While Dave was cooling his heels at the D.C. field office of the F.B.I., O’Neil was undergoing an ordeal of his own at the Justice Department, where the Assistant Attorney General and Grand Visier of the Warriors of Mary was holding forth about the mess at hand. “Here are our options,” he began. “We can come clean about everything and take our lumps. I think we agree that that is not the best course of action. We can begin a process of denial of everything which, again, is a poor option, given that these things always blow up in this town. That leaves us with what I believe is our best course of action. We put Father Darius on ice, so to speak, which is already in motion. If we have him at St. E’s, locked away under sedation, he won’t be showing up in a courtroom to testify about anything. And, as we know all too well, he’s as crazy as a bedbug.” The man offered a tight smile of satisfaction.
“Okay, that’s one down,” O’Neil said, showing his cop face.
“We’ve already taken care of your friend Frank. He’s a team player and he’s willing to accept a contract to do some security work in Iraq or some other hellhole for a year or two, at a high rate of pay, I might add. He’s not a worry. Byrne and the other N.Y.P.D. guys will keep their mouths shut for two reasons. One, because they’re embarrassed at how amateurish their operation was, and two, because we told them to. Malone is dead, so that’s off the table. I say good riddance, by the way. He was a loose cannon and probably as bad an apple as Father Darius.”
“So that leaves Dave Haggard and Elena, along with Dave’s boss and any other snoopy reporters who happen to be sniffing around.” O’Neil was playing along.
“Just so, yes. And something dramatic will not be productive.” The words “something dramatic” had a weight that disturbed O’Neil.
“So, what are you thinking?”
“At the end of the Vietnam War the ones who fought on our side were sent to so-called re-education camps. There they were told that what they had witnessed and what they believed was not what really happened at all. In fact, they were told, everything they had seen and been told was a lie. The strangest part of all of this was that most of the former South Vietnamese soldiers either accepted what they were told or acted like they did, which is the same thing. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
“Are you planning to put them on ice in some kind of camp?”
“I am suggesting that they be offered a detailed and highly edited explanation of what happened. For instance, the monitoring station in the silo at the farm. It’s my understanding that Dave Haggard never actually heard or saw any monitoring of anyone. He was told by Frank that such monitoring was underway but Frank might have been playing a prank or simply lying about it. My point is Dave doesn’t really know much of anything that can hurt us. He has suspicions. He’s been told certain things that, as he will come to understand, were not accurate. This Elena woman doesn’t really know anything and all she’s been told she got from Dave. Are you following?”
“Misinformation, in other words.” O’Neil was already tired of the game.
“Information, my friend, not misinformation. Besides, he’s a material witness, so we can keep him for awhile. Ossening says he won’t sign our little shut-up agreement until he talks to a lawyer. No lawyer in this city will let him sign it, so we won’t get far with it, but the issue gets us a little time. He’s over at the D.C. field office and so is she. She’s a scared little mouse right now and I doubt if she’ll be a problem.”
“So what would you like from me?”
“Go talk to him. Soften him up. Tell him there are things you couldn’t reveal before but now you can and explain that Frank liked to brag about things that weren’t true and so on. Apologize for what happened and say it will never happen again and that those responsible will be held accountable and, well, you know the drill.”
“What about the woman?”
“Let him talk her down.”
“Dave’s boss, this guy Sid, is pretty sharp.”
“Have a talk with him. Play the national security game if you have to. Offer him something. Tell him you’ll be the best source he has and hand him a good story.”
“Like?”
“Give him some background on Father Darius and tell him we’re shipping him off to St. E’s. No one has that story yet.”
“They’ve got everything else. I don’t think there’s any other news today. They’re all screaming for details and wondering where the hell Dave and Elena are. The U.S. Attorney hasn’t said a damn thing. How long do you think you can keep the lid on this?” O’Neil himself was getting dozens of calls from media types who wanted to know what was happening. “The Washington Post guy said there’s a rumor going around that Dave and Elena are dead.”
“He’s fishing. Don’t worry about it. We have a few hours. We’re moving Dave to Greenbelt. I’d like you to go out there in a few hours to have a little talk with him to see if you can get him on board about this. I’ll have Ossening call this Sid guy and have a meeting. We’ll try to get this buttoned up by the end of the day.”
The federal courthouse in Greenbelt, Maryland is an ugly turned-in-on-itself edifice that was designed to make it difficult for a terrorist bomber to blow it up. Its façade is set back from the nearest vehicle access point, like a man lying in the fetal position. Anyone approaching the building must first gaze at its back, which is also set away from the road and the parking lot. Federal courthouses of an earlier era were positioned in downtown areas and were designed to express the majesty of the justice system and the government that enforced it, and so these structures are stone and columns and statues. The structure in Greenbelt expresses the government’s fear of bad guys.
The lobby is a multi-story opening that resembles hotel lobbies, only this one is minus the plants and graciousness. Federal marshals man the metal detectors that all visitors and staff must pass through. A visitor looking up will see balconies that lead to courtrooms, the U.S. Attorney’s office, offices of local members of Congress, conference rooms, and the clerk of the court. There is no sign or any indicator of the holding cells or the law enforcement presence in the building. That is all behind plain locked doors. There are ways to access these areas without members of the public observing the procedures.
Special Agent Ossening and Assistant U.S. Attorney Stanford were sitting in the back seat of a black SUV as it pulled into an underground garage at the courthouse. Sitting between them was Dave Haggard. Elena was in another vehicle that was five minutes behind. Ossening was in a jovial mood. “See, Dave, we do cooperate with each other. Ms. Stanford and I work in D.C. offices and the good people here in Greenbelt are more than happy to welcome us and help in any way they can.” He seemed to take delight in that.
“What are we doing here? Nobody was killed in Maryland.” Dave was feeling the pressure that the F.B.I. and Justice Department wanted him to feel.
“It’s a nice neutral place. Don’t worry.” Ossening looked at Stanford, who remained silent. She had only come along because a phone call from the Justice Department told her to.
The SUV pulled into a parking spot near a door marked “Security”. “Here we are,” said Ossening. “I need to use the head.” He got out and motioned for Dave to follow. He knocked on the door and it was opened by a large black man wearing a small ear bud attached to a wire. The man did not speak. Ossening led Dave down a hallway into a large room that looked like the government version of a bank lobby. There was an open area with chairs that Dave took to be a waiting room. Two sides of the room were lined with security glass, behind which sat men and women at work stations. There were small openings between the work stations and the waiting area where those being dealt with could pass documents and other items.
“Processing,” Ossening said.
He led Dave to another steel door and knocked on it. Again, it was quickly opened by a large, silent man. The door led to an area that contained two large holding cells and an open shower. “The shower is to wash off the tear gas if we use it. Some of the guys g
et a little rowdy. We only have the showers because the law makes us, otherwise we’d let them cry it out.”
They were met by a pleasant-faced, middle-aged man who could have been the corner druggist. “This is Mr. Smith. He’ll process you.”
“What do you mean ‘process’?”
“We’re going to put you into the system for a little while. We’ll get your prints, take your picture, things like that.” Ossening had a smug look on his face.
“I’m under arrest?”
“How many times do we have to tell you you’re just a material witness. Nothing to worry about.”
Mr. Smith took mug shots, got Dave’s prints, and noted scars and the lack of tattoos. Dave was left to sit and wait within a few feet of the holding cells where several dangerous-looking men stared at him with a look that said we’d like to get our hands on you. Or that is what Dave assumed they were thinking. In fact, they were F.B.I. agents playing a part.
Ossening took Dave to a small interrogation room down the hall from the holding cells. It was painted government yellow, walls and ceiling, and was furnished with a small, square metal table and two steel stools. The stools and the table were bolted to the floor. There were rings on the floor and table where handcuffed prisoners could be restrained. There were two surveillance cameras mounted on the walls. To Dave, it looked like something out of a bad cop movie. “Wait in here,” Ossening said, closing the door. There was no interior door handle, only a key slot.
Dave sat on one of the stools and looked around. There was nothing to look at, only the cement block walls and the floor. He glanced up at the cameras and stared at them, then he smiled and waved, mouthing “hello”. The wall near the table was marred by scuff marks and he wondered how they got there. The table was scratched and gouged and he allowed his imagination to flow over the various scenarios that could have produced the marks. Most likely prisoners on drugs had gone berserk against the restraints. There may have been more sinister reasons but his daydream was cut short by the sound of a key in the door. When it opened, Captain O’Neil was standing there with a serious look on his face.
“Hi. Dave,” he said, offering his hand.
“What are you doing here?” Dave was wary. O’Neil was a D.C. cop. What was he doing in a federal courthouse in Maryland?
“I’ve come to have a little conversation, that’s all. This is neutral territory and we can talk without any pressure, that sort of thing.” He sat down on the stool opposite Dave and removed his coat, which he laid on the floor. “So, I hear an offer is on the table.”
“Maybe you can explain it to me.”
“I’ve just a little chat with Sid Slackey about all of this. He’s on board, so to speak. I explained things to him and he understands.”
“Understands what, exactly?”
“Sometimes things aren’t what they seem, Dave. What you’ve seen in the past few days seems to be one thing when, in fact, it’s something else.”
“Could you be a little more vague?” Dave thought his sarcasm was amusing.
O’Neil thought it was childish. “I understand that you and Elena have been through a lot and you went through things that would make some folks have nervous breakdowns. I get all that. But when you went on the air and reported all those things, well, it was wrong. It was not correct.”
“Just what was not correct?”
“The telephone monitoring. Frank showed you some computer screens and told you he was listening to some phone calls but he never played one of those calls for you, did he? Did you ever actually witness anything? No. Why? Because he was blowing smoke. He was playing a game with you. Anybody can put some computers in a barn, turn them on, and say anything they want about why they were there. It doesn’t mean it’s true.”
“What else?”
“Here’s the story. This guy, this Father Darius, went nuts and killed a lot of people. We did have a line on his, that’s true, and we did suspect that he was tracking you and Elena, but there’s not much more to it than that.”
“How did you know that?”
“Some of it was obvious. He was sending you souvenirs of his crimes. That meant he was watching you and knew where you lived.”
“And Elena?”
“We had some intelligence about that and I can’t go into it. We had federal help, that’s all I can say.”
“And what do you want me to do?”
“I can’t make you do anything, Dave. I think you should take some time to calm down. What the government is asking is not out of bounds. You are a material witness. You will be asked to testify in court. On this particular story you are the story, not the reporter, and some of what you know can be used by Father Darius and against our case. Agree to what the government is offering, that’s all.” O’Neil had a sad, world-weary look and Dave almost bought his argument.
“So what did Sid say?”
“Sid agrees that you never actually saw or heard Frank or anyone else monitor telephone calls, so it’s really an unconfirmed claim. He also agrees that you’ve been through a lot and you and Elena need some time off.”
“When can I talk to him?”
“Soon.”
“When can I see Elena?”
“Soon.”
Dave looked up at the security camera. “Did you hear that? He said I can see her soon!”
“Just do it,” O’Neil said, standing up. He offered Dave his hand. “Take some time.” Dave ignored him.