The Exceptions

by David Cristofano

  “You will.”

  “Every name, every address, every witness,” I tell the group.

  “Impossible,” Ellen says.

  “Thousands of witnesses. Honestly, I can’t believe how many people you have in this program. Though it hardly matters now. Randall’s addiction got the better of him and here we are. Would you like me to tell you how many copies I made?”

  The group has become so quiet I can hear Ciacco breathing through his nose. Every eye before me is filled with either fear or fury. Two hours ago I was beloved, hidden treasure found and ready to be converted to currency; now at least half of them are wondering how they can take my life without anyone finding out. Only Jesus could have felt more loved and despised than I have today.

  Sean abruptly breaks into laughter. “You gotta admit,” he says, “that’s pretty funny.”

  “That’s enough, Agent Douglas,” Ciacco says.

  “You freaking losers.”

  “Remain calm, Sean,” Ellen says.

  Sean gets up from his chair and points at his bosses. “I’m talking about you guys. Do you see yet? You will never take them down unless you break the rules. If this isn’t proof I don’t know what is. You’ve got to do whatever it takes to make it stop!”

  And then, clarity: This is why he came alone to Federal Hill. He wanted no record that he ever met me, no one else to know what might happen. Who knows what his original intentions might’ve been.

  “You want to become like them, Douglas?”

  Sean wipes his face, continues his hands right through his hair. “Golly, I guess you’re right. I’m sure an injunction will do the trick.” Then, to me: “Mr. Bovaro, sir, would you kindly hand over the data and cease any plans for distribution?”

  “Enough.” Ciacco gets defensive like he’s the guy who wrote the law, puts his frayed edges on display: “We’ve been bending the rules as far as we can. For years. Do you have any idea how long it took us to get inside their crew? The things we had to do, to promise?”

  I snap to attention, flip a finger in Ciacco’s direction. “You mean Eddie Gravina?” I say. Every eye comes my way, the most certain sign that my hunch was right on the money. “I’m afraid Eddie won’t be with us much longer. Hope you got everything you needed out of him.”

  Sean kicks his chair back and throws his Styrofoam cup across the table, but because it’s empty it just floats up in a circle and gently spirals to the ground. Even his anger is impotent.

  Sean walks to the mirror and leans his back against it. Oversized Guy stares at me, leans forward and says so quietly it seems like he wants no one else in the room to hear, “So, where are we right now?”

  I think for a moment and carefully select my words. “You got two choices,” I say. “You can meet my demands—I only ask three simple things—or the list goes public, which I imagine would result in you having to relocate every single person in WITSEC at the exact same time, seems like the only option you’d have after I made sure the list was widely disseminated.”

  “You’re out of your freaking mind,” Ciacco says.

  “How much does it cost to relocate a witness?” I ask.

  “That information is classified.”

  “About a hundred grand,” Sean says, rubbing his temples. “Minimum.”

  “Wow,” I say. “So we’re talking about hundreds of millions of dollars in relocations. Does Justice have that kind of extra cash in its budget?”

  Oversized Guy responds calmly again, though his voice is slightly louder. “So let me get this straight: You’re trying to extort the Department of Justice?”

  “Don’t patronize me. When we do it, it’s extortion. When you guys do it, it’s leverage. I don’t care what you call it. It’s real, either way.”

  Ellen rests back in her chair, covers her mouth, and mutters, “There are women and children in this program. The lives you’re risking.”

  I smile a little. “Shameful, isn’t it.”

  “You psychopath,” she says. “How can you do this?”

  “I’m not. I’ll bet you a dollar you meet my demands.”

  The room falls silent. Even the ventilation stops blowing air. We can hear one another swallow, can notice the rustling of fabric whenever someone moves.

  Oversized Guy finally summons the courage to ask the question that suggests they might consider my request: “What is it you want?”

  I stare at him, clearly the only person I need to convince. “One: I want to be put into the program. I want—”

  “Why?”

  His question catches me off guard. I see no value in being dishonest with them, so I summarize: “Because I want out. I want the chance to start over. I love my family, but being a member is going to be the death of me. I’m sick of the day in and day out of it. My entire life has been spent with my father trying to ‘find my place’ in the organization. I want to build something that’s more than just a means to advance criminal activity. I want a shot at normalcy.”

  “You will not live a normal life in the program.”

  “Normal enough.” I look around the room, would never want to be in this place under any other circumstances. “And as part of being put in Witness Protection, I want it stated—publicly—that I’m turning on my family.”

  Oversized Guy squints, tries to figure my spin. “Why would you want that?”

  I wave my hand and run my fingers through my hair. “I just do.” The truth ends here. I cannot explain this component of my plan, that despite how it will confuse my family, I need some way for Melody to find out what I’ve done, to read it in a paper or see it on television, that I claimed to have killed her—that she is forever free.

  “What else?”

  “Two: Protect Gardner’s wife and kids. He told me he started working with another family in New York, which means he’ll be dead in a matter of weeks. No one else could ever tolerate Randall the way I did.”

  “And let me guess: Your third request is to put Gravina in the program?”

  “Nope. Should he survive beyond this afternoon, you’ve got my endorsement to have a field day with that bastard.” Everything that went wrong in Tenafly I can map back to him, how he was tracking Melody and using a federal witness—Sean’s precious rule-breaking—to bring us down, and nearly to her death. “My third request will be the bitterest pill: You lay off my family. You stand down.” And Pete gets his chain of candy stores.

  Everyone sighs and groans and shifts in their seats.

  “We’re done,” Ciacco says, stands again.

  I turn to Oversized Guy and say, “Since he’s not really a player, I’m gonna ask that the Pig be excused. He’s going to get a lot of innocent people killed.”

  The big man takes a thick breath that sounds like a snore, says, “Everyone knows we couldn’t possibly relocate thousands of people at one time. Feasibility aside, the cost and exposure would bring this program to its knees. You’re willing to jeopardize a system that’s been working successfully for over six decades to protect your family? What about the next person who needs it? What happens when we need to put your father in it?”

  “You shouldn’t have hired addicted people to handle sensitive data.”

  Sean speaks up: “You shouldn’t have exploited him. How about we just take you out to a field and put a bullet in you.”

  Even the two silent superiors at the table tell Sean to calm down and watch his tone.

  “No,” I say, “see, that’s how we handle business. You guys aren’t capable. Besides, I’m sure everyone in here knows that if I die, that list will surface instantly. I’d say you might’ve never tried so hard to protect someone as you will with me.”

  Ciacco put his hands on the back of his chair and pushes down. “You honestly expect us to let the Bovaro crew do whatever they want?”

  “You’re doing it right now, waiting to find evidence. Consider this a lifetime of never finding it.”

  Sean takes a few steps forward, stretches, walks to the door. �
�There’s no list.”

  Just before he leaves the room, I say, “Sean, would you agree Gardner was, in a sense, an employee of both the Department of Justice and the Bovaro family?”

  He doesn’t respond immediately. “I suppose.”

  “Which organization do you think is more effective in dealing with problem employees? You still don’t see it, but Gardner had enough sense to know he was safer turning on Justice.”

  He stares at me like he’s looking at a dead body in a coffin, licks his lips and purses them a little. “There is no list.” He pulls the door behind him gently, does not return.

  “I want the list of every person in the program,” I demanded. “I want their names and addresses.”

  Gardner gagged. “I can’t do—”

  “Sure you can. You already have. I’ve got Melody’s address—and you can supply the rest.”

  “Are you insane? That’s thousands of—”

  “I don’t care. I want the list.”

  I remember the look of regret on his face, the last time I ever saw a shred of remorse come over him, the look that suggested his entire life just got flushed down the toilet.

  Then, weakly: “I can’t.”

  “You will.”

  Gardner shrunk into himself, curled up like a snail into its shell. He sat down and put his knees together, quickly calculated the consequence of such an act.

  “That’s the line.”

  “The line?”

  “That I will never cross.” He sat back, went completely pale, looked as pained as if he’d been beaten with a club. “Do what you have to do, knock me around, but you will never get that out of me. Never.”

  His reluctance did infuriate me, had me stepping toward him with a tightening fist. But as he sat in his chair, not even throwing up a hand to block me, doing nothing more than turning his face and wincing, I loosened my hand and stepped back. I stared at him for a few seconds, then walked to the door. I paused with my body halfway out, turned back and looked him in the eye.

  “But, theoretically… you could get it. Right?”

  I can lie, can break the rules and break the law, just as Sean suggested. I suppose that’s the difference between me and Justice: The Bovaros have always had a sensational passing game. Watch now as my Hail Mary drops gently into the center of the end zone.

  Like it matters. We’re already ahead by twenty-eight points.

  SIX

  I haven’t been driven by someone in close to a year. Like the family member who takes all the pictures, I am rarely in them. So as Sean shepherds me from under the courthouse in a bulletproof Explorer, its interior lined with dials and gadgets and weapons, all designed for apprehending or killing people just like me, this transport feels more peculiar than comforting, sends a shiver through me to know the rifle locked down between us might’ve been used to send a round through the back of my head. How strange it seems, now that I’m safely wrapped in their protective arms, that I finally understand just how cavalier I acted in those overlapping moments when I spirited Melody away, what they could’ve done given the opportunity, how I was likely spared by the casting of Sean’s ulterior motive.

  As we turn onto the alley, I see the parking lot where I waited for Melody to surface—Dr. Bajkowski’s parking space. And once we’re on Hanover, I glance at the front of this government facility, recall the scene just two hours earlier when the feds drove me around the block, circled back to the front entrance of the courthouse, then escorted me out of a Suburban, my hands cuffed behind me, and walked me right back in the building in front of a crowd of tipped-off journalists. This act, of course, was performed at my request. We walked at a sluggish pace, allowed them to take pictures and footage as they yelled questions that were never acknowledged. How conquered I appeared, my unshaven and bruised face cast down from the flashes.

  I can visualize Peter standing in front of his television as my story unfolds on the news, arms crossed and eyes narrowed as he says to no one: “Seriously?”

  And I know the tension that will come to Peter’s fist as he checks the voice mail on his cell phone, hears the single word I uttered from the conference room phone the first moment I was left alone for thirty seconds, waiting for someone to fetch me a fresh drink while the others chatted in the hallway: “Gravina.”

  Sean doesn’t say a word, has managed to peeve the two marshals in the vehicle—both relegated to the backseats—by forcing his way into the operation.

  Baltimore claims everything that was left of who I am: my car and the few belongings in it, my stashes of money, my name. I have only my overnight bag full of toiletries and dirty clothes, and a case full of CDs that I will play over and over until I have memorized every note, that I will use to remember every intricacy of Melody, every iteration of every word, the texture of her skin and the curves of her soft shape.

  As we drive down I-95—I’ve had my fill of this interstate—the cab is silent. Around the time we break the perimeter of the Baltimore Beltway, Sean says quietly to me, keeping his eyes straight ahead, “You know they’re never gonna honor your third request, keeping your family free of prosecution.”

  Of course I know. “We have an agreement,” I say anyway.

  Clearly my expectation on request number three was loose. Back at the courthouse, we spent hours hammering out the pre-procedures of getting me transitioned into the program and how they would approach protecting Gardner’s wife and kids; we spent maybe five minutes discussing the protection of my family. Went something like this:

  ME: “My family gets a free ride.”

  OVERSIZED: “We all know that’s not going to happen.”

  ME, ECHOING ELLEN: “But the women and children.”

  OVERSIZED: “It’s logistically impossible. Let’s say we catch your father or one of your brothers engaged in some illegal activity in the course of pursuing some other organization. What, we arrest everyone in the room except those in the Bovaro crew?”

  ME: (silence)

  OVERSIZED: “Best we can offer, and this is a one-time deal you need to commit to right now or it comes off the table, is we’ll keep it in mind.”

  ME, AFTER WATCHING FOR A SIGN FROM OVERSIZED GUY THAT HE’S UNWORTHY OF MY INDEFINITE TRUST, A SIGN THAT NEVER OVERRIDES HIS ICY GLARE, HIS OVERT HATRED OF THE MAN WITH WHOM HE IS DEALING: “Keep the list in mind, too, yeah?”

  Neither side carved a line in the sand, never agreed to anything other than looking the other way. The most I could hope for is that they’ll think twice before pinching anyone, that they’ll be dead certain they have airtight evidence before making a move. My prayer is that any of the men in my family—even just one of them—figures out why he should break free of his criminal existence and discovers the path toward doing so, finds the corridor that never appeared for me.

  The sun falls to the edge of the horizon as we leave the interstate and ride the roads not far from where Melody had her apartment in Columbia. The roads are too familiar, remind me of when I was so close to having her within reach; my mind replays the tape of my attempt at abduction. We depart from the main drag, take a quiet parkway that leads us to Howard County’s countryside and has us driving by Baltimore’s wealthiest suburbs, past sprawling horse farms and manses tucked thousands of feet behind gates. As the land eventually converts back to agriculture and our vehicle is shielded by walls of unharvested corn, I begin to wonder if Sean’s comment—How about we just take you out to a field and put a bullet in you—is about to become the first sentence of the last paragraph of my Witness Protection story. I can’t imagine what might exist out here in the middle of nowhere.

  The few roads that intersect our abandoned path twist and bend at right angles as though following the original property lines of the farms, delineations set a hundred or more years ago. Right before the road looks like it will narrow into a lane wide enough for only one vehicle, Sean pulls off and parks in a gravel parking lot facing what was once a Baptist church, a dilapidated, red-painted wooden st
ructure missing all its windows. The dust from our sudden appearance curls up into the air and drifts through the gaping holes of the church. Something about this place seems familiar but I can’t immediately place it.

  In the distance down the one-lane road comes another SUV, a huge cloud of gravel smoke following it like the vehicle is trying to outrun a twister. As it stops right before the church, the cloud catches up, washes over the SUV, and dissolves as it drifts our way. The vehicle remains stationary for a half minute while Sean communicates with the other driver via dashboard radio. Once the SUV, a glossy Excursion, finally rolls forward and pulls next to us, the picture, the familiarity of this place, takes shape: the black SUV against an empty cornfield with the corner of the red-painted church. I’m staring at the exact spot where Melody was photographed in the arms of Sean, the very first picture in the stack viewed in my father’s kitchen, the image that turned my stomach, that turned my world upside down and shook loose all the dirt and dust.

  She was here. So they really did try to convince her. And she really did tell them no, truly came back to me. And now I’m going wherever they took her, having swapped places with Melody in under forty-eight hours.

  Then, a blur of commotion: Sean gets out of the driver’s seat, is replaced by one of the marshals from the backseat. The second marshal gets out of our SUV and stands beside it on my side. Sean jogs to the Excursion on the passenger side, which reverses and pulls up next to us on my side. And as the back door of the Excursion opens, the marshal standing outside yanks my door and I’m pulled from one SUV and thrown into the other. As I try to get myself together, the vehicle I arrived in has disappeared behind a new cloud of dust.

  Before I’m correctly positioned in my seat, the Excursion is shimmying down the road; I can’t tell our route because I can’t see a thing. The only means of glimpsing the outside is through the windshield—and within seconds it’s blocked from my view by a glass divider. The windows on the side and rear of the vehicle are not darkened, they’re black. No light makes its way in at all. I’m not dead but this sure feels like a coffin.