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After researching the details of the hiring influx he had returned to college for a semester to study in Mexico, primarily to learn Spanish. He foresaw that being a white male with the ability to read, write, and speak Spanish would ensure that he could handle the academic demands of the Academy, which would allow him to allocate the whole of his study time toward classes other than foreign language. The rest of the classes at the Academy wouldn’t stand in his way. He had been exposed to firearms at an early age and was an exceptional marksman. Matt had warned him that Physical Training would be torturous, and that it was responsible for the majority of trainees who dropped out. But Layne had been a college athlete, and he was certain that he could handle whatever they threw at him. Long distance running would be difficult, but allowing anything physical to stop him would be a sin. It would be close, but according to his calculations he could survive training and graduate to move on to Field Training at a station on the border.
His eyes remained fixed on the television screen, but his mind was busy envisioning his future: A house, a new truck, and a gorgeous wife preparing dinner for him. The phase of his plan that involved finding a Spanish-speaking girlfriend had fallen into place fortuitously. But the true hurdles still lay ahead—the first one being the interview with the background investigator in two weeks. Matt told him that if he simply omitted certain details about his past, the investigator would have no way of discovering what he needed to hide. Erasing facets of his past from his own consciousness was one more part of the final goal. After passing the written exam, he had resolved to clean up his act so as to fit into the role of the new life he was seeking. He had begun exercising and doing his best to avoid people and places that had been problematic.
Layne glanced at Fabiola. She had never witnessed his behavior when he was at his worst. She forked noodles and looked back at him watching her. She grinned—content, judging by the manner in which she chewed.
The debate broke for a series of commercials and she commented, “I don’t want to go to work tomorrow. I have to get one of the units ready to rent, and it’s disgusting. Those people aren’t getting their deposit back.”
“Uh-huh,” Layne replied, but he remained withdrawn. His cycle of thoughts moved on to the stage where he imagined what it would be like at the Academy and, if he could make it through, what the border would be like. He vowed to himself that he would become a new person—reborn through military-like discipline. It was his last chance. He was twenty-seven; there was no time left for failure. By any societal standard, he was behind. He had been too embarrassed to even consider appearing at his ten-year high school reunion. He should have had a wife, kids, and a good job by now.
Fabiola set her bowl on the table and looked at him. “You’re quiet tonight. What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing, just thinking about who I’m gonna vote for,” Layne said. And as he said it, he dreamt about one day being able to tell people the truth. Whatever wrongs he had to commit in order to get there would have to be one last string of white lies to serve as a means to an end and put his life back on track.
LAYNE HAD VISITED FABIOLA AT WORK only once before and hadn’t noticed her office walls. But on this day a framed print drew him away from his pacing. It must have been there before Fabiola moved into the office, because it wasn’t something she would have chosen. The painting depicted a group of demoralized Hispanic migrant workers in straw hats, gazing hopelessly through a barbed wire fence. Layne could just make out the name of the artist in the bottom left corner: Domingo Ulloa. He had never heard of him, but his first thought was that the artist’s intention was to gain sympathy from all the bleeding hearts in the United States—those who had been spoiled out of their sense of nationalism.
He scoffed away the painting and looked down at himself to check his appearance; he was wearing slacks and one of his best dress shirts for this critical occasion. He straightened his belt and tried to sit down, but instead gave in to the urge to resume moving as he pressed the dial button and put his cellphone to his ear. Matt answered after three rings.
“I’m sweating bullets,” Layne blurted.
“What time is he supposed to be there?” Matt spoke in the thickest Texas accent Layne had ever heard.
“He’s supposed to be here at 3:00.”
“What time is it now?” Matt asked.
Layne realized that Matt was a time zone ahead as he pulled back the cuff of his shirt to look at his wristwatch. “It’s about 2:50.”
“Where’s he meeting you?” Matt asked.
“He wanted to meet in my girlfriend’s office; she’s a leasing agent for these apartments. I’m in a leasing office—like a clubhouse.” Layne shifted the pattern of his pacing as he tried to remember the primary reason he called.
“Why did he want to do the interview there?”
“I don’t know. I was hoping you might know.”
“Maybe he just wants to see if you’re telling the truth about her job. Usually they will meet you in a library or something.”
“It’s a pain for her; she’s got work to do.”
When Layne told Fabiola that Edward, the background investigator, wanted to use her office, she appeared frustrated. She didn’t protest, and he let the matter settle. He knew her well enough to be sure that her pouting was held in check by fear.
“Just do what he says,” Matt instructed. “He can go anywhere he wants; he’ll probably go to your work and talk to your supervisor, too.”
Layne felt his pulse surge, and his forehead began to sweat. The conversation finally made clear the gravity of what he was attempting. He swallowed, and said, “Well, we have security at my work. Only employees can go in there because we deal with personal information and credit card numbers and other stuff. I don’t think they’ll let him in.”
“They don’t have a choice,” Matt said with a dismissive laugh.
Layne began to bite his thumbnail. “Are you sure?”
“Of course, he’s a federal agent. He can go wherever he wants, in any state. He doesn’t care if he cuts into her schedule or messes with your security at work. This takes priority over everything.”
“You went through all this before, right?” Layne said, seeking assurance.
“Yeah, I went through the Academy twice, but I never graduated because I kept hurting my knee in P.T.” Matt’s tone belied annoyance—he had told Layne the story before.
Layne looked at his wristwatch and looked out the window again. “I owe you one. If I ever meet you in person, I’ll buy you a beer.”
“No problem,” Matt said.
“He should be here any minute. I was just calling to see if there’s anything else you can tell me before he gets here.” Layne was afraid to let go of Matt’s friendly twang.
“You memorized everything you put down on that SF-86, right?”
“Yeah, I remember everything I said. The main thing I’m really worried about is the drugs. Are you sure I should’ve admitted I smoked weed?”
“Yep, if you say you’ve never tried anything, they won’t believe you and they will start looking