122 Rules (6 page)

“What’s that?” She eyed the gadget suspiciously.

“The latest in babysitting technology.” Crew Cut secured the device around her ankle. He pushed a button, and a small LED on its otherwise blank surface began to flash.

“It’s very stylish, but does it come in pink?”

He sighed again. “You’ve given me no choice. Also for your protection, you will no longer be allowed to be alone.”

“Oh yes, because I get so much of that now.”

“It’s been a long night. Please go to bed.” He stood and walked off without so much as a glance back in her direction. Granite gave her a slight shrug as if to say,
He’s the boss. What ya gonna do?
and headed out to the yard, presumably to keep the world safe from the terrorists or rogue chipmunks or something. Bad Facelift, who’d been standing in the corner sporting her usual scowl, came over, took Monica’s arm, and tried to lead her back to her room.

Monica yanked free. “I know the way.” And she stomped off.

She soon discovered the truth in Crew Cut’s promise. Someone watched her with a distrust she could taste every second of every day. Perhaps trying to run hadn’t been the smartest move. Could cooperation be the right answer after all? Living in harmony and all that?

The bathroom proved to be the only time she had relief from a chaperone. The little space became her sanctum sanctorum. She would soak in the tub for hours, each time taking her iPad with her. Monica journaled about the goings-on at the house and in the courtroom. She wrote about the night she’d almost gotten away and included a picture of her ankle, complete with the glamorous new electronic tether.

They didn’t allow her access to the outside world—no live TV, email, or Internet—and the movies they brought remained on a shelf, untouched. Instead, she read.

She’d always been too busy for casual reading but now found herself with barrels of free time and whizzed through two or three books a day. Every day she filled out a
Multimedia Requisition, Document #995.2, Rev. C,
which she turned in to Crew Cut. The first one she’d handed him, he’d examined with the same scrutiny a terrorist would use when reviewing the blueprints for a new bomb vest. He then pulled out a pencil and drew a line through several of the items.

“Hey.” She tried to grab the pencil from him. “What are you doing?”

He smacked her hand away and gave her a half-smile. “Media filtering.”

“That’s complete gibberish. It doesn’t mean a thing.”

“I don’t have to allow you to get anything. You can sit in your room and watch the paint peel for all I care. This is a privilege I can revoke without cause.” He stared, daring her to challenge him.

She wanted to punch him. Grab his arm and twist it around until the bones cracked and his shoulder dislocated. But she took a deep breath, shook her head, and walked away.

From then on, Monica padded the list, adding odd titles that would catch the FBI agent’s attention. And when Crew Cut crossed one or more of them off, she rolled her eyes and glared at him. He would smirk at her but pass on the order to be filled.

Since she couldn’t be at school, Monica requested the required books for each of her classes, including the Criminal Law class that had started the entire fiasco. She studied, taking notes and ordering supplemental material, as though preparing for finals.

She struggled to endure the constant, unbearable tension. If she hadn’t had her reading and her studies, she would have gone bonkers.

After over a year of her being sequestered, a Town Car pulled into the driveway, wheels crunching on gravel. The guards, as always, appeared tense, ready for the worst. As the car came to a stop, the rear door swung open. A gleaming, black-polished shoe touched the ground, then a figure in dark sunglasses stood. The guards had been right to be apprehensive; the worst thing imaginable had arrived.

Jon waltzed into the house, taking off his sunglasses as he did so. Arrogance cascaded off him in waves. “Hello, Monica. How have you been?”

“Just great,” she said, not bothering to hide her sarcasm. “I’ve been hanging out here with the fun squad waiting to get killed.”

“It hasn’t been that bad. This is one of our better safe houses,” he said, looking around.

“Oh, yeah, it’s splendid. Let me give you the grand tour. Here’s the kitchen; there’s the living room.” She looked around. “Yep, that’s about it.”

“Always the sassy one.”

“Always the smooth political puppet.” Monica glared at him. “Getting what you want, when you want. You’re good, but I’ve had time to think. You’re not the one pulling the strings. Crew Cut told me there’s nothing in the news about Laven’s potential trial. Why is everything under such tight wraps? Keeping the press away from a story about an infamous mob boss who may be standing trial for his crimes? Not an easy undertaking.”

“You’ve been here too long.” Jon patted her cheek. “You’re overthinking things. Our primary objective is to keep you safe. As a law student, you should already know that grand juries are almost always held in secret.”

“Well, maybe if someone hadn’t yanked me out of school before I got to that part in the curriculum, I would.”

He gave her his best placating smile. “Besides, if the press got word of what was going on, they’d be hunting for you and sniffing out every lead. Eventually someone would figure out who you were, then they’d turn over your life trying to get their two-minute sound bites for the six o’clock news. Keeping this out of the press makes it easier to protect you and your friends…er, friend. One friend. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is the jury is done. It’s time for the next step.”

Monica stared at him in disbelief. “It’s over?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“They delivered a true bill. With your testimony, there’s enough evidence for a trial. Laven’s been arrested. And since the judge determined he’s a flight risk, he’s been denied bail.”

She sighed. “So he’s in jail, and I can go back to my life.”

“Yes and no.”

Every nerve in her body went on full alert. “What do you mean ‘no’? The bastard’s in jail. That was the whole point. That’s why I had to leave school, my friends, and my life. He’s locked away now, so I’m safe.”

“Well, that’s the thing. See, yes, he’s in jail. But even from there, he will still be able to run his operation, just at a limited capacity. Before the trial was set and the witness list released, no one knew who you were. But now word is out, and you have a very large price tag on your back. And when we get a conviction, don’t think that goes away. The reward for your head will be there for as long as he breathes. I thought I explained this to you last year? If you go back to your old life, they will find you.”

A sinister wave of having been manipulated washed over her. Monica glared at him. If she could have struck him dead with her thoughts, he would have burst into flames.

“Come now. I bring good news. The trial’s about to begin. That should give you some relief.”

She snorted. “Relief? Really? You kinda failed to mention that I would need to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. It’s something that I would have remembered,
special
agent. In the end, you get what you want, but what do I get?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I get screwed. That’s what. Any chance at a normal life? Gone.”

“We’ve talked about this. You still get a life; it’s just not necessarily the one you planned. I came here to bring you in. As I said, it’s time for the next step.”

She waved her hand around. “What? What’s the next step?”

“Patience. Let’s go; we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

5

Jon’s driver took them back to the headquarters, or base, or whatever they called it—Monica still didn’t know and didn’t care. The black sedan remained sandwiched between two SUVs full of the security detail that had been assigned to her. Same garage, same steroid-laden guards at the gate, same door and dark, colorless hallway, but this time, he took her to a spacious conference room.

The chairs, crafted of deep leather, stood at the ready next to the dark-mahogany table, whose glossy surface shined in the soft lights. She sat at the head of the table while Jon fetched her a cup of coffee.

He came back with a paper cup. Monica took a sip and grimaced; the black sludge barely met the technical definition of coffee. It tasted like a mix of weak, used motor oil and garden mulch.

He sat down, placing a file in front of him. “Coffee okay?”

She narrowed her eyes at him as if to say,
really?

He chuckled. “Budget cuts. Okay, so first thing’s first. Your identity.” He opened the file and pulled out some documents. He handed her an Arizona driver’s license.

She squinted as studied it. “Susan Rosenberg? Really?”

Jon shrugged. “Yes, we thought you’d enjoy the parallelism.”

“She was a human rights activist.”

“But if you recall, before that, she was a murderer and a thief. We, the FBI, caught her, and she was sentenced to fifty-eight years in prison. Are you saying there’s a difference between the two of you?”

Monica saw no point in resuming that old argument, so she remained silent.

He slid other pieces of identification across the table, naming each. Social security card. Voter registration. Insurance. On and on, all the little things that make a person who they are in a modern, electronic society.

She interrupted his dry list. “So what do I do?”

“What do you mean?”

“For a
living?
”

“Paralegal.”

Monica sat up straight. “Um, no. I’m going to be a lawyer. I have plans. Other kids grew up like I did. I’m going to fight for them.”

He relaxed into the back of his chair. “No, I’m sorry, that’s not going to happen. You’re going to have to adjust those plans.”

“For how long?”

“At least until the trial is over. Then once we feel it is safe for you to do so, we can discuss it.” A trap loomed.

“How long will
that
be?”

“Like I said. Until we feel it’s safe.” He slid another piece of paper across the desk.

She glanced down at the paper, then back at the man who held her life in his hands. A white-hot flame of anger burned through her. They had done it, screwed her just as she always knew they would. “A certificate of paralegal studies from a backwater trade school in Arizona? What is this?”

Jon smiled a knowing grin. “We examined your life’s ambitions and determined that this was as close to it as we felt comfortable. We found you a job and a house. You start next week at a law firm in your new hometown. It’s not a huge, prestigious place like you were hoping for, but there isn’t anything we can do about that. Your new life is different than what you’d planned. Not worse, not better… Except, of course, unlike other kids right out of school, you’ll be starting with a job and a very healthy stipend. Oh, and you’ll have to fly out on ‘vacation’ every so often to testify at the trial.”

She stood and shouted in his face. “This is complete and utter bullshit! You promised me an education and a life. This is a certificate from a trade school.”

“As I recall, you’ve been studying while you were sequestered. And I am delivering a life to you as promised. Do I have the facts wrong? Haven’t we given to you what we said we would?”

So much anger flooded her veins that Monica couldn’t even formulate an argument. She lifted her leg and placed her foot on the desk, exposing her ankle and the monitor on it. “What about this?”

“We discussed it at great length. For your own protection, I’m afraid that will have to stay. If all seems to be well and you’re behaving yourself, then we’ll discuss removing it. You’re a witness in a high-profile case. It’s in the best interests of everyone involved to ensure your security…by any means necessary.”

Monica seethed. She wanted to explode with rage, but leaping across the desk and punching Jon in his stupid face would only give them a reason to lock her away and lose the key. Not that this seemed much different. She would play along…for now, because she didn’t have any choice. Wait them out and grab her chance. It would come. She knew it.

Monica smiled at Jon. “When do we leave?”

“There’s a private plane waiting to take you to Arizona.”

6

“Susan” stared at the pile of papers before her. The desk she’d been given at Bunder and Associates looked as though it had been ransacked. Lisa, her boss and the sole remaining owner, had been trying to make Susan organize the jumble since the new paralegal had arrived. But she had resisted, remaining adamant that order existed among the chaos. Each time Lisa had asked her for a document or slip of paper, Susan had extracted it with the ease of a magician pulling a bouquet of silk flowers from his sleeve, thus proving the filing system worked.

She had only allowed herself this one little rebellion, because
they
were watching and listening. This wasn’t paranoia. When she’d moved in to her new little bungalow, she had searched the house and found listening devices hidden in the lamps of the living room, in the picture frames of the hallway, under her bed, and in the bathroom. Another had been found, along with a tracking device similar to the one on her ankle, under the driver’s seat of her car. A search of her office turned up several bugs randomly spread out around the small workspace, including one under her desk.