Jerry stopped at a liquor store for a bottle of vodka. As he left the store, three rather large young men in dark suits stepped in front of him, said hello, flashed their badges, and said they’d like to talk. Jerry said no thanks. He had things to do. So did they. One produced some handcuffs, another took the vodka, and the third went through his pockets and removed his wallet, keys, and Sat-Trak. Jerry was escorted to a long black Suburban and driven to the city jail less than four blocks away. During the short drive, no one said a word. He was placed in an empty cell, again without a word. He didn’t ask; they didn’t offer. When a city jailer stopped by to say hello, Jerry said, “Say, man, any idea what’s going on here?”
The jailer looked up and down the hall, leaned closer to the bars, and said, “Don’t know, pal, but you have sure pissed off the big boys.” As Jerry stretched out on the bunk in the dark cell, he stared at the dirty ceiling and asked himself if this was really happening. How in hell? What went wrong?
As the room spun around him, Carole answered the front door and was greeted by half a dozen agents. One produced a search warrant. One told her to leave the apartment and go sit in her car but not to start the engine.
Mark boarded the train at 2:00 and took a seat. The doors closed at 2:13, but the train didn’t move. At 2:30, the doors opened and two men in matching navy trench coats stepped on board and looked sternly at him. At that awful moment, Mark knew things were deteriorating.
They quietly identified themselves and asked him to step off the train. One led him by the elbow while the other grabbed his bag from the overhead rack. Driving to the jail, they said nothing. Bored with silence, Mark asked, “So, fellas, am I under arrest?”
Without turning around, the driver said, “We don’t normally put handcuffs on random civilians.”
“Okay. And what am I being arrested for?”
“They’ll explain things at the jail.”
“I thought you boys had to name the charges when you read me my rights.”
“You’re not much of a criminal, are you? We don’t have to read you your rights until we start asking questions. Right now we’re just trying to enjoy some peace and quiet.”
Mark clammed up and watched the traffic. He assumed they had nabbed Jerry; otherwise they would not have known he, Mark, was at the train station. Was it possible they had grabbed Jerry and he was already spilling his guts and cutting deals? Surely not.
Jerry had not said a word, had not been given the chance. At 5:15, he was fetched from the jail and taken to the FBI office a few blocks away. He was led to an interrogation room and placed at a table. His handcuffs were removed and he was given a cup of coffee. An agent named McGregor entered, took off his jacket, took a seat, and began chatting. He was a friendly type and eventually got around to the Miranda warnings.
“Been arrested before?” McGregor asked.
Jerry had in fact, and because of this experience he knew that his pal McGregor here had a copy of his rap sheet. “Yes,” he said.
“How many times?”
“Look, Mr. Agent. You just told me I have the right to remain silent. I ain’t saying a word and I want a lawyer right now. Got it?”
McGregor said, “Sure,” and left the room.
Around the corner, Mark was being situated in another room. McGregor walked in and went through the same ritual. They sipped coffee for a while and talked about the Miranda rights. With a warrant, they had searched Mark’s bag and found all sorts of interesting items. McGregor opened a large envelope, pulled out some plastic cards, and began arranging them on the table. He said, “Got these from your wallet, Mr. Mark Driscoll. Maryland driver’s license, bad photo but with plenty of hair and even eyebrows, two valid credit cards, temporary hunting license issued by Pennsylvania.” More cards for the display. “And we got these from your bag. Kentucky driver’s license issued to Arnold Sawyer, again with lots of hair. One bogus credit card.” He slowly produced more cards. “Bogus Florida driver’s license, eyeglasses and beard. Mr. Luther Banahan. And this really high-quality passport issued in Houston to Clyde D. Mazy, along with driver’s license and three bogus credit cards.”
The table was covered. Mark wanted to vomit but clenched his jaws and tried to shrug. So what?
McGregor said, “Pretty impressive. We’ve checked them out and we know you’re really Mr. Driscoll, address uncertain because you move around.”
“Is that a question?”
“No, not yet.”
“Good, because I’m not saying anything. I have the right to a lawyer, so you’d better find me one.”
“Okay. Odd that in all these photos you got plenty of hair, even some whiskers, and always the eyebrows. Now everything’s gone. You hiding from something, Mark?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“Sure thing. Say, Mark, we haven’t found any papers for Professor Neville Manchin, from out at Portland State. Name ring a bell?”
A bell? What about a sledgehammer to the head?
Through one-way glass, a high-resolution camera was aimed at Mark. In another room, two interrogation experts, both trained in the detection of untruthful suspects and witnesses, were watching the pupils of the eyes, the upper lip, the muscles in the jaw, the position of the head. The mention of Neville Manchin jolted the suspect. When Mark responded with a lame “Uh, I ain’t talking, and I want a lawyer,” both experts nodded and smiled. Got him.
McGregor left the room, chatted with his colleagues, then entered Jerry’s room. He sat down, smiled, waited a long time, and said, “So, Jerry, still not talking, huh?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“Sure, right, we’re trying to find you one. Not very talkative, are you?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“Your buddy Mark is far more cooperative than you are.”
Jerry swallowed hard. He was hoping Mark had managed to leave town on the Amtrak. Guess not. What the hell happened? How could they get caught so quickly? This time yesterday they were sitting around the cabin playing cards, drinking beer, savoring their perfect crime.
Surely Mark was not already singing.
McGregor pointed to Jerry’s left hand and asked, “You got a Band-Aid there. Cut yourself?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“You need a doctor?”
“A lawyer.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll go find you a lawyer.”
He slammed the door as he left. Jerry looked at his wrist. It couldn’t be possible.
Shadows fell across the pond, and Denny reeled in his line and began paddling toward the cabin. As the chill off the water cut through his light jacket, he thought about Trey, and, frankly, how little he trusted him. Trey was forty-one years old, had been caught twice with his stolen goods, served four years the first time before escaping and two years the second time before going over the wall. What was so troubling about Trey was that in both cases he’d flipped, sang, ratted on his buddies for lesser sentences. For a professional, that was a cardinal sin.
Of the five in their gang, there was no doubt in Denny’s mind that Trey was the weakest. As a Ranger, Denny had fought in wars and survived the gun battles. He’d lost friends and killed many. He understood fear. What he hated was weakness.
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