An Unlikely Phoenix

by Frank Zafiro

  As if the two are really any different, Ryan mused, as he thumbed through another mind-numbing police report about a found bicycle.

  Sometimes when Potulny visited, he pointedly ignored Ryan. Other times, he gave him some menial task to perform. Frequently, he reminded the officer that he was still under investigation for the shooting incident last year.

  Under investigation for what, Ryan wondered. Getting ambushed? But he knew that these days, the truth was what those in power made it be, and as long as they could cloak it in something remotely reasonable, most of the people simply shrugged and went about their own business, thankful not to be the subject of investigation themselves.

  He thought about leaving the job. Without the shadow of the investigation hanging over him, there was a better than even chance he could petition for medical retirement. His hip ached constantly, and he still walked with a noticeable limp. But he couldn’t consider that option until his shooting was resolved.

  Likewise, a return to patrol seemed progressively more unlikely, and while he remained under investigation, his position and eligibility on the detectives’ list was frozen. Reviewing found property reports originally looked like a make-work, temporary job, but now it seemed as if it might stretch into a career. At best, he might find himself working as a sworn member of the Crime Analysis Unit, which had been a valuable piece of the puzzle early in his career. The unit even moved to some surprisingly accurate predictive models, based on some software that originated in Vancouver, British Columbia. But as the party members and bureaucrats became more and more empowered, this once-progressive unit was reduced to a glorified statistics collection group, tasked with reporting what crime has already occurred and creating slick graphs and maps to allow those higher in command to more pointedly place the blame for that crime on those lower down the ladder. It had originally been called CompStat, but Ryan simply called it ‘scapegoat policing.’ Marcus had told him to shut up about it.

  “You a lieutenant?” Marcus had asked. “A captain? No? Then put your head down, and do you own job. Let the white shirts do their own thing.”

  Thinking back, Ryan realized that might have been good advice, even if he was largely unable to follow it.

  Aside from the crime analysis unit of years past, there was no place Ryan wanted to land that would accommodate a cop who couldn’t leave the station. And whether it was because of his injuries or the open-ended investigation that Gleeson was supposedly conducting, leaving the station was looking more and more like something Officer Ryan Derrick might never be allowed to do.

  The idea of leaving police work stung Ryan. On one level, being a cop was all he’d ever wanted to do. Leaving felt like a betrayal of his childhood dream. In a perfect world, he wouldn’t have to. He could resign from SMP and start over somewhere else with another agency. But this world was an imperfect one, and he knew there were several obstacles in the way of that route. His injuries were a significant one all by themselves, but the reach of men like Potulny and the New American Party could easily poison any potential new police employer against him. That left corporate work, which didn’t mesh well with Ryan’s sense of higher purpose, and private contracts, which lacked any stability.

  But there was another reason he resisted the urge to just quit: it was exactly what they wanted. Potulny, Gleeson, the Party...it would be a victory for them to run another so-called shamer off the force. He didn’t want to give them that victory.

  “Molon Labe,” he whispered, and the phrase gave him a shot of pride. If they wanted his job, they could come and take it.

  In the end, weren’t Nathalie and Melina more important than his pride?

  They were, of course. Ironically, his family was the reason he hung on, enduring Potulny’s antics every time he came by the Found Property Unit. Leaving the police department might eventually be the best move for his family, but right now, keeping his status in law enforcement was the best thing he could do for them. It strengthened her citizenship application, which now rested on the Supreme Court decision regarding the ACLU appeal, as well as Nathalie’s own appeal for grandfather status. Both decisions loomed heavily over their household.

  As if on cue, the door to the office buzzed and swung open. In strode Lieutenant Potulny.

  “Saving the world, Officer Derrick?” he asked, his tone light and sarcastic.

  So today wasn’t going to be an ignoring day. Ryan kept his eyes on the report in front of him, but didn’t focus on the words. “Returning lost property to the citizens of St. Louis, Lieutenant,” he answered, his words laced with mock formality. “Just like every day. It doesn’t save the world, but I like to think it makes it a better place.”

  Potulny stopped near Ryan’s desk and stood imperiously over him. “It is customary to rise when a superior officer enters the room,” he said sternly.

  Ryan glanced up. “Is that a custom? Or a rule?”

  “A custom that has become a rule.”

  Ryan considered begging off, using his injury as an excuse. But he knew that would just strengthen the department’s case that he wasn’t street worthy. So he forced himself to stand, suppressing a wince when his hip flared in protest.

  “Lieutenant,” he said, once he was standing.

  “That’s better,” Potulny said, then gave him an expectant look. “No salute?”

  Ryan clenched his jaw. “That still falls under custom, not rule, doesn’t it?”

  Potulny shrugged. “For now.”

  “I thought so.” Ryan settled back into his seat, and turned his attention back to the report in front of me.

  Potulny didn’t move right away. Instead, he said, “You know that your every action tells us what kind of an officer you are, don’t you?”

  “I hope so.”

  “And what kind of an American.”

  “Again...I hope so.”

  “You haven’t done yourself any favors with your disrespectful attitude toward leadership. Toward the Party and the President, either.”

  Ryan looked up. “You mean toward people like you, don’t you?”

  “It’s one and the same.”

  Ryan didn’t answer. He knew he could only take conversations like this so far before Potulny would find a way to turn his words into insubordination.

  “Nothing to say?” Potulny prodded.

  Ryan shook his head mildly. As much as these exchanges burned like acid in his gut, he tried to maintain a flat demeanor on the surface. He didn’t want to give Potulny the satisfaction of getting to him.

  Potulny waited until it was clear Ryan wasn’t going to say anything more. Then he shrugged, “Maybe you’re learning, Officer Derrick. Though I somewhat doubt it. But stranger things have happened.”

  “They have,” Ryan agreed, thinking of all that had come to pass in the last decade.

  “I have some news for you,” Potulny said, changing gears suddenly.

  Ryan steeled himself. If Potulny was delivering the news in person, it wasn’t likely to be good. Was he being permanently moved from patrol? Or was this about the so-called investigation he was still under? Ryan tried to keep his expression neutral, but he felt himself leaning forward in his seat.

  Potulny affected a look of sympathy but it looked foreign on his face. “You’ll get formal notification within a few days, but my sources have told me the decision has already been made.”

  “About what?” Ryan asked.

  “About your wife.”

  Ryan blinked. “Nathalie...what about her? What’s she have to do with...?”

  An evil smile broke through Potulny’s façade of sympathy. “Oh, you thought this was about your case?” He shook his head. “No, Officer. We’ll deal with you in good time. But you seem to be forgetting that we are all federal officers.”

  “I’ve never forgotten that,” Ryan snapped. “What’s this about Nathalie?”

  “Her appeal has been denied,” Potulny said, clearly enjoying being the bearer of this news. “There will be no grandfa
ther clause applied to her citizenship application. She will have to go through the same twelve-year process as any new applicant.”

  Ryan almost asked Potulny how he knew this, but resisted the urge. He knew the lieutenant was plugged into the various federal agencies through his party membership. He didn’t doubt that the information was accurate.

  There’s still hope, he thought. The ACLU challenged the constitutionality of the law all the way to the Supreme Court. If the court struck down the law, then Nathalie would be eligible to take her citizenship oath in a matter of days.

  “Quite a disappointment,” Potulny observed. “One of several that people will be experiencing today, I think.”

  Ryan didn’t answer. An image of his wife filled his mind, and he tried to fend off his sense of frustration and defeat.

  “You know,” Potulny said, his tone conversational now, “as Party members, there are things that we can do within government operations. Especially for other party members.”

  Ryan locked eyes with Potulny, masking his surprise. This was the first time in a long while that Potulny or any Party member had made such an offer to him, and never had they been so blatant about it.

  “This country was built upon the concept of making sure good people were taken care of,” Potulny added. “People who see the true way, who are true Americans. Your late partner understood this. That’s why he applied to join.”

  Ryan opened his mouth to protest, to say that this couldn’t be more untrue, but he found that he had no words. Instead, he snapped his mouth shut and swallowed, remaining silent.

  Potulny smiled. “I can see you’re conflicted. But if that’s the case, then it also means that you see the benefit and reason in what I’m suggesting. Think it over, Ryan. We’ll talk in a couple of days.”

  Potulny gave him a greasy smile. Then he turned on his heels, and strode out of the room without another word.

  Ryan stared after him, his mind racing, a bevy of emotions battling for first position.

  Was Potulny serious? Did he really want Ryan to join the Party? What did they gain from that?

  Ryan saw the answer almost immediately. Turning a detractor had significant value as propaganda. He saw it all play out in his mind. A former shamer sees the light. He’d become an example to be repeatedly cited to convince other reluctant officers.

  The entire idea was repugnant to him, and he rejected it almost immediately. But a part of him raised some doubt. What if this was the way to save Nathalie? To get her citizenship? He had little doubt that Potulny and the New American Party could find a way to make that happen.

  But what then? Could he live with himself? Could Nathalie? And what message was he sending his daughter if he capitulated like this?

  Survive, he thought. Maybe that was the message. Do what you have to do to survive, because you can’t change the world or anything in it if you’re dead or defeated.

  Ryan sat at his desk for the rest of the day, trying to decide if there were worse things than death or defeat.

  Chapter 14

  The philosopher and political activist Cornel West was interviewed in 2036 while under house arrest in the United States on charges of sedition. Though the terms of his imprisonment were gentler than some, the greater punishment seemed to be exclusion from the international discourse on events. When Akimbo, a noted shadow journalist of the time, asked him in a secret interview about the immigration issues that sparked the crisis, he bitterly replied, “Who knew that U.S. v. Fleming would become another Plessy v. Ferguson or Roe v. Wade? We all should have, that’s who.”

  — From An Unlikely Phoenix by Reed Ambrose

  THAT NIGHT, AFTER DINNER, Ryan played a card game with his daughter. It was a simple color and shape matching game with the straightforward goal of getting rid of all your cards. Melina took the game very seriously, and had her mother’s competitive streak. Ryan had long ago abandoned any thought of letting her win. He simply couldn’t pull it off any more without arousing her suspicion.

  After he narrowly won two out of three matches, he sent her to get ready for bed. Nathalie had been working on her tablet once the dinner dishes were finished, and when he leaned down to kiss her on the neck, she closed the file she was working on. He didn’t mind. She was a perfectionist, and would only show him her work once it was finished and ready for the rest of the world to see. Even then, she wasn’t always satisfied with it, but as a journalist, she’d come to realize that she had to let things go before she deemed them truly “done.”

  “You want to go first?” he asked, keeping his head next to hers.

  “No,” she said. She reached up and touched his cheek, caressing the stubble there. “You start, and I’ll finish.”

  It took two of them to tuck Melina in, at least when Ryan was home. That happened more regularly now, having been the only real benefit to his banishment to the Found Property Unit. It made him wonder how Nathalie managed when he was working graveyard patrol.

  He kissed her neck again, gave Melina a few more minutes to finish getting ready, then headed to her bedroom. He found her already under the covers, waiting for him. He lifted the covers a little higher on her and kissed her forehead. “You have a good day?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Yep.”

  “What’s on deck for tomorrow?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Something fun.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Hope isn’t a plan,” Melina said seriously.

  Ryan smiled. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “From you. About a gazillion times.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, well, it’s true. Hope isn’t a plan. But that doesn’t mean you can’t still hope.”

  “I know. Can we go to another hockey game soon?”

  “Sure. I’ll check the schedule.”

  “Okay.”

  He kissed her again, this time on the top of her head. He breathed in the clean smell of her hair, and smiled. “G’nite, baby girl.”

  “Night, Daddy.”

  He left the light on when he left. In the living room, Nathalie saw him coming, put down her tablet and headed into the bedroom. Ryan sat on the couch. “Miri, turn on the TV,” he said.

  The disembodied, feminine, slightly robotic voice replied immediately. “Turning on television. Do you have a preference, Ryan?”

  “Live news,” he said. “Set volume to zero.”

  “Specify - local or national?” Miri asked.

  “National.”

  The TV screen came on and immediately switched to CNN. Miri had learned Ryan’s preferences over the years, so even when he made general requests, they leaned toward those preferences. The New American Party had its own channel, NAP News, and Fox News might as well have been an affiliate. While he had no illusions about the compromises CNN had made to remain mainstream, he still found it to be the least sycophantic of the major networks.

  Ryan watched, only partially paying attention. Mostly, he was waiting for Nathalie to return from tucking in Melina. When he heard her footsteps, he turned to greet her. She sat beside him, crossing her leg under the opposite knee. “Time for your daily propaganda dose?” she asked playfully.

  “Just trying to be a dutiful servant,” he joked back.

  “Well, it’s less painful when silent and with no closed captioning.”

  “Do you want closed captioning, Ryan?” Miri asked asked in her disembodied voice.

  “No,” he said, then shook his head at Nathalie. “I don’t know that I’ll ever get used to her eavesdropping.”

  “She’s not,” Nathalie corrected. “It is, though. Supposedly only for key words, but some people have theorized that she is actually spying and recording everything we do.”

  “Everything?” He raised an eyebrow at her.

  “Especially that,” she said, raising her eyebrow to mirror his expression.

  “Miri,” Ryan said, keeping his gaze locked on Nathalie. “Are you spying on us?”

  “Negative,”
Miri replied. “My function is limited to the operation of home appliances, entertainment, environmental, and communication devices.”

  “It’s the last part that worries me,” he said, only half joking. Then he gave Nathalie a serious look. “Listen, I have to tell you something.”

  “Oh? You look intense.”

  “It’s important. I got a visit from Pot Belly today.”

  She smiled. “It is funny that you still call him that.”

  “It was Marcus’ name for him,” Ryan said quietly.

  “I know. But I’ve seen this Potulny. He is very fit.”

  “I guess he was being ironic.”

  “Our world is full of irony these days. What did Monsieur Pot Belly have to say?”

  “He said he had information about your grandfather clause appeal.”

  Nathalie’s small smile faded. “If he brought you the news, then it wasn’t good.”

  “No, it wasn’t. He said it was being denied.”

  Nathalie took a deep breath and absorbed the information. “All right. We knew this was a possibility.”

  “We did.”

  “And there’s still the ACLU appeal to the Supreme Court.”

  “News alert,” Miri said. “Based upon keywords spoken.”

  Both turned to the screen. “Alert” flashed in red letters in the lower corner of the screen.

  “Miri, play alert,” Ryan commanded. “Raise volume to normal.”

  The channel switched to NAP news. A small notice appeared in the center bottom of the screen, reading “Pre-Recorded.”

  The anchor looked into the camera, his expression carefully grave. “About an hour ago, the Supreme Court issued a decision in the case of Fleming versus the United States, a case brought by the ACLU on behalf of a Belgian immigrant who had applied for U.S. citizenship. As you may recall, the wait period for someone seeking citizenship after being married to a U.S. citizen used to be seven years. Applicants were required to meet other criteria as well, but married status was a positive factor in this process. The President recently proposed legislation, passed by Congress, that extended this waiting period to twelve years. The White House cited security concerns and the ability of the State Department to properly vet all applicants as reasons for this change.” The anchor paused dramatically for a half beat. “Today, in a 7-2 decision, the Supreme Court denied the Fleming appeal to this new law, stating in unequivocal terms that, and I quote, ‘Fleming offers no convincing evidence that belies the legality of this law, and the right and responsibility of the United States government to regulate immigration for the security and safety of the American people.’”