At the FBI office, Jason is photographed, holding a plaque bearing his name and prisoner number. He is then placed in a van and driven to the United States District courthouse on Quarropas Street in White Plains.
The FBI agents and the United States marshals escort him into one of the courtrooms. It is large, with rows of seats in the front for observers and reporters. Behind the rows of seats are tables for the prosecution and defense, the judge's bench, and the witness seat.
The judge, a man in his early sixties, sits behind the judge's bench, the seal of the United States District Court, Southern District of New York behind him.
"Mr. Treborn is charged with insider trading, fraud, and conspiracy to commit fraud," says an assistant United States attorney standing in front of the prosecution's table. "We recommend five million dollars bail."
"Five million dollars?" asks Jason.
"Do you have anything to say, Mr. Treborn?" asks the judge.
"Your Honor, I have ties to the community. My company is right here in White Plains. I am not a flight risk."
"No, you are not, Mr. Treborn. Setting bail at five million will give you incentive to stay here. Therefore, bail is set at five million."
"I can have it paid by the afternoon, sir."
As Jason is escorted out of the courthouse, he sees a gaggle of reporters from various newspapers and news networks standing right on the sidewalk. CNN, MS-NBC, FOX News are all there.
"I have no comment," says Jason.
Ooooooooooooo
"Okay, Mr. Treborn," says the voice. "We can make an appointment first thing tomorrow morning, say, at 9:30?"
"Okay," replies Jason, before hanging up the telephone in his kitchen. He had been on the phone with one of the most prestigious law firms in Manhattan.
"So when are you meeting with the lawyer?" asks Andrea, holding a can of Coca-cola in her left hand.
"Tomorrow morning," replies Jason. He walks to the living room and turns on the Philips plasma television.
"A grand jury had just delivered a bill of indictment against financial analyst Jason Treborn in connection with the Enron scandal," says an MS-NBC news anchor. "The chairman of Temporal Financial Services, based in White Plains, New York, was indicted for insider trading, fraud, and conspiracy to commit fraud, and was arrested by the FBI this morning. The U.S. attorney's office has stated it will continue the investigation and may file further charges as more evidence is found."
Andrea turns off the television with a remote control. "Just let it go."
"Let it go?" asks Jason. "I was indicted! I could face prison time."
"You can just talk to the lawyer tomorrow."
"No. I can make sure this never happens."
"Don't do it."
"Don't do it?" her husband asks, incredulously. "I'm facing criminal charges! There'll probably be lawsuits against me; my reputation is already destroyed. That was what it was all about. They did that to me because I was successful! If I can go back to warn myself…"
"At least wait," says Andrea. "The trial will probably start next year or something. You're free on bail. You can decide what to do when you are arraigned. Anyway, let's just get ready for dinner with Evan tonight. We won't discuss the indictment."
"Okay, then," says Jason. "I'll make sure not to think about it too much."
Ooooooooooooooo
Evan Treborn celebrates his twentieth birthday at a Red Lobster restaurant not far from his college campus. His parents and his nineteen-year-old friend Lenny Kagan sit with him around this wooden table. The place is nearly full, even though it is a Tuesday evening.
"So, how is school going?" asks Jason, picking up a french fry and dipping it into some ketchup.
"Great," replies Evan. "I'm studying memory in my Psychology class. Carter's a great professor."
"Memory?" asks Andrea.
"Yeah, it's interesting. I heard what happened with my great-grandpa, why he could not form new memories after he had that stroke. I'm gonna be experimenting with flatworms. You know, if you teach a flatworm something and another flatworm eats it, the memories are assimilated into the flatworm that ate the other flatworm."
"My appetite went down," says Lenny. "Maybe you should study how appetite works. Anyway, Mr. Treborn, how is work going?"
"Work?" asks Jason.
"Jason," says Andrea. "My husband is very busy, Lenny."
"Oh," replies Lenny, who obviously never saw the news reports.
"Everything will be fine, Dad," says Evan.
"I think I can figure a way out of this," he replies.
Ooooooooooooo
March 6, 2002
Jason steps off an elevator in a tall office building in midtown Manhattan. He walks down the hall, towards one of the offices.
"Excuse me," he says to the receptionist. "My name is Jason Treborn. I am here to see Wayne Fox."
"Okay, sir," says the receptionist. She picks up the phone and dials a number. "A Jason Treb-urn is here to see you, sir." She then looks at Jason. "He will be right with you, sir."
Less than a minute later, a man wearing a three-piece suit enters the reception area.
"Wayne Fox," he says to Jason, extending his hand.
"I understand you were an assistant U.S. attorney," says Jason.
"I have experience prosecuting white-collar crime, Mr. Treborn," says Fox. "I even helped Rudy Guiliani take down Michael Milken and Ivan Boesky. I'm the best qualified to defend. Come into my office."
Jason follows Fox into a spacious office. The view allows Jason to see the street below, with cars and trucks moving along like sheep.
"So you know about this case?" asks Jason.
"It was on every network," replies Fox, sitting on the leather chair behind his desk. "I also did research into the whole Enron case."
"So what do we do?"
"The first thing I need, Mr. Treborn, is the entire story. Tell me everything about you and your company's dealings with Enron. From what I have read, you did sell off all your shares of Enron stock during the month of February of 2001."
"Okay then," says Jason. "This will be hard for you to believe." Jason goes on to explain everything.
"I see," says Wayne Fox. "I believe a psychiatric evaluation is in order."
"I'm not crazy!" protests Jason. "It is true. How else could I have made my fortune, except by sending investment tips to my younger self?"
"A psychiatrist might be able to tell you," says the lawyer. "If you are insane, I could have the trial delayed indefinitely."
"And lock me up in a mental hospital? Do you know what this would do to my reputation? Everyone will think of me as some crazy man! I'm not going to plead insane."
"So how exactly do you intend to show that you can send messages to your younger self?" asks Fox. "A jury is not going to buy that. That is just too much."
"I showed it to Andrea, I can demonstrate it to a jury."
"Well, I'm going to subpoena documents from the U.S. attorney's office, the SEC, and Enron. Let's hope it does not come down to convincing a jury that you receive investment tips from the future."
Ooooooooooo
Jason returns from Manhattan to his mansion in Rye. He sits down on the couch, brooding about what is happening.
They're trying to destroy you. They are jealous of you, so they want to destroy you. They all got together and hatched this scheme to destroy you, to tear you down.
Jason knows he can go back and warn himself.
I have to wait, though. Gather more information.
He struggles in his mind to resist the temptation to go back before all the facts are in.
He walks to the Power Macintosh G4 in his bedroom. Looking at the Yahoo! Web page via Netscape Navigator, he sees links referring to his indictment and arrest. Already, news commentators have made comments on the case.
He then selects the Temporal Financial Services web site on the Bookmarks menu. He sees an important bulletin.
Due to pending criminal charges against TFS Chairman Jason Treborn, the board of directors is convening today to select a new chairman to lead the company during this time.
Jason becomes furious. How dare they do this! How dare they take my company away from me? It was them all along! They were the ones who engineered the indictment!
Minutes later, he is inside the black Lincoln Continental, driving towards White Plains.
Oooooooooooo
"Thanks you," says the thirty-three-year-old man standing before the men, all dressed in their suits. "As chairman I will make sure to take care of the company, and I will guarantee this company's full cooperation to the authorities in regards to the criminal case against Jason Treborn."
"Thank you, Mr. Schnaufer," says one of the directors, a man twenty years his senior. "Now let us discuss the company's connection with the Enron case."
The doors to the Temporal Financial Services Headquarters boardroom are opened.
"Mr. Treborn," says Bob Schnaufer.
"What's the meaning of this?" Jason demands.
"We are selecting a new chairman," says a director.
"A new chairman? I made this company. This company is mine! How dare you take it away from me!"
"Mr. Treborn, we can't have someone with outstanding securities fraud charges serving as chairman of this board. Besides, Mr. Schnaufer will be a capable chairman. He ran the company while you were recuperating from your stroke. We're not saying you're guilty, we just need someone else at the top."
"It was you," Jason says to Schnaufer. "You set the whole thing up with Enron."
"Mr. Treborn, please," says Schnaufer.
"You were behind the whole thing. You were trying to take me down so you could have the company yourself, you motherfucker! I..I won't let you get away with this!"
Jason pulls out a Colt Python .357 magnum revolver. Aiming the short barrel of the pistol at Schnaufer, he pulls back the hammer and pulls the trigger. The hammer strikes the percussion cap of the .357 cartridge, detonating the primer which then detonates the gunpowder. The bullet is forced out of the barrel at very high velocity, first making contact with one of the buttons on Schnaufer's white shirt, then tearing through skin, bone, cardiac muscle, and more bone before blasting out through the back, with bits of skin, muscle, and bone tissue following it. Bob Schnaufer lies on the ground, the blood spreading on the black marble tiles.
Jason then aims the Python at the directors. Bang! The bullets are fired, tearing through the human bodies. The others dive under the table. Once the chambers of the Python's cylinder is empty, Jason leaves the boardroom and walks to his office, the Colt Python in his hand.
Oooooooooooooo
White Plains Police Bureau cars drive down Main Street, their emergency lights flashing. They stop at the Temporal Financial Services building. An ambulance from the White Plains Fire Bureau also stops in the parking lot, and Fire Bureau paramedics get out.
An armored van arrives at the scene. SWAT officers, wearing vests and helmets and carrying weapons like Remington shotguns and Heckler and Koch MP5's race out of the van. The SWAT team walks into the lobby.
"We're evacuating this building," says the SWAT lieutenant.
Upon hearing his voice, people file out of the lobby and the Wells Fargo bank adjacent to it.
The SWAT officers make their way to the Temporal Financial Services penthouse office suite. They search through the offices.
"Oh shit," says a SWAT sergeant. He looks at the bodies lying down on the floor in the boardroom.
"We have this area secure," says the lieutenant. "Get the paramedics up here!"
Another officer walks down the hall from the boardroom towards another set of double doors. Turning the handle, he finds that the door is locked.
"Anyone in there?" he asks. "This is the police!"
"Don't come in!" yells a voice. "I have a gun!"
"Listen, we're here to help. We'll protect you from the shooter."
"I'm not coming out!"
"We can get you out, sir."
"What's going on?" asks the lieutenant.
"Someone's hiding in this office, sir," says the officer. "He has a gun. He's afraid to come out."
"He might be the shooter," says the lieutenant.
Ooooooooooooo
"As you can see here," says a television reporter, "the White Plains police have blocked off this area of downtown and have evacuated the Temporal Financial Services building. We have been told that there is a shooting. There is no word on casualties."
Oooooooooo
A Toyota Avalon stops right at the police barricade on Main Street. Andrea Treborn steps out of the driver's side of the vehicle. It is dark now, the light coming from the street lamps.
"This way," a police officer says to her.
Andrea is escorted to the parking lot, now an encampment for the White Plains Police Bureau. High-intensity light bulbs light up the parking lot.
"Mrs. Treborn," says the police chief, "we have a line. There's a man hiding in your husband's office."
"Is Jason in there?" she asks.
"We don't know, ma'am. We'd like you to talk to him."
Andrea picks up a cordless handset provided by another police officer.
"Hello?' asks a voice.
"Is that you, Jason?" she asks. "It's me, Andrea."
"Yes, it's me," says Jason. "I'm scared."
"Just drop your gun and surrender to the police. They won't hurt you."
"Oh they will. After what I did."
Oooooooooo
"Police have confirmed that Jason Treborn has barricaded himself inside his office," says a news reporter. "His wife, Andrea Treborn, is on the scene. The police have a phone line into the building."
Ooooooooooo
A SWAT officer walks down into the dimly-lit basement of the building.
Ooooooooooo
"Jason, just give yourself up," says Andrea. "Please, we'll get through this."
"I can make sure this never happens," replies Jason.
"No! Don't you see? That was what caused all of this!"
"You're the one who doesn't see! I have complete mastery over time and space! I can change any event I want! I am three steps, no three billion light-years ahead of fate."
"Jason, no!"
Jason drops the phone and clicks on the computer screen with the mouse. He opens the folder containing pictures dated from January of 2001.
He double-clicks the icon for the JPEG document dated January 29, 2001.
I have to go back to give myself a message.
Seeing his face on the screen of the Power Macintosh G4, he looks into it, staring deeply.
And then everything goes dark.
"What?" he asks. He finds that the Power Macintosh is off. He presses the triangle button on the keyboard to turn it on, but the computer does not respond.
He looks outside the window, seeing the police cars blocking Main Street, and the helicopters circling.
Ooooooooooo
"Police have now cut power to the building," says a CNN reporter standing in the parking lot. "They are still trying to negotiate with Mr. Treborn to get him to surrender. Once again, the White Plains police is at a standoff with Jason Treborn, following a shooting at the offices of his company."
Ooooooooo
A Honda squeals to a stop just before the police barricade, and Evan Treborn steps out.
"What's going on?" he asks.
"Step back, kid," says a police officer.
"Evan!" yells Andrea.
"Mom!" he yells back. "Where's Dad?"
"He's in his office," she replies. "He's holed up there. He won't come out."
"Maybe you can talk to him," says the White Plains police chief.
Evan is handed the cordless handset.
"Dad," he says.
"Evan," says Jason. "It's you."
"What happened, Dad?"
"They tried to take away my company. This whole thing. The whole Enron thing. It was a scheme to take my company away from me. I had to do it. I had to stop them from taking my company away."
"Dad, listen," says Evan. "Just lay on the ground and surrender."
"Don't you see, Evan? I'm ruined. My whole life turned to shit. The only way I can fix it is to go back!"
"So come back to us now."
"You don't understand. Have you ever had flashbacks?"
"Flashbacks?" asks Evan, confused. "What's this about?"
"I'll let you in on a secret, one I only told your mother. I can flash back to earlier times. Your grandpa could do it too, as did my grandpa. And I think you can do it, too. You see, if I look into a picture of my past, it is a gateway to the past."
"Just give up."
"Evan, you've got to get me something. A photo album. Go home and get the photo album. It's under my bed. Bring it to my office."
"What do you want a photo album for?" asks Evan.
"So I could stop this from ever happening!" yells Jason.
"When I bring you the photo album, you'll give up, right?"
"Yes."
"Okay!" yells the police chief. "I need an escort for this young man."
"What?' asks Evan.
"You can get a photo album for him, right?" asks the chief.
"Okay."
Andrea sees Evan leave the parking lot, going towards his car.
"What's happening?" she asks.
"Ma'am, your husband agreed to surrender if we brought him his photo album," answers the chief.
"No!" yells Andrea. "You can't let him get that. That's what caused all of this!"
"We have things under control, ma'am."
"That photo album could kill him!"
ooooooooooo
Evan stops his Honda in the driveway of his parents' mansion, and two Ford Crown Victorias from the White Plain Police Bureau park alongside the car. Evan runs into the mansion where he spent three years of his life.
He makes his way to his parents' bedroom. He peers under the bed, seeing some old magazines.
He pulls out a binder. Looking through it, he can see dated pictures, of his father, his mother, and himself, dating all the way from 1981 to 2001.
He runs out the mansion. "I got it!" he yells to the police officer.
Placing the photo album into the passenger seat of his Honda, he drives off towards White Plains, escorted by police cars.
Oooooooooooo
Andrea sees her son walking towards the Temporal Financial Services building, escorted by police officers.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"Dad wants me to bring him his photo album," replies Evan.
"No, that was what caused all of his problems! Give me that!"
"Ma'am, we have the situation under control," says a police officer.
"Evan, please," pleads Andrea. "your father is going to use it to travel to the past. He might get permanent brain damage, or he might screw things up even more!"
"Mom, what are you talking about?" asks Evan, confused about his mother's words.
Andrea lunges for the photo album, trying to wrest it away from her son. The struggle only lasts for two seconds. The butt of a Remington M1100 shotgun, swung by a White Plains police officer, makes hard contact with her face and she slumps on the ground.
"Mom!" yells Evan.
"Let's get that photo album to your dad," says the police officer.
Evan enters the Temporal Financial Services building, escorted by police officers. Because the elevators are down due to lack of electrical power, Evan climbs up the stairs. Two, three, four. He keeps climbing up and up like a mountaineer. Finally, he reaches the twenty-seventh floor.
He walks across the twenty-seventh floor lobby, his heart beating rapidly due to climbing all those stairs, the way lit by flashlights carried by the SWAT escort.
"I'm here with the album," says Evan.
"Good," replies the SWAT lieutenant standing in front of the door to Jason's office.
"Dad!" yells Evan. "I have the album. Walk up here and unlock the door."
"Will you let me look at the album?" calls out Jason. "I want to look at the album before I leave."
"My dad wants to look through the album," says Evan.
"Only for a minute," says the SWAT lieutenant.
Evan hears the click as the door's lock is unlocked. The door then squeaks ajar.
"Dad," says Evan.
"Just hand me the album, and I'll be out in a minute," says Jason. "I just want to look."
Jason takes the photo album. Opening it, he notices it is too dark to see.
Suddenly there is light, and Jason looks through the picture, wondering which one to use.
Suddenly he feels himself fall forward, then hears the breaking of glass. He finds out that he can not feel his legs. He feels something wet on the floor. It is his own blood.
"Dad!" yells Evan as he bursts into his father's office. He sees his father lying down on the floor, with a pool of blood spreading.
The SWAT lieutenant glares at the helicopter hovering near the building.
Jason lies on the floor. He can feel his life draining from him. He knows that his only chance to survive is in the past.
He looks at a picture of him, Andrea, and Evan, who was still a young boy at the time. He starts to feel cold. His office shimmers as the world slips away.
And he falls.
Oooooooooooo
August 31, 1985
Jason is greeted with bright light. He looks up and sees a clear blue sky. He can feel that he is outside, there is a slight breeze. He looks and sees children playing on a playground. He sees a Kodak camera mounted on a tripod. Looking to his right, he sees his wife Andrea, and sitting on his lap is his son Evan, three years old.
"I made it!" he says. "I'm back. I won't let those bastards ruin everything."
"What's going on?" asks Andrea, now twenty-nine years old instead of the forty-five she would be in March of 2002.
"I'm gonna make sure no one takes away my company. I just need a pen and pa-aww!"
He suddenly clutches his head, which pounds like jackhammers. Blood trickles down his nose.
He then falls forward.
"Jason!" yells Andrea. "Someone call 911!"