Rule of Capture

by Christopher Brown

  He wondered what windows they were watching him through at that moment, real or virtual.

  So when the cab finally got to his apartment, and he saw the lights were on, he told the driver a different place to go.

  And he left his phone in the cab, on purpose, after he paid the driver and said I know it’s weird, just promise me you’ll drive there.

  On foot, the streets were dark that night. For the energy capital of the universe, they sure didn’t spend much on streetlights. Maybe because they didn’t believe in the idea of pedestrians.

  More likely because they didn’t like the idea of anyone outside at night.

  37

  When Joyce came to the door, she had her Glock in hand.

  “Jesus, Kimoe,” she said, opening the wooden door but not the screen. “What the fuck are you doing? I nearly shot you.”

  “Sorry,” he said. He had come to her back door, the one that opened onto the kitchen. He had been banging on it for five minutes before she came. “Can I come in?”

  “No! Are you wasted again? Get off my lawn.”

  “Joyce, I’m totally sober, I just—”

  “Just because I invited you to share the ride to Mexico with me doesn’t mean you can come around here in the middle of the night like some crazy fucking stalker, backdoor man.”

  “I just need a place to hide, Joyce. I need a safe bed.”

  “You came to the wrong place, Donny. I’m serious. This is so insanely uncool. Your friends are right about you. You’ve lost it.”

  A light went on at the house next door.

  “What time is it, anyway?”

  “One-thirty,” said Donny.

  “Are you kidding me? And look at you. You even brought your goddam luggage.”

  She was looking at his litigation bag, which looked like a cross between a briefcase and a steamer trunk.

  “That’s not—” he said, the hostile reception making him realize he was getting too tired to form complete sentences. “This is just work stuff. Files. I came from the office. They raided it. Stole my files. And when I went to my apartment, there were people there, too.”

  “Well, you better go kick them out. Because I only have one bed and you aren’t sleeping in it.”

  “I just thought maybe I could crash on your couch for a couple hours.”

  “No, Donny. If you can’t go home, get a hotel.”

  “That’s not safe,” said Donny. “They’re looking for me. I can’t risk missing this hearing tomorrow. It’s my one real chance to save this woman from being sent to the camps.”

  Joyce sighed. She didn’t have much sympathy for him, but she always felt for the clients, especially the politicals. They took action she only ever had the guts to talk about in the faculty lounge.

  “I’m sorry, but you are going to have to figure something else out, Donny. The feds already came here once this week tagging me with whatever it is they have on you. If they’re after you tonight, then you’ve already put me at risk. And I’m on my way out of here, and I’m not taking any chances that will screw up my plans. So please leave.”

  She had a point. She also had a gun.

  Then she closed the door on him, locked it, and turned out the lights.

  The light was still on next door. Donny looked, and saw a man watching him from a bathroom window.

  “Fine,” he said, looking at the man but talking to the sky.

  38

  When the receptionist opened the offices of Powell & Shah for business the next morning, she found a man sleeping on the lobby couch, and screamed.

  Donny woke like a startled animal at the sound, lost deep in a paranoid corner of dreamland and not even remembering where he was.

  “Hey,” he said, after coming halfway into the world and sitting up. “Hey, Linda. It’s me.”

  “Mr. Kimoe?”

  “Yes. Donny. Sorry to scare you. Miles gave me a key. And I was in here working late, so I decided it made more sense to just crash here. Since we have a big day today.”

  He looked at the look on her face, and then looked at himself, and realized he had no pants.

  “Jesus, sorry,” he said, pulling on his suit trousers, which somehow made it even worse. “Let me get it together here. Guess my alarm didn’t go off.”

  They both knew he hadn’t set any alarm. Only he knew that part of the reason was that he couldn’t, because he had tossed his phone the night before to evade the law.

  Linda had taken a more secure position, behind her big desk. He wondered if she kept a gun in there. That wouldn’t be Miles’s style, but it might be hers. Especially as someone whose job description included greeting the felons as they came through the door to meet with their lawyer.

  “Let me get out of your hair,” said Donny. “Is there a shower around here?”

  “There’s a locker room in the basement,” she said, clearly heartened at the idea of him leaving. “Part of the gym.”

  “Great. Any idea where I can get a toothbrush?”

  When he came back through the front door forty-five minutes later, feeling clean and refreshed despite having to put back on yesterday’s clothes, he said good morning to Linda like it was the first time they had seen each other that day. And then he reclaimed his little conference room and got back to work. He had a hearing to prepare for, and some calls to make.

  He closed the blinds in the conference room, just in case. And then he turned on the TV, partly as monitor and partly as company. It was when he was tuning the thing through BellNet’s five hundred channels looking for news that wasn’t government-approved that he got the idea he wished he’d had at the beginning of the week. It was an idea that Miles would definitely not approve of.

  Fortunately, Miles was out of the office that day.

  39

  The studios of Radio Free Houston turned out to be not far from Donny’s office, in a converted warehouse behind some old train tracks that ran parallel to the Southwest Freeway. The door was black tinted glass, with peeling decal lettering that said SUITE 203-NEW SUN PRODUCTIONS INC. It was locked, and there was no doorbell. So Donny knocked.

  No one came.

  He knocked again.

  He looked around. There were a few cars in the lot, including a black Corvette and a Chevy Mammoth, one of the last of the souped-up pickups with race-grade engines. The Mammoth had a bumper sticker Donny had seen before.

  REFUGIO WAS AN INSIDE JOB

  He walked around the side and looked for another door.

  He saw a guy back there standing in the shade of the building smoking a cigarette. The guy was big, a little older than Donny, wearing one of those fancy print collared shirts designed to be worn untucked.

  As Donny approached, the guy looked up at him and blew a cloud, the look on his face that of a man who wants to be left alone.

  “You’re Mort Hanauer,” said Donny.

  The guy didn’t say anything. Just kept smoking.

  “I have an appointment with Paula,” said Donny. “Tried the front door but nobody answered.”

  “I don’t think she’s back yet,” said Mort.

  “Maybe you can help me.”

  A flash of recognition came over Mort’s face. “You’re that lawyer, aren’t you? I saw you on the news.”

  “It’s not like they make it sound.”

  “No kidding. I work with one of your clients. Xelina knows the truth.”

  “Probably better than any of us. And that’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you guys about.”

  “Maybe you better come inside,” said Mort.

  The offices were modest, a first-floor production suite made from repurposed warehouse space. Mort walked Donny past a short row of cubicles piled with papers, and showed him the recording studio where they did the program. It was weird to see it in the dark.

  “You watch our program?” asked Mort.

  Donny nodded. “My ex turned me on to it. You’re a brave man.”

  You could tell Mort liked com
pliments. Behind him was a poster promoting one of his specials with a life-sized picture of an alien.

  “Let’s grab the meeting room,” said Mort, leading him to a door down the hallway.

  Donny grabbed a chair at the conference room table. The whiteboard on the wall was covered with scribbles, an elaborate chart mapping unlikely connections between names.

  “Got a phone?” asked Mort.

  “Yeah,” said Donny. He had bought it that morning at the drugstore, along with his new toothbrush. Prepaid, under a fake name.

  Mort grabbed a metal box from the middle of the table and slid it over to Donny. “Put it in there, will you?”

  “Sure,” said Donny, distracted by the chart.

  “See anybody you know up there?” asked Mort.

  “Yes, actually. I mean, I think so. It’s hard to read.” But that definitely looked like Lou’s name down by the lower right corner.

  “We’ve been trying to map local connections to the administration. Trying to reverse engineer what really happened last summer.”

  “I saw the poster in the hall. I’m embarrassed I haven’t seen your report. Especially since I’ve been working that case.”

  “I know you are. And it hasn’t come out yet. We’re still finalizing a few things. Sorry about Hardy. That was just wrong.”

  Donny nodded. “Thanks. When’s your release date?”

  “Hopefully by the end of the month.”

  “The election will be a done deal by then. Could be good timing for reopening the investigation.”

  “Would’ve been better timing if we could have gotten it out before the election. But we just weren’t there yet.”

  “Hard to get people to talk.”

  “I know some guys you could talk to. In Iowatown.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. This one kid seems to have the missing link.”

  “You gotta give me their names.”

  “I don’t know how they’ll feel about talking to a lawyer, but I can see if they’re open to an intro.”

  “That would be great.”

  “I’d also like to talk to you,” said Mort. “How about we tape an interview.”

  “Now?”

  “As soon as Paula gets back.”

  “What about?”

  “Jerome Hardy. How they false-flagged him for Refugio. And Xelina Rocafuerte, too, if you want.”

  “Let’s talk about her first. She told me she gave you some footage recently. Hot stuff. So hot you wouldn’t run it.”

  “Have you seen it?” asked Mort.

  Donny shook his head. “Trying to get my hands on a copy.”

  “If you see it, you’ll understand. I need to stay on the air.”

  “So make me a copy. I’ve got a judge who wants to see it.” He didn’t mention his promise to Xelina to put it out there.

  “Sure. Give me an interview and I’ll burn you a copy.”

  Donny nodded. He had some things he wanted to get off his chest. Most of it was illegal to talk about in public, but it looked like they were getting ready to arrest him anyway. And if he played this opportunity right, he might be able to hasten the imminent regime change that promised to solve all of their problems. Once you started to realize you had to fight the system to make it work the way it was supposed to—really fight it, maybe not the way people like Clint had in mind, but with every non-violent means you had at your disposal—it changed how you played the game.

  And it got him Xelina’s footage, finally.

  “Just as long as you don’t air it until after five today,” said Donny.

  Mort gave him the thumbs-up.

  After they finished the interview, Mort was so happy he gave Donny some free ad time. When Donny said he didn’t have any commercials to put up, Mort said his team would hook him up.

  40

  When the cab pulled up to the Jersey barriers outside the front of the federal courthouse, Donny saw a posse of feds standing there at the main gate. Four uniformed marshals, only one of whom he had ever seen before, and three suits, all with earbuds and activated eyes. They didn’t look like a welcoming committee, and he assumed they were there for him. So he had the cab take him to the back, and snuck in to the other entrance between the armored trucks waiting to pick up their freight of live humans headed to new cages.

  Cleburne was in charge of that checkpoint that afternoon. He told Donny some guys from Washington wanted to talk to him. Donny said tell them they can come find me after my hearing, because if I don’t show up in her court in twenty minutes Judge Jones will be ready to hang me and anyone else she finds out wasted her time. Cleburne didn’t argue.

  Then he asked Donny if he’d heard what happened to Turner the night before.

  “That asshole?” said Donny. “He screwed me over big time. And owes me some money. A lot.”

  “Turner’s dead, Donny,” Cleburne said harshly. “Drove right off one of those unfinished sections of the Mayor B. I was with him right before, at the bar, but he didn’t seem drunk.”

  He probably wasn’t, thought Donny.

  Donny could see how upset Cleburne was, and gave him a hug, the kind of hug you give a man who is ready to shoot you or handcuff you if you make the wrong move.

  “Can we talk after my hearing?” said Donny.

  Cleburne nodded.

  Maybe Turner wasn’t such an asshole after all.

  “There you are!” said Percy, hollering at him from the other side of the checkpoint. “Come on! They’re almost ready.”

  “Go on,” said Cleburne, holding open the gate to let him bypass the scans.

  “Thanks,” said Donny. He turned to Percy and grabbed her shoulder. “Did you get the footage from Hanauer’s people?”

  “Yes!” she said.

  “And?”

  “What?”

  “I haven’t seen it.”

  “Come on! I have it on my laptop. You have to use it. Miles is wrong. He would agree if he were here.”

  “If Miles were running this case, it wouldn’t be our only option.”

  Percy hit the elevator button.

  “No,” said Donny, looking around. “Let’s take the stairs.”

  41

  They avoided the main hallway and snuck into the courtroom through the judge’s chambers.

  “Hope you don’t mind, Dennis,” said Donny to the clerk, turning to Percy. “I brought our new associate with me today, and I wanted to show her the Batcave. She’s a big admirer of Her Honor.”

  Percy nodded. It helped that it was true.

  “Okay,” said Dennis. “But make it quick, and don’t disturb the judge. She’s reading all that stuff you sent.”

  “We’ll be very quick,” said Donny. “Thanks.”

  They walked straight through, down the hall and into the courtroom. You could see the surprise on Bridget’s face when Donny stepped around from behind the bench.

  “Can we talk?” asked Bridget.

  “Give me a minute,” said Donny.

  They took their places at the defense table. Then Percy opened her laptop, gave Donny her headphones, and opened the file.

  The footage was a long clip, and only the last part had the scene they needed.

  It started with fragmentary scenes of the group of activists packing up at the camp and heading into the Evac Zone. Personal shots more than documentary footage. Behind the scenes. Friends screwing around. Swappable fails, mostly of the guards around the refugee camp before they headed out. One longer one of Gregorio giving an impromptu pep talk and homily about civil disobedience and the impossibility of trespassing on the land of your ancestors. Shots from inside a van, people chatting, smiles and hand signs, signs of nervousness, sights outside the window.

  A crossing into the Zone, at an unmarked spot, on a gravel road. Looks like far outer Houstonia, dead end at a gate, camera eye on construction debris and used tires dumped at the shoulder, heavy metal compost slowly sliding into the woods. A hard stop there and anothe
r Gregorio stand-up, giving everyone a last chance to bail. And then the bolt cutters to the chain holding the gate closed. Cheers all around, and a little bit of clanking.

  A checkpoint tower rising above stubby trees, blurred from zoom. A flag of unknown provenance. Probably a company.

  A green lagoon. It looks coastal, swampy, verdant. Then you notice the abandoned buildings in the background. The lagoon is a pit, an old dig site working its way back to wild. In the distance, three tall structures, lattices of steel.

  Those booms, the same ones Donny had heard, but much closer. Like the sound of explosions underground.

  A campfire. Someone brought a guitar. Thankfully no bongos.

  Tents. Sleeping bags inside what looks like an old office.

  An inventory of salvaged items. Rusty tools. Shotgun shells and the jackets of pistol cartridges. A beat-up metal locker. A barricade of salvaged tires.

  A young woman plucking some red fruit from a wild tree. She peels it, shares it, eats it. It’s a pomegranate. Exotic gone native.

  Clint, smiling at the side of a creek. The sound of birds.

  A Coast Guard helicopter, coming over close.

  More nature. A government cutter, out on the open water through the trees.

  A rally. Meeting out in front of the big building. A pep talk from Gregorio, and from another leader, a woman who talks about the rewilding of the self. Then she looks away, past the camera lens. Then you hear the noise she must have heard.

  Gunfire, a single shot.

  Running, with the camera on. Footage jumbled and blacked out in spots. Then shots from a hidden position. Men in trucks. New and shiny black trucks, or deep blue. Raptors, Commanders, a Range Rover. An ancient pickup, redone with a big budget, modified for hunting the most dangerous game. They roll in at high speed, scattering the crowd. Sporadic gunfire, maybe warning more than aiming. People running to hide in the buildings. A few people run for the road.

  Blurry shots from there, zoomed. Audio weak, too far away from the things the camera is focused on, too much noise of engines and yelling and wind. And the winded breathing of the woman with the camera. As the others hide, Gregorio stands his ground in front of the main building. The men who approach are not all white, but mostly, not a dozen, but almost. Strong-looking, if a few on the heavy side. Masked, with dark bandannas, some with shades. They are dressed better than you would expect people to dress for a lynching. Not in uniforms, but not in redneck militia wear, either. High-end outdoor gear, mostly, all dark colors. A lot of English-looking stuff—black waxed cotton, thin leathers. German and Austrian gunmetal, Mexican couture shotguns. Gaucho knifes and Guatemalan bespoke machetes, with the notches and the fringe. One guy, maybe the leader, in a suit and tie and snake boots, like a junior version of Judge Elwood.