Chapter 3
“Wonder how they’re going to enjoy having their bullshit exposed?” Steven muttered.
Avalon looked up from the floor, evaluating whether there was a promise of a treat in the statement. Finding none, he resumed his well practiced canine repose, uninterested in whatever drama was unfolding with his master.
Trading had concluded hours earlier. After wolfing down lunch, Steven had returned to his workstation and spent the rest of the afternoon typing furiously on his keyboard, putting the final touches on the website he’d been working on for the last month.
Satisfied with the way the fields lined up, he clicked ‘save’ and decided to call it a day. He looked at his watch, then reached his arms over his head and stretched, finally finished with the huge project he’d taken on.
Steven padded over to an overstuffed chair in the corner of his den and sat down, assuming a familiar position – hands clasped in his lap, eyes closed, head slightly bowed. His breathing subsided to a few intakes per minute, shallow breaths, hardly discernible. His blood pressure dropped, heart rate slowed.
Meditation had been an important part of his martial arts discipline for eighteen years. The experience inevitably left him feeling cleansed and focused, and he found it helped every aspect of his performance. Synapses were better aligned, reflexes improved, responses more immediate.
He stayed in a meditative state for twenty minutes, until some distant part of him signaled a return to awareness. His vital signs increased, breathing became deeper, and he opened his eyes, revitalized and refreshed.
The first few moments were always dreamlike, almost the same as walking out of a quiet museum or a church after mass; the senses re-calibrating to motions and sounds and near- constant stimuli.
Rising from his tranquil spot in the corner, he ambled over to the sliding glass doors and considered the view. It was dusk, and the sun was beginning its spectacular descent into the glittering sea.
Avalon lollopped over to greet him, hopeful for an outing. They walked onto the patio, taking in the non-stop passage of tourists and locals skating and rolling and pedaling past his vantage point. He noticed Gilbert, the resident homeless guy who invariably shuffled along this very route every evening, engrossed in discourse with invisible companions who assisted him with his inspection of the garbage cans lining the path.
Steven went inside and rummaged through the refrigerator for last night’s leftovers and searched in his pockets for a few small bills. He knew Gilbert would never beat whatever afflicted him, but to Steven’s way of thinking, it didn’t matter. Sometimes you win...
He hopped over the gate and greeted Gilbert by the little bench on the strand, as was his custom. They talked a while, and Steven handed him what he had to offer, which was always gratefully accepted. Avalon, adept at following Steven over the gate, looked up at him hopefully, tongue lolling happily out of his mouth.
“Don’t worry, boy. There’s still some chicken left for you.”
They returned to their little patio to watch the show. Catalina Island shimmered in the distance and remote oil platforms jockeyed with tankers in the shipping lanes for preeminent position for the evening’s sunset performance.
He registered the garage door opening and closing, and soon felt hands on his shoulders.
“You’re a lucky bastard, my friend.” Jennifer had already changed out of her work outfit – khakis and black blouse – and into sweat pants and a tank top.
“Rather be lucky than smart.” They’d been dating for a couple of years, a comfortable relationship that had developed a rhythm that satisfied their needs.
Jennifer considered his profile before looking over to the desk with the pile of research and notepads inside the house. She knew about his web project. “Aren’t you worried about waving a cape in front of the bull?”
“These dirt-bags are selling junk to widows and orphans, wiping out life savings, and ruining the market,” he said as he leaned back and closed his eyes. “I’m just leveling the playing field. No big deal.”
“When are you planning to put it online?” she asked.
“Why not tonight?”
“I don’t know, Steven. I’ve had a bad feeling about this since you started with it.” She pulled away and was quiet for a moment. “Where do you want to go to dinner?” she finally asked, moving the dialog to neutral ground.
Steven pulled at his chin. “Hmm…let’s go down the strand and do Italian. A little chicken Marsala never hurt. Yum yum yum. A little wine, a little song...”
“Sure. I’ll throw on some shoes and grab a sweater.” She stared at the top of his head for a minute, the ocean breeze tickling her face as she thought about saying something more, then she sighed, and turned to go back into the house.
The website had been structured as an expose of the junk science and questionable nature of the technology Allied was touting and the suspicious trading patterns the stock routinely enjoyed. Steven had conceived the site after finding sites targeting the shady dealings of large Wall Street banks, like GoldmanSachs666.com. If a site like that could expose the underhanded actions of Wall Street’s icons, he figured he could create one on a smaller scale and illuminate the crookery in play with Allied and the Griffen gang.
His new website detailed the questionable nature of the science the company claimed to be developing and pointed out that many of the company’s proponents were a network of physicians, scientists and stock promoters who’d been active in other, ultimately worthless shams that had cost investors everything. It also pored over public filings and exposed the ownership of the company’s stock, highlighting the massive role Griffen played.
All in all, it presented a compelling argument that trading in Allied was anything but fair and honest, and went into significant detail to link the players in the nefarious pump and dump scam.
Damaging stuff to be sure, but a hair shy of proof. Oh well, nothing was perfect. The time had come to put the site up and fire a salvo across the opposition’s bow.
When they got back from dinner he uploaded the site to an internet service provider in Texas. He’d deliberately chosen a service in a different state so anyone interested in silencing the site would be looking in the wrong places. He’d registered the domain name using the address of a now-defunct Irish pub in New Orleans, and created a blind account for e-mail contact. It all added up to making the site’s creator invisible and impossible to trace.
www.AlliedExposed.com went live at 12:04 a.m..
Before going to bed, Steven typed a post on one of the most popular internet message boards, inviting readers to the website. With any luck some exposure would get the regulators and the mainstream public interested in the doubtful technology and trading chicanery, resulting in some badly needed enforcement of the anti-manipulation rules. Steven just hoped it would go viral after his fellow message board denizens spread the word around. He’d done all he could at this point by collecting the data and highlighting all the abuses; it was in the public domain now, and would take on a life of its own – or die – based on forces outside of his control.
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