"The FBI is here,"Mom tells me
over the phone. Immediately I can see my mom
with her back to a couple of Matrix-like figures
in black suits and opaque sunglasses, her hand
covering the mouthpiece like Grace Kelly in
Dial M for Murder. This must be a joke, I
think. But it's not, because Mom isn't that
funny.
"The who?" I say.
"Two FBI agents. They say you're not in
trouble, they just want to talk. They want to
come to the store."
I work in a small, independent bookstore, and
since it's a slow Tuesday afternoon, I figure,
"Sure." Someone I know must have gotten some
government work, I think; hadn't my consultant
friend spoken recently of getting rolled onto
some government job? Background check, I think,
interviewing acquaintances ... No big deal,
right? Then, of course, I make a big deal about
it in front of my co-workers.
"That was my mom," I tell them. "The FBI's
coming for me." They laugh; it's a good joke,
especially when the FBI actually shows up. They
are not the bogeymen I had been expecting.
They're dressed casually, they speak familiarly,
but they are big. The one in front stands close
to 7 feet, and you can tell his partner is built
like a bulldog under his baggy shirt and shorts.
"You Marc Schultz?" asks the tall one. He
shows me his badge, introduces himself as
Special Agent Clay Trippi. After assuring me
that I'm not in trouble, he asks if there is
someplace we can sit down and talk. We head back
to Reference, where a table and chairs are set
up. We sit down, and I'm again informed that I
am not in trouble.
Then, Agent Trippi asks, "Do you drive a
black Nissan Altima?" And I realize this meeting
is not about a friend. Despite their
reassurances, and despite the fact that I
haven't committed any federal offenses (that I
know of), I'm starting to feel a bit like I'm in
trouble.
They ask me if I was driving my car on
Saturday, and I say, reasonably sure, that I
was. They ask me where I went, and I struggle
for a moment to remember Saturday. I make a lame
joke about how the days run together when you're
underemployed. They smile politely. Was I at
work on Saturday? I think so.
"Were you at the Caribou Coffee on Powers
Ferry?" asks Agent Trippi. That's where I get my
coffee before work, and so I tell him yes,
probably, just before remembering Saturday:
Harry Potter day, opening early, in at 8:30.
So I would have been at Caribou Coffee that
Saturday, getting my small coffee, room for
cream. This information seems to please the
agents.
"Did you notice anything unusual, anyone
worth commenting on?" OK, I think. It's the
unusual guy they want, not me. I think hard,
wondering if it was Saturday I saw the guy in
the really cool reclining wheelchair, the guy
who struck me as a potential James Bondian
supervillain, but no: That was Monday.
Then they ask if I carried anything into the
shop -- and we're back to me.
My mind races. I think: a bomb? A knife? A
balloon filled with narcotics? But no. I don't
own any of those things. "Sunglasses," I say.
"Maybe my cell phone?"
Not the right answer. I'm nervous now,
wondering how I must look: average, mid-20s,
unassuming retail employee. What could I have
possibly been carrying?
Trippi's partner speaks up: "Any reading
material? Papers?" I don't think so. Then Trippi
decides to level with me: "I'll tell you what,
Marc. Someone in the shop that day saw you
reading something, and thought it looked
suspicious enough to call us about. So that's
why we're here, just checking it out. Like I
said, there's no problem. We'd just like to get
to the bottom of this. Now if we can't, then you
may have a problem. And you don't want that."
You don't want that? Have I just been
threatened by the FBI? Confusion and a light
dusting of panic conspire to keep me speechless.
Was I reading something that morning? Something
that would constitute a problem?
The partner speaks up again: "Maybe a
printout of some kind?"
Then it occurs to me: I was reading. It was
an article my dad had printed off the Web. I
remember carrying it into Caribou with me,
reading it in line, and then while stirring
cream into my coffee. I remember bringing it
with me to the store, finishing it before we
opened. I can't remember what the article was
about, but I'm sure it was some kind of
left-wing editorial, the kind that never fails
to incite me to anger and despair over the state
of the country.
I tell them all this, but they want
specifics: the title of the article, the author,
some kind of synopsis, but I can't help them --
I read so much of this stuff.
"Do you still have the article?" Probably
not, but I suggest we check behind the counter.
When that doesn't pan out, I have the bright
idea to call my dad at work, see if he can
remember. Of course, he can't put together a
coherent sentence after I tell him the FBI are
at the store, questioning me.
"The FBI?" he keeps asking. Eventually I get
him off the phone, and suggest it may be in my
car. They follow me out to the parking lot,
where Trippi asks me if there's anything in the
car he should know about.
"Weapons, drugs? It's not a problem if you
do, but if you don't tell me and then I find
something, that's going to be a problem." I
assure him there's nothing in my car, coming
very close to quoting Rudy Ray Moore in
Dolemite: "There's nothin' in my trunk,
man."
The excitement of the questioning -- the
interrogation -- has made me just a little bit
giddy. I almost laugh out loud when they ask me
to pop my trunk.
There's nothing in my car, of course. I keep
looking anyway, while telling them it was
probably some kind of
what-did-they-know-and-when-did-they-know-it
article about the buildup to Gulf War II. Trippi
nods, unsatisfied. I turn up some papers from
the University of Georgia, where I'm about to
begin as a grad student. He asks me what I'm
going to study.
"Journalism," I say. As I duck back into the
car, I hear Agent Trippi informing his partner,
"He's going to UGA for journalism" in a way that
makes me wonder whether that counts against me.
Back in the store, Trippi gives me his card
and tells me to call him if I remember anything.
After he's gone, I call my dad back to see if he
has calmed down, maybe come up with a name. We
retrace some steps together, figure out the
article was Hal Crowther's "Weapons of Mass
Stupidity" from the Weekly Planet, a free
independent out of Tampa. It comes back to me
then, this scathing screed focusing on the way
corporate interests have poisoned the country's
media, focusing mostly on Fox News and Rupert
Murdoch -- really infuriating, deadly accurate
stuff about American journalism post-9-11. So I
call the number on the card, leave a message
with the name, author and origin of the column,
and ask him to call me if he has any more
questions.
To tell the truth, I'm kind of anxious to
hear back from the FBI, if only for the chance
to ask why anyone would find media criticism
suspicious, or if maybe the sight of a dark,
bearded man reading in public is itself enough
to strike fear in the heart of a patriotic
citizen.
My co-worker, Craig, says that we should
probably be thankful the FBI takes these things
seriously; I say it seems like a dark day when
an American citizen regards reading as a threat,
and downright pitch-black when the federal
government agrees.
Special Agent Trippi didn't return calls
from CL. But Special Agent Joe Paris,
Atlanta field office spokesman, stressed that
specific FBI investigations are confidential. He
wouldn't confirm or deny the Schultz interview.
"In this post-911 era, it is the absolute
responsibility of the FBI to follow through on
any tips of potential terrorist activity," Paris
says. "Are people going to take exception and be
inconvenienced by this at times? Oh, yeah. ... A
certain amount of convenience is going to be
offset by an increase in security."
Marc Schultz is a freelance writer in
Atlanta. The Weekly Planet happens to be
Creative Loafing's sister paper in Tampa.
For a copy of the column that got Schultz in hot
water, go to here.
07.17.03
.gif){kind=spacer}