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One of the other agents spotted my large boom box and brought it over. Beasley put in the cassette and punched Play.

I heard a call being dialed and Mark Kasden talking in the background. Then my voice. It sounded like Mark and I were talking in the same room. I could hear the ringing sound after the digits were dialed.

The next voice to spill out of the boom box said something like, “Welcome to Pacific Bell voicemail. Please enter your mailbox number.”

More digits being dialed.

“Please enter your password.”

“You have three new messages.”

And then, “Hi, Darrell, this is David Simon. Please call me at 818 783-42XX.”

Then another call. My voice again, saying, “Hey, Detective Simon just called Santos.”

Beasley shut off the tape player.

“What do you have to say?” he challenged.

I’m afraid I sneered at him. “It’s amazing what the FBI can do with technology.”

I said it arrogantly, looking him straight in the eye.

Another agent who’d been standing next to us throughout this exchange reached over, grabbed the boom box, and yanked the cassette door right off. Like a four-year-old having a temper tantrum.

The agents fanned out to search. I sat at the table watching.

Another agent arrived. He handed me his card, which said “Supervisory Special Agent.” He opened a large loose-leaf notebook he had brought and started jotting notes. After a few moments, he looked up and asked, “Where’s his computer?”

“We didn’t find one,” he was told.

He looked annoyed.

They kept searching.

Finally I asked the agent in charge, “Am I under arrest?”

“No,” he said.

Whaaaat?!?!? Not under arrest?! I couldn’t believe it. That made no sense. But he wasn’t toying with me. None of the other agents even flinched. It must be true. Let’s test this:

“If I’m not under arrest, I’m leaving,” I said.

“Where to?” the supervisory agent asked.

“To my dad’s, to ask him if I should cooperate.” Cooperate—yeah, sure. But whatever I needed to say so I could get out of there, to someplace I could feel comfortable.

The agent thought about it for a moment. If I wasn’t being arrested, what was the point of making me stay there watching them ransack my apartment?

“Okay,” he said.

They frisked me, found my wallet, and searched it. They found nothing interesting inside. And they let me walk out.

Three agents followed me to my car. After I unlocked it, they started to search. Shit!—they found a box of floppies I had overlooked in the glove box. I was dismayed and worried. They were delighted.

When they had finished searching my car, they opened the doors and got in, sitting there like we were best friends going on an outing together. I was shocked.

I said, “What are you guys doing in my car?!”

“We’re going with you to your dad’s.”

“No, you’re not. Get out of my car!”

And whaddaya know? They did.

They got into two FBI cars and followed me for the drive to where my father was then living, with a new girlfriend I didn’t much like.

When we got to my dad’s house, they said they wanted to go in with me. I told them they couldn’t, that I wanted to have a discussion with him alone.

They didn’t leave, just got back into their cars and sat while I went inside.

I hadn’t finished my cleanup at Teltec and needed to get back there without an FBI surveillance team. When I looked out, they were still sitting there. I went out and told them my dad and I had decided I was going to consult an attorney before speaking with them. I was trying to give them a glimmer of hope that I might cooperate, even though I had no intention of doing so.

They finally left.

As soon as they were out of sight, I hustled to my car and sped to Teltec.

And why didn’t I get to meet Agent Ken McGuire or Pacific Bell’s Terry Atchley on that fateful day? They had gone to De Payne’s, hoping to get him to flip on me, rat me out.

Lewis offered to do exactly that. I’ve read the FBI report of the conversation: Lewis keeps offering to talk, but keeps asking for assurances. And he keeps saying that