The Exceptions

SIX


I haven’t been driven by someone in close to a year. Like the family member who takes all the pictures, I am rarely in them. So as Sean shepherds me from under the courthouse in a bulletproof Explorer, its interior lined with dials and gadgets and weapons, all designed for apprehending or killing people just like me, this transport feels more peculiar than comforting, sends a shiver through me to know the rifle locked down between us might’ve been used to send a round through the back of my head. How strange it seems, now that I’m safely wrapped in their protective arms, that I finally understand just how cavalier I acted in those overlapping moments when I spirited Melody away, what they could’ve done given the opportunity, how I was likely spared by the casting of Sean’s ulterior motive.

As we turn onto the alley, I see the parking lot where I waited for Melody to surface—Dr. Bajkowski’s parking space. And once we’re on Hanover, I glance at the front of this government facility, recall the scene just two hours earlier when the feds drove me around the block, circled back to the front entrance of the courthouse, then escorted me out of a Suburban, my hands cuffed behind me, and walked me right back in the building in front of a crowd of tipped-off journalists. This act, of course, was performed at my request. We walked at a sluggish pace, allowed them to take pictures and footage as they yelled questions that were never acknowledged. How conquered I appeared, my unshaven and bruised face cast down from the flashes.

I can visualize Peter standing in front of his television as my story unfolds on the news, arms crossed and eyes narrowed as he says to no one: “Seriously?”

And I know the tension that will come to Peter’s fist as he checks the voice mail on his cell phone, hears the single word I uttered from the conference room phone the first moment I was left alone for thirty seconds, waiting for someone to fetch me a fresh drink while the others chatted in the hallway: “Gravina.”

Sean doesn’t say a word, has managed to peeve the two marshals in the vehicle—both relegated to the backseats—by forcing his way into the operation.

Baltimore claims everything that was left of who I am: my car and the few belongings in it, my stashes of money, my name. I have only my overnight bag full of toiletries and dirty clothes, and a case full of CDs that I will play over and over until I have memorized every note, that I will use to remember every intricacy of Melody, every iteration of every word, the texture of her skin and the curves of her soft shape.

As we drive down I-95—I’ve had my fill of this interstate—the cab is silent. Around the time we break the perimeter of the Baltimore Beltway, Sean says quietly to me, keeping his eyes straight ahead, “You know they’re never gonna honor your third request, keeping your family free of prosecution.”

Of course I know. “We have an agreement,” I say anyway.

Clearly my expectation on request number three was loose. Back at the courthouse, we spent hours hammering out the pre-procedures of getting me transitioned into the program and how they would approach protecting Gardner’s wife and kids; we spent maybe five minutes discussing the protection of my family. Went something like this:

ME: “My family gets a free ride.”

OVERSIZED: “We all know that’s not going to happen.”

ME, ECHOING ELLEN: “But the women and children.”

OVERSIZED: “It’s logistically impossible. Let’s say we catch your father or one of your brothers engaged in some illegal activity in the course of pursuing some other organization. What, we arrest everyone in the room except those in the Bovaro crew?”

ME: (silence)

OVERSIZED: “Best we can offer, and this is a one-time deal you need to commit to right now or it comes off the table, is we’ll keep it in mind.”

ME, AFTER WATCHING FOR A SIGN FROM OVERSIZED GUY THAT HE’S UNWORTHY OF MY INDEFINITE TRUST, A SIGN THAT NEVER OVERRIDES HIS ICY GLARE, HIS OVERT HATRED OF THE MAN WITH WHOM HE IS DEALING: “Keep the list in mind, too, yeah?”

Neither side carved a line in the sand, never agreed to anything other than looking the other way. The most I could hope for is that they’ll think twice before pinching anyone, that they’ll be dead certain they have airtight evidence before making a move. My prayer is that any of the men in my family—even just one of them—figures out why he should break free of his criminal existence and discovers the path toward doing so, finds the corridor that never appeared for me.

The sun falls to the edge of the horizon as we leave the interstate and ride the roads not far from where Melody had her apartment in Columbia. The roads are too familiar, remind me of when I was so close to having her within reach; my mind replays the tape of my attempt at abduction. We depart from the main drag, take a quiet parkway that leads us to Howard County’s countryside and has us driving by Baltimore’s wealthiest suburbs, past sprawling horse farms and manses tucked thousands of feet behind gates. As the land eventually converts back to agriculture and our vehicle is shielded by walls of unharvested corn, I begin to wonder if Sean’s comment—How about we just take you out to a field and put a bullet in you—is about to become the first sentence of the last paragraph of my Witness Protection story. I can’t imagine what might exist out here in the middle of nowhere.

The few roads that intersect our abandoned path twist and bend at right angles as though following the original property lines of the farms, delineations set a hundred or more years ago. Right before the road looks like it will narrow into a lane wide enough for only one vehicle, Sean pulls off and parks in a gravel parking lot facing what was once a Baptist church, a dilapidated, red-painted wooden structure missing all its windows. The dust from our sudden appearance curls up into the air and drifts through the gaping holes of the church. Something about this place seems familiar but I can’t immediately place it.

In the distance down the one-lane road comes another SUV, a huge cloud of gravel smoke following it like the vehicle is trying to outrun a twister. As it stops right before the church, the cloud catches up, washes over the SUV, and dissolves as it drifts our way. The vehicle remains stationary for a half minute while Sean communicates with the other driver via dashboard radio. Once the SUV, a glossy Excursion, finally rolls forward and pulls next to us, the picture, the familiarity of this place, takes shape: the black SUV against an empty cornfield with the corner of the red-painted church. I’m staring at the exact spot where Melody was photographed in the arms of Sean, the very first picture in the stack viewed in my father’s kitchen, the image that turned my stomach, that turned my world upside down and shook loose all the dirt and dust.

She was here. So they really did try to convince her. And she really did tell them no, truly came back to me. And now I’m going wherever they took her, having swapped places with Melody in under forty-eight hours.

Then, a blur of commotion: Sean gets out of the driver’s seat, is replaced by one of the marshals from the backseat. The second marshal gets out of our SUV and stands beside it on my side. Sean jogs to the Excursion on the passenger side, which reverses and pulls up next to us on my side. And as the back door of the Excursion opens, the marshal standing outside yanks my door and I’m pulled from one SUV and thrown into the other. As I try to get myself together, the vehicle I arrived in has disappeared behind a new cloud of dust.

Before I’m correctly positioned in my seat, the Excursion is shimmying down the road; I can’t tell our route because I can’t see a thing. The only means of glimpsing the outside is through the windshield—and within seconds it’s blocked from my view by a glass divider. The windows on the side and rear of the vehicle are not darkened, they’re black. No light makes its way in at all. I’m not dead but this sure feels like a coffin.

I hear a switch click and a small beam of light appears overhead. As I snap my buckle, I look up to find Sean sitting next to me, his hand resting on a rifle.

I curl my lip like I just pulled a hunk of rotting meat from the fridge. “You’re still here?”

He stares at me, flicks open one of the brackets that was locking the rifle in place. I wait for some kind of response but he just gives me a look implying hope—that he might find a reason to turn that weapon on me.

The SUV picks up speed as we rumble over the country road. Despite being buckled in, I am being tossed around, jerked forward and backward; because I can’t see outside I’m unable to anticipate curves and hills and braking. A few minutes into our rural ride we take a sharp turn—I go flying into the door—and the road softens to where it feels like we’re floating on air, only the hum of the tires indicates we haven’t actually left the ground.

We drive for another ten minutes before we finally slow, take a few rounded turns before coming to a stop. I hear the marshal doing the driving exchange very muffled words with someone outside the Excursion. Then we’re in motion again—and suddenly drop like we’re riding down a steep hill, drive in a circular pattern until we’ve descended to the bottom of some structure; the squealing tires suggest a parking garage.

We finally stop and the engine goes off. I hear the doors start popping open; one of the marshals opens mine. And as I step out, two men in suits and loosened ties offer their hands. One of them says, “Welcome to the WITSEC Safesite and Orientation Center.”

They turn to walk toward an entryway and I notice Sean looking around like it’s the first time he’s ever seen the place. Just before I take steps to follow the two men, I turn to Sean and say with forced glee, “Well, I guess this is goodbye.”

Sean walks back to the Excursion. “Hardly,” he says.