(a novel in progress)
By Vincent McCaffrey
It was a sun bright morn on the ides of May when the FBI came and took my files away. Sounds better in rhyme than it was. I went too—though not in the same truck as the files. To be taken away, like a character in a Cold War novel is purposefully frightening. The purpose, of course, was to instill a proper fear and awe of this secular god of theirs, ‘The Government.’ But I’d been in fear of that particular entity since the day when I was sixteen and realized I had not paid my income tax–had no clue at the time, in fact, about how this act of subservience was done. I worked for myself then, reselling the books I found at yard sales and such, not so much different than I do today, but a friend of mine who had a job at Woolworth’s enlightened me to the awesome fact that this was how they had finally nabbed Al Capone, and there my dread began.
In this more recent event I was taken away by a ‘Special Agent’ named Clifford who had little to say and said all of it. “Are you Michael McGeraughty?” He already knew the answer there. “You are being taken in for questioning.” Where had I heard that before? “You are not under arrest.” Thus I had no right to a lawyer. “The warrant covers both your business and your home.” I told him the door there was locked. He said, “That’s been taken care of.” I was reassured. Continue Reading →