Worse in Fresno

71.

The first thing I learned about second-guessing is that it creates internal discord. The energy it takes to wonder what might have happened, given an alternative action, can be so intense that it all but guarantees spatiotemporal displacement, what is commonly known as distraction. We are in Donaldson’s Escalade heading south. I sit shotgun and Maria is napping in the roomy backseat. Donaldson has provided us with our new credentials, passports, drivers licenses, credit cards and official government IDs. We are state department ambassadors fresh from a high-level International cyber-security conference. He briefs us on the current situation at the small municipal airport and provides the tentative script for getting past security. He looks at me and says there is an electric razor in the glove box. As the spinning blades hack my face with an alarming buzz, I cannot help but consider why:

I told Dale the truth.

I allowed him to see the ‘new’ Violet Hayes. 

I trusted him to keep his end of the deal.

I overcompensated on the legal fix and financial incentive. 

I am shaken from my daydreaming hygiene by the sound of a siren. Quickly I shut off the razor and try to determine from what direction it moves. I see that Donaldson is doing likewise, alternating scans in his rear-view mirror and dead ahead. We are ten minutes from the air-strip but still within the outskirts of Bakersfield, stopped at a red light. The mystery of the siren is revealed as we pull to the right and allow a police vehicle to pass. I can see Donaldson take a deep breath and turn to ask Maria, now wide awake, if she is OK. 

“Why did you tell Dale about The Axis?” 

“Because I trust my instincts. Anything other than the truth in that situation would have created another lawyer of potential doubt and mistrust between us, and trust was, and remains, the only thing holding all this together. What possible story could I have invented in the spur of the moment and with a running clock, that he would have bought into as completely as he did the true story?” I ask with a rare combination of honesty and objectivity that somewhat surprises me. But I remember that she is now on our team, about to go undercover with a malicious group of disgruntled jackals intent on civil mayhem, and would certainly benefit from a crash-course on the psychology of successful criminal negotiation tactics, so anything that I can professorially relay to her during this critical eleventh-hour cram session could end up saving her life. So I continue, “Sometimes you need to give a little to get a lot. Dale had a gun on us and the motivation of a wind-fall reward. Sure we could have slugged or drugged him, but then we would have to deal with another messy detail. Of which we currently have plenty. So I chose the truth tactic, and gave a little. And so far it looks like we got what we needed in return.” 

“Speaking of returns,” Donaldson announces, “here we are, get in character and don’t anyone speak unless asked to.” He asks us for our passports and government IDs, puts them with his, powers down his window and greets the security guard with a cheery, “took a little longer than I expected, when did Bakersfield get so much traffic?” 

I can see a black and white fax transmission photocopy of Vi taped to the window of the guard shack. I consider why just she and not me as well. The guard looks at the documents, taking an especially close look at Maria’s, holding it next to the horrible fax copy and bending down to better see her in the Escalade. His phone rings. From the passenger seat I see Donaldson reach into his jacket and slide his Glock towards the car door just below the window as the guard talks on the phone. At last he slides the window and hands the docs back to Donaldson.

“It’s worse in Fresno, have a great day.”