“Inside the tote, one of those Ziplocs contains electronic hardware; please leave that alone.”
That large Ziploc holds a CD and a thumb drive and an inexpensive laptop plus its power cord. When Ariel prepared this packet more than a decade ago, she had no idea when—if ever—she’d need to access this material, and which technologies would be available when that time came, and which would have been tossed onto the slag heap of progress. Hence the redundancies. Her memory was fresh with the recent obsolescence of floppy disks, CD-ROMs, VCRs, tape decks. She’d already lost access to plenty of media due to technological developments, Michael Jackson vinyl and Talking Heads cassettes, videocassettes of Katharine Hepburn movies and DVD boxed sets of Alias, now all just different shapes of plastic garbage sitting in her attic. But these are all easily replaceable, and she’ll always be able to find a new copy of No Way Out in a new format; plenty of businesses are motivated to maintain access to popular entertainments.
The same can’t be said for Ariel’s private files: her old audio recording of a conversation between two people, nine minutes of talking against background noise that’s consistent with the subdued sounds of a posh restaurant during a quiet time of day. Also old scans of a police report, a medical exam, some tests. Those media could also be monetizable, in a very different way.
“The other bag, P., has some hard-copy paperwork.” A legal agreement. Handwritten notes. “That’s what I’m interested in.”
“You are so badass.”
“I need you to read to me a few pieces of info from the paperwork.”
“Wow. I’m not exaggerating, Ariel, when I say that this is literally the best. Thing. Ever.”
Persephone literally doesn’t know what literally means; she seems to think it means the opposite. Ariel understands the idea of slang, accepts it, enjoys it. But this is something else, this total inversion, like humble when you mean proud, or obsessed for something pleasurable instead of painful. This isn’t just harmless slang. This is Newspeak, just like the term fake news: not merely untruthful, but a complete repudiation of the very idea that truth exists.
“Listen, P., this is really important: do not read the other pages. I am literally—and this is what the word literally literally means—legally forbidden from divulging the specifics of what’s in that contract. This is all extremely private material. And please do not touch the electronics. I need you to promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Okay, now open the Ziploc. Here’s what I need you to tell me: the names and dates that are on the top of the agreement. Who the parties are.”
Ariel of course knows that someone might be eavesdropping right now, or will listen to a recording of this conversation later. But it would be wantonly irresponsible—it would be criminally negligent—for her to not check this information before signing a new contract.
She doesn’t have a choice.
*
Ariel wakes every day to find that new words have been invented while others have been redefined, the language has been co-opted and distorted, weaponized, in an intersectional world of safe spaces and trigger warnings and microaggressions, of tokenizing and othering, Columbusing and whitewashing, centering and amplifying, mansplaining and manspreading, calling out and canceling, everyone rallying their point of view incessantly, to broadcast their complaints stridently, to yell relentlessly at anyone who disagrees.
It’s an ever-expanding lexicon of grievance. Ariel doesn’t think any of it is convincing anyone of anything that they didn’t already believe, not converting anyone to any cause. Instead she’s pretty sure it’s accomplishing the opposite—demonizing, alienating, repelling, infuriating everyone whose eyes really do need to be opened, driving ever deeper wedges.
It had taken her a long time, but Ariel had eventually accepted that problems can’t be solved by pretending they aren’t there. She’s also pretty sure that they can’t be solved by giving them abstruse labels to use as bludgeons with which to beat everyone over the head. Problems are solved by changing minds, not by making enemies.
“Thanks,” Ariel says. “And Persephone?”
“Yeah?”
“I really need to trust you here: Please do not look at the rest of the agreement.”
“I promise. I will not even glance at it. Literally.”
Persephone is Ariel’s primary guide to the idioms of ideologies; it’s the one thing contemporary grad school is definitely good for. They listen to NPR together, and Persephone tells her boss what the hell everyone is talking about.
At first, Ariel had worried that Persephone might turn out to be just another problem in her life. But she forced herself to take a step back, to try to see the young woman clearly, not as the person Ariel wanted to see, but as the person she really was. Not an enemy to reject, but an ally to nurture.
CHAPTER 28
DAY 2. 2:04 P.M.
Everything is finally moving along, until suddenly it isn’t. The notary is shaking her head.
“Who is this, please?” She’s pointing at the paperwork. “This Laurel Turner?”
Ariel’s spirits plummet, and she covers her face in both hands.
“You are Ariel Pryce, yes? But this document is for Laurel Turner. I do not understand.”
Of the many challenges to her credibility, Ariel had failed to anticipate this one. “I changed my name a long time ago. These papers use my old name.”
The notary seems to be taking this as a personal affront.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have any identification with that old name.”
“Nothing?”
“No. Not with me.”
The notary sighs. “This,” she says, “is a serious problem. Very serious.”
*
Kayla Jefferson puts the printout of phone records down on her station chief’s desk.
“Oh my goodness,” Griffiths says, thumbing through the pages. “This is a lot.”
“Yeah, it looks like John Wright uses this cell for everything. I checkmarked in blue the things that look like client calls. Green is travel—hotels, restaurants, cars, a place where they rented Segways.”
“Sorry: rented segues? What the fuck does that mean?”
“You know those things.” Jefferson holds her fists in front of her, as if clutching handlebars. “Like upright scooters? People zoom around on them, looking like idiots?”
“Ah. Right.”
“Red checkmarks are personal contacts. No checkmark at all means we don’t yet know what the relationship is to Wright. Still working on those.”
Griffiths turns a page, and Jefferson points at something. “This incoming call is a mechanic’s garage near Pryce’s farm. And this one here is Wright’s sister in Marrakesh.”
“Marrakesh?” Griffiths turns another page, then flips back. “His sister lives in Morocco?”
“Looks like it.”
“That’s a strange place for an American woman to live, isn’t it?”
“Is it? There are a lot of American expats in Morocco.”
“Hmm. Let’s take a look at this sister.”
“You got it.”
“Also that mechanic. Could you see what that’s about?”
Jefferson nods.