#scambusting

Chapter One

Fidelity Computing was the most colorful PC company in Silicon Valley.

A Catholic priest, a Mormon bishop, and an Orthodox rabbi walk into a technology gold rush and start a computer company. The fact that it sounded like the setup for a nerdy joke about the mid-1980s was fantastic for their bottom line. Everyone who heard their story loved it.

As juicy as the story of Fidelity Computing was, they flew under most people’s radar for years, even as they built a wildly profitable technology empire through direct sales through faith groups. The first time most of us heard of them was in 1983, when Byte ran its cover story on Fidelity Computing, unearthing a parallel universe of technology that had grown up while no one was looking.

At first, I thought maybe they were doing something similar to Apple’s new Macintosh: like Apple, they made PCs (the Wise PC), an operating system (Wise DOS), and a whole line of monitors, disk drives, printers, and software.

Like the Mac, none of these things worked with anything else—you needed to buy everything from floppy disks to printer cables specially from them, because nothing anyone else made would work with their system.

And like the Mac, they sold mostly through word of mouth. The big difference was that Mac users were proud to call themselves a cult, while Fidelity Computing’s customers were literally a religion.

Long after Fidelity had been called to the Great Beyond, its most loyal customers gave it an afterlife, nursing their computers along, until the parts and supplies ran out. They’d have kept going even then, if there’d been any way to unlock their machines and use the same stuff the rest of the computing world relied on. But that wasn’t something Fidelity Computing would permit, even from beyond the grave.

I was summoned to Fidelity headquarters—in unfashionable Colma, far from the white-hot start-ups of Palo Alto, Mountain View, and, of course, Cupertino—by a friend of Art’s. Art had a lot more friends than me. I was a skipping stone, working as the part-time bookkeeper/accountant/CFO for half a dozen companies and never spending more than one or two days in the same office.

Art was hardly more stable than me—he switched start-ups all the time, working for as little as two months (and never for more than a year) before moving on. His bosses knew what they were getting: you hired Art Hellman to blaze into your company, take stock of your product plan, root out and correct all of its weak points, build core code libraries, and then move on. He was good enough and sufficiently in demand to command the right to behave this way, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. My view was, it was an extended celebration of his liberation from the legal villainy of Nick Cassidy III: having narrowly escaped a cage, he was determined never to be locked up again.

Art’s “engagements”—as he called them—earned him the respect and camaraderie of half the programmers and hardware engineers in the Valley. This, in spite of the fact that he was a public and ardent member of the Lavender Panthers, wore the badge on his lapel, went to the marches, and brought his boyfriend to all the places where his straight colleagues brought their girlfriends.

He’d come out to me less than a week after I arrived by the simple expedient of introducing the guy he was watching TV with in our living room as Lewis, his boyfriend. Lewis was a Chinese guy about our age, and his wardrobe—plain white tee, tight blue jeans, loafers—matched the new look Art had adopted since leaving Boston. Lewis had a neat, short haircut that matched Art’s new haircut, too.

To call the Art I’d known in Cambridge a slob would be an insult to the natty, fashion-conscious modern slob. He’d favored old band T-shirts with fraying armpit seams, too-big jeans that were either always sliding off his skinny hips or pulled up halfway to his nipples. In the summer, his sneakers had holes in the toes. In the winter, his boots were road-salt-crusted crystalline eruptions. His red curls were too chaotic for a white-boy ’fro and were more of a heap, and he often went days without shaving.

There were members of the Newbury Street Irregulars who were bigger slobs than Art, but they smelled. Art washed, but otherwise, he looked like a homeless person (or a hacker). His transformation to a neatly dressed, clean-shaven fellow with a twenty-five-dollar haircut that he actually used some sort of hairspray on was remarkable. I’d assumed it was about his new life as a grown-up living far from home and doing a real job. It turned out that wasn’t the reason at all.

“Oh,” I said. “That makes a lot of sense.” I shook Lewis’s hand. He laughed. I checked Art. He was playing it cool, but I could tell he was nervous. I remembered Lucille and how she listened, and what it felt like to be heard. I thought about Art, and the things he’d never been able to tell me.

There’d been a woman in the Irregulars who there were rumors about, and there were a pair of guys one floor down in Art’s building who held hands in the elevator, but as far as I knew up until that moment, I hadn’t really ever been introduced to a homosexual person. I didn’t know how I felt about it, but I did know how I wanted to feel about it.

So Art didn’t just get to know all kinds of geeks from his whistle-stop tour of Silicon Valley’s hottest new tech ventures. He was also plugged into this other network of people from the Lavender Panthers, and their boyfriends and girlfriends, and the people he knew from bars and clubs. He and Lewis lasted for a couple of months, and then there were a string of weekends where there was a new guy at the breakfast table, and then he settled down again for a while with Artemis, and then he hit a long dry spell.

I commiserated. I’d been having a dry spell for nearly the whole two years I’d been in California. The closest I came to romance was exchanging a letter with Lucille every couple of weeks—she was a fine pen pal, but that wasn’t really a substitute for a living, breathing woman in my life.

Art threw himself into his volunteer work, and he was only half joking when he said he did it to meet a better class of boys than you got at a club. Sometimes, there’d be a committee meeting in our living room and I’d hear about the congressional committee hearing on the “gay plague” and the new wave of especially vicious attacks. It was pretty much the only time I heard about that stuff—no one I worked with ever brought it up, unless it was to make a terrible joke.

It was Murf, one of the guys from those meetings, who told me that Fidelity Computing was looking for an accountant for a special project. He had stayed after the meeting and he and Art made a pot of coffee and sat down in front of Art’s Apple clone, a Franklin Ace 1200 that he’d scored six months ahead of its official release. After opening the lid to show Murf the interior, Art fired it up and put it through its paces.

I hovered over his shoulder, watching. I’d had a couple of chances to play with the 1200, and I wanted one more than anything in the world except for a girlfriend.

“Marty,” Art said, “Murf was telling me about a job I thought you might be good for.”

The Ace 1200 would have a list price of $2,200. I pulled up a chair.

Fidelity Computing’s business offices were attached to their warehouse, right next to their factory. It took up half of a business park in Colma, and I had to circle it twice to find a parking spot. I was five minutes late and flustered when I presented myself to the receptionist, a blond woman with a ten – years – out – of – date haircut and a modest cardigan over a sensible white shirt buttoned to the collar, ring on her finger.

“Hello,” I said. “I’m Marty Hench. I—uh—I’ve got a meeting with the Reverend Sirs.” That was what the executive assistant I’d spoken to on the phone had called them. It sounded weird when he said it. It sounded weirder when I said it.

The receptionist gave me a smile that only went as far as her lips. “Please have a seat,” she said. There were only three chairs in the little reception area, vinyl office chairs with worn wooden armrests. There weren’t any magazines, just glossy catalogs featuring the latest Fidelity Computing systems, accessories, consumables, and software. I browsed one, marveling at the parallel universe of computers in the strange, mauve color that denoted all Fidelity equipment, including the boxes, packaging, and, now that I was attuned to it, the accents and carpet in the small lobby. A side door opened and a young, efficient man in a kippah and wire-rim glasses called for me: “Mr. Hench?” I closed the catalog and returned it to the pile and stood. As I went to shake his hand, I realized that something had been nagging me about the catalog—there were no prices.

“I’m Shlomo,” the man said. “We spoke on the phone. Thank you for coming down. The Reverend Sirs are ready to see you now.”

He wore plain black slacks, hard black shiny shoes, and a white shirt with prayer-shawl tassels poking out of its tails. I followed him through a vast room filled with chest-high Steelcase cubicles finished in yellowing, chipped wood veneer, every scratch pitilessly lit by harsh overhead fluorescents. Most of the workers at the cubicles were women with headsets, speaking in hushed tones. The tops of their heads marked the interfaith delineators: a block of Orthodox headscarves, then a block of nuns’ black and white scarves (I learned to call them “veils” later), then the Mormons’ carefully coiffed, mostly blond dos.

“This way,” Shlomo said, passing through another door and into executive row. The mauve carpets were newer, the nap all swept in one direction. The walls were lined with framed certificates of appreciation, letters from religious and public officials (apparently, the church and state were not separate within the walls of Fidelity Computing), photos of groups of progressively larger groups of people ranked before progressively larger offices—the company history.

We walked all the way to the end of the hall, past closed doors with nameplates, to a corner conference room with a glass wall down one side, showing a partial view of a truck-loading dock behind half-closed vertical blinds. Seated at intervals around a large conference table were the Reverend Sirs themselves, each with his own yellow pad, pencil, and coffee cup.

Shlomo announced me: “Reverend Sirs, this is Marty Hench. Mr. Hench, these are Rabbi Yisrael Finkel, Bishop Leonard Clarke, and Father Marek Tarnowski.” He backed out of the door, leaving me standing, unsure if I should circle the table shaking hands, or take a seat, or—

“Please, sit,” Rabbi Finkel said. He was fiftyish, round-faced and bear-shaped with graying sidelocks and beard and a black suit and tie. His eyes were sharp behind horn-rimmed glasses. He gestured to a chair at the foot of the table.

I sat, then rose a little to undo the button of my sport coat. I hadn’t worn it since my second job interview, when I realized it was making the interviewers uncomfortable. It certainly made me uncomfortable. I fished out the little steno pad and stick pen I’d brought with me.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Hench.” The rabbi had an orator’s voice, that big chest of his serving as a resonating chamber like a double bass.

“Of course,” I said. “Thanks for inviting me. It’s a fascinating company you have here.”

Bishop Clarke smiled at that. He was the best dressed of the three, in a well-cut business suit, his hair short, neat, side-parted. His smile was very white, and very wide. He was the youngest of the three—in his late thirties, I’d guess. “Thank you,” he said. “We know we’re very different from the other computer companies, and we like it that way. We like to think that we see something in computers—a potential—that other people have missed.”

Father Tarnowski scowled. He was cadaverously tall and thin, with the usual dog collar and jacket, and a heavy gold class ring. His half-rim glasses flashed. He was the oldest, maybe sixty, and had a sour look that I took for habitual. “He doesn’t want the press packet, Leonard,” he said. “Let’s get to the point.” He had a broad Chicago accent like a tough-guy gangster in The Untouchables.

Bishop Clarke’s smile blinked off and on for an instant and I was overcome with the sudden knowledge that these two men did not like each other at all, and that there was some kind of long-running argument simmering beneath the surface. “Thank you, Marek, of course. Mr. Hench’s time is valuable.” Father Tarnowski snorted softly at that and the bishop pretended he didn’t hear it, but I saw Rabbi Finkel grimace at his yellow pad.

“What can I help you Reverend Sirs with today?” Reverend Sirs came more easily now, didn’t feel ridiculous at all. The three of them gave the impression of being a quarter inch away from going for each other’s throats, and the formality was a way to keep tensions at a distance.

“We need a certain kind of accountant,” the rabbi said. He’d dated the top of his yellow pad and then circled the date. “A kind of accountant who understands the computer business. Who understands computers, on a technical level. It’s hard to find an accountant like that, believe it or not, even in Silicon Valley.” I didn’t point out that Colma wasn’t in Silicon Valley.

“Well,” I said, carefully. “I think I fit that bill. I’ve only got an associate’s degree in accounting, but I’m a kind of floating CFO for half a dozen companies and I’ve been doing night classes at UCSF Extension to get my bachelor’s. I did a year at MIT and built my own computer a few years back. I program pretty well in BASIC and Pascal and I’ve got a little C, and I’m a pretty darned good debugger, if I do say so myself.”

Bishop Clarke gave a small but audible sigh of relief. “You do indeed sound perfect, and I’m told that Shlomo spoke to your references and they were very enthusiastic about your diligence and . . . discretion.”

I’d given Shlomo a list of four clients I’d done extensive work with, but I hadn’t had “discretion” in mind when I selected them. It’s true that doing a company’s accounts made me privy to some sensitive information—like when two employees with the same job were getting paid very different salaries—but I got the feeling that wasn’t the kind of “discretion” the bishop had in mind.

“I’m pretty good at minding my own business,” I said, and then, “even when I’m being paid to mind someone else’s.” I liked that line, and made a mental note about it. Maybe someday I’d put it on my letterhead. Martin Hench: Confidential CPA.

The bishop favored me with a chuckle. The rabbi nodded thoughtfully. The priest scowled.

“That’s very good,” the bishop said. “What we’d like to discuss today is of a very sensitive nature, and I’m sure you’ll understand if we would like more than your good word to rely on.” He lifted his yellow pad, revealing a single page, grainily photocopied, and slid it over the table to me. “That’s our standard nondisclosure agreement,” he said. He slid a pen along to go with it.

I didn’t say anything. I’d signed a few NDAs, but only after I’d taken a contract. This was something different. I squinted at the page, which was a second- or third-generation copy and blurry in places. I started to read it. The bishop made a disgusted noise. I pretended I didn’t hear him.

I crossed out a few clauses and carefully lettered in an amendment. I initialed the changes and slid the paper back across the table to the bishop, and found the smile was gone from his face. All three of them were now giving me stern looks, wrath-of-God looks, the kind of looks that would make a twenty-one-year-old kid like me very nervous indeed. I felt the nerves rise and firmly pushed them down.

“Mr. Hench,” the bishop said, his tone low and serious, “is there some kind of problem?”

It pissed me off. I’d driven all the way to for-chrissakes Colma and these three weirdo God-botherers had ambushed me with their everything – and – the – kitchen – sink contract. I had plenty of work, and I didn’t need theirs, especially not if this was the way they wanted to deal. This had suddenly become a negotiation, and my old man had always told me the best negotiating position was a willingness to get up from the table. I was going to win this negotiation, one way or another.

“No problem,” I said.

“And yet you appear to have made alterations to our standard agreement.”

“I did,” I said. That’s not a problem for me, I didn’t say.

He gave me more of that stern eyeball-ray stuff. I let my negotiating leverage repel it. “Mr. Hench, our standard agreement can only be altered after review by our general counsel.”

“That sounds like a prudent policy,” I said, and met his stare.

He clucked his tongue. “I can get a fresh one,” he said. “This one is no good.”

I cocked my head. “I think it’d be better to get your general counsel, wouldn’t it?”

The three of them glared at me. I found I was enjoying myself. What’s more, I thought Rabbi Finkel might be suppressing a little smile, though the beard made it hard to tell.

“Let me see it,” he said, holding his hand out.

Bishop Clarke gave a minute shake of his head. The rabbi half rose, reached across the table, and slid it over to himself, holding it at arm’s length and adjusting his glasses. He picked up his pen and initialed next to my changes.

“Those should be fine,” he said, and slid it back to me. “Sign, please.”

“Yisrael,” Bishop Clarke said, an edge in his voice, “changes to the standard agreements need to be reviewed—”

“By our general counsel,” the rabbi finished, waving a dismissive gesture at him. “I know, I know. But these are fine. We should probably make the same changes to all our agreements. Meanwhile, we’ve all now had a demonstration that Mr. Hench is the kind of person who takes his promises seriously. Would you rather have someone who doesn’t read and signs his life away, or someone who makes sure he knows what he’s signing and agrees with it?”

Bishop Clarke’s smile came back, strained at the corners. “That’s an excellent point, Rabbi. Thank you for helping me understand your reasoning.” He collected the now-signed contract from me and tucked it back under his yellow pad.

“Now,” he said, “we can get down to the reason we asked you here today.”

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Rivka Goldman was the only woman in Sales Group One, this being the group that serviced and supported synagogues and their worshippers. She’d traveled all around the country, sitting down with men who owned garment factories, grocery stores, jewelry stores, delis, and other small businesses, training their “girls” in the use of the Fidelity system. It could handle business correspondence, company books, payroll, and other functions that used to be handled by four or five “girls”—who could all be replaced with just one.

Rivka was the only woman, and often it wasn’t she who made the sale, because the men who owned these businesses talked to other men. It was her male colleagues in Sales Group One who closed those sales and pocketed the commissions, but Rivka never complained.

“She was very good at it,” the rabbi told me. “She had a knack for computers, and for explaining them. The girls she trained, they learned. When they had troubles, they wanted to talk to her.”

Sister Maria-Eva Fernandez led a very large, all-woman team that ran mostly autonomously within Sales Group Two, a group that exclusively serviced parochial schools across the U.S., with a few customers in Central America. She was a product of these schools—she’d graduated from Christ the King in Denver and gone straight from there into the order, doing some student teaching before finding her way to Fidelity Computing via an internal talent search that filtered down to the convent from the archdiocese.

Like Rivka, Sister Maria-Eva was a natural: she could patiently train school administrators, their secretaries, department heads, and even individual teachers on the use of the Fidelity system. A couple of schools—fat with money from wealthy patrons—had bought entire classrooms’ worth of machines, creating programming labs for ambitious high-schoolers, and they were universally a success.

“We valued her, we praised her, we sent her to the national sales conference to lead workshops and share her expertise,” Father Marek said. “She was a star.” He spat the word.

Elizabeth Amelia Shepard Taylor didn’t have to go on a mission, but there was never any question but that she would. Her family had been prominent in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for over a century, and, as the eldest of eleven kids, she had a familial duty to set an example.

She had hoped for a posting in Asia—she’d studied Cantonese and Japanese in high school—but instead she drew San Jose, California. She staffed the Mission House, helping the boys who knocked on doors all day, serving as den mother, big sister, and the object of innumerable crushes.

She’d found a women’s computing club via a notice at the local library and had taken turns with four other women—two her age, and two retirees—prodding at a pair of Commodore PET computers, learning BASIC. Her letters home to her family were filled with the excitement of discovery and mastery, the esoteric world of assembly language that she’d dived into with the help of books and magazines from the library.

When her father heard that Fidelity was recruiting, he wrote her a letter. The same day she’d received it, she’d written a letter to Fidelity Computing Ltd., typing it up on the used ZX80 she’d bought at a swap meet (“for the Mission House”). It arrived at Fidelity in a #10 envelope, three neatly printed pages with the rough edges of fanfold paper that had had its perforations separated. The last page was all code examples.

She was promised a job by return post, starting the day she finished her mission, and she never ended up going back to Salt Lake City—just got a Caltrain train to the Daly City station and met with a Bishop Clarke’s personal assistant, a young man named John Garn who had done his mission in Taipei and chatted with her the whole way to the office in Taiwanese, which she laboriously parsed into Cantonese.

“She whipped Sales Group Three into a powerhouse,” Bishop Clarke said, with a sad shake of his head. “We went from last to first in under a year. Outsold the other two divisions combined, and we were on track to doubling this year.”

The three women had met at the annual sales conference, a huge event that took over the Fort Mason Center for a long weekend. Most of the event was segregated by sales group, but there were plenary sessions, mixers, and keynote addresses from leading sales staff that helped diffuse the winningest tactics across the whole business.

“We think they met in a women’s interfaith prayer circle,” Rabbi Finkel said. Father Marek made another of his disgusted grunts, which were his principal contributions to the conversation. Rabbi Finkel inclined his head a little in the priest’s direction and said, “Not everyone agreed that they were a good idea at first, but the girls loved them, and they created bonds of comity that served them well.”

“We don’t have a lot of turnover,” Rabbi Finkel said. “People like working here. They do well, and they do good. People from our faith communities sometimes feel like the future is passing them by, like their religion is an anchor around their necks, keeping them stuck in the past. A job here is a way to be faithful and modern, without sacrificing your faith.”

The bishop nodded. “When they turned in their resignation notices, of course we took notice. As Rabbi Finkel says, we just don’t get a lot of turnover. And of course, these three girls were special to us. So we took notice. I met with Elizabeth myself and asked her if there was anything wrong, and she refused to discuss it. I asked her what she did want to discuss and she went off on these wild tangents, not making any sense. I wrote a letter to her father, but I never heard back.”

“Rivka is a good girl,” the rabbi said. “She told me that she still loved God and wanted to live a pious, modest life, but that she had ‘differences’ with the teachings. I asked her about these ‘differences,’ but that was all she could say: ‘differences, differences.’ What’s a difference? She wants to uncover her hair? Eat a cheeseburger? Pray with men? She wouldn’t say.”

Father Marek cleared his throat, made a face, glared. “When Sister Maria-Eva ignored my memo asking her to come see me, I called her Mother Superior and that’s when I discovered that she’d left the order. Left the order! Of course, I assumed there was a man involved, but that wasn’t it, not according to her Mother Superior. She had taken new orders with a . . . fringe sect. It seemed she was lost to us.”

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“You gentlemen must have customers who do accounting,” I said. “They know your systems. They know accounts. Why not use someone you already have a relationship with? Someone from the family, as you put it?” I loved solving puzzles; it was what made me both a programmer and an accountant. I had flipped into puzzle-solving mode, and was looking for loose ends where I could begin the untangling process.

The three men looked at each other, then away. This wasn’t a question they wanted to answer.

“When it comes to our customers,” the rabbi said, “we want them to feel . . . safe. We don’t want them to think that the business is being distracted by foolish disputes.”

“We don’t want them to be tempted to take sides,” Father Marek said, and I thought he was being a lot more honest than the rabbi. I could imagine that plenty of people would choose three young, pious women over these three old, feuding, rich clerics.

I could tell that the bishop and the rabbi both resented Father Marek’s answer and were barely keeping themselves from telling him so because they both knew it would make the situation even worse. That was okay. I had the lay of the land.

“I think I understand.” They shifted, looked at each other, at me. They were worried. They thought I might say no. They didn’t have a plan B. “It certainly presents a fascinating technical challenge. My only concern is that it sounds very time-consuming and I have a lot of work right now, honestly. Some days, I feel it’s more than I can handle.” I enjoyed watching that land, seeing their incipient panic. These three weren’t so tough. After all, they’d been made fools of by three cloistered, sheltered young women around my age.

“The job is well-compensated,” Bishop Clarke said. He smiled. All those teeth. “After all, the alternative is a costly, drawn-out lawsuit, and even if we win, all it will accomplish is a shutdown of CF. If you can help us bring them into the Fidelity Computing family, we’ll not only save the lawyer bills, we’ll all make more money. We’re prepared to pay to make that happen.”

“I normally bill my freelance work at twenty-five dollars an hour.” It was a breathtaking sum and I’d had to practice saying it into a mirror so I wouldn’t look ashamed when I named it. I watched them freeze up and do some mental math, contemplating how long it would take to review the documents on ten boxes’ worth of floppy disks.

Bishop Clarke’s smile strained wider, looking like it might be hurting his face. “That’s a very reasonable rate, but we had something else in mind—we thought we might align all of our incentives by offering you a share of the bounty of a successful outcome.”

I regretted coming. What a waste of time. I was only twenty-one years old, but I knew better than to sign up for a commission. Who did they think I was, one of the rubes they got to sell printer paper for them in return for a dollar on every box sold? I almost walked out. I didn’t, though. I had to hear this.

“Could you explain how that would work?”

“You get twenty-five percent,” Father Marek said, staring hard at me. “A quarter of their projected annual revenue, based on the figures you pull out of those files.” He nodded minutely at the tower of floppy disks, not taking his eyes off mine. “Our sales are already down a thousand dollars a month. You figure out how much they’re making every month, figure out how much they’re growing every month, multiply it by twelve, and then divide it by four, and send us an invoice.”

“No matter how much it comes to?”

“No matter how much it comes to,” he said. “Like you said, it’s a lot of work.”

I mulled this over. There was a catch. What was it? I got a hunch.

“No matter what the outcome?” I asked.

They looked at each other. “No,” Rabbi Finkel said. “No, the deal is for a portion of a satisfactory outcome. If your work makes us money, then you make money.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

The rabbi smiled. “I’m sure you’ll find the information we’re looking for,” he said. “We know they’ve broken the law and we know the evidence will be in all those files.”

“But if I can’t find it, or if it’s not enough to convince them to settle and sell?”

“You get nothing,” Father Marek snapped. “Nothing. We win, you win. We lose, you lose.”

I decided I liked him the best of the three. He wasn’t trying to hide who he was or what the situation was. He made it clear he didn’t think much of me, but at least he thought enough of me to give it to me straight. I got the impression that Bishop Clarke would knife me in the heart without losing that amazing smile, and that Rabbi Finkel would murmur reassurances as he gave it a twist. Not Father Marek. He’d give me an honest snarl as he did it.

I had been ready to do it a minute before. Now I was ready to walk. My short time in the Bay Area had made it clear that I wasn’t going to get stock options in the next Apple Inc. just because I kept their books, nor was I going to be able to command giant amounts of money just for showing up and creating the foundations of some hot company’s big product, like Art.

But if there’s one thing I’d learned from accounting, it was that companies didn’t pay you if they didn’t have to.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen—Reverend Sirs—but I think this won’t work out. There’s just too many ways this could go wrong. I could do my job perfectly, put hundreds of hours of work into it, and you could fail to accomplish your merger due to factors beyond my control.”

Their faces turned to stone. They glared at me. The rabbi opened his mouth to say something, but Father Marek silenced him with a pointed throat-clearing. Bishop Clarke turned on his smile. Father Marek gathered up his notepad and put his pen in his breast pocket and slowly climbed to his feet. He was taller—far taller than I’d guessed. He had legs like a cricket’s, they just kept unfolding. I had to force myself not to flinch as he shifted toward me.

“Marty,” the bishop said, “I completely understand, really I do. But there’s no need to give up hope. We’re reasonable people. Perhaps you would like to make a counteroffer?”

I nearly left. But for a moment there, I’d felt close to the dream of Silicon Valley—the riches, the fame, the power to change so many lives. “What about . . .” The rabbi and the bishop leaned forward. Father Marek perched on his long legs and folded his arms. “What about my hourly rate, or twenty-five percent of whatever I make for you, whichever is greatest?”

“What about whatever is least?” the bishop fired back. His smile never wavered.

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The logo for the Computing Freedom was a stylized version of an inverted Fidelity Computing logo, colored magenta, just a few shades off of the mauve of the Fidelity family of products.

Their catalog was slimmer than Fidelity’s, omitting the computers themselves. Instead, it was filled with all the things that went with the computers: printers, ribbons, paper, floppy drives and disks, RAM and modems. Unlike the Fidelity catalog, the CF’s catalog had prices. They were perfectly reasonable prices, maybe even a little on the high side.

“Our computers, they’re a system,” Bishop Clarke said. “We provide everything, and guarantee that it will all work together. Our customers aren’t sophisticated, they’re not high-tech people. They’re people who organize their lives around their faith, not chasing a fad or obsessing over gadgets.”

“We hold their hands,” Rabbi Finkel said. “There’s always someone who’ll answer the phone and help them, whatever problem they’re having. It’s like a family. One of their computers breaks, we send them another one! That way, they can keep working. We know the system is important to them.”

“It’s not cheap,” Father Marek said. “That kind of customer service isn’t cheap.”

“We filed suit as soon as we found out,” Bishop Clarke said. “We didn’t want to.” He looked sad. “What choice did we have.” It wasn’t a question.

CF managed to fly under the radar for a couple of months. They started with sales calls, cold calls to their old contacts, their best customers, explaining that they had created a new business, one that could supply them with high-quality, interchangeable products for their Fidelity systems. The prices were much lower than Fidelity’s, often less than half.

“Sure they were less than half,” Father Marek said. “When you don’t have to pay a roomful of customer-service people, you don’t have to charge as much.”

The customers were happy, but then a San Antonio stake president was invited to dinner at the home of a local prominent businessman, the owner of a large printshop who relied so heavily on Fidelity systems to run his business that he kept one at home, in his study, with a modem that let him dial into the plant and look at the day’s production figures and examine the hour sheets and payroll figures.

The president noticed the odd-colored box of fanfold printer paper behind the congregant’s desk, feeding a continuous river of paper into the printer’s sprockets. He asked after the odd packaging and the parishioner gave him a catalog (CF included a spare catalog with every order, along with a handwritten note on quarter-sized stationery thanking the customer for his business).

The president assumed that this was some kind of new division of Fidelity, and he was impressed with the prices and selection in the catalog. Naturally, when he needed a new box of floppy disks, he asked one of the girls in his congregation for a box of the low-cost items—

“Why would he ask a girl in his congregation? Didn’t he have a Fidelity sales rep?” I’d filled much of my little steno pad with notes by this point. It was quite a story but I wasn’t quite sure where I fit in with it.

Bishop Clarke started to answer, but Father Marek silenced him by clearing his throat in a loud and pointed way. The priest stared at me for a long time, seeming to weigh me and find me wanting. I can’t say I liked him, but he fascinated me. He had such a small bag of tricks, those glares and noises, but he was a virtuoso with them, like a diner cook who can only make a half dozen dishes but prepares them with balletic grace.

“Mr. Hench,” he said. He let the words hang in the air. “Mr. Hench,” he said again. I knew it was a trick but he performed it so well. I felt a zing of purely irrational, utterly involuntary anxiety. “We don’t have a traditional sales force. The sales groups are small, and their primary role is Empowerment.” He leaned so heavily on the word that I heard the capital letter.

“Our sales groups travel around, they meet people in each place who know their communities, people who have the knack for technology, who need a little side business to help them make ends meet. The sales groups train these people, teach them how to spot people who could use our systems, how to explain the benefits to them. They use their personal connections, the mutual trust, to put our machines where they can do the most good.”

Bishop Clarke could see I wasn’t quite following. “It’s like the Avon Lady. You know, ‘ding-dong Avon calling’? Those girls are talking to their neighbors, helping them find the right products. Their friends get the best products for their needs, the girls get a commission, and everyone is happy.”

I got it then. Fidelity was a pyramid scheme. Well, that was a waste of time. I almost said so, but then I held my tongue. I didn’t want to get into an argument with these men, I just wanted to leave.

“We’re not a pyramid scheme,” Rabbi Finkel said. Had it shown on my face? Maybe rabbis got a lot of practice reading people, hearing the unsaid words. “We follow the rules. The Federal Trade Commission set the rules in 1979 and we’ve always followed them. We are a community-oriented business, serving faith groups, and we want to give back to them. That’s why we pay commissions to local people. It’s our way of putting some of our profits into the communities that depend on us.”

“That’s so well said,” Bishop Clarke said. “So well said. Perfect, in fact.”

“Perfect,” Father Marek said, with a scowl that made it clear he wasn’t happy to have been interrupted.

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