by Joe Nobody
On the other hand, many Americans were upset that the courts allowed the issue to make it this far. They didn’t believe the marshals had done anything wrong. They didn’t think that a bunch of people trying to sneak illegally into the country had any such legal standing.
The entire issue was being played out in the press, on cable news, and in living rooms across the land. At best, it was serving to deepen the national divide on the immigration issues that seemed to claim the headlines. In areas with large, well-organized Latino communities, like El Paso, violence had even broken out. Today’s protest, ahead of the judge’s decision, was directly related to the issue.
Carson’s gaze shifted back to the people lining the street, sensing the foreboding environment that encapsulated the car. Signs and banners sprouted from the throng, protruding on sticks or held high like colorful blooms of a bouquet. Some were in English, others boasting boldly scrawled Spanish phrases. Shouted chants unified the demonstrators and heightened the emotions of those gathered. Whenever the fervor began to subside, a megaphone boomed in the distance, its message garbled and distorted, its tone bitterly harsh and demanding.
In reality, Carson was glad the marshal was along. Griffin was typically good for a few laughs and the occasional sordid tale, most involving the antics of some criminal or nefarious suspect. In addition to his infamous wit, he was also known to be utterly fearless.
Continuing to scan the protestors, Carson could sense the negative energy in the air, and the general mood of the mob was unsettling. Worse yet, she could feel the hatred cast from the hundreds of eyes that scrutinized the government sedan as it rolled by. She shivered involuntarily, frost moving up, then down her spine.
Despite the bubble of automotive glass and steel surrounding her, the Department of Justice attorney sensed waves of fury crashing against the Ford’s windows. “This reminds me of the good ole days when my university football team went on the road,” Griff began. “Our team bus would occasionally receive a less than friendly greeting from the rival’s supporters.”
That parallelism quickly evaporated as more and more fuming faces passed by. There was more to this than any collegiate loyalty or an attempt to intimidate the visiting players. Much more.
She studied the crowd on the east side of the street, trying to determine if they were for or against the motion that would be decided in court today. Within a half a block, she spotted a sign proclaiming, “Animals should be kept in cages!” She had the answer to her question.
Her gaze then switched to the other side of the avenue. There, she observed mostly Latino faces, in all likelihood supporting the opposing side. There were just as many signs in the air, just as many hostile eyes watching them pass.
“The term, ‘thin blue line,’ has a special meaning today, Kit,” the driver mused. “I sure wouldn’t want to be one of those uniforms in the middle of all this, riot gear or not. I hope the police can keep the two sides apart. If not, the streets are going to run red. The natives are restless.”
Scanning the mob, Carson nodded her agreement. “You got that right, Griff. The problem is, no matter what, one side or the other is going to be royally pissed after Judge Kendall’s ruling today.”
Carson’s statement from the backseat brought a frown to the driver’s brow, the folds of his forehead clearly visible in the rearview mirror. After a pause, the marshal’s voice took a serious tone, a clear indication he was no longer playing the role of the smartass. “That’s why I volunteered to escort you today, Kit. There’s something I want to discuss with you… off the record.”
“Okay,” she replied, drawing out the last syllable to show a combination of concern, confusion, and surprise.
“You know why the marshal’s service was involved in the raids that led to today’s case, right?”
“Yes, I was aware that ICE asked for help from several different agencies,” she nodded. “It was all in your department’s depositions.”
“Did you know that on no less than 11 of the raids, the suspects knew we were coming?”
“What? What do you mean, ‘They knew?’”
“All of them were similar to today’s case,” Griffin stated, his eyes traveling from the rearview mirror to the street ahead. “Just like the raid in New Mexico, the bad guys got a warning a few minutes before the white hats arrived. In a few instances, it wasn’t enough, and we took them down anyway. Other traffickers avoided arrest by escaping.”
“Lookouts? Someone saw them coming down the road? Electronic counter-surveillance?” she asked, having heard a lot of testimony regarding the sophisticated techniques used by various criminal elements.
“In our raid, we rode in a delivery parcel van. No chance of detection whatsoever. We even used a drone for the pre-action intelligence gathering. We were cautious.”
“So, how did the villains know?”
Griffin was silent for a bit, the activists, police, navigating the sedan, and his carefully worded next statement requiring all his attention. “I think there was a leak on the warrant side,” he finally stated, exhaling like a sinner in the confessional.
Kit shook her head, now understanding why Griffin had been so insistent on driving her to the courthouse, protestors or not. “That’s a pretty serious accusation, Inspector Storm,” she retorted in a voice barely above a whisper. “If you go public with this, it’s going to look like sour grapes… like you’re trying to shift the blame for those deaths onto the courts.”
“I know,” he said. Then, as an afterthought, “You’re the only person in the DOJ I would utter those words in front of.”
“If there is a leak, or someone accepting bribes from the cartel, they will be difficult to find,” she added.
“That doesn’t make any sense either,” he countered. “The warrants that were leaked came from five different judges, in three districts. Even my paranoid, little brain can’t fathom a penetration that deep by our friends south of the border.”
“So, what’s your theory, Griffin?” she plied softly.
“I don’t have one, at least not anything viable. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
“Was there any pattern? Were all the judges blue? All of the clerks belonging to one political party or the other?”
The driver shrugged, then smiled, happy for the distraction from the sea of unrest just outside the car. Kit had used the term, “blue” in referring to the judges, a new slang term making the hushed rounds next to the Justice Department’s watercoolers. “Blue” meant more than just being appointed by a Democrat president.
Since conservatives controlled most of the state capitals and both the executive and legislative branches in Washington, the left had taken to the judicial branch to challenge moves made by the opposition.
The strategy had been successful, liberal groups finding a welcoming environment for their ideology in several state and federal courts. Executive orders had been stalled or overturned, agency rulings put on hold, and even a few Republican-sponsored state laws gutted. After a handful of stunning decisions were handed down, someone had coined the label, “blue” to describe those judges who seemed to embrace a progressive ideology and were willing to interpret the law to support that personal point of view.
Given that success, the left now appeared ready to up their game and embarked on a campaign of using the legal system to not only defend, but to also promote their agenda.
“No, I’ve not been able to detect any pattern. It’s odd, Kit. Maybe I’m way off base. Maybe it was all some miracle of statistical circumstance or quantum mechanics. Hell, I don’t know,” frustration bleeding through the words of his reply. Then, following up, he added, “Look at your case today. There’s no way this issue should be in front of a federal judge. Some mornings I wake up and wonder what planet I was beamed to overnight.”
A deep sigh sounded from the backseat as Carson finally responded, “I was surprised Judge Kendall even agreed to hear this issue, so I
’m with you there. Evidently, Washington isn’t overly concerned either – they assigned this case to me, the most junior shingle in the office. Still, I’ve seen some crazy rulings in the last few years. One never knows for sure what a judge or a jury is going to do.”
Instead of the anticipated grumbling from the front seat, Carson was jolted forward as Griffin’s foot came down hard on the brake pedal. “Shit!” the driver hissed, the knuckles of his left hand going white on the wheel as his right reached instinctively for the .40 caliber automatic holstered inside his jacket.
The street in front of the Ford suddenly filled with a swirling cloud of marchers, law enforcement, newsmen, and airborne objects. Two officers wrestled a shirtless man to the ground as a nearby woman threw a bottle like a baseball pitcher. Mayhem ruled the moment. Demonstrators darted in every direction, most of them screaming at the top of their lungs. The crowd on both sides of the street surged forward, fists now raised to fight, signs lowered to become clubs.
“Don’t get stuck here,” the attorney whispered to Griffin despite knowing her driver was already looking for a way out.
The interior of the sedan then dimmed, the window-light blocked by a swarm of blue uniforms as a platoon of cops in full riot gear brushed past and then charged headlong into the fray.
Carson watched as the threatened disturbance suddenly dissipated, the antagonists unwilling or unable to stand against a wall of officers with ballistic police shields, military-style helmets, and body armor that made them look more like Special Forces than local law enforcement.
Within a minute, the street was clear, and an officer with sergeant’s stripes waved Griffin forward. “Sometimes it’s good to work for the man,” the driver exhaled as he manipulated the wheel.
A few moments later, they entered the new courthouse’s underground garage, Griffin pulling to a stop in front of several idling cops who were securing the “Government Vehicles Only,” area.
“We made it, Boss.”
Carson, with leather briefcase in hand, exited the Ford and then stood making idle chitchat with the growing crowd of security officers while Griffin scanned for someplace to park their ride.
Katherine “Kit” Carson always seemed to attract a crowd, and for good reason. At just over 5’9” and sporting shoulder-length, natural blond hair, she looked more like a supermodel commanding the red carpet than a federal prosecutor arriving for court. Griffin had overheard more than one of the local officers comment that “Just laying eyes on that woman,” was the highlight of their day.
She always seemed to take it all in stride, however. With a brilliant smile and understanding eyes, she was deft at turning alpha-types with guns and shields into a group of stumbling, tongue-tied school boys. Griffin knew that part of her magic was physical. He had seen many men morph into mounds of silly putty and become incapable of speech in the presence of attractive women. Yet, the marshal had learned long ago that there was much, much more to Kit Carson than just a pretty face on top of a movie star’s figure.
Kit had never displayed a hint of annoyance over men being drawn by her appearance rather than her intellect. Unlike so many gals who were blessed with both beauty and brains, there wasn’t an ounce of offense generated when thinly veiled, testosterone-fueled attraction was laid at her feet. She didn’t have to prove her mental firepower – it was obvious to anyone with eyes and ears.
While the federal attorney definitely wasn’t hard to look at, it was her grey matter that Griffin found to be her most striking attribute. He’d seen it in action time and again, hostile witnesses withering under cross-examination, suspects spilling their guts during interrogation, and uncovering details that had escaped even the most seasoned detective. Words like logical, detailed, and relentless, were common adjectives used to capture her.
A minute later, the duo of Assistant US Attorney and marshal entered the nearby private elevators.
There was a buzz in the air as the federal attorney exited on the third floor, a gaggle of reporters waiting in ambush. Initially, Carson hesitated, surprised at the sheer girth of the media presence clogging the vast, marble hallway. Within three steps, a microphone was shoved into the DOJ lawyer’s face.
“What outcome do you anticipate today, Ms. Carson?” the first questioner fired, immediately followed by several camera flashes and a host of media voices all trying at once to get in a question.
“No comment… ongoing case… no comment,” Kit kept repeating as she navigated toward the courtroom.
Griffin, sporting the gold shield dangling from his chest, acted like a plow to clear a path. Kit was again thankful for the marshal’s insistence that he tag along to ensure she make it to court without any issues.
Finally managing the large oak doors leading to the courtroom, Carson was relieved to have private air as she stepped inside. It was like entering the eye of a hurricane, calm and quiet with a massive, unstable storm swirling just beyond.
The gallery was already full as she strolled into the room, her ears welcoming the near silence of hushed conversations being conducted in polite tones. Several heads turned to stare as Carson stepped toward the front of the facility, the DOJ lawyer sensing equal amounts of disdain, support, and admiration as she strode up the center aisle without making eye contact with anyone.
Finally reaching the government’s table, she set her case on the mahogany surface with a sigh. She was only two minutes late. Not good, but excusable.
“Good morning, Counselor,” greeted the uniformed bailiff, strolling from his perch next to the jury box. “Glad to see you could make it to court early this morning,” he continued, glancing at his watch.
Grinning at the jab, she countered, “I was delayed by some of our more involved citizens down on North Kansas Street. They wanted to make sure the government fully understood their position on this matter.”
Concern flashed across his face, “Was there trouble?”
“No,” she answered while settling down behind the table. “The police seem to have things well under control… at least for the moment.”
After a quick glance at the opposing lawyers across the room, Carson began fishing a stack of papers out of her case. She’d just managed to sort them into three neat piles when the bailiff’s baritone voice rang out, “All rise.”
The government attorney looked up to see Judge Francis Kendall swoop in from stage left, his flowing black robe offset by the mop of curly, silver hair riding on top of His Honor’s head. Carson noted that the reputed mad professor judge was in true form.
Kendall wasted no time stepping up to the elevated bench as the bailiff continued with the preliminaries. For his part, the judge seemed to ignore the entire room, including both tables of lawyers and the larger than normal gallery.
“On the matter of docket number 416, The League of United Latin American Citizens versus The United States of America, I am prepared to rule on the motion submitted by the plaintiff, more specifically, the matter concerning the US Marshals Service executing a federal warrant on May 28th,” Kendall stated to the now seated court reporter.
It took a moment before the middle-aged lady sitting in front of the bench nodded, a signal that the court reporter was ready for His Honor to proceed.
Finally, the judge’s gaze rose to focus on the lawyers, his eyes moving between the people’s representatives and the trio of civilian lawyers taking on the government. “Before I proceed, is there any additional information either side would like to submit?”
Carson spoke first, “No, Your Honor.”
Opposing counsel offered the same response.
“Then I hereby deny the motion to grant an exception to the US Federal government’s sovereign immunity,” Kendall announced without further ado. “The complaint against the US Marshals Service fails to meet the tests of the Tort Act or any subsequent law.”
Sighing with relief, Carson began to pick up her papers while wondering if the entire affair had be
en worth the risk she and Griffin had taken, let along the stress her friend had endured. The whole event had been a big nothing-burger.
Before she could lift the first stack of documents, Kendall continued, “However, there is an associated matter that has come to my attention as I was researching this motion.”
Exchanging puzzled glances with the opposing law team, Carson felt her heart rate began to climb. What the hell is Kendall doing? What associated matter?
Reading from a single, white sheet of paper, Kendall’s words commandeered the silent courtroom. “During the last week of May, agents of US Immigration Control and Enforcement began a wide-ranging operation that involved over 600 arrests throughout the continental United States. Over 350 of those detained were transported here, to El Paso, as a preliminary step to deportation. The vast majority is still being held at that facility, as well as the normal population of detainees.”
The judge paused again, watching as the stenographer’s fingers worked frantically on her machine. The few people present who actually understood what was going on were all on edge now. Federal judges didn’t make surprise rulings outside of the scope of a case. Circuit courts were orderly places with established procedures. Kit’s hold on her pencil was quickly becoming a death grip.
The judge continued, “I visited this facility, personally, yesterday, as part of my investigation into this matter. I must say, I was appalled by the conditions I witnessed.”
Kendall’s eyes now landed on Carson, a look of pure disdain written all over the normally stoic jurist’s face.
“I hereby order the marshals to correct the overcrowding conditions at the El Paso Federal Detention Center within 24 hours. What I personally witnessed would easily pass any reasonable test as cruel and unusual punishment and violates so many regulations for federal correctional facilities I can’t even begin to count them all. Tell your superiors to remedy that situation immediately, Ms. Carson, or let those people go by this time tomorrow.”
