INFORMANT (26 page)

Day One Hundred and Three

Morning

I am standing in Courtroom 34-A. The training bra of courtrooms. Brad Morris is beside me. He’s repeatedly reassured me that my arraignment hearing is just a formality, but I can’t help being nervous. So much depends on the outcome of the next few minutes.

The residing judge at is an attractive black woman named Patricia Ellis. Judge Ellis. The combination of her appearance and no-nonsense demeanor reminds me of Shari, my friend at the Karma Café. Except Shari is known to smile every now and then. I’ve yet to see that facial expression on Judge Ellis. She’s all business.

The deputy hands her my case file. She flips through it, then shifts her reading glasses to the tip of her nose and peers down at me. “It states here,” she says, indicating the file, “that you are fully prepared to cooperate with the DEA.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” I reply.

“In exchange for your testimony, the DEA is prepared to drop all charges against you.”

How kind of them. I grit my teeth and say nothing. Judge Ellis shuffles her paperwork. After a moment, she looks at Brad and continues, “Mr. Morris. You are requesting your client be released on her own recognizance.”

Brad gives an affirming nod. “My client poses no flight risk,” he says. “She is a native San Franciscan with no prior criminal record. She is a student in good standing at San Francisco State University and holds a part-time job in the city. She has cooperated fully with everything she has been asked to do. She has agreed to cooperate further. Ms. Porter has given her word she will testify—there is nothing further she can do.”

Prosecuting attorney Michael Wreaks opens his mouth to object, but Judge Ellis holds up her hand to silence him. This is her courtroom and she’s calling the shots.

“I’m inclined to agree with you, Mr. Morris,” she says. Then she looks at me and restates our deal. “You agree to give your full and complete testimony pertaining to the matter of California vs. Diaz?”

I nod. “Yes, Your Honor. I do.”

She thinks about this for a second. “In light of the complications inherent in this case, I’d like a written statement from you.”

I nod again. “Agreed. I can do that.”

“Very well.” She gives her gavel a sharp rap. “You are hereby released on your own recognizance. You are free to go. I look forward to receiving your testimony, Ms. Porter.”

Relief pours through me. Just like that, it’s over.

#

Brad Morris drives a sleek silver Jaguar convertible. It’s flashy as hell, totally unsuitable for the San Francisco climate and an attorney who wants to project a respectable image. It suits Brad perfectly.

He puts it in gear and heads away from the courthouse. “Where to?” he asks me.

“Macy’s. Union Square.”

He cocks one blond brow and slants a glance my way. “Ready to do a little celebratory shopping?”

“Something like that.”

He catches my smile, but doesn’t remark on it. He also doesn’t take me directly to Macy’s. Instead, we do a loop through the city, both of us silently drinking it all in. Twin Peaks, Pacific Heights, Russian Hill, the Castro. We tour Chinatown and Little Italy, zip around the cable cars on Powell Street, gawk at the freezing tourists stumbling through Ghiradelli Square. We take one last cruise through Haight Ashbury (I blow a kiss to the Karma Café) and amble through Golden Gate Park, driving past the bison paddock. We even meander down the insanely crooked Lombard Street. San Francisco. It’s all so beautiful it breaks my heart.

Finally we arrive at Union Square. Brad pulls into a No Parking zone and slips the Jag into park. He reaches into his glove compartment, retrieves a thick manila envelope, and passes it to me.

“Thanks, Professor.”

His gaze meets mine. He studies me for a moment in silence, and then flashes his trademark brilliant smile. “Happy trails.”

“You, too.”

Who would have guessed my sleazy legal ethics instructor would turn out to be a decent guy after all? What can I say? Life’s full of surprises.

I step out of the car and head directly into Macy’s. For a moment I’m caught off guard by the gaudy holiday decorations, the massive piles of consumer goods, the sheer number of people swarming the aisles. Then I quickly get my bearings. I stride past the cosmetics counters and dodge the perfume testers, heading to the men’s department. I don’t stop there, either. I head to the exit and step outside, onto O’Farrell Street.

I spot the dark green BMW wagon idling at the curb.

Beckett.

I open the passenger door and slip inside. Without a word, he drags me over the console and pulls me into his arms. His mouth meets mine, all hunger and relief and naked anticipation. My hands can’t stop touching him. He can’t stop touching me. I kiss him until I’m breathless, until he’s breathless, until I think the hand brake is going to pierce my chest. Or maybe that pressure is just my heart, so full it’s ready to explode.

After a few minutes, Beckett reluctantly pulls away and puts the car in drive. We both want more, but it’ll have to wait. It’s time to go.

  We’ve got a flight to catch.

Dear Judge Ellis,

As you’ve probably guessed by now, this will be my final communiqué.

Please don’t take it personally that I skipped town—particularly after you were kind enough to agree that I posed no flight risk and released me on my own recognizance.

As a condition of my forthcoming trial and sentencing, you required me to testify to my involvement in the events pertaining to the arrests of Miguel Diaz, Ricco Diaz, Sun Yee, and various other drug dealers here in the Bay Area.

I’ve done that in these pages, just like I promised I would. I’ve given every detail of my involvement, leading right up to the moment of my arrest and subsequent jailing. All the legal maneuvering and plea deals that followed (courtesy of my high-powered and media loving attorney, Brad Morris) are a matter of public record. I think you’ll agree that I’ve held nothing back.

So I’ve kept that promise, but I’ve broken another. I won’t be there to verbally testify in court. I can’t. Even the most naïve among us will agree that would be a death sentence. Not that that would matter to anyone else.

Here’s a fundamental truth, albeit one that took me months to learn: the DEA was never on my side. Beckett wasn’t the only one who lured me into this mess. Everyone at the DEA knew that Ricco was taking over his father’s west coast operation. Sarah, with her perky ponytail and sunny smile, knew. The straight-shooter Agent Reardon knew. The creepy tech guy who miked me knew.

Everyone
at the DEA knew they were taking a nineteen-year-old college student and using her as bait to trap a drug lord. A girl with no money, no connections, no future. I was supposed to be disposable. Thrown away after everything was done. I don’t think that particular fact was going to come out at my trial, was it? It probably wouldn’t look very good for you, or the San Francisco PD, or the DEA.

Far easier for you to just lock me up and silence me forever. Or worse, put me on the stand against The Corporation. I’d be dead for sure.

I’m not going to let that happen.

It was your idea for me to write down my involvement in this situation. I’ve done that—but I’m taking it one step further. I’m going public with my story. In the tradition of Linda Tripp, Edward Snowden, and whistle-blowers everywhere, I’m posting every word of this online. I’ve put my testimony into this book, down-loadable to anyone who wants to read it. Let the public judge who was really at fault here. Maybe I’m not the only one who needs to answer for her actions. Maybe Reardon and everyone at the DEA need to feel a little heat, too. 

Not that the program is all bad. As long as there have been crooks and cops, there have been informants. People like me. Even FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover instructed his agents to “develop qualified, live sources within the upper echelon of the organized hoodlum element who will be capable of furnishing quality information.”

I like Hoover’s wording.
The organized hoodlum element.
I think Ricco would find that amusing, too. The Ricco I first met, that is—the Ricco who flirted with me in chem lab. The Ricco with dark, soulful eyes, sexy accent, and quick smile. I never really knew him—if he existed at all. Maybe that’s fair. He never really knew me, either. I guess neither of us was ever who we pretended to be.

Moving on. Time to clear up a few details. Was my arrest real? Yes. And no. Of course Brad Morris didn’t screw up the Immunity Agreement he wrote for me and Ronnie. The mistake was deliberate. Anyone but the most obtuse idiot (Agent Reardon, are you reading this?) knows that the one thing Morris is good at is striking up immunity deals for his clients.

The mistake was Beckett’s idea. We’d already gotten my mom, Jess, and Dally out of town.  He wanted me safely locked up after the takedown at Pier 96. Literally
locked away,
so that nobody could touch me until he could arrange to get me and everyone else I love out of the country. Someplace totally secure until we were ready to leave town. Beckett refused to budge on that point. That’s how crazy worried he was.

Let’s see. What else… Oh, the half million the DEA paid me at the end? Gone. Spent on establishing new identities and buying fake passports. I figure that was only fair. The DEA got me into this mess, they could certainly fork over the cash to get me out of it. I’m not running away from my obligation, by the way. Beckett assures me the arrest was good. They’ve got enough evidence on Miguel, Ricco, and the rest of the Cuban crew to put them all away for a very long time. Hauling Sun Yee in with the same net was just dumb luck. Bottom line, they don’t need me anymore.

And Ronnie? Of course he stole Sun Yee’s money. You don’t give a guy like Ronnie Hoyt half a million in cash and expect him not to take it. He’s gone, too. Left San Francisco for good. He, Jess, Dally, and my mom only live an hour or so away from us. He’s got a new name and a new job. He swears he’s going straight. (I hope that’s true, but I’m not holding my breath.) Good news: Jess is expecting again. She’s thrilled. If it’s a girl, she wants to name her Emma.

I’m back in school now. I’m no longer interested in forensic science, however. I’ve had enough of dealing with cops and crimes. Also, I’ve decided I’d like to help people while they’re still alive, so I think something in the nursing field is a better bet.

By the way, it turns out Beckett is actually a genius when it comes to financial investing. He’s got a crazy gift for making money. We’re together, living comfortably. Taking things day by day.

This brings me to your final question—I think I can guess what it is. Where am I? Sorry, but that’s the one question I refuse to answer, thank you very much.

I’ve got a new name now. A new life. I miss my city by the bay, but I’m starting over. People can read my story and balance it against whatever half-truths and lies the DEA chooses to feed to the press. Hopefully this whole ugly episode will get Brad Morris interviewed on the Today Show and CNN. He’d love that.

Wait—I hear Beckett calling me. He’s been waiting patiently, but now he’s ready to go for a swim. Hey. There’s a clue, Your Honor. A freebie to help narrow it down. If you or Reardon decide you do want to chase us, look for someplace in the world with a pool, a beach, a lake, a river, or an ocean. That’s where Beckett and I will be.

Happy hunting.

It’s time for me to go, so I’ll end like this:

My name was Kylie Porter. During my freshman semester at SFSU, I was a paid informant for the DEA. Every word I’ve written here is true. This is the end of my testimony.

Thank you for reading Kylie and Beckett’s story. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. As many of you may have guessed, I’ve lived in San Francisco for several years. It’s one of my favorite places in the world.

By day, Ava Archer Payne is a wife, mother, and author. By night, she writes smart, sexy, sizzling romance novels. She doesn’t do a lot of online marketing (when she’s in front of her computer, she’s always
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WANNA PLAY?

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INFORMANT

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OUT OF HER LEAGUE

THE WEDDING BED

WICKED GAMES

HERS AT MIDNIGHT

Historical Romances Written as Victoria Lynne

WITH THIS KISS

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CHASING RAINBOWS

WHAT WILD MOONLIGHT

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