“I’m a journalist!” said Xelina.
“The defendant will speak when spoken to,” said Broyles.
“The Rovers are not an ‘organization,’” said Donny. “That’s an invention of the government. It’s like being an Astros fan.”
The court ignored him.
Bridget approached the bench and handed a thick stack of papers to the judge. She then gave a copy to Donny. The top page was a charge sheet—a government form filled out with the defendant’s name, date of birth, alleged aliases, and the laundry list of crimes with which she was charged. It was signed at the bottom by one of the senior prosecutors detailed to the tribunal, Deputy U.S. Attorney Jack McAuley, to whom Bridget reported.
“The defendant participated in the FRO’s illegal infiltration, occupation, and sabotage of industrial properties in the Coastal Evacuation Zone,” continued Bridget. “She documented their raids on several petrochemical facilities, including two on the national defense registry, and the drills in their paramilitary training camp.”
Bridget was just getting started, and Donny was already having trouble keeping up. Attached to the charge sheet he had just been handed was a stack of exhibits. Almost all of them had been redacted with the thick black bars of the censor. Donny looked up at the court security officer, an executive branch employee who sat at a bench just below and to the judge’s right, near the clerk and the court reporter. He quickly turned away, after being busted watching Donny digest his work.
“I believe I may have seen one of those,” said Broyles. “Kalashnikovs, burning cars, and targets made to look like certain elected officials?”
“That sounds right, Your Honor,” said Bridget. “Government’s Exhibit A-17, at page 73, has some screen shots.”
Donny’s copy had no Exhibit A-17. It did have a red sheet where the index of exhibits was supposed to go, pre-printed with a notice.
SPECIAL EMERGENCY TRIBUNAL
Fairness-Transparency-Justice
CASE FILE
Defense Counsel: Portions of the document you are trying to access are currently undergoing a security review per the Regulations for Trial by Special Emergency Tribunal, October 31 Revised Edition, Rule 19.4. At the completion of the security review any portions of the document deemed releasable to cleared counsel will be made available. Please consult the CSO in your case if you have any questions. Thank you for your cooperation.
“The defense has a right to see all of those as well,” objected Donny. “But instead we get this.” He tore the red page loose and waved it like a flag. “What the hell is Rule 19.4?”
“If you would read the updates regularly sent by this court you would know,” said Broyles. “We are trying out a new process to better maintain security while facilitating more expeditious proceedings. I am confident Mr. Walton will be able to get most of these submittals processed within a few days.”
CSO Walton looked up at the judge and nodded. Walton was one of those personally powerless but authority-oriented guys who look middle-aged before their time, someone the aptitude tests said would make a great censor. In addition to his redaction machine, the CSO had a button at his desk that allowed him to generate white noise to override any portion of the proceedings that strayed into the garden of secrets. When he did that, a small red light went on at the edge of his desk, so everyone knew.
Donny looked over at his client. She looked terrified and confused. And more than a little pissed.
“This is outrageous, Judge,” said Donny. “I’m supposed to be cleared for this.”
“I’m advised it’s a sources and methods issue,” said Broyles. “And we’ve had some leakage. Not saying it’s you.”
“That’s correct, Your Honor,” said Bridget. “And the copy provided to defense counsel is not entirely redacted.”
Donny scanned what was there. Code names of confidential informants, dates, some fragments of investigatory narrative, a few screen shots that were only partly obscured.
“There is no way to mount an effective defense off of this,” said Donny.
“If you would read the rule,” said Broyles, “you would know that you are entitled to have the prosecution provide you a summary of all evidence that has been redacted. So you can work with Ms. Kelly to find a time when she can meet you in the SCIF for that purpose.”
“Also correct, Your Honor,” said Bridget, looking over at Donny and nodding. “We can do that at this morning’s break.”
The SCIF was the “Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility,” a fancy name for a dingy little conference room downstairs that had been cleared for reviews of classified information. Technically, the courtroom they were in was a SCIF, but Donny saw no upside in arguing the point further. He sat down and looked back at his client. He gave her a reassuring look, but he could tell she wasn’t buying it.
Probably because he wasn’t selling it all that well.
“Thank you,” said Broyles. “Please continue with your summary, Ms. Kelly.”
The truth was Donny had already seen the training camp video. Everyone had. Outtakes from it had been blasted all over the media as proof of the government’s claims that the isolated outbursts of political violence and eco-terrorism in recent years had coalesced into a revolutionary underground. Seeing its rainbow ensemble of young greens with guns made you realize the Second Amendment only applies to certain people. It also made Donny wonder if it was as real as the government said.
Donny looked again at Xelina. She seemed so young. She also looked tough, and angry, but more like a clever prankster than the revolutionary provocateur of Bridget’s script. It dawned on him then that she might even be innocent.
“Your Honor,” continued Bridget. “Many of the videos of these acts of terror and provocations to sedition were posted on public networks using an anonymous account, in violation of the Communications Freedom Act. See Exhibit 4.”
Donny looked at the list of aliases on the first page of the charge sheet. They were all user names, which read like graffiti tags. X-Rok, Viridiana, gaia_llorona. The CFA mandated user transparency, in response to evidence that public opinion had been manipulated in recent elections by foreign infiltrators using fake accounts. Enforcement had been lax, but that was clearly changing.
“We have provided excerpted transcripts of the defendant’s correspondence with her comrades in arms using these accounts,” said Bridget. “All of whom also use aliases, and the defendant has refused to cooperate with our investigators in providing us their true names.”
You could see the resolve in Xelina’s face as Bridget mentioned her friends.
“Based on this information, defendant was detained by the Task Force,” said Bridget. “Additional evidence of her involvement in these activities was uncovered in their search of her residence, along with unlicensed weapons, suspected explosives, scheduled narcotics, and fence-breaching materials.”
“Fence-breaching materials,” said Broyles, slowly, like a teacher reading an intercepted note.
“Our investigation reveals the defendant has been associated with this cell since last winter, with knowledge of their conspiracy against the United States and the State of Texas, and aiding in active concealment of their violent enterprise. She has been refusing to answer questions or provide access to the evidence she possesses regarding other members of her cell and their operational plans. The government recommends she be transferred to this Special Emergency Tribunal as a domestic insurgent and processed for denaturalization.”
Denaturalization was the lawyerly way of saying take away your citizenship, even if you were born here.
“Your Honor,” said Donny, standing. “A punishment that extreme can’t be imposed without providing us full access to the information the government has collected in its so-called investigation. Not these crumbs.” He waved the charge sheet again. “And not an executive summary in the SCIF that only includes whatever the government feels like telling us. How are we to prepare a defense if the evidence aga
inst Ms. Rocafuerte is kept secret?”
“You could start by getting her to give up the names of her associates,” said Broyles. “That would solve a lot of problems.”
“What bullshit,” said Xelina, more to herself than to the court, but loud enough.
“Foul language in my courtroom will not do you any good, miss. How old are you?”
Xelina glared at the judge, shaking with fear and fighting her shackles at the same time.
“Twenty-three,” said Bridget, answering for her.
“Old enough to be held accountable for your bad decisions,” said Broyles. “And your dangerous ideas. Do you know what misprision of treason is?”
“Your lying name for journalism that criticizes the dead system you serve,” said Xelina.
Broyles laughed. “If you know someone is committing treason against this nation, and you conceal it, or don’t tell us about it, that’s misprision of treason. A kind of aiding and abetting. I’m sure Ms. Kelly is ready to lay it all out for you.”
“We are, Your Honor,” said Bridget. “Chief Perez from the Guard is here if you would like her to provide any testimony on that.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Broyles. “Unless Mr. Kimoe is going to make me listen to more from this unkempt punk.”
“Come on, Judge,” said Donny, reddening now, just the reaction Broyles wanted. Broyles cut him off again before he could get his objection out.
“Meet your zealous advocate, Ms. Rocafuerte,” said Broyles. “Donald F. Kimoe, Esquire. He used to have Ms. Kelly’s job, until he decided to help us by helping your kind embrace the eyes and arms of justice. He is pretty good at his work, most days, and he is free. To you, at least.”
“Who pays for him?” said Xelina.
“I do, with the People’s money,” said Broyles.
“No thanks,” said Xelina.
“I am going to insist you at least talk to him. Because his job is to help keep you from ending up where you will most definitely be sent if you try to represent yourself. Do you know where that is?”
They all knew where that was, even though it was a secret. The kind of secret the government wanted you to know existed, and leave the rest to your imagination.
Broyles surveyed his audience with an almost-smile. “I think we are all on the same page now. So I am going to let you meet with Mr. Kimoe, so he can explain the situation to you more patiently than I am inclined to do after he has already screwed up our schedule for today. We will reconvene at 9:30 tomorrow morning to decide your fate.”
“Your Honor, that’s ridiculous,” said Donny. “That’s not even twenty-four hours.”
“You’re lucky I’m giving you that,” said Broyles. “It’s just a preliminary hearing.”
“But we still need time to get our arms around the case. And my day is already spoken for. I don’t have time to—”
“You have time to meet with your new client,” said Broyles. “And you know exactly how you can take care of this: in the expeditious and tidy manner we expect from you.”
Donny could feel the sweat starting to find its way through the wool of his suit. He looked at the clock again. Then he looked back for Miles, who always had a better idea. But Miles was long gone.
“I know you will be able to persuade Ms. Rocafuerte that it is in her interests to help the government out,” said Broyles, looking at Xelina as he spoke of her as an object. “Unless she wishes to find out where we send the wild creatures who cannot be housebroken. I hope I have made myself clear.”
Donny looked over at his new client. She didn’t look happy to meet him. Maybe because she could tell he didn’t want to take her case.
“It’ll be okay,” he lied.
And for a moment there, it looked like she believed him.
“I’ll see what I can do, Your Honor,” said Donny, and before the words even got all the way out, he could see the change in her eyes.
Xelina turned to the judge. “I’m not doing this,” she said.
“Don’t—” said Donny, but she wasn’t listening.
“Could you repeat that, Ms. Rocafuerte?” said the judge.
“You heard me,” she said. “Obviously this whole thing is a setup, including this so-called defense lawyer whose job is to trick me into giving you what you want. Just so these monsters in the back of the room can round up my friends and lock them up for no good reason.”
“You are out of order, miss,” said the judge.
“Fuck you, you tyrant,” said Xelina, slamming her shackles on the table. “Fuck you and every one of your genocidal colonist ancestors. You can chain me and you can send me off to your secret prison, but you know it is wrong and that a reckoning is coming and when it does all of you people will be the ones who get locked up.”
That got the room’s full attention. Broyles seemed momentarily at a loss for words—Donny was at a loss of air. He watched as the judge just glared at her. Then Broyles abruptly motioned with an angry thumb for her to be taken away, and turned his attention to the files on the next case.
As Donny watched the marshals put the hood back over her head, Xelina looked over at Donny and gave him the finger.
Then they took her away, through the door in the side of the wall, into the man-trap, to her cage.
2
This was during the Interregnum. Week two, to be exact, just days after they had an election and nobody knew who won.
Around midnight on election night, the last precincts came in from around El Paso, and they called Texas for the challenger. The pundits credited the hordes of Midwestern refugees who had resettled in the Lone Star State after fleeing the droughts up north. That tipped the Electoral College count over. Even California, one of the President’s strongest bases of support, couldn’t make a difference. When Donny left the bar that night, the crowd was ecstatic. President Mack was a one-termer.
When Donny got up the next morning, Mack was on TV declaring victory. Texas Governor Pat Jackson and his handpicked Secretary of State said the popular vote could not be validated. Between the refugees and the Texans who had been relocated by that summer’s storms—storms that had caused the evacuation of large portions of the coastal region and the declaration of martial law in an even wider area—it was impossible to have confidence in the polls. Citing the emergency powers the Legislature had given him, the Governor overrode the popular vote. He would pick his own slate of electors, pledged to vote for the President in the interest of maintaining the peace.
When Donny heard that, he knew the opposite was more likely. Small comfort that it also meant he would be a very busy guy.
Not like there had ever been much peace. When Donny was younger, the country always had a war going on somewhere. They usually called it something else, but you could hear the guns and the bombs on the news, see the people fighting in ruined cities and scorched forests, usually fighting our own soldiers.
Then came the big war. The one we lost.
It happened right after Donny finished law school, when he was an associate at the firm. No one saw it coming, and it only lasted a week. But it broke the country. Mostly by revealing just how broken it already was.
The obliteration of the American narrative blew open the parameters of the possible. For a while, at least. There was a period of a couple years, after they signed the treaty that gave Hawaii and most of our Pacific possessions over to the victorious Chinese, when it seemed like something better was aborning. Economic and political chaos yielded opportunities for reinvention. The monolithic partisan divisions that had ruled for decades dissolved, replaced by a ferment of diverse new futures.
It didn’t last. The new reel turned out to be an intermission. And now the war was coming home.
Defeat meant the end of empire. Economic sanctions, scarcity where there had been abundance, more people fighting over the less that was left. The rich hoarded what they had won in the years before, hiding in gated communities and shell companies guarded by privatized police
and smart lawyers. The more irrelevant the American flag became in a time of worldwide crisis, the more some people started to wave it, on the news and on the job, trying to conjure the return of a past that had never really been.
The instability was compounded by deeper changes in the population, changes everyone had long known were coming, the same way they knew the heavy weather was coming, neither of which changes anyone could stop. The people who had the power saw that to keep it, they needed to use it to make sure those changes didn’t take it away. So they went to war on the future.
Lately they were winning. The weather helped. Especially in Houston.
The Free Rovers, who made environmentalism a kind of religion, said it was a sign of divine judgment that the drought settled in over the heartland so soon after the end of the war. When he closed the Texas borders to inland refugees, Governor Jackson pointed out that most of them came from states that had voted for the president who lost the war. That excuse didn’t work when Superstorm Zelda worked her way from Corpus Christi to Biloxi, made the weather wonks add two new colors to their storm maps, and turned a few hundred thousand Texans into refugees as well. That was when the Governor seized the opportunity to declare martial law, and asked his buddy the President for backup.
The President was happy to help.
Running on a platform of national restoration against the guy who lost the war had gotten him elected the first time. Declaring war on the people who opposed the whole idea of the nation would be a good way to get the people who preferred the mythic past to give him four more years. Four more years that, if they played it right, could be extended into forty.
It was working, but not well enough. He was swimming against a demographic current that was going the other way. And the President was not the kind of leader who accepts an electoral loss.
AMERICA IS FOR WINNERS
That was the big campaign slogan, on yard signs and bumper stickers and bright blue buttons.
So on Wednesday morning after the vote, as the talking heads equivocated, he sent his “peacekeepers” out to stop the protests before they could even get out the door. And then he lawyered up, to make sure his seizure of power could be papered over as the rule of law.
Rule of Capture Page 2
