by Todd Borg
“I never got into the taste of Porter,” I said.
“Dark beer for dark men,” Diamond said.
I sipped my beer. “So how could modern-day California trace back to the Republic of Texas?”
“Back in the day, Texas, like California, was part of Spanish territory, which, after the Mexican independence, became Mexican territory. Problem was, a bunch of anglo settlers in Texas decided they didn’t want to live under Mexican rule. They wanted to secede and create their own country. Mexican President Santa Anna tried to stop them. So he got together a band of soldiers and rode to Texas and fought the Texans with substantial success. Problem was, he went too far. During the battle at the Alamo Mission in San Antonio, Santa Anna’s men killed a few hundred Texan men and even executed some of the Texans who had surrendered.”
“Even in war, you can go too far,” I said.
“Right. Of course, the Texans were outraged. They recruited many more soldiers and used the rallying cry, ‘Remember the Alamo,’ to motivate them. Over a series of battles, they eventually kicked Santa Anna’s butt. In March of eighteen thirty-six, they declared independence from Mexico and called themselves the Republic of Texas, a brand new country. Just ten years later, the United States of America annexed this new country called the Republic of Texas. Because the anglo settlers migrated from America, they were okay with that. Unfortunately for my ancestors, Mexico still considered Texas to be theirs. So their hostility was now directed at America. Big mistake, that.”
“Because that led to the Mexican American War, right?”
“Yeah. Ironically, at the same time that the Mexican American War got going, a bunch of anglo settlers in California followed in the footsteps of Texas. They too chafed under Mexican rule, the local headquarters of which was in Monterey. So, like those Texans ten years before, they staged a revolt against Mexico. They fought Mexican General Castro, who was in charge at the time. They took the area of Sonoma, and created a new country called the California Republic, and they made their own flag with a bear and a star.”
“That was the Bear Flag Revolt,” I said.
“Sí. This new country, the California Republic, only lasted twenty-five days before an American military ship in Monterey Bay got a message about the war between America and Mexico and the word spread that Mexico’s rule of the area was under assault. As soon as the U.S. military on the West Coast joined the war against Mexico, the so-called California Republic dissolved, and they decided it was okay to become part of the United States. But one of the long-term effects of the Bear Flag Revolt was that their flag became the basis for the current California State flag. So there’s a clear connection between the state of California and the short-lived country called the Republic of Texas.”
I drank beer. “America won the Mexican American War in short order, right?”
“Yeah. It lasted less than two years and ended when the Americans occupied Mexico City. The Mexicans surrendered.”
“And America got California,” I said.
“They got all of Alta California,” Diamond said with emphasis. “The entire territory that comprised those states I previously mentioned, from California to Texas.”
“A big chunk of Mexico,” I said.
“Over half of Mexico. Almost as much land as all of Alaska.”
“Wow. Big stuff happens when you make some wrong choices.”
“No kidding.”
“You do carry the nineteenth century look well.”
“Not really,” Diamond said, looking down at his clothes. “For that, I’d need buttons on my jeans instead of a zipper, and my pants would be made of wool instead of cotton, and my shirt wouldn’t have a collar, and my jacket would be the length of a coat, and my hat would be wool or straw, and I would probably have scruffy facial hair instead of the clean-shaven, debonair look I present today. And, perhaps the biggest difference is you’d smell me coming before you saw me.”
“Indoor plumbing and showers and Old Spice hadn’t arrived on the scene back then, eh?”
Diamond grinned. He took a swig of Porter, then licked the foam off his upper lip. “You said you were still concerned about Street?”
“Yeah. She’s stressed and worried. I’m even more stressed and worried. My threat meter reading is very high, and I think the only sensible response would be for Spot and me to stay with her. Her place or mine. But she won’t have it. She’s fiercely independent.”
“You mentioned that before? Diamond said. “Now you bring it up again. Has something changed?”
“She has twice wondered if someone was following her. I fear that I’m making a big mistake by not insisting on some kind of intervention.”
“Like?”
“Like some version of living together. Some way that would keep Spot at her side.”
Diamond made a thoughtful nod. “If you tried to insist on that, how would she respond?”
“I’m sure she would refuse. I’d be waiting for her to come home, and she’d take Blondie and go to whichever residence where I’m not so she could have her alone time.”
“Some women find self-value in the men they attract. Some find it in the money they earn. Other women find self-value in their ability to function by themselves.”
“That’s a very good summation of Street. Do you think I’m stuck? If I push her to let me and/or Spot be closer, will that just push her away more?”
“Probably.”
“This situation makes me wish for some kind of protective custody,” I said.
“With no evidence of threat, and no cooperation on the part of the potential victim, it’s not an option.”
“I could hire off-duty cops to watch her,” I said.
“Would she allow that?”
I shook my head. “No, she wouldn’t give me permission. And if I did it on the sly and she found out, she’d be outraged and consider it an unforgivable invasion of her autonomy.”
“I’d agree with her,” Diamond said. “Just ten years after the Mexican American War, John Stuart Mill wrote his seminal essay On Liberty. In it, he discusses when society has the right to interfere in the rights of men. Your situation is not that different. Basically, you have the right to interfere in Street’s life against her wishes if you are preventing her from harming others. But you don’t have the right to interfere against her wishes to prevent others from harming her.”
“You’re saying that, unless I can convince her to change her mind about accepting protection, I’m screwed. My only option would be to find the bad guy and take him out without ever forcing Street to accept more protection.”
“Pretty much,” Diamond said. “Just to be sure I’m clear on the situation, you still have no actual evidence that her father is in the area and planning to assault her.”
“That’s correct.”
“Not much you can do,” Diamond said.
We both drank beer.
“The pop-up charity party tonight. Have they chosen the time, yet?” Diamond asked.
“Not that I know of. The whole point is the hush-hush aspect until they announce it.”
“And somebody named Matt is supposed to be at this pop-up party, watching for a tall guy – meaning you – and whistle-blow his heart out to you.”
“That’s my hope,” I said.
“We just have to find out when and where the party is.”
FORTY-SEVEN
“ We have a new young deputy in the department,” Diamond said. “Bradley Saunders is twenty-three, so he automatically has some tech chops compared to you and me. Turns out Saunders has a software app on his phone. You put in search terms, and it monitors something like one hundred thousand websites that are most likely to have information like what you’re looking for. If anything appears that’s real close to your search terms, it sends you a text. I told Saunders to call when he hears something. Then you and I... Hold on, I’ve got incoming.”
I waited. It was probably only a minute even though it seemed like I could have
drunk another beer and ordered dinner while I waited.
Diamond listened, then hung up his phone and said, “Van Sickle Park. Nine o’clock.”
“That’s the new park behind Heavenly Village?”
“Yeah. With trails that crawl around the mountain. One even goes all the way up to Kingsbury Grade and the Tahoe Rim Trail.”
“A big park,” I said. “How do we find where the party is supposed to be?”
“I don’t know. Probably, we just go there and follow the crowds.”
“And if there aren’t any crowds?”
Diamond paused a moment. “Then we fall back on the most reliable tracking approach and follow the smell of pot.”
“I knew you were up on the latest law enforcement techniques,” I said.
FORTY-EIGHT
D iamond and I ordered burgers and fries, then lingered over another beer. At 8:30 p.m., we left Spot in the Jeep in the far corner of the Harrah’s parking lot. It didn’t seem like Spot would help me blend into the party scene, if, in fact, there was a scene. I grabbed my flashlight and headlamp from the glovebox. I stuffed the headlamp in my pocket. Diamond looked at his phone as we walked.
“Someone posted the email that was sent out about the pop-up rave. I’ll read what it says. ‘Take the Rim Trail Connector trail up toward Heavenly. There will be an arrow sign directing you off the trail. Turn there, head upslope, and look for a bluff that rises high above. There will be a campfire at the base of the bluff. The fire will be out of direct view from the trail, but look for its light on the tall pines that grow in front of the bluff. You’ll hear the DJ’s tunes as you approach. Wear good hiking boots and pack your medicine and libation of choice.’”
“Like a country hoedown, twenty-first-century-Sierra-style,” I said.
We walked down the back road from the Harrah’s lot to the park entrance. The sun had set, and twilight was setting in. When we got to the entrance, the gate was closed. Probably the park hours were defined as daylight hours.
There were several groups of people walking toward the gate from the other side of the road. From the laughter and low-voiced jokes, it seemed everyone was already well into a party mood.
As we walked, Diamond said, “Do you suppose that this whistle-blower person called you just to get you away from Street?”
“That he’s her dad or calling for her dad? I don’t like that thought at all.” The idea was disorienting.
“Sorry, just being a cop, I guess,” Diamond said.
“As I think about it, the voice was clearly young, and his words didn’t sound practiced as if he’d been put up to the phone call. So, no, I don’t think it was a ruse.”
We walked in uncomfortable silence.
We turned and walked up the dark road behind the gate, knots of people in front of us and behind us.
Voices floated on the air. “I’ve been up here before,” a young, male voice said. “Wait ’til you see this place. Awesome view. Awesome party spot. I drove up from the Bay Area, so I didn’t have to worry about getting my bong and weed through TSA security. There’s gonna be some fun tonight.”
His voice was interrupted by a low grunt and then laughter and giggles.
Diamond muttered, “Feel like I live a boring life busting bad guys. Coulda been a charity scammer like these boys and have some real fun, huh?”
I said, “Outside of the view, this doesn’t look like fun to me unless one compares it to living in his mother’s basement.”
“True.” Diamond looked around at the people closest to us. “And unlike the activities of some of these guys, my fun fits all rational and necessary principles.”
The road curved, and we followed the crowd.
“You’re referring to what you said the other week?” I said. “Let me remember. The philosopher Kant described the Categorical Imperative as essential behavior that we should all adhere to?”
Diamond was silent for a moment. I almost could hear him grinning at my naivete. “Yeah. Something like that,” he said. “It all gets down to good values.”
“Which describes you, of course. So why did Kant call it Categorical Imperative? He could have just called it Good Principles.”
“Right,” Diamond said. “Could have and probably should have. But the smartest guys tend to be stuffed shirts.”
We walked in silence for awhile. The groups of people became more numerous and dense.
“You carrying?” I asked.
“I might be a stuffed shirt, but I’m still a cop,” Diamond said. “Got my backup, too. Why? You think something nasty is going to develop?”
“Someone keeps stringing up charity scammers. What if this psycho finds out an entire group of them is having a party? He might want to make it less fun.”
The group of people ahead of us veered off the road and went into the forest. When we got to the same spot, I sensed a light-colored mark on the ground. I shined my light on it. A spray-painted arrow pointed the way. We turned and followed.
The trail was well-made, a gentle grade and easy to follow. We followed the group ahead of us, getting a bit closer, eavesdropping on their conversation. It was hard to make them out in the dark, but there were about five of them. By their voices, they all seemed to be men in their thirties and forties.
As it got darker, the group of people ahead of us turned on more lights. Flashlight beams bobbed around the ground. Somebody’s voice came through the darkness.
“Have you heard about those murders? Three people killed and hung by their ankles. How psycho is that?”
“Yeah,” another voice said. “All three were charity CEOs. That’ll make a guy stop and think.”
“All I can say is keep your eyes open and don’t go anywhere alone.”
The path rose up at a steeper angle. The view became grand, a sweeping vista across the lake and the Sierra Crest beyond. Although the sun had long since set, the sky glow still showed a clear silhouette of the distant mountains, and the remnants of wavering sunset colors of deep red and maroon reflected on the lake’s surface.
We came over a rise and saw a campfire in the distance, a dance of yellow light in the trees. It was an illegal fire. But I didn’t worry about forest fire because it had been a moist spring, we’d had the recent snow storm, and the fire was small and in a large open area.
Music grew in the air, a throbbing bass beat and chords on a synthesizer. An androgynous vocal track sang words I couldn’t recognize to a melody that seemed to be the opposite of melodic. It was all about the rhythm and the monotony of pulsing sound. Take your drugs, feel the groove, and transport your senses to another world.
We came through a thick knot of trees and into view of the main group.
The backdrop to the group was a cliff of granite. The firelight lit its walls in a warm glow. In front of the rock walls was the DJ’s setup. He was of indeterminate age and had a purple afro that quivered as he moved. He leaned over a table and speaker columns. On the table was a mixing board and a computer and an amplifier and a turntable on which he spun vinyl records. As an exercise in contrast, his tech gear and his workspace were all illuminated by five large candles in glass jars. The romantic light, combined with the insistent, loud music, created a surreal picture in the mountain forest. Heavenly resort and Monument Peak rose up 3000 feet behind him.
The crowd was about two hundred people, mostly standing around the fire. Either charity types were drawn to Tahoe for revelry, or those in the charity business had lots of friends and were good at convincing them to come to pop-up raves. They held cans of beer and smoked joints and moved to the music. There was some loud conversation and laughter and the occasional stand-out guffaw. A surprising number of people had their phones out, doing the thumb dance on the screens, playing whatever was the current game. Maybe they were texting messages to each other, embracing the new robotic, dysfunctional normal where people don’t even make eye contact with their companions, but communicate with them through the electronic device in their hand.
It is an inexplicable curiosity of humanity that people instinctively prefer communication through a screen interface more than spoken words and gestures and eye contact. How tedious to actually look at and speak to someone when it can be done through a computer that takes out the emotion.
Real emotion, those sudden surprising moments that make a person laugh or cry or become passionate about something, anything, will become a quaint notion experienced only by the shrinking group of old people who never substituted the screen interface for an actual conversation over the telephone or, in extreme circumstances, an actual conversation in person.
This group up on the mountain was a bridge from the past to the coming future. In this group, even as people stared at their screens as much as at the fire or the people next to them, they still exhibited the desire to be physically near other people. One could see, in that closeness, the self-focus that has made humans the lords of the planet. All they cared about was their communication with each other, even if it was done through their phones, even if it took place not in the forest but on a Facebook page that was more addictive than the alcohol and pot they were physically ingesting.
No one in the crowd seemed to notice the spectacular orange-red glow of fading twilight behind the Sierra Crest. No one looked up at the quarter moon or the emerging stars and planets. No one stepped into the dark woods to savor the crisp, high altitude air of the forest or put their nose to the bark of the Jeffrey pines to inhale the delicious butterscotch-vanilla scent. These people were oblivious to nature. And in that lack of appreciation for what the natural world offered, it was easy to see why we continued to treat the planet as a giant landfill, a place where the only conservation came because it was valued in a few circles, not because it was desired by the masses.
Diamond and I joined the group at a point equidistant between the fire and the DJ.
No doubt, some of the people ran honest charities that actually tried to help people. But I tried to see the group through the perspective of those who ran scam charities, business types who wrote creative stories about people in need and then set up false structures to take money from sympathetic donors. The scammer needed a special combination of the creative impulse and the criminal impulse. And, most important, the scammer had to believe that what he was doing was not morally wrong. He was merely a predator like any other, and his prey, like rabbits chased down by carnivores, was fair game.
