Excerpt Chapter 5

The first Saturday in July, after watching the Iran Contra hearings until 2:00 a.m., I called Edna Laidlow at her son’s home in Maine. It was the first time we had talked since her move to the East Coast in early 1985. Before becoming permanently disabled in a car accident, Edna worked as a welfare fraud investigator for the state of Washington. Unlike other victims of psychological harassment, she didn’t present with paranoia. Her primary complaint was severe depression related to a recent bankruptcy. In her case the harassment started following an affair with a contract CIA operative she claimed was the signaler—the “umbrella man”—in Dealey Plaza on the day of John F. Kennedy’s assassination. This meant nothing to me at the time. According to Edna, more than fifty witnesses observed a tall, thin man open a large umbrella, in full sunlight, at the exact moment that Kennedy’s limousine came out from behind a freeway sign.

Following her break-up with Edwin, Edna experienced phone harassment, mail theft, multiple break-ins, electronic manipulation of her bank accounts and at least three attempts on her life. Frightened by the aggressive campaign to silence her, I agreed to treat her on condition she not disclose any specific knowledge she possessed about the JFK assassination or other clandestine intelligence activities. I had no desire to be privy to information that might place me or my daughter at risk, and viewed this information as irrelevant to her treatment.

Three years later I was a target in my own right and wanted to know everything she could tell me about domestic intelligence activities. She immediately confirmed Jabari’s claims about the CIA and FBI secretly collaborating with the Seattle police in spying on activists and whistleblowers. “They have a group they call the Footprinters and meet monthly at the Corson Avenue Elks Club. Along with undercover investigators from Northwest Security Services and the Welfare Fraud Unit. The meetings are closed to the public.” Her voice assumed a weighty, disapproving tone. “And to women, of course.”

She continued. “However, the CIA also have their own domestic security operations. Because this is illegal under federal law, they run them through a totally secret division called the Office of Security Services.”

She told me a long story I found difficult to follow about an investigation she undertook for former state representative Cal Anderson when he worked for Mayor Royer’s office. “When I lived in Jefferson Terrace, it was common for derelicts to follow me and even approach me with vague threats and nonsensical mumblings. They were all fairly young—in their thirties—and obviously unemployed. I was very surprised to discover three of them lived in my building.” Jefferson Terrace was a Seattle Housing Authority (SHA) building reserved for senior tenants age sixty and older. “My detective friend at the police department told me two of them were in the Federal Witness Protection program and one was a paid police informant. Numerous people in the building saw all three of them selling drugs. But owing to their special status, they couldn’t be prosecuted.”

Edna indicated one of the men, who happened to be an assistant manager, was implicated in a bizarre burglary ring involving several SHA buildings. It was this burglary ring that Cal Anderson asked her to investigate. What she discovered was that certain managers made pass keys available to certain friends when tenants died. With the end result that non-family members would strip their apartments of any valuables before the police arrived.

Edna could shed no light on who might be harassing me or why. “Perhaps one of your patients told you something.” Edna was aware I saw former veterans and ex-cops and their wives, girlfriends, and ex-wives and ex-girlfriends who sometimes confided in me about police or government involvement in illegal activities. Like Earl, she believed the men following me were engaged in “conspicuous surveillance.” It was intended to intimidate me, as opposed to true surveillance, which was performed without the subject’s knowledge.

“In any case,” she told me, “the best way to protect yourself is to construct a paper barricade.” What this meant was making sure at least one other person had a copy of any “sensitive” information in my possession—in other words information the federal government might not want me to have. “Also, remember to vary your routine, even if you don’t think you’re being followed. It makes it much harder for someone to set you up for any nasty surprises.”

Our conversation was interrupted by a sudden burst of loud, synchronous static from my FM radio, which was playing in the background. I listened to the radio to relieve the drudgery of chopping vegetables and washing dishes—even though the kitchen had the worst reception of any room in the house.

Edna became very grave. “You must never call me from home again. Or your office. Always use a pay phone. Do you hear that noise? There is only one cause for that kind of static—a transmitting microphone. It’s most likely in your phone jack.”

After we hung up, as Edna instructed, I removed the plastic plate where the phone line connected to the wall. I had no idea what I was supposed to look for. The microphone, if there was one, would remain hidden in the jumble of wires and brightlycolored splices.