show them that it was Charlie’s choice entirely and also a matter of great indifference to me if they believed it or not.
And in any case, I really didn’t have any of his money at the moment.
The woman took over again, and I had to admit that I liked hearing her speak. “Well, then, Mr. Jackson, if you will just turn over your files on the man to us, we won’t bother you any further. The originals. All of them. You may keep your own copies, of course, but we require the originals. Oh, and any other little item you may have been holding for him, your denial notwithstanding.”
“No.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said ‘no.’ That means no.”
“People do not find it wise to say no to the Secret Service, Mr. Jackson.” She eyed me in exactly the way a hawk looks at a very small mouse.
“Well, I’m seldom accused of being wise.”
“We have subpoena and warrant power, you know. For any records we might decide we want to see for any reason, not just his. Think about that for a moment. We can turn your past inside out, if we want to.”
“Then I suggest you do so, Agent Krause. Do your warrants usually include permission to burn homeless people out of their camps, by the way?”
“I don’t believe I know what you’re talking about.” But her eyes said otherwise. Both agents’ façades of cool, self-assured control had wilted. I thought the guy, Sladky, even looked a bit afraid. The woman mainly looked pissed, but quite possibly that was her regular, default posture.
“How could he possibly know—?”
“He doesn’t. Shut up, Agent.”
“I told you we shouldn’t have gone down there. We could have just as well—”
“Sladky, will you please shut up? We’re in front of a subject, you know.” To me, she said, “We’re done here.”
She turned on her heel and headed for the door, and her partner followed. Her shoes had some of those compromise high heels that looked as if they had started out as spikes but had melted and squished. They still clicked importantly when she got to the tiled threshold, though. This was a woman who definitely knew all about creating presence. Mostly a threatening one. I found it interesting, though, that she seemed even more hostile toward her partner than she was toward me.
“You’ll be seeing us again,” she said without turning around.
“Imagine my anticipation.”
They both left without another word, leaving the door open, which I took as a classy substitute for slamming it. I shut it in my most restrained manner, and Agnes and I watched them go.
“Well, you certainly handled that well,” she said.
“Thank you.” I always like it when she lies for me.
“Can you really stand to have them turn your past inside out, by the way?”
“Not really, but one person trying to strong-arm me was enough in one day, Ag. My willing victim quota was all used up. Mostly, though, I can or can’t stand it, depending on how far back they go.”
“Uh huh. These are federal agents, Herman. They will go back to when God first created dirt and J. Edgar Hoover used it to blackmail somebody.”
“That would definitely be too bad. I was sort of hoping they would get tired of the game before then.” After about fifteen years of history, to be exact. I had a squeaky clean record back to 1987, when I first came to St. Paul. One could even say it’s so virtuous, it’s boring. I worked long and hard to make it that way. But try to look farther back, and you will run into a lot of gaps.
Officially, nominally, Herman Jackson, St. Paul bail bondsman, never convicted, arrested, or even suspected of a major crime, was born in 1953 in Manley, Iowa, a tiny farm town that has now almost entirely vanished into the fields of corn and soybeans around it. Its empty Main Street has only a few boarded up buildings left, and even fewer residents, none of whom remembers me. There were church and school records once, but nobody knows what happened to them. Even the tombstone
And in any case, I really didn’t have any of his money at the moment.
The woman took over again, and I had to admit that I liked hearing her speak. “Well, then, Mr. Jackson, if you will just turn over your files on the man to us, we won’t bother you any further. The originals. All of them. You may keep your own copies, of course, but we require the originals. Oh, and any other little item you may have been holding for him, your denial notwithstanding.”
“No.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said ‘no.’ That means no.”
“People do not find it wise to say no to the Secret Service, Mr. Jackson.” She eyed me in exactly the way a hawk looks at a very small mouse.
“Well, I’m seldom accused of being wise.”
“We have subpoena and warrant power, you know. For any records we might decide we want to see for any reason, not just his. Think about that for a moment. We can turn your past inside out, if we want to.”
“Then I suggest you do so, Agent Krause. Do your warrants usually include permission to burn homeless people out of their camps, by the way?”
“I don’t believe I know what you’re talking about.” But her eyes said otherwise. Both agents’ façades of cool, self-assured control had wilted. I thought the guy, Sladky, even looked a bit afraid. The woman mainly looked pissed, but quite possibly that was her regular, default posture.
“How could he possibly know—?”
“He doesn’t. Shut up, Agent.”
“I told you we shouldn’t have gone down there. We could have just as well—”
“Sladky, will you please shut up? We’re in front of a subject, you know.” To me, she said, “We’re done here.”
She turned on her heel and headed for the door, and her partner followed. Her shoes had some of those compromise high heels that looked as if they had started out as spikes but had melted and squished. They still clicked importantly when she got to the tiled threshold, though. This was a woman who definitely knew all about creating presence. Mostly a threatening one. I found it interesting, though, that she seemed even more hostile toward her partner than she was toward me.
“You’ll be seeing us again,” she said without turning around.
“Imagine my anticipation.”
They both left without another word, leaving the door open, which I took as a classy substitute for slamming it. I shut it in my most restrained manner, and Agnes and I watched them go.
“Well, you certainly handled that well,” she said.
“Thank you.” I always like it when she lies for me.
“Can you really stand to have them turn your past inside out, by the way?”
“Not really, but one person trying to strong-arm me was enough in one day, Ag. My willing victim quota was all used up. Mostly, though, I can or can’t stand it, depending on how far back they go.”
“Uh huh. These are federal agents, Herman. They will go back to when God first created dirt and J. Edgar Hoover used it to blackmail somebody.”
“That would definitely be too bad. I was sort of hoping they would get tired of the game before then.” After about fifteen years of history, to be exact. I had a squeaky clean record back to 1987, when I first came to St. Paul. One could even say it’s so virtuous, it’s boring. I worked long and hard to make it that way. But try to look farther back, and you will run into a lot of gaps.
Officially, nominally, Herman Jackson, St. Paul bail bondsman, never convicted, arrested, or even suspected of a major crime, was born in 1953 in Manley, Iowa, a tiny farm town that has now almost entirely vanished into the fields of corn and soybeans around it. Its empty Main Street has only a few boarded up buildings left, and even fewer residents, none of whom remembers me. There were church and school records once, but nobody knows what happened to them. Even the tombstone
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