The Witch: “You're saying you never tried to deceive us, not even once.”

I shook my head no, confident there was no way they could have already found out about Atlantic City. After all, it had just happened last night. Okay— twonights ago, I thought. But, either way, I had always been truthful besides that… unless— Dave Beall! The note!No! It couldn't be! Not in a million years! I pushed the thought out of my mind. Don't jump to conclusions. He would never rat me out. No upside for him. And I had protected him. Saved him. Alerted him. Alert! Alert!

“Is there something you wanna tell us?” said OCD, crossing his arms beneath his chest.

“No!” I replied forcefully. Then, not as forceful: “I mean, of course not. I just wasn't sure what you wanted me to say about… uh, honesty.” I looked at my captors one by one, my eyes settling on the Bastard. “And then, uh, truthfulness,” I felt compelled to add, although I had no idea why.

He seemed to smell blood. “Let me get more specific,” he said patiently. “Have you ever told anybody that you were cooperating?”

A knife through the heart! Must bluff itout! “Yes,” I said confidently.

“Who?”

“My parents, for one. Or two, you might say.” I smiled at my joke. “Is that a crime?”

The Bastard didn't smile. “No,” he replied, “that's not a crime. Who else?”

“Uhhh”—my mouth was going dry—”I told my wife, of course”— my lips seemed to be vibrating—”because I had to tell her. I mean, I had to tell her for a lot of reasons. She had to sign off on the forfeitures, for starters”— suddenly, a brainstorm!—”and maybe sheslipped it to one of her friends, by accident.” As in Laurie Beall, if you catch my drift, who then told Dave Beall, which makes all of this one giant misunderstanding. “I mean, I don't know; I never stressed to her to keep it quiet. Maybe I should've. Is that a problem?”

The Bastard shook his head. “No. I think your wife is smart enough to know what's at stake here. Anyone else you told?”

Remain calm!“George,” I said confidently.

The Bastard looked at OCD, who said, “It's his sponsor from AA.” Then OCD shook his head back and forth, as if to say, “George is clean.”

Finally, the Yale-man stepped in. “Can we cut to the chase here, Joel? It's obvious you think Jordan told someone he was cooperating; so why don't you just tell us who it is? Then we can get to the bottom of it.”

The Bastard shrugged, ignoring the Yale-man's words with such callous indifference that it seemed he wasn't even giving him credit for going to Yale. Then he flashed me a hideous smile and said, “Have you ever passed anyone a note, Jordan?”

Good Lord! Worst fears confirmed!Can't think. Must stall for time. And deny. “You mean, have I ever passed anyone a note—ever? Like, uh, since public school or since, uh, when do you mean? Since college?”

“Since you started cooperating,” said OCD, saving me from my own nonsense.

“No,” I shot back. “Or, well, maybe, actually. I mean, I have to think about that, because it's, uh, an important question.” I paused for a moment, desperate to flee. How many FBI agents were in the building? Too many. But this might be my only chance! OCD might slap the cuffs on me at any moment, in this debriefing room. The Bastard would snap his fingers and point to my wrists and OCD would whip the cuffs out so fast my head would spin! But could they do that without a judge? Maybe. Probably. Definitely!I needed to speak to the Yale-man. But, no—if I asked for privacy they'd know I was guilty. Bad choice. Must bluff it out. Deny! Deny! Deny!

I blundered on: “Well, there was a time in New Jersey, when I was with Gaito and Brennan, if that's what you mean. After we played golf I wrote the name of a stock on a scorecard, and I passed it to Dennis. But it's on the tape. You can check it.”

“This is a waste of time,” sputtered the Witch. “We know you're lying to us. We could never use you as a witness.”

“Which means no 5K letter,” added the Bastard.

The Witch: “And according to my calculations, you're facing upward of thirty-five years.”

Now the Bastard: “But if you come clean with us right now, maybe there's a chance. Maybe.” He looked at me stone-faced. “I'll ask you one last time, and that's it. Have you—ever—passed— someone—a—note?”

The Yale-man to the rescue: “I want to speak to my client in private before this goes any further.” He grabbed my arm. “Come on; let's go outside for a second and have a talk.”

My moronic response: “No, it's all right, Nick.” I shook his arm off me. “I have nothing to hide. I haven't done anything wrong here. I swear to God. I haven't passed anyone a note, and I'm willing to take a lie-detector test.” Yes, I could pass a lie detector. Sharon Stone had done it in Basic Instinct…although she wasn't lying. But, still… they still might not know! It could be a fishing expedition! Not a shred of proof.… or.… did I take the note or did Dave take it? Not certain. But don't come clean. Can't come clean!To come clean is to die. Besides, maybe they don't even know it's Dave? If they knew for sure they would just come out and say it. They're trying to bluffa confession! No two ways about it!

The Bastard's last words: “Okay, then, so you never passed anyone a note. Fair enough,” and with that, he shrugged his shoulders and closed the file. Then he said to the Yale-man: “I'm sorry, Nick. I can't use your client as a witness; he's not credible. If he lies to us here, he'll lie in front of a jury.”

On cue, the Witch rose from her chair—only to be stopped by the booming voice of OCD, who shouted, “This is all crap!” He glowered at the Witch. “Sit down a second, Michele!” Then he glowered at me. “Listen,” he said in a tone he'd never used with me before. “I know exactlywhat happened. You went out for dinner with Dave Beall, and you slipped him a note saying, Don't incriminate yourself! I'm wired! Thenyou left the restaurant and lied to my face, telling me that you did the best you could.” He paused and shook his head, but it wasn't in disgust. He was disappointed in me. I was his star cooperator and I had let him down, perhaps even embarrassed him.

There were a few moments of silence, then he said, “I've always been straight with you, since day one, and I'm telling you right now—with no bullshit—that if you don't tell the truth about this, Joel's going to break your cooperation agreement and you're gonna spend the next thirty years in jail. And if you docome clean, he still might break it and you'll stillgrow old in jail.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “But I've never lied to you before, and I'm not lying to you now. You have to come clean or there's no chance.”

The Yale-man nearly jumped out of his chair. “Okay!” he said, in a voice just below a scream. “I want five minutes with my client—alone! And I want it right now.” Then he softened his tone a bit. “Will everybody pleasewait out in the hallway while I confer with my client!”

“Of course,” said the Bastard. “Take as long as you'd like, Nick.” On the way out, OCD locked eyes with me, and he nodded slowly. Do the right thing,said his eyes. And then he was gone.

“So I assume you did this,” stated my attorney.

I looked around the debriefing room, at the bare windowless walls, at the cheap government-issue desk, at the cheap black armchairs, and at the empty pitcher of water off to the side, and I found myself wondering if the room was bugged.

I looked at the Yale-man and mouthed the words: “Is it safe to talk?”

The Yale-man stared at me, incredulous. After a few seconds, he said, “Yes, Jordan, it's safe to talk. Everything we say is privileged.”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Well, I guess you've never been to the movies before. It's the oldest trick in the book: The cops leave the room and wait for a confession. Then they run back inside and say, ‘Gotcha!’”