The Exceptions

FIVE


I wake up slouched over the conference room table, my arm asleep and head pounding from dehydration. I take a drink and notice two men sitting at the far end of the table, pads out and already scribbling, too blurry to decipher anything distinct about them; they’re all the same anyway. The clock reads 4:23. I rest my head on the edge of the table again and immediately fall back to sleep.



Just before six, I wake to chatter occurring at full volume. Sean wasn’t kidding; the room is filling with professionals of every age and size, all requested to arrive early on this Monday morning. At quick glance I count seven people, but two of them, one man and one woman, are the folks running the show, the pair everyone goes to for answers, to receive orders and direction.

I sit back and yawn, take the last sip of water from my bottle.

Someone asks over the din of conversations, “Can we get you some coffee? Can’t smoke, unfortunately—this is a federal facility.”

I see: We can risk the lives of protected witnesses, but heaven forbid someone picks up a lungful of sidestream smoke. Good thing I gave it up or we’d be having an argument.

“Coffee, yes,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “Lots of caffeine.”

As I speak these first words, people look my way and stare. It takes me a minute to realize they’re looking at Sean’s handiwork, the bruises likely reaching full autumn colors. I’ve taken worse beatings, nothing worth noting.

One of the younger guys in the room pours a cup from an insulated canister with a Pfefferkorn’s logo on it and carefully places it before me. As I take a sip I recognize the flavor as genuine; Pfefferkorn’s supplied the coffee for the Italian restaurant where I lost Melody the first time, when Sean scooped her up to see what information she had to offer, when they were going to pull the plug on their misshapen operation. What they didn’t plan on was her allegiance swinging my way, could’ve never imagined it—and ultimately losing her for real. It makes this coffee all the richer.

As I slowly drink and wake up, people take their places. Sean sits in the far corner away from the table, looking more distraught and burned out than he did at midnight, his beard having thickened in the time we’ve been in this room.

The size of this group confuses me. I’ve heard countless stories of folks in our clan being pinched, and in the most extravagant instances never more than two or three guys were working them over at a time. I might think Sean somehow orchestrated this scene, brought together as many people at once, to record every word I have to offer, to carve it in stone and make it irrefutable—except I catch him occasionally staring at the group and failing to hide a sneer, an eye roll.

As the seven take their seats—who knows how many are behind the glass—the guy who got me the coffee stands and points to the person next to him and begins introductions. “To your left is Alison Margrove, assistant to the—”

“Please,” I say, “no offense, but I could care less. Who’s in charge?”

The man and woman—the two—look at each other. The man says, regarding the lady next to him, “This is Ellen Mayes. She’s representing the Office of the Attorney General.” He pauses like I’m going to say nice to meet you. I shrug. “I’m William Ciacco, Department of Justice.”

“Pig,” I say.

Everyone turns and looks at me, a few gasps slip out.

“How’s that?” he says.

“Ciacco”—I pronounce it authentically, correct their leader’s Americanizing of the word: chock-oh—“means pig.” But with a name like William, it’s unlikely he was brought up on the streets of New York or Philly. “Non è stata colpa mia, Guglielmo.”

William rolls his pen between his fingers a few times, bites his lip a little, mumbles, “I don’t, uh…”

Of course he doesn’t. “Aye, Yankee.”

“Should I have a translator join us?”

I sit back in my chair and rub my chin, catch a glimpse of Sean sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, looks like he is equally annoyed with both me and Ciacco, disturbed by this entire setup.

“No,” I answer. “Let’s just get this over with, Pig.”

He puts his pen down and shifts in his seat. “Just to set our boundaries here, the people in this room control your fate, your future. I think an environment of mutual respect is in order. And I’d prefer that you call me Mr. Ciacco, even William or—”

“Not likely, Pig. The people who control my fate, the real people running this show, are behind that mirror. Here’s the real deal: I control your future. Already have. What time you get out of bed today? Have a nice ride up the BW Parkway at three in the morning?” Ciacco clicks his teeth, looks like he might want to hear what I have to say before bullying. “I’ll bet those forthcoming headlines and commendations are making it hard to keep the drool from dribbling out of your mouth.” I roll my empty water bottle down the center of the table in his direction, it stops a foot short of his notepad. “Now, how ’bout you turn that into a San Pellegrino for me?”



By eight o’clock I’ve spilled the entire story of how the elder McCartneys met their demise, gave them all the details of how crazy Ettore was, how I could barely stop him from killing Melody, too—but how I was equally to blame, having taken part in the planning and ultimate execution of those federal witnesses.

The Pig and his minions were equally aggravated and uninterested in my story of how a man already in his grave performed these murders. Even more so at this:

CIACCO: “Your father, Anthony Bovaro, ordered these hits?”

ME: “Who knows.”

CIACCO, frustrated: “We’re assuming you do.”

ME: “I was too young. And Ettore was a loose cannon, probably took it upon himself to kill them to impress my father. Did my dad want the McCartneys dead? I don’t know. Did he want them to keep their mouths shut? Absolutely. Do I have proof? Not a lick.”

Now at nine o’clock, as I am falsely confessing to Melody’s murder, the folks around the table are getting more and more excited, their writing suddenly fervent, whispering in each other’s ears, occasionally shooting glances toward the one-way mirror.

Everyone appears to be buying it. I have them all captured, hand them details of murder and disposal and evidence (the blood-spattered dress) that could only be offered up by someone who had lived around it all his life: how to clean up a bloody scene, how to wrap a body to keep the trunk of a car free of evidence, the places on the river where the current’s pull is the strongest. The only person who seems elsewhere is Sean; his eyes are locked on me, I can see him in my peripheral vision. He appears to be the only one in the room who might’ve detected how my retelling of Ettore killing the McCartneys bothered me more than the fictional story of how I murdered Melody.

But after an hour of offering particulars and evidence of so many sorts, it has become incontrovertible; I nearly convince myself. Ciacco could never be ticked at his early arrival after this event. He’s so enamored with the details unfolding that neither he nor his team attempt to refute a single fact. And why would they? What could be better than a mafioso too weak to handle the crime he’s committed? How could it get better than this?

Oh, but it does.

I’ve become so hungry I’m truly getting weak and distracted; acting remorseful for Melody’s murder might be more exhausting than if I’d had to face real remorse. And our proximity to Little Italy, just a few blocks away, has me all the more preoccupied.

After all the questions regarding Melody and the McCartneys have been exhausted, Ciacco immediately starts probing about my family, about what I’m prepared to surrender for a government-paid relocation and the respective protection.

“I need a notepad,” I say, “and a half hour to think. I’m gonna write down every name that will matter to you. I don’t want to forget anybody or anything.”

Ciacco sits up like a kid who’s just been told he’s having pizza for dinner instead of boiled Swiss chard. The implication is that I’ll be offering up every murder that just occurred up and down the East Coast, the full story behind my family’s attempt to preempt Justice’s full-blown takedown of the Bovaros, that I’ll be handing them the ace in the hole that my father would’ve never anticipated.

“Very well,” Ciacco says as he pushes his chair back and stands. “This is a good time to take a break.”

Before he takes a step, I say, “There’s a corner deli in Little Italy that sells fantastic pepper and egg sandwiches. I recommend a dozen of those.” Ciacco slouches, had no intention of pampering. I turn and look at Coffee Guy. “How about you? You like a nice grilled panini?” He does this smile/shrug/nod thing. “Treat yourself to one. I tell you what, I’ll write the address down for you.” I turn back to Ciacco. “Now where’s that pad?”



A big glob of wet scrambled egg falls from my sandwich onto my notepad as I scribble away. Coffee Guy groans a little as he swallows a large mouthful of his snack, a panini pressed together with roasted porchetta, provolone and Locatelli cheeses, and enough basil for a pot of marinara. His bite forces a chunk of tomato out the other side and he quickly scoops it up and shoves it in his mouth like an addict unwilling to waste a single milligram of his drug. This is the quietest the room has been since I arrived here nearly twelve hours earlier. Everyone chows—even Ellen and the Pig are fairly distracted with it—except Sean, who merely sips coffee and watches me. I can sense he wants to finish what he started out on Covington. Well, if he hates me now… just wait.

As the clock approaches eleven, my stomach full and my palate satiated—let’s call it my last meal—I tell them I’m ready to name names and confess to crimes committed. Everyone cleans their area, tosses their trash into a metal can in the corner. The room smells of olive oil and stale coffee.

I look down at my pad, satisfied with everything I’ve written, provided enough information to blow their minds. The fuse is set, and I light it as I hand my pad to Coffee Guy. He takes it but does not look at it, merely hands it to the lady next to him, who hands it to the guy next to her. The pad slowly moves along the table, the fuse burning down with every body closer to Ellen and Ciacco. And when it reaches Ellen, she places it evenly between her drink and Ciacco’s.

The Pig studies it, turns a hand up in confusion, starts flipping pages to read all the notes I have on this solitary individual, everything I ever knew, addresses, dates, conversations.

“One name,” he says. “This isn’t a list. Where’s the list? This is one name.” He looks down at the top page, with the single person’s moniker on it, and says, “And who the hell is Randall Gardner?”

Kaboom.

From the corner of my eye, I see Sean lean forward and put his coffee cup on the table, slide to the edge of his chair, stare and frown at me.

Within seconds everyone in the room is startled by a tap on the mirror—from the other side. Ciacco gets up and walks through the adjoining door, disappears for five minutes. I don’t say a single word. Everyone follows suit.



By eleven-thirty the energy that once crackled around the table has fizzled to the intensity of a sparkler. Ciacco and Ellen sit and stare forward in defeat as the room empties, like two teenagers caught throwing a party by parents who arrived home earlier than expected. No one is behind the glass anymore, the door wide open, the lights off. Ciacco, Ellen, and Sean are now joined by each of their respective superiors: the people from behind the glass. I unravel the entire story, elaborate on the details covering the subsequent pages beyond Gardner’s name. I explain how his gambling addiction was firmly in place before Justice promoted him to handling more sensitive data, how the salary they provided was not enough to offset his recurring losses, how I became as dependent on him as he did on me.

When the doubt and disbelief begin to emerge—the denial that their system would permit this to ever happen—I ask the simple questions, turn Socratic to help them understand.

How would I even know who Randall was or what he did for a living?

How could I supply such detailed and correct information, like addresses of the specific buildings where he worked, the specific database system they utilized, and details of what he did and did not have access to?

And best of all: “How could I have possibly known so many locations where Melody had been relocated at exactly the right time?”

Ciacco sighs with his teeth clenched, makes a whistling sound. “So that’s it?”

“Sorry?” I say.

“You have no other information you’d like to share about your family? Perhaps starting with the recent disappearances of Manny Pastulo, Salvatore Foresi, or Vic Panella?”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that.”

Ciacco taps his fingers on the table a few times, then scratches his head and says, “Rest assured we’ll be interviewing Mr. Gardner in short order, and discipline will be applied as needed. However, what you’re offering us as far as information is a pair of murders committed by someone who’s already deceased and a confession of a murder committed by you.” He laughs a little as he stands. “I’d say you’re not a likely candidate for the Witness Protection Program.” As he walks toward the door he adds, “I’d find yourself an excellent lawyer.”

I stare at the guy at the end of the table, an oversized gentleman in a well-tailored suit, and ask, “Where’s he going?”

He stares back, keeps his fist to his mouth, but Ciacco answers, “I’ve got more important things to do.”

As his hand finds the door handle, I say, “Sit down, Pig.”

Ciacco steps back into the room, points a finger in my direction, but Oversized Guy throws his hand up, taps his fingers in the air, signals for Ciacco to take his seat again.

He hesitates but reluctantly obeys, flops in his chair and folds his arms like a scolded child.

“Are you all paying attention?” I ask the group, but look at Sean. Only Oversized Guy nods.

I take a sip of cold coffee and tell them exactly what I’m offering in exchange for being put in the Federal Witness Protection Program: absolutely nothing.



Before I had Randall wrapped around my finger, he slipped, bragged about the new details he could suddenly offer me and my family for a lousy six grand. And Gardner, having the particular personality God gave him, made the mistake of using that offering to imply he was on even playing ground with the Bovaros.

Do you recall the visit Peter and I made that day, when my brother slammed Gardner’s face against the keyboard and the plastic keys stuck to Randall’s forehead? After our point was made and Peter and I walked out toward the car, I stopped in my tracks, startled by a fantastic revelation. I turned around and told Pete I’d catch up in a minute.

I knocked on Gardner’s door, and the second he opened it, I shoved him inside. “I want the whole list,” I said.

“What’re you talking about?”

“You want a free ride with this family? You want protection? I want the list. The entire list.”

“I gave what you want”—referring to Melody’s name and location at the time—“there’s nothing else.”

“No, you don’t get it. I want the list of every person in the program. I want their names and addresses.”

Gardner gagged, skin white and sweaty like a little punk caught in a lie. “I can’t do—”

“Sure you can. You already have. I’ve got Melody’s address—and you can supply the rest.”

“Are you insane? That’s thousands of—”

“I don’t care. I want that list.”

I remember the look of regret on his face, the last time I ever saw a shred of remorse come over him, the look that suggested his entire life just got flushed down the toilet.

Then, weakly: “I can’t.”

“You will.”



“Every name, every address, every witness,” I tell the group.

“Impossible,” Ellen says.

“Thousands of witnesses. Honestly, I can’t believe how many people you have in this program. Though it hardly matters now. Randall’s addiction got the better of him and here we are. Would you like me to tell you how many copies I made?”

The group has become so quiet I can hear Ciacco breathing through his nose. Every eye before me is filled with either fear or fury. Two hours ago I was beloved, hidden treasure found and ready to be converted to currency; now at least half of them are wondering how they can take my life without anyone finding out. Only Jesus could have felt more loved and despised than I have today.

Sean abruptly breaks into laughter. “You gotta admit,” he says, “that’s pretty funny.”

“That’s enough, Agent Douglas,” Ciacco says.

“You freaking losers.”

“Remain calm, Sean,” Ellen says.

Sean gets up from his chair and points at his bosses. “I’m talking about you guys. Do you see yet? You will never take them down unless you break the rules. If this isn’t proof I don’t know what is. You’ve got to do whatever it takes to make it stop!”

And then, clarity: This is why he came alone to Federal Hill. He wanted no record that he ever met me, no one else to know what might happen. Who knows what his original intentions might’ve been.

“You want to become like them, Douglas?”

Sean wipes his face, continues his hands right through his hair. “Golly, I guess you’re right. I’m sure an injunction will do the trick.” Then, to me: “Mr. Bovaro, sir, would you kindly hand over the data and cease any plans for distribution?”

“Enough.” Ciacco gets defensive like he’s the guy who wrote the law, puts his frayed edges on display: “We’ve been bending the rules as far as we can. For years. Do you have any idea how long it took us to get inside their crew? The things we had to do, to promise?”

I snap to attention, flip a finger in Ciacco’s direction. “You mean Eddie Gravina?” I say. Every eye comes my way, the most certain sign that my hunch was right on the money. “I’m afraid Eddie won’t be with us much longer. Hope you got everything you needed out of him.”

Sean kicks his chair back and throws his Styrofoam cup across the table, but because it’s empty it just floats up in a circle and gently spirals to the ground. Even his anger is impotent.

Sean walks to the mirror and leans his back against it. Oversized Guy stares at me, leans forward and says so quietly it seems like he wants no one else in the room to hear, “So, where are we right now?”

I think for a moment and carefully select my words. “You got two choices,” I say. “You can meet my demands—I only ask three simple things—or the list goes public, which I imagine would result in you having to relocate every single person in WITSEC at the exact same time, seems like the only option you’d have after I made sure the list was widely disseminated.”

“You’re out of your freaking mind,” Ciacco says.

“How much does it cost to relocate a witness?” I ask.

“That information is classified.”

“About a hundred grand,” Sean says, rubbing his temples. “Minimum.”

“Wow,” I say. “So we’re talking about hundreds of millions of dollars in relocations. Does Justice have that kind of extra cash in its budget?”

Oversized Guy responds calmly again, though his voice is slightly louder. “So let me get this straight: You’re trying to extort the Department of Justice?”

“Don’t patronize me. When we do it, it’s extortion. When you guys do it, it’s leverage. I don’t care what you call it. It’s real, either way.”

Ellen rests back in her chair, covers her mouth, and mutters, “There are women and children in this program. The lives you’re risking.”

I smile a little. “Shameful, isn’t it.”

“You psychopath,” she says. “How can you do this?”

“I’m not. I’ll bet you a dollar you meet my demands.”

The room falls silent. Even the ventilation stops blowing air. We can hear one another swallow, can notice the rustling of fabric whenever someone moves.

Oversized Guy finally summons the courage to ask the question that suggests they might consider my request: “What is it you want?”

I stare at him, clearly the only person I need to convince. “One: I want to be put into the program. I want—”

“Why?”

His question catches me off guard. I see no value in being dishonest with them, so I summarize: “Because I want out. I want the chance to start over. I love my family, but being a member is going to be the death of me. I’m sick of the day in and day out of it. My entire life has been spent with my father trying to ‘find my place’ in the organization. I want to build something that’s more than just a means to advance criminal activity. I want a shot at normalcy.”

“You will not live a normal life in the program.”

“Normal enough.” I look around the room, would never want to be in this place under any other circumstances. “And as part of being put in Witness Protection, I want it stated—publicly—that I’m turning on my family.”

Oversized Guy squints, tries to figure my spin. “Why would you want that?”

I wave my hand and run my fingers through my hair. “I just do.” The truth ends here. I cannot explain this component of my plan, that despite how it will confuse my family, I need some way for Melody to find out what I’ve done, to read it in a paper or see it on television, that I claimed to have killed her—that she is forever free.

“What else?”

“Two: Protect Gardner’s wife and kids. He told me he started working with another family in New York, which means he’ll be dead in a matter of weeks. No one else could ever tolerate Randall the way I did.”

“And let me guess: Your third request is to put Gravina in the program?”

“Nope. Should he survive beyond this afternoon, you’ve got my endorsement to have a field day with that bastard.” Everything that went wrong in Tenafly I can map back to him, how he was tracking Melody and using a federal witness—Sean’s precious rule-breaking—to bring us down, and nearly to her death. “My third request will be the bitterest pill: You lay off my family. You stand down.” And Pete gets his chain of candy stores.

Everyone sighs and groans and shifts in their seats.

“We’re done,” Ciacco says, stands again.

I turn to Oversized Guy and say, “Since he’s not really a player, I’m gonna ask that the Pig be excused. He’s going to get a lot of innocent people killed.”

The big man takes a thick breath that sounds like a snore, says, “Everyone knows we couldn’t possibly relocate thousands of people at one time. Feasibility aside, the cost and exposure would bring this program to its knees. You’re willing to jeopardize a system that’s been working successfully for over six decades to protect your family? What about the next person who needs it? What happens when we need to put your father in it?”

“You shouldn’t have hired addicted people to handle sensitive data.”

Sean speaks up: “You shouldn’t have exploited him. How about we just take you out to a field and put a bullet in you.”

Even the two silent superiors at the table tell Sean to calm down and watch his tone.

“No,” I say, “see, that’s how we handle business. You guys aren’t capable. Besides, I’m sure everyone in here knows that if I die, that list will surface instantly. I’d say you might’ve never tried so hard to protect someone as you will with me.”

Ciacco put his hands on the back of his chair and pushes down. “You honestly expect us to let the Bovaro crew do whatever they want?”

“You’re doing it right now, waiting to find evidence. Consider this a lifetime of never finding it.”

Sean takes a few steps forward, stretches, walks to the door. “There’s no list.”

Just before he leaves the room, I say, “Sean, would you agree Gardner was, in a sense, an employee of both the Department of Justice and the Bovaro family?”

He doesn’t respond immediately. “I suppose.”

“Which organization do you think is more effective in dealing with problem employees? You still don’t see it, but Gardner had enough sense to know he was safer turning on Justice.”

He stares at me like he’s looking at a dead body in a coffin, licks his lips and purses them a little. “There is no list.” He pulls the door behind him gently, does not return.



“I want the list of every person in the program,” I demanded. “I want their names and addresses.”

Gardner gagged. “I can’t do—”

“Sure you can. You already have. I’ve got Melody’s address—and you can supply the rest.”

“Are you insane? That’s thousands of—”

“I don’t care. I want the list.”

I remember the look of regret on his face, the last time I ever saw a shred of remorse come over him, the look that suggested his entire life just got flushed down the toilet.

Then, weakly: “I can’t.”

“You will.”

Gardner shrunk into himself, curled up like a snail into its shell. He sat down and put his knees together, quickly calculated the consequence of such an act.

“That’s the line.”

“The line?”

“That I will never cross.” He sat back, went completely pale, looked as pained as if he’d been beaten with a club. “Do what you have to do, knock me around, but you will never get that out of me. Never.”

His reluctance did infuriate me, had me stepping toward him with a tightening fist. But as he sat in his chair, not even throwing up a hand to block me, doing nothing more than turning his face and wincing, I loosened my hand and stepped back. I stared at him for a few seconds, then walked to the door. I paused with my body halfway out, turned back and looked him in the eye.

“But, theoretically… you could get it. Right?”



I can lie, can break the rules and break the law, just as Sean suggested. I suppose that’s the difference between me and Justice: The Bovaros have always had a sensational passing game. Watch now as my Hail Mary drops gently into the center of the end zone.

Like it matters. We’re already ahead by twenty-eight points.