Joel sat down at the workstation; it was just a table with several outlets next to the red button. He set up his laptop and an audio/video recorder for the interview. He opened Harris’s file and immediately his picture popped up. Joel stared at the young man with dark red hair and a fair complexion with close-set, dark eyes that looked narrow above the high cheekbones. The eyes looked intense. The scar looked ragged and savage across the left side of his face. Savage, the same word Reed had used to describe the man. Who would win in a fight, Harris or Perro? Joel felt beyond a doubt that Harris, at least Harris of fifty years ago, would crush Perro without so much as batting an eye. Yet Harris was in prison and Perro was the most powerful person in the Federal Government. At that moment Joel wondered just how that could have happened.
The door opened. Reed and another guard escorted Harris into the room. His ankles were shackled. He had enough chain to walk, but not to run. Did he have a limp, or was his movement inhibited by the chain? His wrists were cuffed to a chain around his waist. Harris was shorter than both the guards, but stood straight. His file stated that he stood seventy-one inches when he was incarcerated. It appeared that he had not become stooped over the years. He appeared to still be in good physical condition for his age, although he looked much thinner than the 195 pounds stated in his file. The guards sat him down at the table and attached the chain that bound his feet to an anchor in the floor. They released his wrists, so he again had movement of his arms. His hair was now all white, but still cropped short.
“Sir, we can stay in the room if you like,” Reed offered.
“That will not be necessary, guard.” Part of Joel wanted to keep them in the room, but he thought Harris would be more likely to open up if they were alone. He watched the guards leave the room and close the door. Joel turned his gaze to look into the face of the “savage” killer. Perhaps it was the light reflecting off the workstation, but Joel thought Harris’s eyes looked more of a dark gray than brown as his file stated. The evil face smiled. His chained hand reached across the table as far as he could reach.
“How do you do? I’m Sean Harris.”
Chapter Five
“So now the Federal Government wants to celebrate my history to, what, mark fifty years since I was convicted of murder and treason?” His tone was sarcastic even when said with a smile.
“The Federal Government wants to honor your service, not your conviction.” Ten minutes into this meeting and Joel feared his career was sunk before it could really set sail.
Harris let out a deep laugh. “I thought that’s what my conviction was.”
“It’s—look, we just want to tell your story. We want the people to know what you’ve done.” And in that Joel thought he was telling the truth.
“We? You, sir, Mr. Levine, what do you hope to accomplish from this interview?”
Joel was uncomfortable. He knew the answer, but felt it was taboo to express a desire to do something for his own personal benefit. One was supposed to state desired goals in the context of the common good, not personal achievement.
“If I deliver your story in all its detail, I can get VIP status; it will escalate my career. My lifestyle, my standard of living will improve,” Joel said with forced bluntness.
“Well, that makes sense. It’s got to be quite a motivation for you.”
“It is.”
“And, of course, you’ll have the satisfaction of allowing millions of Americans to honor my service.” The evil face smiled and Joel could not tell what it meant.
“Look, our intention is not to make you look like a bad guy, just to tell the history of the Marine Corps in the Clark era, the Sino-American War, and the attempted coup during the Tang presidency from your perspective. You know, what was the atmosphere like, the people, your influences, that sort of thing. Your story, in your words.” Joel felt inspired and thought the last words were rather clever. The tactic had been taught in journalism school. Everyone wanted to have their voice heard. Everyone wanted their moment on center stage, and this desire was easy to manipulate. Harris could have his story told in his words, as long as that was what the madame general wanted.
“My story benefits you; it benefits somebody in the Federal Government for them to have sent you down here.” Harris sat up a little straighter. “What’s my benefit?”
Joel did not know how to respond. This scenario had never played out in his imagination. He was silent.
“Is the Federal Agency of Public Safety going to incarcerate me in a Hawaiian resort? Perhaps the madame general will allow the president to grow a pair of balls and he’ll pardon me for my crimes.”
Joel was taken aback a bit. He was not used to hearing anyone speak so cynically of their government leaders, outside of his grandfather, especially the madame general and from someone of such a low stature. But then he really only associated with academics and journalists. They at least always qualified their sarcasm. Harris just stared at Joel. What was he to do?
“Is there something you want? I could take your request to the warden.”
“You can do more than that! I spent a third of my life here and you’re the first journalist to walk into this shit hole. The Federal Government doesn’t send us here to ‘honor our service’ or ‘tell our story in our words’ kind of horseshit. We’re here to be hidden or destroyed. You’re here ’cause somebody high up wants to use my story. That means somebody high up is going to have to pay for it.”
“What is it you want?” Joel was too taken aback not to ask.
“Well, to start with, I want another Bible, and not one of those government-edited pieces of shit that get floated around every so often. I want an unabridged Old and New Testament—King James, New Revised, English Standard, I don’t care, just as long as it hasn’t been printed in the last forty years. Then maybe—”
“Wait a minute. There are laws. This is federal property. Even just having religious material here is a violation of your constitutional rights—”
“You ever read the Constitution, Mr. Levine?”
“Well, no, I’m not a lawyer and not trained to understand it. Besides, we have hate speech laws now, and how am I supposed to get an old copy of the Bible?”
“That’s for your boss to worry about, not you. Now in addition, if you want me to talk all day long, and I’m betting you do, a little high-quality bourbon would go a long way to loosening my tongue. Oh, and get me outside. I want to see a horizon. Get me outside with a little bourbon, you will not be able to shut my old ass up. Smoking makes me chatty as well, so while you’re at it bring some high-quality cigars to go with that bourbon.”
“I thought Christians were forbidden to smoke and drink alcohol.” Joel seized the opportunity to guilt Harris into submission.
“Are you a Christian?”
“Of course not!” Joel laughingly responded.
“You ever read the New Testament?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“Then you let me worry about my hypocrisy and you tend to your own.”
“Harris, this is federal property and that stuff is illegal.”
“We both know a lot of ‘illegal’ things happen on federal property. You talk to your boss.” An image of the madame general and Sergeant MacTaggart popped into Joel’s head. He resigned to Harris’s wishes.
“I’ll talk to my boss. Is there anything else you want?”
“Yes, sir, there is, come to think of it. I always want guards around us. As many as you want, but no less than two. You understand me?”
“Yes, but why do you want guards around? I would think you would be less inhibited with them gone.”
At this Harris laughed. “Mr. Levine, I’m worried that you might hurt me.” The prisoner winked, got up, and with a slight limp walked to the wall and hit the red button. There was a loud buzz, and the guard opened the door.
“Sir, it has been a pleasure meeting you. I sincerely hope to see you again and tell you my own story in my own words.
” The sinister-looking face smiled at Joel and then walked out of the room.
Joel did not look forward to the phone call to Sandra LaGard, afraid that she might find him incompetent, but she took all the demands in stride. If she was angry, it was not noticeable on the phone. What surprised Joel even more than her tone was that she told him all the requested items would arrive before 8 a.m. LaGard said she would talk to the warden and arrange for the interviews to take place outside. Her take on the guards was that Harris was trying to put them at ease a bit. He would have known there would be no way to get outside the prison’s high walls without an army of guards surrounding him.
True to LaGard’s word, when Joel arrived at Reid at 8:30 a.m., there was a large shade tent set up with all the amenities one could possibly want for an outdoor brunch. There was an assortment of fresh fruit, bagels, pastries, juice, and coffee. In addition was a bottle of Federal VIP bourbon. Joel had never tried or even seen it before. He had only heard that it was one of the latest in trendy status symbols that were the benefits of the higher echelon of federal bureaucracy. Joel helped himself to a bagel with cream cheese and a coffee. He was pleasantly surprised that it was better than the stuff at the hotel, and bitterly surprised that the Federal Government would do so much to accommodate a criminal like Harris. The man had committed murder and treason, after all. To Joel’s way of thinking, Harris should have been submissive and compliant, hoping to be granted leniency. Instead, he made demands and the government gave in to them. Admittedly, LaGard was doing whatever it took to get the story that the madame general wanted. What really bugged Joel was that Harris seemed to be in more control of the situation than he was.
“Good morning, Mr. Levine. This is a fine day, is it not?” Harris was unchained and he limped his way to the buffet and then sat down with an orange, banana, and a cup of coffee. The old, scarred face stared into the sky and took a deep breath. Harris seemed to relax and to soften a bit. Joel thought he saw an expression of nostalgia in the old man’s dark eyes. He immediately felt inspired. Perhaps there was a method to this madness; perhaps he could get this old man to talk, to expose his skeletons, to bare his soul to him.
“Yes, yes, it is,” Joel replied as a gratuity. “I thought today we could start off with you telling me about your childhood. Tell me about your hometown, family, childhood friends. You know, that sort of thing, before we get into your time in the Marines.”
“Oh, this is fresh. Perfect! Please have a slice.” Harris had worked his way through the orange’s peel with a chartreuse plastic utensil and now held out a piece to the writer. Joel shook his head and mouthed the word no, as if it were slightly beneath him to go through this ritual. “Sure? It’s good stuff.” Harris popped a piece into his mouth and grunted with satisfaction.
Joel thought he had never seen anyone enjoy an orange so much. He did not understand just what the big deal was. He liked the taste, but the peel was a hassle to deal with, it made one’s hands sticky, and there was all that stringlike stuff. Joel rationalized that Harris was intellectually inferior and, most probably, easily distracted or entertained by things like food and drinks. He was starting to convince himself that LaGard was a genius. He made a mental note to make himself pleasing to her.
“Harris, tell me about your hometown; tell me about your family.”
“Well, I’m sure you know that I was born in Topeka, Kansas.” Harris spoke between bites of orange. “My dad owned about ten acres just west of town, just south of the Kansas River. Looking back, it was a great place to grow up. We had a pond from a natural spring. There were woods to play in. Railroad tracks and the Kansas River were nearby. It was a great playground.”
“Your parents, they just let you run around unsupervised out in the woods?”
“Oh yeah.” Harris smiled as the memories flooded his mind. “I remember my dad always telling my mom the woods were safer than the city.”
“Really?” Joel was a bit incredulous. He had grown up in urban Seattle. The scarred face smiled like he was in on a secret that Joel was not. Harris straightened up, leaned back in his chair, and stared at the horizon.
“It all seemed so normal then; now it seems like it was paradise. The flowers in spring, shades of green in the summer heat, leaves changing in the fall, the woods glimmering with snow on a full moon.” His look went back to Joel. “Hell, I even miss those goddamned chiggers.”
“What are chiggers?” Joel asked, hoping it would give him a lead into some kind of racist, white supremacist angle on the story.
“They’re a bug, a mite, really. They eat human skin.”
“What?” Joel didn’t believe him. The scarred face smiled. He enjoyed telling people things that they did not know.
“Tiny little things, bite into your skin and eat for a few days. They leave these little welts. The itching will drive you insane!” Harris leaned back again, looking off into the past. “I can remember waking up from scratching the welts in my sleep. I’d scratch them till they bled,” he said, smiling.
Joel’s face showed revulsion. “And you miss these things?” Joel’s voice was more squeamish than he would have liked.
“Not really.” Harris’s mind began to drift back to the present. “I miss the summers that I got them.”
“You have fond memories of your summer breaks from school?” Joel was pleased with his stealthy segue into Harris’s education for just a brief moment; for suddenly the old man’s dark eyes narrowed and looked him right in the eye.
“Don’t bullshit me, Mr. Levine.” The voice sounded much younger and stronger than the man who spoke them looked. “You know goddamn well I was homeschooled.”
Joel broke eye contact. It made him too uncomfortable. “Yeah, I know.” He began looking around, as if he could find what to say next.
“You think it’s part of the reason I did what I did, huh?” Harris’s tone had changed to almost sounding sympathetic. “At the time of my trial—” he looked away as was his habit when thinking of the past “—it really angered me that lawyers and journalists argued that my parents, my state, the Marine Corps, my religion were all at fault. I felt as if they were on trial with me, and they were, in a way. That seemed to be the effect anyhow. Now I understand it better.” Harris gently laughed. “One of the benefits of time is to think. All of those things did have a role. All of those things made me who I was, who I am today.”
“Why did they homeschool you? What did they teach you?” Joel eagerly asked. He wanted to capitalize on Harris’s admission. “What kind of influence were your parents?”
***
It was as if the earth had broken open and roared. It was like nothing Sean had ever heard or seen, but it was exactly as he had imagined it would be. That was what had amazed him the most. The gun went off exactly as the six-year-old boy had expected based solely from his experience watching cartoons. He thought the conical flame that had extended from the end of the barrel looked just as it did in the cartoons and comics he was familiar with. The BANG, BANG sound effects did not quite capture the experience, however. Even the family’s surround sound system had not prepared him for the noise. The gun was a sound that could be felt as much as heard. The smoke drifting from the end of the barrel was also a familiar look from the comics, but the smell was a whole new sensation. The image was fleeting, but it was instantly engraved in the boy’s brain. He loved the weapon.
“Now take a look at this,” the boy’s father said while holstering his Colt Python .357 Magnum. They walked over to the small cedar tree. They grew all over the property. Sean’s father hated them, and indeed they did seem to grow on the property like weeds. The base of the tree’s trunk was about four to five inches in diameter and had a tiny little hole, less than half an inch wide, in the front.
“See that? That’s what the bullet does on the way in. Now look back here.” Sean excitedly followed his father to the opposite side of the tree. “See all that splintered wood? The bullet makes a small hole on the way in, but a bi
g one on the way out.”
Daniel Harris looked his son in the eye. “You pull that trigger on a man, on your brother, on your sister, your mother or me, you’re gonna put a tiny hole in the front and a hole about the size of your fist in the back.”
The boy was a bit uncomfortable with the serious tone in his father’s voice. It reminded him of getting into trouble, although he knew he was not. He returned his father’s gaze right back into his eyes.
“Son, this is not a toy. You play with this and put a bullet through your brother’s head, there won’t be splintered wood, but shattered skull, blood, and brain matter all over the floor and wall. Your brother will be dead, and you will be your brother’s killer. Is that what you want?”
“No.” Sean’s excitement was still there, but was completely in check.
“Neither do I, son.” His father’s tone had softened a bit. “A gun is not to be played with. That’s what your toy guns are for. I keep grandpa’s old gun in my nightstand because if someone breaks into our home to do harm to your mother, sister, brother, or you”—the edge was back in his father’s voice—“I will kill the son of a bitch. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” The boy looked back into his father’s eyes. He so much wanted to join his father in this fight to protect his family. “Daddy, are the men you fought going to come after us?”
Daniel Harris was a veteran of the wars in western and central Asia. He had fought Muslim men who sought the destruction of the United States of America and the Christian faith. Sean had heard his father complain of American leaders that had not done what they could to win those wars, and had even allowed some of those people to migrate into the United States. The same government that sent Daniel Harris to fight Muslim jihadists, but not destroy them, allowed Muslim jihadists to move into the country and set up little colonies throughout the United States. He’d heard his father talk of their predominance around the Great Lakes region.
The Last Marine Page 5
