Roger Ellis - AK-239

“I lived there with my mom ‘til I understood better. Then one night when my mother told me I could never speak to my father again, I ran away.”

“My mother, feeling guilty, I guess about all of this, committed suicide too.”

“I found out he died just days before I located where he was living.”

“I think he died of a broken heart.”

I really am an idiot. I really didn’t want to tell this story to anyone at work. It was in my personnel file but no partner ever knew this, until now. I really have a big mouth sometimes. Annoying even myself at this point, I continued:

“After my sister committed suicide I tried to get my mother out but I was never allowed to see her. She died never seeing me or my father ever again.”

“How awful! How old were you?”

“Ten.”

“You were ten years old when your mother and sister killed themselves?”

I’m embarrassed and all that comes out is,

“Ya.”

Oh my god, how many years in therapy were you?

“Sixteen.”

“You were in therapy for sixteen years? With who?”

“Navy SEALs.”

Tom hasn’t eaten another bite of hamburger since the double suicide line but now a half chewed hamburger just hangs out of his half open mouth.

“That’s disgusting. Close your mouth,” I said.

Tom catches himself and swallows his burger whole with one big gulp before saying,

“So you’ve been kicking down doors trying to save people ever since?”

“Ya. I never looked at it quite like that before but ya, I guess so.”

Just then MAA appears on another monitor and we hear him speak with someone.

All our attention is suddenly directed to this conversation.

It turns out to be just brief chit-chat.

MAA walks off campus and down the street.

Tom says, “Okay, JD you’re on. Bring me back a piece of huckleberry pie.”

“If you put on any more weight sitting in here eating all day the FBI’s gonna put you on the ‘TFS’ list.”

The name was not politically correct but most agents were annoyed with all of the stupid politically correct rules that put more emphasis on file names than on catching criminals.

Official name: Weight Efficiency Program (WEP).

Unofficial name: The “Fat Squad (TFS!)!”

No agent wants to be “weight” listed as you are pulled out of the field and put behind a desk, sent to a doctor and told to eat better.

Tom says, “Maybe I’ll get my lawyer and sue them for my “glandular problem.”

I jump out of the van, look back at Tom and say,

“And good luck with that!”

I slam the van door on Tom before he has a chance to answer.

For some reason I hadn’t noticed:

This city is beautiful.

Garland, lights and wreaths are everywhere.

I high tail it across the street in hot pursuit of MAA. We walk a few blocks to a five-star Middle East restaurant: Jamil’s.

No wonder my partner’s huge:

Portland’s a great city for food!

There are more five-star food carts with Indian and Thai food here than probably anywhere in America.

I walked across the street and into a little dive that will, likely, soon be out of business. I knew Tom preferred the Pacific Pie Company, Petunia’s, or Divine Pie but if they baked anything today here that would just have to do, Mr. TFS.

Inside this place are only four tables. It was empty, as always. I sat down by the only window seat in this dreary, damp, dark, little hole in the wall so I could watch my target.

Sally, the sweet looking, waiter-owner comes over to me saying, “So JD what can I get you?”

How ‘bout a cup of coffee, Sally?”

She answers with a nod and disappears behind an old, greasy Indian beaded curtain.

I look across the street and can see MAA busing tables. I pull out my iPhone 7 and scroll through the video feeds we’d set up at Jamil’s crowded restaurant.

This really is a waste of time: A kid is probably just trying to get an engineering degree, bussing tables. What have we become?

I also felt bad for Sally who is dying financially and no wonder, she’s probably back there making her first fresh pot of coffee and it’s 5 p.m.

But the slow service and little chit-chat was perfect for surveillance.

I felt like someone was watching me but when I looked in that direction, no one was there. I returned to my texting.

In the reflection of my black glass iPhone, I can see a man with a plain white keffiyeh (Muslim headdress) walking up behind me.

He walks right behind my line of sight.

The man slowly reaches in his vest pocket as if to go for a gun.

I wheel around and grab the guy’s right trigger finger when I realize it’s Yusef Abdullah.

Yusef quickly pulls out a piece of paper and throws it at me.

I reach down to the floor and pick up the paper.

Yusuf is upset and slow to respond, “I can’t help you any longer, John.”

“You’re not helping me, Yusef, you’re helping your country!”

“I’ve been your friend since school but this isn’t right,” chides Yusuf.

“Yusuf, please sit down. Let’s discuss this.”

A very long pause cuts through the strained relationship between us.

Yusuf finally pulls a chair and sits.

Sally, Yusuf’s wife, who is watching us from afar, now brings some coffee and two cups. She nervously pours the coffee for us as we stare down each other.

Sally quickly leaves, as it is forbidden in their particular religious culture to linger while the men discuss business.

I then boldly ask, “How much are you losing here?”

Without hesitating, Yusuf answers, “Too much. But that doesn’t mean you can take advantage of our relationship and think you can buy me off!”

“Wow! You think I’m buying you off? We don’t know if this guy’s dangerous or not!” I return to looking across the street in MAA’s direction.

“He came to my mosque. I volunteered to get him work. Then you show up. Are you my friend or an FBI agent?”

Without hesitation I answer, “Both!”

Yusuf says. "I can no longer be seen with you! People at the Islamic Center already think I’m with the government.”

“So are you against the government?”

“Of course not but…”

“So, whose side are you on?” I ask.

Yusuf quickly answers, “Mine!”

Now there’s another long pause and, as we stare out the window, it begins to rain.

My phone buzzes. I check it and Tom has sent the following text:

Don’t forget the huckleberry pie!!!

I think to myself sarcastically, that’s all Huckleberry needs: Another pie!

I then return my attention to what’s important saying,

“How would you feel if this guy shoots up a bunch of people or sets off a bomb?”

Yusuf stands, “I can’t help you any longer.”

As Yusuf starts to leave I then hesitantly ask, “Did Sally make huckleberry pie today?”

Yusuf stops, and then without turning around, leaves.

Great! Did I really just really lose a twenty-year friendship over this?

What if this guy’s really just someone who we’re profiling for no reason?

Sometimes I hate my job.

I stand, pull a hundred-dollar bill and lay it on the table.

As I exit the restaurant rain is pouring.

I can see Tom’s very disappointed face.

Per our standard OPS procedure, I purposely walk down the street, away from the restaurant and van.

I look back over my shoulder and see Sally running out to Tom’s van with a big bag.

Tom purposely pulls the van near the restaurant so Sally doesn’t get too wet.

Sally hands Tom the big bag and runs back into the restaurant.

I continue walking in the opposite direction, shaking my head.

I walk around round the corner as Tom quickly pulls to the curb alongside me. I casually look behind the van before stepping inside.