Page 41 of Safe Enough

“Why was there a gun in the bathroom? The Special Branch guy was with us the whole time. You didn’t call ahead for it. You had no opportunity. But it was there for you anyway. Why?”

I didn’t answer.

He said, “It was there for me. The Special Branch guy was happenstance. Me, you were planning to shoot all along.”

I said, “Kid, our boss sold live nuclear weapons. I’m cleaning up for him. What else do you expect?”

Carter said, “He trusts me.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“I would never rat him out. He’s my hero.”

“Gerald McCann should be your hero. He had the sense not to use the damn thing. I’m sure he was sorely tempted.”

Carter didn’t answer that. Getting rid of him was difficult, all on my own, but the next hours were peaceful, just me and the pilot, flying high and fast toward a spectacular sunset. I dropped my seat way back, and I stretched out. Relaxation is important. Life is short and uncertain, and it pays to make the best of whatever comes your way.

THE TRUTH ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED

I came out of my deposition feeling pretty good about it. My answers were brief and concise. My control was good. I said nothing I shouldn’t have said. I used an old trick someone taught me long ago, which was to count to three in my head before replying to a question. Name? One, two, three, Albert Anthony Jackson. The trick mitigates against hasty and unwise responses. Because it gives you time to think. It drives them crazy, but there’s nothing they can do about it. The oath doesn’t say “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, all within three seconds of opposing counsel shutting his yap.” Try it. One day it will save your ass. Because unwise responses are tempting at times. As in my case that morning. The committee chairman had a clear agenda. The very first substantive question out of his mouth was, “Why aren’t you in the armed services?” As if I was a coward, or a moral degenerate of some kind. To take my credibility away, I supposed, if necessary, if the deposition ever came to light.

“I have a wooden leg,” I said.

Which was true. Not from Pearl Harbor or anything. Not that I discourage the assumption. Truthfully I was run over by a Model T Ford in the state of Mississippi. A narrow wooden wheel, a hard tire, a splintered shin, a rural doctor miles from anywhere. He took the easy way out by taking the leg off below the knee. No big deal. Except the army didn’t want me. Or the navy. But they wanted everyone else. Which meant by the summer of 1942 the FBI was hurting for recruits. The leg didn’t worry them. Maple, like a baseball bat. Not that they asked. They gave me training and then a badge and a gun, and then they sent me out in the world.

So a year later I was armed, at least, if not in the service. But even then the guy gave no ground. He said, “I’m sorry to hear about your misfortune,” disapprovingly, accusingly, as if I had been careless, or long premeditated a plan to avoid the draft. But after that we got along fine. He stuck mainly to procedural questions about the investigation, and one, two, three. I answered them all, and I was out of the room by a quarter to twelve. Feeling pretty good, as I said, until Vanderbilt grabbed me in the corridor and told me I had to go do another one.

“Another what?” I said.

“Deposition.” he said. “Although not really. No oath. No bullshit. Strictly off the record, for our own files.”

I said. “Do we really want our files to be different than their files?”

“The decision has been made,” Vanderbilt said. “They want the truth to be recorded somewhere.”

He took me to a different room, where we waited for twenty minutes, and then a stenographer came in, ready to take notes. She was an ample, hard-bodied thing. Maybe thirty. Brassy blonde hair. I figured she would look good in a bathing suit. She didn’t want to talk. Then Slaughter came in. Vanderbilt’s boss. He claimed to be related to Enos Slaughter of the St. Louis Cardinals, but no one believed him.

We all sat down, and Slaughter waited until the hardbody had her pencil poised and then he said, “OK, tell us the story.”

I said. “All of it?”

“For our own internal purposes.”

“It was Mr. Hopper’s idea,” I said.

Always better to get the blame in early.

“This is not a witch hunt,” Slaughter said. “Start at the beginning. Your name. For posterity.”

One, two, three.

“Albert Anthony Jackson,” I said.

“Position?”

“I’m an FBI special agent temporarily detached for the duration.”

“To where?”

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