The Famous and the Dead

32



The next afternoon the Department of Justice sent Hood an economy-class e-ticket from San Diego to Washington, D.C., for early the next day. He would appear for testimony the following day, then fly home.

The flight was rough and arrived slightly ahead of a powerful Atlantic storm. Hood took a taxi to the ATF headquarters on New York Avenue, arriving in a darkness swirling with snow. He had time for a quick sandwich and a cup of coffee across the street before going in. He watched the bureaucrats and office workers bundled in overcoats and scarves bustling onto the Metro Red Line. He carried his overnight bag through the snow and into the building and went through the scanner, then gave his name at the desk. An intern met him and took him up. The building was new and sleek, with faceted glass walls and a feeling of openness even in the winter dark. The hallways and offices were laid out in angles that challenged logic and memory. From an upper story Hood looked down on the courtyard and the lights of the district muted by snowflakes.

Acting Deputy Director Fredrick Lansing stood as Hood came into his office. He hovered, sallow faced, then sat and pushed a thin stapled collection of papers to Hood. “Grossly’s subpoena and your hotel for tonight. You’re testifying under oath before the House Committee on Oversight and Government Reform at nine tomorrow morning. They’ll want you to answer the same questions you answered before, and God knows what else. Tell them what you told them the first time and you’ll be fine. So long as it’s true.”

Hood glanced down at the document. You are hereby commanded . . . “He wants someone to blame.”

“He wants to hear the words gun, walk, and ATF in the same sentence so badly his face turns pink. He’ll ask you again and again who gave the order.”

“There was no order. We just came up short.”

Lansing sat back and tapped a pen on his desktop, nodding. “You do understand the real reason why Grossly’s so hot for this, don’t you?”

“He wants our budget cut.”

“That’s not the end goal. The goal is to make ATF look either dangerous or inept—it doesn’t matter which—and hold the attorney general and the president ultimately responsible. It’s another way to discredit the administration. They’re using you to do it.”

Suddenly it dawned on Hood why it was him, and not Bly or Velasquez or Morris or any of the other agents involved with Blowdown who was sitting here. “You gave me to Grossly because I’m not genuine ATF. I’ll be easier to blame and fire.”

“It looks that way but it isn’t.”

“How can it not be?”

Lansing looked heavily at him. “Grossly was interested in you, particularly, Hood. Maybe because you’re not ATF he figured you’d be quicker to point upstairs. He asked about you and we gave him some information. Since Fast and Furious, it’s our new transparency with Congress. Fine. But it looked to me like someone whispered in Grossly’s ear. He knew what questions to ask, where to look. Not all of those photos or video came from us, you know. So who supplied them? Grossly is a partisan and nothing more. He wants to beat down this president so his party can take over again. I’m a Republican. But he’s the right wing at its worst. It’s simple politics, Hood. You’re a tool. So am I and so is ATF. And by the way, Janet Bly will be testifying right after you. Grossly subpoenaed her, too. Not Velasquez or Morris. You and Bly.”

Hood looked through the window blinds and the black shiny glass to the district beyond. “When will you fire us?”

“When the timing is best. We might have to make a show of it, you know.”

“Wash the hands.”

“It plays outside the Beltway. Thirty years with ATF and I’ve never seen agents treated like this.”

Hood looked through the window again to the darkness and the lights below. “You don’t know how close we were to intercepting those Love Thirty-twos. We missed them by inches. Literally inches, when the transport chopper took off. We knew Pace and Jones were getting ready to ship those guns somewhere. We watched them load them in and we still missed. I think about it. I wonder about it. I dream about it. And I don’t know what we could have done better.”

“Tell Grossly. I mean it. Say it to him like you just said it to me.”

Hood nodded, feeling patronized and abandoned and alone.

“Hood, I don’t know what Darren Grossly and his committee know about Lonnie Rovanna yet. But when America learns that it was an ATF-surveilled gun that killed Congressman Freeman, all hell will break loose. A thousand guns lost in Mexico? One of them the gun that killed Representative Freeman? The agency tasked with keeping such guns from the hands of violent criminals? You can hear Grossly: Where are the rest of those guns right now? Where was ATF leadership when all this was happening? Where was the attorney general? Where was the president? Hood, your head will roll but it won’t roll alone. I’m sorry. This is ugly business. The ugliest I’ve seen. I hate to see good men and women suffer in it.”

• • •

The next morning Hood walked into Rayburn House Office Building Committee Room 2154 and looked into flashing cameras and the steady glare from the video lights. He wasn’t sure this was how celebrities felt. He was led to the witness dock by a one of Grossly’s aides, who sat him in the middle seat, which left him flanked by two empty chairs on either side. He was given a bottle of water. In front of him was floor, and a few yards away was an empty row of seats facing him. Behind this row was another, raised on a dais. Seven men and two women presided there, with Representative Darren Grossly in the middle. Grossly gave him a brief nod. Hood nodded back, then read the name signs of the others, recognizing most. The American flag behind them had been lowered in mourning for the fallen congressman, Scott Freeman.

Hood tried to ignore the photographers by looking out at the handsome walnut woodwork and the black leather chairs of the committee room. He felt self-conscious about the diamonds in his tooth, and resolved not to smile, which would not be difficult. His navy winter-weight wool suit was the best he owned. Nine on one, he thought, a baseball team against a boxer. Who’s the underdog here? He turned and looked behind him to the spectators’ gallery, gradually filling. Tourists? The curious? Committee groupies? When he turned to face forward again, a photographer was kneeling on the floor right in front of him, with a long lens aimed up at his face and the motor drive already clattering away. Hood smiled without opening his mouth, thinking, This is the worst f*cking day of my life and it hasn’t even started yet.

A few minutes later Grossly tapped his gavel with an amplified thud and called the meeting to order. He introduced Father Peter Dobson from St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, who asked the participants to close their eyes and bow their heads in a prayer for Representative Scott Freeman and his assistant, Bruce Harbison.

Hood bowed his head and listened. Dobson had an intelligent and soothing voice that made it seem God would have a hard time denying his blessing upon the slain men. After the amen there was a long, heavy silence.

Then Grossly cleared his throat but his voice cracked anyway: “Thank you, Reverend Dobson. Today continues our congressional investigation into the questionable and quite possibly negligent conduct of the Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives task force involved in Operation Blowdown . . .”

Grossly’s introduction was long and thorough. He explained that the Department of Justice, within which ATF operated, was not a partner in this inquiry, but a focus of said inquiry. He accused ATF of “irresponsible actions.” He suggested that the “highest levels of the DOJ were trying cover up those actions by stonewalling this investigation.” Hood thought of Cepeda. He stared at the portraits behind the dais, wondering who the men were, remembering his first boyhood visit to the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland. Grossly’s outrage began to build and his voice became louder and his face went from skeptical to doubtful to abashed, then back to skeptical as he introduced the ranking member of the OGR Committee.

The ranking member, Representative Collins, gave a much briefer opening statement, then looked over his sheet of notes and down at Hood. “Our first witness today is Charles Hood. Mr. Hood is a deputy with the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, currently attached to the ATF Operation Blowdown task force. This task force was established five years ago to prevent the illegal flow of guns from the United States to Mexico. Mr. Hood served our country as part of the U.S. Navy during Operation Iraqi Freedom, and he has been a Blowdown task force member for four years. Mr. Hood, thank you for being here today.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

“Mr. Hood, in light of the recent tragic assassinations in San Diego, I’d like you to open this hearing with a history of the firearm that was allegedly used in those murders, the so-called Love Thirty-two, an illegal fully automatic machine pistol manufactured in California. I understand these guns have a rather shady history with ATF. Then I would like you to tell us about your meeting, just last week, with Lonnie Rovanna, the accused assassin of Scott Freeman and Bruce Harbison. You did meet with Mr. Rovanna last week, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then. Let’s start with the gun. Tell us about the gun that Mr. Rovanna allegedly used. We’ve got pictures up on the screens so we can all see what you’re talking about. We’re going to dim the lights for just a few minutes. Please proceed, Mr. Hood.”

Hood heard the ripple of curiosity rise from the gallery behind him and he turned again to see his jury. From the wall a large monitor blipped on, with the bright image of a Love 32 resting on a black background. The gun looked fifty times life-size, like some futuristic contraption designed to orbit in outer space. The stainless-steel finish of the weapon glowed softly, and the powerful monitor threw light into the dimmed room. Brushed by that light, positioned directly below the monitor in the last row of mostly empty seats, sat Mike Finnegan. His hair was black and his eyeglasses were thick and he wore a dark suit. He seemed to be staring directly at Hood. Hood stared back. His vision was twenty-ten, last time he’d been examined. It was Finnegan, without a doubt. Even in the dim light. No doubt at all.

Hood turned to face his congressional watchdogs, hearing the cameras and looking into the video lights aimed into his face. He took a deep breath and looked back once again and Finnegan was gone. He faced forward, folded his hands on the table before him, leaned into the light and told his story.