South California Purples

by Baron R. Birtcher

  EARLIER THAT morning, in the near dark of predawn, Pastor Dunn, Jesse, Cricket, and at least fifty other members of our church’s congregation had erected a pavilion: a cluster of tent-covered tables where food, bottled water, and baskets of fresh fruit were being dispensed into the hands of young people who had begun to form lines along the periphery. Teresa used the megaphone to announce their presence from her position on the platform, and the bleary-eyed faces of hippies, freaks, and activists peeked out from the openings of tipis, lean-tos, and VW buses, and tents made of sailcloth and reclaimed canvas. They emerged wrapped in warm coats if they had them, or with shoulders draped with wrinkled blankets and hand-sewn quilts to straggle across the untilled rocky soil to find a place in line. I heard no discussion or mention concerning religion, not even from the pastor, only watched as the distribution took place with a quiet efficiency I never would have imagined.

  An hour later the tables were bare, the food consumed while church volunteers busied themselves with the striking of tents, disassembling of tables, and loading all the parts and pieces into the cargo hold of a military surplus flatbed truck. The sun rose over the peaks of the mountains as the clouds scudded away to the north, propelled by a high-altitude current. Down here on the ground, the air remained still and the smell of the wood smoke from slash piles mingled with that of fresh culms of wild rye and foxtail.

  The climate of amorphous agitation that defined the atmosphere just a short time earlier had diffused into one of community. The televised riots and outbursts of violence that had become a staple of nightly news broadcasts had done a disservice to the notion of lawful protest, and created the impression that an entire generation of youth was hell-bent on little more than pointless destruction and the dismemberment of the world as we knew it. While it would be naive not to recognize the existence of those whose interests were to incite and disseminate doctrines of nihilism and anarchy, the vast majority of those who had gathered in support of Teresa Pineu and the mustangs were nothing of the sort.

  I could see that these kids had been raised to believe in the System, but had come to understand, through either personal experience or observation of current events, that the system had begun to corrode, perverted by a caste of career politicians who viewed their world in terms of demographic groups and core constituencies, and that the voices that expected to be heard from inside the voting booth had the same social significance and value as the contents of a colostomy bag.

  When had the role of government begun to devolve from a mind-set of public service to one in which it was acceptable to apply the use of outright force to coerce compliance from its citizens? I wanted no part in that practice.

  I searched for Cricket among the church volunteers, and finally found her loading tent poles on the flatbed with the help of Powell and Griffin.

  “You did a good thing for these people, Cricket,” I said. “I’m proud of you. I want you to know that.”

  She looked at me for a long moment before she answered, clearly nursing remnants of hostility from our conversation the day before.

  “It’s the least that we could do before you haul them off to jail,” she said.

  “I don’t think you understand my intentions here.”

  She shook her head and I could see the hurt crowding her eyes.

  “I need to get back to work,” she said, and walked away.

  A dust devil spun up from the open field, then disappeared into a patch of weeds. I motioned to Powell and Griffin and they followed me a small distance away, out of earshot of the crowd.

  “This would be a good time to circulate,” I said. “While everybody’s eating.”

  I divided a sheaf of mimeographed photos into three piles, passed one to each of the men and kept the last one for myself.

  I threaded my way between the tents and tipis, stopping off at each, receiving only shrugs and shaking heads in reply when asked if anyone had seen Emily Meeghan. I spotted Teresa Pineu near the improvised stage, in what appeared to be a heated exchange with the curly headed speechmaker who had earlier been so intent on inciting outrage in the crowd.

  Teresa shook her head in frustration and stalked over to meet me.

  “When I speak with that woman I feel like I’m pushing on a string.”

  “Would you mind if I said a few words?”

  Teresa stepped up on the boards and called for attention. She introduced me as the local law, which drew a predictable wave of catcalls and hoots, but when she pleaded for their silence they eventually complied.

  I hoisted a copy of the photo of Emily Meeghan above my head and did my best to appeal for their assistance in helping us locate her. I pledged that my interest in her was not motivated by anything other than the confirmation of her well-being and to put her father’s mind at ease. My announcement was met with a frustrating combination of disinterest and distrust, and I folded the paper photo into the pocket of my coat.

  I took a moment to scan the crowd, who were spread out in every direction, seated cross-legged on beach towels and tarps, some standing or milling along the perimeter. From my vantage point four feet off the ground, I noticed for the first time that several dozen demonstrators sat with their arms interlaced in such a way as to completely block the right-of-way that granted access to the contested BLM land. Some distance beyond them, in the direction of the state road, I also saw two unmarked vehicles parked some distance farther on. They bristled with radio antennae and gave the distinct impression that they were occupied by officers or agents who had been granted authority to impose martial law. It was a blatant violation of the understanding I thought I’d worked out with Melissa Vernon, and white heat flashed through my veins. This is how it invariably begins.

  I pressed the toggle on the megaphone and spoke once again to the group.

  “I’ve been in contact with the Bureau of Land Management,” I said. “And this is what they had to say: Their policy is to rely on local law enforcement to disperse you from this property . . .”

  My words were drowned out in a cacophony of jeers and profanity, and I waited for it to die away.

  “I have been urged in no uncertain terms to do exactly that. Should I fail to disperse you, I am told they will likely involve the National Guard, and I have no desire to see that happen. I remember the massacre at Kent State, and I know you do too. A repeat of that tragedy is not acceptable.”

  Off to my right, Teresa Pineu stood watching me with an expression of incredulity, believing that I had betrayed her.

  “Let me tell you where I stand.”

  The uneasy silence felt like a barometric shift, as though my next words could ignite a combustible outburst without further warning or provocation.

  “As far as I am concerned, the Constitution granted every one of you the right to assemble peacefully. If Teresa Pineu has no objection to your presence on her property, than neither do I.

  “It also says you have the right to speak your mind, and the right to protest policies that you find objectionable, provided that you do no harm in the process.”

  I glanced again at Teresa, whose face had broken into a smile.

  “I’ve seen no harm done here,” I said. “And as long as that remains the case, you have my support to continue.”

  Teresa looked at me and mimed the words, thank you.

  “I urge you to maintain an attitude of peace. You have earned the attention of the BLM. Now it’s up to Teresa Pineu to sit down with the authorities and negotiate a proper freedom for the wild horses that roam on public land.

  “That land belongs to you, to me, and all of us. Use your voices, and please, please do not allow yourselves to be manipulated into acting with violence. Do not allow your passion to be exploited here, by anyone.

  “That’s all I have to say.”

  I stepped down from the rostrum while the atmosphere remained enveloped in stunned silence. A single pair of hands began to clap, and then another and another, until the whole group rose to their feet.<
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  Twin trails of dust clouds arose from behind me as the unmarked vehicles executed U-turns and sped back toward the highway. I handed Teresa the bullhorn, her face a mask of mute amazement.

  “It’s up to you now,” I said. “Go speak with Melissa Vernon, and do it soon. There’s not much time left on the clock.”

  PETER DAVIS was the first person to reach me, weaving his way through the milling mass of humanity.

  He pulled me off to one side and turned his back toward the crowd. Sly stepped up beside him, camera rolling as always. Peter’s expression put me in mind of a cat about to lay a trophy on my doormat.

  “Turn that fucking thing off,” Peter hissed in Sly’s direction.

  Sly appeared confused but did what he was told.

  “There’s some people over there that think they saw her,” Peter said.

  “Saw who? Emily?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Which people?”

  “I promised I wouldn’t say.”

  “I need to speak with them.”

  “No offense, man, but these folks really don’t like talking to the pigs.”

  “You’re suggesting I should take no offense when you refer to me as a pig?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’m trying to like you, Peter, but you don’t make it easy.”

  He showed me a lopsided grin, and shrugged as if there was nothing he could do about what I’d said.

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but they’re pretty sure she rode off with a couple of the biker dudes.”

  “Please tell me you’re making a bad joke.”

  He shook his head.

  “Did she leave with them willingly?”

  “I didn’t ask, man.”

  “Any idea where they went?”

  “No, but there’s still a bunch of ’em hanging out at the motel.”

  There was only one motel at this end of the valley, so I didn’t need to ask which one he meant.

  “I appreciate your help, Peter.”

  He put his hands in the air as if I’d threatened to arrest him.

  “You didn’t hear a thing from me, man.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, that’s not very far from the truth,” I said. “And put your goddamned hands down.”

  I walked away in search of Cricket, wanted badly to clear the air with her, but was told she had left some time ago.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE CAYUSE MOTEL stood alone on a long, empty stretch of the old state route that had been largely abandoned by motorists since the completion of the interstate. The motel itself had been left in disrepair long before the advent of the freeway, and I couldn’t imagine the local Indian tribe for which it was named would have taken much pride in their namesake.

  I saw Griffin and Powell’s vehicle in my rearview as I approached the turnout, and the silhouette outlines of the three long guns—two Winchester carbines and a pump-action shotgun—that hung in the rack affixed inside Powell’s rear window. Loose stones from the gravel of the unpaved lot pinged along the undercarriage of my truck and I momentarily lost my two cowboys inside a gray cloud of loose dirt.

  I pulled to a stop in front of a single-story structure constructed of concrete block painted over in sun-faded pink, and laid out in the shape of an L. The short end was comprised of an office and apartment for the manager, the rooms laid out on the long end. A freestanding structure of the same construction and vintage that had once been a Flying A station stood abandoned on the opposite corner, loose tar-paper shingles flapping listlessly in the breeze.

  Near the door to the office, a handwritten sign had been taped to a window filmed by a layer of brown dust and flyspecks. The words No Vacancy were printed on it with a black felt-tip marker.

  I stepped down from my pickup and walked toward the office, counting five motorcycles parked side by side outside the long row of rooms. I tried the handle, but the door wouldn’t open. I pounded my fist on the jamb until a light fixture switched on over the desk inside, and an elderly man with a sunken chest and bald head shuffled over and glared at me through a half-opened jalousie.

  “We’re closed,” he said from the other side of the glass.

  His left eye had been blackened and a knot the size of a walnut had swelled to the point that the skin split open and stood out on the crown of his skull.

  “Sheriff’s office,” I said. “Open up.”

  “I don’t want any dealings with you.”

  “Most people don’t. Open the door.”

  The sound of crunching gravel closed in from behind, and I turned to see Peter Davis’s piss-yellow van slide to a stop beneath a reader board sign that was framed in the shape of an Indian headdress. At one time the letters had been arranged to advertise the promise of free telephone and TV, but several had been damaged or fallen away long since.

  I moved from the manager’s office and came up beside the driver’s side of the van and waited while Peter cranked down his window.

  “What are you doing?” I asked him.

  “Following you.”

  “I can see that. Go home.”

  “This is all part of the story, man.”

  The ashen-faced manager reappeared at the doorway wearing a pair of loose-fitting chinos belted high over his stomach and waving his arms over his head in exasperation.

  “I told you two to get out of here,” he hollered at Peter.

  “See?” Peter said to me. “What’d I tell you?”

  “Stay in the van,” I said, and knew damn well he wouldn’t.

  “What happened to your head?” I asked the old man.

  “They happened,” he said, gesturing toward the row of Harleys tilted at an angle on their kickstands.

  “They assaulted you?”

  “What the hell do you think? There ain’t any stairs around here to fall down from.”

  “How many of them?”

  “How many what?”

  “What have we been talking about? How many goddamned bikers are here?”

  “Eight or nine, maybe.”

  “I only count five bikes.”

  “A few of ’em left.”

  “When?”

  “Not long ago,” he said. “I don’t really keep track of their comings and goings.”

  “What did they look like?”

  “What do any of ’em look like? One had a helmet like a Wehrmacht soldier, two looked like pirates, and the last idiot had his foot wrapped up in a bandage.”

  Peter and Sly had crept up on my right flank while I’d been talking, and were committing the entire conversation to film.

  “Would you two please give me some room?” I said.

  They backed up three paces and kept rolling.

  “Which rooms do they occupy?” I said to the old man.

  “Dig the manure out of your ears, son,” he said, shaking his head at the obtuseness of my question. “All of ’em.”

  Heat shimmers rose up from the parking lot as I looked across. Three Charlatans in full road regalia had exited their rooms and stood beside the row of bikes, arms chained with blue tattoos crossed upon their chests.

  “I’m going back inside,” the manager said. “And I’m locking the door behind me. Don’t come back unless it’s to tell me you caged those gorillas. I’m done.”

  I made a circling gesture in the air above my head and pointed at Jordan Powell still sitting behind the wheel of his idling truck.

  “Follow me.”

  We drove the short distance across the lot, parked close behind the line of Harleys and blocked them in. Powell and Griffin stepped out of the cab, removed the carbines cradled in the gun rack while I unshipped my Colt from its holster.

  “Afternoon, fellas,” I said.

  The largest of the group stepped forward, hooked his thumbs inside a leather belt strung with a knife sheath and a length of metal chain that looped along his hip.

  “You looking for someone?�
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  “Might be,” I said. “Who’ve you got?”

  He grinned and glanced in Samuel Griffin’s direction.

  “You brought your nigger with you this time,” he said. “How nice for you.”

  “That’s not a term that gets used in my presence,” I said. “You do not want to utter it again.”

  “I was trying to compliment you, Sheriff, on your affirmative action hire.”

  Powell cocked the lever on his rifle, tucked the stock into his shoulder, and sighted down the barrel.

  I addressed Samuel without taking my eyes off of the biker.

  “Sam, you have my permission to chain drag this man across the parking lot if he makes one more racist remark.”

  The squeal of a rusted door hinge caught my attention, and a bearded face peered out through the opening, the security chain stretched tight, still fastened to the wall. Powell swiveled and drew a bead on it.

  “Get back inside, or this man will open fire,” I said.

  Beard made a grab for the chain lock, and Powell splintered the frame with a .30-caliber slug. The door slammed shut as a whiff of smoke drifted from the mouth of Powell’s barrel and the odor of spent powder filled the air. He jacked the lever and a brass jacket arched into the gravel.

  “You got a name?” I asked.

  “Fuck off,” the big one answered.

  He sucked on a wood matchstick he drew from his vest pocket, and rolled it across his teeth.

  “I’ve got to call you something if we’re going to engage in conversation,” I said. “I think I’ll call you ‘Wallace.’ You seem to share the governor’s views on racial matters. He’s in a wheelchair now.”

  Griffin thumbed back his hammer. This situation was escalating with the rapidity and lethality of a prison riot. In my peripheral vision I saw Sly and Peter moving sideways in a slow arc behind us, filming the scene as if they had scripted it, as if they were immune from harm.

  “Back the hell off, Peter,” I said. “I mean it.”

  I dipped two fingers into the pocket of my shirt and shook the folds out of the photo of Emily Meeghan.