by John Brown
King glowed, in this, his magic moment. He beamed at the officials and local dignitaries seated on the stage with him. He waved to the audience with supreme confidence, a faraway look in his eyes. At last the audience stopped chanting his name. As they began to seat themselves he removed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He loosened his tie.
Looking out at a sea of nodding heads and smiling faces, King leaned over the stage to touch hands with those in the first row. People got out of their seats and made their way over so that they might also shake the president’s hand. Frantically shouting into their headsets at each other to do something, his security detail watched with deep suspicion anyone touching their man. This rally had been drawn together hurriedly, without the time required to properly interview “persons of interest.” Too much movement in the stands would definitely increase the threat danger. Even though everyone had passed through full-body scanners and received a thorough patdown on the way in, it would be easy enough to smuggle in weapons anyway. They would have to warn him, in the bluntest terms, about never wading into a crowd of ordinary people again.
“Thank you, thank you for your support!”
King held up a hand, nodding slowly as he panned across the stadium, waiting patiently for the audience to quiet.
“And I’ll tell you something else, my friends. We’ve got to secure our borders. History shows a country that can’t control its borders can’t last long. Under our new Secure Our Borders initiative, the border walls with Canada and Mexico will be built up and hardened. We’ll hire 35,000 more Homeland Security guards to man the southern border as part of our Southern Border Fencing Strategy. Maybe 5,000 more for the Northern Border Fencing Strategy. That’s 40,000 new jobs right there, protecting the Homeland.”
The audience roared their approval.
“Radar, infrared, ground sensors, motion detectors, mines, electrified razor wire, armored personnel carriers, fortified guard towers, weaponized drones — you name it, it’s in there, all these enhanced security measures that’ll operate inside the 100-mile border security zone surrounding the Homeland. The terrorists won’t be able to penetrate all this and attack us again. Log on to MySOB.gov for the whole deal. So maybe you’ll need to allow an extra few hours to cross the border, but hey, it’ll be worth it. Saving lives is worth a little inconvenience. We owe this to our children.”
“King, King, King, King!”
“With your support, we will write the next great chapter of America’s history. Hey, thanks North Dakota, you’ve been great. Thank you!”
12
You’re with Us or You’re with the Terrorists
THE CORPORAL LED BENSON down a short hallway into a stark holding area with lockers and a group shower. The soldier wore a uniform with a distinctive fractal camouflage pattern Benson hadn’t seen before; not the usual tan, gray, and green; but tan, various shades of gray, and black. He was made to strip and enter the shower, where he was disinfected and subjected to an extremely thorough inspection. He was forced to open his mouth while his cheeks were scraped for DNA samples. Upon redressing, he was presented with a “fish kit” of basic toiletries and supplies.
They walked down a long ground floor corridor lined with scores of cells. Each cell had a metal door with a number and a steel mesh observation porthole. The second story of the building, also lined with cells, was open to the peaked glass ceiling, the sole source of light in the daytime. Hazy sunlight filtered through from above, casting long shadows. Everything was freshly painted in the same glossy, medium gray.
They stopped at a cell. With some effort, the scrawny corporal, who looked to be maybe 20, pushed the heavy, creaking steel door open. Benson stood at the entrance to the bleak cell. It was perhaps three yards deep and two wide, barely enough to hold a small cot. A wash basin with paper cups and a toilet were in the corner. A strong odor of disinfectant permeated the air. There were no windows, the only illumination coming from a powerful floodlight mounted in the low ceiling. Everything appeared fairly new. With a sinking feeling, Benson realized that this was where he would be spending his weekend.
“Move it!” the corporal said, nudging the muzzle of his rifle into Benson’s back. “Get in there, I ain’ got all day.”
Several hours passed. Benson sat on the edge of the cot, his weary head in his hands. There was nothing to occupy him; no reading material, no video. Except for the odd door slamming, echoing from somewhere down the corridor, there were no sounds. His fine suit had become wrinkled and musky from grime and perspiration. A guard peered in on him through the porthole every so often.
He tried to doze away the time and keep up his strength. The bed was too small, and he curled up uncomfortably on it. The mattress was hard and thin and faintly stank of sweat and urine. The metal bars of the bed frame pressed into his back through the mattress. He slept fitfully, trying to find a tolerably comfortable position. He lay on his back, his forearm shielding his eyes from the dazzling light.
And then the music came; a strong, pulsing beat ringing off the cement floors and pounding through the open atrium. The thumping bass vibrated right through his exhausted body. He could feel it rattling his teeth.
“Yeah-h, you!”
“Shook me al-l-l-l-l night long…”
“You! Shook me al-l-l-l-l night long…”
Save for brief intermissions, the wretched song repeated throughout the night.
“The walls start shakin’!”
“Earth was quakin’!”
“My mind was achin’!”
“We were makin’ it!”
“You! Shook me al-l-l-l-l night long…”
During the respites he immediately fell asleep, only to be harshly roused when the music resumed.
Every few hours a guard noiselessly passed a plastic meal tray through a slot at the bottom of the cell door. It was invariably some kind of cold convenience food wrapped in cellophane; perhaps a small, plain sandwich of cold cuts, a snack cake, and a Kool-Aid® juice box. Time wore on.
“Rise and shine, sweetheart!”
Benson had been trying to sleep, the powerful light shining as always, when a guard threw open the steel door and barked at him. The guard’s presence was welcome; it meant that the weekend had finally passed. Benson opened his crusted, bleary eyes. He tried to get up but tumbled wearily back on the cot. His body was stiff and achy; his head, groggy.
“Wake up, cherry, we ain’t got all day.”
Benson heaved himself to a sitting position on the cot and pushed himself onto his feet, shaking off his lightheadedness. The guard following, Benson was marched through the sea of identical cells. He tried to see behind the gray steel doors as they walked past. He thought he could detect some faint activity through some of the portholes, but it might well have been his imagination. The walk helped to invigorate him to some extent, easing the ache in his knees and back.
With Benson in front, they stood before a closed, windowless door. Benson looked behind; the guard motioned with his rifle for Benson to open the door. Benson turned the knob and forcefully pushed the door, causing it to slam into the wall behind. The two young men who had been lounging at the table within were jolted to their feet by the jarring crash.
These two appeared to be just a few years out of high school. They wore loosely fitting, aviator-style olive-drab jumpsuits with a small, stylized bear paw print embroidered on an oval badge on the left chest. Below their name tags was printed “Team HVT.”
Benson entered the room and took a seat. One of the young men stared at him while regaining his composure, his flushed face returning to its normal pallor. His short blond hair was combed forward and teased into a stiff, upward-spiked wave at the front.
“How was your weekend, Tom?”
“Who the hell are you? And you will address me as Mr. Benson, sonny.”
Hungry, dirty, and irritable, Benson examined this “Valdez, Juan.” No stripes or other insignia identified his rank or affiliation.
“Los alojamientos están faltando,” he said to Valdez. “Música ruidosa. Las luces no apagarán. Tu madre es puta.”
“What? What’d you say?”
“The accommodations are lacking. Loud music, the light won’t shut off. I’m afraid I won’t be able to award five houses in the Michelin Guide.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Valdez took a seat opposite Benson.
“Mr. Benson, have you thought about your, uh … your situation?”
Before Benson could respond, the second man jumped in. He had wavy hair and closely cropped sideburns down to his earlobes, which looked like they held earrings in the off-hours.
“People need to wake up to the reality of the terrorist next door. Ordinary people with jobs and normal families, people just like them.”
Benson didn’t like what this “Jefferson, George” seemed to be insinuating.
“You’re new at this, aren’t you, kid? Are you stupid? Do I look like a terrorist?”
“You know what?” Valdez said, leaning across the table. “You can’t tell just by looking. The New Terrorist isn’t a brown guy with a bomb in a backpack. He’s educated, middle class, technology-savvy. Someone just like you, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re an imbecile, a trained parrot.”
Benson shook his head, looking down.
Without warning, Valdez smacked Benson in the face. Glaring with cold hatred, Benson fought his natural instincts to kill this Juan Valdez right there. He could have done so rather easily, and with pleasure.
Valdez got up and paced behind the table.
“The State has invested a lot of time and money to find terrorists before they strike.”
Benson was further inflamed at being lectured to by this punk with a badge.
“We’re at war with radicals, Mr. Benson. We think they’re recruiting from outside their own group. We’re told they hate our clothes, our music, our movies, our books. They hate our sports, our food, our religion, our freedom. They hate everything and everyone and they’ve sworn jihad.”
Benson tilted his head, looking straight into the young man’s blue eyes, smirking.
“We need results!” Valdez said, suddenly raising his voice. “Conspiracies must be uncovered,” he said, looking Benson in the eye, “and we have one right in front of us.”
Benson smiled meanly.
“Mr. Benson, are you willing to serve your country in its time of need? For the greater good? Are you a patriot, sir?”
“You’re with us or you’re with the terrorists,” added Jefferson, George. “Time to choose sides. Just sign the statement; we have plenty to convict you, anyway. We’ll go easy on you and wrap this up, maybe do some kinda plea bargain, even. So wha’ do you say?”
Benson sat back in his chair. He folded his arms across his chest. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and clasped his hands together. He looked at George Jefferson for a long moment and frowned. He sat back in his chair again. He looked down at the table and pursed his lips. Valdez and Jefferson watched him anxiously, evidently hoping for a quick break in the case. As Valdez had mentioned, they needed results.
“I say you’re snot-nosed, goofy punks. I say you don’t know what patriot even means.”
Marched back to his cell, he passed another prisoner in the corridor, his guard shoving the haggard man forward whenever he slowed. The prisoner briefly made eye contact with Benson before turning his head down. Gaunt and frail, there were dark circles under his hollow, sunken eyes. A bad bruise marked his left cheek.
Benson’s guard pushed him along. Arriving at his cell, the steel door clanged shut behind him. It was nearly frigid inside. As the hours passed, it felt even cooler. He began to shiver uncontrollably.
“Guards! Turn up the heat!” he shouted repeatedly through the little steel mesh porthole in the door until he was hoarse. He could see straight ahead, but the view to either side was severely limited.
“I’m freezing, do you hear me? Guards!”
His voice echoed through the corridors. From far off, he thought he heard someone laughing, but then all was silent.
He lay on his cot, curled up tightly to preserve body heat. The blanket and pillow were gone. Laying on his side, he clasped his hands together for a makeshift pillow. Extreme exhaustion finally overtook him, and he dozed, shivering, his feet and hands becoming numb.
“That’s me in the corner…”
“That’s me in the spot — light,”
“Losing my religion.”
“Trying to keep up with you…”
The music blared. The song cycled on and off at random intervals, never letting him doze for longer than 30 minutes at a stretch, keeping him in a state that was neither fully asleep nor awake.
“And I don’t know if I can do it…”
“Oh no, I’ve said too much…”
“I haven’t said enough.”
“I thought that I heard you laughing…”
“So, what can you tell me about Thomas Benson?”
Taking notes on his pad, Lieutenant Millstone interviewed Benson’s employees and coworkers. They met in the same conference room that Benson had used to hold his meeting some months before.
“Ooh, has he been charged with a serious crime or something?” Kay said, bubbling with excitement. “Is that it?”
“I didn’t say he’s been formally charged with anything.”
“Well, I just thought you’re a cop and — I mean, he was acting, you know, suspicious. He never asked for my input even though I’m professionally certified with 16 years’ experience at the same job, well, not at the same job exactly, I’ve been promoted a couple times, of course, but I’ve seen them all come and go, and this one was different.”
“He never listened to anyone,” Stacy said. “Like, he always wanted everything his own way. He thought he was such a know-it-all, like he knows everything. He looked at you in a way that, you know, made you feel really dumb. It was kind of humiliating, in a way.”
Lieutenant Millstone nodded sagely to Stacy.
“Yes, I think I see what you mean. What can you tell me about his overseas activities? Foreign business transactions? Related meetings? His calendar is vague.”
“Even though I supported him, he, um, he didn’t really support me back, you know?” a junior staffer said. “It’s a question of trust, you know? He wasn’t really a team player.”
Millstone was visibly annoyed. This session was severely testing his patience. He made no attempt to hide his displeasure, shaking his head at their comments, and yet they continued whining.
“Totally not a team player,” Stacy said.
Millstone abruptly folded up his notebook and strode to the door, leaving them at the table.
“Yeah, he wasn’t a team player at all, you know?” Kay said to his back. “Hey, Lieutenant Millstone, when will we hear back from you? I mean, will we get updates? I could help with your investigation — how about that?”
Millstone was already halfway out the door. He looked back at her over his shoulder.
“No.”
Ragged, his clothes shabby, sporting several day’s beard, his hair dirty and unkempt, Benson was marched to the interrogation room. Wearing the same uniforms and embroidered badges, of about the same tender ages as the last ones, two new agents awaited. They examined some documents spread out on the table, drinking coffee from foam cups. “Williams, Gart” was the more studious-looking of the two. Dark brown hair spilled over his forehead to the top of his glasses. Reading something of apparently consuming interest, he ignored Benson’s presence. “Bookman, Lew” slouched in his chair, one arm draped over the back. Benson took a seat.
Bookman took a long drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke lazily drift out of his mouth and nose without blowing. He regarded Benson without expression and took another drag.
“You look like hell,” he said.
“What day is this?” Benson
shouted. “How long have I been here?”
He banged the flimsy metal table hard with his fist. One of the cups fell over, spilling the contents onto the documents and into Williams’ lap. Bookman watched his colleague hastily back up from the table. Williams stood up, staring at his soiled pants and papers. Taking a deep drag from his cigarette, Bookman exhaled slowly through his nose.
“What difference does it make?” Bookman said, flicking the ashes into his coffee cup.
“My wife! She must be worried sick.”
Williams looked up from the table to observe Benson directly for the first time.
“The neighbors saw your arrest.”
It seemed to give Williams pleasure to say it to Benson’s face.
“My job?”
“Your employment authorization’s been revoked,” Bookman said, wiping off one of the stained documents with a napkin. “Maybe we could get it reinstated. Maybe you could go home today. All we’re asking is a small sacrifice for your country.”
He turned the document around and pushed it across the table.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you, Benson? Sign the statement and we could wrap this up. That’s not so hard, is it?”
“You mean, if I just sign this paper, I can walk out of here, free as a bird?”
“Sure, pretty much.”
“I can return home as if nothing had happened? Nothing on my permanent record?”
“Yeah, that sounds about right.”
“That seems like a pretty good deal, wouldn’t you say?”
“We think so.”
“A small sacrifice for my country.”
“You got it.”
“Blow it out your ass.”
Bookman smiled condescendingly and looked over at Williams.
“Oh well.”
He slouched in his chair and inhaled deeply on his cigarette, blowing the smoke at Benson. Hungry and desperately tired, the smell nearly made Benson retch.
“Look, Benson, we can still make a deal, it’s not too late. Why don’t you sleep on it? Let’s keep dialoging, keep the lines of communication open. I’m sure reasonable people can come to an understanding.”
