Changing Status Pt. 01

That brought in the Drug Enforcement Administration. I eventually identified the mug shot of the shooter, the younger son of Matias Hernandez himself. Coincidentally, Customs and Border Protection had stopped the guy in question less than 30 minutes after he committed the murder, giving DEA a rare shot at a major conviction for something other than smuggling controlled substances. He was even carrying a pistol with a half-empty magazine.

*****

That's how I came to meet Martin Vance, a physically-fit, middle aged guy who looked like nothing in the world could surprise him. I should have anticipated being put into the Federal Witness Security Program, but it was a total surprise to my naïve mind. My burgeoning computer business went up in smoke because I had to cut off all contact with anyone who knew me. That meant abandoning my apartment, my savings, my smart phone, and all my computer accounts; in return I got a simple cell phone with an emergency button on it. Mr. Vance deposited me at an isolated safe house that was stocked with food and books but had no connectivity with the outside world. Having no choice, I resigned myself to boredom. I spent the next three months in isolation, visited intermittently by Mr. Vance or his assistant, Deputy Marshal Jerry Silverman. The Marshals Service couldn't afford to maintain full-time security on me, and Vance argued, logically enough, that minimizing contact with his office also minimized my chances of being discovered. He claimed that he had no real idea whether I was in danger, just wanted to keep me out of sight until the trial.

The plan succeeded to the extent that I got delivered, safe and unharmed, to the appropriate courthouse in Houston in time for the trial. The defense lawyers tried to discredit my testimony, of course, but the prosecuting attorney seemed quite satisfied with my performance as I retired to a separate room where I was guarded by what I had come to think of as "Marty and Jerry."

After much deliberation, the jury could not reach a decision. I don't know whether the cartel had influenced any of the jurors, but eventually the judge had to declare a mistrial.

I thought we had avoided any tails when leaving the courthouse, but someone must have divulged my security plan. I think we were about a mile away from the safe house when the windshield suddenly shattered and Jerry slumped over in the driver's seat, mortally wounded. A second deputy marshal, Bill McGuire, died two minutes later, but not before he had taken out two of the attackers. Unlike movie shootouts, this exchange happened so quickly, and people died so rapidly, that I found it hard to understand what was going on. It was even worse to be the unarmed target in a firefight between armed groups.

Vance took two bullets removing Jerry from the driver's seat, but still managed to reverse out of the ambush and get away. As an experienced protection officer, he had developed his own private fallback position, not listed on any Marshals Service records, at the gas station, where he hid the bullet-riddled car and closed the garage door. Shades of the second Terminator movie.

I put enough pressure on his wounds to almost stop the bleeding, but he was clearly in danger. I urged him to let me call the EMTs before he bled out, but he was too professional to take the risk.

Instead, he sent me to retrieve a large plastic bag from the car, after which he shocked me with his next proposal. Keeping one eye on the door, he began by apologizing.

"I'm sorry that we've failed in your security, Walter. You're smart enough to realize that there must be a mole in WITSEC, which means the best thing I can do for you is to send you on your own to a place where, with any luck, no one will ever find you."

Nodding at the bag, Deputy Vance explained. "This is an emergency kit, put together outside of channels for just this eventuality. You'll find a simple cell phone (no locator chip) with an anonymous Uber account; a set of stretchy sweatshirt, sweatpants, and tennis shoes; a comb, and a business card with whom to contact, plus a one-way pill. To help you with taking the pill, there's two bottles of water and several candy bars. There's even an adhesive 'Out of Order' tag for you to put on a restroom door while you change."

He explained his plan to ensure that no one--not even he--could identify me. This involved a two-stage process: First, after I left him in the gas station, I would take a special pill to radically change my appearance--more about that in a moment. Once that change occurred, I would don the sweatpants and shirt, dispose of my own clothing and wallet in various trash receptacles, and depart the area. At that point, no one would know what I looked like. If I wished, I could just try to hide on my own, but without identification it would be difficult.

Instead, Vance proposed that I contact the woman whose number was on the business card. I should NOT tell her my real identity, but she had agreed to provide a new identity and then hide me where no one would expect--by helping my alter ego self-indenture for several years, with the proceeds of my sale going to an account in my new name.

"I know that both of these steps seem extreme," he concluded, "but this way, no one will know what happened to Walter Haniford. Even if Hernandez tortures me, I'll have no idea what you look like, and your contact will not know your real identity. Once you regain your freedom, you can contact the woman who helped you and she will be able to vouch for you to the Marshals Service."

As darkness fell, I slipped out of the side door of the gas station, walking across a huge parking lot to a nearby big box store. I was still unsure as to whether I should carry out either part of his plan, but I could see no other alternative. Just as I reached the entrance to the store, I heard the stutter of automatic weapons fire coming from the direction of the gas station. An explosion ripped the evening quiet--a good man was dying over there to give me a chance. The sense that the cartel was on my trail finally convinced me to take the plunge.

*****

You may be thinking that I was reluctant to enslave myself, and that was certainly a daunting prospect. But the pill he had given me was even more of a challenge.

I'm sure you've heard the urban legends concerning an amazing pill that can somehow change a man's chromosomes from XY to XX, producing a completely female body that would not even resemble the male. Call it "were-woman" or "genderswap" or whatever you wish. I thought the whole idea was bullpucky, but Mr. Vance had clearly believed in what he told me. I had never thought about changing my gender, and now the idea seemed even more radical than surrendering my freedom. Still, I didn't see much of an alternative if I wanted to survive.

I located the third restroom, sometimes called a family or handicapped facility, in the store. Looking around to see if anyone was watching, I knocked on the door, then slapped the "Out of Order" sign on the outside while stepping inside and locking the door. Following instructions, I swallowed about 10 ounces of water before washing down the one-way pill with another swallow.

For a few minutes, nothing seemed to happen, and my previous scepticism seemed confirmed. Suddenly, however, I became dizzy and sick to my stomach, barely managing to drop my trousers and sit on the toilet bowl before I was overcome by shakes and contractions. I lost a lot of water weight into the toilet, if you know what I mean.

I don't know how long the pains continued; I almost lost consciousness several times. When it finally subsided, I drank the second bottle of water while munching the candy bars to recover some energy. My vision was obscured by long black hair, whereas my previous color had been light brown. My shirt buttons had been popped off by the pressure of the new breasts I had suddenly grown--I later realized that they were about B-cup in size, but on my previously-male chest they appeared enormous. Fortunately, the emergency kit contained a stretchy, front-clasp sports bra. The bra was probably too big for me, but it gave some support for the unfamiliar weights swinging from my chest.

I slowly dressed, starting with a pair of stretch panties and the sweatsuit outfit over the hourglass figure I had suddenly acquired. My feet, which had shrunk to the point where my men's shoes dwarfed them, fit well into the women's tennis shoes. Looking into the mirror, I tried to arrange my hair into something that looked "normal" for my newly assumed gender. I saw a cute button nose, high cheekbones, and slightly-slanted eyes, hinting at some Asian background. Somehow I looked four years younger than the male Walter. I was also about three inches shorter than before. Then I extracted all the cash from my wallet--fortunately, these sweatpants had pockets to accommodate my money, cell phone, and the all-important business card.

Gathering everything up, I peeked outside briefly to see there was no one in my vicinity. I grabbed the "Out of Order" sign off the door and strode off. To avoid accusations of shoplifting, I went to the ladies' room in the rear of the store--the first time I'd ever been in a female restroom--and when it was momentarily empty I stuffed all my male clothing underneath the discarded paper towels in a trash receptacle.

That left only my wallet, containing credit cards and ID. I exited the store and walked along half a mile's worth of other large stores--PetsMart, Michaels, Home Depot, and so on--casually depositing each card or ID in a separate trash can. Now I was truly an un-person who could never prove his identity again; I hoped that the pill had changed even my fingerprints. Then I walked even farther, trying to disassociate my upcoming phone call from the flashing emergency lights around the gas station in the far distance. Looking at the business card, I activated the burner cell phone and called the number.

The moment I had seen the name on the card, I had a sense of uncanny coincidence. Yogi Berra had called it "déjà vu all over again." When I heard that familiar voice answering my call, I was both relieved and worried all over--I certainly didn't want to put her in danger, but I had no choice. We exchanged code phrases for identification, then she gave me an apartment number to meet her. Fortunately, that address was only a few miles away, but as a precaution I broke my trip up--Uber to another strip mall, walk to the far end of that mall, then another Uber to someplace near but not at her location. That was the best I could do to make tracing my movements more difficult.

It was after 10 p.m. before I finally reached the address she had given me. Thank goodness she was waiting for me, because she responded instantly when I pushed the buzzer next to her apartment number. She buzzed me in once I gave her another code phrase, and three minutes later I was knocking on her door. Again, she opened promptly, having apparently checked me out through the peep hole.

After the stress and danger of the day, I was overjoyed to be here, but had to control myself so that, for her own safety, she didn't learn my true identity.

The smiling beautiful, young woman who had just admitted me was the best friend of my former life, ex-slave Eleanor Jane Hastings.

(To be continued)