The Last Witness

[FOUR]

Philadelphia International Airport

Monday, November 17, 2:35 P.M.

John Garvey walked down Concourse A, his nerves on edge despite all the free first-class alcohol he had consumed on the flight.

Once the aircraft had rumbled down the Saint Thomas runway and left the island, he had felt some relief. And the drinks had certainly helped calm, if not numb, him. But now that that period was over, his mind had begun to spin again.

What guarantee do I have these animals will live up to their end of the bargain?

Once I’ve done this, what’s to stop them from coming after me, making me do it again and again? I should’ve gone right to the cops. But they’re watching-and he said that would’ve been a swift death sentence.

The piece of paper with the telephone number that he was supposed to text after he had his suitcase felt like it might burn a hole in his pocket. As a precaution, in case it did burn a hole or otherwise got lost, back at the hotel he had punched the number into his cell phone.

What if whoever I’m supposed to text doesn’t show?

Who am I kidding? I have their drugs.

And they know how to find me. Find us.

–

John Garvey heard the loud warning buzzer sound over the baggage carousel. Then came the huge metallic clunking of the carousel starting to turn.

The first bag slid down, a black one similar to his. Then another followed it.

They’re all black. All the same.

What if someone grabs mine by mistake?

What if mine doesn’t show up at all?

Then what?

He tried to look as if he were casually glancing around the baggage claim area. He thought that a couple of people were paying him unusual attention, one a Latino by the exit looking up from his cell phone, but finally told himself he had to be imagining things. He then noticed in the ceiling the black plastic semicircles-ones half the size of a baseball-that he knew concealed security cameras.

Those I’m not imagining.

Three bags later, his suitcase showed up.

Okay. Almost home free. .

He dragged it from the carousel, then turned it onto its wheels. He forced back his sudden desire to sprint madly for the door.

That bastard Jack was right-I did just zip right on through.

No wonder so many drugs make it here.

He pulled out his telephone, found the 215-555-3582 number, and texted: “PHL.”

That was both the airport code and the code that he had the suitcase in hand and awaited direction as to what to do with the coke.

Then, as directed, he went to get a taxicab.

–

As John Garvey came closer to the exit doors that were already open, he saw parked at the curb a white Chevrolet Tahoe with Drug Enforcement Administration markings. On the window of the back door was: WARNING! DO NOT APPROACH. K-9 INSIDE.

Easy does it. Those guys are always here with their dogs.

You’re just noticing it now because you’re looking for cops.

John Garvey stopped, then felt a firm hand grip his left bicep.

“Excuse me, sir.” It was a man’s voice, a deep, authoritative one. “Can I ask you a question?”

Garvey whipped his head around.

When he saw that the man was a uniformed Philadelphia policeman, his heart beat so hard he thought it might burst out of his chest.

“Of course, Officer,” Garvey said, and then saw the patch on the sleeve of his blue shirt: PHILADELPHIA POLICE AIRPORT UNIT.

“Is this your suitcase, sir?”

Damn! I grabbed the wrong black one!

He glanced at it and recognized his luggage tag.

Then he blurted: “It’s not mine!”

The policeman turned his head to read the luggage tag.

“Then if you’re not John A. Garvey, why. .”

“No, I mean. . I mean. .” Garvey started shaking visibly, then quietly said: “The packages. . they’re not mine.”

“Yes, sir. Would you mind if we take a look inside your suitcase?”

–

Twenty minutes later, as John Garvey sat in a battered aluminum chair in a secure room near the baggage claim area, staring at his open suitcase on the steel table, the Philadelphia policeman sauntered in with another uniformed officer on his heels. The second man, wearing a jacket reading DRUG ENFORCEMENT ADMINISTRATION, was stocky and had an inquisitive look on his face. He stopped at the door and said nothing.

Garvey looked at the Philly airport cop.

“Sir, I am advising you that you have the right to remain silent. .”

Garvey, elbows on his knees, buried his face in his hands.

“He said they’d kill my family.”

“. . you have the right to an attorney. .”