The story belongs to Marc Schultz, a 25-year-old bookstore employee, a freelance writer who studied with Tony Earley in the creative writing program at Vanderbilt. Carrying a clear conscience, Schultz wasn't even anxious when his mother called him at work to say the FBI was looking for him. More than anything else, Schultz felt curiosity. Like most of us, he was burdened with a stereotype of G-men on the job -- "Matrix-like figures in black suits and opaque sunglasses" standing in his mother's doorway.
When the agents showed up at the bookstore, one was dressed in a sports jacket and T-shirt -- "like an Atlanta version of Miami Vice," Schultz told me -- and the other wore rumpled cargo shorts. They looked like anybody, only larger. They were civil enough, he said, but it didn't take long to establish that he was the man they were after.
Now alarmed and bewildered, a virgin suspect, Schultz tried to recall his movements on the previous Saturday. On his way to work, had he stopped at the Caribou Coffee Shop on Powers Ferry? Yes. Did he carry anything into the coffee shop? Sunglasses, maybe his cell phone. Reading material? No -- wait. OK, he was reading an article his father had printed for him off the Web -- "a scathing screed focusing on the way corporate interests have poisoned the country's media," as he described it later in an article for Creative Loafing.
Schultz had arrived at the source of his quarrel with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He couldn't even remember who wrote the "screed" in question. But some unnamed patriot in the Caribou Coffee Shop had found Schultz and his reading material so terrifying that he called the FBI.
"We'd just like to get to the bottom of this," said the agent with muscles. "Now if we can't, then you may have a problem. And you don't want that."
We don't want that. My purpose here is not to embarrass these agents, any more than they've already embarrassed themselves. The new congressional report on its pre-9/11 performance has given the bureau all the image problems it can handle. It's possible -- I can't seem to establish this -- that regulations, or the Patriot Act, compel the FBI to investigate every earnest complaint from a paranoid citizen, even a citizen with a fascist chip on his shoulder and a brain the size of a mayapple. (Would agents come at 3am if I told them I saw a man in a burnoose perched in a tree?) But a long, dark shadow has fallen across the republic -- and our sweet sunny South -- when complaints of this caliber result in travesties like the harassment of Marc Schultz. Imagine a rural South in more innocent times, and a similar complaint registered with a radically different set of law enforcement officers.
Mayberry's resident Chicken Little -- devout Andy Griffith buffs could name him -- bursts into the sheriff's office on fire with the news. There's a suspicious stranger reading Communist propaganda in broad daylight, let's say in one of the waiting chairs at Floyd's barber shop. Deputy Fife starts to hyperventilate and reaches for the single bullet Sheriff Taylor allows him -- or maybe for the phone to call in the FBI. The sheriff freezes his deputy with a raised hand -- "Now calm down, Barney" -- and slowly turns his chair in the direction of the gibbering snitch, all the while rearranging his face into that tired, patient half-smile that never showed his teeth. The smile he reserved for hysterics and crackpots.
Andy rises, places a firm hand on the informer's elbow and leads him out of the office and down the block to the drugstore, where he buys him a Nehi and inquires into the health of his family -- and, with infinite tact, into the status of his medications.