Tainted Robes

by Joe Nobody

  The FBI agent was wearing a pair of men’s boxer shorts and a sports bra underneath her exercise attire. Her bottoms were decorated with brightly colored depictions of the comic book hero, Dick Tracy.

  Well, that’s not government-issue, Griffin thought. And what are the kidnappers going to think about a stunning, federal agent marching up to their den wearing cartoon cop underwear? He decided to keep his observations to himself. Realizing that every officer on the perimeter was having trouble keeping eyes off her, he wondered if the crooks inside would suffer the same distraction.

  “What?” Carson asked, peering around at the ring of tough, hardnosed, cops staring while trying to not to snicker. The FBI agent peered down and flushed red with embarrassment. “They were a present from my little brother when I graduated the academy.”

  Kit quickly regrouped, and then without hesitation, strolled bravely up to the front porch in all her multi-colored glory.

  For once, there was honor amongst thieves, the large, oak door opening as the agent stepped close. The assembled law enforcement officers held their breath until a shivering, scared, dark-headed girl was shoved outside moments later.

  Griffin rushed across the grass and carried the former hostage back to her anxious family and waiting paramedics. As soon as word spread that the released girl was unharmed, it occurred to the marshal that no one really knew what to do next.

  News came around a short time later; the crooks’ demands included a helicopter and a cool million in cash.

  With the only FBI agent at the scene now in her underwear and held at gunpoint, command fell to the county’s sheriff. “We’ll wait them out. Stall. Delay. Maybe they’ll make a mistake,” he announced.

  Just as Griffin was wondering about the wisdom of that strategy, a series of gunshots erupted inside the home, followed by a projectile shattering a large, picture window.

  “We’re coming out!” the follow-on shout from inside announced. Griffin would never forget the sound of that female voice. “Do not… repeat… do not shoot!”

  A man limped out first, his arms high in the air. Next, appeared Carson, the black pistol in her hand looking a little less dangerous given the comic book underwear. Griffin charged forward, his own weapon sweeping the doorway behind just in case another felon followed.

  “One’s dead, the other unconscious,” Kit announced as the hustling federal marshal approached. “There’s no fight left in this one.”

  Uniforms swarmed in from every direction, ordering the bad guy down on his face in the grass. Another group rushed to clear the house, weapons high as they repeated, “Police!” over and again. The effort was unnecessary as they met no resistance. Carson’s report was 100% accurate.

  Griffin, as well as most of the other lawmen present, was impressed. Not only had the “kid” from the FBI managed to free the hostage, but she had also survived a close-quarters gunfight where she had been outnumbered and unarmed. That deserved respect, super-sleuth underwear or not. “Somebody get that agent her pants!” the marshal yelled, still trying to process it all.

  Once the dust began to settle and Carson was dressed, everyone wanted to know what had happened inside.

  “It was the underwear,” Carson explained with a deadpan face. “Never mess with a woman wearing Dick Tracy briefs.”

  Griffin crossed paths with the now-legendary FBI agent two more times in the next few years. While those encounters didn’t produce any entertaining story material, the marshal’s respect for Carson’s professionalism and intestinal fortitude continued to build.

  Two years ago, Carson again produced a major surprise when word spread throughout West Texas that Dick Tracy had resigned from the Bureau and was joining the Department of Justice as a prosecutor.

  “Why?” Griffin had asked the next time the two met.

  “Politics is trumping justice,” the new attorney answered. “In the Bureau, I enforced the law based on policy or at the whim of whoever got elected last cycle. I’m sick of it, and I can do more in the courtroom than in the field.”

  Marshal Storm understood Carson’s frustration.

  Colorado, despite federal law, had legalized marijuana, while the California laws for medical cannabis were a joke. President Obama’s immigration policies were in direct violation of long-existing statutes. Police officers now had to tread carefully, no matter how just or reasonable their actions involving minorities. Cameras loomed from every angle, and when a cop performed in a questionable manner, the video was sure to go viral across social media before an investigation could even be launched. All the while, the event was being framed in the most negative light possible.

  From Griffin’s perspective, the world of law enforcement was confusing and difficult enough without politicians supporting local hate groups over their own departments. Everybody’s lives, all of a sudden, seemed to matter more than everyone else’s.

  But his real beef was with the courts. After all, the law was the law, and he should have no trouble enforcing it. But more and more, rules and regulations changed before his very eyes, depending on who was doing the interpreting. It did not matter who citizens voted into office to represent them; it was only the man or woman wearing the judicial robe whose opinion mattered.

  While Griffin had always considered himself to be a political agnostic, he couldn’t help but be disturbed by how the judicial branch had become just as partisan as Congress and the White House. Judges now overturned executive orders, blocked new laws, and confounded both state and federal legislators with their rulings.

  Today had been yet another example, Judge Kendall’s order a blatant rebuttal to the new president’s controversial attempt to enforce immigration laws and secure the borders.

  The marshal shook it off, clearing his head as they hustled through the El Paso streets. It was only two blocks to the site of the shooting, the exact location easily pinpointed by the density of flashing police lights. Griffin’s gold badge gained the duo access, the uniformed officers manning the perimeter waving them through. “Where’s your LT?” the lady attorney inquired.

  “He’s the tall guy over there,” the city cop replied, pointing only with his chin.

  “I’m Assistant United States Attorney Carson,” Kit announced once they had found the man in charge. “What’s going on, Lieutenant?”

  If the El Paso officer were perturbed by a fed sticking her nose in, he didn’t show it. In fact, his reaction was exactly the opposite. “This one’s complex,” he explained. “I’ve got a dead patrolman, a dead shooter, and another suspect under arrest. The perpetrators are related, a father and son who own a ranch about 80 miles outside of the city. Evidently, they were in town shopping and somehow managed to get involved in this morning’s festivities. I’ve got four homicide detectives working the scene right now, and they’re just as puzzled as everyone else.”

  “A father and son?” Carson inquired. “Ranchers? Any criminal history? Any extremism?”

  “No. Upstanding citizens as far as I’ve been able to determine. Both had valid concealed carry permits,” the officer began. Then, passing Kit a small slip of paper, he explained, “We found this receipt on the deceased, the time and date stamp indicating he’d just purchased a $280 hat less than five minutes before the incident. That tells me these two men weren’t involved in the protest. My gut is whispering that this is all one hell of a misunderstanding.”

  Rubbing her chin, Kit remembered Griffin’s report. “What about the explosives?”

  The LT started to ask how she knew about the firecrackers but decided against it. “One of our men discovered burnt trash and gunpowder residue in that garbage can over there. There are scraps of paper that look like fireworks to me. Uniforms were responding to reports of gunfire in the area when they encountered the two ranchers. According to the first officers on the scene, both father and son were crouched behind that car over there, weapons drawn. Our guys assumed they were the source of what sounded like a
lot of lead being discharged and ordered them to drop their weapons. They didn’t, and that is when the real firefight erupted.”

  Carson nodded, but didn’t offer any additional comment. Instead, she meandered toward the trashcan, her eyes roving up and down the street.

  A quick glance inside the open top of the garbage bin confirmed the lieutenant’s assessment that someone had likely deposited a string of fireworks inside. But why here? The main body of the protest had been a considerable distance away.

  Another cop, in plain clothes, appeared at Carson’s side. “You the federal attorney?”

  “Sure am. The name is Katherine Carson,” she stated, reaching to shake his hand.

  “I’m Detective Royce, El Paso Homicide. The LT asked me to come over and fill you in.”

  “And?”

  “I heard the firecrackers. I had just finished testifying in a case at the courthouse and was walking back to my car. It sounded like Baghdad on a Saturday night,” the detective stated. “The explosions were spaced, and bouncing off the metal sides of that can, they sure sounded like gunfire. Whoever put them in there is to blame for this entire mess… they were trying to generate even more panic in the demonstrators.”

  “More panic?” the federal prosecutor asked.

  “Somebody brought a bunch of balloons filled with crap to our little party this morning. Once those started flying, all hell broke loose. We’ve got six cops at the emergency room with injuries, another at the morgue. He had kids. I don’t think the timing of these firecrackers is mere coincidence. Add all that together, and it’s starting to look damned premeditated to me.”

  Carson was back to scanning the street. “Any cameras?”

  Nodding, the detective smiled. “We’ve got a bank in the middle of the next block. I’ve got a man over there right now collecting the tapes. That convenience store has a couple of lenses too, but they’re covering inside and are not exactly equipped with first-class equipment. We’ll start examining footage asap. Hopefully, we’ll get a good image of whoever is responsible for this.”

  “Thank you, Detective. I appreciate your bringing me up to speed. I’ll let everyone back at the office know about the deceased officer. Our prayers and condolences will be with his family,” Carson replied.

  “Ma’am, I think you should know, the boys in the patrol are very, very upset about all this. The man who went down was popular, and it’s like they’ve lost a member of the family. The entire force is on edge… between the civil unrest and one of their own going down. There is a burning need for payback, if you get my drift. We all need to move on this investigation quickly.”

  “Your superiors had better get a handle on that, Detective,” Kit replied, all business. “Things are tense enough around here without a bunch of hotheads in uniform out for revenge. Thank you again for the update.”

  Knowing he’d been dismissed, Royce moved on, leaving Griffin and Carson standing alone on the sidewalk.

  Studying his friend for a few moments, Griffin eventually plied, “Penny for your thoughts?”

  She responded with a shrug and an unfashionable pause followed by a deep breath before speaking. “I’ve heard rumors about skilled individuals who specialize in turning passionate protests into violent riots. There are more than a few people in the DOJ who believe the upward trend of violence on college campuses is the result of well-planned, professionally-executed incitement. Others believe it’s just the usual cast of bad actors who have just upped their game during the recent bout of protests.”

  “A lot of people don’t like our new president,” Griffin shrugged. “He has a way about him that seems to rub people pretty raw. Hell, there are even a lot of folks in his own party who hate the guy.”

  Nodding her agreement, Kit pivoted, striding with purpose toward the courthouse, “Let’s get back. I’ve got no business here. This is looking like a case of a couple of ranchers being in the wrong place at the wrong time, not a hate crime.”

  Hustling to catch up, Griffin scanned the carpet of empty brass pistol shells littering the pavement. “Sure looks like somebody was hating to me,” he mumbled.

  Chapter 4

  The egg in Carson’s pan performed a perfect backflip, landing flat with a sizzle and a pop. Estimating she had enough time to butter the toast, the prosecutor reached for the warm bread and knife just as her favorite breakfast news show began its morning broadcast.

  “President Turner reacts to a federal judge’s order,” the teaser suggested. “Calls Democrat-appointed judge a pawn of the left.”

  Carson almost burned the main course, the headline pulling her attention away from the stove. “Crap!” she barked, sliding the now-darkened egg from the pan and onto a plate.

  “This morning, President Turner reacted to a West Texas district judge’s order calling on US immigration authorities to release over 300 recently interned prisoners from the El Paso facility where they are being held. Our reporter Stan Springer has the details.”

  With overdone egg, half-buttered toast, and tepid coffee in hand, Carson plodded toward the nearby couch, her eyes never leaving the television. A man appeared, holding a microphone in one hand, a sheet of paper in the other.

  “Thank you, Clara,” the reporter chirped with a smile. “Yesterday’s stunning order by Judge Francis Kendall at the El Paso Federal courthouse has raised quite a few eyebrows, both locally and in Washington. The entire episode began just over a month ago when President Turner took the initial steps in making good on a campaign promise. That pledge, made to the American voters, was to deport, and I quote, ‘Gang members, hardened criminals, and drug dealers who were in the country without documentation.’”

  A file film began playing, replacing the reporter’s face with an image of an ICE team lining up to breach and enter a suspect’s house. A few seconds passed before the door was kicked in, immediately followed by one of the green-uniformed officers tossing in a flash-bang grenade.

  The journalist continued his report as several handcuffed felons were paraded in front of the cameras. “In May, Immigration Control and Enforcement, or ICE, began rounding up over 600 people, most of them from the southwestern United States. According to government officials, all these men and women had been previously convicted of felonies, and all were in the US illegally.”

  Footage of the arrests continued, a repeating pattern causing Carson to stop eating and frown at the television. Over and again, the news reporter showed footage of teams in ICE uniforms charging ruthlessly into homes, guns drawn. Those listed on the warrants were led to waiting vans, their clothes and hair disheveled, arms cuffed behind their backs. After each arrest, the camera panned to show sad, crying children, or distraught neighbors watching their loved ones being taken away. The message was clear – the government was breaking up families, hauling off fathers and mothers, sisters and daughters, brothers and sons.

  “Protestors were already up in arms about the campaign, several civil rights groups referring to the ICE operation as ‘goon squads,’ and calling on the public to resist what they termed to be mass deportations,” the reporter continued.

  “Then, yesterday, amidst protests both for and against the ICE initiative, a federal judge threw a wrench into the president’s agenda,” the journalist stated with just a bit too much glee in his voice.

  “In what is sure to be the most controversial judicial intervention yet, Judge Francis Kendall ordered ICE to either rehouse or release over 300 of the prisoners within the next 24 hours. The federal jurist cited overcrowding conditions at the El Paso facility. The Department of Justice is expected to appeal the ruling this morning in the Fifth Circuit Court.”

  Carson interrupted her chewing to spout, “Damn right we are!” at the screen. She had been up well past midnight working with the Assistant US attorney from the Dallas office who would be presenting the appeal in just a few hours.

  “In addition, tensions are still running high today in El Paso,” t
he newsman added. “After yesterday’s decision, violence broke out between those protesting the government’s dragnet and an opposing group supporting the president’s position. One El Paso police officer was killed, six others wounded after gunshots erupted on the streets. While the local authorities have refused to comment on an ongoing investigation, sources tell me that two supporters of President Turner drew pistols as news of the ruling spread through the gatherings. Soon afterward, they engaged in a shootout with police. One of the suspects was killed during the encounter, the other seriously injured. In the exchange, Corporal Collin Whitaker, a seven-year veteran of the force and father of 3 young children, was killed in the line of duty. Back to you, Clara.”

  The anchorwoman’s face now appeared, the twinkle in her eye in contradiction with the stern look of concern she was giving the camera. “Thank you for that excellent report, Stan. In response to yesterday’s violence in West Texas, several House Democrats have made stern public statements regarding the matter.”

  An elderly, distinguished gentlemen appeared on the screen, a bank of microphones in front of his face. The ticker across the bottom of the television made it clear that the House minority leader was about to speak. “I am laying yesterday’s cold-blooded murder of a Texas law enforcement officer directly at President Turner’s feet. For months, our chief executive has repeatedly spouted harsh, inciteful rhetoric that has been nothing more than a thinly concealed call to violence by his supporters. Yesterday, in El Paso, those chickens came home to roost, and now a young wife and her children are without their father. That city, along with her citizens, has lost a loyal public servant who gave his life to protect others.”

  Carson was beyond eating now, sitting on the couch with her mouth open. Just when the prosecutor thought it couldn’t get any worse, another politician appeared, his face red with anger. “Who is to blame for this tragedy in El Paso? I’ll tell you who, my fellow Americans – President Turner, that’s who. Our great nation has lost a good man… a decorated police officer… a hero… all because our bigoted president doesn’t like Hispanics. His slogan should have been Make America White Again. If the president hadn’t unleashed this army of deportation thugs, none of yesterday’s violence would have occurred. If the president had put aside his fascist tendencies and remembered that we live in a democracy, this entire tragedy could have been avoided.”