Secession: The Storm (10 page)

Regret at the loss of human life was quickly cast aside. “What fucking choice did we have?” someone else chimed in.

With the exception of the Texan, it became evident that every man in the room was having negative thoughts about his career, reputation, freedom, and future. Each individual’s emotions began feeding off the others, eventually building into a crescendo of convenient truth.

“We all acted legitimately,” flowed the conversational logic. They were the law, and the dead occupants of the house had resisted and then attacked them. Right was right.

Abe’s moaning from the floor again silenced the room, all of Ford’s team nervously glancing at each other, questioning what to do with the one non-member witness. Zach didn’t like the desperate expressions forming in their eyes.

“Since I didn’t see shit, I’ll take this man and go find him some medical care while you guys finish up here,” Zach stated.

Before anyone could answer, he managed to lift Abe onto his shoulders in the classic fireman’s carry, heading for the front door. No one stopped him.

Zach was three blocks away, straining under the weight of Abe’s unresponsive body, when he spied a small convoy of Humvees rolling down a cross street. Setting the still-unconscious man on the sidewalk, the ranger waved down the military vehicles with his badge flashing in plain sight.

After turning over his wounded charge to the military patrol for transport to a nearby medical facility, Zach found himself walking toward the sub-station. He desperately wanted to get back to the truck and away from the team. For some reason, he glanced over his shoulder, back at the house where it all went down.

A thick column of smoke was rising into the air, Zach having little doubt that the scene of the incident was now completely engulfed in flames. Sighing, he decided the officers were overreacting. Or were they?

Inside the Texan, tumultuous divide grew incrementally as he navigated through the devastation that was once the crown jewel of the South. Ford and the others were all good men, asked to do an impossible job in unforgiving circumstances. Zach could relate; recollections of his own little “indiscretion” with Tusk resurfacing.

The men he’d been patrolling with had been pressed to the brink of human endurance, thrust into a desolate, seemingly hopeless situation. They weren’t criminals by any measure, yet two people were dead. Two fathers, husbands… innocents who were only protecting their property and liberty.

But that’s just your opinion
, he thought.
The authorities here… the ones who serve this city think otherwise.

Zach couldn’t reach a conclusion, failed to span the chasm of his internal divide. He, too, was at the end of his rope, the travel, lack of sleep, and draconian surroundings taking their toll.

“I’ll find a quiet place to hide the truck,” he whispered. “I’ve got to get some sleep.”

Abe never saw what happened to his father and brother’s bodies – couldn’t recall being driven to the airport. Flashing, brief images of a stretcher came to the surface, and then a howling wind and sense of weightlessness.

His first clear recollection was of a man in an Army uniform pressing a cold stethoscope against his chest.

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asked.

“Been better,” Abe mumbled. “What happened? The police…. Where am I… my dad and brother?”

“You took a nasty blow to the head, sir,” the doctor began. “I don’t have any information about your family or what happened down in New Orleans. Right this moment, you’re at an emergency triage center in Baton Rouge. They flew you in on a helicopter about 15 minutes ago.”

The physician shined a bright light in Abe’s eyes, shaking his head. Turning to some unseen assistant, he said, “We’re looking at a pretty severe concussion here. I’ve got uneven dilation. Let’s get some x-rays ordered.”

The memories flooded Abe’s mind, visions of his father lying in a pool of blood, his brother’s chest being ripped wide open. He tried to rise from the cot, a strong pair of hands pushing him back down. His head was throbbing, lungs unable to pull in enough air.

“Murderers!” he screamed, trying again to move from the cot. “Those murdering sons of bitches!”

Through the trauma, Abe felt a sharp prick on his arm. He looked down to see someone poking him with a syringe of clear liquid. Almost instantly, a feeling of euphoria filled his previously troubled mind, and then the light began to fade.

After sleeping a few hours in the reclined driver’s seat, Zach was stiff and sore. Needing to stretch, use the facilities, and hopefully locate a cup of coffee, he wandered into the substation.

The duty officer noted his arrival, waving the visiting ranger over. Handing Zach a slip of paper, the NOPD lieutenant announced, “This came in for you a couple hours ago.”

Blinking the fog from his eyes, the Texan studied the cryptic message in a whisper. “Influx of refugees has halted. Number of potential refugees vastly overestimated. Report to Company E earliest. Current assignment canceled.”

“I think your commanders thought we were going to be sending another 50 or 60,000 people to Texas,” the duty officer observed. “We didn’t have quite as big a problem as we thought, so the invasion from Louisiana has stopped. Good news for everybody.”

Relieved, Zach decided that a steaming mug of java would taste even better now. He meandered through the maze of temporary desks and cubicles, following a cold trail of Styrofoam cups.

He discovered the pot, a two-inch thick black line of sludge in the bottom. Sniffing the brew, he tried to ascertain its age, and then settled on not caring.
Wine improves with age, maybe coffee does, too,
he conjectured.

He’d just finished pouring when he sensed someone standing close by. He peered up to see Sergeant Ford and one of the other NOPD officers. “Good morning, Ranger. Everything okay?”

“Is it morning?” Zach yawned, sipping the strong brew. “I had no idea.”

“I heard through the grapevine that your assignment’s been canceled. Heading back to Texas today?”

“Yup. Wish I could hang around to help you guys out a little…. You’ve got one hell of a job ahead of you, but my orders were explicit. You know how it is when they use the word, ‘Earliest.’”

Ford chuckled, and then his face became serious. “I’m filling out my report, Ranger Bass. I wanted to double-check… make sure you hadn’t recalled any additional details that I should note.”

“No, officially I have nothing to add. As I stated previously, I was the last man in and didn’t see much of anything.”

Ford smiled and nodded. Extending his hand, he said, “Well, good luck then.”

Zach accepted the offering but didn’t let go of the man’s hand. Instead, he pulled the NOPD officer close and whispered, “There was a crime committed at that house, Sergeant, and we both know it. The only reason I’m not sticking my foot in that sewer is because I don’t think you or the other men are the guilty parties. From my perspective, the numbskull who ordered the confiscation of private firearms should be charged with murder. And if you ever meet him, you’re welcome to let him know that I said so.”

Releasing his grip, Zach swallowed another mouthful of coffee and smiled at the stunned sergeant. “Good luck, Ford,” he said and headed for the truck. 

The prosecutor shoved the pile of documents across the courthouse table, his expression one that failed to mask his disgust. “This sickens me, Mr. Hendricks,” the state’s attorney hissed. “You should be locked away in a federal penitentiary, not walking free.”

“You call
this
justice?” Abe growled back. “Do you really believe
I’m
the criminal here? My father and brother were murdered, my family homestead burned to the ground to cover the acts of overzealous policemen and thugs. If you honestly believe
I
am the bad guy, then there is something horribly wrong with our system of justice.”

The government lawyer bared his teeth, moving forward in his chair as if he were going to lunge over the mahogany conference table and assault Abe. But he didn’t.

Taking a deep breath instead, he gathered himself and spoke calmly. “The Attorney General of Louisiana has agreed to drop all charges against you, Mr. Hendricks. In exchange, you will agree to dismiss your punitive actions against the city of New Orleans, Orleans Parish, and all involved in the alleged incident that occurred at your father’s home. In addition, all records, proceedings, depositions, and other evidence collected by each party will be destroyed. All official court documents are to be sealed.”

“And the gag order?” Abe’s attorney questioned.

“A federal judge will issue a gag order, instructing that all parties are never to disclose any of these proceedings in public or private,” the state attorney snapped, his voice seething with disdain. “Your record will be expunged, Mr. Hendricks.”

Even though he had been warned of the parameters of the impending offer, the government lawyer’s proposal spilled over Abe like a bucket of ice-cold water, awakening him to the stern reality of his situation. In that brief span of time, his last speck of hope was relinquished, the grim reality that he would never procure justice for his family settling like a rock on his chest. It was a head spinner, but on top of it all, Abe found himself being defamed, denigrated, disgraced. Now, the best that he could expect was to save himself. He couldn’t believe it had all come down to this.

“My record…” Abe mumbled, shaking his head to clear the fog of incredulity that clouded his thoughts.

“I’d like a few moments with my client,” Abe’s lawyer said. “In private.”

Without another word, the prosecutor rose and strode out of the room, leaving Abe, his counsel, and Kara staring at the pile of documents on the table. It was Abe who finally broke the silence.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he whispered. “Not in the United States… not in America.”

Kara reached across, gently squeezing her husband’s hand in support.

The lawyer’s tone was soft, “Abe, I know you don’t like this. I fully understand why you feel that justice isn’t being served, but this is the best possible outcome I can conceive. While it’s true these guys have a burr up their collective ass, in reality it’s much more than just our case. The city is in grave financial crisis, defending itself against an avalanche of lawsuits and legal actions. They’ll come after you if you continue to raise a stink, and we both know it.”

Abe nodded; he’d heard the argument before. It still wasn’t right. “My father and brother were slaughtered,” he protested. “They were shot down like a couple of dogs in the street. They died because the city issued an illegal order to confiscate weapons – an order that has since been ruled unconstitutional in federal court. And then… to make matters worse… the men who executed my family tried to cover up their heinous act by committing arson, intentionally setting a fire that burned my family homestead to the ground. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t feel like the scales of justice are tipped against me?”

But the odds
were
against him, a fact that everyone else seemed to grasp. Even the lawyer was melancholy, his eyes etched with a sadness deeper than the wrinkles that surrounded them. “I know, Abe. I understand your disappointment,” he lamented. “I sympathize with your case more than any other in the 30 years I’ve been practicing law. But the other side tells a different story. Even you admit your brother fired the first shot, and that your father was resisting the officers. We cannot prove our case. We cannot win. Here, look at these files.”

Abe watched as the counselor reached for a stack of folders residing on the table. He pulled the top one off and showed it to his client.

“Sergeant Roland ‘Butch’ Ford, New Orleans Police Department,” he began reading, “seventeen years a cop, four promotions, five awards for distinguished service, married 22 years, three children. A deacon in his church and on the board of directors for a major local charity. This isn’t the profile of a mass murderer, Abe.”

When Abe didn’t reply, the attorney pulled the second folder from the pile. “Master Sergeant Terrance P. Hull, Louisiana National Guard, U.S. Army Reserve. When he was with the regular Army, he served two tours in Iraq. Awarded the Bronze Star, Purple Heart, and three unit citations. Married, two children. A perfect service record and considered an upstanding citizen by everyone my investigators have interviewed. This man isn’t a criminal either, Abe. I could go on. All of the files are there.”

Kara leaned in close, kissing her husband on the cheek. “You can’t bring them back, Abe. I’m so very, very sorry this happened, but the truth is that they’re gone. And there’s nothing you can do to change that. If you choose to fight this, and somehow prevail, will seeing the men in those folders go to prison fix anything? Will ruining their lives make our lives any better?”

Still, he wouldn’t accept the cold, harsh reality of life. He scolded them, “I can’t believe you two. I can’t believe any of this is happening.”

“I’ve known this prosecutor for years, Abe,” the lawyer stated in a firm tone. “He believes you are the dangerous element here, honestly sees you as the ongoing threat to society. He will pursue the listed charges, and no one knows how a jury will find if the case goes to trial. It’s not worth the risk. Take his deal and go on with your life. The only thing worse than the men who killed your family going unpunished would be you losing your freedom.”

“What freedom?” Abe grunted.

The Orleans Parish, Office of the Prosecutor had charged Abe with numerous felonies and misdemeanors, including resisting arrest, conspiracy, assaulting a police officer, sedition, and accessory to attempted murder.

When Abe’s allegations had first surfaced, the NOPD had claimed that no record, report, or other evidence existed. Later, the city prepared a virtual menu of excuses for the missing documentation; citing the state of emergency, flood-damaged police stations, lack of computer access, and general mayhem. But to Abe, the answer was much simpler; the authorities were trying to cover up the events after Katrina.

Abe kept digging, the effort rewarded as small details began to emerge. Sergeant Ford had indeed filed a full report, including the death of Charles and Edward Hendricks. The officer’s account of the incident included statements by two other policemen and two members of the National Guard. Ford claimed that the resulting fire had been ignited during the gunfight.

Abe had pressed hard, poking copious holes in the handwritten report. The case seemed to finally gain momentum when his attorney was granted a subpoena to depose the witnesses. Abe was confident the felons’ accounts would never match given the pressure of formal interviews and statements.

But then the prosecutor struck back, filing an exhaustive list of charges that resulted in Abe’s arrest. The momentum of Abe’s lawsuit never regained traction again. Instead, the legal contest raged for over six months like two men arm-wrestling to a draw.

And then there were the legal bills. The government lawyers had filed a cacophony of meaningless motions, maneuvers designed to bury Abe’s legal team in a flood of paperwork deeper than Katrina’s storm surge had ever been. Whoever postulated that, “You can’t fight city hall,” must have realized that the government has much deeper pockets than its citizenry. Despite the insurance money from his father’s policy, if the dispute went to trial, Abe and Kara would face bankruptcy.

Abe sighed, shaking his head in disgust while reaching for the papers. He peered at Kara, wanting one last confirmation that she supported his signing of the offer. She smiled and nodded, whispering, “I love you, Abe. Let’s go back home and get on with our lives together.”

Abe began signing the papers, the scratching of his pen the only sound in the room.

He was putting his signature on those documents for a variety of reasons. Kara and he needed a life without an extended legal battle. What kind of marriage could they have if she were lying awake every night, worrying about her husband becoming a convict? They had dreams of a home and family, not an empty bank account and looming jail time.

Abe continued in silence, signing page after legal-page of paperwork.

Old Tom Henry didn’t believe in all-terrain vehicles, choosing instead to put his faith and trust in horseflesh, a well-worn saddle, and a bridle in his hand.

“Them gull-dern, gas-powered machines got no place on a proper ranch,” he’d informed Zach at the corral. “I know every mother’s son south of the panhandle uses those buggies to work their ranches, but I just can’t see it. Their constant buzzing commotion disturbs the livestock, and fuel is more expensive than hay.”

The old timer paused, moving to the other side of his mount to adjust the stirrup. “Two winters ago,” he continued, “a diamondback snuck up and kissed me on my right leg.” The ancient rancher then patted his mare gently on the neck, “Ole Daisy Mae here got me back to the house even though I was passed out in the saddle. Ain’t no fancy contraption from Japan going to do that for a man.”

It had been a while since Zach had ridden a horse, even longer since he’d steered one of the beasts over rough terrain. And rough it was.

The Lazy H ranch occupied some of the most cantankerous topography in Company E’s region, the property occupying a space near both Big Bend National Park and the Black Gap Wildlife Management Area.

“How did you find the body?” Zach asked.

“I didn’t,” replied the weathered, old rancher. “I lease this section to hunters from back east now and then. You should’ve seen those two greenhorns, racing up to the farmhouse like they were being chased by the devil and a herd of demons, all pale and shaky after finding the deceased. They were like a couple of schoolgirls who’d never seen a dead body before.”

Zach grunted, easily fashioning the image in his mind’s eye.

“Then they had the gall to look down on me, like I was some coldhearted, senile fool because I didn’t go rushing around like a freshly branded calf. I told ’em… we find corpses all the time around these parts. Ain’t no big deal. Ya know, the coyotes cut and run if they see the border patrol closing in, and sometimes they can’t round up all of their sheep again. We find them later… when the vultures are circling.”

Zach wasn’t surprised. Ranchers along the Rio Grande frequently happened across dead immigrants whose chosen path to freedom wound through some of the most desolate landscapes in North America. Most died from dehydration; some succumbed to violence.

The two men rode along silently, climbing ever higher into the craggy, steep cliffs. The trail was narrow, barely wide enough for a single mount to pass. Tom caught the ranger peering over the edge, a 70-foot sheer drop just inches away.