Читать книгу Fleeing the Past - Christopher LaGrone - Страница 13

LAYNE FOUND A PARKING SPACE CLOSE TO the entrance of the Rocky Mountain Hotel and took a deep breath as he turned off the engine. He checked his tie in the rearview mirror. This was the first time he had ever worn a suit. He hadn’t even known where to look to buy one, and had to ask Fabiola for help. She took care of the rest; he had done no more than serve as a mannequin for her.

His hands were already shaking, but he had planned ahead. He reached into his right pants pocket and removed his secret weapon, a blank prescription bottle containing two ten-milligram tablets of Valium. He washed one down with the remainder of his lukewarm coffee, then opened the car door and stepped into the cold morning sun of November in downtown Denver.

He knew instantly that he was in the right place when he entered the lobby. A group of eight young men wearing suits was huddled uncomfortably in cool, thick-cushioned chairs in the lounge. One young man was standing off to the side, wearing a dark blue Air Force dress uniform with a necktie and beret. The lobby was empty except for them. Only two or three were talking, but with hushed voices; the others were quietly observing. They acknowledged him and he sat down in a vacant chair; they resumed talking after he was seated. They were trying to make conversation with one another, but at a volume between a whisper and normal speech.

“What kind of things do they ask you?” one of them said.

“There’s no way to know, but I hear it’s brutal,” another responded.

“Have any of you done your interview with your investigator yet?”

They were talking about what most recently had been concerning Layne, and he couldn’t refrain from asking them, “Did you guys put down everything on your SF-86?”

A lanky blond in his mid-twenties who was fueling the conversation, said, “I put down everything I know they will find out about. I was in the Army—you don’t even want to know about the stuff we did.”

Layne let out a nervous laugh. He knew what he meant; he had heard bizarre stories of deployed soldiers smoking spice and guzzling Robitussin. But to know that others who had applied probably had checkered pasts, as well, didn’t quell his worry.

All the other applicants had crew cuts. They looked like they didn’t belong in suits, like defendants in court. Layne wondered if he was the only applicant who wasn’t active military or a veteran, another concern in addition to the background check and most imminently, the Oral Board Interview.

One of the quiet ones, a solid-looking Hispanic who appeared to be in his late 20s, spoke up. “You guys should be careful what you say. I hear the agents doing the exams bug the lobby.”

Everyone became silent for a few heartbeats, then the conversation shifted awkwardly to a topic of no consequence, as eyes wandered.

“How long did it take you to get here?” one of them asked another.

“It was a nightmare, about eight hours on I-70. Me and the wife stayed in a motel last night.”

“Where did you drive from?”

“Kansas City.”

Layne was surprised; he had assumed they were all from the Denver metro area. The realization that applicants had traveled from other states brought home all at once the critical nature of what lay only moments ahead.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and noticed the dampness in the armpits of his Oxford cloth shirt. He looked at his wristwatch—it was five minutes past 8 a.m., bedlam was imminent.

His eyes scanned the ceiling and potted plants for surveillance equipment. Then, before he realized a change, the focus of his thought shifted to the fruity sweetness of his gum. His scalp relaxed and seemed to expand. It had been roughly twenty minutes since he had taken the Valium. The drug began to overwhelm his nervous system like hot fudge over ice cream. He sank into the cushions of the seat, enjoying the temperature of the fabric while he welcomed a general sense of well-being heedless of his circumstances.

At 8:10 a.m. the conference room door near the back of the lobby opened. A stocky Hispanic agent in an all-green dress uniform, duty belt, gun and glistening brass buttons was charging their way, like a bull. He confronted the group with arms slightly bowed and demanded, “Who is going first?”

There was a moment of intimidated silence. Layne reasoned that he should get it over with while the drug was approaching its peak. Without hesitation he stood and blurted, “I’ll go first.”

The others stared with relief and instant respect for Layne as Bull led him toward the conference room. Layne couldn’t refrain from taking in the agent’s striking green uniform as they walked side by side. His short sleeves had been ironed and starched to crisp perfection, leaving a prominent fold like a piece of paper through the center of the green fabric. The Federal shield on his left breast flashed as Layne moved past it. It was gold and narrower than the police badges he had taken the time to notice. It was the first time Layne had ever seen an agent in person; for him it was almost like seeing a movie star.

The conference room was empty except for two tables. Two of three chairs at one table were occupied by agents in uniform. The table opposite, about fifteen feet away, had one chair for the examinee. Bull showed Layne to his seat, then sat down between the other two agents to complete the panel. The agent to Bull’s right was an overweight Hispanic woman who appeared unenthusiastic—involuntarily detailed to this assignment. The agent to the left was a frail, older Hispanic man who looked like a chain-smoker. His awkward body language made him appear uncomfortable with his duty.

Layne was offended that he would be interrogated by Hispanics about immigration; he considered that perhaps the two agents were unenthusiastic because they were accustomed to apathy while on the border. He tried to clear his mind of negativity as Bull situated himself. Matt had described the Oral Board as another filtration system, a 15-minute melee to thin the herd. “They’re gonna to try to rattle your cage,” Layne remembered Matt saying.

The female agent spoke first, “What is your name?”

“Layne Sheppard.”

She confirmed his name on the file in front of her and said, “My name is Agent Baena. This is Agent Valez, and he is Agent Lopez. Each of us will present you with a real scenario that happened in the field, and you will respond with what you do in the situation as if you’re actually there right now.”

Layne nodded, “I understand.”

She continued, “Agent Valez will start.”

Bull read from a sheet of paper. “You are near the Border Fence with another agent and the two of you apprehend a group of approximately twenty suspected illegal aliens. One of the aliens picks up a rock and reaches back to throw it at you. Your partner shoots and wounds him before he can hit you with it, and the rest of the bodies scatter. What do you do?”

Layne thought for only a few seconds before responding. “I would give medical attention to the wounded alien.”

Bull: “What kind of medical attention? ”

Layne: “I would give him CPR.”

Bull: “You would or you do?”

Layne: “I give him CPR.”

Bull: “What else?”

Layne: “I call an ambulance.”

Bull: “An ambulance in the middle of the desert?”

He felt a jolt of adrenaline that was quickly vanquished by the Valium, which allowed him to think clearly. To make it through this without help would be impossible, anxiety would cause his mind to become blank and stationary, like a blinking cursor.

Layne: “I try to stop the bleeding.”

Bull: “How do you call an ambulance, with what?”

Layne: “With my radio.”

Bull: “Your radio is out of range, so now what?”

Layne: (Pause)“I call for help with my cellphone.”

Bull: “Are you playing games with me, man? That’s really what you would do?”

Layne: (Pause)“Yes. I call for an ambulance with my cellphone.”

Bull shielded his eyes with his hand and shook his head for a moment, then said, “You’re really gonna let twenty bodies go north for one stupid Tonk?”

Bull was almost yelling now.

Layne: “Yes, sir. We can catch the others later; he’s still a human being.”

Bull nodded slightly. The agents seemed to be satisfied with his answer; indeed, it was a test.

The slender agent, Lopez, picked up his piece of paper from the table and read a second scenario as Layne saw stars. He had two more agents to get through. He reminded himself of what Matt had told him, “Don’t reverse yourself.”

The grilling followed a similar pattern, but with less force, while Bull sat with arms crossed to allow the others to interrogate. He seemed to disapprove of Agent Lopez’s passive demeanor. Layne felt weightless and numb until Lopez let up and deferred to Agent Baena. He held his breath with fear of not being able to come up with any response and being forced to say, “I don’t know,” while time crawled and the agents waited.

“Involving the scenario with the wounded alien, there’s an investigation surrounding the incident and you are to meet with an investigator to explain what happened. The agent who shot the alien approaches you and asks that you alter your story because he’s concerned that he will be fired for not following procedure. How do you handle the situation?”

Layne hit a wall. He didn’t want them to think he was a snitch; loyalty was all he had left over from before. He knew what he was supposed to say, but he felt hollow saying it.

Layne: “I tell the investigator exactly what happened as I saw it.”

Baena: “As you saw it, or the truth?”

Layne: “I tell the truth.”

Baena: “Okay.”

Thank God, Layne thought.

Bull shook his head with pronounced disapproval. “Wait a minute, some guy throws a rock at you and an agent shoots him, and you rat him out just like that? I want to be your partner, buddy.”

Layne: “Well, I would talk to the agent first and tell him what I was going to say.”

Bull: “So you could get your twisted story straight with him?”

Layne: “No, to tell him that I am telling the truth to the investigator. I tell the truth.”

Bull: “Why do you even need to go talk to the agent?”

Layne: “To let him know that I am not going behind his back.”

Bull: “I don’t think so. I think the only reason you talk to the agent is so you can get your story straight.”

Layne: “No sir, I just wouldn’t want him to think I was throwing him under the bus.”

Bull: “So you would change the story?”

Layne: “No, I would tell the truth.”

Bull: “Are you sure?”

Layne: “Yes, sir, I tell the truth.”

There was a moment of silence; the agents exchanged glances and Agent Baena said, “We need you to have a seat in the lobby while we make a decision. Agent Valez will come get you when we are ready. But don’t talk with the other applicants about anything that was said in this room. We’ll know if you do.”

Layne left the room in a daze and floated slowly back to the lounge. He felt the hard tile floor through the lack of cushion in the soles of his dress shoes as he walked. The other applicants received him with great anticipation.

As he sat down the lanky blond said, “You look white, dude.”

“I feel lightheaded,” Layne said.

“What did they say?”

“They told me not to say anything or they would know.”

No one responded, and Layne stared at one spot on the wall in a comfortable state of shock. After several minutes the silence was interrupted when Bull opened the door to the conference room and motioned for Layne to return. He sat back down at the table, expecting bad news. It had been so long since he had experienced success that he felt a sense of fulfillment by simply putting forth a good effort. He told himself that he had done the best he could while he waited for the rejection.

“We decided to pass you. Congratulations. Your investigator will be in contact with you. Don’t talk to the others on your way out,” Bull said.

“Thank you,” Layne said in disbelief.

* * * *

FABIOLA SAT UP STRAIGHT IN HER desk chair as Edward put his badge away into his back pocket and sat in the chair facing her desk. She had straightened up her office as best she could in preparation for his arrival. Her hands were grasping one another underneath the drawer of her desk, below Edward’s view. Edward had been placing business cards on the doors of all of her neighbors in the apartment complex and all over Layne’s parents’ neighborhood. The cards bore the Homeland Security logo in the corner and requested that the recipient “contact Agent Edward Herrera regarding a matter of National Security.” Many of her neighbors in the apartments were unlawful and wouldn’t answer the door when he knocked, nor would they call the number on the business card.

Fabiola tried not to appear uneasy while Edward thumbed the combination to unlock his briefcase. He couldn’t help glancing at her more than once while he opened his briefcase. She had long sandy blonde hair and a European face, completely opposite of what he had expected. She wore an azure shirtwaist dress, and pearl stud earrings. She was interesting to look at—although she looked Caucasian, she exuded a foreign appearance that would be hard for him to describe.

Once Edward situated himself, he focused on Fabiola’s blue eyes. “You understand that Layne is applying for a security clearance in order to be accepted into the Border Patrol Academy?”

“Yes, I understand,” Fabiola said; her hands gripped one another tighter as she answered.

“I’ve had trouble getting in contact with the people who live in your vicinity,” Edward said with slight frustration.

“I’m sorry about that. But you have to understand, the people who live here probably think you’re a police officer, and they’re afraid to talk to you,” Fabiola explained, her voice sounded unnerved despite her efforts to appear relaxed.

“How long have you known Layne?” Edward said to her, his eyes trained patiently on his paperwork now.

“I have known him for about a year,” Fabiola said.

Her accent was pleasing to hear and it charmed Edward; he grinned when she spoke.

“How did you meet him?” Edward asked.

“His friend Kurt introduced me to him. I worked at Purgatory Ski resort with Kurt before my company transferred me here. They own these apartments,” Fabiola said, trying to smile.

Edward was becoming increasingly intrigued by the combination of her appearance and her accent as they interacted. “Did you go to college in Argentina?” he asked politely.

“Yes, I went to the National University of Rosario.” Fabiola was holding her breath a little after each response.

“What did you study?”

“Medicine, then I changed to Business after the second year.”

“Why didn’t you continue to study medicine?”

“My dad is a doctor and I felt obligated to study medicine. But after a few years of it, I decided it wasn’t for me.” Fabiola looked at her hands while she answered.

“I see, and you have an H1-B visa here in the U.S.?” Edward redirected, realizing that he had brought up a sore subject.

“Yes, I do,” Fabiola said. She tried to remember what she had rehearsed, but her mind had gone blank.

Edward searched for his next question within his paperwork while Fabiola’s palms began to sweat against one another. She was feeling the same way she had when she dealt with U.S. Customs Agents in Argentina while applying for the visa. She shuddered to remember; the Customs Agents were notoriously malevolent and ruthless, and the white female agents especially mean. They spoke fluent Spanish but chose to speak English to the Argentinian visa applicants, to further torment them.

“How long did it take you to get the visa?” Edward asked.

“My company put me into a lottery to get it. It took two years for them to choose my name,” Fabiola said.

Edward was silent again, appearing lost while trying to find his place. Fabiola wondered if she appeared nervous to him. Her documents were up to date, but she couldn’t overcome the fear of interaction with a U.S. Federal Agent, no matter how politely Edward behaved. He wasn’t a Customs Agent; nevertheless, he was not to be toyed with. His attitude was almost leisurely, but perhaps he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Edward smiled with slight embarrassment as he fumbled through papers and she saw flashbacks of the U.S. Embassy in Rosario where the interview for her visa was conducted. American tourists who had lost their passport and all of their money laid helpless on the sidewalk while the embassy personnel ignored them as they drove past on their way in and out of the gated parking lot. Their apathy toward humanity in general was disturbing, and she cringed while remembering.

“Do you like it here?” Edward asked bashfully.

“Yes, I like Colorado. I miss home, though.”

“What do you and Layne do in your spare time?” Edward became aware of the overly friendly impression he was making. He corrected it and his cordial demeanor diminished a little bit.

“We visit my friends in Aurora. I met a girl from Argentina when I got here,” Fabiola said with a smile.

“How did you meet her?” Edward asked curiously.

Fabiola couldn’t determine if he was being benevolently inquisitive or if he was trying to delude her.

“I was in line to pay at Target and I heard her talking to the cashier. I recognized her accent when she spoke English. Then I found her in the parking lot after I paid,” Fabiola said. She enjoyed remembering the first time she met Marcela despite the circumstances under which she was remembering.

“Wow, what a lucky coincidence; I’ve never met anyone from Argentina,” Edward said, his mouth hung open slightly.

“Yes, it was,” Fabiola giggled.

“What else do you and Layne do in your spare time?”

“We go to the mountains sometimes; we went to Estes Park a few weeks ago. We go to the movies a lot—Layne loves movies. We only go to the movies that he wants to see though,” Fabiola said, laughing a little.

“I bet you watch the World Cup; Argentina is usually pretty good.” Edward said.

“I watch every game I can; I wear my Argentina jersey every time they play.”

Edward glanced at the miniature blue and white flag hoisted in a coffee cup on her desk. “Does Layne like to watch soccer with you?”

Fabiola’s smile straightened. “No, he doesn’t like soccer; he doesn’t really watch sports at all unless it’s the Baseball Series or the Super Bowl.”

“Do you visit his parents very often?” Edward’s pen awaited an answer, a hint to what questions were relevant.

“No, not really. I have only been to see his parents twice, once on Thanksgiving last year,” Fabiola said. She looked unsure about the meaning of her answer.

“Does he help pay bills?”

“There are really no bills to pay. I don’t have to pay rent; it’s one of the benefits of my job. But he usually pays for me when we go out to eat or to movies, and he always holds the door open for me.”

The truth was that Layne never helped her clean. He never offered to help pay utilities, and he only bought food for himself, unless she asked him to buy ingredients that she needed to cook dinner. He didn’t pretend to like the milanesas she frequently cooked either.

“Have you ever known him to drink excessively, or use drugs?” Edward asked, twiddling his pen.

Her toes curled in her simple pumps. “Well, never drugs, but I’ve seen him drink a lot. But there were other people drinking a lot, too, at the time.”

“Does he change when he drinks?” Edward asked.

“Not really. I don’t know. I mean, I think everybody changes when they drink,” Fabiola said.

“Have you ever known him to become violent?” Edward asked, his eyebrows raised.

“To me?” Fabiola asked.

“To anyone.”

“No. He hates my dog; he says she gets on his nerves when she barks. But I’ve never seen him become violent.”

“What kind of dog is it?” Edward asked.

“She’s a miniature Yorkshire Terrier.”

“Oh,” Edward said, the look on his face showing that he sympathized with Layne to a certain extent. Fabiola looked at her hands for a moment.

“Have you ever seen him mad?” Edward said.

“Yes, I’ve seen him mad, but I was never afraid that he would hit me.”

Edward considered how to ask the next question for a moment while Fabiola sat silent.

“Do you speak Spanish with Layne?” he asked.

“Yes, he gets mad when I speak English to him. Well, I don’t mean mad, he gets frustrated when he asks me in Spanish and I answer him in English,” Fabiola said.

“Really?” Edward looked intrigued.

“Yeah, well, he speaks in a Mexican dialect.”

“You don’t like Mexicans?” Edward looked accusatory.

“No, it’s not that. It’s that I’m just not used to it, I guess.”

“When he goes to work in the morning, does he leave on time, or I mean, do you think he usually gets to work on time?” Edward was resuming his notes on a legal pad.

“Yeah, as far as I know. He leaves before me because he has to drive to work, but I’ve only seen him be late one time and he called his boss and told her he would be late. But that’s about it.”

“Do you think he gets along with his co-workers? Does he say anything bad about them?” Edward leaned on his right armrest.

“No, not really, he doesn’t like to talk about work. He has complained about hours and pay before but never specifically mentioned anyone,” Fabiola said.

“What about his character? Would you say that he has good character?” Edward asked.

“He’s honest as far as I know,” Fabiola answered. “I have never seen him steal or anything. One time, he found a wallet and he used the guy’s driver’s license to find him, and he gave it back to him with the money still in it.”

“Really?” Edward looked surprised.

“Yeah. He’s really superstitious about karma.”

Edward licked his thumb slowly and backtracked through his paperwork to jot down another note. Fabiola’s gaze fixated on her tiny flag while she thought over some of her answers. She had seen Layne drink a lot only a few times, once when he was drinking Jack Daniels with Kurt in Lodo. Or a time with Robert and Marcela at dinner when he passed out in the car on the way home. But he came home drunk and tried to pretend that he wasn’t; he thought she didn’t know.

Edward straightened his paperwork and began gathering his things. “Well, that’s about all I’ve got. How long are you planning to stay here?” He stood up with his briefcase under his arm, the question obviously benign.

“For now, I don’t know. I’m going to see how it goes. As long as my company can renew my visa, I think I will stay.” Fabiola felt relief as she walked him to the door. They shook hands, then she closed the door behind him.