Permanent Record

6.16.2013–6.18.2013
Haven’t written for days. I’m so angry that I have to take a deep breath and
figure out who and what exactly I’m angry at, because it all just blurs
together. Fucking Feds! Exhausting interrogations where they treat me like
I’m guilty and follow me everywhere, but what’s worse is that they’ve
broken my routine. Usually I’d tear off into the woods and shoot or write, but
now I have a surveillance team audience wherever I go. It’s like by taking
away my energy and time and desire to write, they took away the last little bit
of privacy I had. I need to remember everything that’s happened. First they
had me bring in my laptop and copied the hard drive. They probably put a
bunch of bugs on it, too. Then they had copies of all my emails and chats
printed out, and they were reading me things I wrote to Ed and things Ed
wrote to me and demanding I explain them. The FBI thinks that everything’s
a code. And sure, in a vacuum anyone’s messages look strange. But this is
just how people who’ve been together for eight years communicate! They act
like they’ve never been in a relationship! They were asking questions to try
to emotionally exhaust me so that when we returned to “the timeline,” my
answers would change. They won’t accept I know nothing. But still, we keep
returning to “the timeline,” now with transcripts of all my emails and chats
and my online calendar printed out in front of us.
I would expect that gov guys would understand that Ed was always
secretive about his work and I had to accept this secrecy to be with him, but
they don’t. They refuse to. After a while, I just broke down in tears, so the
session ended early. Agent Mike and Agent Leland offered to give me a ride

---

back to Eileen’s, and before I left, Jerry took me aside and said that the FBI
seemed sympathetic. “They seem to have taken a liking to you, especially
Mike.” He told me to be careful, though, about being too casual on the ride
home. “Don’t answer any of their questions.” The moment we drove away
Mike chimed in with, “I’m sure Jerry said not to answer any questions, but I
only have a couple.” Once Mike got talking, he told me that the FBI office in
San Diego had a bet. Apparently, the agents had a pool going to bet how long
it would be before the media figured out my location. The winner would get
a free martini. Later, Sandra said she had her doubts. “Knowing men,” she
said, “the bet’s about something else.”