Finally, they come for me in the person of Special Agent Bernard Wolfshein of the Drug Enforcement Administration. An unlikely federal dope cop if ever I met one (and I have met a few), Wolfshein apologizes, says he was detained while they searched the farm. He explains it is against agency policy for him to transport a prisoner without backup. But, if it’s okay with me, he will make an exception in this case. Otherwise we will have to wait several more hours.
“You won’t try to escape on me, will you, Dick? They call you Dick?” Wolfshein asks.
“No. Richard.”
“Richard. Right, right. Richard. You won’t try anything crazy? I know you’re not that kind of guy. Right, Richard?”
This guy’s a trip, I’m thinking, Special Agent Bernard Wolfshein with his dark, wavy hair and Brooklyn accent. He seems out of place in the wilds of western Maine. Reminds me of Columbo, the TV cop played by Peter Falk. He even looks like him. And he affects an absent-minded or preoccupied manner that does little to hide his obvious intelligence. He shuffles into the jail wearing a rumpled trench coat, horn-rimmed glasses. He checks his weapon and fills out the forms to remove me to federal custody. His gun, I notice when he picks it up on the way out, has white adhesive tape wrapped around the handle. It looks like something salvaged from a yard sale.
Two Farmington cops escort me outside to Wolfshein’s fed car.
“See what I’m sayin’? What’re we gonna do, here, Rich?” Wolfshein asks me. “Geeze, I don’t know. I hate to… Well, if I cuff you behind your back… I mean, it’s a long ride—how long is it?”
The cops shrug. “In this weather?”
It has started to snow again. Late April and it’s snowing. Big, fat flakes like floating tufts of cotton. “I could put you in the backseat,” he says. “No, that’s no good. I’ll put you up front with me where I can keep an eye on you. But I’ll have to—look, I know it’s gonna hurt, it’ll be uncomfortable—I hate to do it, Rich, but I’m gonna have to cuff you behind your back.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him.
“You sure? I mean, you say that now but—”
“What else can we do?”
“Exactly,” Wolfshein agrees. “What else can we do? Nothing. We gotta do what we gotta do. Yes? But it’ll be all right? I mean, because I know you’re not the kind of guy who will try anything crazy, am I right?”
“That’s right.”
“Good. Good. I thought so,” Wolfshein says and nods. He pushes his glasses up over the bridge of his nose and opens the car door. I sit in front, hands and arms wrenched behind my back, turned sideways in the seat so I’m not sitting on my wrists. Wolfshein climbs in behind the wheel. He seems as concerned about my discomfort as I am. “You know,” he says, “later on, if you wanna stop and get out and move around. Go to the men’s room… I don’t know. See, this is the problem. This is why I shouldn’t be doing this without, you know… I shouldn’t be transporting you by myself, I mean, without backup. But we’ll make it, Rich, you and me. And I’m sure you were ready to get out of that place. Am I right?”
“Right again.”
He chuckles and starts the car, and we drive off into the snowy night.
Wolfshein warns me that anything I say can and will be used against me. “They read you your Miranda rights? When they arrested you? And you called your lawyer? What’s his name? Pretty famous guy, huh? Used to work for JFK. Godfried. You’re his only client. That’s impressive.”
He smiles, shakes his head. “But not as famous as the other guy, the writer. Norman Mailer. Wow, now there’s a great writer. I mean, I may not always agree with everything he writes, but the way he puts it, his writing, you gotta hand it to him, right, Rich? That man can write.”
“He’s a great writer,” I agree.
“Great guy too, no? He’s your friend, Mailer. How long have you known him?”
“A little over ten years.”
“How did you guys meet? He’s from Brooklyn, isn’t he? I’m from Brooklyn.”
“I never would have guessed.”
Wolfshein laughs. “Listen. You don’t have to say anything. We’ll keep it strictly off the record—I mean, if you feel like talkin’, you know, we won’t talk about… I don’t know. I can’t even call it a case. I’ll be perfectly honest with you, Rich. I think we were a day late and a dollar short.”
It’s the first good news I’ve heard all day.
Wolfshein continues, “I mean, I was there. We searched your place… all day. You own that place with Mailer, don’t you?”
I don’t answer, don’t feel I need to. I get the impression Wolfshein knows the answers to his questions before he asks them.
“You know what we found? I mean, we had guys in there from headquarters in the DC office with these machines, checking the walls and the floors, looking for hidden compartments… stashes or whatever. I kept trying to tell them: This guy is not about to keep anything serious where he lives. He’s smarter than that. He’s old school. Been doin’ this since he was… what? A college kid? High school selling ounces? You and I know, a guy like you, Rich—you’re not gonna be keepin’ any real weight where you live. No way. So they searched the barns, the horse stables—you got some nice horses there Rich… We walked all around the property. You’ve got a lot of land there too, you and what’s his name, the writer. Searched the place high and low. You know what we found?”
“No, what did you find?” I’m nervous as hell because I know there is extremely incriminating evidence at the farm—if you know where to look.
“Nothing. Two ounces of marijuana.” The way he pronounces marijuana, there’s no question it’s an alien controlled substance. “It was sitting right out in plain sight. On the kitchen table. I didn’t bother to enter it as evidence. I mean, possession of two ounces in this state isn’t even a felony. You’re looking pretty good on this one, Rich. I don’t know if there’s even enough to indict you. You know?” He shrugs. “I mean, I’m not a lawyer but what do we have?”
Relief. Momentary.
“Oh, and one other thing that confused me,” Wolfshein says and I’m tense all over again. “We found a sheriff’s hat. Huh?” He smiles at me. “You wanna explain that one to me, Rich?”
“I’d rather not,” I say. “It’s a long story.”
“I’m sure it is,” Wolfshein says and gives me a quick nod and smile. “But I’m glad I was there, when they went to your place, I mean. I wanted to be there because I didn’t want anything to happen like what happened when they went to that other guy’s place. What’s his name?” He uses Fearless Fred Barnswallow’s real name.
“That was stupid. Senseless,” the agent says. “I mean, no need for that at all.”
Wolfshein stops talking, looks over at me. My stomach is knotted up all over again. “I don’t know what gets into these guys,” he says after a moment. “I’ve been on this job, what? Fifteen years now? Never fired my gun once. That’s the truth. Some of these other guys, well—they’re cowboys. They can’t help themselves.”
He hesitates, lets this sink in. I’m wondering, What’s he talking about? What the fuck happened?
“They shot the dog,” Wolfshein says and shakes his head. “Killed the guy’s dog. Nice dog too. German shepherd. No need for that at all. That’s why I wanted to be there when they went to your place. I didn’t want them to kill your dog.”
I don’t know what to say. “Thank you,” is all I can come up with. In my mind I’m seeing Fred’s big, friendly-but-protective dog, Bear, lying in the snow in a pool of blood. “Shit,” I say. The thought of them killing Bear is bad enough. I’m also afraid of what I’m sure they found when they searched Fred’s home: guns, cocaine, money, records, pot plants. But how can they connect it to me… unless Freddy rolls?
Stupid motherfucker, I’m thinking. You brought this on yourself.
Wolfshein is not finished playing games with my head. Out of the blue, he starts talking about Lebanon. He reminds me of a Middle East Airlines fligh
t from Beirut to Paris I was on a year earlier. We had engine trouble and had to make an emergency landing in Athens. How the hell does he know about that? I’m wondering. And how much more does he know? He keeps asking if I’m hurting, if I’m uncomfortable sitting with my hands cuffed behind my back. Of course I’m uncomfortable. I feel like telling him it’s nothing compared to what he’s doing to my state of mind.
“I don’t suppose you know anything about that plane that crashed up near you, huh, Rich? Big plane. Hold a lot of marijuana in a plane like that.”
He laughs, shakes his head and looks over at me, pushes his glasses up his nose. “Ever hear of a guy named BR?” He uses Yogi’s real name.
“Doesn’t ring any bells.”
“No? Big guy. Pretty good pilot from what I hear. I think he’s out of Toronto. He may have had something to do with that plane.”
What the fuck is this guy’s game? He knows way too much. How long has he been on us? Have they got Yogi in custody somewhere talking? Is Wolfshein trying to flip me, get me to roll over and rat out my friends?
I decide to turn the tables and ask a few questions of my own. “Who are you?” I ask.
“Just a guy… doing his job.”
“In Portland, Maine?”
“No, I’m out of Boston. DC, really. Headquarters. Up until a few months ago… more than that. Maybe even close to a year now. I was acting liaison between Congress and DEA. Spent my days trying to explain to senators and congressmen why we need more money… to go after guys like you.” He chuckles. “Then they sent me back out into the field. I’m kind of a floater. I go where—well, where you go.”
Now I know he’s bullshitting me. No way is my trip worthy of a guy like Wolfshein. “Right now I just want to go home and go to bed,” I say.
“I know what you mean,” says Wolfshein. “I’m beat too. Which home? You lead a pretty nomadic lifestyle, Rich.”
This is too weird. I’m beginning to feel like Raskolnikov sitting with Detective Porfiry. Better keep my mouth shut before I say something I’ll regret.
“You’ve had a good run,” Wolfshein says at last. “Most guys in your business don’t last half as long as you have. I mean, you’ve had your ups and downs, am I right? There was that load that went south at the airport in New York. You and your pal there got locked up on that one. But you were never indicted, right?”
“Right.”
“What happened? They couldn’t produce the evidence?”
I can’t let this go unanswered. “I heard DEA agents stole it.”
“Really? I heard that too. You know that for a fact?”
“That’s what I was told, by my lawyer. And when they brought us before the judge, they couldn’t explain what happened to the evidence, supposedly two or three tons of hash. It was a mystery. The judge threw the case out. I heard the hash was sold on the streets of New York. Jack Anderson wrote a column about it in the Washington Post.”
Shut up, Stratton. You’re talking too much.
Wolfshein shrugs. “Could be,” he says. “What can I say? Some of these agents… Well, it’s a dirty business, on both sides.”
“It’s ridiculous,” I blurt out, unable to contain myself. “The whole thing is fucked up. Your so-called War on Drugs. It’s a war on the American people. And it’s crazy. A waste of time, money, people’s lives. For what? You can’t stop people from doing what they’re going to do.”
“It’s the law,” says Wolfshein.
“Big deal. That doesn’t make it right. It used to be illegal for blacks and women to vote.”
“It’s my job.”
“C’mon, that’s no excuse. That doesn’t make it right, either. You’re a Jew, right?”
“Yeah.”
“It was the Nazi’s job to kill Jews. Does that make it right?”
“We’re not talking about killing Jews.”
“No, you’re right, we’re not. We’re talking about locking people up—many of them young Americans—in cages, human warehouses for years for trafficking in a plant. Something God created. That’s also a form of persecution, wouldn’t you say?”
“No.” Wolfshein shakes his head. “I think you’re exaggerating. It’s a crime. People who commit crimes need to be punished.”
“Okay. So what if it became the law to kill pot smugglers? Just herd them all up and execute them. No trial or anything. Hang ’em in the town square. Like in Iran. Isn’t that what some of these wackos you work for advocate? What if that became your job? Shoot ’em on sight. Would that make it right? Like if it was your job to kill me right now. Would you still do it?”
“No, of course not,” Wolfshein says. “But that’s not gonna happen. Not here. This is America.”
“Oh, yeah, right. I forgot.”
He is silent for a moment. “Drugs ruin people’s lives.”
“C’mon. People ruin people’s lives,” I say, thinking of myself. Mentally kicking myself in the ass for working with Fearless Fred.
Wolfshein glances over at me. “You okay? You want me to stop? So you can get out and move around? I know you won’t run.”
Why does he keep saying this? I’m wondering. Where the hell am I going to run with my hands cuffed behind my back? The man has a gun, even if he’s never shot it. There’s always a first time. I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid.
“I’m all right,” I answer, but I’m not. This guy has me all freaked out.
“Interesting,” Wolfshein says. “I can see you’ve given this a lot of thought. So, it’s… political with you. I mean, you’re not in it just for the money.”
“In what?” I have to smile. “Who said I was in anything?” I say. “We’re just having a philosophical conversation here. Right?”
Wolfshein laughs, nods. “Right, Rich. That’s right.”
THE LOCAL LAWYER Godfried called is waiting at the Cumberland County Jail in Portland when Wolfshein deposits me.
“Good luck,” the agent says, and offers me his hand once the cuffs have come off.
“Thank you,” I say and shake his hand. “It was good talking to you. And thanks again for not letting them kill my dog.”
He nods, gives me a long look. “You know, I gotta tell you, there’s some truth to what you say. Maybe there’s no way we can stop people using drugs. But not everyone looks at it the same as you, Rich. There are some very bad people out there making a lot of money smuggling drugs. Somebody’s gotta stop them.”
It’s nine o’clock at night, but the attorney has arranged for me to go before a federal magistrate for a bail hearing. I’m being held on what is known as a criminal complaint. No formal charges as yet. My lawyer convinces the magistrate I am not a flight risk since I own considerable property in the state. He makes the point that no evidence of any crime was found on my person or at my home. There is virtually nothing to connect me to whatever it is the government agents seem to think went down. The magistrate agrees to accept the deed to the farm in lieu of a cash bond.
I spend the night in the county jail. In the morning Jimmy D drives down with a copy of the deed. No one seems to notice that the property is in my name and Mailer’s. His name is still on the deed. I’m thinking he would be required to sign the bail bond as well, but I’m not about to bring this to anyone’s attention. I sign the papers and walk out into the streets of Portland, once more in control of the space in which I move.
3
FOOL’S PARADISE
THEY MISSED THE load. They had me—for a minute. They impounded the Toronado with California plates. (I call my friends in San Francisco, who tell me not to worry. It’s registered to a dead guy.) They searched the farm over the course of a workday while I sat in the local lockup. All they came up with was an unindictable couple of ounces and the sheriff’s hat. Not only did they miss the load—they missed my stash.
It seems almost too good to be true, and it is because there is also the Fearless Freddy factor. I don’t even want to contemplate what they found when they raided t
he Barnswallow’s nest. You name it. And phone numbers. Financial records. Paperwork connecting him to a plane and hangar. People—strippers and gofers—who know way too much about Fred’s operation. And they shot and killed his loyal companion, Bear, the one true friend Fred had.
Shit. Poor Fred. And me—what an asshole to have involved him in the first place. How many times have I told myself and the people I work with to stay away from anyone who uses or deals cocaine? Then I turn around and do exactly what I tell others not to do. Fucking brilliant. I violate my own principles. If that isn’t self-sabotage, I don’t know what is.
Now I’m in damage control mode. There is a little over $200,000 in US and Canadian currency, and maybe fifteen Mason jars full of different strains of cannabis, plus my financial records and business phone numbers—exactly the kind of evidence Wolfshein would have salivated over—hidden in the stash. It’s built into a space in the central chimney that comes up through the middle of the old farmhouse and supports two fireplaces, one in the dining room and the other in the living room. In my study there is a bookcase built against what appears to be a solid brick wall, but is actually the chimney. I’m told the settlers who built these old farmhouses left a space between the fireplaces, a kind of alcove in the center of the chimney, where they would hide in case of an Indian attack. That may be apocryphal; the space may be designed for storing firewood. But to the untrained eye, looking at that wall, you would think that the bricks continue all the way down behind the bookcase, through the floor, and onto the granite foundation in the basement. If you remove the books and adjust one of the shelves, the wooden back of the bookcase slides open to reveal my stash.
There it is. Relief. The money, in ten thousand-dollar stacks in vacuum-sealed plastic bags, I pack into my suitcase and load into the trunk of a rental car parked out front. The financial records and business phone numbers I put in my briefcase. I grab a couple of jars of weed and close the stash back up. Karamazov never leaves my side. He knows something is wrong. Strangers with weapons invaded his home. His boss has been gone for days. And he understands the signs: suitcases, strange cars, a lot of hurried activity. I’m leaving, going away—again. I take the dog for a long walk on the property, beside the brook up the steep hill behind the house, where he often disappears chasing bears. Sometimes he comes home whimpering with a mouth full of porcupine quills.
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