Chapter Sixty–One
Triage
“Ain't that some shit,” Smokey said.
Tonic puffed his cheeks and let the air go. “I guess we’d better hurry up and find this guy.”
It struck Finn exactly as his partner had intended it, and a week’s tension burst from him in runaway laughter. Smokey chuckled too but didn’t grasp the full scope of the joke. They had run out of options. They were at the point now where their best lead was a drunk who tried to bisect his Buick with a concrete scalpel. If they were
lucky
, the drunk guy might have seen Ray get into a car in the city in the night in the snow.
More lucky
would entertain the possibility that he’d actually seen where that car turned off of the highway, but in a city like D.C., one turn only led to another. It was a lost cause. They had neither the manpower nor the budget to track down an electronic signal, computer or telephone or whatever. Their friends at the FBI, however, did have that kind of capability, at least to some extent, and it was an altogether depressing thought to wish them well in solving the case of the fucking decade, one that been dropped into their laps.
The laughing faded away and was replaced by this understanding. Finn voiced it first, “We’re fucked.”
“Maybe your boy will have a change of heart and give you a call?” Smokey gestured to the chair where Ray had been sitting not long ago.
“I’m guessing the hand cuffs might take care of that angle,” Tonic said.
“And the small green rectangles that he’ll exchange for a beach house in Goa, or New Delhi, or anywhere."
Smokey nodded. The cops had groomed Ray to be their insider with the media but things had clearly gotten out of hand. There was between zero and not much hope that that kid would give up this kind of opportunity.
“Do they have a beach in New Delhi?”
Chapter Sixty–Two
Trial
Opening statements, as promised, began at the top of the hour.
Meek was seated at his makeshift desk, but the defendants were now again upright in their chairs. The lights burned, the air was rank, and it was hard for Seth to imagine a court room in any third world dictatorship being much more horrifying than this one, but… it was good enough for those it served. He was sweating in his suit, aching from one end of his body to the other, and a diet of sodas and bagels was taking its toll, but all in all he was still much better off than the two before him. Probably a little better than poor ol’ Ray too, but this was only because he knew how this would end… Ray was still in the dark.
“I think that we’ve covered a great deal of my opening statements already. I’ve shown evidence that in any other courtroom would probably have been withheld until later. I’ve gone out of sequence, and changed things based on this trial’s unusual circumstances. In short, I’ve really messed up the process. However, in the end I don’t think this will matter.” He wiped sweat from under his eyes one by one. "Because in this case even the most inept of lawyers could just sit back and let the evidence speak for itself.”
“I’ve been reading the messages left on the forum, and you’ll forgive me if I haven’t had time to reply. This has been called historic, demonic, heroic, immoral. I’m a sinner, an opportunist. A vigilante, a revolutionary. A few days ago I was just Seth, the guy who sat in the third cubical. I wish I could be again.”
“When this is over though, there’s no life for me, and I know it. However, had I not done something… something to make this right…” he trailed off. Words swirled and he feared for a moment that he’d lose all track of his thoughts. The heat bore in on him, the smell, the whole oppressive horror of it all. “I wanted to make it right, and with the help of the grand jury, this is what I intend to do.”
“Now,” he continued. "The defendants will also have a chance to make opening statements. Drawn by lot, Derek Siclo will speak first. There will be no counsel for either party. They will be allowed to speak for themselves and say what they wish for no more than one half of an hour.”
Seth cut the camera on him and doused the lights. Ray, who was catching some of the direct heat from the lamps was visibly relieved. Seth apologized, “It won’t be long now.” Ray nodded. He’d rebounded a bit in the last hour. It was nice to have an island, no matter how small, to stare at when you’d been floating in the middle of an ocean for days. He could see the same look on the faces of his defendants. Dreams of escape had long ago been dashed by plywood and duct tape, but redemption lay just beyond that lens if they played their cards right.
Seth manipulated the camera until it was just Derek’s blanched out face filling the screen. He was nothing special to look at on a good day – this was not one of those days – and the effect was almost frightening. Seth approached, removed the single strip of duct tape that had kept the proceedings free of disruption thus far, and said, "The defendant, Derek Siclo, has thirty minutes for opening statements.”
*
* *
“This should be interesting,” Tonic said.
Smokey grunted, “I dealt with little fuckers like this all the time when I was a teacher. They never knew when to shut up, always digging holes.” He gestured with his pre–noon beer and spilled a little on the poker table. He ignored his own sin and watched the screen.
Finn, for one, was somewhat relieved to be at this point. There wasn’t much that they could do but watch. He’d been trying all morning to get a track on Hack, but the guy was very scarce. They had a car at his apartment, one at the JHS building, and another one on standby if anything turned up. Being a spectator was irritating, but simple. So he drank his coffee and let Tonic handle the chatter and random speculation while his mind continued to grind.
* * *
Bolo looked at the camera, “I’m not sayin’ nothin’ ‘till I get a real lawyer.”
“You sure?” the world heard Seth ask from a couple of feet away.
The kid hesitated, cast a glance to the side, and then said, “Yeah. Fuck y’all, this ain’t right.”
“This is well within your rights,” Seth said. He swung the little camera over to Saul and took a moment to adjust it in place. “The defendant Saul R. Brown will now have thirty minutes to make an opening statement.” The camera warbled in and out of focus once and then settled on the young face. Most of the blood was gone, having mingled with sweat and run down the back of the kid's neck. The tape was pulled off to reveal cracked, swollen lips. His eyes were focused; dark pools that reflected the lights from above, he had by nature a great deal more charisma than his counterpart. He opened his mouth, and worked his jaw around. “Can I have some water?” he croaked. Seth rose, popped a soda, and after the kid opened his mouth like a baby bird, dribbled it inside. It seemed to absorb right into his skin, and Meek kept letting him He sputtered once, and then coughed, leaving little blurry beads of soda on the camera lens.
“Thanks,” he said, still hoarse, but understandable. “I got some on your camera Mr. Seth.”
* * *
“Mr. Seth!” Smokey said. "Shit.”
Finn said nothing. He’d watched this kid’s mother on the bar television before he’d gone to sleep last night. Tonic, as far as he knew, hadn’t seen the interview yet. She bawled and bawled about her baby boy, praying for him to be released, offering herself in his behalf. It was pitiful and moving, and he couldn’t help but think that Meek had encouraged it by making certain that they gave their full names and addresses. Why, he couldn’t fathom, but for whatever reason Meek was going out of his way to make them all seem more… real. There was no denying that he was mistreating them. They looked like a fucking hostage tape, beaten, starved, bound and gagged. They looked like victims. Of course, so did Meek, but he wasn’t helping his case much this way. Still, the tape he’d played of the two was as damning as they came. Close ups, their voices, the gunshots, the rape, the blood and gore, it was all there and undeniably it was them.
James Finny watched the screen, but his mind was working something over. Motivation was easy… but intent? He looked over at Tonic as he watched the screen, and his partner caught his stare.
“What?” he asked, looking back to the screen.
“Why’s he doing it this way?”
“’Cause they did what they did,” Smokey answered for all of them.
“Doesn’t quite figure…” Finn said.
Now Tonic was watching his partner.
* * *
At Fort Meade Tanner poured over his computer monitor tracing smudges with his finger.
There.
He didn't move for three minutes… scarcely breathing for fear of losing his train of thought. His finger hovered on his screen… "Maybe… maybe here…" he breathed, and only then took his eyes off of the code to make a note.
* * *
Seth wiped the lens and said, “You have thirty minutes.”
The kid licked his lips and then began.
“All that on the tape, that was me. I was in that house, and I saw them girls die. I tried to kill Mr. Seth too. He rolled up on me and I tried to shoot ‘em, but the gun didn’t work’sall. I didn’t kill nobody, and I didn’t rape nobody, nothin’ like that.” He hesitated and then looked away from the camera, “Do I get another time to talk later too? It was clear from the kid’s expression that Meek had nodded from somewhere off camera. “Aight then, thas all I guess for now.”
“Very well,” Meek could be heard. "Court will adjourn for ten minutes and then address the prosecution’s case against the defendants. The cameras went blank and the networks went crazy.
Chapter Sixty–Three
Trigger
“This oughta be like the easiest prosecution in the history of lawyerin’,’ Smokey rose and offered to go gather more drinks for everyone. “Play the tape, pull the trigger.”
Finn and Tonic were left looking at the blank screens.
“He’s sure as hell not winning points by letting that kid carry on with the puppy dog routine,” Finn said finally. “By beatin’ the shit out of ‘em and then sticking a camera in their faces. I dunno if I believe the whole shock collar thing, but I did see that kid shut the hell up and so far that’s been damn hard to accomplish. That’s torture. I mean…” Finn rubbed his face with both hands. “Meek is fucked. There ain’t gonna be a parade when he walks outta there. He’s going to prison.”
“Does he deserve that?” Tonic dished up some more for his partner to chew on.
“Oh fuck yeah. He’s trampled the Constitution, tortured
kids
, kidnapped 'em… and put it all on television. Stick a fork in that guy, he’s done.”
“Even after what they did?”
“Yeah,” Finn said right away. "Even after.”
Tonic nodded. It was their business – they found people who had broken the law and turned them over to the system. Only this time, they'd found the guy, only to let curiosity have its way. Now, he’d created his own system. They both knew what they would have done in Meek's place. It wouldn’t have been fancy like his operation here, but it would have garnered the same result. Two bangers, regardless of age, would have wound up splattered all over their corner. Track them down, draw a bead, pull the trigger. How could anything so simple be so complex?
“Maybe that’s what’s wrong with this whole thing,” Tonic said. “Meek’s showing us the black and white fantasy and we’re buying into it.”
“Meaning?”
“He’s showing us a world that we all dream about, ‘specially cops. In Meek’s world it’s all yes or no, trial or no trial. This guy fucked up so he gets what he deserves. Rape and murder and torture is punished by the same damn thing. In that world, it’s our
inherent right
to take revenge… to get a little satisfaction.”
Finn was watching his partner with a wholly neutral expression, head in the palm of his hand, just watching. “But what? We don’t get the right to a trial?”
“Exactly. There
is
no black and white world. It’s pure fantasy. It’s human nature to want revenge, but it’s civilization to give everyone a fair shake. But people are tired of it all. There are so many pending cases that we forget about some guy who buries a half-dozen kids in his yard until we hear on the news that he was acquitted because there was reasonable doubt. What the fuck? Then the day after that there’s something else. So many trials, so much red tape… everyone getting a fair shake seems like a fantasy too."
* * *
The screens flared about the time that Smokey came back in with his mellow voice and trio of drinks. He slid into his chair like the anxious bachelor, ready for the next round of a title fight. “Did I miss anything?”
“You’d probably get better coverage by watching it on the TV,” Tonic said.
“Nah, all those people want to do is comment. Talk talk talk right over the top of what’s going on, it’s annoying. It’s better watching it on the computer where they can’t mess with it.”
* * *
The camera was once again on Meek. It had been zoomed out a bit, though it was unclear whether this was on accident or by design. His hands were flat on a piece of board, some papers, a cell phone, and a pen all neatly arranged in between. He cleared his throat, and just over four hundred million heard it live.
“The prosecution’s case is simple. I’ve entered unto the record the videotape of the defendants in my home, raping and murdering my family, though because it’s important, I’ll replay that tape again now in full. It runs for approximately twelve minutes.”
The networks were ready this time. There was no cutting away from this, and during the brief pause that Meek afforded them, “viewer discretion” signs came up on screen and anchors spoke with authority about what was about to be seen.
This time, there was no split screen, it was just the tape in all of its high definition glory. Just over a dozen minutes of malice.
Ray sat, hands still, his eyes on Seth. Meek wasn’t watching this time, instead his gaze had fallen upon the far wall, unfocused and quiet until the tape had played out. In his mind, he was searching his code, wondering about the first attack. It couldn't be long now.
* * *
FBI techs had been working hard to track down any telephones linked to the two kidnapping victims, and while Saul’s mother was cooperative, it was clear that she had little true knowledge of what her son did on a daily basis. Certainly she was in no position to buy the kid a cell. The Siclo household, likewise, was in no position, or … condition, to get their son a telephone. They’d generated a list, none the less, of approximately thirty mobile phones that might be associated with the Widmore Crew, most of which were being used on an hour by hour basis. Most they had tracked to the cell mast just north of the neighborhood, others were out and about but much harder to actually track down. And a half dozen were silent. Many were phones that were simply used and thrown away. Still there was a chance that one of these was Derek Siclo’s phone, and that at some point Meek might turn it on. Evidently, he had and it pinged on several masts, but prior to the point where this had become an internationally watched frenzy, and thus also prior to the point where the “get all of the techs you need” clause had kicked in from the Director. Even with a fantasy league of agents, tracing a signal like that in a city like D.C. was a very long shot indeed – still, it was an option, and they kept at it. The FBI had no equal when it came to electronic surveillance.
Predictably, it had been extraordinarily difficult to even
broach
the possibility that NSA might be more aptly suited to handle the encryption aspect of this case. And while it was distantly comforting that the NSA firewalls were absolutely solid, it was frustrating as hell to have to step back and wait for help from anyone. So they kept playing the hands dealt, and mulled over possibilities. If there was anything that they could do, they'd be ready for it as it was their nature to over engineer their projects. If a cell signal hit, if one of their techs suddenly came up with a trace route to Meek's location, even an
approximate
location, they'd have people there. And it wouldn't take long.
The black eye that this would undoubtedly bring to the intelligence community as a whole was looming large in the minds of those who were already imagining opening statements to Senate sub–committees. Thus, the restrictions were being removed, agents called in, and briefings made to get everyone up to speed.
And a call was made to HRT at Quantico.
"Bring everyone in," Able said as he strode into the team room. Heads came up. This was a line most often used as a joke, as the men and women of the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team trained daily and were by their very nature always "in."
"What's up Ernie?" the operators in the room already had a good idea, but as was often the case, bad things seemed to come in threes and it wasn't unusual for them to gear up for one operation only to be flown in an entirely different direction.
"The D.C. operation," Ernie Able said and took a seat at the team table. As with many elite units, the HRT operators were not sticklers for the many formalities associated with rank. "We're on standby, but if any of the nerdists get a hit, we'll go. Aviation is up to speed and ready, the folks out at Harvey Point are on recall, and I can see that you slackers are good to go too. Flight time into D.C. is thirty–two minutes, but I wouldn't be surprised if we end up orbiting and doing in–flights considering how hot this is getting. So go poty now, we're not pulling over."
There were smiles all around because they were going into the field. All of them had discussed the Trial. The legality of what this Meek character was doing aside, it was clear that this wasn't quite as cut and dried as something like Ruby Ridge or Waco. It felt like perhaps they were rescuing the wrong people. Still, they'd do their job – perfectly – and if given a chance to get on the ground with Seth Meek, they had no doubt that they would either apprehend or dispatch him without missing a beat.
Twelve minutes later they were walking out to the pair of UH–60 helicopters in order to fulfill the 'hurry up and wait' clause of their government contracts.
*
* *
The detectives watched again in silence – they studied everything for the thousandth time. Grainy and bouncy, but clear enough to view Derek Siclo’s white buttocks as he raped Emily Meek. The film had the feel of an imbedded reporter in combat. The camera jerked with the concussion of the shots, and was muted by the sudden crack of the pistol, but it also recorded with appalling clarity events that were mere inches away. Most of the five hundred million people watching had never seen the result of a gunshot to the head, and this was made all that much more abhorrent by the undeniable beauty and innocence of the eight year old victim.
The majority of the audio sounded like it has been recorded inside of a shoebox full of crumpled papers, but it did reveal something interesting, the words of Saul Brown. He was the closest to the telephone as he’d been holding it, and his voice was almost perfectly clear. A ghostly voice–over in the language of a kid; commentary on matters that no child should ever have to understand.
* * *
“What’s he sayin’? I've never been able to understand it,” Smokey asked.
Both detectives had already run the tape through enough filters to isolate the slightest of sounds. “It’s a prayer,” Finn said looking away from the screen. "It’s a goddamned prayer. 'Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom his love commits me here…'”
* * *
Meek reappeared on the screen. Stone faced, peering right into the camera, it was as if he had surprised himself by turning it back on. He looked back down at his notes after a moment and said, “What I do not have at this point, is the 911 call that my wife may have made prior to her death, though if it does exist, I’m sure that the networks would be more than happy to play it for you all now. Meek went back to his notes, and tapped at his computer while CNN did just that. The other broadcasters scrambled to queue the tape, and had it running by the time that Seth looked back up.
“I’ve prepared four photographs of the defendants from the videotape for you to compare to their images here and now.” He brought these up on screen: Side by side shots, one of excited faces from the tape, the other of the two as they sat in the basement. There was no mistaking their identities.
“I think that we’ve established that both defendants were at the scene and that both participated at the scene to varying degrees. A pregnant mother and her children were murdered by these defendants. I’ve presented this in video with audio that supports the fact that this is the case. They did it, there is no doubt, and you’ve all seen them in the act.”
Meek paused, and shuffled papers.
“Now, there are some differences between these two defendants as I’m sure many of you have noted. Derek Siclo is obviously guilty, he has again and again shown himself to be less than intelligent, hateful, and vile. He is, in my opinion, exactly the sort of person who should take one for the team and kill himself for the good of the human race. He is under the age of eighteen, which means nothing except in the strictest legal sense. He is not, however, an animal. I want to stress this because Derek Siclo
knew
what he was doing and
enjoyed
it. He is a human being, and therefore, subject to retribution.”
“In the case of Saul Brown, more of you have expressed a hesitancy to seek the death penalty.” Seth picked up a pile of papers and read, “
He’s just a little boy trying to be honest about a mistake, he shouldn’t have to die at the hands of a maniac because of it
.”