The trouble began when I opened my front door one Tuesday afternoon to the incessant ringing of the doorbell. I’d been sitting in our … in my … in our living room, going through photo albums and allowing pain and self-pity to overwhelm me.
To make sense, this story requires me to back up a bit and explain that. My wife of over twelve years had died suddenly only ten days earlier, the result of being struck head-on by a drunk driver as she drove home from work. She died at the scene. I never got to say goodbye beyond our passing kiss and exchanges of “I love you” as we had rushed off to our jobs that morning. Never imagined they’d be our last. How could it be?
I’ve heard people discuss how the loss of a loved one devastated their lives, how their worlds had crashed down around them. Those expressions of grief never scratched the surface of what I was going through, how I felt. Friends and family tried to console me, but nothing helped. No matter what they said or did, they could not possibly understand what she and I had shared. Now, that void. Sorry. It’s just so painful even to think of her name, much less to say it. But my wife’s name was Connie. Connie. There, I mentioned it. Not again, please.
That Tuesday I was on personal time off–bereavement leave, they called it–from work. Odd word, “bereavement.” Webster defines it as a state of being “sad.” Sad. As if a single term could encapsulate the despair I was experiencing. How shallow, utterly understated the word seems now.
My personal time wasn’t over, and I had mixed emotions regarding our home. On the one hand, it was a forlorn place without her, and I wanted to run from it.
On the other hand, I held it dear because it was a house so full of the memories of her, of us. Every so often, I thought I heard her infectious laughter. I still pictures her parading from the kitchen to her spot on the end of the sofa. She’d be holding a large glob–what I jokingly called a “globe”–of peanut butter on the tip of a spoon (her favorite snack). Other times, I saw her, after her shower, shaking the water out of her hair with an exaggerated back-and-forth motion. As she did, I kept a beat and chanted an imaginary, indiscernible mantra in accompaniment, always cracking us up. Then, once in a while, I’d catch a whiff of her fragrance and swear she’d walked through the room a moment earlier. I imagined her rolling her adorable, dancing hazel eyes at some inane comment or horrible joke I had made.
I wanted to run, but didn’t want to lose those memories, the connection. After her death, I slept on the sofa when I was able to sleep, unable to bear going back to our bed. It was the place in which we’d held each other, shared passion, laughed and even, occasionally, cried for so many years. The sofa gave me that link when I’d lay my head on her perch at the end. But I avoided the suffocating pain that sleeping in our bed brought.
She was the funniest, smartest person I had ever known. We always found the humor in things. High or low, thick or thin, whatever we went through, we never failed to come out on the other side laughing. I never laughed as constantly in my entire life as I did in the thirteen years I knew her. One of my greatest joys was making her laugh, which, because of its infectious nature, often left me in stitches, too. She appreciated it as much as I did.
On her vanity mirror, she’d taped a quote from actress Joanne Woodward. “Sexiness wears thin after a while and beauty fades, but to be married to a man who makes you laugh every day, ah, now that is a treat.” It was an enormous part of what kept our relationship so strong. Someone once asked comedian George Burns what had made his marriage to Gracie Allen last thirty-eight years until her death. The question was posed considering so many other Hollywood marriages coming and going in a flash. They reported George to have replied that it was because “we make each other laugh.” So it was with us. I miss the laughter so much.
Earlier, I mentioned photo albums, which may seem an anachronism today, what with camcorders, CDs, zip drives, and such. But the books she put together were more than just photographs. She had a creative knack for combining a scrapbook and a photo album, which came alive with the memories of trips we’d made and things we’d done. Fortunately, we’d been able to travel a fair amount and live a full life together for the years we had. Oh, those few years.
We’d spent many hours reliving those trips and the hilarious things that had happened. Take the vacation we took to London years ago. Just before we left, I bought a small tripod which screwed into the bottom of our digital camera, which had a timer mechanism. That way, I figured, we’d put the camera in place, set the timing device, and get a picture including both of us. Well, the tripod had these flexible eight-inch-long legs. So, for a photograph from a boulder or a fence post, for example, it worked great. However, in a few circumstances, they were not so ideal. She teased me about my assumption that the whole thing was a workable idea. And the trip to the UK provided her with more ammunition for her gibes.
One time I was on my hands and knees outside Westminster Abbey, trying to set up a photograph of us standing in front of one of the magnificent doors. Then, I felt the ominous presence of another person behind me. Shifting my eyes, I looked at a pair of highly polished shoes. My eyes moved upward and took in the full, resplendent uniform of a bobby who asked me exactly what I was doing. Meanwhile, she stood in the distance, doubled over with laughter.
No arrest was forthcoming. And I got the photograph after a lengthy explanation to the police officer allayed his fears of something more menacing on my part. The same afternoon, I tried to take a picture of us sitting in low-slung canvas lawn chairs. We were in a beautiful park nearby, the name of which escapes me. I set the project in motion with the camera on the tripod on the ground. Setting the timer, I hustled back to the chair next to her. Just as it snapped the image, a pigeon stepped between the camera and us. The result was one of the nicest photographs you’d ever want to see of a bird’s behind, with the tops of our heads in the background. And she put the photograph in the album with an appropriate (in her zany opinion) editorial comment. She was a hoot.
Sorry for my digression. I simply cannot believe she’s gone. It hurts so much.
* * *
Allow me to go back to the demanding doorbell of that troubled Tuesday afternoon. I knew when the door chimes sounded it wasn’t friends or family. They’d long since stopped dropping by with attempts at consolation and comfort. Annoyed at anyone infringing on my solitude, I set the photo album on the coffee table. I unraveled myself from the light blanket which had covered me on the sofa and stomped to the door. The guy in a brown uniform, standing on the front steps, told me he had a package for me. He required me to sign for it.
Because I had placed no orders and wasn’t expecting anything, I threw my hands up in momentary confusion. The delivery man shifted from one foot to the other and looked indifferent as I stammered my uncertainty. Meanwhile, he tried his best to hand me the package while also shoving a computerized gizmo at me for my signature. Finally, I decided my wife must have purchased something before that day. My heart ached at the very thought of it. Too drained and heartbroken to fight anymore, I gave up, signed, and accepted the thing.
I returned to the sofa and looked at the sender’s address on the parcel, which was the size of a small appliance but without the weight. The street and number were local, but unfamiliar to me. So, supposing for the moment it was something someone had sent trying to cheer me up or was otherwise unimportant, I tossed the package onto a living-room chair. I’d deal with it when I was in a better frame of mind. Glancing at a clock, I decided it was time to shave, bathe, and get dressed in garb other than gym shorts and a t-shirt. No one could accuse me of rushing headlong into life.
Just as I was finishing my shower, I heard what sounded like a loud crash and yelling. The cacophonous chaos came to me from somewhere inside my house, though I didn’t understand what was being shouted. Stunned, I turned the water off and reached for my towel. As I did, two rather large individuals, outfitted in full SWAT gear, with assault rifles aimed and ready, burst into the bathroom. Each was trying to outshout the other as they told me they were the police and ordered me to the ground in the most unfriendly of terms.
Even fully dressed, I would have complied. In my current state of naked vulnerability, I quickly obliged, diving to the floor. I will say, here and now, that tile seemed unnecessarily cold at that moment. One guy knelt on my spine as he pulled my hands behind me and, with an impressive amount of vitality, placed a zip tie around my wrists. His weight on my back made breathing difficult, but I remained silent. I was too stunned to speak or do anything. My protests died in my throat. As he stood, I heard his companion call out the single word, “clear.”
I tried to raise my head to ask what the hell was happening. Before I could formulate a question that didn’t result in me being pounded, a third person stepped into the already-crowded bathroom. To my chagrin, I realized this latest arrival was a woman when she spoke to the two men. But for the moment, I was too overwhelmed to feel anything approaching modesty. The noise in other areas of the house subsided. The guy who had secured me grabbed my arm after a minute and stood me up. A sense of gratitude filled me as the woman’s intervention allowed me to salvage a bit of self-respect after the shock. Instead, he laid me on the floor and bore down on my back with his knees again, as if I could go anywhere.
The most recent arrival, wearing cross-trainers from what I saw from my prone position, knelt next to me and spoke to me in a businesslike voice. “Mr. Thomason, can you hear and understand me?” As I nodded in the affirmative, she continued, “I’m Special Agent Diehl with the DEA. You’re under arrest. I will explain more to you when you’ve dried off, have clothes on, and are more able to focus. But for the time being, I want to advise you of your rights.” Then she proceeded with the Miranda warnings everybody’s familiar with from television and the movies.
I acknowledged my understanding of my rights and agreed to speak with her. Hell, I had nothing left to hide by that time. Now, I’m certain there are those who will cringe at my mental process. It may horrify them that I didn’t demand an attorney immediately. But I didn’t understand what this was about and was too weary to argue vehemently at this point. Besides, I’d done nothing to bring this circumstance to my doorstep. When I informed her and sought clarification on the situation, the sole reply I received was increased pressure from the guy’s body on my sore back. As she departed, the woman made no comment other than to say we’d talk later.
Afterward, when I’d put on jeans and a shirt, I got a better look at Diehl. It was as two officers walked me out through my shattered front door to a waiting police car in full view of gawking neighbors. At least I assumed it was her in my front yard. She was wearing the same style and color of cross-trainers as the female who’d given me my Miranda rights in the bathroom. The woman was smaller than I might have imagined a narcotics cop, even a female, to be. Of course, next to a few of the SWAT team members, more than a few NFL linebackers might appear petite.
I didn’t focus on her. I just noticed her. She was wearing jeans, a ball cap emblazoned with the initials DEA, and a windbreaker with the same logo over what I guessed to be a tactical vest. With a semiautomatic handgun on her hip and a badge on her belt, she was going over some paperwork with a similarly attired, beetle-browed guy.
* * *
Less than an hour had passed since my arrest. With the “help” of a police officer, I was sitting in a chair at a heavy metal table in an interrogation room at a nearby federal facility. He’d looped my handcuffs through a substantial U-bolt attached to the table. Impressive precautions to take with a guy whose only brush with the law had been a speeding ticket back in his college days.
“Mr. Thomason, I’m Special Agent Matt Duvall. So, explain your drug setup.” The source of the statement was the fellow I had seen Diehl talking with in my yard. He burst into the room, speaking as he walked to the chair opposite me. Slumped on the table with my head resting on my arms, I felt I’d had the guts had been kicked out of me, psychologically. My mind was numb, and yet a tormented whirlwind. First her death, and now this misunderstanding, or whatever it was. The entire situation was too much for me.
The energy even to raise my head was just not in me. “Sit up, Thomason! We have to talk!” he demanded. “You need to answer a few questions!” As I turned my face, resting my chin on my arms, he continued impatiently. “I said sit up!” He raced around the table and jerked my chair hard before returning to the other one. “Now’s the time to do right by yourself and tell us about your entire operation. Agent Diehl gave you your Miranda rights, didn’t she?”
I sat back in the chair and looked at him for the first time. Duvall was of average height, had a slender build, and a ruddy complexion. His wide mouth seemed pooled by gravity at the bottom of his face. He appeared younger than Diehl. He, like the other officers, was wearing jeans, a pullover shirt, and running shoes. Based on the size of the two special agents I’d seen, I understood why they used a SWAT team to enter a building. “Yeah, she did. But I still don’t understand what this is about. What am I alleged to have done? Am I being charged with something?”
As I was asking Duvall for an explanation, Diehl came into the room. She remained standing and leaned against the wall just inside the door, with her arms folded across her chest. An almost imperceptible hint of disapproval crossed his face when she entered. Nearly indiscernible, but I saw it clearly. Despite the problem I was facing, it aroused my curiosity. This odd inquisitiveness was a habit born of spending time with my wife watching people.
When we sat in airport terminals on our journeys, we made a game of speculating about the relationship between individuals and couples. And we watched those in the waiting areas who didn’t seem married to one another, studying their faces and their mannerisms. Then, we’d make up storylines regarding them. Possibly they were attending nonsensical conferences we’d manufacture, were embezzlers fleeing the country, or maybe lovers escaping unhappy marriages, and so on. Or we projected fantasies and circumstances onto people traveling together. Some might be trying to rekindle a dying marriage. Or possibly he was unhappily leaving his mistress for a trip with the wife. Perhaps she was being separated from the pool boy for the sake of a vacation with him, and so forth. Many fun, exotic, and mysterious stories took root in our fertile imaginations. We tried to out-create each other and whispered our far-fetched thoughts concerning them to each other.
The game had spilled over to malls, movie theaters, restaurants, anywhere crowds gathered. We laughed and laughed at these silly games. She was so funny and so much fun to be with. We’d agreed never to grow old, regardless of our ages.
Recovering from my reverie, the circumstance of Duvall’s displeasure caused me to give Diehl a closer look. She had short blonde hair, a pretty face, and a nice figure, without the Kevlar vest and the other law-enforcement gear she’d been wearing earlier. My observation was mere curiosity regarding the dynamics between the two. Nothing more. But she caught me giving her the once-over and, as I was to learn, read it the wrong way.
Matt snorted with contempt, “Okay, I’ll play your stupid game, Thomason. You’re being charged with possession of a trafficking amount of methamphetamine. Or maybe you call it yaba. Or speed, crank, or cotton candy.”
His response stunned me! “You’re kidding me! I’ve never even so much as used a drug for what they euphemistically refer to as recreational purposes! When and where exactly did I possess this meth?” By this time, I was yelling in frustration and confusion.
The agent smiled calmly, which raised my ire further. “All right, we’ll continue the charade,” he conceded evenly. “You got the drugs, for you to put on the street, in the package you received from Noel Oldham and signed for this afternoon. It was in your home when we made entry, and it has your fingerprints on it.”
My mind scrambled for a couple of seconds, trying to recall if I’d ever met any Noel Oldham or even had come across the man at some point. The memory bank was empty. “I’m not familiar with anyone by that name,” I shrugged.
“Well, why did you accept the package?”
“I didn’t even want to take the thing. Ask the delivery guy. Besides, there was no name on the return label. It was just a location, I might add, that I didn’t recognize.”
“We don’t have to ask him anything; he was one of ours. And, yeah, the initial refusal was a nice head fake, Thomason. But not good enough. The sender’s address doesn’t matter anyway–it was bogus. Based on a tip, we’ve been tracking Oldham’s activities for a while. We were aware he was active in the drug trade, but just never figured out how he got the stuff to the streets. He wasn’t selling it himself. We knew it, but we were missing his connection to his street people.
“Now we caught a lucky break with your arrest. His fingerprints are on the package he sent you, too. And this time we’ll have enough evidence to destroy him and his operation, if you cooperate. I have Oldham saying you were working together in this little venture, and it wasn’t the first time. He’s told us the complete story. And he certainly knows you! He even has your business card with your home address scrawled on the reverse side. But the question remains the same: Why did you sign for it and accept it, if you weren’t expecting it?”
During this discourse, Diehl remained silent. When I glanced at her, she returned my stare briefly, then moved her eyes to the back of her partner’s head. “Well?” he demanded.
I was so beaten down by then, I had another momentary disconnect. “Well, what?” After a moment’s pause, I reconnected. “Look, I’m not sure how he got my card! I’m just a simple software engineer with a great job and–”
Duvall interrupted me with curt belligerence. “Oh, yeah, we know everything about you, Thomason! But–”
“Then you know I’ve never been in trouble with the law, and I’d never get involved in something such as this. Even if inclined to do it, my wife died two weeks ago, and my life is too much of a mess at the moment.”
My interrogator was tired of this discussion. His brow furrowed and voice grew louder as he leaned over the table. “‘Done nothing wrong,’ in my book, only means you’ve just not been caught until now! Nobody starts off with this amount of meth their first time out in the drug world! Oh, you’re in it up to your eyeballs, Thomason! As far as your wife’s death, well, boo-frigging-hoo! Don’t–”
With that, I lunged across the table with murder in my heart and tried to grab the little twerp. I’ll admit it; I wanted to rip him apart and damn the consequences! Now, the restraints they had me in made sense. An over-the-table scuffle ensued, as best I might manage under my circumstances, until Diehl’s screaming and struggling to put me in my seat ended it. She dragged me hard into the chair and held me there with a chokehold.
Earlier, I’d mentioned she was on the smallish side for what I figured a DEA officer would be. Please allow me to opine that she can handle herself or an enraged man without a problem. Diehl had me totally under her control, and because I thought she’d kill me, I quickly lost any desire to fight further. My priority became breathing. As he collected himself, Duvall bellowed he intended to add a charge of assaulting a federal officer to my pending offenses.
Before she released the pressure on my neck, Diehl screamed at her fellow agent across the table, “Calm down! Go out and get some fresh air!” As her protested, she stopped him. “I’m the lead here! I said to go cool off! Get a cup of coffee!” When he did not move at once, she followed with, “Now!” Her grip on me intensified as she dealt with her counterpart. I felt as if my eyes would pop out of their sockets.
When the door closed behind her cohort, she released her hold on me. After what seemed to be minutes, my eyes refocused enough so I could see clearly again, and I could breathe normally. By that time, Diehl had moved around to the chair previously occupied by Matt. She looked calm and collected, as if nothing unusual had occurred. Meanwhile, I was still mentally checking and inventorying my body parts for damage.
My interrogator folded her hands in front of her. In that businesslike voice she’d used in my bathroom, she asked, “Am I going to have any more trouble with you?”
As I bent to the table and rubbed my neck and shoulders with my manacled hands, I assured her, “I’m not here to give you a problem. My focus is on figuring out what the hell has happened. I want to know how I ended up in the middle of it and how I can get myself out of whatever it is! But Duvall had no reason to make his comment, and I’m not going–”
Diehl cut me off with an upheld hand. “Mr. Thomason, let me start by saying I’m sorry for your loss.” She exhaled, as if undertaking an unpleasant chore, before continuing, “I can only apologize for Duvall’s uncalled-for remark. I won’t pull any punches. His words were hurtful and unprofessional and would have been nasty in any setting, despite your circumstances. Unfortunately, I’ve learned in the brief time we’ve worked together that, although an excellent lawman, Agent Duvall can be misogynistic, indelicate, and crude. I’ll leave out the expletives of my opinion of him.” With that, she cast a mean smirk toward the large mirror on the side wall. Her unexpected facial expression confirmed my thought that it was, in fact, a two-way mirror.
Her tone and words settled me. I smiled at her misogynistic characterization, something I might have guessed based on the slight grimace he’d made when she walked in earlier. When she saw the smile, she expressed curiosity, but I blew it off. I didn’t need to pour gas on the fire, especially if it caught me in the middle of a dispute between the two of them.
“Yeah,” I began, “my fingerprints will be on the outside. I admit I handled it when I received it. That proves nothing. I wasn’t expecting it, and didn’t know what was in it. I assumed my wife ….” Overwhelmed by her memory and the circumstances I found myself in, I choked up as tears filled my eyes. Agent Diehl watched me closely. After a minute, I continued, “I figured my wife had ordered something before she died. My heart ached when the thought occurred to me, and I couldn’t bring myself to open it. That’s why you found it unopened. You located it intact, right?”
“Yes, we did. But it doesn’t necessarily mean a thing. It could be you’re so deep into this stuff you simply have a cavalier attitude. Oldham paints that picture.”
I interrupted her, asserting, “For the record, I’ll say again I don’t know the name Noel Oldham. That’s the truth! I’m certain I’ve met no one who goes by that name!”
She sighed and moved back in her chair. “Understand that this type of drug activity is a fairly common occurrence. That’s why we routinely walk a drug dog through the shipping service warehouses. Bo, our canine, alerted on your package and–”
“Not my package!”
Undaunted, she continued, “And when we get an alert, we do what we call a ‘controlled delivery’ to the recipient. That’s you in this case. The person receiving the contraband may be a middleman or might be the street-level distributor, which is what Oldham says you are … or were.”
“Wait a minute! You can’t convict me solely based on the uncorroborated testimony of a co-defendant, especially the scum-sucking, known drug dealer you say Oldham is! I’ve learned at least that much from those true-life crime shows we … I’ve watched!” I sat back, hurting at a memory but satisfied with my argument.
“What do you think the controlled delivery was, if not corroborating evidence? No, my case against you is pretty strong, Mr. Thomason.”
I shook my head vigorously. “No! Never happened! I’ve never so much as used narcotics recreationally!” I covered my face with my hands in frustration, which was building at the edge of exhaustion. Through my fingers, I asked, “Is there something in my background which leads you to believe I’m involved in illegal drugs?” I lowered my hands and pleaded, “Anything?”
“Not necessarily, but we find people in surprising professions, at higher income levels, who’ll risk everything for the quick, big bucks a drug deal can bring. Lawyers, doctors, politicians, CPAs. I’ve seen it all.” After a moment, she went on, “I want to believe you, but can you give me a single thing to help me?”
A ray of hope opened for me, and I smiled wearily. “By the way, thanks for letting me get dressed before dragging me down. It could–”
Pulling back suddenly, she became somber and slapped me hard with her next words. “Stop for a minute! I’m unsure of what what you’re thinking, but don’t get the wrong idea.” Her dark eyes shone colder and more piercing than before. “I’m not a naïve schoolgirl that you can sway with a dazzling smile and a pleasant face. My job is to stop the activity we’re charging you and Oldham with. This crap kills people, destroys lives. But I’m also looking for the truth. And if the truth sets you free, as they say, then so be it.
“So, don’t for one second mistake my consideration for the truth as something else. Sure, my heart aches for the loss you’ve suffered, but if you’re guilty, I’ll do everything in my power to put you away for the max! If you aren’t, I’ll work to find that, too. Do we understand each other?” By the time she’d finished her tirade, she was leaning across the table, almost in my face, and my smile had long since faded.
It was my turn to lean back. “Yes, ma’am. I understand, but you misinterpreted me and my thoughts. All I’m asking is that you give this a thorough investigation. I’ve done nothing wrong, and I don’t know Oldham. But how do I prove a negative?”
Matt returned as I was finishing. He positioned himself by the door where Diehl had stood earlier. Diehl turned toward him. Although I couldn’t see her face, my impression was that she shot a severe look in his direction. Duvall glanced at me with what I could only describe as subdued defiance, if there is such a thing. They made this woman of sterner stuff than her fellow officers.
Special Agent Diehl turned to me and leaned back across the table, her hands, with fingers interlaced, in front of her. In a quiet, determined voice, she cautioned, “Look. The choice is yours. You aren’t the big fish we’re after. If you expect that scumbag Oldham to come to your aid or protect you, you don’t understand the people you’re working with. Thomason, you’re on your own in this. You can help yourself by helping me get to Oldham’s suppliers and the other distributors in his organization. Or you can stonewall me and serve a long time in a federal pen. Your call.” Her hands moved up and down as she spoke, as if to emphasize her words.
Exasperated and exhausted, I replied, “You look. I can’t help you with Oldham or anything else in this matter. I know nothing about him. If I did, I’d tell you. How he knows me or where I live, I cannot explain. But I’m not part of any organization, except the company I work for. Period.” I couldn’t stop the tears forming in my eyes again. “I’m too caved in to fight you. My life is too much of a wreck right now. So do what you have to do. I give up.”
She sat and glared at me for a length of time. My mind was numb, but thoughts of uncertainty raced through it. I stared at the table’s surface, unable to meet Diehl’s eyes. After a while, she pushed back from the table and started to leave. As she opened the door, she told her colleague to come with her. When he hesitated, she stood firm, holding the door open, giving him that stern, unyielding glare I’d imagined before, until he went through it. But before he unfolded his arms and peeled himself from the wall, Duvall gave me a hideous smirk which spoke volumes to me.
Someone came in and removed me to a cell somewhere in the building. The rest of the day and night passed slowly as I tried to sort through the day’s events. Nothing made any sense. As much as I missed my wife, I was glad she didn’t have to see this mess. There would have been no laughter in this, nothing to find humor in here. Sleep evaded me.
* * *
Mid-morning the next day, they returned me to the interrogation room. In a little while, Diehl came in and took the chair opposite me. She didn’t speak right away. Her face showed a decided lack of sleep, as I’m certain mine did. But as I looked at her, I knew I was not in the mood for any more verbal jousting.
“I’m making the arrangements for your release.” To say I was confused and relieved amounted to a colossal understatement. Before I could speak, she continued. “Late last night or early this morning–I lost track of the time–, Oldham told me you have nothing to do with him or his operation. But I had to check a few things out to confirm what he’d divulged. Everything checks and you’re free to go as soon as we finish the paperwork.”
“Thank you! But how and why–”
“During a vigorous, shall we say, round of interrogation, I told him you’d taken and passed a polygraph with flying colors, and I believed you.”
“But–”
“When he felt cornered, he decided he wasn’t taking the fall alone. Like a lot of these pukes, they’re tough until it unravels on them. Then they can’t tell you enough. We’re not exactly dealing with omerta, the Mafia’s code of silence, here. First, Oldham confessed he met you at a job fair where you represented your company a while back. That’s how he had your business card.” I remembered the event, but still didn’t recall meeting anyone named Oldham that day.
As I opened my mouth to speak, Diehl held up her hand to stop me. Then, she elaborated further, “After he met you, he simply followed you home from work one afternoon to find out where you lived. It was his M.O., as we call it. Oldham admitted he received the drugs, divvied them up, and repackaged them. Then he sent the containers to folks like you he’d met. Folks who worked and wouldn’t be home during the day. He’d instruct his dealers to watch their houses and intercept the shipments. It kept him from having to deal directly with the street vendors.”
In grateful bewilderment, I asked her how Oldham’s people got their hands on a parcel like the delivery man gave to me or to someone else who was present.
“These cretins are handling thousands of dollars’ worth of drugs at a time. So, they think these things through. They pick people who won’t be home because of a job. But even if someone is there at the time of the drop-off, the driver normally simply sets the package on the front porch or by the garage door. Then he or she just drives away. Doesn’t even ring the doorbell most times. No problem for the dealers to swoop in and grab the package. People never miss an item they weren’t expecting. No one’s the wiser. You only signed for yours because we were doing a controlled delivery and had to have the evidence of your acceptance of the drugs. Otherwise, you’d’ve never known the difference.”
I sat back, completely drained. It was too much to absorb. But at least I was free from this hellish nightmare!
Diehl’s eyes and voice softened as she leaned toward me. “I’ll walk you out when you leave.” She had reached her hand to mine as it rested on the table, but quickly withdrew it as Duvall suddenly entered the room. On his face was a look of disappointment. Several reasons for it passed through my mind. I could only smile at him. He didn’t return the favor.
* * *
Later, as we walked to the entrance of the building, Diehl told me she was sorry for the entire episode. She said she was glad it had worked out as it had. At the door, she stopped and faced me. She handed me her business card, saying, “If you ever want to talk or to get together for a drink or a cup of coffee, call me. I wrote my cell number on the back. Believe it or not, I’m a sympathetic listener.” Her hand lingered on mine as I took the card. Then she smiled sweetly and strolled away.
As I watched her leave, many things crossed my mind. Outside the building’s entrance, I glanced at the granite structure which held a nightmare of memories for me. As I walked, I made a detour along the sidewalk to a nearby trash receptacle and dropped Diehl’s card in. I’d had enough of business cards for a while. ©