He looked at her right next to him and said, “So that’s it. I’ve been wondering.” He put his hand on hers, holding her purse in her lap. “No, they come to your house. They send an officer, a serious young guy in his dress uniform, to tell you. U.S. marshals don’t do that. I’ve been thinking about it, a marshal’s like what Matt Dillon was in Gunsmoke. They wear a big cowboy hat. Remember Matt and Miss Kitty?”
The marshal on the passenger side of the front seat turned his head toward the one that was driving.
Carmen nudged Wayne with her elbow. He gave her hand a squeeze.
This U.S. marshal, John McAllen, seemed as big as the one in Gunsmoke and was about the same age, around fifty, Carmen judged, and looked familiar in that he fit the role of law officer, appeared to have rough edges and kept his personality to himself, or tried to. She had seen enough law officers recently to recognize the type. McAllen, in his dark suit, was not as neat and polished as Scallen, the FBI special agent, who looked more like a lawyer or business executive and sat off to one side. Carmen and Wayne had chairs facing the marshal at his desk, a big one. On the wall behind him were pictures of three past presidents of the United States and a fourth who was about to leave office.
Greeting them, McAllen had said it was a pleasure and that he appreciated the courage it took for them to come forward, willing to testify at the appropriate time. He said now, with a little smile, “I imagine what you’d appreciate is somebody taking better care of you. Well, that’s why you’re here.”
Carmen thought he even sounded like the one in Gunsmoke only more authentically western. She said they would appreciate it a lot, and glanced at Wayne. He was sitting forward, his elbows on the chair arms, not yet moved by the marshal’s concern.
“This situation, from our standpoint, is an unusual one,” McAllen said. “However since your lives are apparently in danger we feel you qualify for federal protection under the Witness Security Program of the United States Marshals Service.”
Wayne said, “You mean our lives appear to be in danger but maybe they aren’t?”
As McAllen looked up from a notebook he was opening Carmen said, “I thought it was only for criminals. Wasn’t Richie Nix in the program?”
“He was for a time,” McAllen said, maybe surprised by the way both of them had come at him, glancing over at Scallen now.
“Everything I’ve read about it,” Wayne said, “it’s for people who testify in court to stay out of prison.”
McAllen, trying to smile, said, “Whoa now, you people have a misconception about the program we better clear up.”
Carmen turned to Scallen as he got into it saying, yes, the program was originally created by the attorney general for the protection of witnesses under Title V—or he might’ve said Title B, Carmen was still having trouble with McAllen referring to them as “you people.” Scallen’s tone helped, giving her the feeling he was actually concerned for their safety. He said the program must work, there were about fifteen thousand people in it counting witnesses and their families. He said, “Let’s let John McAllen go through some of the boilerplate, basic things about the program. How’s that sound? Then we’ll see how a modified version might work for you.”
It sounded okay to Carmen. She said, fine. Wayne didn’t say anything.
So then McAllen recited from his notebook, beginning with the conditions required for eligibility. There had to be evidence in possession that the life of the witness and/or a member of his or her family was in immediate jeopardy. There also had to be evidence in possession that it would be advantageous to the federal interest for the Department of Justice to protect the witness and/or family or household members.
Carmen began to wonder when Wayne would jump in.
With this evidence in possession the attorney general could, by regulation, provide suitable documents to enable the person to establish a new identity . . .
Right there.
“What you’re saying,” Wayne said, “you want us to change our names ’cause you can’t find these assholes? Is that it?”
McAllen said, “Whoa now,” and Scallen got into it again saying, “Wayne, you have to let John finish. The regulation states it’s to establish a new identity or ‘otherwise protect the person,’ so we’re flexible in that area.”
McAllen said he would appreciate their waiting till he was finished before expressing their views. Staring at Wayne.
Good luck, Carmen thought.
The program would provide housing, McAllen said. It would provide for the transportation of household furniture and other personal property to a new residence of the person. It would provide a payment to meet basic living expenses and assist the person in obtaining employment . . .
Wayne said, “Can I ask a question?”
“I imagine,” McAllen said, looking up from the notebook, “you want to know what comes under ‘basic living expenses.’ “
“I want to know, first, if you’re saying we have to sell our house.”
Carmen was wondering that too, among other things. But most of all she was wondering, if they did move, what she’d tell her mother. While Scallen was saying, yes, it would involve relocation, for their safety, but he didn’t think it would be necessary to sell the house. Carmen thinking that if she told her mother they were going on a vacation her mom would get sick, as she usually did, sometimes putting herself in the hospital. Scallen saying he believed he could make a deal with Nelson Davies, have his company appear to be offering the house for sale and take care of the maintenance.
Wayne said, “Relocate where?”
Scallen looked at John McAllen who said, “Where we have marshals that supervise the program, experienced Witness Security inspectors. Right now we can offer you Lima, Findlay, Ohio . . .”
Wayne said, “Jesus Christ, those’re both on I–Seventy-five.”
McAllen paused, frowning. “What’s wrong with that?”
Carmen said, “Wayne?” with a look that meant, Don’t give your speech about driving through Ohio. She said to McAllen, “What else do you have?”
He was still frowning, maybe confused. “Well, a couple places in Missouri, one especially we recommend. But what I’d like is to finish with the regulations first, if that’s agreeable with you.”
He didn’t say “you people” and his tone seemed okay. Otherwise, Carmen was fairly sure Wayne would have jumped on him. At the moment he was holding on to the chair arms.
Before providing the aforementioned assistance, McAllen said, the attorney general would enter into what was called a Memorandum of Understanding with the person, which sets forth the responsibilities of that person and would include:
The agreement of the person to testify and provide information to all appropriate law-enforcement officials concerning all appropriate proceedings.
The agreement of the person to avoid detection by others of the facts concerning the protection provided.
Carmen was going to say, What? But didn’t.
The agreement to comply with legal obligations and any judgments against that person.
Carmen felt Wayne looking at her. She glanced over. He was giving her a look, mouth open, that meant, You believe it?
The agreement to cooperate with all reasonable requests of officers and employees of the government.
The agreement of the person not to commit any crime.
Carmen thought that one should cut Wayne loose, bring him up out of his chair. But he surprised her.
“Now, that’s a tough one,” Wayne said. “You understand, we could possibly go along with all that other bullshit, but to promise we won’t commit any crimes . . .” Wayne shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Mr. Colson,” McAllen said, “these regulations applied originally to federal offenders. I thought we explained that and I’m sorry if we didn’t make it clear. They still apply to ninety-seven percent of the people we take into the program, not counting their dependents and so on. The other three percent are honest citizens,
such as you and the wife, who’re willing to avail yourselves of the program and its resources . . .”
The wife, Carmen thought.
“. . . which I must tell you is truly inspiring to us in law enforcement and the administration of criminal justice.” McAllen turned to the FBI special agent. “Paul, am I right about that or not?”
Scallen straightened, all of a sudden brought into it. He nodded saying, “That’s a fact, yes.”
Carmen saw him agreeing but with not much conviction now, shifting around in his chair as though he might have doubts and wanted to say something. But then McAllen was speaking again, reciting words Carmen believed were from a text.
Something about “in the judgment of the United States government that by reciprocating, protecting you to the fullest extent once you have agreed to testify, we can effect a major action against these elements of organized crime.”
After that for a few minutes there was silence, Carmen watching the U.S. marshal line up papers on his desk, getting ready for the next part, while those three ex-presidents and the one about to be looked down from the wall behind him.
“I have a question,” Wayne said to the FBI special agent.
Carmen looked over at Scallen, who seemed relieved now, even smiling a little as he said, “I imagine you’re gonna have all kinds of questions.”
“Just one,” Wayne said. “Do we get a ride home?”
A uniformed sheriff’s deputy sat in the living room watching television and another one was outside somewhere. State Police would drive by every once in a while.
Wayne and Carmen were in the kitchen having a beer, trying to decide whether to cook or go out.Wayne said if they went out the cops would come along and he’d rather not be seen in public with them.
They would talk about the witness program, make comments and then not say anything, Wayne with his thoughts and Carmen with hers, taking their time getting into it. Carmen said she had a feeling the FBI agent didn’t think too highly of the program, or had some doubts about it. McAllen, she believed, was sincere but used to dealing with criminals. Wayne said he was getting used to being treated as one so what was the difference?
He said, “Can you see leaving here to live in Findlay, Ohio? Jesus. What was the other place, Lima?”
“Lima,” Carmen said, “like the beans.”
“Yeah, I imagine there’s all kinds of structural work down in Lima, Ohio. Can you see moving out and not telling anybody? Not even your mom? . . . Wait a minute, maybe it isn’t such a bad idea.”
Carmen didn’t say anything.
Wayne sipped his beer, watching her. “What’re you thinking about?”
“If we did have to change our names,” Carmen said, “I was thinking it might be fun, huh? Pick whatever name you want.”
“The only one I’d ever think of using,” Wayne said, “you know what it is? Mats.”
“After your great-grandfather.”
“My dad’s.”
Carmen had seen pictures of him: Wayne with a bushy mustache, Mats the lumberjack, who’d come from Sweden to northern Michigan. Wayne’s mother and dad were still up there, near Alpena, growing Christmas trees on three hundred and twenty acres.
“My dad wanted to name me Mats.”
“But your mom won,” Carmen said, “and named you after a movie star. Moms get away with murder. Mine, you probably think, named me after the girl in the opera.”
“Tell you the truth,” Wayne said, “I never thought about it.”
“She didn’t. She named me after Guy Lombardo’s brother, Carmen Lombardo, he sang with the band. His big number was ‘Sweethearts on Parade.’ Mom said it was her and Dad’s song when they were going together.”
“You’re putting me on,” Wayne said. “Aren’t you?”
“I could change my name to Bambi,” Carmen said, “except I’d be afraid you might shoot me. How about Kim? Barbie, Betsy, Becky . . . You have to be little and cute to have one of those.”
“You’re cute.”
“No, I was cute in high school, I outgrew it. When you’re really cute that’s all you have to be, you make a career out of it. Someone asks you what you do, you say, ‘Nothing, I’m cute.’ “ She looked out at the police car parked in the yard.
Wayne watched her for a moment. “We don’t seem too shook up over this.”
“If we did move away for a while,” Carmen said, turning to him, “we don’t see your folks that often, we could be back before they knew we were gone.”
“Or go up there to the farm,” Wayne said, “if we have to hide, which irks the shit out of me. Or go down to Florida, visit your dad. That wouldn’t be hard to take. I think what they said is bullshit, we stay with relatives there’s a chance they could find us. I’m leaning more toward what you said, it doesn’t have anything to do with the Mafia.”
“But they want to believe it does,” Carmen said, “and if they’re right . . . well, we’d be better off in Cape Girardeau than here.”
“I never heard of it.”
“It’s on the Mississippi . . .”
“I still never heard of it,” Wayne said. “You can’t tell much from the literature.” He took a sip of beer. “What do you think it’s like?”
“I don’t know,” Carmen said. “You want to find out?”
Wayne didn’t answer, looking out the window now at the police car. “We’d have to tell Matthew. Make up a story for your mom. Tell her I’ve become a boomer, gone down to Missouri to work on permit, they got this two-story structure they’re putting up.”
“It’d be a change,” Carmen said.
Wayne turned to look at his wife. “You wouldn’t mind doing it, would you?”
“Well, if it’s a choice of going to Cape Girardeau or getting shot at.” She took a sip of beer and said, “Every once in a while I wonder what it would be like to be someone else. See the way they look at things and what their life is really like.”
“You’re telling me,” Wayne said, “you’d rather be somebody else than who you are?”
“No, I don’t mean become someone else, permanently.”
“You’re just nosy then.”
“There was a movie we saw a long time ago,” Carmen said, “where Jack Nicholson takes on another man’s identity who died and then finds out people are after him thinking he’s the guy?”
“Yeah . . . ?”
“I don’t remember the name of it or what reminded me. It isn’t anything like what we’re into at all.”
“Jack Nicholson’s in it and they’re in Spain? He’s driving around in a red convertible with this broad he picked up?”
“That’s the one.”
He watched her nod, calm as always, that clear look in her eyes. Sometimes she knew things before he could figure them out and she’d tell him you had to feel as well as think. Feel what? She’d say, just feel, that’s all.
“Why can’t we go anywhere we want?”
She didn’t answer him.
“We can. Who’s gonna stop us?” Arguing with himself.
She touched her hair and seemed to shrug. “They have a house for us, two bedrooms . . .”
“I can just see it.”
“It sounded nice, on the edge of a woods.”
“We have a woods,” Wayne said, “right out there.”
The sheriff’s deputy from the living room came in carrying a cup and saucer. He didn’t look at Wayne. He said to Carmen, “I wonder if you could spare a refill?”
“You having trouble,” Wayne said, “staying awake?”
The deputy glanced at him with his blank look, but didn’t answer. Carmen poured him a cup of coffee. She got a milk carton from the refrigerator and brought it to the counter where the deputy was helping himself to sugar.
Carmen said, “Would you like some cookies? Or I can make you a sandwich.”
Stirring his coffee, the deputy said, “Like what kind?”
Carmen paused. Wayne watched her reconsider and tell him, “Why don
’t you take the cookies, all right?”
He did, a plateful of chocolate chip with his coffee, back to the living room where the television was going, television laughter letting the deputy know what was funny.
Wayne said, “We have to get out of here.”
Carmen nodded. “I think so.”
“We’ll give them three weeks to find those guys and that’s it,” Wayne said. “Deer season opens we’re coming home.”
12
* * *
ARMAND HAD TOLD RICHIE, “All right, from now on you don’t leave my sight. You go off and do crazy things.”
“All I did was blow out a couple of their windows. I didn’t get caught, did I? I brought us the car.” A nice one, an all-black Dodge Daytona with smoked-glass windows as dark as the body. Stuck in Donna’s garage all week. If it was clean why hide it? The Bird had only one thing on his mind:
“You don’t leave my sight.”
“Okay then,” Richie had said, “how about when I go to the bathroom? You want to watch? How about when I give Donna a jump and you’re in there looking at The Price Is Right? Or you’re eating again. Or when I don’t hear no snoring in the house and I know you’re taking your turn. You want me to come along? She could take us both at once; she’s old meat but wiry as hell. Be something to do. How about it, Bird, want me to ask her? Or do we keep pretending you’re not fucking her? Youthink I’d be jealous or what? How long we gonna sit here, Bird? You think I act crazy, shit, this is what makes me. Like being in the hole only there’s TV and little stuffed animals with you, a half-breed Indian hit man and a female corrections officer, queen of the cons. Shit, I may as well be in stir. How long, Bird?”
“Okay,” Armand had said finally, “we stick our heads out, see what’s going on.”
Now they were riding along in the black car past open fields in the night, the radio and heater on, the blower going, Richie driving with the seat pushed way back, stiff-arming the wheel, raising his voice over the rock music coming out of the speakers, saying to his Indian buddy in the dark, “The first time? The first time was a guy name Kevin, suppose to be a friend of mine.”
Killshot Page 13