Larry Sellers, the maintenance supervisor for the school system, found the list while doing a routine inspection after the students left the building on Monday. He opened a cleaning closet and saw a piece of wrinkled paper wedged against the doorframe. When he picked it up to toss it into a nearby trash receptacle, a crude design at the top of the page caught his attention. It was a simple drawing of a human skull. He flattened the crumpled sheet of paper. Underneath the skull was a crudely written list of twelve names.
There was a Catawba high-school yearbook propped between two plastic containers of floor-cleaning compound in the closet. Larry opened it to see if there were students at the school whose names matched those on the list. The first name he checked was a sophomore boy. The second was a junior girl. The third was a junior boy; however, one thing was different. The student’s name was printed in the column on the left-hand side of the page, but his class picture was missing from the book. It had been cut out with sharp scissors or a razor blade.
Larry paused. He turned to the fourth name on the list, found the student, but no picture. It was the same with the next four students. The next student’s picture was in the book, but the final three were not. He flipped through the yearbook. There were several other pictures cut from the student sections that did not correlate to the names on the list. But the connection between the list and the cutout pictures was too important to ignore. Under the security guidelines issued by the superintendent’s office, the sheet of paper had to be reported. The possible connection with the yearbook made the situation more suspicious. He took the sheet of paper and yearbook with him and called Dr. Lassiter at home.
After listening, the principal asked, “Where are you now?”
“In the administrative offices. I have the sheet and yearbook with me.”
“Who has access to the closet where you found them?”
“Everybody on the janitorial crew and the faculty or staff members who have a master key. Of course, you know how hard it is to maintain an accurate inventory on keys.”
“Yes. I’ll investigate it in the morning. Put the items in my office.”
Before he left the office to go home, Scott called Kay at her apartment and gave her a factual report of the outcome in Lester’s case.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “How could he plead guilty if he didn’t do it?”
“I can’t go into it because of attorney-client privilege, but it was a bizarre turn of events at the end. I’ve learned that the law is not a science; it’s a poker game.”
“Will Lester come back to school?”
“Yes. Regular school attendance is mandatory until a space opens up for him in the boot-camp program. If he skips out, he will be in a cell at the youth detention center within twenty-four hours.”
“Okay. I’ll be praying for him.”
Scott chuckled. “You are a woman of great faith. If it’s okay with you and God, I’m not going to think about young Mr. Garrison or his father for a while.”
Scott wanted to mention the information he’d learned about Frank but couldn’t think of a way to bring it up. He settled for something general.
“How’s Frank?” he asked.
“He was in class today. I thanked him for serving on the mock trial team.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing. I don’t remember that he responded.”
“Do you think I should try to spend time with Frank?” Scott asked.
“Why?” she asked with surprise. “I thought he shut the door on you.”
“He did, but he is such a smart kid, and I know his parents are splitting up. I’d hate for him to take a violent”—Scott caught himself—“uh, negative turn.”
Kay didn’t notice his slip. “I guess you could give it another try. It would be outside school.”
“I might call and invite him down to the office.”
“Do you need his number?”
Scott knew Ann Gammons would have all relevant phone numbers. “No, I can get it.”
“I wanted to ask you about something else,” Kay said. “I’d like to set up a special lunch on Wednesday for the students who were in the mock trial program. Can you fit it in your schedule?”
“At the school?”
“Yes, I think we’re having tacos, and I know how much you like them.”
Scott paused. “Are you laughing at me?”
“Only on the inside.”
He looked at his calendar. “I can come anytime between eleven-thirty and one o’clock.”
“That will work. Make it 12:15. I’ll meet you at the office.”
“I know where to go. I’ve eaten at the cafeteria more times than I’d like to remember.”
“Just meet me at the office.”
Scott understood the unspoken message. The students were preparing something for him, and he needed to show up at the right time.
“Okay.”
Kay spent the evening thinking of a word or two that characterized each student on the mock trial team and writing a few lines of encouragement to share while they ate their meal. Earlier in the day Dustin had perfected an impersonation of Scott that perfectly captured the way the young lawyer acted when showing the students how to question a witness. Janie had written a humorous lyric about the mock trial competition. She and Alisha were going to sing it to the theme song from The Beverly Hillbillies. Dr. Lassiter had agreed to attend, and Mr. Humphrey would make a surprise entrance toward the end of the meal. Several mothers were going to bring snacks. Yvette Fisher’s mother had baked a cake.
It was going to be a fun day.
43
The die is cast.
JULIUS CAESAR
Recently, Tao had thought about the words he’d heard at the river near the refugee camp and wondered again why he was in America. It was enough to be in harmony with the will of the One who loved him, but deep down he suspected there was something more.
Tao didn’t see himself as a man of destiny. Self-centered ambition was not his area of weakness. He was from a respected family in his home village, but the notion that one man could make a difference across an entire society was more American than Asian. Tao saw himself as the part of a larger whole, a perspective that helped him relate to the biblical idea of the church as a group of many members working together.
Thus, it was a challenge for him to be in isolation at the school. He was surrounded by hundreds of people, but they were in a different world. His relationship with the Tuesday group was a hidden secret known only to himself. Thus, his heart’s cry for fellowship with others during the workday was not satisfied on a practical level.
He prayed about the situation and the Lord answered by enriching Tao’s inner communion with the Lord himself. The janitor enjoyed a relationship with Jesus that filled the void left by interaction with people during the day. Perhaps that was why he came to America, he concluded. In aloneness he found a greater intimacy.
The bomber sat in the parking lot of the high school until the first wave of his classmates flowed through the front doors on their way home. Many of the young people were laughing and smiling. The components of the bomb were hidden under a sheet on the floorboard of his vehicle. It would take three trips to transport everything into the building. The bomber wanted to make his trips at the proper time. He didn’t want to attract attention by being so early that the number of people still roaming the halls would make secrecy a problem, and he didn’t want to be too late and risk being questioned by a teacher or member of the administration.
When the number of students had dwindled to a trickle, he walked casually up the sidewalk into the building and into the administrative offices. A middle-aged woman with thick glasses and a negative expression sat behind the counter.
“Ms. Laramie needs some paper for the copy machine near her office,” the student said.
“That machine was filled up yesterday,” the woman replied.
The student shrugged. “I was staying late to cat
ch up on some work I’ve missed, and she asked me to get some copy paper from the supply closet in the hall. It was locked.”
“Of course, it’s locked,” the woman snorted. “We keep it locked all the time.”
The student attempted to be respectful. “Do you have a key I could borrow?”
“Yes, I guess so.” The woman selected a key from a pegboard on the wall behind the counter. “Bring it back before you take her the paper. And make sure you lock the door behind you.”
The key in his hand, the student walked down the hallway to the supply room. He unlocked the door and went inside. The storage closet contained boxes of paper, toner, and chemicals for all the copy machines in the school. It was located in the center of the buildings that made up the campus and was well stocked with supplies. There must have been a recent delivery. The student took a ream of paper from an open box. As he closed the door, he was careful not to push in the button that engaged the locking mechanism.
Paper in hand, he returned to the office. The aide was on the phone, so he put the key on the counter.
As he was leaving, she hung up the receiver and called out, “Wait!”
The student froze for a second before turning around.
“Tell Ms. Laramie to complete a requisition form for that paper and turn it in to the office tomorrow. We have to account for every sheet.”
“Uh, okay.”
The bomber returned to his vehicle and put the largest of his three components in an old backpack that he hadn’t used in a couple of years. Hoisting it on his shoulders he went back inside the school and walked directly to the supply room. He was about to open the door when a science teacher came around the corner. Their eyes met. The student had sat in the back row of the teacher’s class in ninth grade. He could tell the teacher recognized his face and wondered if he had forgotten his name.
“Taking a lot of books home, aren’t you?” the teacher asked.
“Yeah, I’ve been out some in the past couple of weeks.”
The student took a few more steps forward, opened a locker that had been left ajar, and pretended to be looking for something. It belonged to a girl who had covered the inside with pictures of herself and her boyfriend. The teacher passed, and the hallway was clear. The bomber returned to the supply closet and went inside. He put his load behind the boxes, then started to leave. He stopped and picked up another ream of paper. Coming from the supply closet empty-handed would be out of the ordinary; carrying paper would not arouse suspicion. Several students passed him in the hallway. No one paid any attention to him.
In a few minutes, he returned with his second load of explosive material. This time he made his delivery without interruption. After depositing the material, he picked up a bottle of toner and walked down the hallway and out of the building to the parking lot. This was his last load. He carefully placed the detonator, the power source, and a digital clock in the backpack. He opened a zippered pouch and put in a screwdriver, pliers, and wire strippers.
Once again, the hall was deserted. He pulled on the doorknob. This time it didn’t open. He pulled harder and tried to turn the knob. The door didn’t budge. He must have locked the door by mistake. The student silently swore and debated his next step. There was only one thing to do. He had to go back to the office and get the key.
The office aide was still at her post. The student tried to adopt a nonchalant attitude that was completely at odds with his feelings and appearance.
“I’m back again,” he said. “The light on the copier that shows that the machine is low on toner came on. I saw some bottles of toner in the supply room when I got the paper.”
“We don’t give toner to students,” the woman replied. “I’ll make a note and have someone service the machine tomorrow. Tell Ms. Laramie to use a different copy machine. She can bring the material here to the office if she wants to.”
Stymied, the student went back into the hallway. The explosive material was inside the supply room ready to be activated, but without the key he couldn’t close the circle of destruction. He went to his locker and opened the door. He considered putting the backpack in the locker until another opportunity. But each day would increase the chance that the explosive material in the supply closet would be discovered. If only he’d made sure not to lock the door.
At that moment the bomber got a break.
A female student came out of the administrative offices and walked directly to the supply closet. The bomber closed his locker door and drew closer. In the student’s hand was the key. She unlocked the door and went inside. The bomber appeared in the doorway.
“I need to get some paper for Ms. Laramie,” he said.
At the sound of his voice, the student jumped. “You scared me.”
The bomber ignored her reaction. “You can take the key back to the office,” he said. “I’ll lock the door.”
The female student left. He went inside and shut the door. Moving the boxes to the side, he sat down on the floor and began connecting the detonator to the two power sources and the packets of explosive. He had practiced the procedure many times in the private place where he kept the components of the bomb, but to do it for real made him perspire. He had memorized the function of each colored wire. It was an exciting moment when he got out the clock and prepared the final connections. Included in the configuration were several dummy wires that served no function and two tripwires that would automatically cause the bomb to detonate if an effort was made to disarm it. He took a deep breath and looked over the assembled device. It was beautiful. Everything was neat and organized. He wired the clock to the detonator and checked his watch. Holding his fingers on the buttons, he advanced the numbers to the correct settings. He released his control. The time flashed and began its downward descent. The bomb was alive.
In less than twenty-four hours the clock would reach zero. There would be a faint click followed by an earth-shattering boom that no one within two hundred feet of the copy room would ever remember. The secondary effects of the explosion farther away from the supply room were harder to predict, but he knew that the effect of falling debris would be significant. Now that the bomb was operational, the student didn’t want to leave. He wanted to sit with the bomb, watch the clock, and anticipate the moment of detonation. He carefully double-checked every connection. Three minutes had already passed. He knew he had to leave. He arranged several boxes of paper and chemicals so that everything was concealed. He wouldn’t see it again until he stood in the midst of the firestorm that would destroy everything and everyone in its path.
44
A date which will live in infamy.
FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT
Each day dawns filled with the unknown. Sometimes a day arrives pregnant with anticipated importance. At other times, a routine day takes on a significance that no one anticipated. But most days are neutral— neither good nor bad, notable or memorable.
There had been many Wednesdays at Catawba High School since public education began in Blanchard County. Wednesday usually held no special place in the school calendar. It wasn’t a Monday when the week’s activities were communicated through faculty memos and homeroom meetings, or a Friday filled with tests during the day and athletic contests at night. Wednesday was a vanilla segment of twenty-four hours.
When Tao arrived at the school, he went to the cleaning closet to retrieve his copy of the yearbook. He’d spent several days praying for the same two students and wanted to ask the Lord if he had another assignment for him. The yearbook was gone. The janitor carefully looked behind the bottles and jugs in the closet but couldn’t find it. Puzzled, he went into the break room where the maintenance staff ate lunch to see if he had left the book on the table. It wasn’t there either. It was time to begin work. The search for the yearbook would have to wait.
Tao had time to clean two rest rooms before the students arrived for the school day. When he finished, the sinks shone, the floor was spotless, and the mirrors didn’t have any streak
s. He would clean two other rest rooms after the students left in the afternoon.
Dr. Lassiter had a breakfast meeting with the local Kiwanis club and arrived at the school later than usual. On a chair in his office were Tao’s yearbook and the piece of paper left by Larry Sellers. The principal repeated the process of comparing the names on the list to the missing pictures in the book and decided Larry should call a meeting of the janitorial staff and ask about this yearbook.
Lester Garrison returned to school. Before opening his locker, he looked up and down the hallway. No one was paying attention to him. News of Monday’s events in court had not yet filtered out into the school population. Soon, what the students at Catawba High School said or thought about him wouldn’t matter.
Kay used her morning free period to decorate the faculty dining room for the lunch with Scott and the mock trial students. At 12:05 P.M. she would stop by the dining room for a last-minute check before meeting Scott at the office.
Frank Jesup Jr. called the school office and told the woman who answered the phone that he was sick. It was a true statement. The night before Frank had stayed up late to battle his unseen on-line adversaries. He didn’t hold back. There was no use concealing his best strategies any longer, and it was a time of major victory for him. He tracked down his most formidable adversary and cut him to pieces in a deluge of blood-red images. The enemy signed off with a string of profanity and threats about the future. Frank didn’t respond. In his mind, success had been a foregone conclusion.
The weakest link in Frank’s plan was the possibility that the boxes of paper or supplies might be removed late Tuesday afternoon or early Wednesday morning and the bomb discovered. This almost happened at 10:45 A.M. on Wednesday. The copy machine in the athletic offices was out of paper, and Coach Leonard sent two boys to get a couple of boxes of paper. They stopped by the office to borrow a key.
“Make sure he files a requisition form,” the aide said. “I’m tired of people getting paper and not reporting it.”
The Sacrifice Page 40
