Asking for Help (part 2)

Oscar Wilde once said something to the effect that the worst thing in life was to be ignored. Obviously, Mr. Wilde was never the target of a computer hacker.

While the repeated hacks were bad enough, seeking help was even more excruciating. If I didn't already possess abundant sympathy for the budding Olympic gymnasts under the care of Larry Nassar, I did now.

After several incidents in early-August, I sought help via the courts. The hacking had started when the person I suspected and myself were friends. Now that we no longer were, what was he capable of?

I petitioned the court for a Stalking No Contact order. In preliminary phone calls, I explained the situation and my concerns and did not exaggerate them in any way. I was assured mine was an entirely viable case.

I should mention that my questions had been referred to a shelter for battered and abused women.

Which wouldn't be significant except for the fact my wife had suffered a fall four days earlier. And when the resulting hematoma drained into her eye socket a day and a half later, it gave her the appearance of someone who had been struck in the eye.

So when my wife and I arrived to file the order, attention immediately shifted to her. And then to me. Since I am eight inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier than my wife, you can guess the assumptions.

Fortunately, I was able to show a staffer the urgent text and photograph my wife's care-giver had sent me the morning of her fall, asking me to call home ASAP. This put to rest everyone's concerns.

The fun continued when I was asked to fill out an online form. It was written in government-ese, which is a language I continue to struggle with. So when the form asked when the stalking began, I listed the date I learned who my stalker slash hacker was, which was over a year ago.

The form then asked for the two-most recent events, which I obediently supplied.

A court clerk downloaded and printed the complaint and assigned it a case number. Then we waited for the judge.

I am fortunate to have had very little contact with judges. This means I have never been accused of a crime, been sued nor had to sue or accuse another. And given the choice, is unquestionably the way I prefer it.

So when the deputy arrived to escort us to our meeting, we followed with the kind of hope only the truly innocent can harbor.

We were led to a small conference room with a high ceiling. The walls were covered with curtains, the kind of which you'd see in an exhibition hall. There were a dozen rows of grey padded banquet chairs and a projector in the back. A small table with a lectern stood in the front. 

Ironically, the overhead lighting created more shadows than light.

We took seats in the first row and waited. Judge Joel Berg entered, sat down and scanned the first page of the request. Then the attack began.

Visibly irritated, he looked at me and said “This was over a year ago!”

I explained the online form requested the date of the first incident. That was it.

In an unsuccessful attempt to turn an accusation into a question, he barked “Why didn't you file sooner?”

I explained my ignorance of the No Contact option. That I had only heard of Orders of Protection, which dealt specifically with domestic abuse.

On it went. Every response seemed to aggravate him further. Huffing and puffing and shaking his head, Berg flipped between the pages of the print-out. He asked about the two most-recent incidents.

Like the indignant callers I had dealt with in my former life as a call center rep for a Baby Bell, he interrupted me half-way through my answers. He was pissed.

This was going so very wrong. And so very quickly. I was beginning to feel like the bad guy here.

When my anger reached critical mass, I exploded. I raised my voice. I talked over him. I gestured. I ceased addressing him as 'your honor'.

I hoped my face was taut and menacing. That my eyes were as piercing as lasers.

When I'm this angry I usually become a foaming, inarticulate mass. This time I was a guided missile of focus and outrage. I don't know how I remained seated.

I circled back to the central point in my argument and demanded an answer. “Tell me how that happens, judge! Tell me!”

Before our elevated testosterone levels had a chance to subside, Judge Berg barked again.

“I don't know who hacked your computer! And neither do you! Order is denied!”

At that moment, I felt as if I could push over a bus. Never mind a judge.

Yes, I wanted to beat the crap out of him. I was shaking with rage.

Berg's words lingered for days.

I expected no help from my stalker. I expected a great deal from the judge. And when I got nothing, it only stands to reason I was frustrated and angry.

Such is the burden of great expectations.

And yet being treated the way I was merely for seeking help seems so very, very wrong.  I was as outraged as that Albuquerque cop whose sleeve I had dared to tug on with my petty, insignificant and worse—ignorant—request.

The judge felt I didn't have sufficient evidence. That this didn't constitute an emergency. 

I suppose I should have apologized for not possessing video of my hacker doing his work. 

It is said that cops and crooks know the law best. Since I am neither, I should have also apologized for wasting the time of such vital resources.

I had presented my problem honestly to the judge's gatekeepers and had been allowed in. That was my fault?

Apparently.

So to those Olympic gymnasts, I offer my everlasting empathy. Unfortunately, I know exactly how you feel.

Asking for Help

If you've never sought help from a law enforcement agency or a court, consider yourself lucky. This is a sign that your life is uncontaminated by predators.

Sadly, I have. The offered assistance was, to put it mildly, disappointing. I was left even more grateful afterwards than I was going in that these weren't matters of life and death.

In 2003, my wife and I lived in Rio Rancho, N.M. We had moved there from Albuquerque because of repeated conflicts with the divorced father and middle school-aged boy who lived next door.

The father was fond of playing his electric guitar on the patio at night, at least when his girlfriend and her daughter weren't spending the night. Then, I could look forward to the two children frolicking on a trampoline dad had set up in the backyard.

When they could spare the time, the Albuquerque Police Department would mozy by, usually after our neighbors had gone to bed. They clearly didn't want to deal with a noise complaint.

Late one night, I suggested that since it was nearing 12 AM on a weeknight, maybe the kids could quiet down a little. This bought me a shattered sliding glass patio door the next day, compliments of a BB gun.

That was the event that led to us firing our neighbors.

In Rio Rancho, my wife and I lived in a rental home on a well-traveled side street. But the houses were spaced far apart and there wasn't a trampoline or electric guitar in sight.

One Saturday morning we were preparing to go to the supermarket. An important phone call delayed our departure. When we finally left, the work crew clearing out the burned-out portion of our next door neighbor's home (there had been a fire several days before) apparently took notice.

When we arrived home our house had been burglarized. My wife's jewelry was missing. As was my baseball card collection and a moderate cache of coins we had amassed. My 35mm camera lay on the floor, broken. The house was ransacked. 

Thankfully, they had failed in their attempt to steal my wife's car.

Our cat was traumatized. From that point forward, she would run and hide whenever the doorbell rang. It was obvious the intruders had rung the bell to ensure the house was empty. Then they kicked the door in.

The Rio Rancho police were called and took a report. My wife and I were asked to submit detailed inventories of everything that was missing. In our naivete, we did.

Among my wife's missing jewelry were several pieces that belonged to her mother and maternal grandmother. While not extremely valuable monetarily, they were of immense sentimental value.

We were gobsmacked. No one saw a thing. No one saw people kicking our door down in broad daylight or thought the sight of men running across our front yard carrying heavy, fire-proof safes and jewelry boxes unusual.

For the next two months we spent our weekends scouring pawn shops and flea markets. Eventually, we struck gold.

At the since-demolished Louie's Flea Market in the south valley, I came across a portion of my coin collection. The dark blue, hand-labelled folders I had described in our report to the Rio Rancho police were lying on a collapsible table, plain as day.

I told the person manning the booth I was interested but pressed for time. Did he have a business card? Not surprisingly, it listed the name of the contractor who had cleared out our neighbor's home.

Excited that our diligence had finally paid off, I called the Albuquerque police.

I was met at a pay phone by an officer who listened to my story. He told me he could only recover what was on site.

In a measured voice I explained the connection between the contractor and the burned-out house and our proximity to it. I explained the profound and sentimental value of my wife's jewelry and my baseball cards and how we had spent months looking for them. I asked why, with such an obvious connection, he could only seize what was on site.

The cop stared at me from behind his mirrored aviator sunglasses and walrus mustache.

Instead of answering my question or explaining the law, he told me the sole alternative would require me to wear a wire and risk great personal injury by visiting the contractor's home as an undercover civilian detective, and how such actions were highly discouraged by APD since I was not a law enforcement professional—like him.

I was slack-jawed. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. It couldn't have been clearer how angry this cop was that I had pulled him away from his free coffee and complimentary doughnut.

I took his name and badge number and filed the most-strident complaint I could muster.

Predictably, nothing came of it. When I inquired about the lack of follow-up, I was told to call non-existent phone numbers and visit empty offices. It was a big “fuck you” to a law-abiding member of the tax-paying public.

Displaying the same poor manners I had when I interrupted the responding officer's caffeine and sugar repast, I didn't even send a thank you card.

Unbelievably, the story gets better.

After relating my experience to a local TV station seeking stories of citizen's interactions with APD, I was pulled over three times in six months for suspected DWI.

One cop claimed we almost had an accident. Another claimed I was speeding. Still another accused me of “moving between the lines”. (To which I was tempted to reply “That kind of sounds like a description of driving, officer.”)

But being the tower of self-control and responsible drinking that I am, none of these stops bore fruit.

It could just be coincidence. But it's certainly an interesting one.

A few years later, the chief of the Albuquerque police department held a press conference. He announced that from this point forward, the starting salaries for Albuquerque police officers would increase 47%.

In a classic bit of PR, he claimed this would strengthen and improve the department by attracting better-qualified and more-experienced candidates. 

But when you read between the lines, it was a roundabout way of saying the ones currently on the force left something to be desired.

Who knew?

Counting Chickens

"I am not a member of any organized political party. I'm a Democrat."

-Will Rogers


There is a new group of young Democrats emerging in this election cycle. It is probably as inevitable as sunrise following sunset.

And this is a good thing. Without an injection of new blood, any organization, be it a sports franchise, a business or yes, even a political party, will wither and die. So those of us commonly called Democrats should embrace young candidates like Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and Conor Lamb and Rashida Thaib.

Youthful exuberance and wizened experience creates a dynamic cherished not only in locker rooms but in board rooms and back rooms. The young energize the old and reboot their passion, while the old impart experience and how best to channel boundless energy into useful action.

But as referenced in the Will Rogers quote, things don't always go so smoothly.

As the young are wont to do, they wish to remake the party in their image. Now. It's a case of revolution, not evolution. If Josef Stalin were at the head of the table such impetuousness would not only be prudent but recommended.

But these young Democrats have no such enemy.

Yet in their eyes, House minority speaker Nancy Pelosi is the leaden plow holding them back from recasting the party in a glorious new form. They proffer wan smiles and shoulder shrugs when asked about their support for Pelosi.

It's almost as if they've been listening to the raft of Republican-sponsored, Pelosi-centric attack ads.

The truth (and I hope these young Democrats are listening) is this: REPUBLICANS ARE SPENDING MILLIONS AND MILLIONS OF DOLLARS ATTACKING NANCY PELOSI BECAUSE THEY ARE AFRAID OF HER!

YOU GET THAT, RIGHT?

THEY FEAR HER BECAUSE SHE'S A WELL-CONNECTED AND EFFECTIVE FUND RAISER. THEY FEAR HER BECAUSE SHE'S A SAVVY CONSENSUS BUILDER. AND THEY FEAR HER BECAUSE IN THIS, THE AGE OF FEMALE EMPOWERMENT, SHE'S A HIGHLY-VISIBLE EXAMPLE THAT RESONATES WITH MILLIONS OF VOTERS.

WHILE THE SQUARE PEG DOESN'T ENDORSE THE OBJECTIFICATION OF WOMEN IN ANY WAY, SHAPE OR FORM, THIS MUST BE SAID: NANCY PELOSI IS A WEAPON!

AND SHE PLAYS FOR OUR SIDE!

Whew. OK.

So going forward, maybe we should actually win some seats in the House and Senate before we start the intra-family squabbling.

You think?

There are millions and millions of stupid, angry Republicans who will support the Trump-whore and his putrid collection of sycophants no matter what. The whore himself once said "I could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody and I wouldn't lose voters."

Sadly, he wasn't wrong.

Borrowing the victims from the well-known Monty Python sketch 'The Piranha Brothers', Trump supporters would rather have their heads nailed to the floor than admit he wasn't the best possible option for president.

With opposition like this, Democrats need to make a concerted and unified effort to keep their eyes on the prize. As its name implies, the Blue Wave is a singular, overwhelming force.

It is my hope that our fresh infusion of young Democrats understands this before making waves of their own. 

 

The First Summer of the Rest of My Life

In the great ebb and flow of life, I am definitely at high tide. At least if the quantity of water in that condition can be translated into Stuff That Needs To Be Done.

I am navigating the unfamiliar waters of being the primary care-giver for a sick spouse, untangling the multi-layered complexities of wills and trusts and estates and long-term care options that won't leave us penniless, especially since my employability continues to hover just north of zero.

And speaking of employment, there is the painful realization that I am the parent who should quit working because they can't afford the child care. This because through no fault of her own, my spouse requires a care-giver while I am at work. And the more I work, the more expensive it becomes.

In the most odious irony of my life, I am paying to work.

Even better, I'm too young for social security.

Just for the fun of it, I am also attempting to move from a modest condominium purchased under severe time constraints and which is an unmitigated disaster. Then there is the challenge of attempting this without it becoming an out of control, cash-sucking train wreck.

Like the Popeil commercials of yore, I must breathlessly inform you: Wait! There's more!

I have a stalker. A male co-worker who is obsessed with me. Who repeatedly hacks my computer. And who repeatedly appears just as I arrive at the garage after completing my route.

Creepy? You have no idea.

As only a sibling could, a sister inquires of me: “Who'd be interested in stalking you?”

Exactly.

To continue in the vein of vintage advertisements, I will paraphrase a nineteen-seventies TV commercial: Only my stalker knows for sure.

So yeah. Life is sucking pretty hard at the moment. And in between the medical appointments in far-flung municipalities and the estate-planning and the house-hunting and repairing the stove and the dishwasher and the plumbing and dealing with a stalker, something has to give.

And that would be the raft of sparkling and informative posts you're accustomed to seeing at The Square Peg.

• A friend with an interest in astrology reminds me that my birthsign is the goat. And while we're rarely the first one across the finish line, we cross it with unerring regularity.

I will deal.

Baaaah.