| |
At 10:02pm Eastern Time, Dorothy’s jet landed at Pope Airfield, Fort Bragg, North Carolina. The aircraft door opened, the ladder folded down, and the hot, humid night air steamrolled in, along with an annoyed-looking FBI agent. He immediately told Dorothy she would be free to go home soon, after a brief discussion with him and another FBI agent.
Saunders and Doctor Hanson bowed their surprise and respect at Dorothy’s accurate prediction. They wanted to visit further with Dorothy, but the FBI agent asked them to stay in their seats. The jet had been ordered to return them to Durham immediately.
Dorothy’s, Saunders’s, and Hanson’s goodbyes were rushed, but rather more pleasant than their hellos had been. They promised to get together, probably in New York, as soon as practical.
Then the FBI agent drove Dorothy to the office the Army had loaned him. It was on the base a few miles away, not far from the Visiting Officers’ Housing where she had been intended to be imprisoned.
He didn’t speak during the drive except to tell her where they were going.
But he did grind his teeth. And he didn’t so much breath as fume, with an occasional snort like an angry jackass.
When they reached his office, he and a second agent relieved her of her Walmart bag and purse, then said, “It’s not enough that I’ve been jerked around, reassigned and, with no notice, sent to Fort Bragg, the place where sweat goes to die. It’s not enough that my wife and I have shouted at each other for the first time ever, and she wants me to quit the FBI. No, now it’s all called off and I get to go home to a fire-breathing wife in the middle of the night and patch things back together. No, that’s still not enough. That’s not nearly enough. Now your attorney has made the President angry. The President of these fuckin’ United States. Pissed off like the history books have never seen before ...
“But my orders come from the President and I will obey them.
“Your bags, electronics, money, credit cards, and ID are hereby impounded for inspection. They will be returned to you ... eventually. First the electronics will need to be examined. After the examination, the FBI will send you the proper forms to fill out, in triplicate, to request your property. You can expect to receive the forms in the mail within 90 days. Assuming all goes well. Then, assuming you fill out the forms correctly, and processing of the forms goes smoothly, and nothing is misplaced, within the following 90 days ... with luck ... the FBI will tell you where you can pick up your belongings. That might be anywhere in the country, depending on where your belongings will be sent to be examined. I’m told that Guam is a possibility.
“But for now, you are a civilian on this base without proper authorization. And the Commander in Chief has ordered you to get the hell off government property. Her exact words. So I’m turning you over to the local MPs to drive you to the front gate.”
At 10:29pm, the MPs dumped a fuming Dorothy at the front gate. The Visitor Control Center closed at 9pm. The buses stopped running then. She had no money for a taxi. Walking three miles along the highway to the nearest gas station was both illegal and ultimately pointless, because she had no money for a phone call.
If her frustration had been lightning, half of Fayetteville would have turned into smoldering briquettes.
For five minutes she silently gnashed her teeth, kicked the dirt, paced two steps back and forth, stomped, waved clenched fists at the night sky, stormed in a circle, and then went back to silently gnashing.
A lone MP stood next to the tollbooth-like guardhouse. She stomped over to him and silently, accusingly, stared at him. He was about 19, sparklingly clean cut in his crisp MP uniform. Politely and gently he said, “Ma’am, I’ve already called the Fayetteville police. They can help you. You can wait for them over at that bus stop.” He pointed to a shelter with a bench near the visitor center. When an MP points, they use the same motion as if they were saluting: quick, powerful, professional, and respectful. He pointed not with a mere finger, but with his entire hand and arm outstretched and rigid. When an MP points, there’s just no doubt about it.
Dorothy nodded and walked to the bench. She didn’t sit. She paced.
At 10:55pm, the police arrived, and Dorothy explained to them what happened. In the darkness she missed seeing the meaningful glances the officers exchanged. They listened politely, using their best training to keep this obviously deranged Walmart lady calm. They agreed to take her to their headquarters where she could make a phone call. Anything to keep her calm.
She got in the squad car and, at 11:20, they delivered her to a homeless shelter in downtown Fayetteville. The driver of the squad car explained, “This is best for you. It’s a much more pleasant and comfortable place than a jail cell, and it won’t go on your police record. Oh, and the food is a lot better.”
She thought, If I make a fuss and get arrested, they’ll let me call my lawyer. Then she sighed. But I’m tired. There’s a bed here. And whether I call now or tomorrow morning won’t make any difference. “Thank you, officers. I understand you’re doing your job as best you can.”
She checked into the homeless shelter. She found that no outside calls were allowed, and that the internet was always turned off at 10pm to help everyone sleep. She couldn’t even send an email. So she got a bed for the night in the ladies’ dormitory.
She lay in the bed for about half an hour, listening to the snoring of women large and small, while entertaining a few comforting thoughts involving flaying an FBI agent. And one truly delightful plan that would allow an ant colony to eat like kings. Then she fell asleep and slept surprisingly well.
The Colonel’s men located Dorothy about an hour after she went to sleep. They verified she was at the homeless shelter and decided to let her sleep. They left word for her with the receptionist. Then two men stayed in a car in the parking lot to keep an eye on the shelter while the rest went to a nearby hotel.