by Joe Nobody
The local officer’s nervous shifting made it obvious he was unhappy with the situation. “Yes, ma’am. If Hank was my prisoner, there wouldn’t be any issue. Unfortunately, he’s not. He’s technically under federal jurisdiction.”
Eva stepped closer to the man, her finger pointing at his chest. “Jefferson Thomas Clay, you know good and well my husband is an honorable, law abiding citizen. You’ve known him all your life, young man. You should be embarrassed this has happened, and let him out of this jail immediately. I was your Sunday School teacher. Hank was your little league coach, and even counted the votes the night you were elected to office. What has happened to law and order, common sense and good manners in this county?”
Sheriff Clay flushed red, obviously feeling uneasy. Before he could comment, a young man Grace had never seen before appeared at the sheriff’s side. “Is there a problem?”
“Ladies, this is Special Prosecutor Beckman, from the Department of Justice office over in El Paso. Mr. Beckman, this is Grace Kennedy, a local attorney, and of course, you’ve met Mrs. Barns.”
The smug young man didn’t acknowledge either woman, an intolerable display of rude behavior in rural Texas.
Grace didn’t let the silence hang in the air long. “I’d like to see my client, Mr. Beckman.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“He has the right to representation, sir. I’m an officer of the court and demand that my client’s right to an attorney be acknowledged.”
Grace had seen Beckman’s type before. Young, self-centered, and with an ego the size of a football stadium, they were always convinced that they were smarter and better prepared than the person across the table. She loved it when they underestimated her.
“We’ve arrested Mr. Barns under Section Eight of the Patriot Act. His due process is suspended,” replied the cocky DOJ lawyer.
He thinks I’m some country-bumpkin attorney, reasoned Grace.
“Mr. Beckman, Hank Barns is a citizen of the United States. Section eight doesn’t apply to US nationals. I demand to see my client.”
Grace’s knowledge of the terrorist law seemed to surprise the federal prosecutor, but he still didn’t give ground.
“Technically, the Supreme Court hasn’t offered an opinion on that issue, as of yet. Until that time, the attorney general has an established policy that all sections of the act do indeed apply to US citizens suspected of collaborating with foreign terrorists, or plotting acts of domestic terrorism against the United States.”
Grace shook her head, looking at Sheriff Clay for support. “That’s preposterous, sir. Hank Barns is as much a terrorist as my left shoe. Why is DOJ doing this? What possible reason could they have to believe this man is anything but a law abiding individual?”
The federal lawyer ignored Grace’s question and referred to his watch. Turning his back to the women, he yelled to another man across the room. “Let’s get everyone loaded up. We’re done here.”
Turning back to face Grace, he said, “You can take up any issues you have with the federal magistrate in Houston. Mr. Barns will be arraigned there in two days.”
And with that, the man pivoted and began issuing orders to his underlings.
Grace was shocked. While she wasn’t technically a criminal attorney, she’d wandered into that area as part of her practice. The arrogance and lack of respect for the basic legal rights demonstrated by the Department of Justice was unheard of – an abomination.
Anger started welling up inside of her. The injustice of the entire episode boiling her blood. Her legal mind immediately started inventorying her options. She could think of a variety of ways to counteract the federal government’s heavy-handed actions, those ranging from calling a press conference to contacting various elected officials. She’d even served as head of the campaign funding committee of a currently serving US senator.
None of that was going to happen in Fort Davis, however. She needed the press, legal resources and a host of other assets to fight for Hank.
Keeping her face emotionless, she turned to Eva and announced, “Let’s go get some things packed, Eva. We’re heading to Houston.”
His modest desk was surrounded by curious onlookers, all them peering over Crawford’s shoulder at the photographs he’d taken of the fallen tower. The newsroom was abuzz with excitement, the story a welcome diversion from the normal local events. One by one the staff members cast their votes on which picture should adorn the morning’s front page. No one counted the ballots because the polling didn’t matter. The editor would choose, and his vote trumped all.
Crawford politely acknowledged the compliments, caring little for everyone’s opinion of his skills with a camera. His focus was on his prose and the mystery surrounding the collapse.
Despite being “old media,” the Post maintained significant research capabilities, including every known publically accessible database, and a small number that were supposed to be entered by only a select few. Reams of microfiche images were also at his disposal, and of course, the internet.
His award winning reporting was due to a simple secret. He followed stories using deductive reasoning and logic, not emotion. On the occasions when he’d been invited to speak at journalistic events, his advice to the young had always been to ignore the bright, shiny objects and concentrate of the dark side of human nature. That’s where the story was; that’s where the truth would most likely surface.
He also didn’t believe in unassociated events. The tower didn’t collapse on its own. Something led to its failure, perhaps an entire string of prerequisite actions.
He started his search three days prior, looking through news stories, legal notices, and other related information. He gave law enforcement activity top priority, still curious why the feds were crawling all over the scene.
His inquiries resulted in three significant stories. The first was the bomb threat up in College Station. There was film footage out of a Dallas station that showed a government helicopter taking off in the background. He was reasonably sure that aircraft belonged to the FBI in Houston, but presumed the event unrelated.
The second was the loss of two Texas Air National Guard Falcon aircraft the same day. While the NTSB hadn’t offered an official explanation, most aviation experts believed the craft had “touched” mid-air, resulting in both planes going down. This story, like the bomb threat, didn’t seem to tie in.
The third odd occurrence was the public service bulletin, the one asking for information leading to the arrest of one Mr. Durham Weathers. The reporter knew it wasn’t all that common for the local police to make such a request, perhaps three or four times a month was the norm. What was different about this latest “wanted fugitive” effort was the source. The photograph distributed to the various press outlets was from an FBI file, the watermark at the bottom of the grainy picture making the connection obvious.
The FBI office in Houston was huge, handling dozens, if not hundreds, of ongoing investigations at the same time. Connecting those dots would be difficult, if not impossible.
Crawford then began to study the various emergency calls surrounding the collapse of the tower. The police hadn’t released the 911 tapes, yet. He made a note to have his paper press hard for the actual recordings. While that critical information wasn’t available, there was something almost as good.
The Post had police scanners monitoring all law enforcement frequencies. These conversations were digitalized and then converted into searchable text. He started with something simple – the address of the hotel.
As the results rolled across his computer monitor, Crawford’s brow wrinkled in confusion. There had been a dispatch call to the hotel 15 minutes before the first report of the downed tower. The dispatcher’s initial broadcast indicating the police code 10-91, or units responding to pick up suspect. This had been followed a few minutes later by a 10-80, or “in pursuit.”
Crawford double checked the address and times – there was no mistake, th
e police were already at the hotel when the tower fell. What were they doing there?
The connection came next. The public service bulleting – the wanted man. Someone had called in… Durham Weathers was staying at that hotel, and that’s why the police rolled before the tower fell. Tim changed the search parameters, concentrating his inquiry on the fugitive.
Again, the computer’s brain did its work, and data began scrolling down the monitor. Fort Davis, Texas. Property tax receipts for 320 acres in Jeff Davis County. Gunsmith certification. Private pilot’s license and an old ad for crop dusting services….
The reference to crop dusting rang familiar to the reporter. He began reversing his search, sure he’d seen the term in the last 30 minutes. There it was! The police dispatch call records… David Wayne Hooks – possible stolen airplane. A Thrush Commander crop duster with an altered tail number.
Crawford leaned back in his chair and summarized what he knew. One Mr. Durham Weathers had altered the tail numbers on his aircraft and flown into Hooks. Somehow, he made it to the hotel. The aircraft had been discovered, so the FBI suspected he was in Houston. The local media had plastered Mr. Weathers’ face all over town, and someone recognized him and called the cops to the hotel.
The reporter invested a serious amount of mental energy trying to piece together what had happened to the tower, and what Weathers had to do with it. Every avenue of deduction was a dead end. Frustrated with the effort, he decided to work backwards from his last known fact. The Thrush, altered, at Hooks.
Clearly, Weathers had known he was wanted by the authorities while still at Hooks. Why else would he change the identification of his plane? So where had he come from?
The journalist searched the few available records for Fort Davis, the small town’s police blotter and newspaper providing zero input. By accident, he forgot to enter the fugitive’s first name on the next search, pulling up a long list of references to the name “Weathers.”
Grunting at his mistake, he began to re-enter the query when one of the listings caught his attention. An arrest of one Dr. Mitchell Weathers, in College Station, the same day as the bomb threat. Four clicks of the keyboard later, Crawford’s heart began to race. Mitchell Weathers was originally from Fort Davis, probably related to the fugitive.
He stood now, staring at the screen on his desk. He knew there was a connection, the parts starting to mesh like a set of perfectly matched gears. His analysis was interrupted by his boss.
“What’s up, Tim?”
“Boss, I’m onto something really, really interesting here. There’s a trail of seemingly unrelated events leading to that mysterious tower coming down, which didn’t have a damn thing to do with metal fatigue. I need to take a road trip.”
“A road trip? Shit! I was told all these expensive do-dad computer research things would save the paper money on travel. What happened to that?”
“It’s only to College Station, boss. I’ll even drive my own car. Just a few days. I think I’ll hand you one of the biggest stories the paper has ever printed when I get back.”
The editor rubbed his chin, finally nodding. “Okay, Tim, but don’t hit me with a huge bar tab on your expense report. And keep in touch.”
Day 6
Dusty opened his eyes, and for a moment believed he’d been captured and sentenced to life in a prison with an “Easter wonderland explosion” decorating theme. A devilish design, his cell was guaranteed to torture the typical male prisoner for eternity.
Splashes of pastel yellows and blues filled his blurry vision, the spring holiday hues encompassing everything from the comforter covering his prone body, to the pillowcase supporting his weary head. The wallpaper depicted colonies of rabbits sporting annoyingly unfashionable spring bonnets, delivering baskets overflowing with brightly colored eggs. Flowers sprouted throughout the landscape but were especially thickly woven into the white picket fence that anchored the design. He wondered if the guards had confiscated his belt, and if not, was the leather strap long enough to stretch a neck – his neck.
Still, the mattress was comfortable for a penitentiary. That soft, billowy feeling beneath him evaporated when he tried to shift his bed-weary frame. Sharp pains reminded him of his recent encounter with the stack of pallets, and then the rest of his recent history flooded his short-term memory.
Despite the stabbing pains running up his torso, his first thought was of the rail gun. The backpack, complete with super weapon, was leaning against the wall nearby. That anxiety dismissed, he decided to take advantage of being propped on one elbow and studied his surroundings in detail.
On the nightstand was a pitcher of orange juice, a small tumbler, and a note. It read:
Dusty,
You’re in a client’s home that I’m getting ready to list on the market. The owners have been transferred overseas and won’t return. Don’t make a mess.
If you bleed on anything, you will have to pay for it. Don’t make a mess.
Drink this orange juice. You’ve lost a lot of blood and probably feel like shit. There’s aspirin in the bathroom. Don’t make a mess.
Maria
He had to smile at her prose, the mixture of caring and scolding, a facet of her personality he’d grown to love.
He decided to follow her advice, pouring a glass of the lukewarm OJ and draining it in a few gulps. The effort was exhausting. His next feeble move was to examine his wound, but the exertion of pulling back the covers and raising his shirt was pointless. A heavy bandage was wrapped around his mid-section, the bulge of a thick compress covering the wounded area beneath. It was such a thorough job, he decided it might be unwise to rework Florence Nightingale’s apparent handiwork.
His body announced it was finished with the day’s activities, weakness and exhaustion the message in spades. Lying back, his last thought before going to sleep was of Maria. Did she still love him?
Patty answered the phone with her usual cheery voice, Maria half-listening because she’d forgotten to close the door.
The entire day had been a waste, much of the north side of Houston without power, customers canceling appointments by the handful. Warnings were on the radio and television – don’t drive unless it’s absolutely necessary. Despite everyone knowing the streets would be chaos without electric traffic signals, the helicopter news cameras showed endless video footage of the gridlock.
Patty didn’t bother with the intercom, choosing instead to appear at the door. “There’s an Eva Barns on line one. She says you are an old friend from Fort Davis, and she has an emergency.”
Maria tilted her head, the name from the past completely unexpected. What was this, she questioned, old home week?
Reaching for the receiver, she forced friendliness into her tone. “Eva! Why Eva Barns, how are you?”
“Hi Maria, I’m so sorry to bother you, but I don’t know who else to turn to. Hank’s been arrested, and his court appearance is in Houston. I’m on my way to your city right now, and I was wondering if you could make a recommendation on where I could stay. Hank and I aren’t exactly wealthy people, you know, and… well… I thought you might be able to recommend someplace safe and reasonable.”
Memories of her past life came flooding into Maria’s mind. Eva, such a kind and caring soul, taking care of the house after Anthony had been born. Eva bringing over home cooked meals when Maria had sprained her ankle, and Dusty was off in Oklahoma spraying crops. Eva – always there and never asking for anything in return.
“Eva Barns, how dare you ask such a question? You will stay at my home for as long as you need, and I won’t hear another word to the contrary.”
“That’s so kind of you, really it is. But I don’t want to bother you, and I’ve got my attorney with me. Her name is Grace Kennedy, and she’s helping me get this straightened out.”
The name caused the real estate broker’s interest to peak, her son relaying the dinner he had shared with his father and a nice lady named Grace who had recently moved to town.
>
“Is Grace from Fort Davis?”
“Why, yes. Yes, she is.”
“Well then,” announced Maria, “she’s like family. I’ve got plenty of room, too much really. I demand both of you stay at my place until this is all straightened out.”
“Are you sure, Maria?”
“Oh, believe me, Eva. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Now, grab a pencil, Eva. I’ll give you the address and my cell number.”
After hanging up the call, she sat and pondered what possible trouble Hank could have gotten into. Surely, it had something to do with Dusty’s recent endeavors – the two men being as close as they were. Having the chance to repay Eva’s kindness over the years made her feel better about the day. Besides, she wanted to meet this woman who turned her ex-husband’s head.
After checking into his hotel, Tim Crawford decided to visit the section of the campus where the bomb threat of a few days ago had occurred. He toured around several large facilities, including Anderson Hall and the administration building for the science department.
He had downloaded several pictures onto his pad computer, the visual references making it easier to navigate around the vicinity. After the familiarization tour, he headed for the campus newspaper’s office and a scheduled meeting with the student-reporter who had written the paper’s article covering the event.
The Battalion advertised itself as “The Student Voice of Texas A&M since 1893.” Crawford entered the paper’s modest offices where he was greeted by a friendly, young woman working the main phone. He introduced himself, explaining he had an appointment with Miss Wendy Hardin.
Much to Crawford’s surprise, the girl at the desk responded, “I’ve read a lot of your work, Mr. Crawford. The piece you did on the corruption at the Port of Houston was a classic.”
“Why, thank you.”
Nodding, she turned and yelled over the tops of the cubical, “Wendy, Mr. Crawford is here.”
The top of a blonde head appeared two rows back, Crawford following the girl’s progress as she approached.
