Witness Protection?

By M. D. D. Minunni

Jacob had everything. A beautiful wife, two loving children, a nice home, and a great job working for the government, until the federal cutbacks affected him and his family. The economy had taken a dramatic change that forced the closure of many programs in the federal government. Jacob’s was one of them. Forced to make many lifestyle changes, Jacob could not keep up with everything, and soon after losing his job, he started losing all that he had worked so hard for. Forced to move out of his home from foreclosure, his family moved in with family members. The strain placed on him was too great, and he soon found himself living alone on the streets so that his family could stay where they were. With nothing to guide him, Jacob wandered the streets of New York. When the FBI was moving from Manhattan to Brooklyn, Jacob, rummaging through trash, came upon a computer disk he found in a box. Since losing his job and life, this was the first thing he had that brought back all the good memories of his lost past. As a computer operator, Jacob was curious, and his curiosity took the best of him. With the help of a friend, they cracked the code on a secure disk only to reveal the contents were the FBI’s entire list of everyone in the witness protection program along with their new identities and addresses. In Jacob’s mind, it was like finding gold. Knowing people of interest from the neighborhood, Jacob knew he could sell that information to them. Rumors of prices on certain rats’ heads were on every street in Brooklyn. This could be his chance back to his life, but it wouldn’t be easy. He had to stay ahead of the FBI and the mob both at the same time, and he had to collect the money, both placing him in danger. His decision would test all he was made of, and he was ready to find his way back to his family at any cost.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781640273276

Book preview

Chapter One

Jacob

Jacob H. Johnson—that is my name. I’m from the New York City area, and I’m hiding out, on the run. I’ve been running from the government and the mob and, it feels like, just about everyone else I’ve ever known or had anything to do with. It has been almost two years now.

It all began just over two years ago. I was out of luck, owed everybody money, and had just lost my job due to federal cutbacks with a defense contractor. My wife, Jessica, was doing all that she could to help with the bills and also maintain a family. We have two children, Jacob Jr. and Susan. Both are too young to understand what we are going through now, eight years and six years old.

I was a computer programmer for a company called Itech Corp, a small defense contractor firm that ran computer programs and satellite uplinks for high-tech (ciphers and decoders), top secret stuff. But with all the cutbacks in the government spending and the pressure from the American public, our company was hit hard. I had devoted seven years of hard work to them. I started when I was twenty-five years old, after driving trucks around the metro area and taking computer-programming classes at night. It all paid off; I landed the big one—well, so I thought.

Jesse was thrilled that we might be able to move out of the city, maybe over to Jersey, where she had a couple of cousins, and that we would be able to afford our own home with a yard, nice neighbors, and a school down the street where everybody knew everybody else’s children.

The increase in money would mean that she wouldn’t have to work part-time at nights, after I came home, which was really putting a strain on our relationship. It is hard to try to raise two children, work all day, and keep up with the rent of an apartment, but now things were going to be different. She could go back to school and get the degree that she so desired. It was the least I could do for her. She is such a simple woman, devoted to the kids and me, never really asking for much. Just an occasional night out at a club or dinner and a movie. She was never the pressuring type.

She is the type that most men can only wish for, then they snap back to reality and go home to their nagging, same old everyday wives. Not that they contribute any extra effort to make their wives that special person that they once were when they first met. So I was a very fortunate person. I had always noticed the way all my friends looked her over whenever we were out with them. Jesse is an attractive woman with flowing long brown hair, brown eyes, and a squint on her eyes that makes her appealing to most everybody she comes in contact with.

I often wonder what she saw in me. I’m just an average Joe, black hair, green eyes, about six foot one and 185 pounds. My mother was Italian, and my father was English. They’re both gone now. Good, honest people. Real American patriots. Worked hard all their lives. We lived in a small row house in the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn, where most of my mother’s family was from. My father’s families were, for the most part, still over in England and had no desire to come over to America. They still called us all rebels. I guess they held grudges deep down inside for the Revolution, so there wasn’t any real contact with them. Jesse’s father had passed on a few years ago, and her mother still lived in the old neighborhood in Brooklyn.

I met Jesse at a service plaza on the New Jersey Turnpike, where she was waiting for someone from the garage to look at her car ’cause there was smoke coming from the engine. I was driving a truck for S&S Trucking from Jersey City and was on my way back to the terminal when I pulled into the service plaza for some coffee, which I really didn’t want but kinda thought went along with being a truck driver. You just had to have it, whether you wanted it or not. I think we all believed, the more coffee you consumed, the more miles you could drive, but I never drove over 150 miles a day anyway. Oh well, just being one of the guys!

Anyway, as I pulled in, I noticed this beautiful girl standing near her car, looking very nervous and worried. After I parked over where the big trucks had to park, I walked toward her and asked her what the problem with her car was. I could see that she looked scared and worried both at the same time, but she said, I don’t have any idea. I just know how to turn the key on and go. I told her she was not alone, that in fact, most men don’t know any more than she did but know how to fake it better. I asked her if someone from the garage had looked at her car yet, but I could see that they were backed up with cars all over and it would be a while before they could even open her hood. So I asked her if she wanted me to take a look.

She nodded, and it was then I saw that little squint over her eyes, which started causing my heart to race. I opened her hood slowly and brushed away some smoke with my hand. After the smoke cleared, I took a look around the engine to see if there was anything out of the ordinary, and I was trying not to let her see that I really didn’t know what I was looking for. But I was doing a good job faking it, as would anybody who really just wanted to be next to this beauty of a woman.

I was hoping that it would be something simple. Something that I would be able to notice quickly and save face in her eyes. Well, today was my lucky day! I reached down by the manifold pipe and pulled a smoldering rag out and threw it to the ground, stamped on it a few times, and told her that was her problem. I told her that her father most likely put it in the fender well to check the oil with, as did a lot of guys.

I said that it came out of where he had it stashed and landed on her manifold and was starting to burn. She asked me if there was going to be any damage to her car, and I told her no. I don’t think so. Nothing had burned but the rag, and she was smart to pull right over as soon as she smelled the smoke. She offered to pay me for helping her, and I politely refused. Besides, I was already rolling in the clouds because I solved her problem for her, and that made me feel like a big shot, you know.

I offered her a cup of coffee because she looked like she could use one just about then, and I really wanted to get her number and maybe take her out. She was too beautiful for me to just turn and walk away without trying, so I gave it a shot. I was infatuated with her beauty, and I felt like she was someone I would like to be with.

I was tired of the bar scene and all the uptight people you would meet there. Everybody had an angle these days. It was what they could get from you without having to remember your name or give you their number. Things have changed for the worse, I’m afraid. This seemed like a good opportunity for me to meet someone outside the bar for a change. She was hesitant at first, and I didn’t want to pressure her, so I gestured that I was going in now. And she agreed.

As we were walking up the stairs to the coffee shop, she said, I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name. I told her it was Jacob. She said her name was Jessica but all her friends just called her Jesse for short. We went inside, out of the cold, and got two cups of coffee. We grabbed a couple of chairs by the window and sat there, talking. I never had many Kodak moments in my life, but that was one for sure.

As she spoke, I could see her lips moving, but my brain forgot to tell my ears to listen to the words. I was sitting with a beautiful girl, who felt like I just saved her life, and I couldn’t be happier. The thought that at any moment, anyone of the hundreds of drivers for the company could pull in at any time and see me with this girl and that they would be back at the terminal before me, spreading the news about me, was getting the adrenaline flowing. I couldn’t think straight. I didn’t know how to ask her if I could see her again. I felt very foolish.

It sounds silly, but I didn’t want this girl to get away from me. I was mesmerized by her. I could see that she was becoming more comfortable with me, so I made sure not to ask her any personal questions. When I asked her where she was from and she said Brooklyn, I couldn’t believe my ears, and I blurted out like a schoolboy, Hey, I’m from Bensonhurst! It’s the Italian section of Brooklyn.

Her eyes told me that she was relieved to find out that we came from the same neighborhood. I told her that I had to get back on the road before my boss found out that I was out there bs-ing and not working, so I offered her my number and told her, if she ever needed my help with her car again, to give me a call. Deep inside I wanted to ask her to go out with me that night. I didn’t want this girl to leave. I could feel my heart pounding. My mind was saying things to her, but my mouth was, like, glued together. I became a knot-tying expert as my stomach was twisting in every direction.

I extended my hand and said good-bye, and as I walked out the door, she came up to me and said that she had to go over to her church that night to help prepare for a bazaar that they were having that weekend and, if I wasn’t too busy, that they could use an extra pair of hands. Blessed! That was all I could think of. I was blessed.

That was how we met and began our lives together.

Things were going pretty good for us. We had a small wedding the following fall and had been fortunate to be at the right spot at the right time when we were apartment-hunting. This small one-bedroom apartment had been recently vacated due to a death. But it needed much repair. Since I was somewhat of a handyman, I negotiated a deal with the landlord so that I could do the repairs for reduced rent.

He was an old man who really didn’t look like he wanted to get involved in making arrangements for the repairs that he knew would cost him plenty anyway, so he agreed, and we moved in on the first of November.

One night, after about a week, I came home from work, and Jesse was just sitting on the floor after working hard cleaning and scrubbing, washing windows, etc., all day. She looked so exhausted, but she said that she felt rewarded with the outcome. She made our home look very comfortable. It had her touch all about it, and I was quite pleased to be out of my aunt’s plastic-draped house and into my own place.

It felt very different. It looked like a country cupboard house. And I was happy. Jesse felt very good that I liked it too. On the weekends, I would work all day on the repairs, and at night, I would just pass out. This went on for about three months.

Now, we were settled in and beginning to really enjoy each other’s company when Jesse came up to me and said that we had to talk. She looked very serious, and at first glance, I thought that she was upset with me for something I did or didn’t do. So I sat and listened to her. I let her talk without interrupting her.

She started out by saying, I know we haven’t talked about this before, and I’m afraid of what you are going to say, but I want to know how you feel about children. She paused and stared at me, looking for that first impression on my face. Then she started again and said, I want to have a family, and we have never really talked about kids, and I was wondering how you feel about it.

I looked at her hands, as she was twisting her fingers around one another, and I noticed that she was biting her lip ever so carefully. I started to answer her and told her that I would love to have some kids, and a house, and all the little things that went with them. But I didn’t want to say anything to you, to upset you, ’cause I knew that you wanted to go back to school and get your degree. So I thought that when you were ready, we would talk about it, and I guess I was right ’cause now we’re talking about it!

She looked over toward the bedroom, and her eyes turned to me. Without hesitation, we were engulfed in the most passionate lovemaking since we had met. It was the most satisfying experience I had ever felt or read about or heard about. We fell fast asleep, wrapped in each other’s arms.

I was beginning to wonder if the Lord had made us for each other to live the most perfect life. I mean, we fell in love instantly, we got this apartment, things were going good for me at work, and I was coming along really good with my computer-programming course. Jesse was happy, so I felt we were living a storybook life.

Does it sound to you like I’m bragging? Well, I am! Who wouldn’t be? We were very much in love and happy, and it showed in everything we did, from work to social events and church.

Before long, the news came. Jesse was pregnant! I was going to be a daddy. We sat around, talking about names and doing all the things expectant parents do, like getting a crib and all the little baby items. In the meantime, I was getting some extra work, so I put some money aside for a down payment on our house.

Then it happened! An eight-pound, eight-ounce healthy baby boy. We had a son. My new son, Jacob Harris Johnson Jr., named after me by his loving mother, Jesse. It was all her idea, and she wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

I remember watching her in the hospital room holding him in her arms and caressing his forehead, speaking to him in her soft voice. She was glowing with happiness, and I can remember feeling sad for the pain that she went through bringing our son into this world. But that was all forgotten, for the moment anyway.

Back at work, I was handing out cigars, and my boss, a guy named Vito, had put up Congratulations, Jacob and Jesse, on Your New Son on the billboard. I was filled with joy and felt like I was on top of the world.

Vito was a nice guy up front, but behind doors, he could be the scariest guy you could ever meet. I mean, they write stories about guys like him, and we had all heard the rumors about him and some of his friends.

They said that the company was a front for the mob and Vito was the nephew of a capo from the city. The first I heard about it was one day, when I got a call over the two-way radio in the truck that told me to report back to the terminal immediately. I couldn’t think of what I might have done wrong. I was worried that I was going to get fired or something worse.

So I hurried back to Jersey City. It was only thirty minutes away, but it seemed like it was taking two hours to get there, and now I thought that they were going to fire me for sure for getting there so late. But when I pulled into the terminal, there he was, Vito Papa Scagaletti, waiting for me, tapping his foot and chewing on his stogie like he were waiting for his horse to come in at the track.

He told me to put the truck into the garage and park it and go into the office. So I did, and as I was going in, I could hear him yelling something in Italian at somebody in his office.

Joey Scraps was sitting there, reading The Post as if nothing was happening. He was a scary-looking guy. They called him Scraps ’cause he would finish the food left over on your plate at lunch or whenever someone was eating. It was like he could never get enough food. But he was a slender guy, one of those people who could eat twenty times a day and never gain an ounce.

He looked up from his paper and said to me, You’re next. Hope you can swim good!

I looked at him in surprise and asked, What did I do?

He just laughed and went back to reading his paper. The door to Vito’s office opened, and this guy that didn’t work for the company went running out in a hurry, saying, I’ll take care of it right away, boss. Don’t worry. And he left in a hurry.

I could see Mr. Scaagalletti standing behind his desk, just staring at me. The sweat began to pour from my forehead, and my stomach was twisting into a knot. I could feel my palms getting clammy, and I was hoping I didn’t have to shake hands with him when I went in, ’cause I knew that he didn’t like guys with sweaty hands. It was a trust thing.

He motioned with his hand and said, Get in here. I hurried into his office, and he said, Close the door. Sit down. For a few seconds, he just stared at me. It seemed like he were watching me for an hour, looking for some indication of guilt.

Then he spoke. Jacob, he said, do you believe that a man should be just as loyal to his job as he is, maybe, to his family? Before I could answer, he started again. I mean, you know, like, let’s say, if you were to see something at your job that maybe you shouldn’t have seen, like something that looked illegal maybe, would you go tell the cops or someone else without telling me first?

He just glared at me, waiting for my answer. I told him that I was brought up to respect my boss because he puts the food on the table and a roof over my head and that if there ever was a problem, I should talk to my boss first. Nobody in my family really trusted the cops anyway. The cops just used you for information or payoffs, and when you couldn’t come through, they would leave you to hang out to dry.

He said, That’s a good boy. You’ll do good here. Then he said, Did you find anything in the truck you were driving today?

I said, No. The trailer was empty. I had to go over to Kennedy to make my pickup.

He said, No, not the trailer. The cab.

I said, No, sir. Nothing.

He said, Okay, go ahead and get truck number 478 and go over to 2205 Michigan Avenue and pick up a load for me and bring it back to warehouse number 2. Drive right in. They’ll be waiting for you.

I got up and left, and I couldn’t help but wonder what he was talking about. I thought about it. I must be picking up some illegal cargo that he didn’t want anyone to see.

Maybe this is how they get their hooks into you, by getting you to do some dirty little job for them, and then they have you by the balls for life. I mean, I’d worked there for four years, and I’d never been inside warehouse number 2. I began to get nervous. My mind was filling with a thousand different scenarios.

When I got to the address Vito had told me about, they told me to go inside and get a cup of coffee and that they would have me out of there in twenty minutes. So I got out of the cab and let them take the truck into the yard. I went inside a small office, where there were remnants of a once-used coffeepot, and sat down. It was a dirty place. Very cold and drab. Old newspapers were lying around, and cigarette butts were all over the floor. Remnants of once well-woven spider webs adorned every ceiling corner. Chills raced up and down my spine.

Twenty minutes later, my truck went out of their gate. This guy gave me a piece of paper and told me to go right back to the terminal. He said, Don’t stop for anything, coffee, accidents, cops. Now I was really worried. Then he got really close to me and said, And don’t open that trailer and snoop inside. Not for nobody. Capisce? (That means understand in Italian.)

I said, Yeah, okay.

Chapter Two

The Justice Department

Eric Wallace was running for his first interview with an informant. He had stayed up late that night, preparing himself for the right questions he was going to ask Mr. Marconi, also known as I-21, informant 21. Mr. Wallace had worked as an assistant district attorney for the justice department for ten years now, and this was his first really big case.

For the most part, he had worked the research department, where he had established himself as one of the best researchers, of the justice department. But now he was moving up, given that so-called golden opportunity to plant his bones within the department. After working up a case for eighteen months against Anthony Lips Genaro, the feds got their first real break when a guy named Louie the Handlebar Marconi was caught red-handed with a load of swag destined for Anthony Genaro’s club in Brooklyn.

They had Louie for a first-rate felony, and he was facing up to forty years in prison since he was already out on parole. The justice department, led by Eric Wallace, turned up the heat on Louie. They had pictures of him going in and out of Tony’s club. They had pictures hanging on a blackboard—of Louie’s wife, mother, sisters, his son Nick, and other immediate family members—just to put the pressure on him. They wanted to let him know that some of the people in those pictures would not be around when he would get out of jail this time, and still, others would be fully grown.

DA Wallace didn’t want Louie; he wanted Anthony Ups Genaro. He was a capo in one of the New York crime families. It was him that they wanted. So by using the pictures, they felt that they could intimidate Louie into turning state’s evidence against Tony and entering the witness protection program, where he would be given a new identity, a job, a check once a week, and a home far away from the streets of New York.

His family would be protected from retaliation by the mob families. In a sense, he would be forgiven by our government for all his past crimes and given the opportunity to start a new life with his family in a new place. He would become John Doe, who lived on Any Street in Your Town, USA.

Eric was very nervous about being that close to this mob guy for he had a very bad reputation and a violent past history with a rap sheet the length of the Statue of Liberty’s outstretched arm.

His criminal past began when he was just ten years old, when he got beaten up by a couple of local thugs for peeking into a window that he shouldn’t have peeked in. In retaliation, Louie waited around the corner in an alleyway for the thugs to go out the back door of this club.

After a few hours, the door swung open, and out walked the three guys who had beaten him badly, laughing and carrying on. Then the pail tilted and splashed—gasoline covered all three of them. As they wiped their eyes and cursed, they heard a faint call out to them. Hey, you guys. All wet? You need a towel? Or how about a match? At that, Louie threw a lit pack of matches at the thugs and began running for home as fast as he could, ignoring the pain he was in. He could hear the screams for three blocks.

They were thunderous screams, screams that had been heard around the neighborhood many times before during the different mob wars that had escalated over the years. Passersby looked down the alley and could see the flames bursting from the boys, but none stayed to help. They hurried on their ways as that old code of the neighborhood came across their minds, which said, Hurry and go home, lock the doors, and read about it in the morning paper. Don’t tell anyone what you saw, for you could be next if they thought you might tell the police. Mind your own business and say, ‘I didn’t see anything, I didn’t hear anything.’ Just play dumb.

It was this mentality and fear that had kept most New Yorkers quiet, and it still does. Anyway, the authorities picked up Louie at home on suspicion and threw him into juve. They didn’t have any proof, but they knew he was behind it because someone had told them, Those guys had just beaten up little Louie a few hours before.

After this, Louie became a very feared kid. The years to follow couldn’t even begin to show what the local cops knew, and feared, just how bad he really was. He got his nickname because one day, he and a couple of friends went up to Yonkers to the track. They stopped afterward at a bar that was frequented by some bikers. When they walked in the door, the typical word and eye exchange took place. There were What are you grease balls doing up here? and No pasta here, just pig’s feet and beer, and no wine either, or how d’you call it—vino? But there was one biker in particular that was eyeballing Louie like he were shaking him down without even touching him. Little did he know how soon he would be regretting his actions. This made Louie and the guys a little nervous.

They were in a place where they shouldn’t have been. An unfamiliar turf. Traditionally, bikers and Italian mob members had hated one another but needed one another’s help in illegal dealings.

Then, the biker who was eyeballing Louie went up to him. He had a mug of beer in one hand and a pig’s foot in the other. He told Louie, Here, you got to slug beer and suck foot if you want to stay here. Everyone in the bar started laughing. They all knew what was going to happen, but what they didn’t know was Louie Marconi.

He had two favorite words in his vocabulary, revenge and execute, and not in that particular order either. Louie made his move and dropped to his knees, grabbing the big guys testicles with a pair of Vise-Grips that he always carried with him to help him break into doors easily by twisting the lock around. He cramped down hard, and the big guy fell.

At that point, his friends, Carl and Johnny Boy, both pulled out their guns, as did everyone else in the bar. Outnumbered by ten to one, Carl reached under his jacket and pulled out a US-government-issued hand grenade and pulled the pin. The bikers ran out the rear door for cover. The only ones left in the bar were Louie, Carl, Johnny Boy, and the big biker, who, by now, had passed out from the pressure applied to his private area. Louie said, Grab his legs. Let’s teach this son of a bitch a lesson. They dragged him out and put him in the trunk of their car.

Louie saw the bikes lined up by the curb and, with his Vise-Grips, went over to one and took one of the handlebars off a bike. Carl asked, Whatcha gonna do with that?

Louie said, Just drive over to the Fifty-Ninth Street bridge.

When the biker woke up, he felt the pain on his crotch, but then he realized he was hanging over the edge of the bridge with his hands tied to a pair of handlebars, and Louie, Carl, and Johnny Boy were holding onto the bar from the top.

The last thing the biker heard was Louie saying Enjoy the ride as they let go of him. The water had to be about thirty degrees, and there was no way for him to survive since his hands were tied to the handlebar and there was a water bucket full of cement on the protruding end of it.

Since that day, he was known to all of importance as Louie Handlebars Marconi.

Now, Eric was going to be sitting face-to-face with this notorious gangster, prodding him, going over question after question for hours upon hours. Eric arrived at his headquarters at eight thirty-four. A full hour late. But it worked out to his advantage, because after staring at the pictures on the blackboard, Louie was beginning to realize that this time, there was no going back. That he would never see his only son a made member of his organization. That his wife would be left alone with no help from the family that Louie had made millions for.

Louie’s mind was moving at a pace that even he couldn’t handle. Eric had decided the night before that he was going to treat this model of a scum with a modicum of respect, although it was against his boss’s wishes. Steve Gardner, DA, wanted this guy hung out to dry for all his buddies to see, but Eric needed his testimony if he was going to get the big fish, Tony.

Eric walked into the interrogation room, where Louie and his lawyer, alone with two detectives, were waiting, and he said, Good morning, Mr. Marconi. Are you comfortable? Can I get you some coffee?

At this, Louie sensed that he had the upper hand and that the DA had nothing on him that could stick; after all, they only caught him with a load of stolen goods while he was backing into Tony’s social club. He could produce falsified papers, pay off some people, or do whatever it took to weaken the State’s case against him. This wasn’t the first time a wise guy had been pinched for stolen merchandise and got off.

Eric introduced himself to Louie and said, I am Assistant District Attorney Wallace. I am the prosecutor in the case. Before we get started, I was wondering if you know a Carl Windhiemer? He had some very interesting things to tell us about a bridge on a cold night. We busted him for possession, and he wouldn’t shut up about this bridge.

Louie’s lawyer got all excited, yelling at the DA and questioning him about his tactic. What, is this some kinda game? Was my client with this . . . this Carl when you busted him? What is the relevance of this guy to the case at hand?

Louie sank down in his chair, his palms beginning to sweat. He was thinking of what to do. What did Carl tell them? Can I get to Carl and take care of that rat bastard?

This was bigger trouble for Louie than you would think. He wasn’t worried about Carl as much as he was worried about big Tony. To have someone that is outside the family get the goods on you and then make himself a deal to avoid being prosecuted means death for whomever has brought him around, and Louie knew this.

The two lawyers were talking about it, but Louie didn’t even hear a thing they were saying. His thoughts were on Carl and the family. He had been warned before about letting that crowt hang out with him, that he would sing to save his own ass. Things were going through Louie’s mind a mile a minute. He was very nervous. His cockiness had left him. His forehead felt as cold as ice. Then Louie said, Can I have a minute with my lawyer alone?

Mr. Wallace stood up and motioned with his eyes for the detectives to leave the room. For the most part, Eric was a very polite man, never pressing issues beyond their immediate means. He would always hold his cards tight to his chest, laying out only a few at a time, and then wait to see what would result. They all left the room, except Louie and his lawyer. Eric could see Louie yelling at his lawyer.

He was obviously shaken by the news of Carl. Eric knew he had him. After a few minutes, Louie’s lawyer motioned to Eric that they were ready. When they returned into the room, Mr. Wallace announced in a firm, well-rehearsed voice, "Mr. Marconi, we have you on several charges and parole violations stemming from theft, receiving stolen property, transporting stolen property, transporting stolen property across state lines, parole violations for crossing state borders without the consent of the