The deputy called over the female deputy who Sloane had spoken with earlier that morning and the two had a brief conversation before he left. Forty-five minutes later a uniformed sheriff’s officer with more gray in his hair hustled in, stopping to give the deputy at the desk a look. The woman pointed to where Tom Molia sat.
“Detective Molia?” Molia stood and came to the bars. “I’m Sheriff Matt Barnes.” Barnes looked to be early to midfifties, hair cut short on the sides, longer on top, and darkened with some gel product. Molia hoped the additional worry lines on a well-tanned face and the few more pounds on Barnes’s frame meant he had more experience and common sense than his deputies. Maybe even someone to reason with. “One of my deputies called and told me about your circumstances. I took the morning off to get in a little fishing with my son.”
“I’m sorry if you had to cut short your fishing trip,” Molia said, hoping it meant Barnes was sympathetic to their plight. “And any assistance you might be able to provide would be appreciated.”
“Well, the fish weren’t biting all that much this morning anyway.”
He looked to Sloane, who had come to the bars and introduced himself. “First thing we can do is get you both something to eat while I walk over to the courthouse and find out the lay of the land.”
“I can tell you the lay of the land,” Molia said. “They arrested, tried, and convicted our sons, and when we questioned it, Judge Earl held us in contempt. What kind of judicial system are you running around here, Matt? I’ve never seen anything like this in my life.”
Barnes scratched an itch at the back of his neck and grimaced. “Yeah, Judge Earl has a short fuse.”
“Judge Earl is a megalomaniac,” Molia said.
“What about our sons?” Sloane asked. “Boykin said he sentenced them to some juvenile facility.”
“That would be Fresh Start,” Barnes said.
“Fresh what?” Molia asked.
“Fresh Start. It’s a juvenile detention camp about an hour from here up in the mountains.”
“You mean a boot camp?” Molia asked, familiar with the facilities that used drill sergeants and scared-straight tactics on juvenile offenders.
Barnes seemed to be considering his answer. “Fresh Start has certain military-style elements to it, but it also has year-round educational programs and counseling; it’s for teens convicted of nonviolent offenses or referred by their parents.”
“Voluntarily?” Sloane asked.
Barnes nodded. “Parents can’t control their sons; they pay to have them sent to Fresh Start to get straightened out. I know it’s not much consolation, but as far as these kinds of places go, it’s not a bad situation for your boys.”
“Not a bad situation? They had to be in and out of there in less than twenty minutes. That’s not justice.”
“Yeah, Earl doesn’t like to waste time.”
Sloane scoffed. “God forbid someone should slow him down with minor inconveniences like constitutional rights.”
“I hope you didn’t make that suggestion to Judge Earl.”
“He said they waived their right to a trial and to an attorney,” Molia said, giving Sloane a look intended to convey that they needed Barnes as an ally.
“And you don’t think so?”
“Whether we think they did or not is irrelevant, Matt. These are boys.”
“Pretty serious crimes though.”
“Which is why it was even more important for us to be there in the courtroom with them,” Molia said. “And we would have been if one of your officers hadn’t pulled us over. If you got a complaint department point me in the direction because I have a list at the moment.” Molia said it with a smile.
“Who pulled you over?”
“The name was Wade, Carl Wade.”
Barnes gave a small shake of the head and his face pinched, like he’d just smelled something distasteful. “Wade is an ass, and he’s not one of mine. Truluck has its own private police force. They have no jurisdiction outside the city limits.”
“Yeah? Well, somebody might want to remind him because he pulled us over on the way to the courthouse,” Molia said, the situation becoming more clear.
“What’s a private police force?” Sloane asked.
Molia turned to explain. “Just what it sounds like. They’re hired, sometimes by a company, sometimes a private homeowners’ association. Other times it can be the citizens of an entire town.”
“Security guards?” Sloane asked.
“Not always,” Molia said. “They can be granted official police powers in the particular jurisdiction they serve and do things like patrol city streets, respond to 911 calls, and hand out parking and speeding tickets.”
“So they’re police officers?” Sloane asked.
“Hardly,” Molia said, looking to Barnes for confirmation. “My understanding is they don’t attend the academy.”
Barnes chipped in. “They haven’t had any formal training, but inside the Truluck city limits, they’re empowered to enforce the laws. With California on the verge of bankruptcy and budget cuts in the police and fire departments I suspect we’re going to see more of
this type of thing. Word out of Sacramento is that all of Winchester County is on the chopping block. They’re calling it a consolidation of resources, but what it means in practical terms is fewer police and firefighters covering a whole lot more territory. The alternative is private police forces and volunteer fire departments.”
“Who pays for it if the state is bankrupt?” Sloane asked. “It’s got to cost money.”
“It does. In this case it’s the citizens of Truluck through a business tax, though Victor Dillon subsidizes the expense,” Barnes said.
“Who’s Victor Dillon?” Molia asked.
“Sorry,” Barnes said. “I take some things for granted around here. Dillon owns the Gold Rush Brewery just outside Truluck. You might have seen signs for it driving in. He bought it about twenty years ago when it was failing and built it back up. Made a fortune. Since then he’s pretty much bought up all the land around it to grow his hops, including Truluck.”
“He owns the whole town?” Sloane asked.
“Every building.”
“I thought it was a historical landmark?” Molia asked.
“That was Dillon’s doing.” Barnes pointed to his temple. “You get the state to make the town a historical landmark, slap a coat of paint on the buildings, and it increases the tourists. More tourists means more business. Everyone in Truluck either leases space from or works directly for Victor Dillon, and they pay a tax to support a private police force.”
Molia rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s why they didn’t make a phone call,” Molia said. “How T.J. and Jake could be brought before a judge so quickly. Wade and his pals don’t work for the citizens of the state, so those small things you mentioned like due process and civil rights don’t concern them like they do the rest of us.”
“Technically they aren’t public servants,” Barnes added.
“So constitutional safeguards just get tossed out the window?” Sloane asked.
“Pretty much,” Molia said. “They can’t be sued for civil rights violations.” Another thought came to him and he turned his attention back to Barnes. “Why would a town like Truluck need its own police force? I can’t imagine it has much crime.”
“Ordinarily, it doesn’t,” Barnes said. “Just makes everyone feel better, I guess. Dillon likes things run orderly.”
“Sounds like a common trait around here,” Molia said.
Barnes nodded. “Between us girls, I hear you. And I don’t much care for the way Judge Earl does things at times, but he’s the law in Winchester County, has been for seventeen years, and that’s not likely to end before I either put in my thirty and retire or the state goes through with their consolidation and puts me out to pasture. So we deal with it best we can.”
“I intend to deal with it,” Sloane said, “as soon as I get out.”
Barnes grimaced, as if the bad smell had returned. “Can I make a suggestion? Hold off a bit longer on that kind of talk. Judge Earl’s got a short fuse, but it tends to burn down just as quick. After he’s had a chance to simmer a while he calms and I can usually talk sense to him. If he thinks he’s getting pushed you’ll only relight his fuse. Let me have one of my deputies get you something to eat and drink and I’ll take a walk over and assess the situation, like I said. I’ll talk to Archibald Pike. He’s the county prosecutor and a reasonable enough fellow. I doubt seriously he wants to prosecute an officer of the law on a contempt charge, and between the two of us, I think we’ll be able to convince Judge Earl to let this one go.”
Molia looked to Sloane, who gave a resigned shrug. Under the circumstances they didn’t have much choice.
F
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ACILITY
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Jake’s head bounced against the window. He opened his eyes and sat up, fighting to stay awake. Officer Bradley ground the gears and the bus lurched as it slowed into another bend in the road. Coming out of the turn, Bradley shifted again, this time the engine revving as the bus ascended a steep grade, continuing to pitch and bounce up the mountain. Jake estimated the ride to have been forty-five minutes, maybe an hour, when Bradley came to a complete stop to make a hard left and the bus left the asphalt for dirt. The new road wasn’t nearly as steep, but the tires kicked up a cloud of reddish
orange dust that penetrated the grates and left a fine layer of soot on the windows.
Jake had fought to stay awake and to pay attention to the drive in case he needed to tell David where they’d been taken, but as uncomfortable as the ride had been, the suffocating heat made it near impossible to keep his eyes open. Perspiration dripped down his face and neck and beaded on his forearms until the droplets trickled off his skin. When he sat forward he felt his shirt peel away from the vinyl seat. The stale air held the bitter odor of perspiring bodies that had ridden the bus before them and was as thick as a sauna. Two seats in front of him, T.J.’s head pitched and rolled about his shoulders. Aaron had his head back, asleep. Atkins, however, sat ramrod straight in his front seat, like a mannequin anchored in place, impervious to the conditions.
After what Jake estimated to be another ten minutes on the dirt road, the bus came to a complete stop. Through the dust-covered windows and diamond-shaped holes in the grate Jake read a bronze plaque mounted to a large boulder.
FRESH START
YOUTH TRAINING FACILITY
2009
A ten-foot-high chain-link fence rose above the boulder and extended as far as Jake could see down the road, barbed wire spiraling across the top. Behind it, in the distance, Jake saw a rectangular patch of dirt about the size of a football field and the metal roofs of buildings glinting in the sun. Bradley had the side window open, in conversation with a guard in a booth. After a moment the gate opened, Bradley ground the gearshift, and the bus lurched forward. The buildings became more distinct—squat, one-story cement block structures with green corrugated tin roofs along the southern perimeter of the dirt field. Some of the buildings were larger than others, likely to hold group activities. Jake had spent two weeks at a soccer camp in Washington State at what had been a former military base. The open field and barracks had been similarly
situated, though the field had been green grass, and no fence caged them in. To the east he noted basketball hoops that looked reasonably new, chain nets hanging from orange rims, and in the northeast corner sat a series of wooden walls, cargo nets and poles he quickly deduced to be an obstacle course of some kind. He’d been expecting the worst but now didn’t think the camp would be so bad, at least not so bad he couldn’t handle it until David got them out.
When the bus came to a stop Atkins walked down the aisle, unlocking their chains and removing their handcuffs, issuing instructions. “When the doors open you will exit the bus single file. You will not speak. You will proceed to the front of the bus and await further orders.”
Jake rubbed where the handcuffs had cut into his skin and flexed his wrists to encourage the flow of blood to his fingers. When he stood his legs felt weak. T.J. stumbled ahead of him. Stepping from the bus Jake lifted a hand to deflect the harsh glare of the sun. He did not see anyone else in the camp.
“Eyes front.” Atkins stood with his hands behind his back, as if considering Jake and T.J. for the first time. Officer Bradley had disappeared inside the nearest building, taking Aaron with him.
“Inside this gated facility you have no rights. You have forfeited your rights. The Constitution does not apply here. Every right, every privilege must be earned. You will adhere to a strict schedule. You will wake when you are told to wake, eat when you are told to eat, go to school when you are directed, exercise when you are told to exercise, and piss, shit, and shave when told to piss, shit, and shave. Am I making myself clear?”
Jake and T.J. acknowledged him in unison. “Yes, Officer Atkins.”
He cupped his ear and leaned in, waiting like some wannabe drill sergeant, but Jake told himself he’d play along. They repeated the mantra, only louder. “Yes, Officer Atkins.” Jake’s voice cracked, his throat raw and dry.
Atkins straightened. “You will receive daily work assignments. Points will be earned when you complete your task on time. Demerits will be given when you fail. When you earn points you earn
privileges. When you earn demerits you earn punishment. You own nothing, possess nothing, and have rights to nothing.” Atkins took two steps toward them. “Those clothes no longer belong to you. They are mine.” He waited, though for what Jake had no idea. T.J. turned and glanced at him, equally puzzled. Then Atkins rushed at them, yelling, “What are you doing wearing my clothes? Remove them! Get them off!”
Jake and T.J. stumbled to remove their shoes and socks, hopping from leg to leg to remove their pants, Atkins yelling a stream of instructions at them. They pulled their shirts over their heads and tossed them also onto the dirt, standing in their underwear.
Atkins shouted, “When an order is given you will follow it without hesitation or question. Plank.”