Читать книгу Fleeing the Past - Christopher LaGrone - Страница 15

LAYNE CHANGED HIS CLOTHES IN THE hotel room and began to admire himself in the mirror. He was getting excellent use out of this suit. But the reflection of himself from the side prompted memories of Fabiola. He remembered her brushing his shoulders with her hand, and meticulously examining the garment’s fit from head to toe when he had tried it on. She had directed him where to find one on his budget, and she had combed the racks to select the right color. He put his duffle bag on the bed. He attempted to shake off the memory as he removed his shaving kit and the clothes he would need for the next two days.

Remorse was a useless emotion, but he was powerless to extinguish it. He would have to wait for the prodding to slowly wear off. It was peculiar what his mind chose to focus on, memories woven with guilt from long ago, always being supplemented by new regretful memories he couldn’t cease creating. He wished he could be selective with his recollections. They got in the way of what he was doing and caused his mind to wander away from productivity. He could recite song lyrics or Spanish vocabulary spontaneously but became confused by simple verbal instructions. Only distress and anxiety focused his mind on the present.

He looked at his watch. The mailer said that he was supposed to be in the lobby at 10 a.m. He thought it best to be at least a half-hour early. Perhaps immersion into the unknown would expel Fabiola from his conscience.

The elevator settling on the bottom floor disarranged the emptiness of his stomach. It was impossible to eat in this nervous condition. The elevator bell dinged and the doors opened to the drop zone of the ground floor lobby. He was met with the smell of patterned carpet and the murmur of conversations. This hotel was much larger than the Rocky Mountain Hotel where he made it through the Oral Board interview by the skin of his teeth. The lobby here was a wide-open arrangement of multiple banquet rooms and auditoriums and a dance floor-sized lounge with multiple sets of tables and chairs. Scattered among the snowbirds and families on vacation, he immediately noticed young men in suits—some sitting alone, others standing or wandering about the lobby—who resembled those at the Oral Board Interview. He did not see familiar faces. He wondered what had happened to the other applicants at the Oral Board, most of whom seemed so much more qualified than he.

Feeling self-conscious and not knowing what to do, he forced himself to move away from the elevator. It was like holding a cafeteria tray, trying to decide whom to sit alongside at the lunch table on the first day at a new school.

As he wandered aimlessly, hoping no one noticed that he was adrift, he reminded himself to proceed with caution. Experience had taught him that he could expect to gain new enemies each and every time he was immersed into a different work atmosphere—it was inevitable that there would be people who were apt to try to eliminate those whom they perceived as competition. Maybe this time would be different. He truly wished he could feel brotherly with each of his cohorts. But he could bet that he would be swimming with sharks in due time. It was only a matter of how long it would take to identify those he would end up hating; they were usually the ones who initially flew a false flag of amiability.

A group of three he was studying seemed like obvious Border Patrol new hires. One of them was holding court, a shorter, slightly overweight Southerner, judging from a voice that could be heard from a considerable distance. Layne approached them with as much confidence as he could muster and said, “Are you guys here for Border Patrol?”

The Southerner responded, “No, we are here for the A.A.R.P. Convention.”

The other two snickered, and Layne responded with a scowl.

The Southerner quickly extended his palm and said, “I’m just kidding. I’m Chad Runyon. We’re here to EOD.” Layne immediately wondered what EOD meant, but he forced himself to not ask. He didn’t want to seem naïve and figured he would find out eventually.

Runyon was the only one not wearing his jacket, just a shirt and tie. The other two introduced themselves. Layne looked them over briefly as they shook hands. Carlos Dos Santos was an atypical example of someone who was genuinely good-natured. He was a pudgy Mexican and seemed slightly self-conscious about his appearance, but exuded a stoic quality and poise derived from a life of fending for himself. He looked to be within a year or two of Layne’s age, and he said he was from Tucson. Ryan Schneider looked to be about five years younger and said he was from Minnesota; his enunciation of the letter “O” confirmed his origin. He was tall and blond with chiseled facial features and hair painstakingly molded with defining paste. He looked like he wanted people to recognize that he was adamant about health and fitness.

The attention shifted back to Runyon, who resumed where he had left off. “So, anyway, I figure this job will be a nice resume piece for my application to the F.B.I. They don’t take anybody without prior law enforcement experience. The time I spent in the intelligence community chasing terrorists in Afghanistan doesn’t count for much with them, I guess.”

Schneider asked, “What did you do in the military?”

“I was in Army Intelligence. I was at Fort Huachuca in Sierra Vista for a couple of years; I’m familiar with this area.”

“Did you ever shoot at any Taliban guys?” Schneider asked.

“What do you think? I don’t even know how many I hit. You can’t even see what you’re shooting at half the time. There’s never a guy out in the open just shooting at you. They’re either running or behind cover.” Runyon grinned; he was in his element with an audience.

Layne said, “So, where are you from?”

“Kentucky, but I’ve lived in Tennessee and around the Beltway,” Runyon replied proudly.

Layne made a few attempts to participate in the conversation, but Runyon interrupted him midway through every sentence. So, he gave up and joined the others to look at the pictures from Afghanistan that Runyon produced from his wallet. They were shots of Runyon next to a Humvee, wearing desert camouflage and Oakley sunglasses, with a rifle slung in front of him. The photos partially corroborated his story, but in retaliation for Runyon’s A.A.R.P. comment, Layne decided to cross-examine him about the details of his deployment. But he abandoned the idea when they sensed activity near the center of the lounge.

The trainees who hovered in the lobby revealed themselves by moving in toward an agent who appeared near the coffee tables. Layne’s group of four followed, and he was surprised to realize that about half of his classmates were Hispanic. His perception of the Agency changed suddenly, and his enthusiasm waned. He wondered why Mexicans would want to enforce laws against their own people. How could the government trust these people? It didn’t make sense. He expected that Carlos and the examiners in Denver would be a rarity.

His attention returned to the conductor. The Caucasian agent was wearing a different uniform than the agents in Denver—a head-to-toe array of green that resembled military fatigues. The badge on the left breast was a sewn patch in place of a metal one, and he wore cargo pants with a long-sleeve uniform top and a green baseball cap displaying the Border Patrol logo.

“Why would you wear long sleeves in Arizona this time of year?” Layne said under his breath to his group as everyone closed in.

“Because they are always going through mesquite thorns,” Runyon replied.

From a close proximity Layne appreciated that the uniform was designed for utility. He was secretly embarrassed to find himself star-struck again in the imposing presence of the agent. The agent carried a radio on his belt and a microphone clipped to the passant on his shoulder. On his duty belt were a collapsible steel baton, a pistol, two ammunition magazine cases and handcuffs, in addition to other imposing instruments that Layne was intimidated to understand.

The agent waited patiently and confidently for the trainees to gather around. Once the circle settled, he gave a series of instructions, all in a compelling but conversational tone.

“All of you that are here to EOD, I need you to form a single file line next to the entrance to that auditorium over there. Get yourselves organized alphabetically and grab a polo shirt from the table. Those two ladies over there will take roll. Tomorrow you will need to be down here at oh-seven hundred. Those of you who are going to Tucson Station, I will be here tomorrow to take you. For the rest of you, an agent from your station will be here to pick you up, so DO NOT be late. You will need to wear that polo shirt with dress pants.”

The muttering resumed and Layne moved hesitantly toward the auditorium with the others. He selected an extra-large polo shirt from the table and put the garment to his nose and inhaled a whiff of the pristine, navy blue fabric. He followed the others and made a mental note to use the term “EOD” when referring to what he was doing here to sound more competent. Conveniently, Runyon had deciphered the acronym during the one-sided discussion earlier, explaining that it meant“Entry On Duty” in military jargon. Amongst the mild commotion, Layne identified those with last names starting with “S” and fell into line in correct order. The atmosphere remained free of tension, but no one spoke once in line. The two government women in plain clothes began to take roll with a clipboard, dismissing the trainees to enter the auditorium one by one after their presence was noted.

Layne intentionally chose a seat next to two strangers amongst the large congregation. He was still steaming over Runyon’s condescending remark. Runyon says that stuff when I’m most vulnerable; I should’ve had a comeback ready, he thought. I need to remember to keep my guard up. He continued to stew as he took in the auditorium, which was reminiscent of the large lecture classes he remembered from college, when he couldn’t pay attention for more than a few minutes. A second agent arrived and took the podium to address the twenty trainees who were preparing to enter the Academy as part of the 590^th class since the Border Patrol’s inception in 1924.

The Human Resources women circulated in the aisles, carrying stacks of paper separated vertically and horizontally in their arms, counting the number of trainees in each row with their eyes. The next several hours droned through the gathering of Social Security numbers, signatures and vital information. Toward the end of the paperwork, a higher-ranking agent arrived at the podium wearing the dress uniform, and the trainees were told to stand, raise their right hands, and swear an oath of allegiance—the U.S. Uniformed Services Oath of Office as required by federal law. Layne read from a card distributed during intake:

“I, Layne Sheppard, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me, God.”

He recognized some of the oath from television—enemies foreign and domestic lingered prominently in his mind.

Next they were informed that a union representative would like to speak to them, and that everyone had the right to excuse themselves if they wished. Layne looked around, searching for guidance. Everyone was staying put. A man in plain clothes quickly closed in to pass out contracts to each aisle then took over the podium while the agents and women from HR left the auditorium. The trainees remained quiet and attentive in their seats while the union representative rested his hands on the lectern and waited for the movement to cease.

“My name is Brian Esterline. I’ve been an agent for ten years.”

Layne wondered why he was not wearing a uniform.

“I loved this job when I first started. But five years ago last Tuesday, something happened that changed my life. I was involved in a vehicle stop in Nogales and it turned into an altercation which escalated, and I ended up shooting the driver.”

The eyes of all the trainees became fixated on the speaker now.

“He died in the hospital the next day. I was beside myself. I started self-medicating with prescription drugs and alcohol to the point that I could no longer perform my duty. I had to enter a rehabilitation facility for thirty days to seek help.”

Layne was drawn in, the speaker looked and sounded sincere. To disclose himself in front of an audience was admirable. His pain appeared heartfelt.

“I didn’t have the sick days or the vacation time to cover it, and the union went to bat for me against management. They hired a lawyer for me while the investigation over the shooting was going on. There is no way I could’ve dealt with all of that with everything I was going through. I can look every one of you in the eye and tell you that the union saved my life, my marriage, and my job. Without union representation you’re on your own; Heaven forbid something like that happens to you. There’s a hotline number in the information that was passed out to you in case you’re having problems and need to talk to someone.”

Some of the trainees discretely began to shuffle through their pile of paperwork to find the number.

“That number is only for agents. I don’t want you to hesitate to dial that number if you’re struggling. There’s no shame in it. That’s what it’s there for. No matter how tough you might think you are, you’re gonna run into emotional problems in this job. Some days you’ll be angry, and other days you might feel pity for the aliens you’re forced to deal with. It’s natural. Just remember: You’re doing what you’re told. You don’t make the rules. The higher-ups who make the rules don’t have to be face to face with these people.”

Agent Esterline paused to let the trainees process the information, “Now, I’m gonna come to each row and collect the contracts. It’s up to you, but I want you to think about my story while you’re making your decision.”

The trainees looked at their fellow strangers with indecision as the union representative moved swiftly into the aisle, applying silent pressure to the first row to accept or reject the contract.

Layne continued to dither while he looked down the row; everyone else seemed to be signing. But his mind was still constructing the scenes the agent had described, too much so to effectively weigh the pros and cons of the obligation. Membership required a twelve-month contract, $25 would be deducted from his paycheck twice each month when pay was directly deposited into his bank account.

Agent Esterline was already standing at his row, waiting to collect the document. Layne signed and dated it and passed it to the trainee on his right while he visualized his interpretation of the chaotic shooting scene. But far more disturbing was the depiction of Agent Esterline laying on a couch drinking from a bottle of scotch with a prescription pill bottle and beer cans on a coffee table.