David Ellis: In the Company of Liars

She stretches, considers going for a jog but opts for coffee instead. She makes her own, with an antique percolator she bought a year ago that reminded her of the coffee in Tuscany. There was a time when she waited anxiously for the brew to be ready, when she was eager to move on with her day. These days, there is little to look forward to. She will drink her coffee, listen to classical music, go on the internet later. Sometimes she even reads the stuff about herself. Sometimes she will check out the website devoted to her case,freeallison.com, not for the support-they have no reason to think she’s innocent, they’re simply capitalizing on a media event-but out of idle curiosity. Much heavier on the idleness than the curiosity.

They had planned to go to Italy, Sam and Allison. A trip this spring, before heavy tourism, to less-traveled places like Poggi del Sasso and Gaiole in Chianti. She had already made plans for it, already booked romantic rooms in renovated castles with verandas where they could sit with wine and cheese and watch the sun go down over the breathtaking countryside.

“Oh, God.” She wipes the moisture from her cheeks. “Oh,shit. ” The percolator has been whistling for too long. She pulls it off the stove, burning herself on the handle, spilling the entire thing onto the floor, the coffee that she had burned, anyway. She picks up the percolator and slams it against the refrigerator, breaking the lid off.

She lets out a loud moan, a deep sound she doesn’t recognize, and covers her face with her hands. She is woozy but unwilling to correct the sensation, unwilling to open her eyes.

“They think I killed you,” she says to him, and actually laughs, a release of nervous tension. “They actually think I killed you.”

The doorbell rings just after nine in the morning. She hasn’t showered or even brushed her teeth, but she is far beyond appearances. She goes to the door and stares through the peephole. She sees a woman, an attractive woman with a tiny face, expressive brown eyes, cropped dark hair. A woman who is holding her credentials up for Allison to see.

“My name is Special Agent Jane McCoy,” the woman says. “I’m with the FBI.”

“What do you want?” Allison calls out, her heartbeat kicking into overdrive.

“A minute of your time, please.”

“What does the FBI have to do with me?”

“Let me in and I’ll tell you.”

Allison takes a breath, opens the door. “What do you want?”

“May I come in?”

Allison leads the federal agent into the den. She takes a seat on the couch. She remembers her father, interrogating her as she sat on this very couch, about her whereabouts the prior evening, when she blew her midnight curfew. She remembers, in fact, that it was Mat Pagone with whom she had spent that evening.

Her parents didn’t approve of Mat. She had been quick to accuse them of racism, a strapping Latino boy entering a white, middle-class home to date a younger white girl. Mother said it was a matter of age-Mat was a college freshman at the state university, the starting middle linebacker, and Allison was a high school sophomore. As a freshman a year earlier, she had worshipped Mat, a senior and an all-state player. As a sophomore, she had caught his eye at a postgame party one Saturday night, a party that Allison certainly was not supposed to attend, but which many of her friends did. The kids from both the public and Catholic schools on the northwest side caught all the football games at the state university, only miles away, and managed to get into the parties, too-especially the pretty female students.

Yes, she once was pretty. She had stopped believing that a long time ago.

You’re so beautiful, Sam had said to her,I lose my breath.

The FBI agent sits across from Allison on the ottoman of a leather recliner. The agent is a petite woman. Soft brown hair cut short, a tiny curved face, the wide innocent eyes of a doe. She is immediately likable, Allison thinks, regardless of the circumstances. That has probably been an asset in her job. The good cop in the routine.

“We can help each other,” the agent says to Allison.

“Before you tell me how you plan tohelp me,” Allison starts, “why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here?”

“Well, Mrs. Pagone-or is it Ms. Quincy now?”

Allison chews on her lip. “Is this the part where you tell me that you know all about me?” she asks. “I hate to burst your bubble, Agent Whatever-your-name-is, but you aren’t the first to try that stunt. And if you hadn’t noticed, my life is hardly a secret these days.”

McCoy smiles at Allison. “It’s McCoy. Jane McCoy. You’ve heard of Operation Public Trust. I’m one of the case agents on that investigation.”

“Okay,” says Allison. “Thank you. Now, please tell me how you intend to ‘help’ me.”

“I think you know, ma’am.”

Allison doesn’t respond. She thinks of what her lawyer would advise her to do, which is precisely that.

“I’ve been following your trial,” McCoy says. “You know a lot of what we know, quite honestly.”

“I’m sure I don’t know as much as the federal government.”

McCoy watches Allison a moment. She leans forward, her elbows on her knees.

“I think you knowmore,” McCoy says.

Allison looks away. “You’ve got five minutes. You can spend that time baiting me, or you can get to the point.”

“Very good.” McCoy claps her hands together. “You are out of options, Mrs. Pagone. You’re going to lose your case, from what I can see. Maybe you’ll beat the death penalty. I don’t know. I’m saying, you can help yourself. I can help you. Take some years off that sentence. Keep you close to home so your daughter can visit. But you have to help me first.”

Allison steels herself.

You want Mat.

“You have to give me your husband,” McCoy concludes.

Allison counts to ten before she answers.

“Ex-husband.”

McCoy opens her hands. “Exactly.”

“Get out.”

“You’d be helping him as well, Mrs. Pagone. Mat was the one. He was the one passing the money to the senators. I know it.”

“Mat wasn’t even representing Flanagan-Maxx. Not at the time.”

“Not on the books,” McCoy agrees. “We know he was lobbying for MAAHC. Same difference.”

Allison plays with her hands. She inhales deeply.

“Ollie Strickland,” McCoy says. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“We’ll get Ollie to roll, Allison. In time. He’s not there yet. Someone always gives in, and it’s usually the one who has less to lose. The ones with mud on their shoes, they’re always the last to fall, and they fall farthest.”

“Get out, Agent McCoy.”

“I know that you know.” McCoy fixes on Allison. “I think Sam Dillon knew, too. I think Sam Dillon found out what Flanagan-Maxx was doing, subsidizing a nonprofit group to push their prescription-drug legislation for them. And not just advocating. Bribing lawmakers. That’s the illegal part. That’s the part your ex-husband was doing.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“No, not yet. But I will.”

Allison stands up. “My answer is no.”

McCoy rises as well. “Your ex-husband will say yes.”

Allison’s chin rises; she stares into McCoy’s eyes. “What does that mean?”

Drop the 311 if Mat sings.

McCoy stares back with confidence, as if she enjoys having the ball in her court. “It means I’ll go to Mat,” she says. “I’ll make him a deal. I’ll get the county attorney to spare you the death penalty if he’ll give me the information I need.” She raises a hand, as Allison begins to protest. “You two may be divorced, but he’s no monster. He’ll be more than happy to admit his involvement, if it means sparing the mother of his daughter a death sentence.”