16 February 2011

Hung Up In the System

The Gun Show Loophole, Part Three

(Moe’s Southwestern Grill off Route 28, Chantilly, VA. Photo Moe’s.)

My son and I left the show to have lunch and let them process our applications. It would take an hour, anyway, and we ensured that the green ink stamps were refreshed so we would not have to pay admission again. We had lunch at Moe’s Southwest Grill down Route 28, and I thought about how happy I was to live in Arlington and not out in the wilds of western Fairfax County, where civilization is clustered in the odd strip mall, and everything is accessible only by auto.

I called the number on the card that the clerk from Trader Jerry's gave me from the restaurant. It rang more than twenty times, but did not kick over to voicemail. Eventually a tired-sounding female voice came on the line. I told her the case number assigned to my application for the Sig Mosquito .22 semi-auto pistol, and she said she had to transfer me to someone else to explain why I needed “research” on my application and was hung up in the system.

I was sympathetic, to a degree, since Gun Show weekend has to be tough for her office at the State Patrol. They have to have someone to access the National Instant Criminal Background Check System (NICS), which is the point-of-sale mechanism to determine whether the loons at the Gun Show are eligible to purchase or even own a firearm.

Holders of Federal Firearms licenses are generally required by the provisions of the Gun Control Act of 1968 to use the NICS to determine if it is legal to sell a firearm to a prospective purchaser. The point, of course, under Section 922(g) of the Act, as amended, is to ensure that the following sorts of people do not get firearms. Prohibited is anyone who:

Has been convicted of a crime punishable by imprisonment for a term exceeding one year
Is under indictment for a crime punishable by imprisonment for a term if a year or more
Is a fugitive from justice
Is an unlawful user of or addicted to any controlled substance
Has been adjudicated as a mental defective or committed to a mental institution
Is illegally or unlawfully in the United States
Has been discharged from the Armed Forces under dishonorable conditions
Having been a citizen of the United States, has renounced U.S. citizenship
Is subject to a court order that restrains the person from harassing, stalking, or threatening an intimate partner or child of such intimate partner
Has been convicted in any court of a misdemeanor crime of domestic violence

Pretty straightforward stuff, so I was more than a little concerned about what might be floating around out there. None of those things seemed to apply, and yet I was pretty sure that it must have been a hit on the Interstate Identification Index (III), or “triple eye,” like the three-eyed monster of myth.

The triple-eye is a national index of rap sheets and assorted records that have been all dumped together to provide a central clearing house for law enforcement information. I guess it is a good thing, though who knows what might be in there.

Being a military guy, and worse, a military Spook, I have lived all over, and an indication of the sheer volume of information collected about me in the course of six or seven periodic investigations, not to mention the mandatory financial disclosure forms is daunting.

The last time I went for a Counter-intelligence polygraph, my file on the desk was more than two inches thick. I have received notices from the National Archives that a disc full of financial disclosure forms with much more than social security number, data and place of birth from the Clinton era had disappeared.

Shoot, I am all out there. So I figured that the sheer volume of the information was what was hanging up the system. My son got a couple soft tacos, and I got the southwest salad, with the good stuff surrounded in one of those deep-fried shells.

I waited for the call to be transferred, looking at the plate glass of the window at the Bluesmobile parked next to a stubborn pile of snow. Finally, another woman came on the channel and identified herself as Barbara, or something close to it.

It made me smile to think of Babs surrounded by computer screens. I explained the issue, and that due to the amount of public information on me I wanted to know specifically what needed to be “researched.”

Babs called up the record on the triple-eye and paused.

“So what is the information you have got on me that would disqualify me from a gun purchase?” I asked.

“Well, can’t tell from this. What is your social and date and place of birth?”

I rambled them off, as I have so many times.

“Well,” she said slowly. “There is something here from Aurora, Colorado. Havana Street.”

“Aurora? I have not been there in more than thirty years,” I said. “I lived there when I went to Intel School at Lowry Air Force Base. What is it?”

“I can’t tell. There is something there, though, and it is associated with your name and social. How tall are you?”

I told her. Then I asked: “Are you telling me there is someone using my name and personal information out there? Is there a warrant out for my arrest?”

“No,” she said. “But we won’t know until the day workers come in on Monday.”

“Crap,” I said. “I need to talk to my bank. I think I may have just had my identity stolen.”

I thanked her and hung up. My son looked up from his tacos.

“So what are you going up for, Old Man?”

“I haven’t a frigging clue,” I said. "I am just glad I put in an application and found out there was something wrong. It must be new- I have not had a problem before, even if things move like molasses."

Then I picked up the plastic fork and moved some lettuce around in the deep-fried taco shell, realizing I might have a big frigging problem on my hands.

 I had to protect my cash, and I had to talk to Mongo.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
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