Gods of Mischief (37 page)

We finished lunch and headed into the parking lot, where I immediately reached for my smokes.

“There's something else we need to talk about,” said John as he fished for his car keys. “What do we do about WITSEC? If you want me to start the ball rolling with the marshals, now's the time.”

Since John had first mentioned the Witness Security Program, I'd spent plenty of time thinking and praying on it. And the more I did,
the more WITSEC appealed to me. I could start over again. My entire shameful past would be wiped out. In my next life no one would know the drug-dealin', multiple-felon, racist asshole I'd once been. I'd be the phoenix rising from the ashes of a man once known as George Rowe.

But the question was, with all the baggage I'd collected, would this bird even fly? I was way the fuck over the weight limit, man. And John Carr had his doubts as well. He wasn't sure I'd ever get off the ground.

“Look, George,” he was telling me. “We both know Jenna's a party girl. Your fiancée loves her drugs. I don't see her giving up that lifestyle, do you?”

Instead of answering the obvious, I lit a cigarette.

“And here's something else to think about,” he continued. “Even if Jenna is willing to go into the program with you—and that's a big if—there's no guarantee her little girl can go too.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because you're not her biological father. Whoever the father is would have to sign off. He'd have to give up all parental rights to Sierra.”

Billy? The asshole whose head I'd used for soccer practice?

Oh, shit.

“And you're just telling me this now?”

“Hey, I've never dealt with this kind of crazy situation before, okay? Everything's a lot more complicated. And to be honest, even if everything works out the way you'd like—Jenna's gung ho to go and Sierra's dad signs off—I can't promise the marshals will even take you. This is a family package now, and that's a lot more work and expense for the marshals. You're a hard sell, George, see what I'm saying?”

Yeah, I saw what he was saying. And it was a goddamn mess. There were just too many questions without answers. The easiest thing to tell John was . . .

“Fuck it. What have I got to lose? Let's go for it.”

Joe was in the
back bedroom, shuffling through Family Tree Service paperwork when I got back to the house. In a few weeks I'd be walking away from the business I'd built over fourteen years, and six employees would be headed for the unemployment line. More collateral damage . . . man, the body count was really piling up.

Me and Old Joe cracked a bottle and talked until Jenna came home. I started by telling him ATF was pulling the plug on 22 Green, which he was relieved to hear. Then I told him the rest: that I was applying for witness security but he couldn't come.

I saw the air go out of my friend like a pricked balloon.

“So what happens to me?”

“You can come with me when the takedown happens. We'll hang together until the marshals come for us. John says that could take months.”

“And what then?”

I squirmed a little, then said, “John promised he'd look out for you. He'll get you to a safe place.”

“Sure. He says that
now,
” said Joe ruefully.

My buddy was feeling down, and I hated to do it, but I had to kick him in the head one more time.

“Listen, man. I need you to look after Jenna for a bit. Nothing permanent, it just has to look that way until the takedown. If she won't leave with me, it'll be better for her if it looks like we broke up.”

He shook his head. “You're putting me in the middle, brother, and you know that's not a place I like to be.”

Old Joe was right, of course. But in the end the man did as I asked. Joe used to say all he ever wanted from life was a 1954 Ford F-100 pickup and a new set of teeth. I hope someday that boy gets everything he's asked for, because after all the shit I've put him through, he sure as hell deserves it.

Finding an excuse to
leave Jenna was just a matter of letting her nature take its course. I don't remember what the fight was about. I do remember throwing a trash bag full of clothes into the truck bed and heading for Shooter's house. I planned to lay low at my friend's place until the takedown—about a month out.

First night away my cell phone started blowing up with calls from Jenna. I didn't answer, letting voice mail pick up. The first went something like “You left me?! I'm delivering your baby next month, motherfucker!”

I didn't listen after that.

Swear to God, Jenna called me every damn day, several times a day, alternately begging and cursing at me to come home. When she realized she was getting nowhere, she had her daughter start leaving messages. That beautiful little girl had recently celebrated her fifth birthday.

“Come home, Daddy. I want you to come home.”

Man, it was gut wrenching.

Found out later that Jenna was strapping Sierra into her Dodge Caravan and driving around town looking for Daddy. She had a notion I might be at Shooter's place and would sit in the minivan for hours outside his house waiting for me to appear. She never did catch me, though.

And I wasn't the only one getting harassed. Jenna was so pissed off that she was running a scorched-earth campaign with the Vagos, calling their old ladies and sharing all the gossip about who was fucking who. Guess she figured if she couldn't have me in her life, neither could the Vagos. The situation got so out of hand that Big Roy pulled me aside after church one night and asked me to put a stop to it.

“Your girlfriend is making a fuckin' mess,” said Roy. “You've got to do something.”

“You handle it, man. I'm done with her.”

“Just go back to her, would you, please? The bitch is out of control.”

I couldn't, though. Not until the takedown.

Meanwhile Old Joe was miserable, getting an earful from Jenna day and night. He'd sneak out of the house just before sunrise and meet me on the corner, where I'd pick him up and drive him to work. In my experience, there was no man more straightforward and trustworthy than Old Joe, and he was having real problems with all the deceit—one of my former specialties. The guilt was chewing him up.

“How's she doing?” I asked one morning as he settled into the cab.

“Not good. She sits around the house crying all the time, George. And she doesn't eat.”

“If it helps, tell her I'll be coming home. I just need time.”

“She thinks you've gone back to Christie.”

Jenna's old man was calling me too. His daughter was burying him with distraught calls and making him crazy. I stayed in touch with Bill during my time away, occasionally dropping off money for rent, bills and groceries. I tried to reassure him the split was temporary—that I wouldn't abandon his daughter and Sierra.

“She's hard to live with, isn't she?” he said to me while flipping burgers one day on the backyard grill.

“I guess you'd know about that, Pops.”

“You know, I have to tell you, George. I didn't know what to make of you when we first met. Still don't. I never have understood this road you're taking with the Vagos. There's the tough guy George who rides around with bikers and acts like a gangster, and then there's this other person who cares about people and tries to help them out. I really don't get you, but I like you. Just wanted you to know that.”

Bill's little speech was heartfelt, and I decided to give him something back. It was the reason I'd asked for our meeting that afternoon.

“Listen. Some shit is gonna be coming down soon. I think you might be happy about it . . . but then again maybe not. Whatever happens, though, I just want you to know I've never done you any wrong . . . not intentionally.”

“When have you ever done me wrong?”

I paused a moment, then said, “I'm not who you think I am.”

I reached into the pocket of my Levi's and pulled out a folded piece of paper—the same paper John Carr had handed to me at his office almost three years before.

“If something happens to me, call this number. The man that answers can explain everything.”

Bill took the paper and glanced at the scribbled phone number.

“What's going on, George? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“I'm sorry, Pops. I know it sucks, but that's all I can tell you right now. Just don't share that number with anyone. It's only for you, okay? And only if something happens to me.”

Bill studied me a long moment, visibly concerned. He was trying to read between the lines but couldn't. I wouldn't allow it.

“Okay,” he finally said, and shoved the number into his pocket.

Jenna had her baby shower at Bill's place a few nights later. Billy's sister was there. So was Jenna's mom, her dad's new wife and several of the VOLs, including JB and Buckshot's old ladies.

Must have been a bittersweet experience for my fiancée, because when she got home she told Old Joe it was time for him to hit the road. To have him around was like “holding on to the past,” Jenna explained, and she couldn't live that way anymore. It was too hard. So my buddy showed up at Shooter's place that night looking for a place to crash. Shooter gave him the travel trailer parked at the side of his house—which was roomier, at least, than the fifteen-footer he'd once called home.

During the four weeks I remained separated from Jenna, I occasionally snuck back to the house on Espirit Circle to grab the things I planned on taking once the takedown happened. Usually I conducted those stealth operations when Jenna's minivan was gone, but a few times I tried going in during the early morning hours before she rolled out of bed.

And that's how I got caught.

I left the truck in the driveway and crept into the garage to root
through some tools, unaware little Sierra had seen my arrival and had run to tell Mommy I'd come home. All of a sudden the door from the kitchen swung open and there stood Jenna in her VOL stretch pajamas, belly pushed out like a python digesting a pig.

Baby Bear had awakened Momma. And Momma Bear was pissed.

“What are you doing here?” she growled at me.

“I'm not staying. Just came to get a few tools, that's all.”

“You're not leaving me again,” she warned, coming toward me with claws out. “You're gonna be here when your baby comes.”

“I'll be back for the baby, Jenna. But right now I'm taking these tools and I'm going.”

“No, you're not,” she said.

There was no talking to that woman once she got her back up. Especially at that hour of the morning. I could see where things were headed but couldn't stop it. Jenna threw a tantrum that would have made any five-year-old proud. Meanwhile, the actual five-year-old was trying to contain the situation, pleading, “Mommy, be quiet” and “Daddy didn't do anything.”

“It's okay, baby,” I told Sierra. “Daddy's leaving, but I'm coming back, okay? I promise.”

“You're not leaving me again, you piece of shit!” screamed Jenna.

I refused to play her game, especially with Sierra watching, so I reached for my truck keys on the workbench. Jenna got there first and snatched them away. When I asked for them back, she kicked me. When she tried again, I lifted my foot to block it, and she ended up flat on her ass.

Jenna immediately went to DEFCON 1. Nuclear war imminent.

“You're going to jail, motherfucker!” she exploded. The girl dusted herself off, disappeared into the house with my truck keys and called the cops.

When the Hemet police arrived minutes later, my fiancée waddled out to the driveway to meet them and demanded I be hauled away for assault. Now from across the street came cockeyed Pete in his jeans and
T-shirt. Pete was one of those neighbors who always seemed to know what was happening around the hood. You could fart and that dude could tell you what time it went off. We'd been friends since the day I'd saved him from a Vagos beat-down at an Italian restaurant in town. Iron Mike had resented the way Pete's lazy eye had been looking at him, so I'd been forced to step between them.

“You saw what he did to me, Pete!” Jenna railed. “You saw George hit me.”

“Didn't see it that way at all,” Pete told her. “Saw you hittin' and kickin' George, though.”

When Jenna realized I wasn't going to be dragged away in cuffs, her next move was to jump into my truck and lock the doors. While the cops knocked on the glass and politely asked her to step out, Jenna was frantically rifling through my glove compartment, the center console, under the seats and behind the visors. I don't know what the hell she was looking for, unless it was some evidence I was cheating on her . . . or maybe drugs the law could bust me for.

When the girl realized there was nothing to be found, she stopped tearing the cab apart and emerged from the truck. I think those cops might have hauled her off to the nut ward if she hadn't been so pregnant. Instead they returned my keys and told me to hit the road.

Glancing over my shoulder, the last thing I saw was Jenna standing in the driveway, barefoot and pregnant, still jawing at those poor cops.

T
he takedown had been pushed back twice—the complexities of the operation were just too enormous—but the ATF finally settled on a date, and John Carr shared it with me one week out: Thursday, March 9, 2006, at 6:00 a.m.

For me, the homestretch would prove the hardest. Now that I knew the end date, I just wanted the damn thing over with. I'd been effectively off the grid for a month now, walking the high wire without a net. There were no cover teams, no backup at all. Kevin Duffy, my old friend from the Riverside County Sheriff's Department, had asked for increased patrols around Shooter's place and the house on Espirit Circle. John Carr was calling every day to make sure I was still alive.