Killshot

11

CARMEN HAD TO WAIT to tell Wayne about the FBI man calling.

Wayne came home talkative, now with another reason to be on the muscle. The squad car parked in the yard wasn’t enough. Now they didn’t want him at work because they said he almost caused an accident that could have killed a man. “Almost,” Wayne said. “The whole goddamn job, anything you do on a structure can almost kill you, it’s the way it is.” Having their beers he told her this guy Kenny never looked where he was going was the trouble, it wasn’t the first time he dropped a beater, everybody knew Kenny worked in the morning hungover, it was why he went out at noon. Didn’t matter. “The walking boss, guy I went to apprentice school with, says take some time off till I get my head on straight. Says nobody’ll work with me. You believe it?” Wayne turned to the range, asked what they were having for supper.

Carmen told him Oriental stir-fried chicken and said, “Wayne? Scallen called.” There, she had his attention and could take her time now and watch his reactions to what she was going to tell him.

“He wants us to come down to the Federal Court Building tomorrow.”

“Detroit?”

Carmen nodded. “And see a man named John McAllen, with the U.S. Marshals Service.”

“What for?”

“I thought maybe they had the two guys. Scallen said no, this was something else.”

“What?”

“I asked him, he said it would be better to wait and let John McAllen tell us.”

She watched Wayne take a drink of beer. He didn’t seem worried. He said, “Tomorrow, huh?” He didn’t seem the least concerned, or even curious.

“They’re gonna pick us up.”

“That’s all right, long as it isn’t a squad car.”

Carmen hesitated. “What do you think it’s about?”

“I don’t know—what do marshals do? Guard prisoners, take them to court ...I don’t know. What do you think it’s about?”

She said she couldn’t imagine and after that was quiet, because she couldn’t tell him what she was thinking, the awful feeling that the “something else” was about Matthew. Wayne would act amazed and say, “Matthew? Why would you think it’s about him?” Because she was thinking it, that’s why. Because she couldn’t help it. Because if it wasn’t about the two guys but had something to do with the government, someone in the government wanting to talk to them... She could see them walking into an office with a flag on a stand where the government official is waiting to tell them, is sorry to inform them, there was an accident on the flight deck of the Carl Vinson, CVN 70, their son got between an aircraft and the JBD, or their son had been swept overboard and was missing, not drowned, they’d never say that, they’d say he was out somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean missing, as if to say, well, he could turn up, you never know.

Or Wayne might give her his bored but patient look and ask was this her instinct as a mother coming out or the other one, what was known as women’s intuition? And she’d get mad and say, “Well, you don’t understand,” and he wouldn’t. So she didn’t say anything at all.

Not until the next day, riding downtown in the security of the gray interior of a gray sedan, two men in front wearing gray suits, Carmen and Wayne in back dressed for business, an official occasion, she made sure of her tone and finally said to Wayne in a low voice but an offhand manner, “You don’t suppose it’s about Matthew.”

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 Gun-smoke. 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?”