The Meeting - #Fiction

THE MEETING
A RAY HOLDEN STORY

 
            I enter the office listed at the address printed on Agent Smith’s business card at 2 0’clock. He waits in the lobby and greets me with a warm smile, shaking my hand and patting my back in a familiar way. Escorting me into an interview room with a long rectangular table and three chairs, I sit across from him and wait. Sweat tickles my brow and I fight the urge to wipe it.
            “Is it hot in here or is it just me?” I say, attempting to laugh, but my voice fails me.
            “Oh, the AC unit isn’t working well. You know these downtown buildings, don’t you Ray?” He laughs, but the mirth doesn’t reach his eyes.
         Yes, Mr. Agent, I’m sure you’re quite well aware how much research into downtown Providence went into the operation at Kennedy Plaza, but I’ll be damned if I will volunteer it for you. I can’t hear John’s words in my mind and nod at him as if everyone knows such information.
             “Can I offer you coffee or tea? Water perhaps?”
             “Whiskey if you have it.”
             He places a file on the table between us and makes another warm smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”
           Opening the file, he lines the table in front of me with pictures. All of them are from the day two months ago. Photos of the burned wreckage that was a trolley car. Images of body bags, three, which he taps with an index finger for effect. The final picture, of her, he holds up for me to see.
              “She was pretty. A pity she…fell in with the wrong crowd.”
             I don’t respond or move. The door opens and a woman I believe to be the secretary places a glass in front of me.
             “Whiskey, neat.”
             I nod thanks and gulp the drink. “Another please.”
             “I have a few questions if you are ready.”
             “I can’t imagine you have anything new to ask that I haven’t been asked a dozen times. Do your worst.”
             He laughs and pulls an ashtray a drawer in the table. “A cigarette?”
             “I have my own.” Taking my pack from the pocket of my jeans, I light one and wait for the inquisition.
            Special Agent Smith places a cigarette in the ashtray, unlit, and crosses his hands together. “Was your wife having an affair with Ryan?”
            The breath leaves my chest as if I were punched. After dozens of interrogations, I didn’t think he could ask me a question I wasn’t prepared to answer.
              “Not to my knowledge.”
             “Because, I can’t think of any other reason why she might follow him into such…an operation. Without your knowledge and involvement of course.”
             “Of course.” The secretary enters with the whiskey bottle and leaves after placing it next to my glass. I take a drag and pour another drink.
             Agent Smith shuffles through the papers in the file and places a picture in front of me. It’s a black and white photo of Ryan and Rose holding hands at dinner. It’s a downtown Providence Italian restaurant I know quite well.
             “You knew nothing of this?” he asks, lighting the cigarette in the ashtray and waiting for me to respond.
           I take the photo in my hands and examine it. From what I can tell, it doesn’t appear to be fake or doctored. Not that I’m an expert, but I doubt the Agent needed to fabricate this evidence.
             “Rose…spent time with many other men.”
             “Yes, I’m aware.” He returns to hunting through the thick file. “Ah, I remember.”
            Opening the drawer in the table again, he puts a thick notebook on the table. I close my eyes and count in my mind trying to calm my nerves. He knows everything.
         “This is what Ryan said during the trial. From the transcript, ‘I wrote Dissident during my freshman year at Brown University.’”
              I can’t speak or breathe and wait for him to open the notebook.
            “That would mean Ryan wrote Dissident one year before the attack on Kennedy Plaza,” he says, flipping the cover open and turning the notebook so the words face me. “Can you read the words below the title for me please? Humor me.”
           The words indict me and I can’t move my eyes. I can recite every word without help from the manuscript because I wrote it. But I won’t say it. I’ll follow John’s advice. If this Agent wants to arrest me, I won’t help him put the nails in my coffin.
              “I’ve never seen that book in my life. It’s a forgery.”
            Agent Smith laughs and presses a button under the table. In moments, the secretary enters with two pieces of paper, each wrapped in plastic. “We had a handwriting analysis done. You are the author of Dissident, Ray. The question I have – why would your brother take credit? It’s not like you made the bomb or detonated it. The evidence shows you had no involvement in the attack at Kennedy Plaza.”
              Where is he going with all this?
              Sipping the whiskey, I wait for him to continue.
              “Where were you that day? Where were you the moment the bomb detonated?”
            A bell sounds and the Agent rises from the chair in a hurry. Taking leave from me, I hear a flurry of voices outside the room. I finish the drink and light another cigarette. Special Agent Smith enters the room again, but does not sit at the table.
              “You are free to go. Our interview shall continue another time.”
              “Excuse me? What happened? I will find out anyway, might as well give me your version of it.”
             “Your father’s lawyers. Don’t worry, a federal judge will sign off…” he pauses when I rise. “You will soon find out.”
             He plans to arrest me. John was right. Without wasting time on civilities, I leave and follow the hallway back to the parking garage. Riding the elevator with my eyes shut, I can’t get the image of that photograph out of my mind. Ryan and Rose.

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