by Rod Rayborne
"Why thank you, Harv. I'll be sure to tell her you said so." Then he turned once again to face the audience.
"Excuse me for that. We go way back, Harv and I. Now where was I? Oh yes. And representing the State of New California is Greg O'Connell. For the sake of brevity, it's early and we're all tired, both of the lawyers have already been briefed. Mr. Andrews, how do you plead?"
"We plead no contest, your honor," he said.
Brooks and McCann looked at each other and then at their Court appointed lawyer.
"The hell we do!" Brooks shouted. "We're pleading not guilty! We've done nothing wrong! We haven't even had a chance to speak with our lawyer, your friend. This is the first we've seen him. And where's Lowry? We have the right to face our accuser, do we not?"
The Judge banged his gavel angrily.
"Order! They'll be order in my Court! The Court recognizes the wisdom of the lawyer appointed to represent you…"
"By you! He was appointed by you."
"I said there will be order!" the Judge shouted.
"And where did the assault charge come from?"
The Judge looked at their legal representative. "Mr. Andrews, I caution you to keep your clients quiet. If you can't control them…"
"Yes, your honor. My apologies." He looked at his charges with ill-disguised indignation.
"And the conspiracy to commit murder? How did you come by that one?" Brooks continued, ignoring the Judge.
The Judge looked from Andrews to Brooks.
"You're out of order! You're the individuals on trial here. You'll be the ones answering the questions."
"This kangaroo Court is what's out of order. How did we conspire to kill Lowry?" McCann demanded incredulously.
The Judge addressed McCann. "Did you not lay your hands on the person of the President in the Command Center?"
"To keep him from falling on his fat drunken face."
"Your assault was fortuitously cut short by a soldier."
"What assault? I just told you the man was stone drunk. Is it illegal to try to keep a man from falling and embarrassing himself?"
"Your handling of the President could have led to his death."
"I ask again, was it illegal?"
"It demonstrates a pattern of violent behavior," the Judge screamed.
"How can any legal behavior be evidence of criminality?
"It presaged your conspiracy to commit murder."
"Do you like to eat, your honor?" Brooks asked.
"Excuse me? I'll direct the questions."
"It's a simple question. Do you like to eat?"
"This is ridiculous. But for the sake of brevity, I'll humor you. Yes, I like to eat."
"Then can we assume that you're a glutton? It must follow that if you like to eat, you're a glutton. Just as it follows that if a man wears pants with pockets into a store, he must be a thief, if a woman books passage on a plane, she must be a hijacker, and if we grabbed the President, we must have been conspiring to murder him."
The Judge turned red and nodded at the Bailiff.
"Gag them."
The man grabbed Brooks and forced him into his chair. When McCann moved to help him, the Bailiff pushed him down as well and held him there. Another officer approached holding several pieces of indigo colored cloth. They looked like table napkins. Two pieces of cloth he balled and forced into the defendants mouths, the other two he pulled around their faces, yanking them forcefully and knotting them tightly behind their heads. Then the Bailiff turned back to the Judge.
"Thank you," the now harried looking Judge said. He turned to the Prosecution.
"Do you have anything more to add, Mr. O'Connell?"
"I think you outlined it very well, Your Honor. We just want to see that justice is served. We can't ask for more than that."
The Judge turned then to the jury.
"I hand the case to you for consideration. Do you need to deliberate further?"
A woman stood, wearing a tight bright red business pants suit, looking appropriately stern.
"We've reached a conclusion, your honor."
"Wonderful. Please read it to the Court."
"We, the members of the Jury, in accordance with the law as set down by the state of New California, do hereby find both Defendants, Mr. Hasting and Mr. McCann guilty on all charges."
The Judge nodded then and turned back to the audience.
"As the appointed Judge in this matter, I order both Mr. Brooks and Mr. McCann to be hanged by their necks until they are dead. Such sentence to be carried out forthwith and immediately. This case is closed. Let's get this thing done so we can get back to sleep." He banged his gavel and looked at Brooks and McCann.
"You go with them now, boys," he said, indicating the soldiers behind them. "They'll fix you right up." Then he winked at them, stood and walked out of the room.
The soldiers seized the men and walked them from the room. They went down a flight of stairs and across another corridor to a larger room with a higher ceiling. When they walked in, they were met with an already waiting crowd. Without hesitation, they were pushed forward to a hastily constructed gallows, the new wood shining brightly in the well lit chamber, while more people filed in behind them to watch. Here the men were unchained and then each had his hands and feet tied with rope. They were roughly escorted up the stairs, turned towards the crowd and their gags removed.
"Any last words," the soldier who had guided them up the stairs of the platform asked. He looked both sad and fearful. McCann recognized him as the eager young man who had brought him the message from Brooks two days before. He smiled at him and nodded. The man glanced down and McCann looked away. Then turning to Brooks, he smiled again.
"You always did have a flair for the dramatic, my friend. I was proud of you back there. I can't think of anyone else I'd rather be standing next to right now."
Hasting grinned despite himself.
"Are you kidding? I can! I can think of a few."
McCann chuckled. "Looks like we made history, after all."
"See you soon, Buddy."
Then black hoods were pulled over their heads and heavy ropes dropped to their shoulders and tightened around their necks. A door swung out from beneath them and they fell then into the arms of their maker.
Chapter Sixty Five
L ike Caesar riding forth at the head of his legions, Owen stood tall in the stirrups of the brown Stallion on which he rode, a look of grim determination spread across is massive head. If he had had one lying around, he may have even donned a crown of laurels over his graying curls, swept forward Roman style.
They arrived at the Staples Center at approximately 0345 hours, Friday the 13th of July. At 0300 hours, Major General Owen got word through an intercepted communication between one Colonel Beckman and members of a resistance group in Coastal New California that was traced on this end to the Los Angeles location. Within the hour, three regiments were on the march.
There was a seemingly endless string of M1083 troop carriers, six tanks, four armored personal carriers, and a handful of light armor FLAK weaponry. Just in case. Even if they were facing a small army, Rodriguez thought the numbers a massive overkill. They surrounded the stadium, keeping well back from the building should the Colonel decide to put up a resistance. That seems unlikely, he thought, given our overwhelming firepower.
As soon as a half mile away from their ETA, people could be seen scurrying in all directions, rifles in hand. They ran from building to building, down alleys and over rooftops. Some of them even dived into manholes, pulling the heavy grating back over their heads long before the army was within gunshot range. The sound and vibration from the column thundered over their heads, sending them running still further beneath the city in the storm drains and sewers.
When the column reached the stadium, men poured out of the trucks and armored personnel carriers in a huge circle three men thick. Those in the front knelt while those behind them remained standing. All pointed their guns at th
e building and the growing crowd of civilians streaming from it to fill the square without. The men came in jeans, baseball caps. The women in t-shirts and jeans or slacks. The children stayed behind in the arena.
Those few who had weapons held them up in the air in postures of surrender. They kept coming, four and five at a time in a line that had no end, until the square outside was teaming with them, desperate looking, tired, hungry. When the building had emptied, seven hundred and thirty three men and women stood facing the soldiers, all with their arms upraised. Then a single man stepped out of the crowd.
He walked towards the soldiers a few paces, his arms in the air, rifle above his head. He bent over, laying the weapon on the ground. When he had done so, the others who had guns came forward to do the same. It went on for several minutes until even the most reluctant of the multitude followed the example of those around them. Still, of the hundreds gathered there, only a few dozen guns had existed between them.
This was going to be the day. The day order would be reestablished. The day people would realize who was in charge. The day when Owen would be vindicated.
He rode over to a man sitting on a tank.
"Hand me your megaphone."
The man gave it to Owen who turned his horse towards the crowd and rode in close to them. Holding it to his mouth, he pressed the button.
"Everyone of you are going to take five steps back and then lay down on the ground, facing me. Keep your arms outstretched, your legs apart. Do it now."
The crowd did as they were told. It took but a few seconds to accomplish.
"Good. Now, before we continue, I want the man, Colonel Beckman, to step forward."
No one moved. No sound came from the crowd. They simply lay quietly, unwilling to betray a man that had kept them alive, a man they trusted. Honored. Loved.
"I'm waiting. Don't make me wait too long."
The square was quiet. Absolutely still.
"Well ok then. Have it your way." Owen turned to a squad standing in front of a tank. "You men, go pick out five old women from that group and bring them here."
The men looked from Owen to each other and back again for confirmation.
Owen lowered the megaphone and stared at his soldiers. His face was turning rosy red, a large vein standing out on his forehead.
"I'm getting mighty tired of being challenged. So unless you're ready to join them, my suggestion would be to do as you were told by your Commanding Officer."
The men looked at each other once again and then walked towards the crowd. Shouts erupted from some of those laying on the concrete, but no one stood. The soldiers, seven of them, walked into the crowd, looking about for the women. One stopped and yanked an old woman roughly to her feet by one arm. At that, a younger man who'd been laying next to her jumped up and tackled the soldier, screaming curses. The soldier pushed the man backwards. Then he raised his rifle to his shoulder, taking a bead on the man.
"If this isn't what you want, bring me Beckman. Point him out and we'll get him ourselves. And I'll let you all go. After all that you've done to me, I think I'm being more than fair."
"I'm Beckman," a man said, standing. He limped through the crowd, his prosthetic leg causing him to wobble as he threw it forward with every alternate step. He wore dirty slacks and a white shirt. On the collar were the Eagles of his rank. He walked towards the man that had pulled the old woman off the ground. When he stood next to the soldier, he threw a blow that knocked him onto his back, splitting his lip wide. The soldier scrambled up and threw his arm back to strike Beckman. Beckman caught his fist in his own mighty paw and forced the man to kneel. He looked down at him, his steel gray eyes unblinking.
"Learn some respect."
Then he pushed the man backwards and went to the old woman. He put his arm around her and walked back to the young man who had jumped up in her defense, putting his hand on the man's shoulder and then turning the old woman over to him. Then he stepped through the crowd towards Owen.
Both the multitude and the soldiers had been silent during the altercation and now they watched the big man limp towards the horse Owen was sitting on.
Owen, sensing the uncertain mood among his men jumped down from the horse and walked towards Beckman. They met in the wide parking lot between the two sides. Facing each other, Owen was the taller of the two men by a fraction of an inch, but something about him made him look much smaller, furtive, twisted. He glared at Beckman, his face contorted in a wild sneer. For his part, Beckman showed no emotion at all. He stood unflinching, dignified. He said nothing. He simply stared into the face of the man he had learned in the last five days to hate.
"I'm glad we've finally gotten a chance to meet," Owen said evenly. "I've looked forward to this moment for, well shoot, feels like a lifetime."
Then he pulled back his arm, fist balled, to strike Beckman. He held it there, hovering, waiting for the quiet man to cower. To show his people that he was neither brave nor honorable. But Beckman remained unmoved. He stared back at the gloating man, his steel eyes accessing him in a way that made Owen begin to shake. Whether it was hatred or fear that caused his trembling, who can say but he threw the blow, pushing Beckman's chin back no more than an inch.
Beckman looked again at Owen as though challenging him to hit him once more. A confused look momentarily slipped into Owen's eyes and he took a step backwards. The confusion was soon replaced by rage. He was being made the fool in front of his men. He feared this man, feared Beckman. If he didn't do something quick, he would lose all credibility, be labeled by his soldiers, at least privately, a coward.
Staring at Beckman, he lifted the flap from his side arm and pulled out his Sig Sauer. In one fluid motion, he put a bullet into the big man's chest. The crowd jumped to their feet, a cry splitting the silence. Beckman stepped back just a half step and then came forward again.
For a terrifying moment, Owen thought that the man would not fall. Beckman continued starring at Owen, but slowly his steely gaze began to cloud. Blood dribbled from the right corner of his mouth. Then his legs started to sag. He struggled to stand firm but his prosthetic leg slipped out from beneath him. He fell to the ground. Down a second, two, he rose awkwardly, pushing himself up, hand on knee until he was standing proudly once again, chin up.
Then he turned away from Owen, walking back the way he had come. After he had gone some thirty feet, he stopped and looked at the crowd. His people. No one spoke, some, their mouths hanging open in shock. He smiled then and slowly saluted them, his arm trembling. As one, the crowd returned the salute, tears sliding down cheeks, lips squeezed tight, suppressing cries they knew he didn't want to hear. Not from them.
"Well done," he whispered, sounding old, tired. He kept the salute a full minute. Then his arm, shaking, fell back to his side. He stood seconds longer, sadness showing in his eyes. Abruptly his legs buckled beneath him once more and he slipped to the ground, never to rise again.
The crowd ran forward as one, surrounding him, wailing, shouting. The old woman whom he had defended walked through them, the crowd parting for her. She kneeled next to him, with the assistance of a younger woman and pulled his head into her lap.
Owen jumped forward, his face an agony of rage.
"I told you to stay down! I could have shot you all! Get away from him. Get away!"
They ignored him, gathering closer around the great man. Owen twisted around to his army. "Burn it down! The building, the people!" he ordered. "All of them!"
No one of the soldiers moved. They'd witnessed a good man fall for no other reason than to try to protect his own people from a tyrant. A noble man, quiet and just. Owen ran towards them, grabbing the first man by his army greens and pushing him towards the crowd.
"Shoot them! I order you!"
The man stood, looking piteously at the crowd and then hung his head. Owen ran through his soldiers, pushing them forward as he went, ordering them to fire on the mourners. Each refused to do so, holding their weapons down. Then one ma
n stood out from the rest. Rodriguez stepped away from them and walked forward towards the crowd, gun drawn.
Owen shouted out, "Good man! You're a good man! Didn't I tell him he was a good man last night? Take them out. Every last one! Show these cowards how it's done!" Owen screamed, spittle spraying outward with every word.
Rodriguez walked towards the crowd, rifle up, stopping before them. Some turned towards him. He stepped forward again, the crowd parting for him until he had reached the old woman. Then, laying aside his gun, he knelt and looked at the man, at Beckman. Beckman's eyes were open, a look of peace on his rugged features. Free at last.
Rodriguez laid a hand over the man's eyes, closing them gently. Then he looked at the old woman. She was staring at him, laid an aged and spotted hand over his. He stood then and helping her to her feet, led her through the crowd. She walked with him, the men and women behind following. It took three men to lift Beckman onto their shoulders.
Children came streaming out of the building, some crying, others looking grim, determined. They went to their parents, looking angrily back at the men in camouflage surrounding them.
Owen shouted in rage and pointed to the man who had given him the megaphone.
"Shoot Rodriguez," He ordered.
The man made no move to comply with Owen's orders.
"I said shoot, goddamn you! Shoot!" He jumped back onto his horse and ran him around the great circle, cursing loudly.
Then another of the soldiers walked towards the kneeling crowd and laid his rifle on the asphalt before him. Owen galloped towards him, shooting him in the back of his head. The man collapsed and another man who had been standing near him took his place. Owen shot the man and another took his place. Then several men at once walked forward and put down their guns. Some here, some there until more than a hundred of them had laid their rifles on the asphalt in a great ring around the kneeling crowd.
After that, more than eighteen hundred soldiers and officers of the three thousand gathered followed their lead. They got onto their knees, fingers laced behind their heads, surrendering to the vastly outnumbered crowd of unarmed civilians. Those of the army who stayed behind with their vehicles made no move to interfere with the them. They simply stood and watched the scene unfolding before them with awe.
