by Frank Zafiro
“Power,” Ryan said. “Control.” After a moment, he added, “Revenge.”
“For what?”
“For me.”
They shared a long look, and he could see that she understood everything that those two words entailed. His lack of party compliance, his quiet resistance while maintaining a position with the police, was all a major affront to people like Potulny. And people like Potulny, Ryan had reluctantly come to understand, were running things now.
“Then you had better not die,” Nathalie finally said.
“No plans.”
“Good.” She squeezed his hand, then pulled her own away and clapped her hands together. “Then we must plan for what is happening today.”
“You have any ideas? Other than waiting for almost six more years?”
She nodded. “The ACLU is going to appeal the law to the Supreme Court as soon as the legislation is passed by Congress.”
“It should take them about five minutes,” Ryan said. “Unless they’ve got their rubber stamp already out and on the desktop.”
“It doesn’t matter. Sooner is better, anyway. The law can’t be appealed until it is passed and then applied to someone.”
“The Supreme Court,” Ryan mused, shaking his head. “How many of those justices did this president appoint?”
“Five.”
“So there’s his majority.”
“Two of the others usually concur as well. The other two usually dissent.”
Ryan snorted. “For all the good it does.”
Nathalie looked him in the eye. “Sometimes dissent is its own reason, regardless of what it accomplishes. Otherwise, wouldn’t you be saluting at roll call every night?”
“Touché.”
“Ah, your French is improving. Have you been using Rosetta Stone behind my back?” She smiled gently, and took his hand. “I’ve already spoken to Annalise. If the ACLU fails in their appeal, she will draft an individual appeal on the basis that my application was already in progress. She called it a – ”
“Grandfather clause.”
“Exactly so, yes. She believes that may be the compromise the White House concedes in order to overcome resistance to this bill. If they do agree, I will still gain citizenship in March.”
Ryan considered. He wasn’t a political scientist, he was a cop forced to pay attention to politics. Nathalie was the political expert, but she was partially blinded by hope and desire. Still, he admitted the concession might occur. People throughout history have seemed perfectly willing to allow governments to pull up the ladder once they were safely in the treehouse.
“Then we’ll hope for Plan A and prepare for Plan B,” he said.
“Yes,” she agreed. “But mostly, like I’ve been saying all along, we will focus on getting you healthy again.”
ANDREW HELPED WITH that. Each day, he worked Ryan to the point where Ryan felt like he’d reached his limit, then pushed him a little farther. His personality seemed to be a cross between Ryan’s Marine drill instructors and a personal trainer, but behind all of it was a genuine kindness that Ryan was grateful for.
Kindness was not what he received from Gleeson. Every day or two, the investigator returned to the hospital and repeated his questions. Sometimes he asked new ones, and Ryan was often unable to see the relevance of the questions. But while he feared the power that rested within Gleeson’s conclusions, he knew he hadn’t done anything wrong, and so he simply did as he always had – he answered truthfully.
The truth was undergoing a lot of changes, however.
ONCE HE WAS WALKING again, albeit very short distances and with the help of the parallel walking bars, Andrew asked him about his pain tolerance and medication.
“Normally, that’s a doctor question,” he explained, “so feel free not to answer. But my recommendation is to use only as much pain relief medication as you need to be able to function. I know pain is unpleasant, but it is also a good indicator of where things are with your body. Sometimes it takes knowing where it hurts to know best how to fix it.”
“A philosopher,” Ryan joked.
“It takes philosophy to survive these days,” Andrew said quietly, and with a smile, but his eyes shot left and right when he said it to make sure no one else was within earshot.
“Let’s hope that’s enough,” Ryan said, grimacing as he took another step and settled his weight on his bad hip.
“It’s always enough,” Andrew said. “It just doesn’t always save a man.”
Ryan opened his mouth to ask what that meant, then closed it suddenly because he thought maybe he understood.
THE NEXT DAY, GLEESON asked him if he knew his assailants.
“How many times do you want me to answer the same question, Captain?”
“As many times as I ask it, Officer. If you’re telling the truth, this shouldn’t be a problem, should it?”
“The only problem is that it is tedious,” Ryan grumbled, rubbing his eyes. Andrew had been especially hard on him that morning, and he’d been looking forward to a light lunch and a nap before their afternoon session. Gleeson’s visit interrupted those plans.
“I’m sorry you find the search for your partner’s killers to be tedious,” Gleeson replied.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Just answer the question, please.”
Ryan sighed. “No, Captain, I did not know my assailants. I could barely make out their figures in the darkness. If it weren’t for the muzzle flashes, I couldn’t have even said it was men with any certainty.”
“So you’re certain none of your attackers were women?”
“I meant men in the general sense. Human, not automated gunfire or something.”
“I see. Now you said you heard these figures shouting phrases at you and Officer Washington, correct?”
“Yes, I’ve told you that already.”
“And do you remember those phrases?”
“Not exactly. It was hard to focus on anything but the gunshots.”
“Allahu Akbar?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Was it in English? Arabic? Greek?”
Greek? Ryan struggled to disguise his reaction. Was Gleeson trying to somehow find a way to connect Nathalie, based on her parentage? Or use this attack on him to hurt her citizenship application.
He tried to shake off the thought, but it clung to him. Ten years ago, he would have thought it ludicrous, but as Potulny had reminded him in their first post-shooting interview, all police were now federal. Gleeson could be working at more than one purpose.
You’re being paranoid.
“Officer? What language was it?”
“English.”
“Are you certain?”
“Pretty sure. I thought I heard them say ‘fascists.’”
“Not fascistes?” His voice took on a slight French accent, then shifted to one Ryan didn’t recognize. “Or fasístes?”
“I don’t think so.”
“But you aren’t certain.”
“No. It could have been another language. But they called us motherfuckers, too, and that’s a pretty uniquely American word.”
Gleeson didn’t appear at all ruffled. “Do you know what the dark web is, Officer Ryan?”
“No.”
Gleeson arched an eyebrow. “No?”
“You seem surprised.”
“You have been a police officer for ten years. I would have think you’d have come across the reference.”
“It sounds like a cyber-crimes concern to me. I was in patrol. I answered emergency calls, like a real cop.”
“And in heroic fashion, I’m certain.” Gleeson smiled tightly. “All right, then, a brief education. The deep web is a site that does not appear in a search engine, but requires a direct link. This mechanic is not necessarily subversive in itself and has some practical, legitimate uses. Your bank account is deep web, for instance. The dark web, however, is another matter. It exists on the Internet but requires special so
ftware and passwords to access it, or even be aware of its presence. This level of deep secrecy on the ‘net has been the bane of law enforcement for the last twenty years, providing a safe harbor for drug dealers and child pornographers alike.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“Of late, seditious parties have utilized this medium to further their agendas and spread propaganda.”
“Seditious?”
Gleeson’s tight smile remain fixed. “Traitorous.”
“I know what it means. But last time I checked, the First Amendment is still in effect. So who gets to decide what qualifies as sedition?”
“A thorny question, to be sure. Some things do hover right on the edge of the borderline, in the gray area, so to speak. This can cause a great deal of disagreement. But many of these groups are considerably more radical, and far from ambiguous. One of them released a video yesterday. Would you care to see it?”
“You’re not asking, so let’s not pretend I have a choice.”
“Point well taken. But I will warn you, it is a bit disturbing.” Gleeson turned to the television hanging on the wall and used a remote to turn it on. The image that appeared was already cued and paused. A hue of green light bathed the entire scene, showing a modest living room and a front door.
The door was slightly ajar.
“Do you recognize this setting?” Gleeson asked.
Ryan cursed softly and averted his eyes. “I...don’t want to watch this.”
Gleeson was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “You know what I find interesting? That many people in America today have the luxury of seeing and living in the world the way that they want it to be. They exist within a bubble of their preferred beliefs, inside of an actuality created by carefully constructed scenarios, untouched by any inconvenient reality.” He paused for effect, then continued. “Now, they are able to do this because other men and women are willing to sacrifice that luxury for themselves, and live within a much more true reality. Police officers, firefighters, emergency room doctors and nurses, and even politicians...all of them must live in the world the way that it truly is. Those truths are forced upon us at every turn, and if we do not acknowledge them and face them and ultimately resolve them, then that pleasant fiction that the rest of the world gets to live in is exposed and destroyed.”
Ryan barely heard his words. “I was there. I don’t need to see it a second time.”
“I think you do, Officer Derrick. Because you chose to live in the world as it is, not as you would like it to be.”
Ryan rose clumsily, reaching for his walker. Sweat immediately popped out on his brow and ran down his spine. His legs felt shaky.
“Sit down,” Gleeson commanded. “Before you fall down.”
Ryan lowered himself back into the seat. He reached for the call button. The silent orderly could help him walk out of the room.
“Leave that alone.” Gleeson’s voice was cold. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to play this clip, and you are going to watch it. And then we’re going to talk some more. If there’s any doubt in your mind about all that, know that you are being compelled to participate in the remainder of this interview as a condition of your continued employment.”
Ryan fired a hateful stare at him. “You enjoy this, don’t you? It’s a power trip for you.”
“I enjoy doing my job well. If that conflicts with your desires, forgive me if I think the needs of the Metro and the citizens of our nation are more important.”
A petty man wrapped in patriotism, Ryan thought, but held his tongue. There was no profit in continuing to poke at Gleeson, and Ryan knew that, right or wrong, his job did hang in the balance.
When he didn’t answer, Gleeson took it as acquiescence, and started the video clip.
Ryan watched, his stomach clenched, as the door swung open. Then he saw himself button-hook through the door, sweeping his pistol across the field of vision but seeing nothing in the dark. A moment later, the large figure of Marcus Washington filled the doorway, and then loud shots erupted.
His partner actually made it through the doorway and fired several shots of his own as he fell, something Ryan wasn’t aware of. Little of what happened inside that room had been shared with him. Seeing Marcus crumple to the floor, Ryan battled several waves of competing emotions. Devastating grief rose first, having barely receded below the surface. But anger flared as well, and a small flash of pride. Marcus Washington was a warrior, and he fought to the very end.
There was a moment of stillness when the shooting stopped, then the field of vision swept to the left and toward the back door, before Gleeson paused it.
Ryan forced himself to unclench his jaw. Rigid tension filled his entire body, and he took in a deep breath and tried to release it from the muscles in his back and shoulders. Only then did he realize that his face was streaked with hot tears. He wiped at them, unashamed.
“Did you catch it?” Gleeson asked.
“What was I supposed to see?”
Gleeson shook his head. “Not see. Hear.”
“All I heard was gunfire.”
“Then close your eyes,” Gleeson instructed. “I’ll run it again.”
“I don’t – ”
“Close your eyes.”
Ryan obeyed, focusing on this breathing, and listening intently. He heard the slight squeal of the door hinge, then the eruption of gunfire. And then...voices.
“Die, you fascist occupiers!”
“Nazi cop motherfuckers!”
The shooting and the yelling was followed again by that eerie silence. Ryan opened his eyes and saw that Gleeson had paused the video as before.
“You heard it?”
Ryan nodded. ‘Nazi’ had become the newest ‘N-word’, equally offensive to both liberal and conservative alike.
“Does that sound like free speech to you?”
Ryan considered. “It could mean a lot of things.”
“Pray tell.”
“They could be anti-Federalists, or just anti-police. It’s hard to say for sure.”
“You seem very calm when talking about the men who maimed you and murdered your partner.”
“Believe me, I’m not calm.”
Gleeson pursed his lips, watching him. Then, wordlessly, he started the video clip again.
The scene changed. The green night vision was replaced by a bright corona of light that surrounded a shadowy figure whose features were indiscernible. When he spoke, his accent was distinctly American, but Ryan couldn’t place the regional dialect.
“What you have just seen is the beginning of a revolution,” the shadowy man said. “For years, more and more power has become concentrated with the federal government. Because of this, we have seen the rights of many citizens further eroded. In the United States of America today, unless you are white and a member of the New American Party, you have become a second class citizen in your own nation. Those poor souls who were somehow less than that before have become even more oppressed. Young black men continue to be shot and killed by the police in even greater numbers than a decade ago, and there is even less scrutiny of these murders. The police have become the indiscriminate instrument of the state, doling out a warped sense of social, criminal, and racial injustice. This will not be allowed to continue. Unless the federal government takes immediate steps to rectify this situation, we will be forced to continue such actions as those you saw here. It is with a heavy heart that we carry out these missions, for despite the hatred on the surface in this nation, we recognized that we are all, in the end, brother and sisters. Let us hope that our leaders listen sooner, rather than later.”
The scene faded to black and a logo reading Bastards of Liberty appeared.
Gleeson turned it off. “This was broadcast widely on the dark web. No legitimate news sites are running it, of course, but that doesn’t mean no one is seeing it.”
“They’re...terrorists,” Ryan whispered, realization sinking in.
“They
are. And attacks like the one on you and Officer Washington happened in sixteen other cities, all within twenty-four hours of each other.”
“Sixteen...” Ryan shook his head, disbelieving. It didn’t seem possible.
“These terrorists are protesting the necessary consolidation of proper authority in its proper place. They are attacking the institution that protects that authority and provides order in this nation. Now, do you see that behavior as residing in the gray area of free speech or can we agree that it is clearly seditious?”
Ryan didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The grief and anger welled up again, blocking out everything, and leaving him temporarily immobilized. These men had ambushed him and Marcus over a political idea. They didn’t know him, or anything about him, or Marcus. If they had, they never would have chosen either of them as targets.
Gleeson continued. “Perhaps now you can see why Sergeant Potulny and I have...pressed certain issues with you, Officer Derrick. More is in the balance than just an officer involved shooting. In many ways, you could argue that the future of our country is in jeopardy. And with those stakes, where you stand is of critical importance, don’t you think?”
Ryan swallowed. “I...I don’t know what you want from me.”
Gleeson opened his mouth to reply, but the door buzzed, cutting him off. Potulny strode in with an air of self-importance. He gave Gleeson a wave of dismissal, and stood waiting impatiently for him to comply. Gleeson showed a hint of irritation, but rose dutifully and left the room.
Potulny settled into Gleeson’s seat. “Let me ask you a simple question, Officer,” he said, without preamble. “Did you know your attackers?”
“Of course not.”
“You didn’t know this attack was going to happen?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Officer, we lost a man in this act of domestic terrorism,” Potulny answered sharply. “That is what I’m talking about. I’m talking about whether you are in any way complicit with that.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“Then you wouldn’t have any problem making a public statement condemning this assassination?”
