by Glen Tate
“Well, that’s the update,” Dan continued. “Here’s my question for the group. What do we do about guests? We’ve been getting a fair number of people coming to the gate who claim they are coming to stay with residents here. We take down the information they have about who the resident is that they want to stay with, and then we try to get a hold of that person and see if the guests are wanted. So far, all of them have been. Relatives and friends from the Seattle area, mostly. Number one, if you are expecting approved guests, let my guys know. We’ll put your guests on a list. This will save us tons of time. Also, it’s not the most secure thing to have carloads of people waiting around for an hour or more while we have to guard them.”
“But,” Dan said looking at Rich, “here’s the bigger question.” Those two had talked about this topic. Grant wished Dan had talked to him, too, but this was Rich’s show.
“What do we do about guests?” Dan asked. “I mean, if your relatives are coming out here and need a safe place and you have one for them, who am I to tell them no? But, then again, if we start taking in everyone, how do we feed them? So, Rich and I are thinking that we have a rule that you can have guests as long as you are responsible for feeding them.”
The crowd was nodding at that. Letting people in was the easy half of the equation, Grant thought. Keeping friends and relatives out would be the hard part.
“We don’t know your guests,” Dan continued. “Sorry to say this, but what if your cousin is a gang banger? A meth head? A sex offender? I don’t want that shit in my base—I mean neighborhood. I know the odds are that any of your guests are not bad guys, but we need to know. We propose a simple ‘immigration’ process. We get to interview your guests. Again, 99% of the time, we can tell people are fine pretty much instantly. But if your cousin from Seattle comes here and has neck tattoos, that means a little extra scrutiny. In a case like that, we would have the right to turn them away.”
The crowd murmured. They didn’t like that.
“If we’re responsible for them, why do you care if they have a tattoo?” someone asked.
“Not all tattoos,” Dan said and showed his forearm, which had plenty of them like lots of military guys had. “But a neck tattoo tells me something. Bad.”
“So, you get to approve who comes in?” someone else asked.
“No, not me personally,” Dan was getting a little upset. He was trying to keep them safe and they were being difficult.
“I’m just the guy,” Dan said, “patrolling your gate eighteen hours a day with my dog team.” Point well made. “No, an ‘immigration committee’ would make the call after the guards flag someone—in some extreme situation like a neck tattoo with gang symbols—and then we’d bring the matter to the full group.”
“So, my neighbors get to decide if my family can come out here?” the first person asked.
“Well, if they have a neck tattoo with gang symbols, yes.” Dan said calmly.
“I’m opposed to that,” the first person said. She must have family coming that looked a little questionable.
Grant, the politician, stepped in. “Let’s see if this neck tattoo thing is even a problem,” he said. “If we have no one we need to question, then there’s no problem. But I think we should have an ‘immigration’ person to interview people and coordinate the list of approved guests. I want to take some of the administrative tasks off the guards’ plate so they can guard with their full attention to the threats that are out there.”
That seemed pretty reasonable, so the protests stopped. A man raised his hand, “I can be the immigrations guy. I was a Border Patrol agent thirty years ago. I forgot lots of things, but I’m a pretty good judge of people.”
Dan said, “Great. What’s your name?”
“Albert VanDorn,” the man said. “Call me Al.”
“Great, Al,” Dan said. “Get with me after the meeting and we’ll get you started. We could use a second immigrations guy for the night shift, too.” Two more people raised their hands. “Of course, the immigrations people will also be guards and will need to be armed. Are you OK with that?” Dan asked Al and the two volunteers, who all nodded in agreement.
Grant didn’t want to raise the point now, because it would terrify people, but they would need medical people on the immigrations team for when diseases were spreading. A few weeks after a collapse, communicable diseases that weren’t a problem in peacetime, like the flu, would spread like wildfire without medical treatment and in bodies weakened by malnutrition and stress. That was too dark a thing to bring up now, but it underscored the fact that an immigrations process of some kind was necessary.
Grant was glad he had read survival novels like Lights Out, One Second After, and Patriots. There was a lot to learn in them, even if they were “fiction.” One of the things the surviving groups in all three books did was allow people with valuable skills to come into their communities. They had a way of screening people to find the ones that could add to the community. Grant realized that this would be a mission for the immigration committee. He thought this was the time to bring it up.
“Another thing the immigrations people can do is screen people wanting to join us,” Grant said. “Let’s say someone is a doctor, an expert at treating water, or a communications expert with lots of valuable gear.” Grant didn’t say the real group he was thinking about, which was intact military units that wanted to fight for the Patriots. He didn’t want to scare people. Not this early. “Whatever the skills or gear, let’s say we really need him or her and they want to stay with us. The immigrations people can screen them and flag them for an interview by us. What do you think?”
“Sure, but where would the strangers stay?” someone asked.
“Abandoned houses and cabins,” Grant said. “There are quite a few here. The real owners would have dibs if they came back. The occupants would improve the places while they’re there and would pay rent to any returning owner.”
The Constitution. Just like the Constitution.
Grant realized this was an opportunity about how they should follow the Constitution even on things that didn’t seem like “legal” matters.
“It’s like the Third Amendment,” Grant explained, “that forgotten clause of the Constitution. You know the one about not being forced to quarter troops.” It made an exception for a time of war, and this was definitely as close to a war as they could have. But the principle was the same: people would not be forced to house government employees. The crowd was nodding. This was Grant’s segue to a speech he’d been wondering when to give. Now was a good time.
“This brings up a good point,” he said. “I think we should follow the Constitution out here for everything, not just our law enforcement and homemade court system. But let’s go further. Let’s have it for everything else.” Do the opposite of what the former government did, Grant thought. Here goes.
“Let’s start with the First Amendment,” Grant said. “Out here, I suggest, no one can be punished for saying anything. Call me a ‘teabagger’ if you want. Whatever. I’ll still run into your house if a looter is trying to kill you. The other parts of the First Amendment would also apply here. Freedom of religion, which includes the freedom to be free from religion. Petition government for redress of grievance, too. You can always talk freely to us, publicly or in private. We would be transparent. This should be like a New England town hall.”
“The Second Amendment,” Grant said, pointing to the AR slung across his chest. “’Nuff said. I don’t think anyone—with all the threats out here and especially outside the gate—wants to be disarmed.” Todd Snelling glared at Grant, but he could care less.
“The Third Amendment we covered,” Grant said. “The Fourth too, when we talked about no random or intrusive searches without a warrant. The Fifth is a big deal. Not only the part about not having to testify against yourself, but the due process and property clauses. Due process means we won’t take your life, liberty, or property without some legal process of some kind. It co
uld be review by a judge and a jury. You may not agree with the decision, but it won’t be a band of thugs doing whatever they please.” Grant couldn’t resist, “That was the former government and we’re doing things better out here now that we have the chance.”
That got a few people clapping. Just a few, though.
“The property clause would apply to what we do at the Grange,” Grant said. “That says that we can’t take your property except for a public purpose and we must pay you fair market value for it. This will prevent the community from stealing people’s food or other property. This is critical and I, and my Team, will not live in a place where this isn’t the case.” Grant had no idea if the Team agreed with him on a legal point like this. Once again, by describing the Team as “his,” Grant was not-so-subtly reminding people that he was in control of them. That wasn’t really true; the Team wasn’t “controlled” by anyone except themselves.
“The Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth Amendments are a criminal law thing and were already discussed,” Grant said, realizing that people weren’t sitting in this meeting to get a long lecture on the Constitution. They wanted to see how this Grant guy and that Constitution thingy related to their daily lives during this scary time. “The Ninth and Tenth Amendments related to the states versus the federal government, which we no longer need to worry about.”
That was a controversial thing to say, Grant knew, because some people in the audience still believed the United States existed. It did, on paper and maybe in practice in some places like the East Coast or California. But Grant was mentally preparing the people listening to him to conclude that they were on their own out there and the only government they had—or needed—was right there in the Grange that night.
“Finally, I think we need to vote on things,” Grant said. “We will need to vote to give authority to people to do things, like the immigrations people need the authority to screen people. We can’t all meet down at the gate to individually interview a dozen people a day. That kind of thing. We wouldn’t give people powers without electing them, starting with me. Like I said, if I suck, remove me. We need to elect a Sheriff and I think that should be Rich.” Lots of nodding.
“Oh, and I think we should have a civil justice system,” Grant said, realizing that he needed to wrap up this legal stuff. People were there to hear about guard duty, but he had their attention and this was an important topic. “By ‘civil justice system,’” Grant said, “all I mean is a way of peacefully resolving the inevitable disputes that will arise. Your dog ate my chicken, that kind of thing. But nothing complicated and,” Grant smiled, “other than the judge, no damned lawyers.” That got a couple of laughs.
Grant paused, got very serious, and said in a very resolute voice, “We’re going to start over out here and do things right. This is our chance to set up simple rules that everyone can live with. Unlike the old system.”
The crowd was silent, taking it all in.
Then the clapping started. Lots of people yelled, “hell, yeah!” and “right on!” A sizable portion, about a quarter, of the crowd was not as enthused. Some sat there stone-faced, others just clapped politely. Grant was paying close attention to who they were. Not to retaliate, but to intensify the persuasion efforts on those people. They were undoubtedly afraid that Grant was too much of a leader and was promising too much. That was fair. The old government had taken way too much power and promised so much—and then failed miserably—that people were entitled to be skeptical of someone with a rifle saying they’d follow the Constitution.
When the cheering died down, John yelled out, “Let’s take a vote on following the Constitution!”
More cheering.
John asked, “All in favor?” and almost all hands went up. John spoke in an exaggerated and comical formal voice, “The ayes have it. Pierce Point will follow the Constitution.”
Now, Grant thought, we have to actually do it; that’s the hard part. Wait until someone acts like a jackass and the Constitution protects him. That’s when the real leadership kicks in. These people had no experience actually living under a constitutional system. Oh, they were told in high school about the Bill of Rights. Then the rest of their lives they were taught that the government had to put “reasonable” restraints on all these rights. Free speech? Sure, as long as it didn’t offend anyone. So these people had never experienced reacting to offensive speech by letting the speaker continue to be offensive. They had seen the authorities take care of the problem; they never had to deal with the problem themselves. Now they would.
Grant remembered how hard it was for people in the former Soviet Union and Eastern Europe to operate under freedom. Freedom is hard, although most think it is easy. It used to be natural to Americans, but that was over a hundred years ago. When people become used to looking to government instead of themselves for everything, freedom is scary. It is like when an inmate is released from prison after thirty years. He is used to dinner at exactly 5:30 p.m. When he’s out of prison and 5:30 p.m. rolls around, he gets nervous because dinner isn’t there. Sometimes the stress of freedom leads former inmates to want to go back to prison for the comfort it provides. The comfort of not having to make any decisions or rely on themselves. The comfort of the FUSA.
Chapter 113
This is All Illegal
(May 11)
During the meeting that night at the Grange, Grant had been noticing Todd Snelling and his snarky facial expressions and little whispers to his group of apparent supporters. They included his wife, Dick Abbott, the retired LA cop, and three other “cabin people.”
Be bold.
Grant knew what the outside thought was talking about so he went with it.
“So, Todd,” Grant said, pointing to the architect, “what do you think of all this?” Grant was putting his opponent on the spot. It was always best to be on the offense and then to de-escalate and look reasonable.
“I think this place is a little militia dictatorship, with a bunch of testosterone fueling your hair triggers,” Snelling said with a sneer. That metrosexual sneer might have been a big hit in a Seattle conference room, but not out here in a Grange hall. Snelling’s supporters nodded slowly, like they were afraid of fully backing him. They were scared. Good, Grant thought. They ought to be.
Snelling had a backpack slung over one shoulder. He took it off quickly and angrily—and started to open it. It looked like he was pulling out a gun.
Everyone on the Team watched closely. They wouldn’t call “Threat!”—and draw their weapons—unless they saw an actual weapon. They didn’t want to overreact. Pulling guns on a guy in a crowded room full of innocents is to be avoided. Besides, politically, Grant didn’t want the “macho” Team to draw weapons and scare everyone if Snelling was just getting out a pen.
Snelling got out a piece of paper. He started to look at it until Grant rudely interrupted his train of thought.
“Did you just get shot, Mr. Snelling?” Grant calmly asked.
“No,” Snelling said indignantly. “That’s preposterous.” He rolled his eyes. Another effective tactic in a Seattle conference room, but not so much in the Grange with armed men.
“Yes, it would be preposterous,” Grant said. Everyone was wondering where Grant was going with this seemingly ridiculous question about whether Snelling had been shot.
“No, Mr. Snelling,” Grant said, “you did not get shot. You were concerned that the Team was on a ‘hair trigger,’ a testosterone fueled one, if I recall correctly.”
With his hands up in the air, and away from his pistol, Grant made a trigger motion with his finger as if he were instructing a class. “Mr. Snelling, a ‘hair trigger’ means shooting too fast. These men—‘macho’ men as you call them—are very well trained and only shoot when they see a weapon. They did not see one and you did not get shot. That, sir, is the opposite of a hair trigger.” Grant was in his element. He was going to destroy this little Snelling shit. With words and body language.
Snelling couldn’t spe
ak. He had frozen. No one had ever talked to him that way. He had always been in control of a conference room or cocktail party. This Grange thing was different.
After a few moments of the crowd seeing Snelling’s weakness, Grant decided it was time to make a vivid point. He said, “Wes, come here, please.”
Wes came over and Grant handed him his rifle, after checking to make sure the safety was on, which it was.
“Bobby?” Grant motioned for him to come over. Grant drew his pistol and, keeping it pointed in a safe direction, handed it to Bobby.
The crowd was spellbound. Was Grant going to shoot Snelling right here in front of everyone? The crowd had no idea what Grant was doing, but they knew it was dramatic.
Grant stared right at Snelling and said, “I’m unarmed now. Nothing to fear from those evil guns, Mr. Snelling. Now, let’s talk man to man. No guns. No violence. Just logic. Are you willing to discuss logic, Mr. Snelling?”
Snelling seemed to have no idea what to say. He muttered, “OK.”
Grant needed to pre-empt Snelling on the POI topic. By now, everyone in Pierce Point probably had heard the rumor that he was on the POI list.
“First of all, the POI thing,” Grant said very calmly, like he was talking to an old friend instead of an enemy. “Tens of thousands of people are on that list, sir. Maybe even some in this room, for all I know. It is not a ‘wanted’ list for any alleged crimes. As the name implies, Mr. Snelling, it is a list of ‘persons of interest.’ Surely you recognize that that is different than a wanted list. Do you have any evidence that I have committed a crime?”
Snelling just stared. He had nothing to say. He had never been in a debate like this. Never.
