Fault Lines

by Steven Hildreth Jr

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bradshaw left the office and made his way to his Corolla. He climbed inside, started the engine, and pulled out of the lot. When he reached the edge of the parking lot, Bradshaw hooked a right and pulled into a U-turn lane. Several cars approached in the oncoming lane, and Bradshaw waited. A non-descript beige sedan pulled behind Bradshaw. He glanced in the rearview and could not get a clear picture on the driver.

  When the oncoming lane cleared, Bradshaw eased the Corolla around the curb and headed southbound on Kolb. Something about the beige sedan—a Chevrolet, mid-2000s, judging from the frame shape—put Bradshaw off. Normally, he would continue south on Kolb until he hit Golf Links. Instead, on a whim, he eased into the right turn lane at the intersection with Speedway. The beige Chevy also pulled into the right turn lane.

  Could mean nothing, Bradshaw thought. It’s a busy intersection. He edged forward when beckoned by the traffic light and headed westbound. The Chevy also turned and hung back a bit. Bradshaw flashed his turn signal and drifted to the middle lane. He checked his rearview and saw the Chevy still a ways back and in the right lane. Bradshaw drifted into the left lane with the intention of headed south on Wilmot.

  The Chevy drifted across and settled into the left lane.

  Strike two…Bradshaw mused internally. He glanced to see if there was a license plate on the front, and only saw the dealer placard inside of the frame. Arizona only required a vehicle to have a license plate at the rear, and most decided to forego the front plate due to cost.

  Premier Auto Center…Bradshaw grunted. That annoying, shouting fucker in the pickle suit. He pushed the thought from his mind as he pulled into the left turn lane at the intersection of Speedway and Wilmot. There was a chance that the Chevy would remain on Speedway and keep on driving.

  The Chevy pulled into the left-turn lane.

  Strike three. Bradshaw surreptitiously reached beneath his jacket, drew his Glock 19, and stuck the barrel beneath his left thigh. He pushed a heavy exhale past his nose.

  Part of him wondered if he could scramble somebody to fall in behind the Chevy and get its plate so he could run it. He immediately identified two problems with that approach: if this was somebody tailing him, they were already being aggressive. Leading them on a goose chase to buy time for reinforcements would either force them to strike or break contact. The other issue was that he would have to read that person in on his activities. The only person he trusted enough for that was DJ Simmons. Bradshaw wasn’t ready to read him in.

  Leaves one option, Bradshaw decided. Ditch this clown and let him know I’m onto him.

  It wasn’t optimal. Letting a surveillance operator know they were compromised resolved the immediate problem, but if the operator was even remotely skilled, it meant their subsequent attempts would likely be subtler. Were Bradshaw operating overseas, he could try to double around, conduct an in-extremis vehicle interdiction, and interrogate the driver, but American police departments tended to frown on that sort of behavior, with Tucson Police being no exception.

  Right. Ditch him.

  Bradshaw made the turn onto Wilmot, then watched in the rearview as the Chevy also made the turn. He settled into the middle lane, then observed the Chevy do likewise. Sure as shit hope a cop doesn’t catch me doing this, he mused as his eyes flittered between his side of the road and the opposite side.

  He focused on the intersection ahead, Wilmot and 5th. Bradshaw saw that one group of cars was about to clear the intersection, with another group about 100 feet down the road. As soon as the first group cleared, Bradshaw gunned the gas, bringing the speedometer to 60 MPH. He swerved around a pair of cars, then let off the gas, veered wide, then spun the wheel hard left as he tapped the brakes.

  Bradshaw drifted the Corolla through the intersection, a deafening screech filling the air as rubber burned against asphalt. Once he was in the northbound lane, Bradshaw stepped on the gas again and raced back towards Speedway. He attempted to catch a glimpse of the Chevy’s driver, but the driver had hit the gas himself, racing southbound.

  So he was a tail…Bradshaw mused. Part of him wanted to turn the Corolla back around and chase after the Chevy, but he knew that if the man wasn’t a complete idiot, he’d be running his own SDRs to make sure he didn’t become the surveilled.

  Bradshaw let out a long, measured exhale as he continued through the intersection and went north on Wilmot. He’d need to take the long way home to make sure the Chevy didn’t try to pick him back up, or that the operator didn’t hand him off to another follow car.

  * * *

  Kazimir Merkolov returned his Chevy Malibu’s speed to legal parameters as he reached the intersection of Wilmot and Broadway. He continued through the intersection, then hooked a right into the commercial complex. Merkolov guided the car into the LA Fitness parking lot, which was mostly empty, then pulled into a slot.

  Merkolov killed the ignition, stepped out, and reached into his pocket for a cigarette. While he generally avoided smoking when possible, it also served as perfect cover. The only people who paid smokers any mind were fellow smokers looking to bum a cigarette.

  It was still warm out, even with the sun beneath the horizon. He was grateful that it was a dry heat, as he preferred straight high temperatures to those worsened by humidity. Merkolov leaned against the car and faced Wilmot as he plucked a Marlboro Red from the box. He produced a Zippo, flicked it to life, and touched the flame to the tip. He took a drag and inhaled deeply, his eyes scanning for any sign of Bradshaw’s vehicle. The smoke’s taste brought a glower to his face.

  Weak, Merkolov mused. Just like everything else American. He sighed as he blew the smoke skyward. Even the members of the White Resistance Movement, generally tolerable as far as Americans went, were pathetic, of low intellect and most of them in poor fitness. They recognized the inferiorities of American society and its multiculturalism, and yet they still managed to be stellar specimens of American mediocrity.

  It is just as Tovarisch Polkóvnik Gradenko said. Useful idiots.

  Living under an assumed identity was taxing, more so when that identity was in a foreign language and culture. In his solitary moments, Merkolov allowed himself to reconnect with his true personality. That was what drove him: pride in the Motherland and her greatness. She had been embarrassed through betrayal and mismanagement by Gorbachev and Yeltsin, as well as subverted through the shallow, materialistic Western culture.

  Most soldiers didn’t fight for ideals alone. There were family and friends at home, lovers and wives, emotional attachments that drove a soldier to fight and make it home alive. Merkolov found this concept to be utterly foreign. There were only two things for which he cared: Russia and the Slavic race. He did not expect to reach old age, and only hoped that he would die in a glorious blaze that would please Perun.

  Merkolov completed his scan and cigarette. He doubted Bradshaw would have doubled back. In the given scenario, the smart thing to do was to break contact and stay alert. That was exactly what Merkolov would have done. With the cigarette stubbed beneath his boot, Merkolov climbed back in the Malibu and fired up the ignition. If he got back to his northside apartment quickly enough, he’d have enough time to both work out and enjoy some of Tatiana Nikolayeva’s interpretations of Bach before bed. The thought brought a smile to Merkolov’s face as he shifted the Malibu into reverse.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Tucson, Arizona

  24 August 2018

  11:35 hours Tango (18:35 hours Zulu)

  Gabriela Rivera sat to the right of her client, Ernesto Avilez. In contrast to his legal counsel—who was clad in a pantsuit—Avilez wore an orange jumpsuit. His hands were cuffed in front of him, secured with a lockbox and a Martin chain. Leg shackles rested on his heel tendons, ensuring that his range of motion was extremely limited. Avilez was in his mid-30s, with slicked-back raven hair and a thick mustache.

  Rivera glanced over at Avilez and met his gaze. His dark eyes were haunted, no doubt due to th
e horrors he had experienced while incarcerated at the CCA facility in Florence. He had lost weight from when she had first met him. The longer Rivera looked at him, the more her anger grew within. She placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Rivera said. “We’re going to fight this.”

  “I hope so,” Avilez said with more confidence than he felt.

  Rivera wanted to offer consolation, but she knew the facts. Avilez was already ahead of the curve. Prior to the current administration, most deportation cases were civil trials, and thus the 6th Amendment did not apply. With the present guidance that the majority of immigration cases be tried as criminal, the undocumented immigrants did receive counsel, but most could not afford one worth their weight, and were relegated to an overworked public defender. Many of the public defenders were so busy that they could not physically be present in court.

  That there was no jury and the “judge” was a prosecutor that answered to Attorney General and not a member of the independent judiciary further stacked the odds against the accused. With the cases’ prosecutors hailing from the Department of Homeland Security, the cabinet agency responsible for enforcing the administration’s “zero tolerance” program, it was a gang-up: the “judge” and the prosecutor versus the accused.

  Never mind that “zero tolerance” is really “zero tolerance for brown people,” Rivera thought with disgust. She had seen the numbers and read the cases. Immigration and Customs Enforcement had focused the entirety of their efforts on the southwestern border and on immigrants of Central and South American descent. There were undocumented aliens from Eastern European nations going about their daily lives unperturbed, and there had not been a peep about the trend of pregnant citizens of Slavic nations vacationing near the end of their third trimester to have anchor babies with the intent of future chain migration.

  The administration’s motives were clear. They had been elected by a nativist and populist citizenry that feared diversity, and they were doing everything they could to please said citizenry. Rivera was doing what she could—she’d had better luck than many immigration lawyers in stopping deportations and keeping her clients on US soil until the appeals process finished—but she was no miracle worker. There was only so much she could do in the courtroom. The change had to come at the grassroots levels and resonate through the halls of power. It was that realization that had driven her to activism.

  Rivera glanced to her right. Jack Bradshaw stood next to a lean Asian-looking man who wore a black polo, cargo pants, hiking boots, and a windbreaker that bore the DHS emblem on the left breast. Rivera suppressed a scowl and exhaled audibly. Avilez heard the noise and looked to his legal counsel.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Rivera sat upright and gave Avilez a friendly smile. “Nothing. Take a deep breath, Ernesto.”

  Avilez did as he was told while he tapped his foot nervously, the sound of the leg irons’ chain punctuating each tap. “Right. Positive thoughts.”

  A judicial clerk stepped into the room from the judge’s chamber and cleared her throat. “All rise! The Honorable B. Forrest Jameson, presiding.”

  Rivera rose to her feet and smoothed out a wrinkle in her blouse as she watched the judge enter the court. He was tall and gangly, with a mane of white hair and a clean-shaven, angular face. Round rimmed spectacles shielded his ice blue eyes. Jameson reminded Rivera of the judge from A Time to Kill, and when he spoke, his voice carried similar Southern inflections.

  “Please, be seated.” As Rivera returned to her seat, she glanced across the way to the prosecution’s table. The pair of DHS prosecutors were lean, blond-haired, and blue-eyed. The lead was a man with whom Rivera was very familiar. Gordon Thompson had earned his JD from Regent University in Virginia, was an active member in the Arizona Republican Party, and had developed a reputation with his near-spotless deportation record. That the odds were stacked in his favor was an irrelevant detail. Thompson had become Rivera’s primary political nemesis, often giving interviews to Fox News and Breitbart to counter Rivera’s activism.

  Rivera only knew the woman seated beside Thompson by reputation. Jane Sanders had recently earned her JD from Arizona State University, after working as a paralegal with DHS for several years. She was model-tall and curvaceous, with her hair held in place with a bun. The feminist inside Rivera wanted to ignore rumors that Sanders had earned her promotion on her knees in Gordon Thompson’s office, but the progressive in her had no such compunctions.

  Thompson glanced at Rivera and smiled. Rivera focused her gaze forward and exhaled. Judge Jameson read the date and docket number, then said, “United States v. Ernesto Avilez. Does the defense wish to enter a plea?”

  Rivera rose to her feet again. “Yes, I do, Your Honor. My client is not guilty.”

  Jameson nodded, then said, “The prosecution may present its case.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Thompson said. He stood, buttoned the top of his suit jacket, and meandered around the desk. There was no jury to address, so Thompson directed his comments at Judge Jameson. “The facts are clear, Your Honor. The defendant, Mr. Avilez, made illegal entry into the United States on or about May 17th, 1979. He has been living here illegally since then. In addition to illegal entry, he has committed Social Security fraud. The previous administration granted him clemency and failed to enforce the law. It is the government’s opinion that Mr. Avilez be returned to El Salvador, his nation of origin, post-haste.” He looked to the defendant, smiled, then said, “Nothing further, Your Honor.”

  Rivera resisted the urge to scowl. She was well aware of the double standard. Were she Gabriel Rivera rather than Gabriela, an overt display of disdain would go unnoticed. She was expected to maintain stoicism or else risk accusations of emotional governance. Instead, Rivera interlaced her fingers and rested them on the desk while she waited.

  Jameson took notes on a piece of paper on his desk. “The defense may present its case.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Rivera rose and approached the bench. “Your Honor, Mr. Avilez did make illegal entry in 1979…at the age of three. It was not his choice to enter the way that he did. He was raised in Tucson. When the previous administration introduced DACA, Mr. Avilez registered, as required by the law, not in contradiction to it.”

  Rivera’s voice raised a notch as she risked inserting passion into her argument. “My client is a taxpaying, non-violent immigrant that is active in his community. He barely speaks any Spanish. To deport him to El Salvador, a nation rife with poverty and violence, would not only be a de facto death sentence, but would be utterly un-American.” She turned sideways to maintain line of sight on both Judge Jameson and Avilez. “My client has suffered at the hands of our government and their policies. His only real crime is the pursuit of the American dream. I recommend that previous rulings be upheld, that Mr. Avilez be released, that these trumped-up charges be dropped, and that his resident alien application be processed.” She exhaled, then turned back to the judge. “Nothing further.”

  As Rivera sat down, Jameson said, “A stirring speech, Counselor, but it does nothing to negate the facts that your client did enter the country illegally and used a false Social Security number from 1997 to 2012.”

  Rivera immediately shot back to her feet. “Your Honor, my client had to do that in order to pay taxes,” she rebutted. “Are we going to punish him for giving back to the nation that provided him with so much?”

  Thompson rose, his hands on the desk. “Your Honor, this is not one of the defense counsel’s vagabond rallies, and this is not a platform for her to spew her anarchistic rhetoric.”

  Rivera locked eyes with Thompson. “Yes, because your ‘zero tolerance’ has been so fairly enforced across the board.”

  Jameson struck his gavel three times. “Order!” That both silenced Rivera and Thompson and returned them to their seats. The judge took a deep breath and said, “While I am not unsympathetic to your client’s plight, we
are a nation of laws. His otherwise spotless record will be taken into consideration when he reapplies for citizenship the proper way in 2023.”

  Avilez hung his head as Rivera stood again. “Your Honor—”

  “Order of removal has been issued and approved, effective immediately.”

  When Jameson struck his gavel, it thundered through the courtroom. The ICE agent who had been standing off to the side immediately approached the defense table and grabbed Avilez by his tricep.

  “C’mon,” the agent said quietly. “Let’s go.”

  Tears streamed down Avilez’s face as he slowly rose to his feet. The ICE agent was patient with Avilez as he found his footing, then slowly escorted him to the defendant’s entrance. Rivera glared at the agent as he disappeared through the door.

  It was not the first negative outcome Rivera had suffered, but they never grew easier. She packed her notes—most of which she had not been able to use—then stood from the table. Bradshaw stood ready in the gallery, hands clasped in front of his waist. Rivera walked past him without saying a word, and he fell in line beside her as she reentered the hallway.

  The walk to the building’s entrance was quiet, with one stop at the security checkpoint for Bradshaw to retrieve his weapons and ammunition. Once he was kitted up, he and Rivera made their way to the car. Only when the car was on the move did Rivera break her stoicism, slapping her palm against the dashboard.

  “Goddamn it!” she snarled. “I fucking hate that Thompson prick!”

  Bradshaw said nothing as he navigated downtown Tucson traffic. It was highly congested, with a lot of stop-and-go motion. That set Bradshaw’s hackles on end, particularly with the tail he’d acquired the day before. He continued to scan and assess the cars and pedestrians, searching for any sign of something out of the ordinary.

  “That motherfucker is probably gloating about kicking another beaner to the other side of the wall while his fucking secretary goes down on him,” Rivera continued. She ran her hands over her face and into her hair. “Ernesto isn’t going to survive in El Salvador.” She shook her head. “And forcing him to show up to court in a prison jumpsuit?” Rivera gritted her teeth. “It’s like the immigration system has no fucking concept of ‘innocent until proven guilty.’”