savored the picture of Angland in his cell-soon to be condemned-powerless. Up against that tape, not even his own lawyer would believe his protest of innocence in Caren’s death. He was guilty of too many other things.
The door opened. Two marshals entered the room, a man of medium height and a short compact woman. They both wore slacks. The man wore a tie. The woman wore a tailored shirt. Laminated clip-on ID cards hung from their belts along with blocky-handled automatic pistols riding high in nylon holsters.
They introduced themselves. Norman and Sarah were in their early forties and had veteran cop faces, eyes set like tired rhinestones in nests of fine wrinkles. As he had with Lorn and Terry, Tom looked for signs that these two could sense a criminal. Scent an evildoer.
“Sit, Mr. James,” said Norman, pointing to the single chair.
Tom sat. Adopting a patronizing tone, Norman admonished,
“Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?”
Tom had been prepared for this by Lorn Garrison, and by his own research. He had also read everything he could find on the Internet about body language and interrogation techniques. Direct, short answers. Maintain eye contact, but don’t overdo it.
“Who’s the psychologist? Isn’t that the first step on an intake evaluation?” he asked.
“Ordinarily, yes. Psych and vocational interviews. But usually we’re dealing with scummy criminals. Are you a scumbag criminal, Tom?”
Tom laughed. Incredulous of the charge, frightened by the power they represented, a little uncomfortable because of the healing gunshot wound in his leg.
Norman backed off. “Relax, you don’t even have any outstanding parking tickets.”
Tom’s sigh of relief was genuine. “I drive the speed limit.
I don’t walk against red lights. Even on empty streets. I read instruction manuals to the end.”
Norman and Sarah smiled a little.
“And I know what I’m getting into. I read everything I could find on the Net about you guys. The suicide rate among protected witnesses is fifty times the national average, if that’s what you mean,” said Tom.
Norman and Sarah exchanged glances. “Okay,” admitted Sarah. “You’re our first newspaper reporter. How do we know you’re not crazy enough to go through all of this just to write a story?”
“If I was going to write a story, I would have already.”
“Maybe,” said Norman.
“Two people knew about that tape. One of them is dead.
The other got shot.” Tom smiled weakly.
“And it’s worth giving up your identity?” asked Sarah.
“You betcha.”
“Convince me,” said Norman aggressively.
“How long have you been a marshal?” Tom asked.
Norman steepled his fingers. “Eleven years. Eight years as a detective in Akron before that.”
“Uh-huh. And how many times have you been shot?” Tom raised his leg and yanked up the cuff of his trousers to show his bandage.
That backed old Norman off. “Okay, Tom. It’s like this.
The kind of people we handle don’t sit at desks and wear ties, you know what I mean?”
“I think I see,” said Tom.
“The jobs our clients wind up in tend to be blue collar.
You get your hands dirty.”
Tom nodded his head. “You can’t take your resume with you. It’s harder for architects than for street hustlers.”
“You need to think about that,” said Sarah. “And the idea that you won’t see anybody you know again.”
“Won’t see anybody I know again if I’m dead, either,”
Tom observed.
“Think about it. All alone someplace. Working some entry-level job, or plain labor to start. Could be boring. You really should think about it.”
Tom had thought about it.
The beauty of this part was that he had to simply and passionately tell the truth. A thought occurred that was almost touching in its sincerity; if he told the truth, could it be all wrong?
“I’m a forty-one-year-old white guy,” Tom stated. “You know what that’s like in the newsroom of the late nineties?
I have one foot in the tar pits.”
“That’s a little vague for purposes of evaluation,” said Norman without expression.
“They wouldn’t let me do the story,” Tom whispered.
“Say again,” said Norman.
Tom cleared his throat. “When I contacted my editors about the story, when I first got onto Caren Angland, they told me to bring it in and work the phones from the office.
They were going to give my story to younger staff.”
Sarah leaned back, elbow resting on the arm of her chair and gazed at Tom over her knuckles.
“Biggest story of my life. I got shot covering it. And they weren’t going to let me write it.”
“Oh-kay,” Norman said slowly.
“It’s just not there anymore, the newspaper world I grew up in. Maybe that’s a good thing. I don’t know. I do know I keep getting asked to dance closer to the door.”
“What do you see yourself doing if you’re not a reporter?”
asked Sarah.
“I want to write,” said Tom flatly.
“We, ah, kind of agreed that’s out,” said Norman.
“Wait, let him finish.” Sarah came forward, took a second look.
“I mean really try to write. Fiction,” said Tom, eagerly, honestly. “It’s the thing I’ve dreamed about doing all my life.” He shrugged. “I just never had the guts to go out on a limb and give it a real try.”
For all her training and experience, a wisp of sympathy floated across Sarah’s seasoned brown eyes. Tom had expected more of a hearing from Norman. Like a barracuda cutting across a fresh blood trail, he turned all his energy toward Sarah.
“And there’s something else,” he admitted in a flat candid voice. “I can’t afford to take time off to try to write. But if I go into the Program I can skip on my debts-my child support, my credit cards.”
Sarah narrowed her eyes. “How do you feel about never seeing your kids?”
Tom came a little forward, edgy. “My wife ran off with a guy who sells swimming pools in Arizona and Texas.
Business is good. Who abandoned who?”
“Whatever,” said Sarah, seeing that it was a can of worms and Tom looked ready to stick every one of them on its own hook.
“So how do you see this dream life of yours developing in real time?” asked Norman.
Tom hunched forward, and a low-building intensity stitched his voice. He wasn’t acting. He was projecting himself into the dream:
“The FBI said I could get some help, like a stipend, a good used car, living expenses and office equipment. But that would be like living on the dole. I think I have a plan that would work.”
“Go on,” said Norman.
Tom nodded, exhaled, inhaled. Tried to keep his voice controlled, but it started to race: “It would involve investing some money. You set people up in business, help with loans and paperwork.” He raised his eyebrows.
Norman nodded. “It’s been done. Restaurants, car shops, garbage routes. What did you have in mind?”
Tom held up his hands. “I’m a fair handyman, carpenter.
I did all the electrical and plumbing repairs on the house when I was married. And I had a well-equipped woodworking shop going in my garage. So…” He took a breath. “What if we bought an old wreck of a house and I slowly rehabbed it. I mean, wherever I wind up?” He looked quickly from Norman’s face to Sarah’s face.
