Free False Witness by Scott Cook

Affleck in Reporter On The Run . “Let’s hold up a minute, here,” he said. “If I’m going to do this – and that’s a big if – don’t I have to go to through the police? I mean, I can’t just go off and do this on my own. There are official channels we have to follow.”
    “Says who?”
    “What?”
    Singer stood up and began to pace across the study’s rich, dark carpet. “My boy, I’m afraid you, along with the vast majority of television watchers, have been duped by what you see on the idiot box. Witness protection isn’t some sort of organized federal program here in Canada. Even in the U.S. it’s no great shakes, but up here, it’s a spit-and-baling-wire solution at best, and according to Charles, it rarely works. The police will only supply the witness with new identification – a social insurance number and a driver’s license – and send them on their merry way. No money, no protection, no false references if the poor sap is applying for a job. Nothing.”
    “That’s it? In return for putting your life on the line?”
    “And, in your case, putting a vicious killer behind bars.” Singer sat down on the sofa, resting her elbows on the small expanse of lap that managed to extend beyond her hefty bosom and belly. Alex thought it made her look like she was pleading.
    “I’m ashamed to admit there’s little more. A local police officer might be contacted in whatever area the witness relocates to and asked to keep an eye on the poor bastard. Unfortunately, there’s almost no money allocated anywhere for this type of program.”
    That was the last straw. Alex stood up and positioned himself so that he was staring down at Singer. “Great!” he cried, throwing his hands up. “Now I just need to shut off my utilities, abandon my house and car, and hope that I can find a job wherever I end up without any references. Hell, if Richard Kimball could do it week after week, I can too, right?”
    Even as he ranted, Alex knew he wasn’t being truthful with Singer. His parents both had money, and he could ask for it, but there would be questions. Questions he was in no mood to answer, even if he could. Given the option, he would probably take the risk of going the official route rather than putting himself through the process of submitting to his parents. The less he talked about them, the better.
    Leslie Singer gave him a hurt look; she appeared to be on the verge of tears. “My boy, you didn’t think Charles and I would leave you without resources, did you?” She reached into the envelope that had held the new driver’s license and birth certificate, pulled out a light blue card and handed it to Alex. It was a MasterCard in the name of Alex Wolfe.
    “There’s a pre-paid twenty-thousand dollar balance on that account, and another twenty thousand in credit available beyond that, should you need it. I’ve also arranged for seven thousand in cash to be sent to you via email transfer today. Will that cover your mortgage and bills for two months?”
    Alex stared blankly at the card. “Uh . . . yeah,” he muttered, his mind reeling again. “That’ll cover it. Look, Leslie, I-I don’t know if I’d be able to repay you . . .”
    Singer frowned and gave a dismissive wave with her liver-spotted hand. “Nonsense,” she said. “Leo and I both come from old money, and I’ve made a tidy sum off the good people of Canada during my years in the courtroom. I earned every penny, mind you, but I’ve always felt a bit guilty knowing that the civilians, the ones whose testimony puts criminals behind bars, got nothing, while I earned a healthy salary and a reputation as a dragonslayer. Consider this my white liberal guilt made manifest in a gift to you.” She dropped a wink. “Besides, Charles threatened to kick my ass if I didn’t.”
    “I don’t know what to say.”
    “Then say nothing. I would suggest gathering a bag with essentials as soon as you leave here, and then renting a car as Alex Wolfe.