Three black sedans with tinted windows converged in the street outside my Beverly Hills home. Our large picture window revealed six men in dark suits and designer sunglasses as they spilled out of the three vehicles, straightened their posture, scanned the immediate neighborhood and briskly walked up the driveway. A chill ran through my body and my eyes flitted about the room, picking out every possible escape route from our living room. The men strode towards our door with a gait was pure military, or maybe it was law enforcement. They were serious, well-trained men. The blood rushed to my face and my mind raced. Why are they here? What do they want? Why me?
The doorbell rang with authority. My wife Sandy wandered out of the kitchen, her apron slightly dusted with flour and bits of cookie dough. Her expression changed in an instant from curiously intrigued to shocked and afraid as she caught sight of the severe, serious men that were visible through the window. My face must have mirrored hers as I struggled to process their arrival. How should I react? Run away? Think, Ed, Think! I paused just long enough to think of the smart thing to do, let them in. I quickly crossed the room from in front of our comfy couch toward the oak doorway. Oddly, a thought flashed through my mind – don’t give them the chance to break down the door! So much time and money remodeling. Sandy would mourn the loss. I cautiously swung the door open, sure that the panic and fear was showing on my face, but unable to change my expression.
“Mr. and Mrs. Bookman?” We both nodded, but the leader of the six black-suited men (or so I thought of him, since he was in the center of our doorway and was the one speaking) didn’t wait for us to answer. “May we come in, we have a matter of security to discuss with you.” Again we nodded, our expressions filled with confusion and dismay, unable to speak but urgently aware that this was deadly serious.
The men arranged themselves around the room in a manner that was organized, yet not imposing. Two seemed to fade into corners. The leader waited as we automatically found our regular spots on our plush sofa, then he pulled the largest chair forward and sat down facing us. Another man pulled up a chair next to him, and sat expectantly. The other two agents also sat nearby, finding unobtrusive places to sit.
“My name is Sam Browning, and,” gesturing to the man next to him, “this is my partner Julian Martinez. We’re senior agents with a security agency called the SCRA – the Southern California Regional Authority.” He paused, letting this sink in for a moment, then continued, “The other men are also agents with SCRA, here for our protection and yours.”
He leaned forward slightly and went on, “We are here for two purposes – to discuss with you a security protocol that has been instituted for your neighborhood, and to obtain from you and your wife a signed confidentiality agreement to ensure the secrecy of the security project.” Again, he paused, with an instinctive understanding that the information he was providing to us would take time to digest.
I felt my ears flush red, I felt cornered. “Mr. Browning. I’ve never even heard of the SCRA!” I blurted out, “I don’t know of any security projects in this neighborhood, and I don’t see any other reason to trust what you are telling me.” My eyes darted to Sandy’s face. Her cheeks were an exaggerated red and her eyes were wide and glassy.
He replied darkly, “Let me give you two reasons to believe that what I’m telling you is true. Actually, two pieces of paper, both of which contain your signature.” He produced a thin brief case.
“The first is the deed to your home.” He unfolded the paperwork for us. “In it, there is a clause that states ‘the homeowner consents to participate fully in any home security projects provided for by the Beverly Hills Neighborhood Association and administered by the Southern California Regional Authority.’” He pointed to a section of the document that was highlighted. “And there are both of your signatures at the bottom of the page stating your agreement with this clause.” He allowed us a moment to read the paperwork and continued. “You will also find later that on page thirty five of the deed,” he pointed again to another highlighted paragraph, “the penalty for non-compliance with this clause is laid out, ‘should the property owner refuse to participate and/or compromise the security projects stated in clause fourteen, the Beverly Hills Neighborhood Association may retake title of the subject property and compensate the homeowner for fair market value of the property, as determined by a licensed appraiser of the state of California.’”
My wife and I caught each others’ eyes. Her expression was one of sickening dread. I was sure mine mirrored the same emotion as we realized we’d violated one of our own cardinal rules, “never sign anything that you haven’t read.” I looked over the highlighted section containing the penalty clause, but I did so only for show. I was sure that what he was saying would be spelled out in ugly black, white and yellow, and sure enough, it was.
Mr. Browning produced another document, but this time Mr. Martinez spoke, “Mr. Bookman, this second document is a copy of your employment contract with the Southern California Solar Corporation.” Again, a section of the familiar document was highlighted, and Martinez pointed to it, continuing. “On page five, you will find the following, ‘the employee agrees not to reveal any corporate secrets of the company, nor any security arrangements the company has made with outside vendors and agencies.’ You certainly are aware, Mr. Bookman, that SCSC has a security agreement with the Tanner Agency for the protection of projects like the one you are currently working on.”
“Yes,” I replied in a monotone, a pit growing in my stomach as the realization set in, they have us over a barrel. We’re screwed!
“As it turns out,” he continued, crisply like his partner, “The Tanner Agency is a related subcontractor on a project of SCRA. By telling you about this relationship now, before you sign the confidentiality agreement, we are taking a risk. But we believe that your interests and ours are clearly aligned.”
I rubbed my face with both hands, and looked up at him through reddened, bloodshot eyes, defeated. “So what you’re telling me is, if I don’t sign the confidentiality agreement, I will lose my job and my house and be forced to leave Beverly Hills, probably forever.” I looked over at Sandy, hoping for a ray of light, but her body was hunched over, quaking with silent sobs. Her eyes began to leak tears. She was trying to keep herself together, but failing.
Mr. Browning replied, “We don’t like to think of it that way, but essentially, yes. But before we continue along that path, let me put your mind at ease.” I knew what he was about to do. A sales pitch was coming that would make it easier for us to swallow this poison pill by detailing the benefits. But even though I could see the pitch coming, I still waited for it desperately, hoping for something to latch onto, something to make this all right.
He continued, “The security protocol is easy to institute. Your family’s daily lives will not be affected by the security measures we will ask you to take. You probably already have a system in place that can be altered easily to fit the protocol. The larger security measures that SCRA is charged with undertaking on your neighborhood’s behalf will almost surely be unnecessary. The measures will be in place and they will be strictly maintained, but we believe that we will never need to implement them.”
I was ready to say something with relief. It wasn’t so bad, was it? But before I could reply, Sandy cut in, anger filling every word, “So, why the ‘men-in-black’ routine?! Why scare us half to death with this interrogation-room presentation of evidence against us?!”
“Well, ma’am,” Martinez replied quickly, well-practiced at this type of confrontation, it seemed. “We’ve found that this is the best way to ensure that folks understand their options.”
“It doesn’t work for me!” She shouted, and stormed out of the room, the tears now streaming down her face.
“I better go...” I sputtered, only half looking at the two men for approval and ran after her.
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