by Joe Nobody
The proper response would have been a simple, “Yes, Your Honor,” but Kit was so shocked by the judge’s words that she forgot herself.
“But… but, Your Honor, we can’t let those people go. Each of those being detained is a convicted, violent felon. If we release these prisoners, they’ll disappear down a rabbit hole. We’ll never find them again.”
Realizing she’d probably overstepped her role, Carson braced, thinking Kendall would land on her with both judicial feet. Backtalking a federal judge just wasn’t done.
For the second time in as many minutes, however, the DOJ lawyer found it difficult to keep her chin off the floor as Kendall seemed more than ready to debate.
“Ms. Carson, have you been to that facility since its recent surge in population?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And you are telling this court that you didn’t notice the overcrowding? You failed to note that the detainees lack access to showers? Recreational facilities? The fact that cells designed to house two inmates now house three or four individuals?”
“Yes, Your Honor, but those conditions are temporary and not out of the ordinary for federal prisons or other correctional facilities. Even at that, sir, those housed at the center are not US citizens, are all violent offenders, and have all been deported multiple times before re-entering our country and committing serious crimes….”
Again, Carson thought she’d ventured too far. Kendall’s eyes were shooting proverbial flames, burning into the young attorney like weapons from a science fiction battle scene. Even Griffin, seated directly behind Kit’s table, winced. The judge’s gaze was unblinking and unquestionably full of the wrath of a man who didn’t appreciate Kit’s opinion.
It seemed like an eternity before Kendall pulled his eyes away. With a wave of his hand, he stated, “I’ll add one more day to my order. Forty-eight hours, Ms. Carson. If that situation isn’t cleaned up by then, I’ll hold your entire department in contempt. Despite the obvious attitude of law enforcement, people are still innocent until proven guilty in this country. This court is adjourned.”
Everyone rose as commanded, Carson watching the judge exit in the same manner as he had arrived just a few minutes previous. After a quick glance over her shoulder to verify no one was within earshot, she turned to Griffin.
“What the hell was that all about?” she blurted, even though she was sure her friend was as shocked as anyone.
Griffin’s emotions were in freefall. His clear and justified elation at being off the lawsuit’s hook just yielded to an edict that puzzled and infuriated him. “I have no idea,” he growled, clearly upset. “We worked for months to obtain those warrants and hunt those guys down. Our agents logged hundreds of hours of overtime while putting their asses on the line and now that… that… that judge is going to force us to turn them loose? I can’t believe it.”
“What options do we have? Where can we move these prisoners before the deadline hits?”
Among their extensive list of other duties, Federal Marshals oversaw the transportation of inmates. “I don’t know,” he hissed, barely able to control his temper.
Shaking her head, Kit added, “My boss is going to birth a kitten. A whole litter. I need to call him. I’ll be in touch this afternoon if I’m still employed.”
Bo Caldwell was the first man to the bank of elevators, managing to best even the fastest reporter covering Kendall’s shocking order. His position at the back of the courtroom hadn’t been an accident, nor had he been surprised by the judge’s words. In fact, he was probably the only person in the session who had been expecting the outcome.
Despite the availability of an open, empty car, he bypassed the elevator and darted toward the stairs at the end of the hall. Before he’d bounded down the first floor of steps, his cell buzzed.
Glancing down at the screen as he rounded the landing, he grunted at the display’s readout indicating a restricted number.
“Yeah,” he answered.
“You know what to do?”
“Yes, I know what to do,” Bo snorted, the contempt thick in his reply. “They don’t call me the ‘Fuse’ for nothing. Then, without waiting for a response, he disconnected the call.
Fuses light powder kegs, he thought, rounding the landing for the last floor of steps. Fuses ignite explosions, set things ablaze. Don’t those asshats who pay me know this is fun? They need to relax their sphincter muscles and enjoy the show.
Less than 90 seconds later, the 25-year-old pushed open the emergency bar to access the first floor. He lowered his head as he casually strolled through the main lobby toward the older minivan parked in the visitor’s garage.
“Remember that you’re always on camera,” he whispered as he entered the family transport. “That is rule number one.”
He pulled into a strip mall parking lot less than three blocks from the courthouse. When he emerged from the vehicle, a baseball hat, wrap-around sunglasses, and loose-fitting hoodie sweatshirt had completely altered his image.
He dismissed the motorcycle helmet and its protective face shield lying on the back floorboard. Texas didn’t have a helmet law, and the safety device might make him stand out. Besides, he wasn’t expecting to hang around long enough to actually engage. If things went well, that wouldn’t be necessary.
He double-checked his gear, making sure he had brought a thick, cotton handkerchief for a mask and a bottle of water to soak the protective cloth. You just never know when the local authorities will bring the pepper spray or tear gas to the party.
Pulling his heavy backpack through the open sliding door, Bo immediately headed for the protests he knew would be in full swing.
It was only a short walk to the edge of the crowd, the distance passing quickly. Luck was with him today as he had parked on the losing side of Kendall’s ruling, and he wouldn’t have to venture across the street.
His first task was to scout. Every protest was a bit different, including the composition of the gathering, the local police’s response, and the surrounding urban terrain.
Like a military officer preparing for a campaign, Bo trekked up and down the street, his experienced eyes noting every weak point in law enforcement’s presence. “El Paso doesn’t see a lot of civil unrest,” he muttered under his breath after the first pass. “These guys aren’t nearly as good as the cops in a big college town.”
In addition to counting the officers and surveying their gear and formation, he paid attention to their uniforms.
Small cities like El Paso would call up reserve officers for large, unscheduled events like today’s protests. Those cops wouldn’t be nearly as well trained or equipped. They were the weak link in the chain.
By the time he’d reached the far edge of the assembly, he’d identified two different clusters of second-string policemen. Again, the local department was showing its inexperience, grouping the reserves together rather than dispersing them among the more astute men and women in blue.
Retracing his steps, Bo then focused on the actual protestors. He found comfort in the familiar manner in which the activists had gathered.
“It doesn’t matter if people are at a mall, sporting event, or a graduation,” an old friend from Berkley had once instructed. “Young adults will tend to huddle together while the old timers will lay back. Those who feel the strongest will move toward the front. Those at the rear are probably just curious onlookers. Don’t waste your time on them.”
That lesson had always held true, even in El Paso, Texas.
His next priority was to make sure word of the judge’s order was making the rounds. That part was easy in this day and age, cell phones, social media, and streaming newscasts playing a critical communications role. Bo had already seen several demonstrators reading their smartphone screens, their expressions flashing with anger.
The final task was to identify the hyped-up college kids. They didn’t have family members with them. They were easily influenced… put
ty in his hands.
He identified a large group of 20-somethings, assembled at the leading edge of the throng, and glaring hard at the row of cops directly to their front. “You’re in the wrong place,” he noted, scanning the police formation with an experienced eye. “That’s okay though. I’ll fix that.”
He picked two of the strongest, dumbest-looking college boys. “Probably football players,” Bo hissed as he began shouldering his way from the back of the crowd.
Finally beside them, he made eye contact with one and nodded. “Did you hear what that son-of-a-bitch judge did? I can’t believe he’s going to let all of those illegals go!”
“Yes. I heard,” grunted the young man. “Who does that guy think he is? Judges have too much power!”
“And look at those guys over there, flaunting that decision in our faces,” Bo continued, pointing at the opposite side of the street where a celebration was beginning in light of Kendall’s order. “Hell, I bet half of these cops have family over there.”
“Probably,” the kid replied.
Jesus, you Texas farm boys are slow, Bo thought, glancing around to see if there were better candidates close by. It then occurred to him to try a different tactic.
“Hell, no! They must go!” he shouted, the outburst causing more than one of his neighbors to turn and stare at the loudmouthed stranger.
“Hell, no! They must go!” he repeated, and then again, and again.
It was a strong cadence with a catchy beat, having the same effect as a cheer at a sporting event.
Slowly, one by one, the kids surrounding Bo began to take up the chant, the chorus of voices snowballing with each iteration. Adopted as the group’s mantra, the catchy jingle quickly drew the attention of everyone in the area, including the cops.
As anticipated, a few of the brawnier policemen moved toward Bo and his new friends. Clearly, these officers had been taught the basics of crowd control and were seeking out any agitators.
Their presence had the desired effect, many of the vocal kids dropping their voices or stopping the cadence altogether. When their momentum broke, Bo made eye contact with a few of his supporters and pretending to be disappointed, proposed, “We need to up our game. Come with me.”
More curious than anything, four of the angered youth accompanied him to the back of the crowd. Bo motioned them into an alley, a spot unlikely to be covered by any video camera.
After they’d gathered around, Bo unzipped his backpack and produced a trash bag full of brightly colored balloons.
“Water balloons?” one of the kids asked, his eyes now twinkling with glee.
“Shit balloons,” Bo responded. “I collected a bunch of pig shit and soaked it in my own piss.” He raised a bright red orb to eye level so that all could admire his handiwork. “These babies will smell to high heaven when they break.”
For a moment, he thought he’d lost them. Two of the four exchanged troubled looks and appeared to be ready to bolt. However, the older two shared mischievous grins. “Give me a couple,” the boldest demanded.
“We have to do this in the right way, at the right place,” Bo said, establishing control of his new troops. “I attended Berkley out in California and learned a lot about this stuff at demonstrations there.”
“Okay,” someone answered. “Lead the way.”
Passing out the nasty missiles, Bo then pointed at the most aggressive fellow. “You take these three, and when you see me toss the first balloon, you hurl them as fast as possible toward the cops and then run like hell. When the police are distracted, the rest of us will launch our barrage at the other side. Got it?”
“This will be fun,” the teen nodded, eagerly choosing three of the softball-sized projectiles, memories of a recent speeding ticket fueling his thirst for revenge.
Again, Bo reviewed his plan. “I chose a weak spot where the boys in blue are vulnerable. We are going to make history here today, gents.”
With the swine poop concealed under shirts and in pockets, Bo and his four helpers headed for a location just over two blocks away. There, several reserve officers were stationed, most of them not even issued any sort of protective gear. On the other side of the avenue, a large gathering of Latino hotheads was assembling. The set up was perfect.
Indicating a huddle of three younger, male cops, Bo suggested, “See those guys over there? Check out their uniforms. Every button is shiny and new, and they’ve got their chests stuck out like strutting roosters. Those assholes are rookies, trying to impress their superiors. They are your targets.”
The point-man nodded his understanding, already assessing the distance.
“Lob all 3 shots in rapid succession from the back of the crowd. Be quick, but accurate. You must hit them. Then, run like hell and hide,” Bo repeated.
“I got this,” the kid replied with confidence.
Then Bo took his three remaining helpers and stepped into the middle of the swarming protestors. Harsh words were already flying back and forth across the street, and more than one activist resorted to the middle finger to drive home an argument.
Reaching into his hoodie pocket, Bo produced his signal projectile and smiled as his comrades. “Ready?”
All three nodded, and then almost in unison, four shit-bombs arched through the air toward the far side of the street.
The second volley had already been launched before a curse rose above the din. The first victim had just smelled the contents of the balloon warhead. The initial strike well underway, Bo’s focus immediately switched to his police assassin.
The youth must have played baseball in high school, the first pink shit-bomb aimed perfectly at the middle cop. Bo winced as a brown cloud exploded on the officer’s chest. An instant later, all law enforcement hell broke loose. The second pitch landed, splattering across a perfectly creased, uniform pants leg just as the first target bellowed out a hardy, “Fuck!”
The third target lunged away from the stench, so the assassin’s final poop missile missed its mark, splashing on a US mailbox instead. Satisfied with the relative accuracy of the attack, the Fuse turned his attention back to the far side of the street, where a second later, a hailstorm of pig feces was flying.
“Run!” Bo screamed to his cohorts, pivoting away immediately, not bothering to see if his buddies were following suit.
The three cops, now thoroughly outraged, charged headlong into the masses. They knew the general direction of their thrower and could see someone rushing away. As every cop was trained, running indicated guilt, so they gave chase.
The trio of smelly officers slammed into the front edge of the unaware protestors, shouting, “Out of the way!” at the top of their lungs. A woman was knocked sideways, soaring into a hefty, highly-agitated gent who was in already in the mood for a brawl.
By the time the pursuing police had forced their way three-deep into the crowd, the tide was turning against them. Most of the protestors hadn’t seen the balloon attack and had no idea what prompted the cop’s aggressive response. Instincts ruled, the age-old reaction to strike back overriding all other considerations.
Someone shoved a cop hard. Curses and insults flew. One of the officers swung a nightstick. An activist threw a punch. A policeman tripped and fell, tumbling in a heap on top of two men. More officers arrived, assuming their brothers in blue were under attack.
At the same moment, the Latino-friendly side of the street erupted in outrage. Fueled by a passion for their cause and top-full of frustration and anger, the recipients of Bo’s salvo easily overwhelmed the few officers who did remain at their posts.
Covered in excrement and bursting with rage, those supporting Kendall’s decision surged past the line of cops, desperately seeking revenge on the shit-bombers. Somebody threw a rock; then a glass bottle was launched, the sun glinting off its surface as it slammed into the neck of a deputy sheriff.
In seconds, cops and protestors were scampering in every direction while a dozen i
ndividual scuffles were engaged. The street was instantly filled with piles of kicking, thrashing, fighting humanity.
Bo, with his head start, ducked into a doorway and smiled as the riot expanded. Reaching into his backpack, he produced the last items in his arsenal, a string of firecrackers and a disposable lighter.
Glancing around the edge of the building, he waited as a mass of screaming, frantic demonstrators raced past. Then, making sure there were no eyewitnesses, he ignited the explosives and tossed them into a nearby metal trash can. He was 20 steps away when the sizzling fuse finally reached the first tiny tube of gunpowder.
Chapter 3
Silas McCann wondered what all the fuss was about.
Every month for the last two decades, no matter how much work had stacked up around his ranch, Silas had loaded his son Michael into the pickup and headed for the “big city” of El Paso.
The justifications for these regular sojourns were many.
Silas’ outfit, like so many West Texas operations, was isolated at best. At 4,000 acres, his spread was one of the smaller tracts in an arid region where a tremendous amount of real estate was required to support even a modest herd of livestock. His nearest neighbor was over 10 miles away.
There was no such thing as heading into the Winn-Dixie for another gallon of milk. Meals had to be planned in advance, given that a trip to the “corner store” involved a commute. Groceries that required refrigeration were stuffed into coolers to prevent spoilage on the trip home. Since Michael was a full ten pounds heavier than his dad by the time he was 16, one of their primary tasks when visiting the city was to stock up on grub. Hard, manual labor in the furnace-like environment of the Trans-Pecos burned a lot of calories.
Then there were the ranch supplies. Fence wire, repair lumber, tin roofing, and small engine parts were common items on the McCann’s shopping list. Twice a year, overalls, blue jeans, and work shirts led their purchases.
