Rebel and Soul

by Anna Kyss

I didn’t even notice him approach. Come to think of it, what has he even done for this protest? He was the one who was adamant that things needed to be ramped up, but he’s not part of the barricade, he’s not sitting in the tree, and he has no signs.

  “You might find your boyfriend’s planned a better show over that way.” Raven points in the direction of the logging trucks.

  I stare over at the empty trucks. The loggers have brought up a lot of equipment since the last time I’ve been here—a bulldozer, a crane-looking thing, and half a dozen smaller machines.

  Soul told me about the barricade and the banner, but he never mentioned anything else. I turn to ask Raven what he means, but he’s already walking past the line of protestors. He whispers something in the ear of the cameraman before picking up a sign and joining the group gathered at the far end of the blockade.

  As Wren continues quoting Chief Seattle, the cameraman seems to take a panoramic shot, swooping from the far end of the protest to my side. I glance back at the abandoned equipment.

  “Will these forests still be here?” Wren places the megaphone down to signal the end of her speech.

  “Not if we don’t do everything we can to stop the loggers!” Soul yells.

  Then the explosions begin.

  Soul

  MY HEAD throbs. When I open my eyes, I’m completely confused. I’m not in my dorm, not in Maddie’s room, and not in the tree. Everything seems fuzzy.

  I reach up and cringe. My forehead’s wrapped in white gauze, and it hurts like hell. What happened? The last thing I remember is being chained in the blockade, listening to Wren’s beautiful speech.

  That moment was so poignant. We couldn’t have planned it better. I remember a blast, and then… nothing.

  Why the hell can’t I remember anything?

  I roll over, ignoring the pain triggered by moving. A dingy white toilet greets me. Oh, shit. I press my hand to the thin mattress and force myself up. Another set of bunks sits across from me, and bars line the front of the… cell.

  I’m in jail. Something went terribly wrong.

  “Are you finally awake, man?” Apple lies on the bunk across from me. His arm’s in a sling, but he seems more with it than I feel. “I was getting worried. You were out for a while.”

  “What happened?” My voice is raspy. How long is “a while”? “Did the loggers do something to us? I didn’t think they’d get violent.”

  “The loggers?” Apple shakes his head. “Hell, no. We blew up their equipment.”

  The explosion comes back to me. That explains why my right ear’s ringing. “Are you okay?”

  He shrugs. “The blast sent everyone flying forward. Most of the group looked like they were in worse condition than you. My bicycle lock kept my head from smashing, like the rest of you, but my arm dislocated instead.”

  “Nobody…?” I can’t even form the words. As one of the group’s leaders, I was responsible for them.

  “No, almost everyone needed medical attention, but mostly for scrapes and concussions.”

  I sigh in relief. “What about the loggers? Nobody was near the equipment, were they?”

  “I’ve heard they’re okay, too.” Apple rests back on his bunk. “That wasn’t cool, though. You should have let the rest of us know the plan.”

  I try to think of how to respond. My words—and my thoughts—are still coming slowly. Before I can say anything, a prison guard comes to the door. “Solomon Prescott?”

  “That’s me.” Holding the bunk, I pull myself into a standing position.

  “Turn around. Arms behind you.” I slowly obey his orders, and he clamps cold metal over my chafed wrists. “Your lawyer’s here.”

  The guard leads me into a small room. My sister sits at a small metal table with attached benches. It’s the only item in the concrete room, aside from the thick door with enormous locks.

  When the guard turns to leave, my sister calls out, “Cuffs, please.”

  He gives her a long look, like he’s questioning the wisdom of removing my handcuffs, but she nods. A moment later, my hands are released, and the guard retreats.

  “Did he really think I was going to hurt you?” I plop onto the bench opposite my sister.

  “What the hell you were thinking?” Lizzie asks quietly.

  She’s usually obnoxiously loud. Quiet signifies that she’s pissed. The combination of calm and quiet is even worse. “I didn’t know—”

  “That you could be arrested?” Lizzie glares at me. “Cut the shit. I work with activists all day long.”

  My sister has what may be the coolest job in the country. After earning her degree in environmental law and passing the bar, she opened up her own practice. She represents activists all over the country. Since we’re not a rich bunch, she often barters for her services, trading legal representation for a year’s supply of jam, lawn care, or whatever else her clients can imagine. I told Maddie my dream was to practice law. In reality, I want to join my sister’s practice and help all the brave folks who are sacrificing themselves for the earth.

  “Stick to your First Amendment rights. Protest all you want. Have every fucking person in Colorado sign your petitions. If you really have to take it to the next step, acts of nonviolent civil disobedience will score you a misdemeanor charge, at worst.”

  I’ve heard this speech before. As soon as I went to my first protest in high school, she sat down and explained exactly where the lines are drawn.

  “But blowing something up?” She leans forward and stares right into my eyes. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

  I drop my head onto my arms. Apple blamed me. My own sister thinks I’m guilty. My thoughts turn to Maddie. “Hey, who did they lock up? Just the people in the blockade?”

  “Everyone. They locked up everyone who attended your disaster of an action.”

  Hopefully, they considered Maddie part of the media coverage. Journalists have special protection, right? “Lizzie, there’s this girl. Could you see if she was arrested?”

  Tears come to my sister’s eyes. Something’s really, really wrong. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her cry before. “You don’t get it. They’ve brought in the FBI.”

  “The FBI? For a small college protest?”

  My sister blinks and presses her lips together. I’ve never seen her have to work so hard at self-control. Even when our parents passed and she had to take on all the responsibility of caring for me, she acted calm and collected. Watching her struggle with her emotions fills me with fear.

  “How did you find out?” She sniffs and wipes away tears. “I never said a word.”

  “Find out what?” I try to piece together my sister’s words, despite my throbbing headache. Lizzie never even asked me if I was involved. She walked into this room, already convinced I was responsible. Why?

  “CML’s fancy lawyers sealed the old records.” She shakes her head. “You never should have found out.”

  “CML? Colorado Mountain Lumber?” Maybe my head’s hurt worse than I thought, because her words make absolutely no sense. I take her lands. “What’s going on, Lizzie? Tell me!”

  She looks at me sadly. “They’re charging you as a domestic terrorist.”

  Maddie

  WHAT HAS happened to my life? Two months ago, my biggest worry was which pair of Louboutins I should wear out. Today, I find myself somewhere I never imagined possible: in a jail cell. What a nightmare.

  After the first bulldozer blew up, the other followed as one-by-one, the expensive machinery shot sky high. I’m one of the few who escaped injury. Annie dragged me down as soon as the first blast went off.

  The blockaders weren’t so lucky. The blast threw them forward, and with locked arms, they had nothing to break the fall. I barely had a chance to check on Soul before the police arrived and began to load us all into big police trucks. Not even the journalists were exempt.

  I can barely formulate a thought. I pace back and forth because everything’s so stained and grubby that I’m afra
id to sit. One of the protestors used the toilet in front of the rest of us. That full-view toilet made the platform’s white bucket and privacy sheet seem downright luxurious.

  I’m not going to drink a thing. I wonder how long I can hold it before I lose control of my bladder. I have no idea what to do next. The reporter demanded her phone call immediately after we were booked, and I haven’t seen her since. But who would I call? The obvious person, my father, is last on my list.

  Soul must be locked up, too. Considering how angry I am at him, that’s probably not a bad thing. If he were in this cell, I would be tempted to throttle him. What was he thinking?

  Maybe I can explain my way out of the situation. If they see that I was present as a CU reporter, perhaps they’ll send me on my way.

  “Maddie LeRebeller?” A man in a fancy black suit accompanies the guard.

  At least they don’t know my real name. Relief floods me. Maybe my father will never learn of this incident. “Yes? That’s me, sir.”

  He blinks, as if surprised by my pleasant manners. “I would like to ask you a few questions.”

  “I’m happy to cooperate, sir.” I move to the locked door of the cell. I may not have experience in jail, but I’m an expert in navigating tricky social situations. My training kicks in. Act properly contrite. Address the other party with respect. Maintain a calm facade. They will interview me, find out how little I know, then release me.

  I breathe in slowly and inconspicuously. With any luck, I’ll be home by dinner. Daddy never needs to know.

  “Turn around,” the guard orders.

  “What?” I’m so confused. If he wants to interview me, why is he having me turn around? Shouldn’t he be focused on unlocking the door?

  “Turn around,” he yells. “Now!”

  I follow the instruction immediately. He grabs my arms, yanks my wrists together roughly, and snaps handcuffs on them. The metal is so tight, it pinches my skin. I hear the door unlock, and before I can turn, the guard yanks me by my arm into the hallway.

  “Ouch!” Tears come to my eyes. I haven’t even begun my interview, and I’ve already failed two of my three tasks.

  As we walk down the concrete hallway, I glance into the cells, looking for Soul. I spot other women from the protest, but no men. We finally reach our destination: a small room with a microphone in the center of the table and a camera on the wall.

  The guard pushes me down onto the metal bench so that I’m facing the microphone. He frees my hands then retreats to an instrument panel and begins pushing buttons. A green light flickers on the camera, and the microphone buzzes with static.

  I can feel my control slipping. My hand trembles against the stainless-steel table. I will it to stop, for my nerves to quiet, but the tremors move up my arm. My breathing’s too quick, too.

  The suited man finally says, “Our interview is being recorded. Are you okay with proceeding without representation?”

  I have these surreal memories of a police officer reading me my Miranda rights before placing me in the truck. Because Daddy’s a lawyer, I know I’m able to call someone. But that would mean explaining to my father exactly where I am and why I’m here.

  It would look like I have something to hide. I’m better participating openly and honestly. I finally nod my consent.

  “I’m Agent Wilcox from the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he begins. “Will you please state your full legal name?”

  My slight trembles increase to full-body shakes. I can’t answer the very first question without revealing my identity. Why is the FBI interviewing me at all? I know they’re only brought in on very serious charges.

  My deforestation research comes rushing back to me. Since its creation, the Department of Homeland Security has investigated domestic terrorism as well as international terrorism. Activists from a number of the more radical groups have been charged with terrorism for acts of destruction, including using explosives.

  My stomach turns, and I look around the room for a garbage can. There isn’t one.

  “Your name?” the agent asks again.

  I lean over the side of the bench and vomit all over the floor. “I’m so sorry.”

  Two hours later, I’m still being questioned. I think they took my apology after vomiting as an admission of my guilt. My stomach’s contents still lay there; the pile’s stench fills the room.

  “What feeder group sent you to Boulder?” Agent Wilcox asks, for the third time. He hasn’t bought my story that my first published article just happened to appear in both Boulder papers the day of the explosions.

  It’s a big coincidence. I recall Sage’s words from the train. How can you believe in coincidences?

  Agent Wilcox slams both hands on the table. “Let’s cut to the chase. We know you’re responsible for the explosions. The local group members have already named you as the leader of this action.”

  “What? That’s impossible.” He must have the wrong person.

  “We have lots of hard evidence. I’m happy to show you.”

  I nod.

  The first thing he sets down are today’s papers, with my headline across the top. “Do you deny writing this article?”

  “No, I definitely wrote the article. But—”

  “Clever. I haven’t seen that particular technique used before.” He reads snippets from the article. “Garner sympathy from the public before escalating into a violent action. Nicely planned.”

  I stare at the papers. It’s like all of Daddy’s words have come true. Only, this nightmare is so much worse than I ever could have imagined.

  Next, Wilcox sets down a photograph of me kissing Soul while he’s barricaded. “Can you identify the female in this photograph?”

  “Th-that’s me.” Why deny it? My face was clearly visible, and my red hair is a flaming giveaway.

  “Good. So we have proof that you weren’t just attending as a media presence. You had an intimate relationship with at least one of the protestors.”

  I can’t even find words to respond. They’re building a case with all this “evidence,” but I really am innocent. As soon as I see what else they have, I need to call my father. I’m completely out of my league.

  Agent Wilcox presses a button, and a video begins playing against one of the walls. It’s a clip from the protest. Wren stands in front of the protestors, making her speech. Everybody is completely fixated on her—everyone except me. When the camera pans in my direction, I’m studying the machinery immediately before it explodes.

  “Almost as if you were expecting the explosion.” He clicks the video coverage off. “You were the only one watching the equipment. Conveniently, you were also one of the only ones not injured.”

  “That’s all circumstantial evidence.” I place both hands on the table. “You don’t have any real evidence because I didn’t do anything!”

  “We have three people who have agreed to testify that you were present at the meetings in which escalating the group’s actions were discussed.” He leans forward and stares right into my eyes. “They have identified you as the leader of this particular action.”

  What? Who? That isn’t even true. The others must be trying to save themselves by concocting crazy stories. Testimony is powerful, though. My stomach rolls again. The smell of old vomit isn’t helping me at all.

  “I need one answer, though. Which feeder group do you belong to?” The agent’s phone rings just as I prepare to ask for my lawyer.

  I was so naïve, thinking that this would be a fair interview, that polite words and a friendly smile would send me on my way.

  “Yes, we have our chief suspect in Interview Room A. See you in a minute.” The agent turns off his phone and smiles at me. “The District Attorney will be here in a moment.”

  He’s talking about my father. I lean over and lose my stomach once again, adding to the pile already on the floor.

  Ten minutes later, my father enters the room. Without even looking in my direction, he strolls over to the agent an
d shakes his hand. “I have to say how impressed I am. Six hours after the explosion, and you’re already prepared to make your first arrest. Nicely done, Agent Wilcox.”

  “Daddy,” I rasp before beginning to sob.

  “Madison?” My father stares at me then turns on the agent. “What kind of sick joke are you playing? Do the feds really think it’s professional to use each other’s children in practical jokes?”

  I bite my lip to keep from wailing. My father never talks disrespectfully to others in public.

  “I’m sorry, but we have a chain of evidence and first-hand witnesses.” Agent Wilcox shows my father the same items he showed me.

  With each added item, Daddy’s complexion loses more and more color. When he sees the photograph of me kissing Soul, he flinches. After watching the video, my father turns back to the FBI agent. “Madison is going to invoke her Miranda rights. You’ll have no further contact with her until we speak with her lawyer.”

  Soul

  LIZZIE SPENDS the next hour outlining the risks of domestic terrorism charges. “They have been cracking down on the activist movements. I’ve heard of a few activists who have been sentenced to twenty years in a federal prison.”

  Twenty years? I can’t even fathom that amount of time. I’m only twenty-one. I try to imagine all of my memories for my entire life—all the years of school, time with my friends, holidays—and it’s too massive to even contemplate.

  “For trying to save the trees?” I was just trying to help, to make a positive difference in the world. I’ve never committed a violent crime. Hell, I’ve never even gotten into a fistfight. Sure, I believe in intentional acts of civil disobedience, but so did Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Nelson Mandela, and they were heroes for their movements.

  “Even the more minor convictions are still felonies if domestic terrorism is involved,” she explains. “You can kiss your dreams of being a lawyer goodbye if you’re convicted.”

  “What are the chances of being convicted?” I ask. My voice is so quiet, I almost don’t recognize it.