Fleeing the Past . Christopher LaGrone
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didn’t mean to bring up his application to the Border Patrol; it had come out by accident during his rant. Fabiola became quiet. The last time he brought it up things became awkward until it blew over. At first the application didn’t matter to her because it seemed like such a long shot. But he had passed the written exam, and his first interview with a background investigator was approaching.
“When is your interview?” Fabiola asked.
“Two weeks from tomorrow,” Layne said briefly, regretting that he had brought it up.
Fabiola was quiet for a moment again.
He tried to think of a way to change the subject, but the timing was wrong; it would be too obvious. So he said, “It’s not likely that I’m gonna get it, Babe. I never thought I would even get this far. It’s so hard to become a federal agent. I’ve done some bad stuff when I was younger, and I have to get a Secret Security clearance. These background investigators can find out everything there is to know about you.”
Fabiola waited to respond again, then said, “Why are you even going through all this then if you don’t think you’re going to get the job?”
He struggled to think of a misleading reason, but all he could think to say was more truth. “Because my friend Chad from junior college knows this guy in Texas named Matt who made it all the way to the Border Patrol Academy, and he knows what to say to get through the hiring process.”
Fabiola listened carefully.
Layne continued because she didn’t comment. “Chad gave me his number and I’ve been talking to him on the phone.” He had never met Matt in person, but Chad had vouched for him.
“So, you’re going to lie to the investigator?” Fabiola asked.
“I’m not really gonna lie. I’m just gonna withhold information, like an attorney.”
“As long as you don’t involve me in anything.”
“Matt said that the background investigator will probably want to interview you, too,” Layne said, and cringed, unsure of what her reaction would be.
Fabiola sat up. “What? When?”
Layne became defensive. “I don’t know; he just said they might.”
“I don’t want to talk to any immigration people,” Fabiola said, in slight distress.
“He’s not immigration. He’s a background investigator, like an FBI Agent,” Layne explained.
“Layne!”
“You don’t have anything to hide, right?”
“Well, I was late filing some things last year, but I’m fine. I just don’t want to talk to those people unless I have no choice.”
“Don’t worry,” Layne said to try and calm her, but he sounded feeble after realizing his misstep. She was close to crying, and the situation wouldn’t allow for him to pretend he didn’t know why. If he were hired, he would have to go to the Border Patrol Academy in New Mexico for four months. If he graduated, he would be living somewhere near the border of Mexico. Her visa restricted her to the state of Colorado. He scrambled within for a way to soft-pedal the developments; it was imperative that he preserve his living arrangement with her. If he was forced to move, he might be stuck with six months to go on a lease when the call came to report to the Academy.
Layne remained silent while he weighed his options, eyes fixed on the television. Out of time, he had no alternative but to appease her. “Do you think you can get your visa changed so that you can come to Arizona with me, in the event that I make it? And be able to work there? I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
Fabiola’s eyes smiled but her lips remained pursed. “I guess I could talk to my sponsor and see.”
He could tell by the way her posture had changed that she was pleased. He knew what she was thinking: If he was planning to bring her with him to Arizona it probably meant he intended to propose to her—federal employee or not.
The tension blew over and they resumed watching the debate. The governor from Nevada was retaliating to a jab from his accuser about amnesty and the E-Verify system. Layne commented in order to distract her from any questions about their future.
“No good wetbacks,” was all he could think of to say to change the subject.
“Why do you call them wetbacks?”
“That’s what they used to call illegals in Texas a long time ago, because the border in Texas is the Rio Grande River. So, they would be wet after they swam across.”
Fabiola laughed, uncurled her body and stood up to walk to the kitchen. She was wearing soccer shorts and an extra-large t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her legs were tan and smooth; she had removed her eye shadow and mascara when she changed out of her work clothes. Her sandy-blond hair was pulled back into a messy bun with bobby pins so that a few highlighted strands were dangling from the bunch in the back. He had been fascinated by her appearance since the day he met her. Before meeting her, he had thought that Hispanic people from south of the United States were invariably dark with black hair. Everything about her was foreign and exotic. The rhythm in her Argentine accent sounded like Italian to him and seemed to contradict her blue eyes. He often found himself staring when she was looking the other way.
From the couch he could hear the refrigerator door open. He realized it was only Tuesday and the second night this week he had brought home beer. His hangover from the weekend still lingered, prolonged by the beer he had tried to cure it with the night before. The remaining cans of Coors Original in the refrigerator were all that he had available to drink in the apartment. Four beers would be sufficient to take the edge off his discomfort, but six would eliminate the symptoms completely. But if she opened the refrigerator and saw that all the cans were gone it would mean a whole day of dirty looks.
He heard her close the refrigerator and then open a drawer. She still hadn’t said anything. Perhaps it was because of the conversation they’d just had. If she only knew the breadth of what he had in the works. The truth was that he had been methodically carrying out his plan for over a year before his friend Kurt introduced them to one another during a summer backyard house party.
Fabiola left the kitchen light on and came back into the living room with a fork and a bowl of something with noodles. She sat down on the couch and leaned against the armrest with her legs bent to her side as she began eating. He pretended to be absorbed in the debate. Under no circumstances could he allow himself to reveal the scope of what he was involved in.
After the attack on the World Trade Center, the President had created a hiring influx by demanding that Homeland Security double the amount of Border Patrol Agents on the southern border. An ever-increasing influx of illegals, and the rumors of large caravans coming through Mexico from other Central American countries, sustained the urgency. The hiring surge was also a response to concerns that terrorist organizations like Al-Qaeda were planning to sneak a weapon of mass destruction across the border, and that the Mexican drug cartels were sending tons of marijuana and other—more lethal—illegal drugs.
The Administration’s ambitious quota left DHS with no choice but to make modifications to the screening process in order to hire enough applicants within the allotted time frame. Most significant to the changes was the omission of the daunted polygraph examination, the barrier that dissuaded most people from applying who were otherwise qualified. When Layne learned that the lie detector test had been withdrawn it was his green light to begin work on the blueprint he had laid out. That meant he wouldn’t have to answer uncomfortable questions about his past—in particular, his dismissal from two college baseball programs and his shaky foray into minor league ball.
Not even his parents knew the entirety of his mission. He told people that he wanted the personal security of federal employment—a GL-11 Federal Agent earned $80,000 a year—but there were many dimensions to what he was after. He wanted to be taken care of—he knew that federal employees had excellent benefits, and unlike much of the private