Purgatory's Gate

Chapter 3: WITSEC

When I wake up I'm much more cheerful than I thought I'd be. They don't bring me breakfast, instead Harris comes and checks me out neatly as collecting a library book. I get a black hoodie at least, and comfortable shoes. I'm still handcuffed. But I do get a choice of breakfast. It's obvious I'm a star guest.
"Wendy's or McDonalds?"
"Wendy's, I suppose? Do they have smoothies?" I ask "I'm on a keto diet actually—,"
"Sucks to be you we picked up McDonalds here eat a McMuffin and shut the mcfuck up," Harris loves me I guess.
I laugh and accept. For some reason I'm not cross. I'm not cross about anything. Even I'm surprised at how relaxed I am. We get down to questioning, intake, and interviews. I'm assigned lawyers, several in fact. Everyone wants a piece of me. I'm set up in a interrogation room in an FBI building and the fancy people cycle in and out. I answer their questions and lay across two seats.
I get lunch, a choice this time of burritos or burgers. I choose burritos and cold coke. Harris comes and walks me to the bathroom anytime I need it, and he brings me food. I have dinner there as well, this time Harris and Rivers both bring me Subway and let me pick a sandwich. I wind up eating with them, cracking jokes about nothing at all and pretty soon we're chatting about the new Dune movie coming out next fall. It's obvious the Marshalls are used to making polite small talk with their cases and I'm more than happy to oblige.
After a few more meetings I'm escorted back to my cell. The next couple of days go much the same. I'm given changes of prisoner clothes. the Marshalls bring me my meals and FBI and DEA pick me apart for hours on end. Taking testimony, filling in blanks, making sure they can understand my notation. They're still sorting through about fifteen years of video diaries. Half the time I'm answering questions already in the files and directing them where to find the pieces they need. I tried to organize it as best I could but even so.
Then there's the matter of my own crimes. Now my lawyers work to get me absolved of them since I'm confessing AND I'm giving them the information. But to do that they have to match up everything I've done. And again it's twenty years of records. Some of it admittedly isn't relevant, half-heard conversations from my childhood. Names of past girlfriends who might know something. Petty crimes I committed which the statute of limitations is up on. And on. And on. As I get older it gets more relevant but some of my father's bigger deals including buying out a senator, happened in my early teens. I had some information I stole, took photos of and saved, the like. And now they have to go through all of it.
It takes weeks.
I'm surviving on take out and a prison room. And I've never been happier. I bullshit with the Marshall's to take the edge off and do pushups in my cell till I'm exhausted enough to sleep. One day fades into the next. After three weeks the meetings are less urgent and it becomes waiting on paperwork. I'm left in my cell for hours at a time, so I request books. I get them. No laptop, no cellphone. My lawyer brings me a couple of sudoku books to be nice, as well as a some beat up paperbacks. I accept gratefully. I get little news of the progress but I can't concern myself with that I know. They'll arrest them. Or I'll be killed.
After six weeks a deal is reached.
I testify fully in every single trial for every one of my family members. And in return I am cleared of all my past crimes and I get WITSEC.
WITSEC.
The Witness Security Program, commonly known as Witness Protection Program, the baby of the US Marshall service. I get a new identity. A new name, a full history, and a fresh start. They're quite proud of the program it's the first of it's kind world wide and remarkably successful. Notable drop outs include Henry Hill, the Goodfellas guy. I'm not intending to drop out. I'm a lifer. Otherwise it'll be a very short life.
I'm moved from the prison to the WITSEC processing center. This part will take time as well. But this is more like a hotel than it is a prison. I still have to give testimony for various law enforcement agencies. They want to get as much out of me as they can while I'm still alive. But I'm not technically under arrest anymore. I'm not anything like a free man. Not yet. This is still a glorified prison but it's a bit more glorified, with quilts on the beds, stock photos on the walls, a carpeted floor, and actual bathroom.
"Is this going to work?" I ask, as Harris takes the cuffs off for the last time, in the WITSEC facility. I rub my wrists, looking around. It's clearly still a prison. A private bubble, other protected witnesses will be here with me but I'll never see them. It's secure, a stripped down hotel room of sorts.
"We've never lost a witness who's followed the rules," Harris says, coolly.
"I know you don't believe it. But I want to be someone else. A good man," I say, quietly.
"Doesn't matter what I believe," he shrugs, "Get settled. I'll see you in the morning."
"Okay," I nod.
I go and take a halfway decent shower. There's a room service of sorts, wardens come and take requests for supplies. So I get halfway decent shampoo, shaving cream, a better razor, and clothes. I write down my sizes. They come back with generic, Walmart button ups and jeans, and shoes. That's fine it's better than prison clothes. I also get room service, or rather they deliver brown bagged lunch and dinner, and lunch if I'm about. The lawyers get me a few more books. And more often than not I get a hot meal with the Marshalls. I also get to pick a few frozen and cold things for the mini fridge. All preselected and inexpensive but that plus a few bags of popcorn feel like a luxury. I have a microwave, and while I won't stoop to instant coffee I negotiate halfway decent grounds and a simple drip coffee strainer. That and a dry cereal are surprisingly enjoyable luxuries. After my somewhat spoiled existence with the mob I'm surprised to enjoy coffee out of a chipped mug, just listening to the rain and sitting crosslegged on the rough quilt.
WITSEC gets to work while the interviews get underway. I meet with the WITSEC coordinators. Before they can create my background, I have to pick a new name. Off a preconceived list, of course.
"No requests, no family names, no maiden names. We recommend you keep the same sound as your old first name, rhyming or first letter," the lady informs me, giving me a sheet.
"Yeah 'ezio' is hard to replicate," I say.
"And if you don't respond to it, it blows your cover," she says, briskly.
She has a point. The other issue is that I look vaguely Italian, yet having an Italian sounding name, I think would be a dead giveaway. I beg for a phone or a computer to google name meanings, but I'm denied. The Marshalls however take pity on me. Over dinner at the FBI headquarters they both wind up on baby name websites helping me.
"Ezio means eagle, that's cool," Rivers says.
"Yeah, I assume going with 'eagle' would be out," I say.
"What about Emory? It's here on the list, similar syllables," Harris says, looking at his phone.
"Yeah that wasn't popular in 1993, the year he was born," Rivers says, Rivers has become very invested in this.
"We need something halfway popular it can't stand out too much," I say.
"No but as they said if you don't respond to it doesn't do any good," Harris says, "Enzo is the logical choice."
"I'll handle it, you two start calling me the new name, I'll be fine I'd rather have to pay attention than be dead," I sigh.
In the end I pick Reynard as a first name. It's common enough to not stand out, and I can go by Rey which I don't mind. Middle name Enda. I like it because for one, it means 'like a bird' which is close to 'eagle'/Ezio. My mother did name me that. I mean I realize she'd want me alive but at least it's closer and sort of honors the name she gave me. That way I can claim I usually go by my middle name, Enda, if I slip up at responding to Reynard. An easy enough excuse.
The last name list is preconceived and mostly dull. I don't want stupid looking initials. We do deliberate on whether or not it should sound ethnic in some way since I've got medium tanned skin and look Italian, with thick black hair, and hazel eyes. In the end we decide, that it's not worth the risk of an Italian or even Spanish surname, especially since my mother could be Italian/Whatever and my father is Anglo. I pick the surname Weaver.
And so, Reynard Enda Weaver is born.
Born in a flurry of fake court documents. A new birth certificate, new social security number, new college transcripts. New everything. An entire life must be carefully and thoroughly fabricated. Smoke and mirrors.
Reynard Enda Weaver went to college at Ohio State, got a degree in business and minor in math. That covers up my finance degree nicely. Then a fake paper trail of jobs. First Reynard worked for a publish firm in Ohio, then did accounting for a small restaurant in New York. A clean little background, for a man now looking for a fresh start.
No siblings. No parents. No significant others.
"No family?" The woman asks, stamping some part of my file.
"No, that's ah, who I'm testifying against."
"Children?"
"No."
"Romantic partners?"
"No." The few relationships I had they didn't ever know my real name or who I was. I wasn't about to endanger them like that. I wonder when the FBI will find my Grindr accounts. I assume soon. That's going to be an awkward conversation for them.
The lack of relationships or anyone going into WITSEC with me makes my file sketchier though. In the end my parents are legally dead in a car accident. No siblings, and it's up to me to explain I'm single.
No credit cards, but a generic bank account is opened in my name. I don't get paid for any of this, but I get a monthly stipend which is enough to pay for a new phone. I won't get it yet, but I order the latest iPhone and a protective case through the WITSEC office. I forgo a computer but do request a refurbished tablet and keyboard, an older iPad which I can actually afford. I think they could have provided that considering they have three laptops and a tablet of mine. But no, apparently not. I'm quite accustomed to having spending money but all my accounts are frozen, as they're 'blood money' and 'illegally gotten'. I understand and I knew it would happen but it doesn't take away the sting. I'm still not being given any electronics. And starting with nothing burns when I've worked my whole life for this. But there's nothing to be done.
The next phase is fairly exciting. Tattoo cover up. The mafia tattoos can either be laser removed, or I can have them covered with another tattoo. WITSEC doesn't pay for either. I've been aware of my options for some time, and laser removal is expensive and doesn't always work. Lacking funds, and time, I'd rather cover them up and have done with it rather than extensive laser sessions. WITSEC has a tattoo artist they can call in but I have to pay. I roll my eyes a little but I know arguing will not do any good.
The tattoo artist is in a different facility, one I presume for undercover agents and the like who need things touched up? I don't know. It's a government building clearly. Harris drives me of course and has to stand by the door and watch. The artist is an older gentleman, I don't get to see his work or anything before I meet him. The phrase beggars can't be choosers comes to mind. He seems halfway decent so I go through with it. Not like I have a lot choice in the matter.
On my right hand, to cover up the cross, I have a black spider tattooed on my finger, then a couple others across my hand so the one won't be so glaringly obvious. I sketched out my requests in advance, which makes it go quicker. I have no photos lacking any access to the internet.
On my left hand the ace of clubs, then the gun on my forearm, are much more visible. My best bet for covering those and the eyes on my shoulder is a full sleeve, and partial back. I don't want it looking obviously like I covered up those exact tattoos. Because it's my money and the guy is doing a good job I just have him do a full sleeve on my left arm, that covers the back of my hand, my whole arm, and my shoulders. The full sleeve I picks is a vine of roses, covered in thorns. He leaves gaps so I can get it filled in more later. No extra color now, for sake of cost and time, just black outline and deep red for the cover up. He mostly is able to cover up the gun with the roses, which are thicker on my forearm. The eyes are easily wrapped into roses.
The last is my father's initials over my heart. The one I truly want gone. I want some reminder of my old name, and to be honest my chest isn't going to show enough for it to matter, so I have an eagle put over the initials, not big just a black sketch over that pec. That gets the job done, and Ezio to eagle isn't a strong enough connection, especially since I'm not just wandering around shirtless in public.
I also had an ankle tattoo of a moon on one ankle and a sun on the other which sounds stupid I admit now but I was seventeen and already had a mafia tattoo and I wasn't sober. It's again, not going to be seen. I have the moon touched up and phases of it added, then to cover the sun just a black band. It obscures it enough so it's not obviously the same tattoo. And it was only one I'd had a choice of for so long it was just something that felt like mine.
All this, namely the roses, takes four sessions of about five hours a session.
"Got your eagle," Harris is invested by the third session. Like, I think this has become entertaining for him.
"Got my eagle."
"What do roses mean?"
"I'm probably gay."
Harris laughs.
The tattoo artist does a good job I'll admit. I'll probably have the roses fully colored in later, if I survive. But for now I'm wrapped up in cling wrap and sore and ready to be done.
I have a few scars, namely a bullet wound to my gut and one to my shoulder, and obvious knife wounds. I may cover them up later, but at the moment if someone's stripping off my shirt they're probably going to know it's me by then. And it takes a special knowledge to know that the scars are less than normal.
Next is my hair. It was long enough to tie up behind my head. So I shave it all off and peroxide die it. I have a barber shave it, which is cheap, then peroxide it with peroxide requested from WITSEC.
WITSEC offers that I can have plastic surgery if I want it, though they recommend waiting till after the trials, which are in a few years in some cases. I don't really want plastic surgery if I can help it. I also have to pay for it though.
I do however opt to have my ears pierced. The tattoo shop doesn't do that but the beautician they have on style at the WITSEC place can. I don't think she's supposed to she just can. I never had it and it's one more thing that distances me from Ezio. We put in silver studs, for now. It doesn't hurt too badly, though I am disappointed that the studs are boring.
I talk to the beauticians who honestly know me by now and ask for make up and help applying it. Eyeliner also alters my appearance and after a few days I'm pretty good with black liquid eyeliner.
I get new clothes as well. Now that Reynard Weaver has an identity, I am allowed some less generic clothes. I get a small allowance for said clothing. I'm tempted to actually get a decent coat or something, but I don't know where I'm going at the moment. So I just wind up getting better shoes, boots to be specific, and a few packs of plain black t-shirts I can wear anywhere. I pick Doc Marten boots to make me taller. It's not a lot, but anything that alters my appearance is a bonus.
"Hot girl summer, Harris," I inform him, when he laughs the first time he sees me in eyeliner.
He laughs. He and the others aren't more comfortable around me but they're used to me. As a rule I'm compliant and polite. Other than asking them to google things for me, and generally that's mundane like my name or if you're supposed to wash new jeans inside out, I don't make any real requests. Apparently others are more demanding, Harris lets that slip at one point. If I get truly sick of the food then I'll ask for different take out, such as specifying pizza or tacos, but I never get to pick the restaurant, nor do I try. I do beg a few luxuries, like candy and the coffee out of them but that's all. Rivers winds up sympathizing with my taste in coffee and will bring me better grounds. My lawyers provide me with books, mostly Stephen King and Barnes and Noble classics, but I'm bored enough to read the Bible, which they also give me.
With a name chosen and background documents ordered, WITSEC then chooses where they're going to send me. I've been at the facility over two months when I get the word I finally have an exit date. I'm unusually lulled by the routine. I've never had a free day in my life anyway, and there's a haunting extent to which I was enjoying my incarceration. I do as I'm told, get fed, and I lie on the bed reading till I fall asleep. All terribly quiet and soothing. I'm in a compound. For the first time in my life I'm not looking over my shoulder.
Looking in the mirror I am slowly beginning to see Reynard and not Ezio. The different tattoos, hair, make up, and even more disturbingly a different resting facial expression. No longer set and cruel, my mask is gone and my face is almost eerily calm. I barely recognize myself. I'm a different person through and through. Every morning as I shave I study myself, committing this new face to memory, practicing an easy smile with no malice behind it. And for hours every night, I carefully read aloud from my books, slowly shedding my heavy Chicago accent. Midwest is fine but I know I need to strip it fully if I can. And I have the time.
My meeting with the placement counselor goes well. They all tell me their names, I'm sure not real ones. These guys are distressingly normal compared to the Marshalls. Overweight office workers who will go home tonight to a spouse and kids and dogs.
"Where do you want to go?" The man asks.
"I'm assuming you're not gonna send me wherever I say?" I ask.
"You would be correct."
"Look, I realize they operate in big cities so that's probably going to be a no. Is the military an option or anything? I can handle a gun and on a base I'm a little locked up. I'm fit and I'm healthy and it gives me somewhere to sleep and people to talk to," I say. I'm guessing military will be like a vacation compared to the mob. And I'm pretty good at following orders and again I've got no problem shooting people.
"No," the man says, "List here all the cities you've ever lived in or visited."
"Nobody said there was gonna be a quiz—kidding. Most of it's written down anyway," I sigh, when they glare at me.
Extensive is one word for it. I travelled heavily for my father's family, especially in my early years when I was less recognizable and could help with out of town hits. Once I hit seventeen and was pretty sure I was just gonna be gay, I started arranging at least yearly trips to go and be gay on the beach someplace. Harmless fun, pretending to be a college student among drunk college students. Henna ink covered the tattoos and I just gave a fake name. My father did eventually have me followed and found that out. But I didn't mind. So long as he thought I was hiding that from him, he wasn't close to guessing what I was truly hiding. Half of why I did it. Better to let him have a secret he could find out.
The man collects the list and says I'll be gotten back to. I highly doubt it'll be anything halfway decent. I've been to all the halfway decent places. In all seriousness I'm hoping it's just some boring suburb and in a few years I can move off the grid myself to Alaska or someplace no one will really know my name or bother to find me. Just disappear and figure out who I am someplace.
I'm not technically free, that's made clear. My charges are being waived for now, contingent on my continued compliance with the justice system for the next ten years after the trials end. First trials, then I have to serve as a material witness and expert on any case they may need to put in front of me, that's in lieu of community service or jail time. I'll take it. I don't fully expect to make it ten years and I also really don't care right now. My lawyers explain it cautiously that it's a good deal and I immediately accept. I know it is. Murder is murder, mob hits or not. I'm surprised they're not making me serve jail time. I'm guessing they know I'm more in danger in prison. Also, I've been very compliant so far.
Since I sign all that and am a good boy, I get a reward. My phone, unlocked with no SIM card. But I can access the free wifi. They say free like it's such a good deal and it's really not.
"Download apps, change the wall paper, set alarms. That needs to look like your phone," the IT guy hands it to me, along with a wifi password, and a Netflix password, and Disney plus password. "No social media. No forums. No dating apps. Consider yourself off the grid."
"Got it."
The internet proves to be locked down, so far as most anything like the news. That's all right. I download several books and fiddle with the wall papers till I pick one that looks less neutral. Then I just curl up on the bed watching all of Death Note all weekend. When that's over I watch baking shows. The mix of accents is mostly the draw but I also can't stand movies right now. I wind up signing in for free trials of Hulu and HBO to watch anime and animated movies, in lieu of sleeping. As my release date comes nearer I find myself getting more and more nervous.
And I finally get a release date, which means they've picked a place. Three weeks time and I'm on the road with Agent Harris. They've collected all the testimony they can and all pertinent arrests have been made. I'm to lay low until the trials. Because of the nature of the case, they expect me to be moved after the trails, this first move is temporary because they don't need me anymore. It's okay if I die.
"You think I'm gonna make it?" I ask Harris.
"We've never lost a witness who's followed the rules."
"You think I can't follow the rules?"
"We've never lost a witness who's followed the rules."
I have to take that.
Finally I get my last meeting with the relocation people.
"Purgatory's Gate, Washington? Have none of you people watched horror movies?" I ask, staring at the paper, "That sounds like I'm gonna die immediately."
"It's a ski town. Out in the mountains. You were complicated to place, Mr. Weaver."
"It lets you establish a legitimate employment history, while we await trial. Say you wanted a change of scene, work a temp or part time job. Then after the trials we move you, best case scenario," Harris explains.
"Okay," I nod. They have a point. And if it's in the mountains tourism industry, then maybe I can move to Alaska next, work on a crab boat or something. Maybe a wilderness tour guide? I admit I need to be far out away from the general population.
"Good, Washington State ID," the man lays my new driver's license down on the table, next to a crisp folder, "And your transcripts, birth certificate, and all your bank account information. You'll be given a stipend and six months to find a job."
"Do they have jobs out there?"
"Yes, Mr. Weaver. They do. You've got a month stay at a Motel 6 while you find suitable housing. Harris will remain with you till you're settled."
"I'm sure that's very exciting for him," I say, dryly, staring at the page. Purgatory's Gate. That really doesn't sound like a place I'm going to live through. "How are we getting here? I take it I'm still a flight risk. So, road trip?"
"Road trip."