time to gather my thoughts. I did put in a call to Volont, wanting to bring up the question of mission.
About noon, Nichols showed up. He had his people placed where he wanted them, and didn’t think too many locals were the wiser. Two agents in a room at both the motels. Two camping in the park. One had just got a job at Will’s restaurant. One had been placed in the busiest gas station, on the edge of town, as a ‘‘favor.’’ I didn’t ask. One guy on the city street crew, just driving around and looking kind of busy. He also told me that Volont had placed three agents in the bank, posing as auditors. Not even the banker had been told any different.
He also told me that agents from a ‘‘special team’’ were being strategically placed near the jail.
‘‘Where?’’ I asked.
‘‘Not sure,’’ he said, grinning. ‘‘Just don’t piss in any bushes. ..’’
He also said that he had three agents in town just to hang out at the bars in the evenings. Not so much to learn anything as to just be around and about.
I was beginning to feel even better. I knew two of the DEA undercover people. If they were all as nuts as those two, Maitland would never be the same.
The rest of Thursday, I managed to talk with Hester for a few seconds, as she was assisting another DCI agent on a major burglary investigation. She was filling in for an agent on days off, so she’d be able to be back in our area on Friday. Tomorrow.
I was out covering a little fender bender, filling in where Bud normally would have been working, when Volont returned my call. Message said he’d be in touch tomorrow.
Other than myself, only Hester, George, Volont, and to some extent Art were aware of the special preparations and of the impending threat from Gabriel. To everyone else, the visible precautions were just routine measures taken to secure Nola Stritch. Anything that seemed a bit out of the ordinary was to be explained as being required by federal procedures. None of the undercover people, or the ‘‘special team,’’ were known to anyone but our select little group. That could be a problem, as we were well aware. Since it had to be that way, preparations were made to inform everybody as soon as they had a need to know. The last thing we wanted was a couple of men in camouflage BDUs going after Nola and our people spotting one of the members of the special team and getting them mixed up.
We began by giving a specific order that all our people were to have their walkie-talkies with them, turned on, with the shoulder mike/receiver in place where applicable. That meant all the uniformed personnel in the area, including State Patrol. And me. I was to be in uniform so I wouldn’t attract attention, if you can believe that. True, though. Nothing stands out less in a bunch of cops than a man in a cop suit. We figured I could issue orders better that way, without having to identify myself to a bunch of troopers I’d never met. We justified it all with what George referred to as the ‘‘Phantom Phederal Phacts.’’
‘‘Yeah, I know, but federal regulations require it…’’
Worked like a charm.
Anyway, the procedure was for a message to be immediately broadcast from the main transmitter at Dispatch the moment contact was made. We had a heavily sealed envelope placed on the console. Instructions said that it was to be opened only if there were people who were armed trying to get Nola Stritch.
We were ready. As ready as we were ever going to be.
Twenty-six
Friday, the 2nd of August, started for me at 0700, when I put on my best uniform, my only pair of polished lace boots, and got in my unmarked and headed for the office in the pouring rain. Brilliant flashes of lightning were coming about ten seconds apart, and the noise of thunder was virtually constant. I felt sorry for the special team. It was also very, very dark. Normally, when it got that way the streetlights automatically came on. But the lightning flashes were overriding the sensors, making the lights think it was brighter than it really was. Everybody had their headlights on, but it didn’t help a lot.
When I got to the office, I had to sit in the car for almost two minutes before running for the entrance, waiting for the rain to let up just a little.
I headed right for Dispatch. Sandy Grueber was on duty.
‘‘Sandy, any tornado warnings out?’’
‘‘Just a watch until eleven hundred hours,’’ she said, grinning as the water dripped down from my balding head onto my glasses. ‘‘Erosion gonna be a problem there?’’
I laughed in false appreciation, and then asked if all was well with the transfer of Nola to our facility.
‘‘What?’’
So, already a glitch. Nobody had informed Sandy that Nola was even coming. I had her check with the Linn County jail. They confirmed that Nola had been signed out to the U.S. Marshal’s Service at 0632. That’s all they knew, or were permitted to say. It was enough.
I went to the main office and asked our two secretaries if they’d been notified that Nola was heading up. Oh, sure. And just why hadn’t they notified Dispatch? Well, they weren’t in that particular loop, that’s why.
I’d forgotten. On the early day shift, Bud would have handled that. We didn’t even have a woman jailer on premises, let alone a matron. Great.
I had them call Sally, for matron, and got the ball rolling to get women jailers lined up at least through the weekend.
I sighed. I hate administrative crap.
At 0750, the U.S. Marshals called, asking for directions to the jail. Maitland is a town of about 2,000. Shows you how often the USMS came to call.
The rain, which had let up, started in again in earnest. The first unanticipated event of the day. The marshals and Nola sat outside the jail for seven minutes, waiting for the rain to let up. The perfect opportunity for a hit. I stood out on the covered porch, sweating blood, until the rain subsided. Damn. I hate tension. I wanted a cigarette, and it was just the start of a long day.
I was at the door to greet Nola. She was wearing jail orange, with a U.S. Marshal’s jacket thrown over her shoulders. She was handcuffed and had shackles on her ankles. They were hard to see, as she was wearing a pair of GI jungle boots without laces. Brought by her family. She had a little gym bag with her court clothes folded up inside. Her hair was pulled back tightly, revealing a streak of nearly white hair about an inch wide, beginning at her right temple. She was not in a good mood.
The first thing she said to me was ‘‘I don’t know why I have to come back here. I didn’t ask to come back here…’’
‘‘You have a hearing, Nola,’’ I said, logging her in to the facility.
‘‘Not in a court that has jurisdiction over me.’’
‘‘And,’’ I continued, ‘‘you have an appointment with your attorney in a few minutes.’’
‘‘Not an attorney I chose,’’ she said. ‘‘I wish to make my appearance in the People’s Court.’’
I put down my pen. I smiled pleasantly at her. ‘‘Tell you what, Nola, I’ll make a note.’’ I got out a pad. ‘‘When you’re released in fifty or so years, I’ll have ’em call the People’s Court for you, and make an appointment…’’
‘‘We can put a lien on your property,’’ she said. ‘‘We’ll see how you feel then.’’
‘‘Not on what I don’t have,’’ I said. ‘‘You gotta give me a raise, first. Now, let’s get you squared away here…’’
I was placing Nola in the interview area, which had two thick windows, when the sunlight suddenly came streaming through the window. We both looked up, just in time to see her attorney, brightly lit, walking across the reflecting wet surface of the asphalt parking lot.
‘‘It’s true, Nola,’’ I said. ‘‘They can walk on water.’’
She laughed for the first time since I’d known her. Pleasant-sounding.
I locked her and her attorney in the interview room, and went to Dispatch, where I could watch them on closed-circuit TV. No sound, and the camera far enough away to prevent lip reading. We knew the rules. But a good enough picture to enable me to see if she tore his head off.
I signed the release forms for the marshals, and they left. ‘‘Take good care of her,’’ said the taller of the two. ‘‘She’ll have you in People’s Court if you don’t.’’
