"In due course, following an additional debriefing, the FBI confirmed to me and to my former counsel, Tom Carter, that I was not a suspect in this case. I assumed that my involvement in the investigation was over"
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The sentence reads like a man trying to claw his way back into the category of ordinary citizen. Hatfill’s “in due course” and “following an additional debriefing” aren’t just bureaucratic throat-clearing; they’re a deliberate mimicry of institutional language, a bid to sound as procedural as the agency he’s describing. When you’ve been publicly associated with a high-profile case, normal speech can feel too emotional, too incriminating. So you borrow the diction of clearance memos and official timelines, hoping the cadence itself signals innocence.
The real payload sits in “confirmed to me and to my former counsel.” He plants a legal witness inside the sentence: not just he-said-she-said reassurance, but something verified in the presence of an attorney. It’s reputation management disguised as narrative detail, a way of pre-empting the reader’s skepticism without sounding like he’s pleading.
“I was not a suspect” is phrased narrowly, almost painfully. It doesn’t claim vindication, only a technical status update, which hints at the larger truth of these investigations: exoneration rarely feels like exoneration when suspicion has already seeped into headlines. The final line, “I assumed that my involvement... was over,” carries the quiet sting. Assumed is doing a lot of work, suggesting the cruel asymmetry between what authorities decide and what the public remembers. In the shadow of the anthrax-era panic and the FBI’s long search for a culprit, Hatfill’s subtext is simple: the state can stop suspecting you, but it can’t easily return what suspicion took.
The real payload sits in “confirmed to me and to my former counsel.” He plants a legal witness inside the sentence: not just he-said-she-said reassurance, but something verified in the presence of an attorney. It’s reputation management disguised as narrative detail, a way of pre-empting the reader’s skepticism without sounding like he’s pleading.
“I was not a suspect” is phrased narrowly, almost painfully. It doesn’t claim vindication, only a technical status update, which hints at the larger truth of these investigations: exoneration rarely feels like exoneration when suspicion has already seeped into headlines. The final line, “I assumed that my involvement... was over,” carries the quiet sting. Assumed is doing a lot of work, suggesting the cruel asymmetry between what authorities decide and what the public remembers. In the shadow of the anthrax-era panic and the FBI’s long search for a culprit, Hatfill’s subtext is simple: the state can stop suspecting you, but it can’t easily return what suspicion took.
Quote Details
| Topic | Justice |
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