Leave No Child Behind

by Randy Overbeck

  “Hey, that could add something to the edition,” volunteered Jake. I thought, thank God for Jake.

  His emotions still boiling, Keith sat hunched over his desk and Tyrone remained equally unconvinced, arms stiffly crossed across his chest. But I could tell the others were coming around. I was considering other possible strategies when the bell rescued me from having to further defend myself.

  “Tomorrow, we’ll talk about the remaining assignments for the edition, so be thinking about what you can do,” I called above the din of the movement of student chairs, mostly to the backs of teens headed for the door.

  When the kids were gone, Jerod climbed out of the student chair in the corner and, of course, immediately began to drawl. “It looks like your choices for the interviewin’ team didn’t go over all that well.” He leaned against the desk where I sat, flashing that damn grin of his.

  “Well, I didn’t expect it’d be easy,” I said, hoping to dismiss him.

  “A little surprised you decided to bring along Rashid.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Jus’ a little curious, that’s all,” Jerod said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s just who he is, where he’s from.”

  “That’s the point, Mr. Thomas,” I pointed my finger at him. “He’s from the same region, speaks the same dialect as Asad.”

  “Mebbe,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Are you prejudiced like some of my red-necked students?” I asked.

  “Let’s just say I’m the naturally suspicious type,” Jerod said, his grin returning.

  “Well it’s a little late for all this concern now. And I’d like to remind you, Officer Thomas, that you’re the one who got me into this situation.”

  “Excuse me?” Jerod said, surprised.

  “Well, until you piped up, the idea of interviewing death row inmates was just a crazy teenage fantasy.”

  “So, what d’ya want me to do now? Have HBE cancel the permission for your interview?”

  “You could do that?” I said, incredulous. “It doesn’t matter now. It’s usually too late to close Pandora’s box. The demons have already escaped.”

  “Pandora’s what? Is that some kind of sexual reference?”

  “Oh, stop!” I pulled myself from the desk, and began the never-ending process of organizing the stacks of student papers to drag them home for the night.

  “When are you coming to HBE for the interviews?” he asked, his tone serious again.

  “In two days, Thursday afternoon.” My eyes met his. “Why?”

  “Thursday afternoon. Not my shift.” He paused. “Jus’ be careful, okay?” He seemed suddenly anxious.

  “Great!” I announced, “Now you’re concerned. When the students cooked up this idea, I said it was way too dangerous. But you tell my students that there is no place around here more secure than HBE. Now that we’re on the brink, getting ready to jump into that dark hole, you get cold feet. Why?”

  “I’m concerned for you, that’s all,” he said. “Don’t want anything to happen to ya.”

  He wouldn’t meet my gaze, not typical for him.

  “Is there some danger about this trip that I should know about? Is there something specific? After all, I’m taking two kids over there.”

  “Naw.” Pause. “I guess not. Some of the guards were just talkin’.”

  “About?”

  “Well, it’s just that there’s a lotta talk about Asad trying to use the interview to pass messages to the outside.”

  “So what. The man’s a few days away from being executed. What message is he going to try to get out, ‘Send Allah to rescue me!’”

  At first he didn’t answer and only shook his head. “Jus’ don’t forget who this guy is,” Jerod said.

  Chapter 23

  “Mr. Samson, you said you couldn’t wait till our regular briefing, so you have my undivided attention. Get on with it. I still have three campaign stops to make,” began President Gregory.

  Harold Samson glanced nervously around the Oval Office. The gang’s all here, he sighed inwardly. When he called the President’s secretary a half hour ago, arguing that he urgently needed to see him ASAP, he hoped he’d get a chance to speak to President Gregory alone as he had during his evening meeting.

  Jerry Garcia peered suspiciously across the room and Tom Dickson looked just as apprehensive. Only a few feet to the side of the seat Harold had been given, Dean Settler sat erect and soldier-like in the straight-backed Queen Anne chair that he preferred, as if keeping guard over Samson. Overshadowing all four men, President Gregory stood and stared, his tall figure slouched back against the front of the famous cherry desk.

  Adjusting his bifocals, Samson began. “Mr. President, thank you for taking time from your busy schedule to speak with me.”

  “Yes, Harold,” the President said, “ the voters in Virginia are waiting.” The ballpoint pen in his hand clicked.

  The Homeland Security Director continued, his confidence suddenly ebbing. “I received this report in my office an hour ago.” Rising from the couch, he handed the President the two sheets of paper filled with single-spaced typing. “After I read the report, I knew you would want to be apprised.”

  Chief of Staff Settler leaned over to study the document in Samson’s hand and Samson added, “Sorry, I didn’t know you would be here or I would’ve brought additional copies.”

  “Would you like me to make copies, Mr. President?” Settler asked.

  “Not just yet. “ Holding the papers at arm’s length, Gregory squinted his famous blue eyes, trying to read the small print and, giving up, edged around to the front of the desk to retrieve his reading glasses. Putting them on, he scanned the pages quickly. “Am I supposed to understand this? What am I reading, Harold?”

  “An autopsy, sir...”

  “Anyone I know, Harold?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President. The deceased, a Jeffrey Birch, is the missing Pennsylvania State Trooper that we discussed the other night.” Samson paused, studying the President and seeing confusion there, went on quickly. “He was the State Trooper who went missing last week after pulling over a GMC Tahoe, the vehicle we believe may have been connected to the suspected terrorist, Mohammed Armdi.”

  When the President nodded, Samson continued, “Yesterday, they pulled his cruiser out of a small lake...” he looked down at his notes and continued, “ a Findlay Lake, less than six miles from the last location Trooper Birch had radioed in. The body of the officer was still in the car.”

  “Do they think he was driving when the car went in? Was there any sign of an accident?”

  “No, sir. From indications at the scene it looks as if the car was driven into the lake, but not by Trooper Birch. His body was found lying on the floor in the back seat. His throat had been slit and he was dead before he was placed back into the car, according to the medical examiner.”

  “I am deeply saddened by the officer’s death, but I still don’t see the urgency.”

  With more courtesy than he felt, Samson said, “Mr. President, if you would please read the second-last paragraph on the next page. I’ve highlighted the passage on your copy.”

  Gregory flipped the paper over, went silent and studied the paragraph. The office was so quiet Samson could hear the breathing of the other men near him. Twenty seconds ticked by, punctuated by two pen clicks, and the President asked, “What’s a jambiya?”

  “A jambiya?” responded CIA Director Garcia, surprised. “Sir, that is a long curved knife favored by Yemeni fighters.” He held his hands apart, demonstrating the length for everyone. “Why?”

  “Because, according to this autopsy report,” the President indicated the paper in his hand, “the Trooper’s neck was slit with a jambiya or something like it.” Turning his attention back to Samson, he asked, “How competent is this guy, Harold?”

  “More than competent, Mr. President. I’ve been concerned about this from the start and made a call to Tom Widman, two days ago. He
’s the Chief Medical Examiner for Pennsylvania and a friend of mine.” Samson took a quick look around at his cabinet colleagues and noted their earlier irritation was gone. “As soon as they pulled the car from the lake he flew up and performed the autopsy. He took several hours and was very thorough. Those are just his preliminary conclusions you have. I expect to have the full report in my hands tomorrow morning.”

  Gregory shook his head, pondering the report.

  “Mr. President, may I see the report?” Garcia asked. Without responding, Gregory handed him the two sheets. Tom Dickson leaned in next to Garcia. “Harold, let’s see if I got this right. This Pennsylvania State Trooper …” the President said and looked to Samson.

  “Jeffrey Birch,” Samson supplied.

  “You believe Officer Birch may have stopped a car in which one of the terrorists on our watch list--”

  “Mohammed Armdi.”

  “Yes, this Mohammed Armdi was driving,” Gregory continued, “and killed Trooper Birch on a back highway in Pennsylvania when he was stopped. Then you believe Armdi drove the cruiser with the officer’s body into a nearby lake, hoping to hide it.”

  “Yes sir. And this attack took place two days ago at a location only a five-hour drive from Hammerville,” added Samson.

  The President nodded and asked, “This jambiya? If it turns out it was used on the officer, you believe it was an Arab terrorist who used it?”

  “Sir, we do not know anything for sure,” answered Samson, “but we are trying to put the pieces together. And Jerry is correct in his description,” he continued, nodding at the CIA Director. Harold realized it was expedient--both practically and politically--to give credit to the others whenever possible. “The jambiya is a very conspicuous weapon. Outside of collectors, it’s hard to imagine anyone else carrying around this extended knife.” He held his hands eighteen inches apart. “It’s just not a very efficient weapon.”

  The President nodded again and asked, “Anything else, Harold?”

  “One more item I thought I should bring to your attention. We have received an unconfirmed report of a theft of a considerable quantity of C-4 explosives out of a storage warehouse in Cleveland, Ohio. We’re working with the local authorities to confirm the extent and nature of the theft.”

  “And I’m sure that in the past twenty-four hours there were probably many more such thefts,” the President said. “Obviously you believe this theft may also be connected?”

  “Yes, sir. You realize that Cleveland is less than 100 miles from both the site of Trooper Birch’s death and from the HBE prison. Also, it is what this particular explosive is used for, that I believe may tie in.”

  “And that would be?” asked the President.

  “Well sir, it seems the army developed this particular C-4 with some peculiar qualities and for very specific uses. I’m told it has been used in several successful attempts to free hostages overseas. Most recently in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

  The President leaned forward, his blue eyes bright, as Samson continued. “It looks almost like the clothesline that your mom used to use. It’s called tensile rope explosive compound or TREC. But I’ve also been told by some Army Ranger friends of mine who have used this particular composition that they’ve given it a new name. They call it ‘the prison break.’”

  Chapter 24

  I couldn’t believe the difference in our surroundings. The interview room we had been sitting in for almost three hours was dark, smelly, and bleak. The immaculate steel and glass appearance of the lobby we had passed through, the same one used for the press conference with Harold Samson, was but a dim memory. In fact, I would have been hard pressed to say we were even in the same building.

  After a brief handshake and commemorative photo of our group with the egg-shaped face of Warden Cromer in the shining lobby, we had left the photographers and officials behind and passed through three impressive electronic security gates. As the third steel lock clicked loudly behind us, the final massive door seemed to add an oppressiveness, silencing even the usually chatty Tess. As a layman--okay, I recognize the sexism but I like the term anyway--I thought the prison did seem virtually impregnable. Perhaps, all the cocky assurance by Director Samson and Warden Cromer about their secure correctional facility was not male braggadocio after all.

  Once the security checks were cleared, the guards led our little band snaking through the maze of the prison hallways. As we walked, our footfalls clattering down stark concrete and steel hallways, our lead escort informed us that we would conduct our interviews in the room reserved for conferences between inmates and their lawyers. At first, I was surprised that the warden hadn’t chosen to accompany us. Once we arrived at our grimy destination though, I realized that he was probably only too happy to watch the whole affair on closed circuit from the plush chair in his office and let the guards babysit the visitors.

  The interview room looked like a poor imitation of an interrogation room from Law and Order. The walls had been painted an ugly green-gray and were stained with browns and dingy reds in what I thought was intended as deliberate distress. Some smears looked as if someone had doused coffee or other fluids onto the dry wall, letting them ooze down in staggered streaks. I knew the prison was less than four years old, but the ambiance of the room made it appear as if it suffered from decades of abuse and neglect. Buried, as we were, in the bowels of the building, with no windows and only the one narrow door, the close walls seemed to crowd upon our space. And the obvious camera in the corner above the door added the perfect touch of Big Brother, but I was glad for it anyway.

  Waiting nervously, my party of three shifted for the nth time on the worn metal folding chairs with uneven legs, made deliberately uncomfortable, no doubt. I looked again at Tess and Rashid and then stole another glance at the blinking red light on the camera in the upper right corner of the room. Hunched over the scarred wooden table, Tess sat forward on her chair, reviewing the notes I knew she had committed to memory two days ago. Unconsciously, she rocked back and forth and I placed a hand on her shoulder to ease her fidgeting. Rashid sat next to her, impassive, not moving, his olive face, framed by dark brown hair, an impenetrable mask. His stare was severe and stoic, his eyes narrow slits inside hard brown circles, and I could read no expression in his face.

  Although we spent most of our time at the prison waiting, once started, the first two interviews had gone smoothly. After the perfunctory introductions, Tess, the thorough professional, led the questioning, with Rashid and me as silent partners. For each “guest,” she delivered the questions the class had agreed on, but followed up and pressed when the convict tried to evade or she felt we could use clarification. The manner she had adopted alternated between interested adolescent and skeptical reporter, depending on which she thought would work better at the time. Her big eyes, enlarged by the round brown frames, gave her a look of innocence that I watched her use to her advantage more than once.

  As each interviewee spoke, Tess took copious notes, the pen in her small fingers etching black scratches furiously down the pages in her reporter’s notepad. Perched on a precarious folding chair beside her, I jotted down an occasional quote, trying to capture a few memorable comments in the prisoners’ own words. Sitting on the other side, Rashid sat with a blue binder open, but, while I noticed, I never saw him lift the pen and write. All the while, the light on the digital recorder blinked green.

  Both of the first two prisoners had been convicted of brutal murders and, though not protesting their innocence, they still claimed to be victims of the system. As we listened, they told similar stories, though one was black and the other white, one from inner city Cleveland and the second from an Irish family farm in Pennsylvania. But once we got past differences in race and geography, Reggie Horn and Gerri Fitzpatrick could have told the same tale.

  Both men argued they were products of abusive homes, Reggie the victim of an abusive stepfather (“I ain’t never known my real father, and my step dad screwed my mom then be
at the shit out of me”) and Gerri “the easy punching bag for my old man.” Neither finished school, both dropping out in high school because as Reggie put it, “it was boring and nobody gave a damn anyway.” After years in the system, they had both finally gotten around to completing their GED, though according to Gerri, “I only did that crap cause I thought it might help me with the parole board.”

  Staring at his auburn hair and handsome, slightly freckled face, I was reminded of Christie’s parting words. Just before I left to collect Tess and Rashid for our interview trip, she had caught me in the hall outside my room.

  “Okay, I have one request for my best friend,” she said staring at me, solemn-faced.

  “Christie, I’m late already. What is it?”

  “I need you to check out one thing for me at HBE.”

  “And that would be?” My impatience was showing.

  “I just need to know,” she said seriously, “if he’s as hot as I’ve heard.”

  “Who? Asad?”

  Christie choked trying to answer. “NO. Oh, God no, Dee Dee. I’m talking about Gerri.”

  “Gerri?”

  “You know, Gerald Fitzpatrick, Jr., inmate interviewee number two,” she answered grinning at me.

  “Christie, have you totally lost it?” I shot back. “The man is scheduled to be executed in two months for beating a man to death with his fists! And you want to know if he’s hot!”

  She glanced conspiratorially up and down the deserted corridor and turned her gaze on me. “I know, I know but word is that the prison photos don’t do him justice,” she said. “They say he is quite the hot bad boy and I just want to know if it’s true.” Looking at my stunned face, she added, “Well, you may not know it, but before I met Kurt, I had quite a thing for bad boys.”

  As she looked at me, I couldn’t say a word and just stared back. Finally, she relented and said, “Anyway, I don’t think that’s too much to ask my best friend.” Then she laughed out loud. “Gotcha!”