The next morning, we were back at the diner: Danny, Rick Gilmartin, and I.
Different waitress. Same place mats.
The agents were again wearing suits, the government kind, bought on sale from a place that was never not having a sale. We small-talked until after we ordered breakfast, at which point I was antsy enough that I moved us on to the business at hand.
“So how does this work exactly?” I asked.
Danny looked at Gilmartin, who reached down for his briefcase and produced roughly six stapled legal-size pages. He slid them across the table.
“AGREEMENT, made between Thomas Henry Jump (the ‘Informant’), whose address is”—and there was a blank where I, the itinerant actor, would have to figure out something to fill in—“and the Federal Bureau of Investigation (the ‘Employer’), whose offices are at 935 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, Washington, DC . . .”
And so on. I picked it up and skimmed, slowing down on the part that dealt with the money. It was “fifty thousand United States dollars” on going in, and “fifty thousand United States dollars” on getting out. It was even tax-free “per Attorney General’s directive in consultation with the Internal Revenue Service”—whatever that meant. Plus there was another “one hundred thousand United States dollars” if information I provided led to further indictments.
I looked up from the paper. Amanda and I had agreed that if anything seemed off about the agreement, I’d walk away. This was the first thing to give me pause.
“You guys need to be able to get an indictment before I get paid the bonus?” I said.
“That’s right,” Danny replied.
“What if I tell you where that cabin is, you get the documents, but you can’t get an indictment for some unforeseen reason? That hardly seems fair.”
“Oh, we’ll get the indictments,” Danny said. “We have a saying that you can indict a ham sandwich. If we find those documents, we’ll have more indictments than we’ll know what to do with. Plus, I’d argue the more open-ended wording is in your favor. Say you don’t get the location of the cabin or any documents but Dupree tells you something else we can use. Even if all he does is implicate his secretary—which, believe me, is not what we’re hoping for out of this operation—you still get the hundred g’s.”
“Yeah, but why can’t it say ‘arrest’? I shouldn’t lose out on my bonus because some prosecutor messes up.”
“Again, I’d tell you that’s not in your favor,” he said patiently. “We don’t always arrest someone. Sometimes they turn themselves in. Sometimes we indict them but never catch them, so there’s no arrest. The way we have it worded now is better for you, trust me.”
Trust me. Already I was hearing the echo of Amanda’s voice asking, Would you trust him with your life?
I returned my attention to the agreement. Paragraph after paragraph passed under my gaze. The final page was embossed with the FBI seal and signed “Jeff Ayers, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Who is Jeff Ayers?” I asked.
“He’s a deputy director,” Danny said.
“Why am I not just signing this with one of you guys?”
“Because we’re not high-enough level,” Gilmartin said. “Confidential informant agreements at this dollar amount need to be blessed by someone deputy-director level or higher. Chances are excellent you’ll never meet Jeff Ayers.”
“Don’t worry,” Danny assured me. “You’re not missing much.”
Gilmartin was again reaching into his briefcase.
“We also have these two,” he said, procuring a pair of documents, both of them thinner than the main agreement.
The first one read “Nondisclosure Agreement.” Its words were prickly, basically saying that if I revealed the nature of my work for the FBI, I would forfeit any payments due to me and would be liable for any damages that might arise out of my carelessness.
The next one read “Exoneration Agreement.”
“What’s this for?” I asked.
“This is probably the most important thing we’ll sign,” Danny said. “It’s your Get Out of Jail Free card.”
“I don’t understand. Why would I have to be exonerated when I didn’t actually do anything?”
“That’s not going to be exactly true for a little while,” Danny said, his voice modulating higher on “exactly.”
I felt my eyes narrow. My mouth had become some fractional amount drier.
“It is vitally important for the operation—for your safety, really—that we maintain the appearance that you really have committed a crime,” Gilmartin explained. “If anyone starts getting suspicious, you have to look legitimate. Your fellow inmates, including Dupree, will have access to their lawyers, and their lawyers have access to Westlaw, LexisNexis, things that allow them to look up cases. We have to lay down a paper trail that appears to be genuine.
“You will plead guilty to a federal crime, likely bank robbery, because that’s clearly under FBI jurisdiction. You’ll then be sentenced by a federal judge, just like anyone else. The assistant US Attorney we deal with will know the real story, but no one else will. For six months, you will technically be a convicted felon. You need this piece of paper that says we acknowledge you didn’t actually do what you were convicted of. That’s how you know we can get you out after six months.”
Which answered Amanda’s question about how I got into and out of prison. It was the FBI pulling strings, as I thought. They were just heavier strings than I anticipated. More like ropes.
Or chains.
“So no one at FCI Morgantown will know I’m not really a crook?” I asked.
“Not even the warden,” Danny confirmed. “We’ve had problems in the past where someone who works at the prison tells someone else on staff, who tells someone else, and the next thing you know . . . Well, I’m sure you’ve heard the phrase ‘snitches get stitches.’ It wouldn’t be quite that literal at a minimum-security facility, because everyone there is keeping their nose clean. But, believe me, even there, you do not want anyone knowing you’re with us. We have a liaison with the Bureau of Prisons who works with us, but he’s in Washington. Everyone on-site is what we call operationally dark. That’s why we give you that toll-free helpline number. In case you need to get out in a hurry, you know we have your back.”
Gilmartin amplified this: “As far as the bureau is concerned, if you’re working for us, you’re one of ours. We’ll treat you like we would treat any agent. We don’t hang our people out to dry.”
I nodded. Amanda was right. I really was putting my life in Danny Ruiz’s hands. I looked at him, sitting there in his FBI suit, with his FBI shield in his pocket. He had grown up a lot since the days of Danny Danger.
We both had, I guess.
“So talk to me about the timeline here. If I agree to all this, how soon can we get started?” I asked, thinking about Amanda’s pregnancy. I wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of being absent for a large portion of it, but I damn sure was not going to miss the big event at the end.
“Immediately,” Gilmartin said. “Once you sign the paperwork, we’ll take you to West Virginia, where we’ll introduce you to the assistant US Attorney we work with down there. He’ll get you in front of a magistrate, where you’ll plead guilty. We can ask for the sentencing to happen as quickly as possible, but we don’t have total control there, because we’re at the mercy of a federal judge’s calendar. Plus, the judge needs a presentencing report from the probation office, and those take a few weeks. In total, you’re looking at a month or two.”
“How soon after I go in front of the judge do I start serving my time?”
“Again, immediately,” Danny said. “Part of the deal you’ll strike with the US Attorneys Office is that you’ll be serving your time at FCI Morgantown. Those kinds of requests are not unusual in plea deals. Morgantown is close by, and we double-checked with the Bureau of Prisons: It has empty beds. You’d be processed in the same day you’re sentenced.”
Meaning the clock would start ticking when Amanda was, at most, two months pregnant. I’d be out in time, even if she ended up delivering a little early.
“What if I want a lawyer to look this over?” I asked.
“I’d encourage you to. But that would be at your own expense,” Gilmartin said. “My guess is you could probably find someone who would look at this for a thousand or two.”
Money I didn’t have. Not yet anyway.
“And when would I get paid?”
“As soon as you sign these documents, we’ll put the requisition in,” Gilmartin said. “We wouldn’t be able to get it today, because of the holiday. But usually they do twenty-four-hour turnaround. You’d probably have the money by Wednesday.”
So it was a catch-22. I couldn’t afford a lawyer until after I signed the agreement.
I’d simply have to serve as my own. I had signed numerous contracts during my years in the theater. This one wasn’t as dissimilar as you might think.
“Okay, you guys mind if I do some reading here?” I asked.
“Only if you don’t mind that we eat while you do it,” Danny said. “I’m starving.”
We fell silent as I tucked into both the pancakes and the documents in front of me. Now that I was no longer skimming, I saw they were relatively straightforward. I could leave at any time I wanted, though I would forfeit any monies not yet paid to me. In the event of emergency, I was to contact the agent assigned to me, but the FBI also had a toll-free helpline that was staffed at all times. After six months, the parties could extend the agreement until such time as the work was finished, but only by mutual consent.
Most of the verbiage was dedicated to the notion that if I got hurt or killed, it wasn’t their fault, and neither I nor my heirs or assignees could sue them.
I had gotten through the main agreement and was moving onto the exoneration agreement when Gilmartin excused himself and disappeared around the corner, toward the men’s room.
As soon as Gilmartin was out of earshot, Danny leaned in and said, “Hey.”
I looked up.
“Ask for more money,” he whispered.
“Really?” I whispered back.
It didn’t occur to me I could do that. This perhaps explains why I became an actor and not a business tycoon.
“Definitely. The asset seizure fund is like Monopoly money to my bosses. It’s easy come, easy go. But it’s real money to you, am I right?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said.
He continued talking fast and low. “There was an operation in Houston a few months back where the actor got paid one-fifty, plus a one-fifty bonus for indictments. And the targets weren’t nearly as high-level as the ones we’re gunning for here. When Rick comes back, tell him you want twice as much. He’ll push back, because he can’t increase the payout without approval from higher up. Just hold your ground. Worst thing that happens is our boss says no.”
“All right,” I said. Then I added, “Thanks.”
“Just looking out for you, Slugbomb. Now do me a favor and wait a little bit before you hit him with the request. If you do it right when he gets back from the bathroom, he’ll know it was my idea.”
“Got it.”
I went back to the documents. When Gilmartin returned, I kept reading, like nothing had happened. I waited until I finished the exoneration agreement and the nondisclosure agreement, and then I got myself in character.
No longer was I Tommy, the easygoing actor. I was now Mr. Jump, the shrewd negotiator. I gathered the papers, butted them together, and placed them in a neat pile in front of me.
Then I fixed Gilmartin with a steely look.
“Well, this all seems to be in order except for one thing,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“The money,” I said. “It’s not high enough to account for the risk I’m taking, going to prison for you guys. I want a hundred when I go in, a hundred after six months, and two hundred if you get any indictments.”
I snuck a glance at Danny, who remained impassive. Then I swung my gaze back to Gilmartin, who looked ruffled for the first time since I met him.
“You want the money doubled?” he said. “That’s outrageous.”
“It’s a big ask, Tommy,” Danny said, pretending to pile on.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “If you want me to sign something saying the FBI isn’t liable for my death or dismemberment, I want to be paid accordingly.”
Gilmartin had crossed his arms and was scowling at me.
“Well, I can’t . . . I can’t authorize that,” he said.
“Then why don’t you talk to the person who can?” I said.
Gilmartin grimaced. “I hate bothering our SAC on a holiday weekend. Can I at least tell him that you’re in if he says yes?”
“Why don’t we just see how the phone call goes,” I said.
Gilmartin’s grimace had turned into a full-on frown. “All right,” he said. “I’ll call him. Hang on.”
He slid out of the booth and walked outside. At the moment he disappeared from our view, Danny shot me a wink. Then we saw Gilmartin pacing near the Chevy Caprice, talking in an animated fashion.
The phone call lasted two or three minutes. Toward the end, Gilmartin seemed to be doing more listening than talking. Then he slipped back into the diner, calmer than before.
“Our SAC said he can’t double it, because if word got out that would create problems for him with some other operations,” Gilmartin said. “But he’s willing to meet you halfway. Seventy-five and seventy-five, plus one-fifty for indictments. However, he wants me to stress that this is the best he’s willing to do, and he says the offer expires at high noon today. He either wants you in, or he wants us to move on. This is now take-it-or-leave-it time. What’s it going to be? You in or not?”
I looked out the window, down the hill toward where my pregnant fiancée was right now starting to pack our meager belongings into boxes.
High noon. It was very spaghetti western of them. It meant there wasn’t time to get a lawyer, which I hadn’t really wanted to do anyway. I simply had to make a decision here.
If I said no, I didn’t know what we were going to do next. I could hope for Arkansas to come through. Amanda could hope to sell a painting or two. We’d be barely scraping by.
If I said yes, my six-month sacrifice would support our family for years to come.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m in.”