Jess Walter - The Financial Lives Of the Poets

And he suddenly raises the slender criminal file he’s created on me-the sample of weed and whatever form I just signed-higher and higher it goes above the conference table…and then he tosses the whole thing into a garbage can, which I hadn’t seen before, but which seems perfectly placed for this display. “Those are your sins, Matthew. How does that feel?”

“Uh…” I stare at the garbage can. “Good?”

“Did you know it can be as simple as that?” He leans in, practically whispers. “Jesus doesn’t want anyone in heaven who doesn’t want to be there. And we don’t want anyone on our team who doesn’t want to be here.”

I stare at my file in the garbage can. For the first time in my life I understand the power of religion. What if you could take all of your trouble, put it in a file folder and throw it away? Maybe the Catholics have a big sin Dumpster outside the Vatican.

“Matthew, don’t you want to choose to do the right thing, on your own, without being motivated by the threat of punish

ment?”

“Yes?”

“Excellent. So tell me, which do you choose? The darkness? Or the light?”

“The…light?”

“Yes.” He smiles beatifically. “Good,” he says. “Good. I thought you might say that. I told the Lieu I had a good feeling about you.” And then he pulls my file from the garbage can, smiling-as if we both know he couldn’t really throw my file away. He puts the folder on top of the conference table, and he pulls out a little tray and a sheet of paper from below the table, and says, “Welcome to the righteous side, Matthew!”

Randy takes my hand and pushes my thumb down on the desk between us, and I imagine this is some bizarre rite of initiation, but of course he’s just fingerprinting me. “Just in case,” he says, and he winks, and I think, just in case, what? Just in case I decide not to cooperate, or I do it wrong and they have to prosecute me, or just in case they need to identify the hands that Eddie-Dave the legalistic and brutal drug lord has whacked off after discovering that I’m a snitch? “And let’s keep your pending salvation between us,” Randy says, and he winks.

Then Lt. Reese comes back in with another round of paperwork for us to fill out; these appear to be more like employment contracts. All in all, they are extremely efficient, smiley righteous Randy and shit-heel Reese. This whole scare-the-poor-bastard-into-working-for-us (and-save-his-soul-while-we’re-at-it) process has taken just over an hour, less time than it took me to buy my car, or my house, less time than it took to meet with Drug Dealer Eddie-Dave the first time. And not once has anyone tried to look up my ass.

My shattered nerves begin to calm. Maybe this is one of those

classic good news-bad news situations. Good news: I have a job! I am a confidential informant. Lt. Reese explains that there are two kinds of CIs-(1) lifelong criminals who get arrested and charged and who cooperate to eventually lessen their own long sentences (these CIs tend to make imperfect witnesses because of their long criminal records and penchant for lying) and (2) basic non-criminals like me, who tend to make better witnesses because they tend not to have…oh, for instance, killed someone. Some CIs even get a taste for it and work as paid contract agents, like professional undercovers. “You can even get paid,” Lt. Reese says.

“How much?” I ask, a little too eagerly.

Lt. Reese admits that it’s not much-there are federal guidelines governing it-but that agencies are allowed to award bonuses after successful prosecution. My new handlers explain that as long as I’m honest with them, do what they say, follow the rules-I’ll be the latter sort of CI. They’ll try to get me paid and no one need ever know how my employment came about.

And the bad news? Lt. Reese holds up the file that was, until a few minutes ago, safely in the garbage can. “Fuck around on us one time, you shit-sack, and we’ll charge you with possession with intent to deliver.” During this part, I notice, Randy won’t meet my eyes.

Then Lt. Reese explains that the paperwork I’ve just signed stipulates that I have agreed to: (A) work as a CI, infiltrating domestic grow operations by posing as the point man for a consortium planning to purchase and run said grow-ops (B) continue purchasing and selling marijuana in this grow-operation for a period of two (2) years as a part of the task force’s program, Operation Homeland (C) meet once a week with my handlers, Randy and Reese, advising them of what I’ve learned and any new targets of the investigation, including all of my unsuspecting bud-buying friends, or as Lt. Reese calls them, “fat-fuck hypocrites like your

self.”

So tired. My head bobs. “So I’ll be wearing a wire?”

Randy and Lt. Reese make eye contact. “Yes,” Randy says. “We’ll eventually put a trap-and-trace on your phone, maybe a wire in your car.” And then he proceeds to lecture me about something official-sounding, but I’m having trouble following it, and pick up only snippets, random phrases: “Title Three…Omnibus Crime Control and Safe Streets Act…wiretap warrants…our mandate…the transportation of narcotics over international borders…wiggle room under The Patriot Act…” And then Randy holds out a box. “In the meantime-”

I take the box. Open it: wristwatch. “Retirement gift?”

Stern look. And I think of something Lisa said once-“It’s not that you’re not funny but your timing is so awful”-after my sister got divorced and I asked for the wedding present back.

“This is a self-contained unit,” Randy says, “safer than a body wire. Has one gig of memory, twelve hours of recording time. It’s voice activated, so that when it’s on, it kicks in as soon as someone speaks. When it’s recording, this backlight is on. See? When it’s not, it’s dark. Easy. You know how I remember?” He holds up the dark watch. “Darkness…” Then he presses the button so that the faint backlight comes on. “…and light.”

Lt. Reese looks at the ceiling.

“Most of the time it should be off,” Randy says, “so just hold the knob down for two seconds and it’ll go dark.” I put my wrist out and Randy slides the watch on me. “It has a wireless transmitter, but we haven’t figured out how to use that yet, so for the time being you’ll need to drop it off and we’ll download the files and reset it.”

He slides a business card to me: R. Thomas-Clinical Social Worker/Therapist, MSS, LICSW. “You tell your friends and family you’re seeing a therapist every Tuesday afternoon. If it’s an

emergency, you call this number, you’ll get a voice saying this is Dr. Thomas’s office. You say you need an appointment. Got any questions?”

I have so many… “When do I start?”

“Wake up, fuck-chop,” Lt. Reese says. “You started the second you unzipped that backpack. Now get out there and buy us that grow-house.”

Randy nods apologetically. “The number we’re assigning you is OH-2. On all reports, all contacts with us, you use that number, CI OH-2. Can you remember or should I write it down?”

“CI…OH-2.”

“Good. From now on, you only use our money. We’ll requisition the cash and you bring back whatever you have left. On Tuesdays, we’ll inventory whatever cash and drugs you’ve got, take your reports, and send you back out for the week. The most important part of this job, like most jobs, is record keeping.”

Lt. Reese steps in again. “And listen, jack-stick, if we catch you with more pot or more money than you’ve recorded…you’re goin’ to jail. Mess up my record keeping, leave anything out, steal five cents, misplace one fuckin’ bud, you’re going to jail.”