Tainted Robes

by Joe Nobody

  Bo’s lie had the desired effect of fueling Red’s already sweltering fire. “Just like those bastards to squash a man’s First Amendment rights! I’ll take care of this.”

  The Turner supporter vanished into the gathering before Bo could continue to reel in his fish. “What the hell?” the Fuse asked.

  Trying to follow the mop of red hair as it bobbed and weaved through the throng, Bo realized Red was leaving the park. “Where is he going? There aren’t any cops in that direction.”

  The entire plan had been for the police to antagonize the larger group of demonstrators with a bomb investigation. When the cops didn’t find any explosives, they would then press hard on Red for yelling “Fire!” in a crowded theater. Their accusations would enrage Henry and his people. Escalation at some point was unavoidable.

  Now, a disappointed Bo had to find another candidate to incite his riot. Somewhat shaken over having misjudged Red so badly, he returned to studying Henry’s followers again.

  Movement stole Bo’s attention, his eyes snapping to the opposite corner of the park, and then the street beyond. An engine revved, the 5.9-liter, inline-six Cummins turbo diesel roaring to life. The driver slammed the Dodge truck into gear while simultaneously grinding the brake pedal into the floorboard and gunning the engine with his right foot. The tires squealed, and smoldering rubber charred the asphalt. An instant later, he released the brake, and the pickup leapt forward like a rodeo bull charging out of the gate. Traveling way too fast, the trajectory of the 8,000-pound missile set it on course for dead center of the anti-Turner mob. A few folks along the fringe pointed, then fled, screaming warnings that failed to override the noise of the ongoing protest and the incoming ‘ordnance’ aimed at it. The careening vehicle easily jumped the curb. Bodies flew in all directions. Flesh and bone were no match for the raging weapon, the four-wheeled beast plowing directly into the heart of the counter-protestors before finally striking the Depew Fountain.

  Once the pickup had ceased forward motion, awareness of the event set in. The horrific act of violence served to immediately still the park, bullhorns and choreographed chants replaced by weeping and sobbing voices. Both sides grew quiet. Police hurried toward the incident while protestors rushed away. A helicopter appeared overhead, the whir of sirens echoing in the distance.

  Bo watched in shock as the cops surrounded the pickup, weapons drawn, shouting commands. The driver emerged with his hands in the air. It was Red.

  Down dropped the mop of ginger hair, flung to the grass as other officers circulated to assess the wounded. Several bodies laid on the manicured lawn, some whimpering in agony, others completely motionless and silent. Bo just stood there, stunned, open-mouthed, and unable to turn away.

  “They have a bomb! They have a bomb!” Red was shouting as the cops slapped on the handcuffs.

  “Who has a bomb?” one of the senior police officers demanded. “Where?”

  Bo didn’t hang around long enough to listen to Red’s explanation. He knew he could be charged as an accessory to murder. That was serious shit. He had to get out. Right now.

  Like so many others, he began jogging toward the opposite corner of the park, his mind trying to anticipate what Red would tell the arresting officers. Looking down at his T-shirt, the Fuse rolled his eyes and lamented, “You’re an idiot. He’ll tell the cops that a guy with a black, ‘Turner for President,’ shirt saw the bomb.”

  Pulling off the tee, Bo tossed it into the next trash can and kept running.

  Less than 50 feet away, a pair of police officers spotted Bo’s disposal. It was an obvious sign of guilt. Crooks often reversed jackets, removed hoodies, or even threw away perfectly good clothing to avoid being arrested for an illegal act.

  “Hey, you! Stop! Hey! Stop!” they yelled, moving on an interception course.

  Bo, realizing he’d just made his second big mistake of the day, ran faster.

  He was young, in good physical condition, and began outdistancing the policemen giving chase. Were it not for the cop on horseback who joined the pursuit, Bo would have gotten away.

  Out of nowhere, a big, brown object appeared in Bo’s path. Before he could pull up and stop his forward momentum, he smacked headfirst into the Tennessee Walker’s flank, bounced off, and landed on his ass. Before his brain could even reconcile his sudden change in direction, a muscle-bound, livid officer was in his face, pointing a pistol at the bridge of his nose and shouting commands.

  Bo rolled over as instructed, his hands brutally handcuffed in the small of his back a moment later. The cops pulled him to his feet and began emptying his pockets.

  “Why were you running?” another uniform asked.

  “I wanted to get away from the park before some other crazy ran me down. Did you see those people get hit by that car? Jesus, I was standing right there. Saw the whole thing. Freaked me out, man,” Bo stuttered, trying to act scared. “I just wanted to get away.”

  “Why did you peel off your shirt and throw it in the garbage?” barked another cop.

  “It had Turner’s name and picture on it. I was afraid the Antifa people would want revenge, so I took it off and ran,” Bo lied. “Some of those dudes were pretty pissed.”

  The police huddled, one of the officers continuing to ask Bo the same questions over and over again, a routine to draw out any inconsistency in his story.

  Evidently, the cops were divided on what to do with the shirtless protestor. “You’re being arrested,” one of the officers finally announced. They all knew their superiors would want results given the violence in the park. They already had Bo in custody. “Assaulting a police officer and fleeing are the charges.”

  Bo said nothing as a black and white appeared to take him in.

  Chapter 6

  The Marion County Jail was the last place Bo thought he’d ever be visiting while in the Midwest. He’d pondered seeing the St. Louis Arch on his journey home, even considered stopping in Kansas City for some of that city’s famous BBQ. Iron bars and a rock-hard cot, however, had not been on the itinerary.

  His processing had been professional and thoroughly detailed. Bo knew quality when he saw it because he’d been arrested before.

  There were three key components to surviving in these situations. First, don’t say squat to the cops. Nothing, nada, zilch. Secondly, make sure and request a public defender right from the get-go. Finally, he gave the police a name that he knew would attract his employer’s attention once it had been entered into the computer.

  “My name is Neven Sagas Terret,” Bo stated, spelling each of the palindromes slowly to make sure they were entered into the computer correctly. If the cop processing the arrest noticed that all three handles were spelled the same forward and backward, he didn’t say a word.

  Having been told to always use that name, Bo was sure that someplace in the electronic web, a spider was crawling around looking for those three words. It had always worked before.

  “Do you have ID?” the booking officer asked, obviously puzzled by Bo’s lack of a wallet or any identification.

  “No. I don’t drive; I don’t need a driver’s license.”

  “How do you get around?”

  “I wish to remain silent,” he responded.

  “Address? Indiana law states that you must provide us with an address, regardless of the Fifth Amendment.”

  “I am a transient,” Bo replied, barely able to keep a grin off his face.

  The cop wasn’t impressed. “Look, if you have outstanding warrants, we’re going to find out via the fingerprint database. It will go easier if you cooperate.”

  “I am a transient,” Bo repeated. “There’s nothing illegal about being homeless.”

  “Up to you,” the frustrated officer replied with a sigh.

  Despite being arrested before, Bo was confident his fingerprints wouldn’t show up in any database search. It was one of the advantages of working with powerful people sporting impressive digital
skills.

  Within six hours of being arrested, he was escorted into a closet-sized room where a young man with a briefcase sat waiting. After introducing himself, Bo’s public defender asked if he needed anything. “Water?”

  “A ticket out of here,” Bo replied with a sly grin.

  The attorney could have cared less about the case. “We’ll work on that. Your hearing should be any minute now. You’re being charged with assault, by the way.”

  “I didn’t assault anyone,” Bo stated firmly. “In fact, I should be filing charges against the mounted police officer. His horse ran into me, not vice versa.”

  “We don’t have to worry about that right now,” the lawyer replied, barely stifling a yawn. “This is just a bail hearing where the judge will determine how much it will cost you to post a bond and get out of jail. Do you have any family or friends in the area?”

  “No,” Bo answered honestly. “I want you to request that I be released on my own recognizance.”

  Now he had the lawyer’s attention. Grunting, the attorney said, “You don’t have any ID and told the authorities that you are a transient, yet you want me to ask the judge to release you OR? Wait a minute… how do you even know to ask for that? I’ve represented hardened criminals who don’t know about OR.”

  “I took some law classes in college,” Bo fudged, the whole truth being more than he divulged.

  “Where are you from?”

  Bo considered avoiding the question, not wanting to antagonize his legal eagle just yet. But the attorney didn’t break eye contact, waiting for his client’s response. Bo decided a lie might be in his best interest. “I was in the area checking out Purdue University. I’ve been thinking about going back to school.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Here… Indiana mostly… I was in the process of finding someplace to live when I heard about today’s protest. Wrong place and the wrong time, I guess.”

  A jailer knocked on the door just then, waving for Bo and his representative to follow.

  They were led to a video conferencing room. There, on a monitor at the front of the surprisingly small room, sat a female judge. The officer explained to Bo that he should face the camera to address the jurist.

  “That’s odd,” the attorney whispered to his client. “I’ve never seen Judge Adams on this sort of case. One of the other robes must be sick or on vacation or something.”

  After the formalities, the lawyer presented Bo’s request, “Your Honor, my client is not a flight risk. We request that he be released OR.”

  The prosecutor’s head snapped up in surprise, as if he didn’t believe what he had just heard. Once the defense petition sank in, he responded quickly. “Your Honor, the accused is homeless, couldn’t provide the police with any identification, and doesn’t have a legal address.”

  “Without a driver’s license, he’s not going to go far,” countered the public defender, now seeming to enjoy himself.

  The judge’s next words shocked both attorneys. “I’m not all that convinced that running into a horse’s ass makes this man a horse’s ass. This is thin… very thin. The suspect is hereby ordered released on his own recognizance and is ordered to appear before this court on July 29th at 10 a.m. Do you understand the order of this court, sir?”

  “I do, Your Honor,” Bo answered.

  “Next docket item,” the judge continued with a smack of her gavel, ignoring the DA’s wide-open mouth and what-just-happened expression.

  The video monitor grew dark, leaving Bo and his representative alone in the room. “I don’t believe that… I’ve never seen a judge… how in the hell?” the bewildered defender mumbled.

  “How long will it take them to process my release?” Bo asked, bringing the man beside him back into the here and now.

  “An hour, maybe two. Here’s my card. Call me a few days before your court date. My office has the worst coffee this side of Chicago, but it’s free. We’ll get together and form a defense.”

  Bo merely nodded. He had no plans of ever visiting the Crossroads of America again.

  The jingle of Kit’s cell phone brought a frown to the attorney’s face. Her scowl deepened when the number didn’t match any in her extensive list of contacts. It was after 10 p.m., too late for robocalls and sales pitches.

  “Carson,” she answered, peering up from the mountain of paperwork and stifling a yawn.

  “This is Detective Royce, El Paso Homicide. We met after the protest day shooting.”

  “Yes, I remember, Detective. What can I do for you?”

  “We’ve uncovered some… err… interesting evidence regarding that incident. After consulting with our state district attorney and my captain, I thought it might be best to bring the feds… err, you in on this.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  There was an uncomfortable pause on the other end, the detective clearing a nervous throat. “Well, ma’am, actually it’s a lack of evidence that has prompted the call. We have recovered fingerprints and a photograph of a person of interest. The problem is, he’s not in the system, and we find that very odd.”

  Kit shook her head, wondering why the detective was being so vague. “I’m not sure I understand, Detective. Make it crystal clear for me – it’s late; I’m tired.”

  “I’m sorry ma’am,” the cop immediately responded. “But… well… this might be better handled in person. I was actually calling to see if I could set up an appointment.”

  This is weird, Kit thought. Normally, the city cops avoid federal prosecutors like the plague.

  Still, there was something in his voice. “What are you doing right now, Detective?”

  “I was just leaving the station.”

  Kit glanced again at her watch. What the hell? I don’t have a life anyway, she decided. “Can you swing by my office on your way home?”

  “Now? Well, yes, I suppose. I don’t want to impose, ma’am…. I mean, it’s awful late, and….”

  “I’ll leave word with security. See you in a minute,” Kit interrupted, in no mood for the stammering man’s trepidation.

  Royce was true to his word, the guard at the front desk calling up to verify his appointment less than 10 minutes later.

  The detective looked as tired as Kit felt, his hair slightly tousled, a way-past-5 o’clock shadow darkening his face. “Thank you for seeing me so quickly, Ms. Carson,” he said once seated.

  “Why all the mystery and intrigue, Detective?”

  Royce opened the folder in his hand, passing over a photograph that had obviously been captured by a security camera.

  Studying the fuzzy image, Kit noted a wiry man bent over a street-side trashcan, a hoodie sweatshirt obscuring most of the individual’s head.

  Before she could make any comment, the detective passed her a second image, this one much clearer. Kit noticed the same hoodie, pants, and shoes. She could also make out the man’s face.

  “That second photo was taken from the bank’s ATM about 50 seconds before the first. That money machine is located less than 40 yards from the trash can where someone set off a string of firecrackers which led to the firefight the day of the protest.

  “And?” Kit responded, still not understanding why El Paso’s finest needed federal help.

  “We also have these images, posted on social media,” Royce continued, handing Kit another short stack of photographs.

  The federal prosecutor found herself staring at the same man in the hoodie, wearing the identical pants, shirt, shoes, and backpack. After giving her a minute to scan the evidence, Royce continued, “We have video of this individual passing out several balloons, which our officers reported were full of feces. Our people believe that those projectiles were the primary catalyst that turned a peaceful protest into a full-blown riot, including a number of injuries.”

  “Okay,” Kit said, still not getting it.

  “We have a clean, identical fingerprint from two of the bal
loons, yet there is no match in the FBI’s database,” Royce stated. “We believe this agitator was a professional. Who else comes to a protest armed with firecrackers and shit bombs? We got lucky with the photograph of his face. He managed to hide from three other cameras. Worse yet, the firecrackers had been specially fused to mimic gunfire rather than exploding rapidly in a single burst. Who does all that… is that skilled, and yet doesn’t have a criminal record of any sort? Hell, you can’t even get a driver’s license in most states without being fingerprinted.”

  “Go on,” Kit replied, interested, but still not understanding where the detective was going.

  “When this information came to light, we created the usual electronic computer files, including the digital images, the standard forms, and our notes from the investigation. When I tried to access the file this morning, I found that the entire file had been deleted. Fortunately, I’m a little old school, so I had this paper backup copy.”

  “You think someone in your department erased the file?” Kit asked, Royce’s odd behavior now explained.

  It was the detective’s turn to shrug. “I’m no expert on computers by any sense, Ms. Carson. My boss thinks it was probably an outside hacker. What’s so interesting about that theory is that I emailed the city’s DA a copy of the findings. He read the initial email, and then poof… it disappeared from his inbox. My sent file was cleaned out as well. An insider at the police department wouldn’t have access to our prosecutor’s email. The police department and the district attorneys’ offices use two completely separate systems.”

  Now Kit understood the veiled phone call and late-night visit. It was obvious that Royce and his people were spooked. In light of her own, in-depth knowledge of things cyber, she had to admit the whole situation was chilling.

  The reaction of the local PD was also logical. They were men who would charge fearlessly into an army of gangbangers with AK47 rifles, but the digital world was something that couldn’t be handcuffed, subdued, or jailed.