The Global War on Morris (24 page)

“Let him wear it. It may come in handy.”

DENIM BLUES

WEDNESDAY EVENING, SEPTEMBER 29, 2004

C
aryn had to work that night, but didn't mind. She considered her job an observation post, where she could collect material for her planned documentary on the economic plight of retail workers, tentatively entitled “Mall Stall.” Plus, the overtime was decent and she had a 401k.

Caryn was certain that one day she would win an Oscar for Best Documentary. Meanwhile, she was vying for employee of the month at the Gap.

As scenes from her documentary unfolded in her mind, Caryn refolded piles of autumn wool turtleneck sweaters on the twenty-percent-off table. She knew that her meticulous aligning of sleeves, collars, and hems would be disrupted by the next gang of shoppers who bulldozed through the display.

For now, the mall was quiet. It was dinner hour. A few teenage
girls combed through endless shelves of jeans in all shapes and sizes: original cut, skinny cut, incredibly skinny cut, and cut-off-your-­circulation cut. An exhausted-looking mother and her daughter ­argued quietly near the fitting rooms about how “your father will have a friggin' heart attack if you wear those things.” Caryn's manager, who always wore a headset, like one of those Borgs on
Star Trek
, was reorganizing a rack of designer sweatshirts.

And there were those two men. Definitely not holders of the Gap Loyalty card. Dressed in dark suits and shiny loafers. Their hands always clasped in front of their crotches. Pretending to browse but more interested in Caryn. Peering at her over racks and around tables.

They're right out of one of dad's Bogart movies
, thought Caryn.
Like those nineteen-fifties
black-and-white detectives. All they need are fedoras and cigarettes.

Ever since her arrest at the Republican Convention, Caryn had the feeling that people were studying her. But she knew that couldn't be true. As the daughter of a therapist, she even created a name for her anxiety: post-arrest stress disorder. The self-diagnosis helped her cope, but lately she felt her condition worsen. Glances became stares. Things were closing in. The aperture was narrowing.

Caryn was taught by Rona to confront trouble. So she swallowed hard, pulled her frizzy hair behind her ears, and marched toward the two men.

“Hey, can I help you guys?”

They glanced at each other uncomfortably.

“Just looking,” said one.

“Browsing,” said the other.

Caryn nodded. “Okay. Just let me know. And don't forget our September Sock Sale. Two pairs for the price of one. Ends tomorrow.”

“We won't forget,” said one.

“We never forget,” said the other.

Caryn turned away. Troubled.

THE EARLY BIRD & THE WORM

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 30, 2004

D
uring the ride to work the next morning, Tom Fairbanks repeated to himself, through his fixed jaw, “The early bird gets the worm. The early bird gets the worm.”

It was so early that there was hardly any traffic on the Long Island Expressway, meaning plenty of road and little road rage. No cars to cut off, no assholes to shout at, no middle fingers to put up. So early that a dimming moon lingered in a purple sky. So early that he found a spot close to the entrance of his building and walked through a lonely atrium to the rapid-fire echo of his steps against the granite floor.

“The early bird gets the worm!” Fairbanks said again, as an elevator whisked him to the fourth floor.

The worm was Morris Feldstein, twisting and turning on his own country. A piece of slime trying to burrow deep into American soil where no one could find him.

Except that Feldstein could not hide. The entire federal bureaucracy was waiting to bring him to justice, writhing and
wriggling. Fairbanks had to act fast. To get that worm before anyone else.

A pile of newspapers lay cluttered at the front door of the DHS suite.
Newsday
, the
Daily News
, and the
New York Post
. As he inserted his key and stepped over the papers, Fairbanks smiled. Or thought it was a smile. These were muscles he rarely used.

Tomorrow I will be in the morning papers! Famous for the arrest of Morris Feldstein. That unlikely terrorist. That enemy within. That worm.

He walked through the lobby and saw the portraits of President Bush and Homeland Security Secretary Ridge on the wall. Would either man call to offer the thanks of a grateful nation after the apprehension of Feldstein? Perhaps they would fly him to Washington for an award ceremony.

Probably not. It would be his bust, but everyone else would try to take credit. Elbowing him out of the camera angles, pushing him back to anonymity. Where they thought he belonged.

Not this time. This time, Tom Fairbanks would rescue America from its enemy. And liberate Tom Fairbanks from his own career.

I
n the years that followed, Morris Feldstein would have plenty of time to reconstruct the most bizarre day of his previously blasé life. And the precise moment, at one twenty in the afternoon, when everything crashed.

It began after he showered and shaved and put on his beige Van Heusen wool trousers and the navy blue blazer from Macy's, and approached Rona in the kitchen for their perfunctory have-a-good-day-Rona-yes-you-too-Morris peck on the cheek. Only this one tasted of the coffee she had been nursing over an unfolded
Newsday
on the kitchen table and maybe a trace of guilt for all the problems he had caused since that night at the Bayview Motor Inn. And just as he started down the long dark hall to the front door, he heard Rona ask “Morris, are you watching the Mets game tonight?”

He turned back toward the kitchen, swallowed hard, and thought,
Tsuris ahead
.

Actually, not just tsuris. This day would bring a tsuris tsunami.

“Is there something you want to watch, Rona?” He studied her. But this time, there was only this matter-of-fact pronouncement: “I'm watching the presidential debate.” Settled with a clasp of both hands on the table.

Since the Mets were off that night, and since Turner Classic Movies was showing a colorized film (which defeated the whole purpose of showing classic movies, Morris thought), and since he was in no position to assert his television-program preferences Morris nodded and said, “Yes, the presidential debate should be very interesting,” in a tone of voice that masked Morris's belief that nothing—nothing—could be less interesting, except, maybe, the vice-presidential debate.

There was that slow shuffle to his car and the standard peek inside the trunk to make sure all his Celfex samples were there. He had that sensation of being watched, just like the other morning. There was the drone of a helicopter that seemed to hover over only his house, the curious glances of the utility workers and gardeners, the home improvement contractors and road crews who mobilized on Soundview Avenue. Morris was reminded of that episode of the
Twilight Zone,
the one when Earl Holliman finds himself secluded in a small town, yet can't “shake that crazy feeling of being watched.” Only now, instead of viewing Earl Holliman in black and white from the safety of his RoyaLounger 8000, Morris felt that he was the star of this show, live and in color.

A
cross the street, Agent Russell peered through the McCords' living room blinds, a cell phone attached to his ear, and Colonel McCord almost attached to his hip. Crouching next to him, as if they were in a foxhole rather than on a faux suede couch, both men surveilled Morris and watched those who watched him as well.

“How much company do we have?” Fairbanks asked from the
phone in his Melville office.

“Sir, it's quite a crowd,” Russell replied. “Plainclothes county police, NYPD, New York State, a guy I recognize from the FDA. Hold on . . . There's a guy standing by a landscape truck with a weed-whacker. I think that might be Miller. From DHS!”

“We are DHS, Agent Russell!”

“Yes, sir. But Miller is DHS Counterintel. Not Intel and Analysis.”

Fairbanks hissed: “Spy versus spy and we're the same goddamn spies. Jesus H!”

All these federal assets watching Feldstein while watching one another.

M
orris pulled out of his driveway and crept down Soundview Avenue, listening to WFAN lament the Mets' 6–3 loss to the Braves the night before. He noticed a helicopter that seemed to ride just above him and the cars that seemed to follow his every turn.

Something is happening
, he thought. But he kept driving.

As the morning and the miles passed, Morris grew more nervous. Dark vehicles pulled close behind him. Additional helicopters seemed to accompany him everywhere. The doctors' offices he visited were unusually crowded, as if there were a sudden virus that only attacked well-groomed men in sunglasses, who tapped impatiently at their knees and peered suspiciously over magazines.

And as Morris continued to ply his sales territory, with each tick of the odometer in his car, the Feldstein Anxiety Anticipation Index nudged up. His fingers were moist around the steering wheel and Morris noticed his knuckles were pale. But even when he sensed that some uncontrollable wave was building against him, about to knock him off his feet and sweep him into the unknown, he did nothing. Even against a big wave Morris would not make waves. Not until it was too late.

And so he pushed on.

Promptly at noon, Morris led a caravan of sedans into the parking
lot of Antonio's Pizzeria of Glen Cove. It seemed as if the entire federal government had a craving for a chicken Parm. And as Morris sat at a wobbly table, nibbling at his meal, he sensed that everyone around him was assessing every queasy nibble. Which made him particularly self-conscious about leaving crumbs on his face.

Morris stood, brought his tray to an array of trash bins, and, as the signs instructed, deposited his plastics in the recycling bin and his unfinished meal in the food waste bin.

Outside, as he entered his car, he heard a dozen echoes of doors closing and engines starting.

Gottenyu
, he thought.

It's a case of mistaken identity. Like Cary Grant in
North by Northwest
. I'm Roger Thornhill! Being chased by spies across the country and not knowing why! Only, instead of running away from planes and hanging on the edge of Mount Rushmore, like Cary Grant, I'm being surrounded at Antonio's Pizzeria in Glen Cove! Gottenyu! Glen Cove! That's where
North by Northwest
begins! Maybe this isn't a nightmare! Maybe it's a sequel! But why me? I didn't do anything!

Morris reached for his cell phone. His fingers fumbled across the keypad. The sound of Rona's voicemail message comforted him—the sound of normalcy in this horrifically abnormal day. After the beep, he said, “Rona, this is Morris. I'm just . . . I'm checking to make sure everything is okay over there . . . It's the strangest thing, Rona . . . I'm sure it's just my imagination . . . But . . . You know what? I think I may call in sick and come home. Just a little rest . . . Okay. So I'll see you soon, Rona. We'll watch the debate tonight. Good-bye.”

He called his district manager, and got her voice mail. “Hello, Laurie,” he said, his voice dry and scratchy. “This is Morris Feldstein. I'm not really feeling very well. It's nothing serious. Just—” he looked at all the cars in the lot, engines humming, stiff figures behind windshields. “Just some kind of bug, I think. So I'm going to go home, if that's okay. To rest up. And I'll be back at work tomorrow. Tomorrow will be better. Thank you. Good-bye.”

In his many years at Celfex Pharmaceuticals, Morris had called in sick only twice. The first was to make that fateful trip to the Paradise Hotel and Residences at Boca. This was the second.

There would be no more.

A
fter Morris's phone messages had become one of the highest-rated broadcasts in the metropolitan area that morning, Tom Fairbanks proclaimed: “Jesus H! Feldstein's coming home early!” He sat in the McCords' dining room, which he commandeered earlier, sipping his fifth cup of coffee. It was cold and bitter and made him scowl, which was just the way he liked it. Coffee mugs, cell phones, and a tattered Hagstrom's map of Nassau County, marked with Morris's route that morning, cluttered the table. A set of car keys was within arm's reach of Fairbanks.

McCord and Russell were still at their post, peering through the large bay window.

“Oh-oh,” McCord warned from behind a pair of binoculars. “Lots of sudden movement at Feldstein's house. Numerous vehicles repositioning.”

Everyone's waiting for the worm to slither home
, Fairbanks thought. Jockeying for position in what was now a game of inches. Ready to grab Feldstein. And take all the credit.

He scooped up the car keys and leaned toward the map.

“Soundview Avenue is the only route Feldstein can take home?”

“Affirmative,” McCord responded. “The LIE to Lakeville. Lakeville to Middle Neck. Middle Neck to Soundview.”

And Soundview to Guantánamo!
thought Fairbanks as he hurried from the room.

I
n the FDA control room, Bill Sully stared into a screen at the grainy image of a man racing toward a car in the McCords' driveway. “Who the hell is that?” he asked.

A metallic voice transmitted from Soundview Avenue: “Uhhhhh . . . Name's Fairbanks. DHS agent on Long Island. He's been trolling on this case for weeks.”

Sully nodded his head unhappily. “Well he's fishing in my waters! This is an active FDA case! And where's he rushing to, by the way?”

“Maybe to beat us to the punch?”

“Morris Feldstein is a counterfeit drug criminal. We get him first! Follow Fairbanks!”

“Yes, sir.”

And so it went. The FDA following Fairbanks who was intercepting Feldstein. Other Feds following the FDA following Fairbanks to meet Feldstein, being followed by still other Feds.

The race was on.

T
he sign arched across the Long Island Expressway, reflective white letters that glittered against a green background:

GREAT NECK

NEXT EXIT

Morris tightened his grip on the steering wheel. One more exit to the comfort of his RoyaLounger 8000 and Turner Classic Movies, where he followed the Mets and no one followed him. One more exit to the safe intersection of anonymity and conformity. He pressed on the gas.

For a man who spent his entire life safely at fifty-five miles an hour, Morris didn't even notice that his speedometer was nudging above seventy. He did, however, notice that he was about to race right past his exit, into Queens. He tugged hard at the steering wheel. So hard that his car swerved out of the center lane, almost clipping the vehicle that had been pacing him in the right lane. The driver of that car, a special investigator from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and
Explosives reflexively pounded on his horn and slammed hard on his brakes, triggering a twelve unmarked-car pileup. A literal bureaucratic clash.

As he careened onto the exit ramp, bouncing in his seat and clutching the steering wheel, Morris didn't hear what he had left behind on the Long Island Expressway. The screeching brakes, the blaring horns, the sound of metal against metal. He didn't smell the odor of burnt rubber on the pavement. That was all behind him now. He was alone on the expressway's service road. For the moment.

“Subject's driving erratically!” someone transmitted breathlessly. “All units proceed with caution.”

Morris made a hard right onto Lakeville Road. The urgent wail of police sirens grew closer. He cut across a major intersection to a chorus of horns and obscenities. Now his heart pounded against his chest and his stomach twisted in excruciating knots. His eyes darted from side to side.