W2 1%2 g2tt3#g cl4s2% t4 th2 d21dl3#2 wh2%2 45% d1t1 $5st b2 p%2s2#t2d t4 Th2 P%2s3d2#t. 1ll 1g2#ts $5st p2%f4%$ 1t $1x3$5$ 2ff3c32#c6. W2 $5st d2p%3v2 s5bj2cts f%4$: p21c2 4f $3#d, sl22p, l4v2, c4$f4%t, s1f2t6, 1#d 1#6 4th2% f5#d1$2#t1l h5$1# %2q53%2$2#t f4% %2l1x1t34# 4% bl3ss. B%21k th23% 13% c4#d3t34#3#g 5#3ts. 3#v1d2 th23% p%3v1c6. T%6 t4 s2d5c2 th23% l4v2%s. Th%21t2# th23% l4v2d 4#2s. %2$2$b2% th1t 1ll 4f th3s 3s b23#g d4#2 3# th2 #1$2 4f 3$p%4v2d #1t34#1l S2c5%3t6 1#d 1 b2tt2% 5#d2%st1#d3#g f4% h4w t4 k22p 45% c3t3z2#s s1f2 f%4$ g5# v34l2#c2 3# th2 f5t5%2. Th2s2 s5bj2cts w3ll b2 th2 5#s5#g h2%42s f%4$ 1# 3#v3s3bl2 w1%. K22p 645% 262 4# th2 b1ll, 1#d p5sh th2s2 p24pl2 1s h1%d 1s 645 c1#. D4 #4t l2t 5p f4% 1 $4$2#t; w2 #22d t4 k#4w h4w 2ff2ct3v2 45% ps6ch4l4g3c1l d1t1 3s 3# 1 f32ld-t2st2d 2#v3%4#$2#t.
Maxwell Out
:: End Encoded Message ::
“Tick tock!” Henri says as he leans over and stares at Lorabell, his pale blue eyes filled with pressing questions.
“We’ve made some good progress.” Lorabell replies slowly, stretching and yawning from a night of reading case study data.
“What progress?” Henri asks, expressing his dissatisfaction by waving his hand at the large LCD monitors in front of them. “None of these people are distressed, or even close to violence.”
Henri watches Lorabell as she grabs a cup of coffee from the control panel, her soft, feminine lips immersing the edge of the black plastic lid. His eyes wander down to her plump little bum in a pair of tight-fitting, black jeans. He continues his journey up her body over the white and orange striped sweater, admiring her shapely breasts and glistening black hair draped halfway down her back.
“We’ve made progress… I… I have given your team a list of potential triggers that will allow us to gradually elevate their distress levels.” She glares at him from her right eye, feeling his eyes perusing her body as though staring at a mannequin in a display window.
“That’s not progress! Shit, I don’t need you for a gradual elevation…” Henri sneers at her as she takes him out of his fantasy world with her glare, making him feel old and ugly in his black, tailored suit and yellow tie.
“Well what kind of progress do you want?” Lorabell asks in frustration, her shoulders heaving with contempt and exhaustion.
“There you go, get angry!” Henri states in a bold fashion, recovering instantly from her blow to his ego as he uses his right hand to brush back his sleek, graying hair. “We need to show The President results in about two weeks. I can’t have a gradual build up… Now let’s end amateur hour, shall we?”
Lorabell glares at him again, but this time he feels empowered knowing that she is his dancing bear, and he can still enjoy her on other levels. Henri leans forward and uncrosses his legs, placing both of his designer shoes flat on the floor and pressing his fingertips together deep in thought.
“Look, I didn’t hire you for your pretty, round bum;” Henri begins in a slow, unfiltered manner, “I hired you because you get it; your research is years beyond anything we’ve ever used before. Another reason I selected you is because you’re a voyeur; you love to watch other people and that’s okay…”
Lorabell slams her coffee down on the control panel and spins around to confront her new boss, getting ready to deliver a rant about equality.
“That’s great!” Henri exclaims, holding out his right hand with the palm facing her. “I want you to get angry. You need to be emotional. You need to be involved, and I don’t care if you get off watching other people; it’s not my place to judge… Now what I need you to do is focus on these cases- with your gut and your heart. I didn’t hire a little college girl to come here and enjoy all my technology and resources. This is not a tour for you to sit and watch; it is a tour that you need to guide!”
“I’m trying!” Lorabell half shouts back at him. “What exactly is it that you want from these people? You want me to put them through more hell? Is that what you need; you insensitive bastard!? Haven’t these people been through enough already? Don’t these stories break your heart?”
“There was a shooting in Colorado last summer; it created nightmares for the whole country. Men, women, and children- indiscriminately dead.” Henri stares into her eyes with sincere concern. “Now all of that… was from one man. Yes, he was lonely, and yes he was disturbed. His story was heart-wrenching, but it doesn’t EVEN COME CLOSE… to the pain he caused all those families and their loved ones. Take a look at those screens; we are tracking four unstable people who have a tendency to use guns when they feel pain. Each one of them could potentially impact the lives of 150 to 200 people… forever!”
They both turn to the look at the LCD displays that are hung high above the datacenter floor, and Lorabell feels squeamish as she considers what Henri is asking her to do.
“No, they haven’t been through enough,” Henri states boldly; “to answer your question; these people haven’t been through enough until we’ve learned something valuable. I hired you to push… no… to shove these people into a darker place- to see if they’ll snap and go on a killing spree. Now you don’t have to worry about a bunch of innocent people getting hurt, we’ll stop that from happening. But I need to know if: May, Ned, Phillip, and Julia are capable of the violence we suspect they are. I hired you… from a list of over 50,000 candidates because you know what makes people behave in different ways. Is this any different from you manipulating that young science major to install hidden cameras? You know…In the dorm rooms of those athletic college guys? We know you like the show; not just sex, but in general… That’s one of the major reasons I hired you…”
Lorabell turns to Henri with a look of shock and shame, closing her soft brown eyes and feeling nauseated by how much he has penetrated her life. He puts his hand on her back gently with his fingers near the tips of her fine black hair, and despite his bad intentions, the warmth of another person is comforting.
“How far are we going to push them?” Lorabell asks with concern, showing that she is ready to compromise.
“We’re going to push them off the cliff… over the sonofabitch. We are going to push them until there is nothing under their feet but empty air, and the terror of falling into their worst behaviors. …You risked losing your tenure so that you could have your own private shows from the men you crave… Now I’m asking you to risk your conscience to save American lives…” Henri looks at her with intense passion, showing his true, albeit slightly twisted patriotic side. “You know they told me that you couldn’t do this? They said that I shouldn’t hire a woman because she’ll go soft… Everyone told me you have the most brilliant concepts in psychology and sociology at your fingertips, but don’t have the cajones to use them… I want to see some results in two weeks. Show me that you know what you’re doing. These are nothing more than human bombs.” He says with an arrogant smirk, waving his right hand at the LCD displays. “It’s your job to locate the triggers for these bombs and set them off so that we can disarm them before they do damage… We can stop them safely, and give them the help that they NEED. Like I said, I’d hate for you to lose your tenure, wind up working as waitress somewhere… Maybe in a situation similar to our test subjects.”
Lorabell rolls her eyes at his threat feeling betrayed and defiant. Henri smiles at her as he sees the emotions displayed on her face, and ventures a guess at those festering beneath the surface. Before she has a chance to object, he walks to the edge of the OBDAT platform, making his way down the small set of metal stairs.
“You’re in charge, Lorabell.” Henri commands as he walks away. “Be creative and make me proud!”
Lorabell clenches her hands into white-knuckle fists and stares up at the LCD displays; no longer seeing people in need of help, but dangerous creatures in need of a cleansing. The haughty professor grabs a notepad and pen from the console, sketching quadrants on the large sheet of white paper. Then she proceeds to take detailed notes in each of the four sections, pausing every so often to press the pen against her lips. After a few moments of deep thought, Lo
rabell hears footsteps coming back up the short flight of metal stairs behind her.
“So Henri was kind enough to tell me that you’re the boss..?” Maxwell asks in a disappointed tone. “He TOLD me to give you everything that you need.”
Maxwell sits down next to Lorabell at the control panel of the OBDAT and folds his arms. His bald head looks extremely pale under the large, fluorescent lights, which also create a reflective sheen on his dark eye makeup. He is wearing torn jeans and his standard black, heavy metal T-shirt, which bears some type of snake on the front that she cannot see fully behind his crossed arms.
“So what can I do for you, boss?” Maxwell asks with contempt, staring sideways at Lorabell and slumping in his chair.
“I need agents on the ground in Virginia to buy these postcards.” She orders dismissively, tearing off a piece of paper and handing it to the younger man.
Maxwell sneers momentarily, and then takes the paper out of her hand with a curious expression. He finally decides that working for a hot Asian woman will be much better than a self-absorbed Congressman.
“Okay, postcards…” Maxwell replies slowly, displaying doubt in her ability to think under pressure. “What else do you need?”
“We need to get Letisha Belfort out of the house.” Lorabell says with a cocky smile, having no intention of failing this assignment.
“Letisha was just raped six months ago and she’s never gone anywhere. How are we going to get her out?” Maxwell asks, rubbing the top of his head in confusion.
“I’ll handle that.” Lorabell replies with total confidence. “Let’s also get some people close to all of the subject’s homes; we’re going to be working a lot today and tonight…”
“We call them assets… CIA assets… And they will be doing what?” Maxwell asks, holding his long pale arms out to the sides and exposing the words ‘don’t tread on me’ above the coiled snake on his black T-shirt.
“We’re going to shake up the hornet’s nest tonight!” Lorabell grins, feeling the power of her position for the first time.
Maxwell returns her grin, but raises his eyebrows with concern, then grabs the dispatch microphone and starts issuing orders to the four teams out in the field.
PHILLIP & LETISHA BELFORT:
Letisha sits in front of her small, bathroom vanity as she curls her long, black hair delicately at the ends. The young housewife looks at her soft, light brown skin in the mirror, feeling better that the scars are fading from around her eyes. Her small frame is clad in a demure gray outfit, something her grandmother would have worn. The outfit consists of a pantsuit with a thick dress shirt; several layers of clothing that are too hot for the spring weather in Anaheim, California.
Although her hair was looking great an hour ago, she loves the feeling of it in her fingers, and has been playing with it like a little girl. Letisha thinks back on the many hours she has spent learning all the finite techniques of styling hair over the past six months. This tedious styling gives her refuge from the painful memories of her assault, allowing her to feel beautiful in the way that nature intended.
“I am a black woman!” She says to herself in the mirror with conviction, feeling her strength rise a bit. “I am a black woman!” Letisha repeats, feeling empowered and a bit happier. “I am a broken woman…” She says as tears begin to roll forward from her eyes, unable hold back the memories.
The twenty-eight year-old sobs spastically as she recalls the gang members pressing her face hard against a brick wall. These memories cause her to shake as she thinks back to those horrible acts of men, wishing that she’d never taken that left turn… She hated Phillip for not being there… for being on the other side of the world protecting other people.
“Not today!” She says to herself, shaking her head in the mirror as she clears her mind of the pain. “They don’t get to take today from me!”
Letisha turns sideways and begins to compulsively style her hair again, pulling it up into what she likes to call ‘the warrior’s braid.’
“I AM A STRONG WOMAN!” She shouts at the mirror with joy, expelling the darkness from her mind, and standing tall in front of the vanity.
Her cellular phone breaks the silence of the morning with a soft tune from Nina Simone, singing about ‘a new dawn, a new day, and a new life.’ Letisha picks up the familiar silver iPhone®, pausing briefly as she attempts to recognize the number on the display.
“Hello.” She answers the phone reluctantly after a moment.
“Yes, Letisha Belfort, please?” A young female voice asks in a professional manner.
“This is she.” Letisha replies, putting her free hand on her hip and waiting for a sales pitch.
“Letisha, this is Kara with the Roscoe Group, we’ve received your resume and would like you to come down for an interview.”
“An interview for the hair and makeup position?” Letisha asks feeling suddenly excited.
“Yes.” The woman replies with scintillating charm. “There is a new movie that will start shooting in two weeks and we’d like to see if you’re the right fit for this position. Are you someone that can handle doing hair and makeup for leading ladies?”
“Oh my gosh! I would love that!” Letisha replies with an elation that she’s not felt since before Phillip went off to war.
“Fantastic!” The woman replies with satisfaction. “Can you be at our offices in an hour? Do you need the address?”
“Yes, I can be there!” Letisha announces with a clenched fist and a smile, holding her right hand up in a victory pose. “One hour will be no problem; I don’t need the address.”
“Excellent. Just come to the thirty-seventh floor and check in with the receptionist at suite 115.”
“That’s great! I will see you soon. Thank you so much!”
“Likewise, Letisha. We look forward to seeing you.”
The Roscoe Group – Downtown Los Angeles
Forty-five minutes later, Letisha breathes heavily with anxiety as she walks across the warmed concrete slabs of the sidewalk in front of a tall office building. Her eyes are covered with sunglasses, and her chest feels as compressed as a submarine in a deep sea dive while she moves daintily forward. The sexy orange dress makes her skin crawl and the expensive heels make her feel vulnerable and cheap.
Letisha closes her eyes and counts to ten, having not dressed anything like this since the attack. She puts her right hand out and steadies herself on a large, blue mailbox, letting the tension drain from her body as a woman on a bicycle passes from behind, followed by a curious couple that crosses her path from the front. As these people approach closer, it inspires Letisha to panic, but she breathes in low, careful gasps, telling herself that everything will be okay.
Once she is alone on the sidewalk, the young woman looks up at the fifty-story building, thinking of all the glamorous people she could meet, and the incredible lunches to be had near Wilshire and Rodeo. She takes in one solid, deep breath, forcing herself to move forward, staying focused on the money and satisfaction that this job will bring. A smile forms on her thick, red lips as Letisha regains her courage, and the sun reflects on her light, walnut-colored skin, filling her with warmth. She builds confidence with every step now, making her way through the lobby to the sleek, black glass doors of the elevator.
Letisha continues to grin with her back resting gently against the false wall of the elevator, just to the right of control panel. She holds her breath with a bit of nervous energy, staring down at the circle of light around button number thirty-seven, and feeling unmistakable butterflies in her stomach.
She begins to consider what she might say during the interview, but her thoughts are interrupted as a large, athletic man strides into the elevator in front of her.
The tall redhead has deep blue eyes and he wears a grimace on his face, displaying to the world that he ‘stopped giving a shit’ a long time ago. He turns quickly to his right, pausing to take a mental picture of Letisha’s breasts, and then presses the button to c
lose the doors.
Letisha stares at the back of the elevator to her left, ignoring the man as he ogles her chest, and waiting uncomfortably for the doors to close. She has become immediately sick inside, putting her mind elsewhere to avoid panicking. Out of her left eye, she watches the man press a button that is further down on the control panel than floor thirty-seven.
“So what brings you here?” The man asks with sudden, small-town cheerfulness. “Are you taking over the marketing position with Sutter & Meiers?”
“No, I’m just here to interview with The Roscoe Group.” Letisha announces, displaying a nervous smirk, feeling proud of herself for putting together a strong resume.
“Oh, wow, you’re going to be keeping Hollywood… looking Hollywood?” The man asks rhetorically, watching the progress of the elevator on the digital display above the doors. “Congratulations!”
“Thank you!” Letisha beams with a warm smile, starting to feel comfortable in her own skin.
“You know what I’d like to do!?” The man snarls unexpectedly, placing his right hand next to Letisha’s head as he leans close to her face. “I’d like to bend you over, squeeze your ass, and rip your panties off!”
She Is Risen (She Is Risen: The Gun Control Case Studies) Page 8
