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It was then that the intimidation started. Hang-ups on the phone. Anonymous, vaguely threatening messages on social media, thevroom-vroomof motorcycles outside their bedroom windows at all hours of the night.
They called the police, who notified the U.S. Marshals, who visited them immediately, telling them they might qualify for Witness Protection.
“How does that work?” Maggie asked.
It was explained that Maggie, Craig, and their two children would be given new IDs and spirited to a secret location, where they would be provided with a monthly stipend and money to live temporarily, as well as new SSNs, fake birth certificates, and other necessary documents. But, while they would still be liable for any debts they’d previously incurred, they would not be able to buy a car or make any other major purchases because there would be no credit history on their new IDs.
It also meant leaving their relatives and friends and virtually their entire lives behind.
It meant they would have to lie to everyone about everything.
“It seems as if we’re the ones being punished here,” Maggie observed. “Not the killer.”
The Marshals didn’t disagree.
“We’ll need some time to think this through,” Maggie told them, increasingly torn between wanting to do the right thing and worries for her family’s welfare. Could she really ask them to give up their home, their friends, theirnames? She assured herself that such drastic measures were unnecessary, that once her testimony put the killer behind bars, everything would be okay, their lives could return to normal.
Except the case never went to trial.
It was dropped because the man she’d identified produced an alibi, however suspect—half a dozen fellow bikers, all looking vaguely alike, all sporting the same tattoos, all swearing they’d been together at the time of the incident. The Assistant State’s Attorney insisted that any half-decent lawyer would attack the validity of Maggie’s identification. How could she be so sure his client was the man she saw when she’d been inside her car a lane away, her windows were closed, the sun was in her eyes, and she’d been scared, possibly even traumatized? Combined with the biker’s alibi, that would likely be enough to create reasonable doubt in the jury’s mind, making it impossible for the prosecution to obtain a conviction.
“Look on the bright side,” said her obviously relieved husband. “It’s over.”
Except it wasn’t.
The charges might have been dropped, but the harassment continued. Their house was pelted with eggs; wherever Maggie went, young men on motorcycles appeared; a dead bird was found in their mailbox.
They called the U.S. Marshals, who explained that, because there would no longer be a trial for Maggie to testify at, the family was no longer eligible for Witness Protection.
Six months later, they moved to Florida.
After a brief breaking-in period, everyone not only adjusted to the move, they flourished. Craig got a job at a local luxury car dealership, becoming their top salesman within a matter of months; Erin quickly became one of the more popular girls at school; even quiet Leo seemed happy.
Only Maggie failed to thrive. Only Maggie failed to move on.
She sought help from a therapist and religiously practiced the recommended breathing exercises and meditation meant to calm her, but stopped when the time it took to do them only made her more anxious.
She dyed her long, thick hair a mousier shade of brown, then cut it short. She chose not to work, ostensibly so she could be home for the kids “till they get used to everything.” She interacted only fleetingly with the neighbors, became increasingly antisocial and wary of strangers.
“There was this man,” Maggie informed Craig one day. “I’m sure he was following me….”
“There was no man,” Craig said.
“There was a hang-up on the phone this morning….” she said another time.
“Probably a wrong number.”
“There was this guy at Leo’s school, he looked at me kind of funny….”
“Maggie…”
“We need to buy a gun.”
“We’re not buying a gun.”
“You’re being stubborn.”
“You’re being paranoid.”
