Chapter 6 - Mason Said He Wanted Me Gone Before Anyone Could Ask Him To Check
Mason Reed's review happened separately.
As it should.
My father's history did not climb backward through time and make Mason throw an envelope into gravel.
The video showed everything.
He snatched it.
Threw it.
Stepped on it.
Shoved me.
Grabbed my arm when I tried to retrieve it.
Then I punched him.
Security interviewed me again.
I said the same thing.
“I hit him.”
“Why?”
“Because he grabbed me and I was angry.”
“Were you afraid?”
“Not especially.”
“Did you believe he was going to injure you?”
“I believed he was trying to physically move me.”
That distinction mattered.
So did the environment.
A military checkpoint is an exceptionally stupid place to prove you cannot be intimidated.
I knew that while I did it.
That was my part.
The legal review ultimately declined to pursue charges against me after the video and witness statements were considered.
That did not make my decision smart.
Mason was removed from checkpoint duty during his own administrative review.
He requested to speak with me afterward.
I almost said no.
Then said yes.
Public office.
Another security officer present.
Mason's cheek had a fading bruise.
My wrist had one too.
He sat.
“I thought the envelope was fake.”
“It was.”
He frowned.
I almost smiled.
“Not the way you meant.”
“No.”
“The seal wasn't official.”
“No.”
“So why didn't you verify it?”
His face tightened.
“I didn't think it deserved verification.”
That was the real answer.
“Why?”
“You had no appointment.”
“Yes.”
“No sponsor confirmation.”
“Yes.”
“You said it showed up at your house.”
“Yes.”
“Everything about it sounded ridiculous.”
“Still does.”
His mouth almost moved.
Then:
“I wanted you gone.”
“So you threw it.”
“Yes.”
“Why step on it?”
Silence.
There.
Not security procedure.
Not confusion.
Humiliation.
He looked at me.
“Because you kept talking like I had to justify myself to you.”
“You did.”
“I know.”
“Now.”
“Yes.”
He breathed out.
“I wanted you to understand that I controlled whether the conversation continued.”
Specific.
Ugly.
Good.
“Why shove me?”
“Same reason.”
“And grab me?”
“You went for the envelope.”
“So?”
“I had already told you not to.”
He stopped himself.
“That isn't enough.”
“No.”
He stared at the tabletop.
“I had decided you were a problem before I knew what you brought.”
“Yes.”
“And once I did that, checking the envelope felt like backing down.”
There.
That I understood.
Not approved.
Understood.
People do stupid things to avoid making their previous stupid thing visible.
“Had this happened before?”
He hesitated.
“A civilian delivery issue last month.”
Of course.
A vendor entered the wrong checkpoint lane.
Mason handled it poorly.
Nobody breached the base.
Nothing dramatic.
But his supervisor criticized him for being indecisive.
Since then, he'd been overcorrecting.
“Does that excuse yesterday?”
“No.”
“Did your supervisor tell you to throw civilians' property?”
“No.”
“Grab people?”
“No.”
“So?”
“I chose it.”
Good.
He looked at me.
“You chose something too.”
“Yes.”
He seemed surprised I didn't fight.
“I shouldn't have punched you.”
“Because I'm military?”
“Because three armed guards were standing ten feet away.”
The security officer in the corner coughed.
Probably hiding a laugh.
I continued.
“I could have stopped moving and filed the complaint.”
“Would you have?”
I thought.
“Yesterday? Apparently not.”
Mason nodded.
Then:
“I'm sorry.”
“For?”
“Throwing the envelope because I wanted you to feel stupid for bringing it.”
More.
“For putting my hands on you after you were already outside the gate.”
Better.
I nodded.
“Thank you.”
No friendship.
No dramatic respect.
He left.
The security officer closed the door behind him.
Then said:
“You know most people don't punch gate guards.”
“I've received substantial feedback.”
He smiled despite himself.
When I got outside, Dad was waiting beside his truck.
He held a plain white envelope.
I stopped.
He saw my face.
“It isn't for Hale.”
“What is it?”
“My statement about yesterday's photograph.”
I stared.
“What statement?”
“I documented that I fabricated it, used your likeness without permission, and sent it to you intending you to carry it to David.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm not going to let you become the suspicious part of my demonstration.”
That was better.
“You submitting it yourself?”
“Yes.”
“To whom?”
“The security office.”
“Good.”
He looked toward the gate.
Then held the envelope tighter.
Old habit.
Use paper.
Use somebody.
Make the object carry the hard part.
I waited.
Dad looked at me.
“I'll walk it in myself.”
“Visitor access is suspended.”
His face fell.
I almost laughed.
“Mail it.”
He stared.
Then laughed too.
First time in years.
May you like
Not reconciliation.
But it was the first conversation we'd had that wasn't trying to retry 1999.
