at the front of this government facility, recall the scene just two hours earlier when the feds drove me around the block, circled back to the front entrance of the courthouse, then escorted me out of a Suburban, my hands cuffed behind me, and walked me right back in the building in front of a crowd of tipped-off journalists. This act, of course, was performed at my request. We walked at a sluggish pace, allowed them to take pictures and footage as they yelled questions that were never acknowledged. How conquered I appeared, my unshaven and bruised face cast down from the flashes.
I can visualize Peter standing in front of his television as my story unfolds on the news, arms crossed and eyes narrowed as he says to no one: “Seriously?”
And I know the tension that will come to Peter’s fist as he checks the voice mail on his cell phone, hears the single word I uttered from the conference room phone the first moment I was left alone for thirty seconds, waiting for someone to fetch me a fresh drink while the others chatted in the hallway: “Gravina.”
Sean doesn’t say a word, has managed to peeve the two marshals in the vehicle—both relegated to the backseats—by forcing his way into the operation.
Baltimore claims everything that was left of who I am: my car and the few belongings in it, my stashes of money, my name. I have only my overnight bag full of toiletries and dirty clothes, and a case full of CDs that I will play over and over until I have memorized every note, that I will use to remember every intricacy of Melody, every iteration of every word, the texture of her skin and the curves of her soft shape.
As we drive down I-95—I’ve had my fill of this interstate—the cab is silent. Around the time we break the perimeter of the Baltimore Beltway, Sean says quietly to me, keeping his eyes straight ahead, “You know they’re never gonna honor your third request, keeping your family free of prosecution.”
Of course I know. “We have an agreement,” I say anyway.
Clearly my expectation on request number three was loose. Back at the courthouse, we spent hours hammering out the pre-procedures of getting me transitioned into the program and how they would approach protecting Gardner’s wife and kids; we spent maybe five minutes discussing the protection of my family. Went something like this:
ME: “My family gets a free ride.”
OVERSIZED: “We all know that’s not going to happen.”
ME, ECHOING ELLEN: “But the women and children.”
OVERSIZED: “It’s logistically impossible. Let’s say we catch your father or one of your brothers engaged in some illegal activity in the course of pursuing some other organization. What, we arrest everyone in the room except those in the Bovaro crew?”
ME: (silence)
OVERSIZED: “Best we can offer, and this is a one-time deal you need to commit to right now or it comes off the table, is we’ll keep it in mind.”
ME, AFTER WATCHING FOR A SIGN FROM OVERSIZED GUY THAT HE’S UNWORTHY OF MY INDEFINITE TRUST, A SIGN THAT NEVER OVERRIDES HIS ICY GLARE, HIS OVERT HATRED OF THE MAN WITH WHOM HE IS DEALING: “Keep the list in mind, too, yeah?”
Neither side carved a line in the sand, never agreed to anything other than looking the other way. The most I could hope for is that they’ll think twice before pinching anyone, that they’ll be dead certain they have airtight evidence before making a move. My prayer is that any of the men in my family—even just one of them—figures out why he should break free of his criminal existence and discovers the path toward doing so, finds the corridor that never appeared for me.
The sun falls to the edge of the horizon as we leave the interstate and ride the roads not far from where Melody had her apartment in Columbia. The roads are too familiar, remind me of when I was so close to having her within reach; my mind replays the tape of my attempt at abduction. We depart from the main drag, take a quiet parkway that leads us to Howard County’s countryside and has us driving by Baltimore’s wealthiest suburbs, past sprawling horse farms and manses tucked thousands of feet behind gates. As the land eventually converts back to agriculture and our vehicle is shielded by walls of unharvested corn, I begin to wonder if Sean’s comment—How about we just take you out to a field and put a bullet