Other Books By This Author:
No Middle Ground
by 
Jl Rehman
Synopsis
Snared by a conspiracy of online predators, ten-year-old Jerry’s rescue uncovers a sinister brotherhood luring kids to danger and death. Drawn from actual investigations, this story explores the people, places, and disturbing practices of a hidden world. Fighting the odds against freeing Jerry, Special Agent Cole puts his career and his life on the line.
Close Up
Genre
Classification
Fiction
Pages
250
Format
E-book
Language
English
Inspiration
Foreword
In early 1994, I was assigned in Orlando as an electronic surveillance agent for the Florida Department of Law Enforcement (FDLE). I happened to receive a complaint from a citizen that pedophiles were seeking out child victims on a relatively new computer service, American Online. Thinking that the citizen was blowing the situation out of proportion, I set about seeing for myself what was really going on.
I created a screen name and profile for a fictitious 14 year old boy in Central Florida. I went into some of the innocuously named chat rooms and was peppered with Instant Messages from pedophiles looking for boys. Some even sent pornography, including child pornography, as a lure. I had discovered that the citizen had probably underestimated the problem.
Over the next four years, I continued to pose online as both a child and a pedophile. Numerous pedophiles showed up for a sexual encounter with fictitious children aged 11 to 15. Even more pedophiles sent child pornography.
I came to learn a sad truth: while everyone from law enforcement agency heads to politicians to average citizens claim to be repulsed by the sexual exploitation of children, virtually none will do anything about it. Perhaps it is so repulsing that they don’t want to have to think about it. Even worse, I came to find that many of the organizations formed to counter child sexual exploitation were either hopeless bureaucracies or were merely supporting the social or political needs of their founders.
I learned first hand about the interagency rivalry. A U.S. Postal Inspection Service manager took credit at a national interagency meeting for a sting operation that I had set up. The FBI and the US Customs Service spent time and resources trying to out do each other in staking claim in congress for money to finance their operations while steadfastly not cooperating with each other.
Regardless of who or why, the result is the same: a problem that continues to grow virtually unabated.
Although this book is a work of fiction, it is based upon the ugly truth gleaned from the investigations I conducted, the investigations of my contemporaries, and intelligence information that is known within the law enforcement community.
The Internet has bred a super strain of predator, one that is able to become a teen’s best friend without ever meeting in person. Gone are the days when the pedophile had to risk detection by hanging out in parks and arcades. They prowl for their victims online, in chat rooms, message boards, and online pen pal sites. A few lone law enforcement officers, lacking support and resources, wage a battle they will certainly lose.
Doug Rehman
Special Agent, Retired
Florida Department of Law Enforcement
In early 1994, I was assigned in Orlando as an electronic surveillance agent for the Florida Department of Law Enforcement (FDLE). I happened to receive a complaint from a citizen that pedophiles were seeking out child victims on a relatively new computer service, American Online. Thinking that the citizen was blowing the situation out of proportion, I set about seeing for myself what was really going on.
I created a screen name and profile for a fictitious 14 year old boy in Central Florida. I went into some of the innocuously named chat rooms and was peppered with Instant Messages from pedophiles looking for boys. Some even sent pornography, including child pornography, as a lure. I had discovered that the citizen had probably underestimated the problem.
Over the next four years, I continued to pose online as both a child and a pedophile. Numerous pedophiles showed up for a sexual encounter with fictitious children aged 11 to 15. Even more pedophiles sent child pornography.
I came to learn a sad truth: while everyone from law enforcement agency heads to politicians to average citizens claim to be repulsed by the sexual exploitation of children, virtually none will do anything about it. Perhaps it is so repulsing that they don’t want to have to think about it. Even worse, I came to find that many of the organizations formed to counter child sexual exploitation were either hopeless bureaucracies or were merely supporting the social or political needs of their founders.
I learned first hand about the interagency rivalry. A U.S. Postal Inspection Service manager took credit at a national interagency meeting for a sting operation that I had set up. The FBI and the US Customs Service spent time and resources trying to out do each other in staking claim in congress for money to finance their operations while steadfastly not cooperating with each other.
Regardless of who or why, the result is the same: a problem that continues to grow virtually unabated.
Although this book is a work of fiction, it is based upon the ugly truth gleaned from the investigations I conducted, the investigations of my contemporaries, and intelligence information that is known within the law enforcement community.
The Internet has bred a super strain of predator, one that is able to become a teen’s best friend without ever meeting in person. Gone are the days when the pedophile had to risk detection by hanging out in parks and arcades. They prowl for their victims online, in chat rooms, message boards, and online pen pal sites. A few lone law enforcement officers, lacking support and resources, wage a battle they will certainly lose.
Doug Rehman
Special Agent, Retired
Florida Department of Law Enforcement
Dedication
To God, whose glory shines through the darkest adversity.
Publisher
Partners In Crime Publishers
Publication Year
2009
ISBN-13
9781607710035
Buy Online At...
borders.com
Other Places to Buy:
www.partnersincrimepublishers.com
Excerpt (posted with permission by author)
FILE: George.DOC:
George Liddell squeezed his car keys tight enough to dig a perfect imprint into the palm and third finger of his right hand. The house key slit the skin to the bone, and if he felt it, it didn't show. Sweat beaded his upper lip. His hands trembled. His tie felt too tight.
In the back of the courtroom, George sat stunned, mouth open, air moving between his teeth in short bursts, inchoate words struggling to be heard above the buzz of criminal court proceedings. Probation requirements and community service volleyed back and forth between the prosecutor and the judge, the last official requirements before the release of the defendant.
George began to stand, wondering what the protocol was for an objection from the back where he was supposed to remain silent, and before he knew it, the words were out, “Wait, that’s not what you told me.”
The gavel hit the bench the moment he said the word “me,” like a hard period at the end of the sentence, and it had nothing to do with what he said, but was simply the final blow to the hearing.
Now he was standing, the tops of heads like a river before him, multicolor cotton and polyester strangers enlisted to critique and judge.
“Wait a minute!” He said it as if the whole proceeding would suddenly stop and ask for his opinion. It did nothing more than annoy the people sitting close to him.
“You can’t do that!” he yelled, pointing to the judge, blood staining the top of his shoes. “You call this justice? You sit there and turn ’em out as if he’s done nothing wrong! You said he’d get time.” George stepped into the aisle focused on the bench, the bronze Florida state seal, the American flag, and the lie.
The bailiff was halfway to him when the gavel hit the bench, holding the top of his portable radio as if it might leap from his belt, and sizing George up for a fight.
The judge leaned across the bench pointing his gavel, “Whoever you are sir, control yourself, or I'll have you removed.”
George took three more steps down the aisle. “Me removed, you were supposed to have him removed!” George turned on the assistant state attorney, “This why you wouldn't return my calls, because you made a damn deal?” The bailiff grabbed George by the hands and pulled them behind his back. “What? I don’t exist now?” George yelled again, “Are you morons?”
Assistant State Attorney Lucas gathered his papers, straightened his double-breasted jacket and flicked lint from the sleeve.
George stood in shock. He failed to understand the sentencing, where the accountability was paid, how he could be ignored despite his outbursts, how every promise shoved down his throat over the past year had suddenly vanished. At that very moment it all came together, the war fought with Jerry, a little boy who had just run out of advocates. The last eight months swept through George’s memory, rewinding to the after-shocks of his son’s victimization.
George Liddell squeezed his car keys tight enough to dig a perfect imprint into the palm and third finger of his right hand. The house key slit the skin to the bone, and if he felt it, it didn't show. Sweat beaded his upper lip. His hands trembled. His tie felt too tight.
In the back of the courtroom, George sat stunned, mouth open, air moving between his teeth in short bursts, inchoate words struggling to be heard above the buzz of criminal court proceedings. Probation requirements and community service volleyed back and forth between the prosecutor and the judge, the last official requirements before the release of the defendant.
George began to stand, wondering what the protocol was for an objection from the back where he was supposed to remain silent, and before he knew it, the words were out, “Wait, that’s not what you told me.”
The gavel hit the bench the moment he said the word “me,” like a hard period at the end of the sentence, and it had nothing to do with what he said, but was simply the final blow to the hearing.
Now he was standing, the tops of heads like a river before him, multicolor cotton and polyester strangers enlisted to critique and judge.
“Wait a minute!” He said it as if the whole proceeding would suddenly stop and ask for his opinion. It did nothing more than annoy the people sitting close to him.
“You can’t do that!” he yelled, pointing to the judge, blood staining the top of his shoes. “You call this justice? You sit there and turn ’em out as if he’s done nothing wrong! You said he’d get time.” George stepped into the aisle focused on the bench, the bronze Florida state seal, the American flag, and the lie.
The bailiff was halfway to him when the gavel hit the bench, holding the top of his portable radio as if it might leap from his belt, and sizing George up for a fight.
The judge leaned across the bench pointing his gavel, “Whoever you are sir, control yourself, or I'll have you removed.”
George took three more steps down the aisle. “Me removed, you were supposed to have him removed!” George turned on the assistant state attorney, “This why you wouldn't return my calls, because you made a damn deal?” The bailiff grabbed George by the hands and pulled them behind his back. “What? I don’t exist now?” George yelled again, “Are you morons?”
Assistant State Attorney Lucas gathered his papers, straightened his double-breasted jacket and flicked lint from the sleeve.
George stood in shock. He failed to understand the sentencing, where the accountability was paid, how he could be ignored despite his outbursts, how every promise shoved down his throat over the past year had suddenly vanished. At that very moment it all came together, the war fought with Jerry, a little boy who had just run out of advocates. The last eight months swept through George’s memory, rewinding to the after-shocks of his son’s victimization.