“Please have a seat, my friend,” Al-Khan said as he gestured toward a thickly upholstered chair in front of the massive desk. “Would you like a drink?” As a Muslim, Al-Khan did not use alcohol, of course, but there was a small, well-stocked bar for visitors and business associates on the other side of the office.
Montoya shook his head impatiently in response to the offer. “I would prefer to get on with it,” he said. “Why did you ask me to come here?”
Al-Khan settled himself behind the desk and clasped his slightly pudgy hands together on its glass top. “Señor Garcia-Lopez asked me to discuss a certain situation with you.”
“What situation?”
“The one in Little Tucson, Arizona, involving the Patriot Project and the man called Brannon.”
Montoya made a sharp, slashing motion with his hand. “I have that under control.”
“Oh? What have you done since ordering the massacre that resulted in a storm of media coverage, the increased attention of the American government, and the formation of the Patriot Project?”
Montoya’s hands clutched the arms of the chair. He held on tightly, rather than giving in to the impulse to take this greasy little man’s throat and squeeze it until the Arab was dead. “That was a lesson for the people of Little Tucson, to teach them not to defy me.”
“It seems not to have worked,” Al-Khan said. “As I said, what have you done since then?”
Montoya took a deep breath. “I have sent several of my men across the border to test this Patriot Project.”
“And?” Al-Khan asked as he raised neatly trimmed eyebrows.
Montoya didn’t want to answer, but Al-Khan’s gaze was unflinching. Finally, Montoya said, “They were stopped and turned back.”
“Did they put up any resistance?”
“I ordered them not to . . . this time.”
“So Brannon and his Patriots, they have the potential to form an effective barrier against the traffic you had established across the border?”
“Not at all! I can smash them any time I want!”
“Then I suggest you do so, Señor Montoya. I prefer discretion, but it appears to be too late for that. Now that the gauntlet has been thrown down, the challenge must be answered. Mara Salvatrucha must be restored to its former glory. The Americans along the border must live in fear of M-15, as they had been until this man Brannon came along.” Al-Khan leaned forward, and suddenly he did not look so soft and ineffectual anymore. “Do what you must, Señor Montoya, but stop Tom Brannon and the Patriot Project . . . now.”
Word of the hearing on the TRO had gotten out, and the scene was bedlam around the federal courthouse in Tucson. Tom, Bonnie, and the lawyers for the city of Little Tucson and Sierrita County had to slip into the courthouse through a rear door to avoid the media mob. The courtroom itself was a haven of peace and quiet, because Judge Elgin Malone had banned cameras and allowed only a small contingent of reporters inside. Malone was a crusty old-timer. He was also extremely liberal, one of the lawyers informed Tom, and Tom felt his hopes sink. He knew the law was on his side—but if the ruling went against him here today, it sure as hell wouldn’t be the first time some liberal judge had ignored the law and followed his personal biases.
The bailiff called, “All rise!” and everyone got to their feet as Judge Malone came in and took his place on the bench. He gaveled the court to order and told everyone to sit down. As Tom looked over from the defense table, he saw Callista Spinelli and Chet Eggleston sitting at the plaintiff’s table along with several other expensively dressed attorneys. Spinelli smirked at him. She was enjoying this.
The next forty-five minutes were pretty much a blur to Tom. He had a layman’s knowledge of the law, but he wasn’t able to follow all the procedural gibberish that both sides in the case went through. Finally, though, he was called to the stand to explain what the Patriot Project was and his role in it.
When he was sworn in and seated, Spinelli stood up and said with a smile, “Good morning, Mr. Brannon. Thank you for being here.”
Tom nodded to her and replied in his best cowboy drawl, “Mornin’, ma’am.” He was rewarded by a slight tightening of Spinelli’s lips and a grin from Bonnie, who sat in the front row of the spectator seats.
Spinelli began to shoot questions at him, asking him to describe the activities of the Patriot Project. Tom answered them as honestly as possible. Every time Spinelli tried to make it sound as if the Patriots were doing something illegal, immoral, and downright racist, Tom had an answer for her, deftly turning aside the spurious allegations. Several times his attorneys objected, and for the most part Judge Malone sustained them, although it seemed to Tom that he did so grudgingly. Spinelli was growing more frustrated, and she finally snapped, “No further questions.”
One of Tom’s lawyers got to his feet and said, “Tell us, Mr. Brannon, about the events that led to the formation of the Patriot Project.”
Spinelli shot up out of her chair. “Objection! Irrelevant!”
“How can it be irrelevant, Your Honor?” Tom’s lawyer said. “The origins of an organization go right to the heart of its motives.”
“The motives of those . . . people . . . aren’t what’s at issue,” Spinelli argued. “All we’re concerned with here are their actions, which are indefensible!”
Judge Malone picked up his gavel but didn’t use it. He said, “That’s what we’re trying to determine, Ms. Spinelli, whether or not the actions of the Patriot Project are indeed defensible. The objection is overruled.”
Spinelli sat down, obviously gritting her teeth. Eggleston leaned over to whisper to her, probably telling her to calm down before she started damaging their case with the judge. They had had an advantage going in because of Malone’s liberal leanings, and they didn’t want to squander that.
Tom’s lawyer asked, “Why did you suggest starting up the Patriot Project, Mr. Brannon?”
Tom took a deep breath. “Because somebody had to protect the citizens of Little Tucson and Sierrita County from M-15.”
“What’s M-15?” They wanted to get this on the record.
“Mara Salvatrucha. A criminal gang composed primarily of Guatemalans and El Salvadorans who have taken over all the drug smuggling and the rest of the illegal activity along the border.” Tom paused for a second. “They’ve also murdered more than two dozen American citizens in the past couple of weeks.”
Spinelli was up again. “Objection! Again, this is irrelevant, and on top of that, no one has proven that this so-called M-15 gang even exists, let alone that it was responsible for any of the crimes that took place in Sierrita County.”
“Counselor, you’re not going to get anywhere insulting my intelligence by arguing that M-15 doesn’t exist,” Judge Malone said. He turned to Tom. “But you should confine your answers to matters of fact, Mr. Brannon, not speculation. How do you know M-15 is to blame for what’s happened in your town?”
“My wife was there at the SavMart Massacre, Your Honor—”
“Objection! Use of the word massacre is inflammatory and prejudicial—”
“There’s no jury here, Ms. Spinelli,” Malone said, “and I’m neither inflamed nor prejudiced by the word. Both of your objections are overruled.” He turned back to Tom. “What were you saying about your wife, Mr. Brannon?”
“Just that she was there, Your Honor. She heard the men who killed all those people in SavMart say that they were part of M-15.”
Spinelli started to stand up, but Eggleston put a hand on her arm and held her down. He lumbered to his feet instead and said quietly, “Objection, Your Honor. That’s hearsay.”
Tom’s lawyer said, “Mrs. Brannon is in the courtroom. I can put her on the stand if you’d like.”
“That still wouldn’t prove anything, Your Honor,” Eggleston said. “Just because Mrs. Brannon heard one of the criminals claim to be from M-15 doesn’t mean that they were. I could claim to be from the moon, but obviously I’m not.”
“You’re a
rguing in circles, counselor . . . but you’re right about the hearsay. I’ll sustain the objection. You may have reason to believe the perpetrators were members of M-15, Mr. Brannon, but you can’t state it as a fact.”
“Yes, sir, Your Honor . . . but folks act on what they believe to be true all the time, don’t they? What else can they do?”
Malone’s bushy eyebrows raised as he stared at Tom. After a few seconds he nodded to the lawyer and said, “Go ahead, counselor.”
For the next few minutes, in response to his lawyer’s questions, Tom laid out the tragic events of the past few weeks, including the deaths of Burton Minnow and Madison Wheeler, the robbery of the Little Tucson Savings Bank and the shooting of Deputy Fred Kelso, and the kidnapping and rape of Carla May Willard. The team of ACLU lawyers didn’t waste their breath objecting. Judge Malone already knew about all of this, anyway. Everybody in the state did. It had been impossible to escape the news coverage.
“So we had a community meeting and decided to try to do something about it,” Tom concluded. “That’s when and where the Patriot Project was born.”
Malone asked a question of his own. “Was it your idea?”
“Yes, sir, Your Honor. I remembered reading about the Minuteman Project from several years ago, and I thought something like that might work again. I thought we ought to keep it on a smaller, more local level, though. We’ve succeeded in that. All of our volunteers are from Sierrita County, and they’re good, solid citizens.”
Tom’s lawyer started to say something, but Judge Malone stopped him with an upraised hand. He looked squarely at Tom and said, “Mr. Brannon, tell me again exactly what you and your people have been doing out there, and how you go about it.”
Tom nodded and launched into a detailed description of the patrol activities, this time without any leading questions from Spinelli. When he was finished, Malone asked, “You carry guns?”
“Yes, sir, but we haven’t had to use them. They’re strictly for self-defense.”
“None of your people have fired a shot?”
“No, sir.”
“What about other violence? You beat up these immigrants before you throw them back across the border?”
“We haven’t thrown anybody anywhere, Your Honor. We walk or drive with them to the border and watch them go back across. That’s all we do. Nobody’s lifted a hand to them.”
Spinelli couldn’t restrain herself. She stood up and said, “That we know of, Your Honor. It’s entirely possible that these vigilantes have killed and buried any number of immigrants. There could be a mass grave out there—”
Tom’s lawyer started shouting an objection. Spinelli yelled back at him. Malone lifted his gavel and banged it on the bench until everyone fell silent. He looked at Tom and asked, “You want to answer that accusation, Mr. Brannon?”
“It’s a lie, Your Honor,” Tom said tightly as he struggled to keep his own temper under control. “I give you my word that there’s been no violence involving our patrols. That’s all I can do.”
Malone nodded.
“And one more thing,” Tom added. “The people we’ve been turning back . . . they’re not just immigrants. They’re illegal immigrants. They’re breaking the laws of this country, laws that we’re just trying to enforce.”
Spinelli was still on her feet. “You just don’t want any more Mexicans coming in!” she blazed at him. “You’re nothing but a damned bigot!”
Malone’s gavel slammed down. “Ms. Spinelli!” he thundered. “I know you feel strongly about this, but I’m very close to holding you in contempt of court!”
Eggleston grabbed Spinelli’s arm and pulled her down into her chair as he got up. “We apologize, Your Honor,” he said quickly. “We have nothing but the highest respect for the dignity of this court.”
“Then sit down and shut up. And that goes double for you, Ms. Spinelli.” Malone looked at Tom’s lawyer. “Do you have anything further, counselor?”
“No, Your Honor.”
Malone turned a baleful gaze on the ACLU table. “What about you?”
Eggleston shook his head and said, “Uh, no, Your Honor.”
“Then I’ve heard enough. We’ll take a ten minute recess to let things cool off, and then I’ll make my ruling. Mr. Brannon, you can step down.”
Tom was glad to get off the hot seat. After everyone had risen and the judge had left the courtroom, he sat down again at the defense table and took a deep breath. Bonnie leaned over the railing and put a hand on his shoulder. “You did fine, Tom, just fine,” she said.
“I just told the truth.”
“That’s always the best defense, isn’t it?”
Tom glanced at Spinelli and Eggleston and the other ACLU attorneys. With people like that infesting the legal system, he wasn’t sure the truth had much real meaning anymore, as much as he would have liked to believe otherwise.
The ten-minute recess stretched out to more like fifteen. Finally, the judge returned, and when everyone was seated again, Malone began by saying, “I don’t believe in vigilante justice. This is a nation of laws, and we have a system in place for enforcing those laws that doesn’t include private citizens. That should be sufficient to deal with any problem.”
Tom’s heart sank.
“But sometimes it isn’t,” Malone went on. “Sometimes there are extraordinary circumstances that force private citizens to become involved in the justice system. That is the foundation of the concept known as the citizen’s arrest.”
That gave Tom a little hope. He leaned forward in his chair as Malone paused and cleared his throat.
The judge resumed, “If you had told me that a group of private citizens could go out and enforce our immigration laws without breaking any laws themselves or depriving people of their civil rights, I wouldn’t have believed it. And yet in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, I’m forced to conclude that the Patriot Project is doing just that. Therefore—and understand, I say this reluctantly—the motion for a temporary restraining order is denied.” He smacked the gavel down. “This court is adjourned.”
The uproar was immediate. Spinelli shouted, “But Your Honor, the potential for abuse here—”
“I can’t rule on potential, counselor, only facts. And I said this court is adjourned!”
Bonnie, Tom’s lawyers, and several friends gathered around him. Bonnie hugged him while the others slapped him on the back and congratulated him. “You won, Tom!” Bonnie said excitedly. “I knew you would.”
Tom smiled tiredly. He had found the whole ordeal draining and hoped he would never have to set foot in a courtroom again. He glanced toward the doors, where the reporters who had been in the audience were rushing out to file their stories. Someone pushed past them, coming into the courtroom, and Tom was surprised to see that it was Buddy Gorman. Buddy looked at him . . .
And from the grief and horror that he saw in his old friend’s eyes, Tom suddenly knew that he hadn’t won at all. He hadn’t won a damned thing.
19
The blood was everywhere. Even though he had believed he was too numb with shock to feel anything else, the sight of his parents’ blood splashed around the living room of the house where he’d grown up sent Tom Brannon reeling like a fist to the gut. He staggered and might have fallen, but Buddy Gorman was right beside him, and the sheriff’s strong right hand closed around Tom’s arm and held him up.
At least the bodies were no longer here. They had already been removed by the coroner and taken to the morgue in the county hospital. The fact that Tom didn’t have to see with his own eyes how his mother and father had been butchered was scant consolation, but at least it was something.
“Come on back outside, Tom,” Buddy said quietly beside him. “I told you you didn’t need to come in here.”
“I . . . I had to see it for myself,” Tom choked out. “I had to see that!”
He lifted a shaking hand and pointed to the words scrawled in blood on the living room wall.
; STOP NOW BRANNON OR YOU ARE NEXT
Tom allowed Buddy to turn him around and steer him out of this chamber of horrors. They went out onto the porch, where a wooden swing hung from chains attached to the roof overhang. Tom’s legs felt weak. He sank gratefully onto the swing. Buddy sat down beside him.
“We got an anonymous call telling us to come out here,” Buddy said after a moment of silence. “I wasn’t in the office, of course. I’d gone up to Tucson, to the courthouse. I got one of those damn subpoenas, too. Dusty took the call and sent Francisco out here. He radioed for an ambulance and back-up right away, but . . . it was too late.”
“What happened?” Tom grated out. “You were here before they were taken away. What happened to them, Buddy?”
“I don’t think there’s any reason to go into detail—”
“Damn it, I have to know!”
Buddy took a deep breath. “Well . . . I reckon your mother answered the door. They bulled their way in—”
“How many?”
“Lauren found some footprints in . . . well, in the blood . . . and says she got five different right shoe prints. So we figure there were five of them.”
“To handle a couple of people in their eighties.” Disgust joined the grief in Tom’s voice.
“Yeah, those M-15 boys are some brave sons o’ bitches, that’s for sure.”
Tom wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Go on.”
“From the looks of things, your dad tried to fight them, but they shot him. A shotgun blast right to the chest. Had to have killed him instantly. He went down fighting, Tom, but there probably wasn’t much pain. Knowing Herb, he was probably cussin’ ’em for all he was worth, too.”
Tom nodded. “I expect so. And Mom . . . ?”
“Another shotgun blast,” Buddy said. “They didn’t . . . I mean . . . there was no sign that they tried to . . .”
Invasion USA Page 18
