Secession II: The Flood

by Joe Nobody

  “What’s the speed limit on this road?” Zach asked after they’d turned off the main drag. “I don’t see a sign.”

  “It’s not posted,” Sam confirmed just as she chanced a glance back at the short parade of police cars following them to the antique mall. “Whatever it is, I’ll bet lunch you’re exceeding it. Our friends are getting ready to pull you over.”

  Sure enough, Zach spied the blue and white strobes in the mirror, the lead police car now moving up tight on his bumper. He immediately signaled and guided the vehicle to the side.

  While there was nothing Zachariah Bass hated more than a dirty cop, now wasn’t the time to display that sentiment. Zach turned off the Caddy’s V8, rolled down the window, and then placed both of his empty hands on the steering wheel.

  “Playing it safe are we, Mr. Piedmont?” Sam teased.

  “Major Putnam would kick my ass if I got blood all over this luxury automobile,” he whispered back.

  A few moments later, the patrolman exited his cruiser, strolling up at the prescribed angle just in case the driver was a madman and began shooting. Zach knew the drill; he’d been a State Trooper for three years before joining the Texas Rangers.

  “Good morning,” the cop greeted. “License and proof of financial responsibility, please.”

  “Yes, sir,” the ranger responded politely. Zach reached slowly for his wallet, producing the Arkansas Class A operator’s license and his insurance card. Holding them out to the officer, he asked, “Did I do something wrong, sir?”

  Glancing at the produced documentation, the cop replied, “I clocked you doing 32 in a 20, sir. Typically, this time of day, I’d give you a break, but not for 12 over. There are lots of kids living along this road.

  Zach tried to act like any other motorist. “Did I miss a sign? Last one I saw was 30.”

  They were less than two blocks off Main, but the cop didn’t even bother to look back. “I think the sign got knocked down a while ago. No matter, in Texas, all city streets are 20 unless otherwise marked. It’s a state law.”

  Zach knew better and wondered for a moment how far he should take the debate. If he called bullshit on the cop, his argument might escalate the encounter in a direction he didn’t want it to go. On the other hand, wouldn’t the average driver wonder about such a law?

  While the cop inspected Zach’s documents, the ranger peered over at Sam and said, “Could you use your phone and do a quick internet search on that law? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  Zach’s comment had the desired effect, the officer’s tone becoming harsh, “I’m a sworn peace officer, sir, and I find it more than a little disrespectful that you would believe some bogus internet result over the word of a public servant.”

  He’s trying to pick a fight with me, Zach thought. I wonder if that’s how they do it?

  “I’m just curious, officer. I’m not trying to have traffic court out here alongside the road or anything,” Zach responded as softly as possible.

  Instead of responding to that statement, the patrolman said, “Please remain in your car. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  After the cop was out of earshot, Zach chanced a glance at his partner. “Okay, so the guy is a dick and a liar, but other than that, it seems like a regular traffic stop to me.”

  Nodding toward her own side mirror, she said, “Does the chief regularly assist with speeding tickets? At least I think the older guy back there with the fancy uniform is the chief.”

  Zach had all but forgotten about the second cop, noting that now there were two officers in the front seat of the car that had pulled them over.

  “Maybe our guy is in training or evaluation or something,” Zach speculated.

  “We’re about to find out.”

  Again, the cop was at the window, a metal clipboard in his hand. “Here’s your license and insurance card back, sir. I’m going to issue you a citation for speeding.”

  “Okay.”

  After scribbling and checking boxes, the officer handed Zach the binder and said, “Please sign on line 44. Your signature is not an admission of guilt.”

  Zach did as instructed, returning the heavy metal clipboard and pen.

  “Now, sir, since you are not a resident of Texas, there are two options available concerning this offense. First, you can plead guilty and pay cash to settle the matter. Secondly, you can post a bond and go before a judge.”

  “I don’t understand,” Zach said, his tone relaying confusion. “I’ve had a ticket before, and I could mail it in with a guilty plea or go to traffic court. I’ve never had to pay anything on the spot.”

  Nodding his understanding, the officer explained. “We’ve had a lot of trouble with non-residents ignoring traffic citations. They go home and never pay the fine. According the Treaty of Secession, we have the right to detain you here in Texas, or at least make it financially difficult for foreigners to ignore our laws.”

  “I suppose that makes sense,” Zach replied, playing along. “But why cash? No offense, but that kind of sounds fishy.”

  “We used to accept credit cards,” came back the cop. “People would pay, and then an hour later call the issuing bank and cancel the charge. We had so many skippers that the city authorized on-the-spot payments of cash.”

  “But what if I don’t have enough cash on me to pay the fine or bond?”

  The cop answered quickly, almost as if he was following the well-rehearsed script of a play. “Then you will be my guest down at the city jail until suitable financial arrangements are finalized.”

  Sam chose that moment to speak up, “Richard, I want to finish our trip. Can’t you just pay the man and let’s get going?”

  Zach pretended frustration at his girlfriend’s impatience. Shrugging, he peered back up at the cop and asked, “How much?”

  “If you wish to plead guilty and pay the fine, the total will be $682 dollars. Bond would be $2,000.”

  “Seven hundred bucks!” Zach snapped, “For a fucking speeding ticket? That can’t be right!”

  The cop apparently anticipated Zach’s outburst, taking a step backward as his hand hovered above his sidearm. “There’s no need to be aggressive, sir.”

  He’s pulling me in, Zach thought. I bet the fine for resisting arrest is several grand.

  “Just pay the man, and let’s get out of here,” Sam suggested.

  “I’m not going to hand this guy 700 dollars,” Zach snapped. Then returning his attention back to the officer, he said, “How soon can I see a judge?”

  “Three days,” came the seemingly automatic reply. Zach took note that the cop didn’t need to check the court docket or schedule.

  Then the officer dropped the next bombshell, “In case I failed to mention it, we only accept Texas currency.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Zach protested. “There’s no way this is legal or upright. What kind of scam are you people running in this town?”

  That did it.

  “Please step out of the car, sir.”

  “What? Why? I’m just fine sitting right here.”

  “Please step out of the car, sir!” came the repeated command, this time delivered several octaves higher and accented by the officer’s hand moving to his pistol’s grip.

  “Okay, okay. No need to get testy,” Zach said, his hands rising into the air.

  When the ranger was halfway out of the Caddy’s door, the officer grabbed his arm and spun Zach around to face the car. “Put your hands on the car, sir, and leave them there. I’m going to pat you down for officer safety.”

  “What’s going on, Richard?” Sam’s voice questioned from inside.

  The raven-haired beauty managed to open the passenger door less than an inch when the cop began screaming at her. “Stay inside the car, ma’am! Stay inside the car!”

  The chief came up on Sam’s side, his weapon drawn. As soon as it was clear the passenger was going to remain inside the vehicle, the older cop keyed his shoulder-mounted radio and said, “This i
s the chief, I need a female officer at the antique mall right away.”

  A few moments later, Zach was handcuffed, the application of the restraints anything but gentle. He’s not trying to subdue me, he’s attempting to hurt me, Zach thought.

  An impossibly short time passed before a third Crenshaw PD cruiser arrived, dispatching a burly looking female cop who immediately began ordering Sam to exit the car with her hands up.

  “You’re under arrest,” Zach was informed. “Obstruction of justice, hindering an officer of the law, and resisting arrest.”

  Ranger Temple was only charged with obstruction.

  Zach was escorted to the backseat of the cruiser where he eventually watched a tow truck arrive to impound the Caddy. Major Putnam is going to be really, really pissed if you guys scratch the paint, he thought.

  And then they were rolling, Zach’s uniformed chauffeur heading for the city jail without further ado.

  Chapter 3

  Ghost was earning his nickname. In all the battles, firefights, escapes, and assaults Salim had experienced, he’d never seen a man move so quickly and quietly at the same time.

  After waiting for nightfall, the four-man team had meandered down the hillside and into the village below. Ghost seemed confident, but not comfortable, using stealth and an indirect approach to the dock area.

  The rebel team leader was impressed with the older man’s skill and nerve. At one point, Ghost turned and whispered, “Cross the street like four old friends on their way to visit another. Walk casually. I’ll tell a joke, you all laugh… but not too hard. Walk, act, and speak like you belong here.”

  A few blocks later, the old warrior had stacked several pallets and climbed onto a low series of roofs. “It’s too dangerous to walk at street level through this section,” he’d warned.

  And then they were at the dock, peering up at the darkened, steel hull of the freighter.

  Ghost produced a flashlight, its lenses coated with a red film. Motioning Salim and his men closer, he whispered, “Follow me. Be quiet. No shooting unless I fire first. Have the camera and the explosives ready.”

  They scurried in single file, finding a flat spot where the rare rains had eroded a small gully under the chain-link fence.

  Ghost hit the ground and rolled under the barrier, disappearing into the jungle of crates, pallets, and containers stored beyond. Salim and his men quickly followed.

  With an uncanny sense of direction, Ghost led the small party through the dockyards, zigzagging through cargo, discarded boxes, and timeworn, rusting machinery. Without warning, he signaled everyone to halt.

  Peeking around a corner, Ghost checked right and left for any sign of a patrol or watchmen. Satisfied the coast was clear, he signaled Salim to come forward.

  “Do you see it?” the guide whispered, his eyes never ceasing their scan.

  “See what?”

  “The crate next to my head. The stamp on the wood. Read it.”

  Momentarily confused, Salim finally got it, taking a step closer to inspect the large container recently unloaded from the freighter.

  “Made with pride in the Republic of Texas,” was stamped in bold, English letters, complete with a small outline of the new nation. Underneath the foreign characters was stapled a piece of cardboard in Arabic. It read, “Blowout Preventer: Model 74171, KKT Oil Tool, Houston, Texas.”

  “So what? They are supporting Damascus?” Salim hissed. “So are the Russians, North Koreans, and Chinese. Our enemies are many.”

  Ghost shook his head in frustration. “And what do all of those other countries have in common, my young friend?”

  When no answer was offered, the older man continued, “They are all enemies of the United States. Do you understand the importance of this shipment now?”

  “I suppose,” Salim offered after some thought. “We will try and turn the U.S.A. against its new neighbor?”

  “Yes,” Ghost replied. “Now, take your pictures, and find a small crate that your men can carry. Make sure it has that same stamp on the outside. I’ll set the explosives, and then our job here will be done.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the four rebels were sliding back under the wire, Ghost having deployed over 10 pounds of plastic explosives and detonators around the cargo area. He knew from experience that it wasn’t enough to destroy the entire shipment, but the damage would be extensive.

  The crate chosen to be carried back to ISIS headquarters was manageable by two men. When the raiding party had achieved the top of the rise, Ghost turned and extended the antenna on a small, handheld radio.

  “God is great,” he whispered, and pressed a button.

  A series of thumps and cracks sounded from the dock area, each accompanied by a small strobe of white and yellow light. A few moments later the first flames came into view, quickly followed by the shouted warning of voices.

  Turning to Salim, the guide said, “We should be on our way. Speed is of the essence, as they’ll be searching for us. Now you have good reason to fear the helicopters.”

  While the Crenshaw City Jail was new, it was still quite small.

  Zach was professionally helped from the back of the squad car and then escorted to a door marked, “Processing.”

  Evidently, the local authorities had been busy this morning as the Texan found himself one of six individuals waiting to be booked. Sam arrived a few minutes later via the same door, but she was escorted to a separate room.

  Zach thought about calling off the charade. He had enough evidence to convict the chief and two uniformed officers of several crimes, some serious enough to warrant extensive jail time.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  Some nagging feeling told the ranger that he’d barely scratched the surface of what was sure to be a very rotten core. Surely, there was a judge involved, as well as someone on the prosecution side of the house. There was simply no way the guys and girls in uniform could get away with such an obvious scam without help from the judicial arm.

  Snaring the minions wasn’t going to satisfy Major Putnam, nor the president’s staff. Besides, Zach hated dirty cops and corruption. There was nothing worse in his book. Not pedophiles… or rapists… or serial killers did as much harm to society according to his way of thinking. After all, if the folks in charge of ensuring rule of law succumbed to corruption and greed, no victim of any crime could be assured of justice.

  He looked up to see Sam being ushered past, a male and female jailer bordering his partner. There was a brief moment of eye contact, enough to confirm that she was doing okay.

  The booking process was straightforward enough. Zach found it interesting, having been on the opposite side of the endeavor up until today. With inky fingers, an orange striped jumpsuit, flip-flop sandals, and small package of personal toiletries under his arm, the ranger was escorted to a cell.

  Someone had underestimated the city’s needs for incarceration. Despite the facility being only a few years old, there was already overcrowding in the Crenshaw hoosegow. Zach found himself locked inside a 10x10 room with three other men. An army cot was in each corner, the newcomer assigned the bunk closest to the toilet.

  “Don’t let the piss splashing on your pillow bother you none,” commented one of the ranger’s fellow prisoners.

  The warning brought a chuckle from the other jailbirds, but Zach didn’t think it was funny. Fully realizing a pecking order had to be established, he growled, “Piss on me, and you’ll squat the next time, friend.”

  “Ahhh… tough guy, huh?” replied the beefiest cellmate.

  “No,” Zach replied, staring at the man directly in the eye. “But I ain’t taking no shit either. You mind yours. I’ll mind mine.”

  Evidently, no one was in the mood to tussle. Throwing his city-issued possessions down on the bunk, Zach took a seat and tried to act forlorn. While the ranger couldn’t see them, he was sure the cell was covered by one or more video cameras, perhaps even a microphone or two.

  After a time, one of the o
ther inmates asked, “What did you do?”

  “Speeding ticket that kind of got out of hand,” Zach replied, shaking his head in disgust.

  “Let me guess,” chimed in another. “You’re not from around here.”

  “Little Rock.”

  The other inmate nodded knowingly. “Happens a lot… or so I hear.”

  “As soon as they give me my phone call, my attorney will take care of this in short order. This is all bullshit,” Zach blustered.

  “Do you have a Texas certified lawyer? Because if you don’t, that’s going to be a problem. I’m from Oklahoma, and they won’t let me have a representative that isn’t registered with the Texas Bar Association. Hell, I don’t know anybody from around here. You get one phone call per day, and it can’t be long distance unless you reverse the charges. In three days, I haven’t found a single attorney that will take my call.”

  It all made sense to the ranger. If the scam’s other victims were like him, the charges wouldn’t stand up in a real courtroom, with a real judge and defense attorney. But if the accused couldn’t find a lawyer?

  “Don’t they have to appoint you a public defender if you can’t find someone?” Zach inquired, already knowing the answer.

  “They do,” offered another inmate. “But the word is that the local lawyers are in on their little game.”

  One of the men produced a deck of cards, and soon a poker game was in progress. There wasn’t anything to use for betting, so a pencil and paper were utilized to track the winners and losers. It helped pass the time.

  “At least they treat you pretty well in here,” Zach offered at one point. “I’ve heard of a lot worse jails.”

  With a glance over each shoulder as if someone might be listening, one of the prisoners dropped his voice to a hush. “You’re okay as long as you’re in here. If they take you to the ‘conference room,’ things can get a little rough… or so I hear.”

  “Yeah,” said another. “There’s this big ass guard who works nights. They call him Moose.”

  Pointing at Zach, the prisoner continued, “He’s a foot bigger than you in every direction. Last pretty boy they took out of here didn’t come back. Moose was sweating and tucking in his shirt when I saw him later.”