather belt was canted downward from back to front at thirty degrees; military-style haircut; his rosaceous face may or may not have been alcohol induced. He lumbered to the witness box and was sworn in.

Luna asked Stone, Sheriff, would you provide the jury with background information about the operation that led up to this tragic result?

Well, Stone began, "my office was contacted, in late October last year, by the DEA Special Agent-in-Charge John Galloway, concerning a suspected major drug-distribution center being set up in Cathedral City, here in the valley. Galloway, by the way, is headquartered in LA. He gave me an address of several buildings, including a warehouse just off Ramon on Eljay Avenue and asked that we regularly and routinely monitor this site — reporting comings and goings, including capture of license-plate numbers. He asked that we fax him a report weekly, and, in the meantime, his intel group would be gathering more info.

"I asked where the hell I should get budget for this surveillance. He told me to submit a request, including estimated overtime, directly to him. I did that, and, to date, he has reimbursed the county for more than $22,000. There’s still more owing. We began our surveillance on November 2, as I recall.

"There weren’t much activity until after the first of the year, but we managed to copy down plate numbers from six or seven regulars — no trucks on that list that I recall. I ran the plates before faxing ’em to Galloway, and three of the deceased Mexicans were identified. I don’t think we ID’d Montoya. Somebody tol’ me Montoya weren’t Mexican anyway.

"Anyhow, Galloway calls me on January 15, I think, and says his intel guys have reliable info that the center has been set up and it’s ready to accept a large shipment in the next few weeks — could we increase surveillance until he could send some DEA agents — maybe in the next week; budget is no problem.

Galloway showed up at my office unannounced on the 25th. By that time, we had five DEA agents here on twenty-four-hour surveillance of the site. Galloway tells me his intel people think the shipment will cross the border near Calexico in the next few days and then travel up Highway 86 to the new distribution center here. He also tol’ me some big shot would be with the shipment an’ his boys at the border would attempt to spot the shipment. They’d let it pass, an’ it would be up to us, here, to intercept.

Stone paused for a drink of water, allowing Luna to ask, When did Mr. Galloway suggest your deputies participate in his interdiction operation?

At the same meeting, Stone responded before emptying the water glass.

What was expected from your deputies?

Galloway said he had four agents trained and available for the intercept and needed four more from us. He said we should prepare for a fire-fight — full combat gear. He said if the border folks spotted the shipment, he could fix the date and time, otherwise, we should plan to move immediately upon surveillance seeing the arrival of vehicles. As it turned out, the border boys came up with nothing.

Did you participate directly, Sheriff?

No, my boys were under the command of the fucking DEA — oh, sorry.

No further questions. I note that Ralph Tobler, attorney representing the Reynolds’ family, is here. Ralph, do you have any questions?

After a negative shake of Tobler’s head, Luna excused the sheriff and went on: I would like to call Lucas Berry, Agent for the Drug Enforcement Agency. Agent Berry, come forward and be sworn.

Tall and lean with short-cropped gray hair, Berry had been with the DEA for five months following a twenty-year career with the U.S. Army, including several tours in Special Forces. Berry took the witness chair.

Luna began, Agent Berry, you were the agent in command of the joint DEA-Riverside County force that shot and killed the persons in this inquest. Is that correct?

Correct.

Would you tell the jury the sequence of events that led up to the eruption of gunfire?

Speaking slowly and in a near monotone, Berry began, Eight of us, four from DEA, four Sheriff’s Deputies, in full armor, waited behind the sheriff’s office. We had two beater vans and were in secure radio contact with our spotter, who was in a taco restaurant opposite Eljay Avenue just off Ramon from the target warehouse. We assumed the border agents missed the crossing, and we were waiting for any sign of activity. At 1:47 PM on February 2, we received notice that two vehicles plus a step van had turned off Ramon, heading for the target. We tried to mobilize immediately.

Go on, urged Luna.

What’s to tell? responded Berry, appearing somewhat bored and looking everywhere else except at Coroner Luna.

How was the ‘target,’ as you call it, engaged?

We were slow to leave the sheriff’s office because the driver of the deputies’ van was in the restroom. We finally left in the vans, and, during the drive, without sirens, our spotter reported that the scum had removed suitcases from the sedans and were currently unloading several covered pallets from the step van. We pulled into curbside parking spaces on Ramon Avenue across from the side road and waited for a ‘go’ from the spotter. We now had no choice but to let them complete their unloading and re-emerge from the warehouse. Our instructions were that the people were more important than the shipment contents, as they were going nowhere. The spotter reported that four men were walking away from the warehouse toward Ramon, laughing and in conversation. One seemed to be in charge. They reached the stoplight at Ramon and waited for the light to change before crossing; we left the vans and deployed to positions in the intersection just before they noticed us.

Go on, Luna prompted. What caused the eruption of gunfire?

Our weapons were pointed at them. One of my men shouted for them to lie face down. At that moment, a vehicle came screeching to a halt at the light, which had just turned red, partially blocking our view. From over the trunk of this car, one of the scums fired shots, wounding one of my men as the others yanked open the opposite-side doors of the car and entered. We opened fire on the vehicle.

Luna paused for nearly a minute, seemingly in thought, before asking the next question.

What about Ms. Reynolds and her children? Did you not see them in the car?

Can’t say that I did; at our debriefing, no one said they saw the family. It was reasonable to assume it was a getaway vehicle.

Luna decided to let Ralph Tobler ask the more-poignant questions, because he could always continue afterwards. Ralph, do you have any questions for Agent Berry?

Rising slowly, Ralph Tobler patted Mrs. Davis, Teresa’s mother, sitting beside him, on the shoulder. Yes Miguel, and thank you for the opportunity.

Impeccably dressed and coiffed, Tobler was the Davises’ next-door neighbor in the gated Rancho Mirage Country Club.

Approaching the witness, he asked, Do you know how Teresa Reynolds and her children came to be at your deadly intersection?

Not firsthand, Berry replied evenly. Prior to this inquest, I read the statements of her parents. It seems she had come down from Seattle for a visit and was taking her children to a Follies performance in Palm Springs. That’s what I know.

What was the make and model of the car Teresa Reynolds was driving?

Buick four-door, I believe — older, but I don’t know what year.

Were the windows tinted?

I don’t remember.

For your information, they were not. The car was a classic owned by her father. Are you telling me and this jury you saw no one inside this car?

When the four scums got into the car, it was impossible to identify any one individual.

Using your words and your previous testimony, you simply assumed more ‘scums’ were inside or at the wheel?

Yes, especially when gunfire came from the car.

"Came from the car? I believe you testified a moment ago the gunfire come from ‘…over the car’s trunk.’ Isn’t it a fact that you paid no attention to who might be in the car?"

Berry did not respond, so Tobler went on.

So your master plan called for a gunfight in a busy intersection with civilians around — that doesn’t sound like much of a plan to me. What about traffic control, other vehicles?

Berry’s voice became clipped and argumentative. We intended to rush the warehouse target as soon as the spotter informed us. The scum were away from their vehicles. As I said before, we were late getting there because of some guy’s bowel movement. They not only had completed the unloading but were walking away from the warehouse. As far as traffic was concerned, my men were in the intersection preventing anyone eastbound. The Sheriff’s Deputies were on the west side of the intersection and obviously paid no attention.

Tobler asked softly, Do you or your team bear any responsibility for the Reynoldses’ deaths?

Can’t say that we do — it’s never a good operation when innocents get killed, but it happens. We’re in a war.

No further questions.

Berry sat erect, staring at the courtroom back wall while Tobler sat down. The remaining seven agents and deputies repeated Berry’s words nearly verbatim. The medical examiners’ testimony went into gruesome detail over the number of bullets in each body and the weapons from which they’d come. All told, more than two hundred rounds had been fired in less than ninety seconds.

The inquest lasted two days, including jury deliberations. They reached a unanimous recommendation: We, the jury, after careful consideration of the facts in this tragic case, conclude the shootings of the eight victims by members of local and federal law enforcement to be justifiable homicide. We would like to add a footnote expressing our deepest sympathy to the surviving members of the Reynolds family.

Chapter 2

May 2006

Twenty-seven months later, Jon’s progressive withdrawal had led to near-total isolation in the Idaho wilderness.

The sun was high, the sky clear blue, and the wind calm. The small lake had a mirror-like surface. Jonathan was sitting on a rock outcropping, staring into the 30-foot depths at several trout darting near the shore. The tranquil environment created moments of lucidity in which he could separate the past and present in his mind. This was what he had hoped for when he’d made the decision to seek this isolation.

The 80-acre area surrounding the lake was a 130-year-old mining claim staked out by his great-grandfather. He had spent many days there with his father, an avid hunter.  When his parents died in the crash of Swissair Flight 111 in 1998, it had passed to him. The private property was a rarity, lying within the 2.2 million-acre Payette National Forest and accessible only by helicopter or a 17-mile-long, very rough logging road. Jonathan Reynolds had become little more than a hermit. His only contacts with the outside world were the rare email exchanges with his former boss and a monthly trip to the nearest town, with a population of 118 people, for supplies.

Jon’s current focus was the melting snow on the surrounding mountains, while images of him and his father tracking elk passed by in his mind’s eye. He had an ability of concentration so intense that it had become legendary in the office. In the months after the funeral, that ability had been his escape during the day. Alone at home each night, his only escape had been music, an occasional DVD movie, or restless sleep. Music had been a good friend that could match his mood.

The usual progression of his thoughts began when some stimulus or another brought forth a mental image of a previous happy time with his family. That view was quickly supplanted by the image of their bodies on stainless steel slabs in the morgue, a flash of anger followed by feelings of loss, remorse, loneliness, and utter despair. Jonathan possessed an IQ in excess of 140, and he despised his lack of self-control in moments when past images and emotions controlled his thoughts. Teresa had frequently accused him of being emotionally bankrupt. This cycle of thought kept recurring and in fact had fueled the withdrawal.

Jon knew he was seriously depressed. His lifelong aversion to doctors or drugs to solve one’s problems, or the façade of therapists more screwed up than himself had served to prevent any possibility of external treatment — after all, he was invincible and had never failed at anything. Once his anger at what had happened began to subside slightly, driven by his inability to penetrate the morass of cover-your-ass bureaucracy he’d encountered while trying to put the circumstances of the tragedy into perspective, the withdrawal accelerated.

By the lake, he forced himself to analyze the pieces and parts of his circumstances. Accepting that he was miserable was easy. Can I quantify the specific aspects of that misery? he wondered. Jon also accepted that, for more than eight years, he had taken happiness for granted. He had read somewhere that there was no such thing as happiness, only the pursuit thereof — bullshit! From the moment Teresa had hooked him until he received that phone call from the Riverside County Sheriff, he had known true happiness. Together they had blended and balanced the strains of his job with the arduous joys of parenthood. He knew and accepted another facet of his makeup: accomplishment was everything — not for external acceptance, but because designing and creating something of widespread use and value was important and self-satisfying.

On a momentary impulse, he slid off the rock and jogged to the cabin thirty yards away. I’ve got to write down these thoughts before the cycle repeats itself, he thought. Yanking a piece of paper from the fax/printer and grabbing a pencil, he wrote: anger, loss, remorse, loneliness and despair. Satisfied that he had captured the essence of his feelings for future analysis, he returned to the rock outcropping and began to mentally review the circumstances that had led him to this time and place.

______________________________

At the end of his walk after leaving the cemetery, he had found himself in a business district characterized by many neon signs and an endless string of small businesses — So this is strip-mall America, he thought. How he had arrived here, he had no idea. The only sense of comfort came from the fact that none of the customers, coming or going, or any of the proprietors knew him or anything about his recent past. He was enjoying total anonymity; the only giveaway as to his state of mind was that his black suit was wet and limp on his body; his hair was plastered to his skull and forehead. Entering a small shop selling beer, wine, magazines, cigarettes, and various sundries, he asked the Arab behind the counter if he could call a cab, having left his cell phone in the hearse. Twenty minutes later and after a language struggle, a taxi arrived and took him home.

Although he worked in Bellevue, across Lake Washington from Seattle, Teresa, his wife of eight years, had an attraction to the stately older homes on Capitol Hill, just east of downtown Seattle. The commute wasn’t too bad, going opposite the traffic, and the view of Volunteer Park was worth the price of admission to this exclusive neighborhood. But on that night, the three stories of the remodeled home were dark and foreboding. Jon could clearly remember his feelings as he mounted the front steps: a momentary desire to flee, a fear of the emptiness he knew was inside, a realization that his family was gone forever, followed by a burst of anger. That was his first return to his home since returning from California with the bodies. The Residence Inn near his office had provided a convenient and necessary escape.

He opened the front door and stood in the dark foyer, refusing to turn on a light that would confirm no one was home. In the dark, ascending the stairs to the second story, he passed his children’s bedrooms without looking in. He stood outside the master bedroom door for several minutes before opening it.  Pushing open the door, he was assaulted by feelings of grief and guilt. He returned to the living area, off the foyer, stretched out on the sofa, and willed himself to sleep.

Jon’s wristwatch said 5:30 AM — old habits never die. As he swung his legs off the sofa, he felt clammy and disheveled. On the first floor was a guest room with its own bath. Stripping off his funeral suit, purchased four days prior, and after tossing it down the clothes chute to the basement below, he turned the water on in the guest-room shower as hot as he could stand. Twenty minutes later, toweled dry and standing naked, he knew he must go back to the master bedroom.

Without so much as a glance at the neatly made bed or Teresa’s belongings on the nightstand and dresser, he made three trips hauling his clothes and toiletries to the guestroom. He could not help glance at her clothes in their closet, but as his feelings began to well up, he forced himself to concentrate only on his belongings during the second and third trips.

For the next two years, Jon never set foot on the second floor.

That time period was characterized also by a downward spiral of sameness — arriving at work by 7:30 AM, departing near midnight. Sundays were the only exception. He wandered through Volunteer Park, occupied with memories of his children. He fell asleep those nights often listening to Kristofferson sing Sunday Morning Coming Down. By the fourth month following the funeral, the phone calls and invitations had stopped; his co-workers had ceased their efforts to draw him out or suggest solutions. Jonathan Reynolds, self-willed and self-absorbed, had entered a world and routine where he could manage the relationship between his conflicting emotions — essentially by refusing to acknowledge their existence.

Until one day when his concentration on the computer monitor in front of him was interrupted by the sound of pelting rain on the window over his shoulder. It was the second anniversary of the funeral. Looking out at the driving rain and dark grey clouds, the usual thought pattern began. Only this time, it ended differently: If I’m simply feeling sorry for myself and of no use to anyone, maybe it’s time to check out. Suddenly a new feeling emerged: fear — Did I just contemplate suicide? Jon logged off his computer, grabbed his coat and bolted from the office — to the utter amazement of his co-workers. Late that night, still badly shaken by what had occurred, Jon realized, if only to save himself, he must break the cycle with a major change.

It took three weeks to clear out and list his home for sale, trade in his Lexus for a pickup, and head east to Idaho. In the process, he came to an arrangement with his employer of the past nine years: Advanced Cyber Technology in Bellevue, Washington, and his boss and good friend Karl Oberling, VP of Product Development. Jon was given an open-ended leave of absence. Karl came up with this idea and obtained quick approval from the Board of Directors shortly after he observed Jonathan placing personal items from his office into a banker’s box. Neither Karl nor the company, ACT, could afford to lose the immeasurable talents of Jonathan Reynolds.

Karl knew his plan was self-serving, but he rationalized it by believing that he knew what Jonathan needed — space and solitude. After all, Karl had witnessed the slow withdrawal of his star employee; the rejection of many suggestions to seek counseling — even his offer to accompany Jon to a therapist; Jon’s unwillingness to communicate with others in the development group with anything beyond monosyllabic responses. Yet, throughout the past two years, Jon’s work product had been extraordinary, and the company’s future prospects were soaring. Probably the result of sixteen- to eighteen-hour days which Jon claimed was how he wanted to spend his time as he could not sleep and didn’t want to be at home. One of the conditions of granting Jonathan the leave was to maintain an email communications link with Karl. Jon agreed to do so, never anticipating it would be used.

______________________________

As he slid off his rock perch and went for a daily run, Jon reflected that the beauty and isolation surrounding him was like being under a soft, warm blanket — he didn’t have to deal with the outside world, and he sure as hell didn’t miss it.

Chapter 3

1970 to 1997 —– Seattle, Washington

Jon was the only child of middle-class but well-educated parents whose roots went back to pioneer Seattle. An impulsive and precocious child, always right, never wrong, he showed no particular aptitude for anything save wreaking havoc on his staid parents and his teachers — the class clown, a frequent visitor to the principal’s office, late or missing assignments, Rock ’n’ Roll music played very loud. All this changed as a junior in high school, when he was placed in a Calculus and Mathematical Analysis class. He did not have either the grades or the pre-requisites, but his counselor decided to challenge him or knock him down a few pegs through failure. Jon grasped the concepts so rapidly the teacher fed him material that went as far as differential equations, linear algebra, and complex variables. Seven years later, Jon received a PhD in Applied Mathematics from the University of Washington. His Bachelor’s Degree was in Computer Science. His doctoral thesis, Complex Fourier Transforms for Digital Signal Processing, caught the attention of recruiters at Microsoft. At 24 years old, Jonathan Reynolds occupied a cubicle at the world’s premier software company, writing APIs (application program interfaces) for a variety of third-party products.

Jonathan was very proud of his new position at Microsoft, but it paled in comparison to the most important thing ever to happen in his life: his recent marriage.

According to her mother, Teresa Lynn Davis had the looks, bearing, and family social status to be a debutante even though that concept and those types of accolades had disappeared decades before. In reality, Teresa was a smart, clever, and fun-loving girl who always played a proper role around her parents. When she pledged the Alpha Phi sorority at the University of Washington, because of her mother’s legacy, she believed she could finally be her own person. Two years into her façade of a college education, she met Jonathan Reynolds at the HUB (Student Union Building) standing in line for a vanilla Coke. He charmed her from the beginning. The truth was he stood aside with false gallantry to let her order. His motives were otherwise. Teresa ordered five drinks as her sorority sisters waited at a nearby table. Continuing the false gallantry, Jon helped her carry the drink-laden tray to the table, where he was promptly asked to join the group — exactly what he was hoping.

Jonathan told the group he was a graduate student studying applied mathematics to supplement his Computer Science undergraduate degree. All the girls at the table were duly impressed, but Teresa was the focus of Jon’s attention. In moments of self-analysis and reflection, one of the more troubling aspects Jon realized about himself was his lack of success with women.

At six-feet-one-inch and 185 pounds, Jon was more lean and wiry than muscled. His sandy blond hair was continually disheveled; his strong jaw, narrow nose, and steely blue-grey eyes made him sometimes appear hawk-like. But then a smile would completely soften and change the image to the point where he would appear ruggedly handsome. In high school, he was considered aloof, standoffish, and conceited — admired but not serious boyfriend material. In college, he had determined to change those perceptions but soon fell into the routine of his dormitory roommates: find ’em, woo ’em, bed ’em. At 22 years old, Jon’s ego required that he be attractive to the opposite sex.

As the group, along with their trivial conversations, broke up, Teresa gave Jon her sorority-house name and phone number.

Jon spent the next fourteen months chasing her. Her background was foreign to him; her family’s attitudes were old-fashioned, best suited to the Ozzie and Harriet era; her coyness was sometimes infuriating. Nonetheless Jon was hooked, if not obsessed. She fed every egocentric need he had, but How could someone profess to love me and not sleep with me? he would ask himself — especially in this day and age! One weekend it happened.

The UW Huskies had traveled to Pullman Washington for the Apple Cup football game. Washington State University was a bitter rival, and the small town was full. The only place where they could secure a reservation was the dilapidated Hilltop Motel. There it happened, fueled by alcohol and Jon’s insistence. To his dying day, Jonathan Reynolds would never forget their next morning.

When Teresa awoke in the morning, Jon was not there. When she emerged from the shower, he still was not there. She dressed, packed, and straightened the bed. Reaching for the door handle, Jon almost knocked her over rushing into the room. Face to face, they looked at each other, trying to read each other’s mind.

Jon spoke first. That was sort of anti-climactic; I’m sorry I pushed you so far. I love you with all my heart and realized this morning there’s a hell of a lot more going on here than I previously thought. You’re a lot more complex and …and maybe I might be given the chance to experience what’s below the surface.

Teresa laughed, not as a cover and not because anything was funny. That was quite a speech, lover boy. Are you trying to show me something you’ve kept hidden? Hate to tell you this and damage that invincibility, but you weren’t all that great last night. Before you start to deflate, let me tell you with certainty that, with my careful training, you will become the world’s greatest lover. Of course, that’s just the frosting on the cake. I think we’d better discuss the ingredients of the cake on our drive back home. Come over here; give me a strong hug and a tender kiss.

______________________________

Advanced Cyber Technology Inc. was a startup technology company and Microsoft spin-off founded by two entrepreneurs in the mid-’90s. Karl Oberling was one of the founders together with partner Brad Deardorff. Karl, stocky, with a full head of usually unkempt hair, and piercing blue eyes, had been fascinated by ciphers, cryptology, and secret codes since his youth. Karl breezed through MIT at the tender age of 20. The founders’ claim to fame was an algorithmic-attack methodology: a greatly modified and enhanced version of what was commonly called integer factorization that could defeat the encryption technology becoming more complex and sophisticated each day.

At that point in time, with Internet usage and new applications exploding in an unregulated environment, researchers were focusing on how to make everything from simple emails to e-commerce secure. Encryption was the key — pun intended.

Of course, the government was becoming more and more paranoid over what information was traversing cyberspace, considering their lack of knowledge and control. The two founding entrepreneurs of Advanced Cyber Technology Inc., in a fit of braggadocio, published an article in PC World touting their technology. They claimed to have developed an algorithmic-attack methodology, as opposed to traditional brute-force mathematical attacks on the encryption key, which could break every block or stream of ciphers of the day. In fact, they had no polished or completed application — only the underlying functions (computer code) of their algorithm. This article caught the attention of Col. Peter Remington, Internet-security liaison officer to the Joint Chiefs at the Pentagon. Full of themselves, the founding entrepreneurs of ACT flew to Washington, D.C., for a meeting. Their egos were on overload after receiving a temporary security pass and being escorted by a mindless-but-overly-polite Army Captain through five security checkpoints to a conference room in E Ring of the Pentagon.

Col. Remington cut right to the point by opening the meeting with, Welcome. Thank you for coming here on such short notice. We are very impressed with the potential of your technology. We are interested in an exclusive licensing agreement. I can see you have brought a laptop; is it possible to see a demonstration?

In the best tradition of Rube Goldberg, the founders had brought with them core functions that needed to be fed by data entry and executed in debug mode. After Col. Remington’s opening remarks, fear of failure or exposure permeated the founders’ thoughts.

Of course, Brad had responded. Bring us an encrypted message, and we’ll decode it.

The Captain, who had been standing at ease by the conference room door, produced a CDR from his broad tunic pocket and handed it to the founders. Fortunately for the founders, the laptop screen hid what was going on behind it. Karl popped the CD into the drive, accessed its contents of gibberish, copied them to the Windows clipboard, opened the C++ debugger, and pasted the message into the function they were calling. With a sweaty hand and praying the encrypted message was symmetrical, with a key length of 112 or fewer bits, the founder clicked the Run control. To their huge relief and the smile of Col. Remington, the English language text that appeared on the screen was correct.

The Colonel said, I want you to know what you accomplished in a few seconds took our best cryptanalysts and many hours of computer time to decode. Congratulations.

The two founders’ deodorant had failed them; their relief was well hidden; they asked in the most reserved and respectful of voices, Where do we go from here?

Thus Advanced Cyber Technology (ACT) was launched, a company without a completed product. On the plane ride from Washington, D.C., to Seattle, the founders clinked glasses and drank a toast — thank God for small favors and a message with a 64-bit encryption key.

The founders swung into action the day after their arrival back at Sea-Tac airport. Their employment ads went out to the Puget Sound Business Journal, various Internet sites, the university, and local word of mouth.

After almost three years at Microsoft, doing the same thing day in and day out, Jonathan was ready for a change. He was now married, with a wife who wanted to start a family. They were living in a duplex he was embarrassed to show his co-worker friends, and he was literally bored out of his skull. Jon was in desperate need of self-fulfillment and a sense of accomplishment. The ACT ad was too appealing to resist.

In Jonathan’s line of work, analysis was but one component of what is commonly referred to as the analytical thought process — but the part he believed to be most important and where he excelled. Given an objective or desired result, one must first collect all available data, organize these data into information, and analyze the information to hypothesize possible outcomes and/or courses of action. In fact, he was a genius at the entire process. But what Jon found most satisfying was the creation of a tangible product that implemented the hypothesis.

The launch of ACT was fueled by the Department of Defense contract. At the beginning, the founders, Karl Oberling and his longtime friend Brad Deardorff, used the interminable contract negotiations with the Pentagon to buy time to gear up. They secured office space, hired staff, purchased new computer and communications equipment, and wrote a specification for the software application that would be the wrapper for their decryption technology. Jonathan Reynolds was the fourth person they hired. Based on Jon’s credentials, he was given the title of Principal Software Architect — everyone needed a pretentious title, the founders believed. The founders were borrowing money and making commitments like there was no tomorrow.

Four months into his employment with ACT, Jon burst Karl and Brad’s bubble. The founders were conducting a design review of the Beta version of the decryption application to be sent to the Pentagon for testing — the first milestone in the contract. In addition to Jon, three other software engineers were in attendance. As the meeting wore down, everyone except Jon was exuberant. The application felt good; the bug list and tweak list consumed less than two pages.

Noticing Jon’s subdued demeanor, Karl asked, What’s the matter, Jon? You should be pleased — you did a fantastic job in an incredibly short time.

Jon pulled a CD from the inside pocket of his open notebook and slid it across the conference table. Run this encrypted message, would you?

With a small sense of wariness, Karl swiveled in his chair and inserted the CD into the drive of a workstation behind him. The application they had been critiquing was already open, so he simply