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Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to contrary
points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive language, political
correctness, sex, or anything else that may offend your
sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness, or if you're a minor
(but by no means limited to the aforementioned), please do not
read this novel. It's not for you...
Note: This is a work of fiction. The events described here are
imaginary: the settings, events and characters are fictitious,
and/or are the product of the author's imagination or used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or locales
or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Copyright (C) 2007 By F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.
Scene 20 of the Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America
FBI Special agent Ralph Longfellow
I stomped the snow off my wing tipped shoes at the entrance
to the federal building in the city of X. As I traipsed dripping
wet over to the X-ray machine, I began to empty my pockets
into the plastic basket as the GSA guards did their thing. After
being swept down by the handheld metal detector, I dropped
my arms to my sides, relieved not to be considered one of
the bad guys. In this day and age, nobody was exempt from
prison style inspections. Sometimes I wondered if I lived in
a free country or not.
I said, “Thanks, Elmer...”
Elmer Hanson had been a GSA guard for nearly twenty
years, and the etched creases on his forehead, and elsewhere,
surely had left their mark. His stooped posture was another
dead giveaway. Time does take its toll on the human condition,
I thought.
Elmer handed back my black leather FBI briefcase, and
says, “How you guys doing catching the bad guys?”
Our eyes met briefly, as I said, “It’s an uphill battle at
best, I’m afraid.”
“I know the feeling. How much stuff gets by us, I’ll never
know. But I’m sure it happens regardless of our best efforts.”
I nodded affirmatively, smiled and went about my
business. As I got off the elevator and strolled into the
forensic lab, Greg Bullock tapped me on the shoulder, and says,
“Any headway on that hard drive of our sneak and peek?”
Greg’s checkered tie nearly blinded me, as I replied,
“Yeah, I may have something.”
Rolling up his sleeves, he says, “Like what...?”
“I think I’ve identified the owner of the computer.”
“Really? Does it match with the rental agreement?”
I scratched the nap of my neck, a puzzled look on my
face, and said, “Not exactly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he said, conveying
an air of urgency and uncertainty simultaneously.
“Have you ever thought of buying less conspicuous ties?”
His glare curled my thinning brown hair, as he flared
his nostrils, and says, “Just answer the damn question.”
“Right,” I said, as I too rolled up my shirt sleeves and
handed him my report.
Snatching it from my right paw, he ran his finger down
each line of the report, and says incredulously, “Are you sure
about this...? Christ, if your report is on the up and up—we’ve
got to get our asses in gear. You sure this dude isn’t, Paul Krugar?”
Having spent half the night going over each detail, I spoke
in a whisper, “The fingerprints match that of Jake Jacobs,
the novelist.”
He asked, “That’s the guy who wants to make America a
true participatory democracy?”
“You got it... He wants to establish a fourth branch of
government: the so-called Peoples branch,” I said. The
ultimate watchdog of the public trough, or simply another
trough for siphoning off the assets in the Treasury, I thought.
Par for the course…
Greg removed his glasses, placing the right fitting mount
of the frame in his mouth as though he was still teething.
“Yeah, just what we need... We can’t even get the Founding
Fathers’ three original branches functioning properly after
two-hundred years, and he wants a fourth branch? That's
ludicrous!"”
I sat on the lab stool in front of the microscope, shrugging
my shoulders in dismay, and said, “Tis a weird twist of
events, if you ask me. But why would he be using an alias?”
Greg just guffawed, slapping me on the back, and says
matter of factly, “Apparently, you have a short memory,
partner.”
“Try me.”
“Does Thailand ring a bell?” he said, gazing in my
direction. His stare was unsettling to say the least.
“I just told you that?”
“Hey, ole buddy, after we ran him through the mill
in the Land of Smiles; if you were him, you’d keep a
low profile.”
Dumfounded, I inquired, “Is this shit prior to 9/11
and the supposed Patriot Act?”
“Supposed Patriot Act? Infamous, is more like it...!
Nevertheless, you've dissected the situation within a
cunt's hair. That’s a home run, my friend. Right on the
money! And furthermore, he’s got friends in high places.
But with habeas corpus now suspended, and the good old
Patriot Act alive and well—we’re going to have a field day
with that son-of-a-bitch!” he said, crowing on and on.
As though it was just yesterday, I mentioned our swearing
in ceremony, and the oath we both took at the FBI Academy
at Quantico, Virginia. “Doesn’t that have any meaning
anymore? We’re supposed to defend the Constitution
against all enemies both foreign and domestic, not persecute
folks for exercising those rights?”
“Grow up, Jose.”
“Perhaps you'd better clean your glasses, chief. I’m
as Caucasian as you are...! Do I look like a immigrant?"
He turned the bar stool around, resting his forearms on
the back of the stool, and says, “Needn't get so touchy...
Just a figure of speech. But if you persist and push
the issue, you just might be viewing this operation
from the outside looking in? Care to make a wager
on that?”
Being threatened wasn’t my idea of the FBI, so I
countered, “Don’t give me that cock and bull story.
We still live in America!”
“Maybe...,” he said, “but the honchos have changed. And
if you choose to take the law into your hands, there’s a
price to pay. These zealots have an agenda, and your oath
of office isn’t part of it. In fact, it’s diametrically opposed
to their agenda. Your career could come, let’s say, to a sort
of snail’s pace. Got the picture?”
Our mugs glimpsed at one another like a couple of beers
with white froths: sagging and deflated like our egos.
My eyes rolled instinctively. I took the hint, but not of my
own free will. I still believed in America, but I knew one thing
for sure: we’re headed in the wrong direction morally and
ethically. With bills to pay and a family to support, I had to
cave in to reality. Mr. Jacobs would simply be collateral
damage in a process that’s out of control.
“Well, let’s get the ball rolling. Time is a wastin’ if you’re
sure there’s no way to stop the tidal wave of deceit.”
He smirked at those parting words, and so did
I—reluctantly. Deceitfully, was more like it. I closed
the lab door, and we proceeded to our manager’s
cubicle to give him the good news, if that’s what
you want to call it. The next move would be in the
field, as the surveillance crew was on scene
assessing the situation.
Once they’ve heard the news, Jake Jacobs’ ass would be grass…!
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A CONVENIENT (I HOPE) TABLE OF CONTENTS OF
F. SCOTT SINCLAIR'S NOVELS
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