He keeps his eyes on mine but licks his teeth like his mouth is getting dry. “We knew.” Now he looks away. “It should not have been Melody.” He bites the inside of his cheek, then adds, “I really liked her.” An entire minute passes before he completes whatever memory of her he’s recalling. “I mean, I really did.” He looks up at me again, repeats, “Shouldn’t have been Melody.”
I look at the clock and notice midnight is approaching, feel exhaustion setting in, taking over. “But it was. She was an innocent witness. Where’s all the love for innocent witnesses you spoke about earlier?”
He raises his voice as his justification becomes as fatigued as I am. “We can’t play by the same rules. You get to break the laws and we have to capture you while abiding by them. We’re both playing football here, but Justice isn’t allowed to have a passing game.”
As the hatred returns, I get the notion that what my family does is bad, but only notable because we’re higher up the scale, that we aren’t the bad guys; we’re the worse guys. This entire exchange with Sean brings the anguish back to my mind, has me recalling the very day I inadvertently made Arthur and Lydia and Melody McCartney vulnerable, how that cop manipulated a little boy to get what he needed, a scared kid who wanted to do the right thing to protect the girl with the blond curls and make sure she and her parents were safe, how the cop lied to me, said whatever he had to so he could gain my trust. So he could break my trust.
Maybe Sean is different—his anger and violence toward me at the notion I’d killed Melody certainly seemed genuine—but his remorse does not displace the risk he thrust upon her in the first place. I stare at him, see his pathetic look of regret covered by an opaque, synthetic smugness.
He bores me with a tale of his true incompetence, how they really did lose her in West Virginia—I never confess to where we were all that time—and how it became nothing more than a matter of “coming back to Baltimore to regroup and wait for further instructions from DC.”
I’m tired and hungry and in need of a rush of nicotine. I haven’t wanted to destroy someone this badly since Gregory Morrison. I take a drink of water, slowly twist the cap back on, and say, “I think it’d be in your best interest to put those cuffs on me.”
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 Mc
Cartneys 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.”
The Exceptions Page 35
