Molon Labe!

by Boston T. Party

  "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

  "Who wouldn't be. Those counties are facing a, a, oh, what's it called?"

  "A coup d'état?"

  "Right! Coup d'état. In November those new people are planning to change every one of their county governments."

  "And since those five counties are heavily Republican, the indigenous voters will likely vote the party ticket regardless of the new candidates."

  "Yeah, that makes sense. By taking over the primary of the leading party, your candidates are almost guaranteed to win the general election."

  The blond analyst shakes his head. "Who are these people?"

  "I guess people tired of the bullshit back in California, Texas, Oregon, and the rest. Hey, look it's 5:30. Let's get outta here and grab a few beers. Get a game plan going before we tell Jenkins about this!"

  "Sounds good. We'll take all this stuff with us and work on it down at Muldoons."

  "Cool. Too bad we can't write off the beers."

  After several hours at their usual tavern, the two computer analysts were well and truly plastered. An early storm had hit southeast Wyoming that evening, and the roads were sheeted in black ice. Driving home, the carpooling pair careen off a mild curve in the road, go down a thirty-foot embankment and flip. One was knocked unconscious; the other had his neck broken. Their car's fuel line was ripped away by the dense underbrush, and raw gasoline spilled onto the red-hot exhaust manifold.

  Only the blaze gave notice of the lonely accident, and by the time fire trucks had arrived the car was a black, smoking shell. Bits of burning computer printouts floated about like Dante's snowflakes.

  The curious fattening of five Wyoming counties went unnoticed by the replacement analysts at the WSDC. The general election of 2006 was just three weeks away.

  1995

  When law and morality contradict each other the citizen has the cruel alternative of either losing his sense of morality or losing his respect of the law.

  — Frederic Bastiat

  Chaos theory maintains that the flapping of a butterfly's wings can snowball into a tropical hurricane. The theory has more than meteorological implications. A solitary and routine traffic stop can cause a legal thunderstorm.

  I-25, east of Casper, Wyoming

  24 May 1995

  It is 2:47PM, nearly the end of Lloyd Holgate's shift. A young trooper in the Wyoming State Patrol (WSP) for two years, he has aspirations of federal law enforcement and plans to apply with the FBI next year. He has been patrolling a thirty-mile corridor of the interstate since morning. Summer tourist traffic is just beginning to trickle into the Cowboy State. While the WSP is not so notorious as the Texas DPS for ticketing speeders, the entire agency is on heightened alert after the Murrah Building bombing just five weeks ago. Troopers had been instructed to stop motorists for the pettiest of infractions and look for any probable cause (PC) of domestic terrorism. Militia members, right-wing extremists, Limbaugh Republicans, Second Amendment advocates, Constitutionalists, Patriots, and the like are all unfairly tarred with the brush of Oklahoma City.

  Holgate's experienced eyes continually scan the highway for anything out of the ordinary. He has a reputation for being able to see an expired plate tag from absurd distances, as a leopard can spot a limp from across the veldt.

  Predator — prey. Holgate liked the work. He looked forward to the prestige of the FBI, but would miss the daily excitement of the WSP.

  Just ahead 300 yards a blue Ford Taurus brakes slightly as its driver notices Holgate's black cruiser behind him. Even though the Taurus was not speeding, most interstate drivers automatically stepped on the brake whenever they suddenly noticed a police car. Cops were used to it. Holgate would have passed the Taurus on by, but for the burnt-out left brake light. Use any PC available to detain his watch commander had said. You never know what you may find. Equipment infractions were the camel's nose under the tent for many arrests. Even if no arrest resulted, a burnt-out 30¢ bulb will net the State a $40 fine. Not that the State hasn't figured this out, of course.

  Holgate closes the distance to 50 yards and radios in. "Unit 16 to Base. Request a 10-28 on a blue Ford Taurus, Wyoming plate 3-9-4-Adam-Frank-Charles. 1447."

  The Taurus remains in the right lane travelling exactly 65 mph. The driver appears to be alone.

  The computer check takes only twenty seconds. "Base to Unit 16. Vehicle is a 1993 Ford Taurus registered to a William Olsen Russell of Evansville. Registration current; no wants on the vehicle. 1448."

  "10-4, Base. Am stopping vehicle for equipment violation. Stand by for a 10-27. 1448."

  "10-4, Unit 16. 1448."

  Satisfied that the car is not stolen, Holgate lights up his roof. The driver applies his right blinker and pulls over to the shoulder. Holgate stops about 25' behind and slightly to the left of the Taurus, and turns his steering wheel at full left-lock. This measure would likely save his life if his unit were rear-ended. Cops had learned this the hard way over the years.

  Trooper Holgate looks in his side mirror for a break in traffic and steps out. As he approaches the Taurus he intently scans the passenger compartment for hands. Hands were dangerous; they held guns and knives. The back seat is empty, as is the front passenger seat. The driver, a white male in his late fifties, is alone. His hands are on the steering wheel, his eyes tracking Holgate in the rearview mirror.

  The driver's window is down, but the car is still running. "Sir, please turn off your ignition," Holgate says firmly.

  The driver does so, turns his head, and says, "Was I speeding, officer?" Not unfriendly, but not kiss-ass, either.

  Cops are trained not to answer such questions until the suspect's ID has been determined. It also keeps him off-guard.

  "License, registration, and proof of insurance, please," Holgate says. The man already has them ready on the dashboard, and hands them over. He is William Olsen Russell, the registered owner of the Taurus.

  "Is 3627 State Route 258 still your current address?" This is one of the first questions cops ask, for the State must always know where its Subjects reside. It also establishes a baseline for truthfulness. Any evasion or hemming and hawing will instantly alert an officer of something "hinky."

  "Yep, been there nearly twenty years. What's this all about? Was I speeding?" Faintly annoyed.

  Holgate says, "No, sir, you weren't speeding, but you do have a brake light out."

  Russell snorts. "Brake light out, huh? Well, how could I have known that?" Belligerent.

  "By regularly inspecting your vehicle, that's how."

  "Do you know if your brake lights are working, officer?" Russell taunts. "Could one of your bulbs have burnt out just now?"

  "Sir, we're talking about your vehicle, not mine, so I'm not going to argue with you. Remain in your vehicle. This won't take long." Holgate had been inclined to give a verbal warning, but no longer.

  "This is frickin' great," Russell mutters, not quite under his breath.

  From inside his unit Holgate radios, "16 to Base. Request a 10-27 on a William Olsen Russell, common spelling. Wyoming DL is Robert-2-7-4-5-0-3-2. DOB 6-7-38. 1449."

  As Holgate writes up a ticket the dispatcher radios back. "Base to 16. Subject Russell, no wants or warrants. Status clear. 1453."

  "10-4, Base, thank you. 1453."

  As Holgate returns with Russell's clipboarded ticket and paperwork he notices a spent rifle shell casing on the rear passenger floorboard. He places the clipboard on the Taurus roof and his hand on his Glock 22. "Sir, do you have any weapons in the vehicle?"

  "I'm not armed," Russell says.

  "That wasn't my question. Do you have any weapons in the vehicle?"

  Russell's eyebrows furrow. "I don't have to answer that."

  Although Russell is correct, because of his noncooperation coupled with gun-related evidence and Holgate's particular fear for his safety, the trooper is now justified in performing a protective search of Russell and his "immediate grabbable area" according to t
he Terry v. Ohio Supreme Court case of 1968.

  "Sir, you're not under arrest, but for my own safety I need to search you and the interior of this vehicle for weapons. Now, step out of the vehicle, turn around, and place your hands on the hood." Holgate pats down Russell, who is unarmed and has nothing but some coins in his pockets.

  "Mr. Russell, I want you to sit there next to the guardrail in front of your vehicle, and stay there until I tell you to get up."

  "Aww, this is bullshit!" Russell spits.

  "It's that, or you can wait with cuffs on in the backseat of my unit until you chill out. Now sit over there!"

  Russell complies, grudgingly.

  Keeping him in his peripheral view, Holgate looks under the front seats and floormats, and searches the unlocked glovebox for weapons. His powers of a Terry frisk do not extend to sealed or locked containers, or to the trunk. He finds no weapons or contraband.

  "I told you I wasn't armed!" Russell shouts over the traffic noise.

  Holgate ignores this and finds the interior button to pop the trunk. It doesn't work. Russell disabled it months ago to prevent this very thing. He even had it keyed differently for more privacy.

  Holgate walks over and says, "I need you to open your trunk."

  Russell replies, "Absolutely not. A Terry frisk cannot include a locked trunk inaccessible without a key."

  This legal knowledge surprises Holgate. Most citizens do not understand the difference between a protective frisk and a full-blown search incident to arrest.

  "Sir, I am happy to radio in for a warrant, and then I will search your trunk — thoroughly. What do you have in there you don't want me to find?"

  Russell does not fall for this. "If you already had probable cause to search my trunk, then you wouldn't need a warrant, would you? There's an automobile exception to the Fourth Amendment warrant requirement."

  This surprises Holgate even more. While he considers what to do next, Russell says, "I'd like to be on my way, now. Am I free to go?"

  "No, sir, you are not free to go. I have not returned your license and paperwork yet."

  "Well, I'd like them back now. If you have a ticket for me to sign, I would like to sign it right now and be on my way."

  "Why are you in such a hurry to leave?" asks Holgate.

  "Why are you so determined to waste any more of my afternoon?" replies Russell. "And all for a burnt-out brake light? It's ridiculous."

  "It won't take but a minute for me to look in your trunk, then you can be on your way. What's the problem with that, unless you've something to hide?"

  It was always better to say "look" rather than "search."

  Russell is having none of it. "The problem is that you're on some fishing expedition without any probable cause, much less my consent."

  "Sir, I deal with hundreds of people every month and this is not the way average folks act. Most folks don't object to me having a routine look in their trunk. It's for everyone's safety. So, what do you have in the trunk that you don't want me to see?"

  "Nothing but lawful, personal property."

  "Well, there's no problem is there? Why not let me have a quick look?"

  "Yes, there is a problem. I'm not a criminal. There are no warrants for my arrest, or you'd have cuffed me by now. You're unlawfully detaining me without reasonable suspicion, and I'd like to leave now."

  "Your behavior is suspicious to me, sir. You won't let me have a look in your trunk. That gives me grounds to detain you."

  "Case law has ruled exactly the opposite. Failure to consent to a search is not suspicious behavior. Just because I am exercising my rights as an American does not constitute reasonable suspicion or probable cause."

  "Are you an attorney?" Holgate asks, startled.

  "No. Although I am studied in the law, I haven't yet passed the bar."

  It is a curious reply and Holgate doesn't know quite what to make of it. Is Russell a law student? Paralegal? Judicial scholar?

  "What kind of work are you in?"

  "That is not germane," Russell snaps.

  Trying a different tack, Holgate says, "I noticed a shell casing on the floorboard and believe you have a rifle in your trunk. I need to determine that it's not stolen."

  Russell snorts, "Aren't you confusing 'wants' with 'needs'? You mean you want to search my trunk, don't you? Well, you can't."

  "So, you do have a rifle in there?"

  Russell has sparred enough. "Whether I do or not is nobody's concern since it's perfectly legal to carry a firearm locked in a trunk. It's even legal in Wyoming to openly have a firearm on the seat. You've checked me and my car interior for weapons, and I am unarmed just like I said. Any weapons in my trunk would not jeopardize your safety. You're way out of bounds here, Trooper Holgate. You have neither probable cause nor my consent to search, and I do not wish to answer any more questions. I'd like to sign the ticket and get home. Am I free to go?"

  Holgate is at an impasse. Cajoling and stern bluffs won't work. "No, you are not free to go. Stay here. I'll be right back."

  Walking to his unit he mulls over the scene. This is one of the oddest traffic stops Holgate has ever made. A middle-class, middle-aged white male with no criminal history so adamantly refusing a routine inspection. And so informed of his rights! This was really unusual.

  Gotta be up to something! Probably got an AK47 in there.

  Holgate has an idea. It is an old trick, but often cracks tough cases.

  "16 to Base. Subject William Olsen Russell detained for possible narcotics trafficking. Request a K-9 drug unit at my 10-20; westbound I-25, two miles east of the Evansville exit. 1457."

  "Base to 16, 10-4. Stand by. 1457."

  A minute later he hears back, "Base to 16. WSP K-9 unavailable. DEA K-9 is on station and en route. ETA your 10-20 in six minutes. 1458." A DEA unit has just left Casper for a case in Douglas and was only a few miles away. The timing couldn't be better.

  As little as Holgate wants to share with the feds, the arrival of DEA may help rattle Russell's cage. "16 to Base. 10-4, thanks. 1458."

  DEA agent Arturo Gomez arrives five minutes later with his trained German shepherd, Oso. He gets out of his black Crown Victoria with some effort, weighing 320 pounds. His fellow agents snidely call him "Oilturo" for his perpetual greasy patina of sweat.

  Holgate has met him a few times over the past year and knows him as an agent who gets things done. Rumor had it that Gomez supplemented his salary with "commissions" taken from seized drug cash. It was quite common amongst the Drug Warriors.

  With Oso on a leash, Gomez meets the trooper behind his WSP unit. "Hey, Holgate."

  "Gomez. You got here fast."

  "Was just up the highway. So what's this guy's story?"

  "Routine stop for equipment violation, no wants or warrants. Subject is William Olsen Russell. Evansville residence. Ring any bells?"

  Gomez searches his memory. "Nah, never heard of him." His wide, pockmarked face shines like a brown mirror in the afternoon heat.

  Holgate continues, "Noticed a shell casing on the floorboard, and he got uncooperative when I wanted to search his trunk. Turned into a real hardass and started spouting off about his constitutional rights. Knows the law pretty good; refused to open his trunk after I frisked him and the vehicle interior. Even mentioned Terry."

  Gomez grimaces. "That's weird. What's he do for a living?" he asks, leisurely scratching a sweat-stained underarm.

  "Wouldn't say. He's not an attorney, though. Maybe a paralegal. He clammed up once I insisted on going through his trunk. White guy, guns, constitutional familiarity, poor attitude towards law enforcement . . . "

  "Sounds like a militia puke to me," Gomez says, finishing the train of reasoning.

  "Yep, me too."

  "He's your collar; how ya wanna play this?"

  Holgate points to Oso. "The nose knows, right?"

  Gomez chuckles. "Yep. That's why we pay him the big bucks."

  Russell would never find out exactly why Oso al
erted to the presence of nonexistent drugs in his trunk, but he suspects a trick. He thinks that either Holgate or Gomez transplanted the scent of marijuana from a pocket baggie to his car. All he knows is that he's never used drugs — much less driven around with a trunkload of them — and since he bought the Taurus new, no previous owner could have contaminated the car with drug scent. Holgate and Gomez concocted PC to search; it was that simple. That, or else Oso is the worst drug dog in Wyoming, giving false positives wherever he goes.

  Although no drugs were found, Russell had an unloaded FAL rifle in a soft case. The FAL (Fusil Automatique Leger, or Light Automatic Rifle) is a Belgian military pattern rifle adopted by 93 countries since the 1950s. Russell's rifle is a civilian version without the capability of full-automatic fire. Visually, however, it is nearly indistinguishable from its military cousin, which facilitated Congress misnaming such civilian guns as "assault rifles."

  Its serial number was radioed in for an NCIC1 check, and was listed in the federal database as stolen. Russell was arrested, his Ford Taurus thoroughly searched "incident to arrest," and his FAL confiscated. It was discovered the following day that Holgate had inadvertently transposed two digits of the serial number over the radio, and that Russell's rifle was indeed clean.

  Although the trooper had acted in good faith and thus not jeopardized the WSP, Natrona County Attorney George Crimp had disliked Russell and his "right-wing" views for years. Russell was a persistent writer of letters to the newspaper editor and had once lambasted Crimp for his malicious prosecution of a midwife for practicing medicine without a license. The trial ended in a hung jury and Crimp declined to refile due to the public fervor.

  Crimp had a golfing buddy who was a federal agent. Gordon Lorner had originally applied with the FBI but was turned down. He then applied with the Secret Service. Same result. US Marshals didn't want him either. Not even the DEA took him. Finally, Lorner found a home with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms (ATF). A branch of the US Department of the Treasury, the ATF2 were merely armed tax collectors, although they increasingly thought of themselves as federal police. They were infamous for malicious prosecutions of nonviolent offenses, and rarely condescended to search gang areas for armed and dangerous felons.