Holding Their Own XI: Hearts and Minds

by Joe Nobody

The door cracked slightly, a Hispanic man peeking out through the opening. “May I help you?” José responded.

  “Sir, this is a private facility,” Cunningham said politely. “You must leave immediately.”

  “Why?” José responded. “We live here now.”

  “Oh, no, no, no,” the building manager replied. “These units are privately owned. This specific apartment is the property of Mr. Harrington. Please, leave the unit straightaway before I am forced to call the authorities.”

  “Mr. Harrington gave me this apartment,” José countered with a straight face. “I saved his life during the riots, and he said I could have this place as a reward.”

  Cunningham was stunned, now wondering if the man on the other side of the threshold might actually be telling the truth. “Did he provide you with any sort of documentation? A deed? Bill of Sale? Even a letter?”

  “No,” José responded with a shrug, continuing the deceit with an innocent face. “There really wasn’t time. He thanked me and said if I ever needed a place to live, I could go to Ocean Towers, Unit 3C. So now I’m here.”

  After exchanging a frustrated look with the two security men, the building’s manager tried again. “But, sir, surely you must understand this is most unusual and very difficult for me to accept. This condominium cost Mr. Harrington over two million dollars…. That’s not something most men give away to complete strangers… heroics or not.”

  “He said I could have it,” José answered, now growing angry. “We live here now. Please leave us alone, and stop scaring my children.”

  With that, José closed and locked the door.

  Cunningham stood aghast, staring at the entrance while his mouth moved without sound.

  “Do you want us to throw them out?” one of the guards questioned.

  “No… no, that won’t be necessary. I don’t want our organization to have a heavy-handed reputation in the community. Please drive to the police station and ask the authorities to remove them.”

  Shrugging, the security man responded, “If you say so,” and then pivoted to execute his new assignment.

  “I have a very bad feeling about this,” Cunningham mumbled, moving quickly to follow the guards.

  Deputy Morgan had never been thrilled with his career in law enforcement before the world had gone to hell. Now, with no other option to feed his family, he thoroughly despised the occupation.

  Not only had the rules changed, but the population as a whole was far more dangerous. Seldom, if ever, did the deputy have backup, handling the worst situations as a solo responder. His vocation now reminded the 34-year-old man of the old Westerns he watched as a kid.

  Those flicks often featured a plot starring a lone marshal, perpetually outgunned, and receiving little support from the local citizens. Those old timers never knew who was going to ride into town and cause trouble. They didn’t have computerized background checks, instant access to criminal history, or a SWAT team to handle gangs of bank robbers, rustlers, and other vermin. They lived by instinct, common sense, and the speed of their gun hands. Somehow, however, the white hats always carried the day, at least by the time the credits rolled.

  As he matured, Morgan developed an understanding of the difference between Hollywood productions and reality. While still entertaining, those old horse operas weren’t historically accurate or a fair representation of Western law enforcement. Little did he know that one day his beloved childhood fiction would so closely parallel his adult reality.

  “At least those cowboys had rules to live by,” he mumbled. “Most of the time, I only have my own sense of right and wrong. The problem is, things are rarely black and white.”

  Deputy Morgan had to admit that the situation described to him by the Ocean Towers security man was unusual, if not unique. Most of his days were spent keeping the local populace from killing, raping, and stealing from each other. This would be different.

  The lawman had heard the gossip about Ocean Towers, rumors circulating that the former showpiece was being repaired and refurbished. It had been just one of a dozen signs of hope that had occurred in the area since the Alliance had taken control. Now, the harbinger of recovery was turning into a bad state of affairs.

  From a trusted source, the deputy had learned that 50% of the state’s population had perished during the downfall. Several months ago, a man in uniform appeared at his door, asking Morgan to rejoin the newly formed law enforcement department being organized around Corpus. No one had mentioned that the force would be less than a tenth of its original size. Half of the people being policed by 10% of the officers was a formula that equaled a lot of dead badges.

  Unlike before, there was little organization, few rules, and no hierarchy of command to fall back on. District attorneys no longer existed. Instead of a sergeant, captain, and county sheriff for support and guidance, Morgan often found himself making complex decisions without any sounding board of advice or a superior’s experience.

  In his decade of law enforcement before the apocalypse, Morgan had only ever drawn his weapon once in anger. Now, his holster’s leather was well-worn.

  Yet there were few other career opportunities available, and a man had to eat.

  His occupation, however, did offer some rewards.

  The deputy fully understood that they were all going to have to do their part if society was ever to recover. Those who carried a badge and gun were no exception, and in Morgan’s opinion, were actually playing a more critical role than most. His job was to keep the public from tearing itself apart until the Alliance programs bore fruit and improved the average Joe Nobody’s life.

  The fact that someone was allocating money into private property like Ocean Towers was nothing short of uplifting. While Morgan didn’t know who the investors were, their optimism was refreshing. On the other hand, the deputy’s days were filled with visions of suffering, desperation, and encounters with a citizenry facing a substandard lifestyle. If resources were available, couldn’t they be better utilized for the greater good of the whole community?

  Pulling into the parking lot of the luxury address, Morgan was impressed. While he hadn’t visited the mid-rise since the collapse, it was obvious that someone had poured a great amount of effort in cleaning the place up. It was the first pavement he’d seen in years that was free of litter, rubble, and overgrowth.

  After exiting his cruiser, Morgan was met at the main entrance by a man who furthered the impression that today was going to be a unique experience. Resplendent in a freshly-pressed suit, white shirt, and flawless silk necktie, the fellow carried an air of sophistication and class.

  After introducing himself, Mr. Cunningham jumped immediately into an explanation of the problem at hand. “I know Mr. Harrington, the unit’s rightful owner,” he began. “He is not a benevolent soul. My employers will not tolerate indigents or other riffraff taking advantage of this facility. Unless those people in Unit 3C can provide suitable documentation, I want them out of here immediately.”

  “I understand, sir,” responded the deputy. “Let me go up and talk with them.”

  The officer was shown to 3C by Cunningham and one of the security staffers. After motioning for the two civilians to stay back, the deputy rapped loudly on the door.

  A female voice answered from the other side, “Who’s there?”

  “This is Deputy Morgan of the Sheriff’s Department,” the officer responded. “Please open the door. I need to speak with you.”

  Morgan heard the lock click, and then the face of a young, female Hispanic appeared in the opening. The deputy noted that the woman had left the chain attached.

  The lawman could see the fear in her eyes, and quite frankly, given the times, he didn’t blame her. "Ma'am, the building manager claims that you and your family are not the rightful owners of this property. I am here to investigate their complaint."

  "This is our home," she began excitedly, the words erupting in a heavy accent. "We live here now." Her declaration was then followed b
y an unintelligible eruption of Spanish words that the deputy couldn’t follow.

  Morgan, recognizing that his own inferior Spanish skills could start an international incident, decided that he’d try to speak with the man of the house. "Is your husband home?"

  "Working on the boat! Working today. He will be home soon. You talk to him!"

  Sensing that things weren’t going as planned, Cunningham was not about to let the situation go at that. "Officer, these people do not belong here. Please order them to leave."

  Evictions had never been one of Deputy Morgan’s favorite tasks. Throwing folks out of their home was difficult enough with a court order and the comfort of knowing a detailed legal process had been executed. Now, he was faced with the dilemma that all police officers dreaded. It was the building manager’s word against the frightened mother peeking through the crack in the door.

  "Sir, I completely understand,” the lawman responded as he turned to the now red-faced manager. “However, I am hesitant to toss someone out on the street without more facts."

  Cunningham appeared shocked, his eyes opening wide while his brow knotted in displeasure, "This is ridiculous! These people clearly do not belong here. They are squatters! I have documentation in the office indicating that Unit 3C was purchased by Mr. Harrington. These people are now living, illegally, on his property and must be removed at once. I insist that you do so."

  Morgan was suddenly more annoyed at the man facing him in the hall than the lady behind the door. "With all due respect, sir, I am under no obligation to respond to your demands. Is it really going to make any difference if we wait for the husband to return?"

  "The tenants will begin arriving tomorrow morning," protested Cunningham. "What am I supposed to say if Mr. Harrington arrives only to find an uninvited family of… of… vagabonds living in his home?"

  With a smirk, Morgan spread his hands wide in exasperation, "If Mr. Harrington were to arrive, then we could clear this whole mess up very quickly. Couldn’t we?"

  "I have no way of knowing when Mr. Harrington or any other resident is going to move back. In the meantime, those people could be pilfering his personal property. Our clients have valuable art, jewelry, and furnishings within their units. That’s not even addressing the private possessions every person keeps inside a home. Would you want absolute strangers rummaging through your belongings?"

  The lawman ignored the question, "Well then I suggest you post one of your security men out here in the hallway to make sure they don’t abscond with anything that doesn’t rightfully belong to them. Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have other citizens to serve. I will return this evening around dusk and interview the husband. We will see if all of this can be cleared up at that time."

  Cunningham didn’t like it, but the deputy gave him little choice. Shouldering his way past the building manager, Morgan again repeated, “I’ll be back in a few hours. Until then, I highly recommend everyone stay calm.”

  For once, José was looking forward to coming home. He had left his wife and brother very specific instructions not to let anyone inside of their new residence. As he approached the lobby, the deckhand half expected the building manager or some of his men to try to block the way. It was for that reason that he had invited a handful of his coworkers to come over for the evening and admire the new hacienda.

  His crewmates from the shrimper were impressed by their surroundings, oohing and aahing as they entered the lobby. The elevators were not functional, but none of the grimy, sweaty men seemed to mind climbing a few flights of stairs. After their day on the boat, the physical effort was hardly noticed.

  When they encountered the building security man in the hallway outside of his door, José tensed, ready to confront the burly fellow. Either because he was completely outnumbered or was strictly following orders, not a single word was exchanged.

  José’s wife was also surprised by the number of men who piled through the front door. After a quick explanation from her husband, she was all smiles, the perfect hostess as she offered the guests cold drinks.

  “The building has generators,” José explained. “We not only have a working refrigerator, but also clean, running water. Ice, too!”

  The production of clear, gleaming glasses of ice water was received as if the missus had produced an expensive, rare, chardonnay. All of the guests stared at the sparkling tumblers, sighing with pleasure as if it had been years since any of them had tasted something so wonderfully refreshing.

  “Next, you’re going to tell us that the toilets flush,” joked one of the crewmen.

  “Yes, they do. No more digging holes for us.”

  The haul from the boat that day had been light, each man receiving just over two pounds of shellfish for his wages. Despite the weak performance, each of the guests volunteered to contribute to the evening meal. Everyone was pleased to see the potatoes José’s brother had secured at the market. It was going to be a grand feast, a fitting celebration to match the good cheer that filled the air.

  With a pot boiling on the electric stove, José offered each of his band the opportunity to shower and clean up for dinner. The host was rewarded with another round of congratulatory back-pats and genuine amazement as he showed each guest to his own private bathroom.

  “There are really four bathrooms?” questioned one of the astounded men.

  “No,” José grinned, “there are five!”

  Like peasants invited to spend the night at the king’s castle, the deckhands couldn’t help but admire the fluffy towels, pristine running water, and abundance of elbowroom. When José offered the first man shampoo, the reaction was one of pure joy.

  “No wonder we didn’t have a catch today,” another co-worker teased. “You smell too good to snag shrimp.”

  Twenty minutes later, the group was standing at José’s floor-to-ceiling windows and admiring the spectacular view. A loud knock at the entryway immediately put a damper on the celebratory atmosphere.

  Shrugging his shoulders, José made for the threshold and then opened the door.

  “Sir, my name is Deputy Morgan, and I’m here investigating a complaint from the building’s management regarding your occupation of this suite. May I come in?”

  José had been prepared for another encounter with the complex’s security staff, not a law enforcement officer in uniform. After taking a moment to flush the surprise from his face, José replied, “I’m sorry officer, but my children are asleep. My wife had a lot of trouble getting the little one to settle down. I’ll be happy to come out in the hall.”

  At this point, Morgan was willing to take whatever he could get. After casting a nasty look at Cunningham and his henchmen, the deputy stepped back and allowed José to enter the corridor.

  “Sir, if you have any documentation substantiating your claim to this address, we can resolve this entire matter quickly and let you get back to your family.”

  “As I told these men before,” José began. “Mr. Harrington wasn’t exactly able to provide me with any sort of written proof. He was right in the middle of being ambushed while riding in his car. My brother and I saved his life, and then later, while we were checking him over to make sure he was okay, he asked us what he could do to reward us for saving his life. I was almost joking when I said, ‘I sure could use someplace better to live.’ I was stunned when he asked me if I ever heard of Ocean Towers. He told me I could have his apartment here. Unit 3C.”

  Rubbing his chin, Morgan suddenly brightened. “So can you tell me what Mr. Harrington looks like?”

  “Of course I can,” José replied. “He was a man in his middle 60’s, shorter than I am, sporting very little hair, almost completely bald on top.”

  Unable to restrain himself any longer, Cunningham surged forward, his tone accusing. “Deputy, this is ridiculous. This man has been living inside of Mr. Harrington’s home for two days. Any fool could look at the photographs hanging inside and then be able to describe the owner’s appearance.”

&nb
sp; The lawman had to admit Cunningham had a point. Still, there was very little he could do. “How exactly did you save Mr. Harrington’s life?” He asked José.

  “My brother and I had shotguns, and we fired into the looters’ gathering. The thieves scattered.”

  The story he was hearing gave the deputy an idea for a different line of questioning. “Is your brother here?”

  José shook his head, a look of sadness clouding his face. “No, sir, my brother was killed just a few months later in a similar ambush.” It was the first truthful statement José had made during the entire interview.

  Cunningham was again tugging at his leash. “Isn’t that convenient? There is nothing in this man’s story that adds up.”

  The deputy stood… pondering his options. His sixth sense nagged that he wasn’t getting the entire story from José. Yet, there was no way he could disprove what the man was saying. Evicting a citizen and his family, especially given the state of society, was a serious action. Before the apocalypse, it had been a necessary evil. Now it was most likely a death warrant.

  Still, allowing squatters to move in any residence was a slippery slope. There were few people still walking the earth that had the resources to accomplish a renovation project like Ocean Towers. That elite group of individuals would become hesitant to invest those resources in the future if any ne’er-do-well or drifter was allowed to set up camp on their properties or utilize their assets.

  Cunningham seemed to sense he was losing the debate in Morgan’s mind. “Deputy, if you don’t remove these people, I will be forced to do so myself. Again, I ask you to enforce the law of the land, to use your common sense.”

  With his fists balling in frustration, the cop’s tone was harsh as he responded. “Do not take the law into your own hands, sir. You’re just going to make things worse. I suggest the resolution of this issue is to wait and see if Mr. Harrington shows up. This man could very easily be telling the truth, and it would be a travesty to throw his family out onto the streets. Unless further evidence is uncovered, I am not going to evict them. There is still some question as to who owns this unit, sir.”