by John Brown
Clancy eyed Benson with a faint smirk.
“Would you like to tell us now why you’re here?”
Benson sat in his chair, speechless.
“Mr. Benson,” Commander Clancy said in a low voice, “we got us evidence of a conspiracy.”
He gazed directly into Benson’s eyes, apparently looking for his tell.
“You have business and financial transactions with Saudi Arabia, and possibly Iran,” added Lieutenant Millstone, “and maybe Syria or Iraq. There could be a violation here of the Espionage Act, criminalizing distribution of confidential national security information.”
“My bank has clients in the Mideast—”
“Looks like you subscribe to some nasty weapons periodicals. We got a tip from our informant, let’s see here…” Millstone said, rummaging through a pile of documents. “Guns and Ammo magazine.”
He looked at Benson with a damning expression.
“I hunt and fish. So what?”
“And what exactly do you hunt with assault-style rifles?” Clancy said, pointing his finger at Benson. “C’mon now, let’s get real. Your mail carrier reported you get strange things, fringe magazines, letters from suspect organizations—”
“It’s junk mail!”
“Junk mail, you say.”
Clancy held up a letter contained within an opened envelope, gripping it by the corner with tweezers. He looked at Benson with a snide expression. The envelope bore a red crescent.
“Here’s one the Residential Waste Compliance Engineer fished out of your recycling bins. It appears to be a solicitation addressed personally to you from some kind of Muslim charity, it looks like. How do you just happen to be on their mailing list? Those things are fronts.”
“Fronts, you say. Maybe that’s why it was in the recycling bin.”
“The Utilities Inspector in your neighborhood reported unusual lines and hookups to your cable and utilities,” Clancy said, rummaging through the documents. “We found a bunch of electronics and communications gear in your house, way more than average. So who were you communicating with, Mr. Benson?”
“No one! I mean, a lot of people. I like electronics.”
Lieutenant Millstone pored through reports stamped with the DHS blue eagle seal and surveillance photographs stamped with the National Geospatial Intelligence Agency logo strewn all over the desk. Benson glanced at some of them from upside down. There were pictures of him on his boat, fishing on the lakes, and a few of the family relaxing in the backyard. Jane was somehow photographed taking a bath from outside their second floor window, stirring his anger. There was a picture of his late dog, the sight of which aroused fresh pangs of grief. There were satellite views of his house and roadside surveillance cam shots of his car with the date, time, and location in yellow type printed in the corner. He thought he recognized his likeness from a grainy picture of a man in a coffee shop that he often frequented on his way to work. There was one of him and Jane dining at La Grande Maison, a romantic restaurant they’d enjoyed a month or two before. There were even some photographs of Daniel coming and going on the school bus.
“Neighbors report seeing lights on late every night,” said Commander Clancy, examining a report.
“It’s the Mideast time zone, I already told you.”
“Talking to shady friends overseas?” Lieutenant Millstone said. “Your Internet, chat group, and email transcripts reveal an abnormal interest in jihad, terrorist attack, Taliban, you know, those kinds of things. We also recorded conversations containing words like “narcotics” and “nukes” and “anthrax” and even “prepping.” Federal law outlaws ‘cyber bullying’ — any electronic communication with the intent to coerce, intimidate, harass, or cause emotional distress — and this sure as hell looks like something that could distress someone.”
Clancy again examined Benson closely for some kind of response, perhaps the revealing tell for which he was still waiting.
Benson merely shrugged.
“I discuss current events with friends all over the world — not ‘shady’ friends.”
“Friends!” Clancy said. “Interesting that you should mention that. It so happens that one of your Friends on Facebook is a Friend of an alleged domestic insurgent, and he, by the way — this domestic insurgent — is Friends with other alleged sleeper-cell terrorists.”
Millstone skimmed through a pamphlet called FBI Communities Against Terrorism: Potential Indicators of Terrorist Activities Related to Internet Cafes. “Be part of the solution,” it said. “Preventing terrorism is a community effort. If something seems wrong, notify law enforcement authorities. Call 888-705-JRIC and mention ‘Tripwire.’” The pamphlet had hand-scribbled notes on the margins.
“Watch for people who ‘Are overly concerned about privacy, attempts to shield the screen from view of others,’” Millstone read aloud from the pamphlet. “‘Acts nervous or suspicious.’ ‘Always pays cash.’ ‘Travels illogical distance to use Internet café.’”
“It’s on my way to work.”
“You were observed doing all those things, Mr. Benson,” Clancy said, “not just once, but many times. You always pay cash at this coffee shop, too. You go on the Internet there, I’ll bet to avoid tracking, am I right? That’s certainly suspicious. Your behavior-pattern threat analysis is anomalous.”
Clancy circled a small graph on his report with a red pencil, and put a check mark next to another chart.
“No, sure doesn’t look good.”
“You’re in deep trouble, Mr. Benson,” Millstone said, “but we’re here to help.”
Millstone opened a document stamped with the official seal of the Office of the Secretary of Defense.
“We also got us a probable violation of Section 810 of the PATRIOT Act, Mr. Benson. Says on this complaint here you gave ‘expert advice or assistance derived from scientific, technical, or other specialized knowledge,’ according to the official language right here — and your expert assistance later appeared on other websites linked to your so-called client’s websites. When we clicked through enough of those links, we found sites with violent, anti-American remarks. Because those websites advocate extremism, you broke the PATRIOT Act’s 18 USC §2339A, Providing Material Support to Terrorists.”
Benson stared at him.
“Are you nuts? My job is to provide ‘expert assistance.’ That’s why the bank employs me, fool. I don’t have to say anything to you. I have the right to see the evidence for myself.”
Lieutenant Millstone shook his head. It was clear that Benson still didn’t get it.
“You don’t got a right to see squat. Providing ‘material support’ to organizations on this secret list here is illegal.”
“When this gets to court, my little friend, the jury will throw it out. My lawyer will eat your lunch. You’ll face a civil rights violation for this.”
Benson grabbed the secret list from Millstone and crumpled it, tossing it on the floor.
“The rules governing military tribunals are different, Mr. Benson,” Commander Clancy said. “We can detain you indefinitely, in secret, away from the media. We can even use certain, ah, debriefing techniques if we have any plausible reason to believe it could save the lives of possibly thousands of people.”
Millstone paced the room, getting all worked up.
“Civilian law is a circus. Ignorant juries let criminals go free every day. If you’re one of those celebrities or a rich guy with a fancy lawyer, you get off.”
“That’s absolutely right,” Clancy said. “The stakes are much higher today. New enemies, new tactics, Mr. Benson. We can’t afford to have these lawyers getting people off when we already know they’re guilty — that’s why we don’t try these cases in civilian courts. There will be no lawyers.” He said lawyers with utter contempt.
“The people need to feel safe.”
Benson picked up his foam coffee cup. He hadn’t touched the vile liquid within. With a backhand toss, he splashed the coffee in the officer’s
faces. He crunched the empty cup and threw it at Clancy. The officers backed up in their chairs and looked down at their stained suits, their faces dripping.
“How does that make you feel?” Benson taunted. “Next time it will be hot.”
Millstone was livid at this assault and mockery. His face instantly turned red; his body stiffened with outrage.
“You son of a bitch!”
Millstone lunged across the desk, trying to grab Benson, who neatly sidestepped out of the way. Benson looked down upon the sprawled Millstone with a smirk. The lieutenant became even more furious, shaking with anger. Commander Clancy held Millstone down on the desk until he regained control of himself. Millstone picked himself up and sat down with a defeated thump, glaring at Benson.
“Here’s the deal,” Clancy said, pointing at Benson. “You help us, you help the Homeland, we help you. Win-win.”
“You still have to answer for my dog.”
“We have discretion in these matters but you have to cooperate. We pull a few strings and you can walk.”
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” Millstone said, pushing some papers across the desk at Benson. “You choose. Sign this and we can move forward.”
“What the hell is this?”
“It’s a statement, you know, kind of like a confession.”
Benson read the first paragraph. Standing up, he ripped the statement into little pieces and gathered them in his fist. He threw them in the air; the confetti fluttered down upon Millstone’s head.
“I’m not signing anything. I want my lawyer.”
“Mr. Benson,” Commander Clancy said, in a patronizing tone, “why do you need a lawyer if you’re not guilty?”
He leaned in to read Benson’s face. Benson stared right back at him. With a sigh, he handed Benson a photograph.
“Okay, let’s just go through a few simple questions and we’ll call it a day, all right?”
It was a blurry picture shot from a surveillance camera. The subject appeared to be of average build with a graying mustache. He wore a gray suit. His face was partly in shadow.
“You know this man?”
“No.”
“You work for him?”
“I said I don’t know him.”
“Where’d you meet? Company business or on your own time?”
Benson balled up the photo and threw it at Clancy’s face. Startled, Clancy jumped back in his rickety folding chair and fell over.
“I don’t know this creep.”
Lieutenant Millstone helped Clancy off the floor. They looked at each other, mortified.
“Look, Mr. Benson,” Clancy said, “if you don’t cooperate we’ll take that as strong evidence you’re holding out. And so far, it looks like you’re hiding something, concealing or falsifying critical evidence. That’s a serious felony right there. So is making what might turn out later to be false statements to a federal officer or refusing to fully cooperate in a federal investigation — 18 USC §1510, Obstruction of Justice. Your silence in this investigation is highly suspicious. You were arrested for a reason, right? So don’t waste everyone’s time — there’s no sense trying to prove you’re innocent.”
“I don’t have to prove a damn thing to anyone.”
“Now that’s not cooperation, is it?” Millstone said. “I said we could do this the easy way or the hard way. Looks like you made your choice.”
“Okay, it’s already 1300 on a Friday,” Clancy said, studying his wristwatch, “and we’re all tired. Let’s start over on Monday, say, 0930?”
“See you Monday then — with my lawyer and reporters. I won’t stand for this.”
Benson immediately made his way to the door, but Clancy moved surprisingly fast to block the exit, holding his arms up.
“Oh, I get it,” Clancy said. “Oops, we made a mistake!”
He looked at Millstone, suddenly bursting into laughter so intense that he started coughing uncontrollably, his eyes tearing.
“We got the wrong man!” he said, wiping his eyes with his hands. “You just walk outta here, tell your story to the New York Times, is that it?”
Commander Clancy shook his head in mock sadness, a mean smile on his face.
“No, I don’t think so, no can do. You’ll be our guest this weekend. Corporal!” he shouted outside the door. “Show him his room.”
11
Tear Down Those Walls
THOUSANDS PACKED THE STANDS and crowded onto the college stadium field. Banners of red, white, and blue were draped across the top of the stage, emblazoned with “Reclaim the Dream National Tour™” and its website, ReclaimTheDream.us. Security agents in dark suits placed themselves conspicuously around the stage, standing ramrod straight with their hands clasped in front of them, eyeing the audience and speaking into wireless headsets. The throng had waited several hours already, and President King was starting 15 minutes late as well, as was his custom. He believed that anticipation made the party faithful even more eager and receptive.
At last, he strode confidently onto the stage, a wide and friendly smile on his face, waving and pointing to onlookers as he made his entrance. Gigantic, multifaceted movie screens on either side of the stage magnified his image a hundred times larger than life. The cameras followed him as he made his way.
He gripped the sides of the lectern and gazed leftward, then panned across to the right, taking in the whole of the crowd, who were made to feel as if he were looking at each of them personally. The band died down. He straightened up, a grave expression on his face, and paused, as if thinking how best to begin an address of the utmost importance. He removed the microphone from its holder and stepped out from the lectern to the edge of the stage. He looked down upon the people in the front row. He peered up into the bleachers.
“Thank you. Thank you.”
His voice was greatly amplified, filling the stadium.
“Thank you, ah, North Dakota. The Flickertail State, right? You gotta love that.”
He stepped back to receive applause and cheers.
“Our new administration is working hard to protect Americans from harm,” he said, reading from the teleprompters that had been carefully concealed at both ends of the stage. “Safety and security; that’s our tag line. We’re going to be the most focused in history on this, like a laser beam. We’re hiring up in the national security industry and that’ll boost the economy and put our young people back to work so they can start contributing to this country and pay their taxes.”
The audience clapped enthusiastically.
“You know, there are those who would destroy our way of life and enslave us. They would have us suffer perpetual war. One of the terrorists believed to have carried out the Capitol attack was said to have hoped that that would be the beginning of the end of America as we know it. Now that’s just plain crazy. But let’s be clear — if we’re going to defeat the enemy within, we’ll need a new strategy. It’s no good chasing the terrorists around after the crime’s done; it’s too late. See, you find where they’re hiding and arrest them before they attack. If we don’t act, the terrorists will go, ‘Hey, you know, they’re weak.’ That would mean the terrorists have won — and no one wants that.”
“King! King! King!” the crowd erupted.
“Listen, you have nothing to hide? Then you have nothing to worry about. The Constitution does not specifically say citizens have a right to privacy. Can’t find it in there. You can’t have 100 percent security and then have 100 percent privacy and zero inconvenience. There are some tradeoffs involved. And the Bill of Rights does not protect vicious killers; can’t find that in there, either. So we have to get tough with those who would take down the Homeland. That’s right, my friends, I’m not afraid to talk sedition. They’re on the Internet talkin’ defiance.”
The crowd was getting whipped up.
“Trash talkin’ our government, exposing us and our families to attack, promoting hatred and violence, recruiting radicals to their cause. Well, idea
s have consequences, my friends, and bad ideas have bad consequences. In the ongoing battle for mindshare from an audience with a short attention span, our side has to come up with the best ideas, and we’ve got ’em; we’re rockin’ an’ rollin’. National security, you know, we’ve gotta balance that with individual rights.”
Spontaneous cheers broke out, leading to a standing ovation.
“And I’ll tell you somethin’ else. We can’t have the police fussin’ around, wasting time with approvals and warrants and arguing about who’s in charge while the terrorists are runnin’ around loose. We can’t fight ’em with 1,300 separate intelligence agencies in 10,000 separate locations, each workin’ their own territory — and that’s a fact.”
The teleprompters froze. Some people in the audience shouted, “Amen!” and “Hallelujah” during the pause. For a few tense seconds, King froze in place. He walked back to the center of the stage. By the time he got there, the teleprompters had begun scrolling again.
“That’s not sharing. That’s not workin’ together. That’s not cooperation. Listen up: we got the National Guard. We got the NSA. We got the CIA.”
King looked out at the audience with an incredulous expression.
“We got the ATF, the FBI, the DEA, and the DIA.”
He shook his head in disbelief, a wry smile on his face.
“We got the DHS, TSA, JTTF, ICE, state police, county and city police, and so many others we literally can’t keep track of ’em all, much less control. Who’s responsible for this mess?”
King paused dramatically. Someone in the front shouted, “We are!” but not loud enough for the microphones to pick it up.
“No one, that’s who. No one’s in charge, it’s all fragmented, so we gotta merge ’em all into a unified Homeland National Security Administration.”
King shook both fists in the air.
“Tear down those walls!” he cried out, in ringing tones.
The crowd rose to its feet as one.
“King! King! King!” they chanted.
