State of the Union

… Ed Johnson waited for him just outside the doorway. He grunted, shot a glance to a camera mounted near the ceiling, and then silently led Wolfe down the hall to a smaller meeting room. After the door closed, Johnson’s eyes again darted to the ceiling in the corner of the room—another camera. Johnson’s voice was uncharacteristically stiff and formal. “Musashi informs me that he has all the briefing folders. Is that correct?” “Yes, it would appear so…” replied Wolfe. Johnson nodded and said, “This conversation is being recorded and may be used as evidence if deemed relative in any future legal proceedings. Effective immediately, you are suspended from all duties and of all authority as an Assistant Director or a Special Agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This suspension remains in effect pending a possible review and final disposition by the Office of Professional Responsibility. You are ordered to surrender your service pistol and credentials to me at this time.” Johnson stood silently, waiting for a response. Wolfe didn’t react. The two former friends stared at each other. Finally, Wolfe realized that Johnson was actually waiting for him to surrender his pistol and credentials before anything more was said or done. Slowly, Wolfe drew the pistol from his shoulder holster, removed the magazine, and ejected the round from the chamber. He gently laid the unloaded weapon on the table. Next, he removed his gold shield and ID card, placing them next to the pistol. I can’t believe this is happening. Ed was one of my closest friends. Johnson sighed, as if he were relieved, and then said, “I am instructed to tell you that you are not to return to your office or attempt to communicate with any Bureau employees, in any fashion, until the review is concluded. Do you understand what I am saying?” Thomas Wolfe nodded. Johnson said, “Please give a verbal response.” “Yes, I understand what you are telling me, but I don’t understand why this is happening? What’s going on, Ed?” “I am not authorized to discuss the details of this action with you, but I recommend you obtain the services of an attorney, because further action is being considered. I have been instructed to escort you off federal property.” “Instructed . . . by who?” “I’m not authorized to disclose that information. Please follow me.” Johnson collected Wolfe’s credentials and weapon, slipped them into his pockets, and walked out ahead. Wolfe quietly followed his former boss down the long corridor to the elevators. Johnson pushed the down button. Again, Johnson’s eyes darted to a camera near the ceiling then back to the elevator doors. They waited in silence. The doors opened. There were two federal employees inside the elevator, so the trip to the ground floor was also made silently. The doors opened and Johnson quickly set course to the 10th street exit without checking to see if Wolfe was following. Johnson stopped outside on a covered stone portico, raised above the street and enclosed with square-cornered pillars clustered at four foot intervals around its entire circumference. Johnson waited for Wolfe, who had been lagging behind. The two men paused at the top of the two-tiered concrete stairs that emptied onto the sidewalk and street below. An icy cold wind raced between the buildings. The bitter cold cut through Wolfe’s sport jacket, causing him to shiver. He closed his lapels over his chest to block the wind, but it didn’t help. Two very large men, wearing long black winter coats, emerged from inside the building and stopped directly behind Thomas Wolfe. Three more men, dressed identically, jogged up the stairs; taking them two at a time. The first two split at the top of the stairs, taking up positions to each side of Wolfe. The last man up the stairs stopped directly in front and pulled back his coat to reveal a US Marshal’s Star mounted on his belt. Next to the star was a holstered Glock pistol. On the street below were two Black SUVs, strobe lights flashing red and blue, parked under the NO STOPPING AT ANY TIME sign. Next to the SUVs were two more clones, also in long black coats. That made a total of seven U.S. Marshals. Johnson had moved away from the formation and stood against one of the square-cornered concrete pillars that enclosed the large portico. “Put your hands behind your head, fingers interlaced!” commanded the lead marshal. “Am I under arrest?” asked Tom Wolfe. His hands still hung loosely at his side. “Thomas Wolfe, you are under arrest for suspicion of murder, espionage, acts of terrorism, and sedition. Turn around and place your hands on the back of your head.” Ed Johnson led me to this exit and delivered me to these marshals.