by Ted Bernard
Katherine beamed at Nick’s news. She decided to stroll cautiously away from the food tent toward the Gilligan statue. She saw a noisy group of counter-protestors on East Clayborne at the edge of Julianna’s crowd. They all wore red t-shirts with …
I Fracking
emblazoned across their chests and breasts. Adults, and a number of young children, chanted and waved signs, advancing against the anti-fracking majority:
FRIENDS OF NATURAL GAS, NEW BARNSTABLE OHIO
WE NEED NATURAL GAS NOW
FRACKING = JOBS
FRACKING: PROVEN SAFE
FRACKING AND BLACKWOOD: A PERFECT MARRIAGE.
A handful of students at the edge of the crowd began to push back and chant in response. Like a series of rogue waves their chants surged through the crowd. Soon they not only drowned-out the pro-group but also washed out Julianna’s words. Would this be the emergent event to throw the day into chaos?
~
Through her open window, Helen Flintwinch could see the huge crowd at the far end of Centennial Quad, could hear the competing chants, could sense the restlessness, could fear the psychology of the mob. Beth Samuels stood at her side. Flintwinch dialed her Chief.
“Annie, what are your people saying?”
“Massive crowds at three different sites, bigger overall than Halloween I believe. Some ruckus near the Gilligan statue on East Clayborne. Other two sites at Courthouse and Carsey have bands. An explosive atmosphere, Helen.”
“What are Argolis Police doing? Have you talked to Waldecker?”
“I have. They’re operating normal shifts. He said as long as there are no scuffles or serious confrontations between people and cars, or property violations, he’s fine with letting the protests play out. He wants no bloodshed, no face-offs, especially since media are crawling all over town. He said police brutality is not going to happen and the crowds are dispersed and too big to rein in. Let them release their steam. By dark, it will be quiet, he predicted.”
“Bullshit,” Flintwinch replied. “Let me talk with him and get back to you”
After a wholly unsatisfactory conversation with the Argolis Chief of Police, in which Flintwinch tried to issue orders, make threats, bully the man to no avail, she decided it was time to toss around the pots and pans, bust up the family china, arouse the governor with shattered glass. It was time for the nuclear option. To Beth she said, “My career is at stake here. I’ll not have these enviros ruin me.”
10
Stefan’s Journal
Pastor’s Kid
Seated at a steel table with two chairs, locked in an airless, battleship-gray room in the Argolis County Jail, I could do nothing but drum my fingers and wait. Finally, a female deputy unlocks the door and escorts Samantha to the chair opposite me. The deputy leaves the room.
Samantha looks bleary and unkempt. She stares blankly at the floor, her hair stringy and lifeless. The frog-colored prison jumpsuit, a size or two too small, grips her legs just below the knees. She looks up, takes a moment to focus, incredulous and weeping at the sight of me.
“Dr. Friemanis — Stefan, I can hardly believe it’s you. How did you know?”
“That’s not important now, Samantha. We’ve got to make good use of these few minutes. I want to post bond for you, but first I need to ask some questions.”
“Bond? Does that mean I might be released?”
“I hope so.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard in two whole days.”
“No guarantees, understand?”
“Yeah.”
“First, have you seen a lawyer?”
“Not yet. They told me I’m entitled to consult with somebody from the Office of Student Legal Services. No one has come yet.”
“Okay. I’ll make sure they do. What about your family? Have they been contacted?”
“No. I don’t want them to know yet. It would freak them for sure.”
“Have you ever been arrested?”
“Heavens no. I’m a PK.”
“PK?”
“Pastor’s kid. I would be humiliated to have my parents know about my arrest.
“I see. Okay, I’ll let you decide when to do that. How old are you?”
“Nineteen. My twentieth birthday’s next month. December 25th”
“There’s some good planning.”
“No kidding. Also, proof my parents had sex at least once in 1993.”
My eyes widen. I have no intention of commenting on her parents’ bedtime behaviors. “Okay Samantha, here’s a quick checklist of questions a lawyer might ask. Just listen before you respond. Were you allowed to remain silent? Were you told that anything you choose to say could be used against you? Were you asked questions that should have waited until your attorney arrives? Do you think you’ve been treated as though you are guilty? Have you been treated humanely and fairly? Has there been any cruel or unusual punishment?”
“Wow, that’s a lot to remember. Well, I have not been grilled by anybody and have not admitted anything to anyone. My cell mate seems mute; developmentally disabled maybe. She makes me cry. The guards have been okay with me generally. Nothing cruel. They are not likeable people, though.” Her eyes moisten again.
“They’re trained to be tough. Can you try to remain hopeful for another day or two?”
“I guess so, but I hate it here. I hate it!”
I struggle to stay focused, to suppress my rising empathy. All I can think about is my father’s imprisonment by the Russians: the bleak fetid cell he described, the fear and hopelessness, the torture. His scars to this day. This is the Hilton by comparison. “I know this is hard. You’ve put your life on the line; nobody else from the protest is where you are.”
“That’s why I feel so empty and abandoned.” She sobs more.
“I understand. Time is running out. Besides a lawyer, is there anyone you want me to contact?”
“Yes. Hannah McGibbon. She was the one person I called when I got arrested.”
“I’ll get in touch with her.”
“She’s my best friend. Just tell her I’m okay.” Samantha wipes her nose on her sleeve. “God, I’m pathetic.”
“Not so, Samantha. Anyone else?”
“Yes, Melissa. I don’t know her last name. She’s an older woman. She’s in our class.”
“Melissa Randell. I’ll call her too. Any message?”
“Tell her I’m thinking about her and Macy.”
“Did you say Maizie?”
“No, Macy.”
The deputy bursts into the room. What goes through my head: At least she’s not a Russian. Samantha jitters upward and off her chair. The deputy grabs her by the elbow. Samantha whimpers a meek good-bye. Another deputy escorts me to retrieve my belongings. On the street, I take a moment to gather my thoughts. Samantha’s plight has me reeling. If her blood smear were to stand up in court, she would be in deep trouble and so would the Blackwood movement. I head toward the Office of Student Legal Services.
11
Stefan could hear the chants outside the Courthouse. It had taken four-plus hours, but by 4:10 PM, he and Samantha walked out of the Argolis County Jail behind the courthouse. She was a free woman, at least for the moment. Dazed in the sunlight, her hair tussled, clothes rumpled, she and Stefan paused on the sidewalk. People rushed past them unaware that the first legal casualty of the resistance stood here, stunned and bereft.
“Fresh air, no guards, my own clothes,” she ticked off things without emotion, the only things she could be sure about in this moment of high emotion.
“What now?” Stefan asked.
“First, I definitely need to stay away from this rally. No way can I afford further encounters with the law. I’ll head over to the Sorority House to regroup and get in touch with Hannah and the others. After that, I don’t know.”
“Sounds like a good plan. Being cautious, that is. This crowd seems a bit volatile. Let me know if you need further help.”
“I’ll be fine
, at least until the arraignment. Meanwhile, I cannot thank you enough, Stefan.” She looked straight into his eyes. Her own were red-rimmed and moistening. She closed the gap between them and enveloped him in a hug that might have bowled over a smaller man. Wiping a tear, she turned away wordlessly and skirted round the protest.
Stefan worked his way into the crowd. Who was the speaker? He edged forward to gain a sightline. An intense dark-haired woman — a student surely — spoke of native peoples and how their sacred lands had been desecrated. How they were robbed of more than just their land. Also stripped: their spiritual connection to the landscapes and plants, fish, birds, animals. The genocide, the relocations, foisted on them she said, assaulted them so profoundly that their culture and economy went over the cliff. Since then they’ve been trapped in poverty and desperation. The indigenous experience, she argued, offered lessons in these times when our lands and lives were about to be enslaved by frackers. Stefan’s heart throbbed toward his throat when she stepped down from the podium to hearty applause. She strode straight to him. Without pause, she wrapped her arms around him. Abby of the shimmering coal black hair, of the gleaming doe eyes, decked out in native costume from an intricately beaded head band to ankle-height moccasins, stepped back, her hands on his upper arms. She looked into his eyes. “Before you, Stefan, there’s no way I would have had these words.” She turned and melted into the crowd.
~
All roads leading to Argolis were jammed with cars and busses aiming toward the protests. The situation had been dire for several hours. Incapable of breaking the jams, on foot, police were doing their best to distribute water and keep stranded drivers calm. The problem was that many travelers had simply abandoned their vehicles to walk the final miles to campus. To make matters worse, four busses had run out of gas and Argolis’s total fleet of tow trucks was itself mired in the mess. Mobs of agitated, hungry people advanced on foot toward campus. Judging by their t-shirts and banners, a fair proportion belonged to the pro-fracking fraternity.
Sergeant Gilmore Putman and Officer Lisa Van Sickle, who had been dispatched in a GUO cruiser to report on the invasion, had themselves become stuck. For more than an hour, they’d been watching locals and college-aged kids march past them.
“Ain’t no way, we’re going to get outa this mess anytime soon,” the sergeant had earlier radioed Chief Barnhill. “There’s one Highway Patrol cruiser on its side in the median; he made a big misjudgment. There are also two Argolis cruisers and an ambulance bogged down on the Richfield Avenue ramp. Gridlock, total gridlock, chief.”
After the call, Lisa said, “Think of the upside, Sergeant. At least we’re not likely to have to wade into crowds and bash heads uptown. These folks walking by us look like they’re asking for trouble.”
“I’d be mighty pissed if I missed out on some uptown action,” he said.
As the afternoon progressed, small confrontations began to escalate between the overwhelming majority of anti-fracking activists, most of whom were students, and smaller clusters of pro-frackers, most of whom were locals, nipping at the edges of the crowd. As things became more intense, rumors spread about agitators being bused-in from nearby states by Morse Valley Energy.
It was heading toward five o’clock, sunset fast approaching. Argolis Police Chief Waldecker continued to pray that darkness would ease the tension. “Did you factor in these pro-fracking agitators?” he asked Mitchell Redlaw in a phone call.
~
Katherine called Sean at the other command post: “Redlaw is advising that we shut down the bands and lead our marchers back to the occupation sites. He worries that the whole scene is on the edge of violence. I think he’s right. The town is getting overrun with counter-protestors looking for a fight. Listen, send somebody to contact José at the Courthouse right away. Frank will be there in a couple of minutes to lead folks back to the quad. Nick and Em are on their way to the statue and Carsey.”
She paused, her hand over her left ear, the phone tight against the other. The din of chants and counter-chants at the Gilligan statue were fraught with alarm. “Say that again,” she screamed. “Yes, that’s right. Pull back, pull back to the quad.”
~
Astrid and I bolted downstairs from Sean and Todd’s apartment. We ran across Jefferson to the Courthouse. Nightfall rendered the scene in blacks and grays, shadows and matted ambiguity. We fought our way through the enormous crowd, now chanting and flailing anti-fracking signs to the leaded beat of Hot Buttered Blowfish. Pro-frackers, a gaggle of about fifty Bartholomew County citizens, hurled obscenities from the margins. At the dais, we found Frank screaming at the top of his lungs to José, “Shut this thing down!” Astrid reiterated the message, “Time to get out of here, bro,” she hollered. “Come on, we gotta collect our people, march back toward the quad.”
José knew what to do. He rushed over to the Blowfish, slashed his left hand across his neck, grabbed the microphone and announced the evening march would commence immediately. “Let’s give this band a grea' big applause. Now make room down there for our drummers. They’ll lead us back to Centennial.”
Frank signaled his drummers to take up the beat. He slowly siphoned the crowd westward away from the Courthouse. The pro-frackers had been outflanked. They seemed disoriented, reluctant to follow the anti-fracking march. Besides, it was dark and they were two hours from home on a Sunday night.
As things quieted, I focused on a personal mission. Obliquely, I said, “Hey guys, I’m heading the other way for a few minutes. I’ll see you back at Sean’s.”
I made my way across Federal to Ohio and through an unnamed alley, unofficially referred to as “Sweat City”, after the Gym halfway up the passageway. I turned down Athenian Way, parallel to Ohio, where campus sororities and fraternities clustered. At the sorority, I ran up the steps and into my room on the second floor. The room was dark.
“Eeyowh! Who’s there?” A muffled query emitted from the other bed.
“Samantha? Thank God, you’re here! It’s me, Hannah.”
12
Governor Thomas Winthrop teed up at the seventeenth.xvii It had been a relaxing outing, the foursome with two of his closest staff members, Marcus Katavanakis and Henry Carton, and his childhood friend from Cleveland, Jimmy Demopolis, an attorney who was also Katavanakis’ uncle. The three senior golfers all possessed similar handicaps. Katavanakis’ was much lower but he managed to add a few strokes when golfing with these guys. It had been a compatible round with its usual banter about the game, women, politics, and the pathetic Browns.
Katavanakis deliberately left his everyday phone in his shoes in the trunk of the car. There was no way Leslie or anybody else was going to take the shine off this day. The ‘red’ encrypted phone, however, now vibrated in his hip pocket. As much as he tried to honor his code of uninterrupted golfing for Governor Winthrop, he stepped away from the tee to determine the urgency of the call. He turned around just as his uncle hooked a drive down the fairway and into the rough.
“Bah!” Demopolis grumped. “Okay, Nicklaus, it’s your turn,” he said, razzing his nephew.
“If you say so, Obi. Let me see if I can avoid that jungle.”
Before teeing up his ball, Katavanakis sidled up to Governor Winthrop and whispered in his ear.
“Crapola,” Winthrop replied. “Twenty thousand? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Yeah. She fears she may need help before morning.”
The other two looked on, holding their tongues, though they were certainly aware of the occupation at Gilligan and the challenges it presented the governor.
“Tell her I’ll call her in 30 minutes.” Then the governor whispered, “Jesus, can we really deploy the guard? Would the fallout be as bad as Redlaw predicts? Damn, that bitch. She should have stomped on those freaks days ago.”
“Probably so,” said Katavanakis.
A half hour later the Winthrop foursome sat in a dark corner of the club lounge, all looking as though they had golfed with th
e grim reaper. They drank silently from a pitcher of IPA, a Cleveland craft brew called “Lake Erie Monster”. All the while, a monster of a different kind had reared its demonic head. Katavanakis had collected his phone from the car, had read the email about the hacked accounts, had gone white at the repercussions, had spilled the news. The news: it did not exactly come as a surprise to the other three, all of whom were aware of Morse’s disposition and shady history, the risks of association with him and Gruppo Crogiolo as well as Marcus Katavanakis’ entanglement. Governor Thomas Winthrop sat stunned, his career on tenterhooks. Carton and Demopolis, with much less to lose, weighed in.
Henry S. (Hank) Carton, Ohio Attorney General: “These two dilemmas, Thomas, are obviously connected. Those Gilligan students are clever little bastards. They’ve used the Internet to put thousands on the streets of Argolis, clog it up. Here look at this video.” He passed his phone around. “And toward what end?” He then answered his own question. “To save a scruffy piece of forest not even close to campus. Now, it’s clear that some of them, or one of them, is an Edward Snowden, a traitor, attempting to vilify Morse, a patriot. Strategically, I think we should see this whole thing as one and act accordingly.”
James D. Demopolis, Attorney at Law, Shaker Heights, Ohio and titular head of the Greek Cypriot Society of Greater Cleveland (GCSGC), an organization twice investigated, but never indicted, for alleged connections to Greek and Italian organized crime: “Hank’s right, Governor. We haven’t got time to diddle around. First, I can guarantee that in a heartbeat Marcus can firewall those accounts, move funds to others, and later reclaim the dollars withdrawn. Second, speaking for GCSGC, I would assign them the job of discovering who hacked us. In a day or two they will have that information. And then, as you know from their work on Election Day, they are more than capable of taking corrective steps. Third, we’ve got to contact Tulkinghorn right away. Finally, if I were in your shoes, I would send a small contingent to follow up with Tulkinghorn, clear the campus, and re-establish order. That’s what Whatzername wants isn’t it?”
