Chapter 32
That Friday, David N. Weisman received a package from Yolanda Vance, with the following handwritten cover letter.
Dear Mr. Weisman,
I am writing to you because my former employer, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, has violated my civil rights. They have taken over an investigation with the intention of delaying justice. Enclosed please find my field notes, and my FBI credentials, as well as a digital recording of the last meeting in which San Francisco Assistant Special Agent in Charge (ASAC) Campbell discloses his plan to conceal evidence from other law enforcement agencies in the murders of Anitra Jenkins, Juan Carlos Sanchez, and Luis Garcia.
Also, please find my last will and testament, in case anything happens to me, I will my only possessions of any value to Marcus Winters of RBG, my journal and my digital recording. Finally, enclosed, please find one dollar as a retainer.
“I thought you said your plan didn’t include getting shot,” Jimmy said Saturday morning, when Yolanda was finally stable enough to have a visitor. She was still in intensive care, but had been moved from critical to stable condition, the bullet having missed her heart and lung by less than an inch.
“Plan A was not to get shot,” Yolanda said, her voice weak. “Plan B was not to get shot before I mailed the package.” Her speech was still a little slurred from all the painkillers.
“I’ve got some good news for you,” Jimmy said. “The independent forensic pathologist found morphine, not heroin in Anitra Jenkins’s bloodstream. And the wound is definitely not an abscess, but an external wound, caused by some form of corrosive chemical. They’re still not sure what caused it, but they think it’s some sort of chemical weapon Randell was developing.”
“I guess that was the top-secret government contract,” Yolanda murmured.
“Shhhh,” Jimmy put a finger to her lips. “Don’t tell me anything else that might be classified.”
“No more secrets,” Yolanda said as she closed her eyes.
“I love you, Yolanda,” she vaguely heard Jimmy say, then she drifted off again.
* * *
Two days later, she was moved out of intensive care. No longer doped up on pain relievers, and with the risk of infection passed, she was feeling more herself. She couldn’t move her left arm, but they assured her that in time, she’d be fine, with just the bullet scar.
That day, Peterson came to visit. Jimmy was sitting on the end of the bed when the agent was admitted into the room.
“Hey Vance,” she said, walking in with a bouquet of daisies. “Glad to see you still alive and kicking.”
“And you are?” Jimmy asked.
“Special Agent Jeanne Peterson. San Francisco FBI.” She put out a hand for him to shake, but he ignored it.
“Thanks for coming, Peterson,” Yolanda said.
“Are you sure she should be here?” Jimmy asked Yolanda.
“Jimmy, it’s okay,” Yolanda caressed his forearm with her good hand.
“In fact,” Peterson said. “I’d like to talk to Miss Vance alone for a few minutes.”
“She’s not an agent anymore,” Jimmy said, pulling his arm away from Yolanda’s touch. “You guys can’t order her around.” He turned to Yolanda. “Baby, I think I need to stay with you.”
“Jimmy,” she took his hand. “There are three cops in the hallway. You’ll be right outside the door, and you’re worth ten cops. I’ll be fine.”
He stood slowly to leave.
“Really,” Yolanda said. “It’s okay.”
“I’ll be right outside,” he said, as he closed the door after himself.
“I thought he wasn’t your boyfriend,” Peterson said, one eyebrow raised.
“He wasn’t until after I resigned.”
“That’s what I need to talk to you about,” Peterson said, sobering. “HQ sent me to get your gun, keys, and credentials.”
“Did they send the flowers, too?”
Peterson smiled. “No, that was from me to you. You didn’t sign up for all of this shit, Vance. You did a good job.”
Yolanda reached under the pillow and produced the gun—butt first—and handed it to Peterson. The agent unloaded it and put both the empty gun and the clip into her purse.
“The keys are in my jeans, I think.” Yolanda waved to a hospital bag that contained her street clothes.
Peterson dug out the keys. “And the credentials?” she asked.
“They must have been in my purse that got stolen,” Yolanda lied.
“Are you sure?” Peterson asked, raising an eyebrow. “Campbell seemed to think you had them.”
“Why would there be any question?” Yolanda asked. “Unless Campbell was somehow involved in the theft of my purse.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Peterson said, pocketing the keys. “I just know Campbell was very specific in his request.”
“I don’t really care how specific Campbell was. Somebody shot me, Peterson. Right after I resigned. If Campbell isn’t upset about a little grave robbing and a few dead Mexicans, what’s a dead rookie FBI agent to him?”
Peterson turned and looked out the window. Yolanda followed her gaze. The small rectangle looked out on the parking lot. All asphalt and cars and white lines. A few spindly trees in cement planters between the rows of vehicles were dwarfed by tall metal floodlights.
Peterson fidgeted with a stray hair coming loose from her bun, then shook her head. “You didn’t hear this from me, okay? If you ever bring it up, I’ll deny it. But on the day you got shot, Campbell sent me to look for you after your phone got stolen. He was a lunatic, just insisting that I had to find you. And then, a few minutes after I called in your location to Campbell, the shooter’s car came down the street and waited. Ten minutes later, you were on the ground.”
“What?”
“I’m not repeating it, and I’ll deny it if you tell anyone.”
“Do you know who it was that shot me?”
“All I saw was the guy’s car,” Peterson said. “Oh, and Campbell also used a young Latina operative on a skateboard who couldn’t have been more than twenty.”
“The girl who stole my purse!” Yolanda said.
“Probably,” the agent said. “I gotta go.”
“Thanks, Peterson.”
* * *
Jimmy canceled his classes and stayed at the hospital. By day two in the private room Yolanda began complaining that he needed to go home and take a shower. He only left briefly, when Marcus, Sharon, and several cops, including Rodriguez from Holloway and McConnell from Richmond, were all there at the same time.
“We can’t keep up this level of security,” Rodriguez explained later to Jimmy and Yolanda.
“This guy is trying to kill her. He’s probably just waiting to make a move,” Jimmy said. He was ragged and jumpy from lack of sleep and food.
“Yolanda’s not the only the only person to get shot in Holloway,” Rodriguez said.
“Yeah but probably the only one who got shot by an FBI agent,” Jimmy said.
“Look Jimmy, I’m a rookie cop,” Rodriguez explained. “I don’t make the decisions. I’m just giving you the heads-up so you can prepare. I think this afternoon might be the last shift of the police detail.”
“The FBI took her gun, and now HPD is gonna bail?” Jimmy was nearly yelling.
Yolanda put up a hand to stop him. “Okay, Rodriguez,” she said. “What the hell are we supposed to do?”
“I would recommend that you hire a private security company and get a surveillance camera.”
“That’s the best we can do?” Jimmy asked.
“A rent-a-cop and a camera is a pretty big deterrent,” Rodriguez said.
“And me,” Jimmy said. “I’m not leaving.”
“Sooner or later this guy is gonna make a move,” Yolanda said. “I’m not the president. I don’t have a whole Secret Service detail. We’re gonna have to learn to live with risk.”
“Fuck that!” Jimmy yelled. “We need to be able to protect you. I need to be able to protect you.”
“You’re a mess, Jimmy,” Yolanda said. “You can’t protect anyone. At this point, you’re so crazy and sleep deprived, I feel more at risk with you around.”
“You don’t mean that,” he said.
“She’s right,” Rodriguez said.
“You stay the fuck out of this,” Jimmy pointed a finger right in Rodriguez’s face.
“See what I mean?” Yolanda said. “You’re out of control.”
Rodriguez stood up. “I’m gonna leave you two alone for a minute. I’ll be right outside.”
Jimmy watched him exit and spoke the minute he closed the door. “My daddy taught me that a black man needs to protect his family,” Jimmy said. “I’m not gonna leave you here alone.”
“Are you saying I have to fucking break up with you to get you to go home and take care of yourself?” Yolanda asked.
“The last time I let you out of my sight you got shot.”
“Fine,” Yolanda said. “If you won’t leave, I will.” With a grimace of pain, she stood up from the bed.
“No, baby! You can’t do that. Your wound isn’t healed up.”
“One of us is leaving this room tonight,” Yolanda said. “It’s either you or me.”
“This is bullshit,” Jimmy said. But once they stationed the security guard outside her door, and the technicians had installed a camera inside, he left Yolanda and Rodriguez talking quietly.