The Broken Window

Somebody had gotten my name, Social Security number and credit information and rented apartments as me. Then he defaulted on the rent. But not before he’d boughtnearly a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise and had it delivered to those addresses.”
    “Identity theft?”
    “Oh, the mother lode of identity theft. God opened credit cards in my name, ran up huge bills, had the statements sent to different addresses. Never paid them, of course. As soon as I’d get one straightened out he’d do something else. And he kept getting all this information on me. God knew everything! My mother’s maiden name, her birthday, my first dog’s name, my first car—all the things companies want to know for passwords. He got my phone numbers—and my calling card number. He ran up a ten-thousand-dollar phone bill. How? He’d call time and temperature in Moscow or Singapore or Sydney and leave the phone off the hook for hours.”
    “Why?”
    “Why? Because he’s God. And I’m Job. . . . The son of a bitch bought a house in my name! A whole house! And then defaulted on it. I only found out when a lawyer working for a collection agency tracked me down at my clinic in New York and asked about making payment arrangements for the three hundred and seventy thousand dollars I owed. God also ran up a quarter million in online gambling debts.
    “He made bogus insurance claims in my name and my malpractice carrier dropped me. I couldn’t work at my clinic without insurance, and nobody would insure me. We had to sell the house and, of course, every penny went to the debt quote I had run up—which was by then about two million dollars.”
    “Two million ?”
    Jorgensen closed his eyes briefly. “And then things got worse. My wife was hanging in there throughout all of this. It was hard but she was with me . . . until God had presents—expensive ones—sent in my name to some former nurses at the clinic, bought with my credit card, and that included invitations and suggestive comments. One of the women left a message at home thanking me and saying she’d love to go away for the weekend. My daughter got it. She was crying uncontrollably when she told my wife. I think she believed I was innocent. But she still left me four months ago and moved in with her sister in Colorado.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Sorry? Oh, well, thank you very much. But I’m not through yet. Oh, no. Just after my wife left, the arrests started. It seems guns purchased with a credit card and fake driver’s license in my name were used in armed robberies in East New York, New Haven and Yonkers. One clerk was seriously wounded. The New York Bureau of Investigation arrested me. They finally let me go but I’ve still got an arrest on my record. That’ll be there forever. Along with the time the Drug Enforcement Agency arrested me because a check of mine was traced to the purchase of illegally imported prescription drugs.
    “Oh, and I was actually in prison for a while—well, not me: somebody that God sold fake credit cards to and a driver’s license in my name. Of course, the prisoner was somebody altogether different. Who knows what his real name is? But as far as the world is concerned, government records show that Robert Samuel Jorgensen, Social Security number nine two three, six seven, four one eight two, formerly of Greenwich,Connecticut, was a prisoner. It’s on my record too. For ever .”
    “You must’ve followed up, called the police.”
    He scoffed. “Oh, please. You’re a cop. You know where something like this falls in the priority of police work? Just above jaywalking.”
    “Did you learn anything that might help us? Anything about him? Age, race, education, location?”
    “No, nothing. Everywhere I looked there was only one person: me. He took me away from myself. . . . Oh, they say there are safeguards, there are protections. Bullshit. Yes, if you lose a credit card, maybe you’re protected to a point. But if somebody wants to destroy your life, there’s nothing you can do about it. People believe what computers tell us. If they say you owe money, you owe money. If it says you’re a bad insurance risk, you’re a bad risk. The report says you have no credit, then you have no credit, even if you’re a multimillionaire. We believe the data ; we don’t care about the truth.
    “Ah, want to see what my most recent job was?” He jumped up and opened his closet, displaying a fast food franchise uniform.