“Please do,” she replied in a snide tone.
“It refers to preexisting federal law, specifically, United States Code, Title Eighteen, which articulates the rules of criminal procedure. There are members of the community who were practicing attorneys, back before, as you should already know. As was recently done, if a trial is to take place, these lawyers, real lawyers, will fill the appropriate briefs and motions, and, if necessary, they will fill the roles of presiding counsel and judge. If a person is found guilty, there will be a sentencing hearing and the acting judge imposes the sentence. So, the answer to your question is, the trial judge is the person who decides if the death penalty is imposed.”
I did not know why she was talking about the death penalty. It was not even on the table for the upcoming trial. I thought my explanation and indirect rebuke would have slowed her down, but I was wrong.
“How many lawsuits have been filed, Zachary?” she asked.
Now she was talking about lawsuits. How in the hell did we get started on civil litigation? I looked over at the vice president, but he was no help. Oh, and she called me Zachary. Not Zach, not Zachariah, not Director Gunderson. She did it on purpose, a passive-aggressive ploy. Perhaps she was trying to provoke me as well.
I did not correct her on my name, nor did I argue with her about going off on a tangent. I figured if I simply answered her questions she’d eventually run out of steam and this nonsense would end.
“As of this date, none. As everyone should already know, if a citizen of the Mount Weather community has a problem of a minor or non-criminal nature, a complaint or petition may be filed.”
“What happens then?” she asked.
“The complaint is resolved through arbitration.”
“Aren’t you the arbitrator? You are the person who makes these life or death decisions, am I correct?” she asked. I wasn’t sure where she was going with this.
“I think calling these decisions life or death is an exaggeration, but in answer to your question, I am an alternative arbitrator. Senator Connie Nelson is the presiding arbitrator. If I may say so, I am more of an apprentice of sorts. Senator Nelson is an accomplished and knowledgeable lawyer. He had an extremely successful career in law before something terrible happened in his life. He apparently incurred some type of brain damage and decided to become a politician.”
There were several guffaws of laughter in the audience—even Rhinehart cracked a smile. Connie threw up his hands in feigned indignation.
“In addition to his duties as a senator, he has managed our arbitration program and successfully resolved many issues. Before you ask, his decisions are not necessarily final, as there is a system of checks and balances in place. President Stark personally reviews the final disposition of all cases. If anyone disagrees with the result of the arbitration, they can also appeal to the president and a full trial may be deemed necessary. If this occurs, a trial is held in which the Federal Rules of Civil Procedure are adhered to.”
“How many lawsuits have been filed?” she asked.
“As of this date, none,” I answered.
“None at all? Why, this is surely another indicator that the civil rights of the citizens here are being oppressed. Am I right?” She looked out at the audience again, seeking out their agreement.
“I must disagree with you, Senator. The lack of lawsuits filed is in fact a strong indicator of how successful the arbitration process is.”
She paused a moment as the older butt-sniffer whispered something in her ear. While they were conversing, Senator Duckworth raised his hand. Rhinehart quickly recognized him.
“Director Gunderson, I am curious. How many complaints have been resolved through the arbitration process since the implementation of it at Mount Weather? That is, if you know?”
“A total of two hundred and eleven,” I replied.
“Two hundred and eleven successful cases. We must be doing something right. Thank you.” He nodded in satisfaction and started to sit back down but paused. “Oh, point of order here, am I missing something? I thought your name was Zachariah, not Zachary.”
“That’s correct, Senator,” I said. “In a formal venue, I’m called by my title. Informally, most people call me Zach. I’ve never been called Zachary, until now.”
“Excellent. It seems like some people don’t take the time to remember people by their correct name. Thank you, Director.” He sat back down and gave me a subtle wink.
Senator VanAllen seemed not to hear, still standing but bent over and whispering in the ear of her assistant. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was close to eleven. Vice President Rhinehart had fared rather well I thought. He was a crotchety old man, but he had shown a considerable amount of patience with this woman. He stood and spoke up.
“Well now, I believe we have adequately and thoroughly addressed this issue,” he said.
“I’m not finished yet, Senator,” Rochelle said.
It finally happened. Rhinehart’s face turned red with anger. He looked like he was going to blow a gasket.
“For the record, when you address me, you will recognize proper decorum and address me as Mister Vice President. Do I make myself clear, Senator?” He did not wait for an answer and pointed offhandedly at me. “If you have any further questions, you may make your inquiries to Director Gunderson at a later time.”
“Thank you, Mister Vice President,” I said with perhaps an over amount of exuberance. Others echoed my sentiment.
I closed my laptop, stood, and left the conference room while the newly elected senator from Pennsylvania was asking me something about the illegality of the upcoming trial. Although I did not look back, it sounded like everyone decided this fiasco was over and they too were leaving.
Senator VanAllen and her cronies caught up with me in the hallway.
“How dare you,” she declared. “How dare you walk out on me and embarrass me like that.”
“You only embarrassed yourself, Rochelle,” I replied. One of the cronies emitted an audible gasp, like I’d insulted the queen or something.
“You will address me as Senator VanAllen,” she demanded.
I stared at her like I was staring at an annoying flea. “Very well, if you want to use formalities, you should address me as Director Gunderson.”
Her eyes shot daggers at me, which was hard to do because she was a foot shorter and had to cock her head back to make eye contact. Her scowl deepened and she pointed a stubby finger.
“I am hereby putting you on notice. You will not pull a stunt like that again. You and your little clique of people have run this place like a dictatorship for long enough. There are changes coming. You can either get on board, or else.”
“Very good. Consider me duly warned. Is there something else you needed?”
She took a moment to look over at her butt sniffers and gave a flippant wave of her hand. “You are incredibly full of yourself, aren’t you?”
“If you say so. Excuse me,” I replied and attempted to walk around her.
She made a quick sidestep, quicker than I thought she was capable of, and blocked my way. We stood there in silence, staring at each other. Her stare was a challenging scowl. Mine was more of a stare of indifference. There was a time when I would’ve bruised her with a few belittling remarks and tell her what I thought of her ultimatum, but that was before Timmy.
Little Timmy was a classmate of my oldest son, Frederick. Named after a great man by the name of Fred McCoy, but I digress. So, Frederick came home from school one day and promptly told his mommy that Timmy told him I was a bully. I can only assume little Timmy overheard something his parents had said and repeated it.
That was a day or two after I had a sit down with Timmy’s mom and dad. They had skipped guard duty one night. The next morning, I blocked them from breakfast and had a heart-to-heart conversation with them. I bluntly told them they needed to shape up or ship out. That was part of my job, but I guess it made me a bully.
If I did not have
kids, I probably would have had a good laugh about it. But I lost a lot of sleep that night thinking about it. There were things I’d done in the past where I could rightfully be called a bully, or worse. Granted, I did what I had to do to survive and protect the people close to me. But, still, it was not the father I wanted my kids to have.
It led to an inner resolution; I did not want my kids believing I was a bad person. They deserved better and I was going to try to be a better man. It would mean I would have to change, like curbing my tongue in situations such as this. I stepped around the little woman with the oversized ass and walked away.
As I walked, I thought back to their arrival at Mount Weather and the ensuing debriefing. At first, I found Gil and Rochelle VanAllen to be both personable and intelligent. I admired their grit for being able to survive on their own for so long and believed they would be a valuable addition to the Mount Weather community.
I recalled one evening in the cafeteria. The two of them talked about their former life. Gil smiled as he recalled how they met in college. She was a cheerleader and he thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Personally, I didn’t see it. She was five foot three with a sun-damaged face, dull brown eyes, brown hair with a lot of gray, large breast implants, and an overly large backside.
Each to his own, I guess.
I guess it was the third or fourth day when I began to see her true colors. She was assigned latrine duty. It was always assigned to newcomers, sort of a freshman hazing ritual I guess you’d say. She barely did the job and complained the entire time. According to her, scrubbing toilets was far beneath her station. Gil, on the other hand, was a hard worker. I approached him one day and asked if they’d be willing to live at Marcus Hook. He agreed with a smile. The president and I patted ourselves on the back for that. We knew she was trouble and were glad to get rid of her. Or so we thought.
I had no time to dwell on her. I had far more impending matters and needed to speak with my sister. It was raining outside, so on days like this, people tended to hang out in the cafeteria and socialize. Before I could make it in the door, Lydia confronted me. From the expression on her face, I could tell something was wrong.
“Okay, what is it?” I said.
“They didn’t show up for their work detail this morning. When I attempted to speak to them about it just now, the one called Tory was very rude. I won’t even repeat what he called me.”
My jaw clenched in anger. “Alright. Go ahead and assign it to someone else. I’m going to take care of this issue today.”
Lydia started to say something else but saw the anger in my eyes and chose not to offer any further commentary. Instead, she patted me on the shoulder as she walked by.
I found the four of them sitting at a table off to the side.
“Good evening,” I said and helped myself to a chair. “We haven’t had a chance to talk yet, so, let’s get to it.”
“Ah, let me guess, you want to talk about kicking us out,” Frazier surmised with a hint of a snarl.
“What is your decision about the house?” I asked.
“We’ll need a few more days to think about it,” Tory said.
I rapped my knuckles sharply on the table, making sure I had the attention of each one of them before speaking. A few other people heard and were now staring curiously. Trey and Tory were staring like they were daring me to challenge them to a fight. Frazier stared indifferently. Lisa was the only one who seemed concerned.
“Here’s how this is going to go. We have a trial starting in the morning. It will last all day, and maybe a day or two after that. After it’s over, you four will be leaving. The offer to set you up in the house I showed you still stands, unless one of you, any of you, pop off at the mouth and insult a single other person here. Especially Lydia. I’ve had enough of it.”
“You’ve had enough, huh? What are you going to do about it, tough guy?” Frazier asked with a smirk.
I responded with a cold smile. “You keep pushing it, you’ll find out.”
I wanted to say more. I wanted to slap the smirk off his face and beat the hell out of the other two, but I kept my temper in check and stood. “After the trial,” I reminded them and walked off.
I fought to keep a cool head. I was both frustrated and pissed off, but I wasn’t going to show it. I ran into Janet, my monster-in-law, in the hallway. She was with the kids and Grant. They were an odd couple who had been off and on for years. Currently, they were on. He gave her a kiss and greeted me as he left.
“Where are you guys going?” I asked as I crouched and gave each of my kids a hug.
“The auditorium. It’s Beauty and the Beast tonight,” Janet said.
I nodded and grinned at the kids. “Sounds like fun.”
Recently, a scout team discovered a plethora of DVDs in a pawn shop, including hundreds of children’s movies, which we had a shortage of. Now, three nights a week was children’s movie night. The kids loved it. The parents loved it even more.
“Daddy, Hermione is in this movie. She’s pretty,” Frederick said.
I was confused at first. The alleged rape victim’s name was Hermione and at first, I thought that was who he was referring to, but then I realized Frederick was talking about the actor, Emma Watson.
“Yeah, I think she’s pretty too,” I said.
“Are you coming with us, Daddy?” Macie asked.
“I’m sorry, sweetie, I have to work, but I’ll be home when the movie is over. We can play then, okay?”
“Okay, Daddy,” she said.
I knelt and gave her a kiss on the cheek, reminding myself these kids were the reason I did not do things like slap the taste out of someone’s mouth when they smarted off to me.
Speaking of smartasses, Lisa and the stooges exited the cafeteria and walked by. They glared as they walked past. Lisa did not even take the time to acknowledge the kids. There was a combination of both hurt and anger welling up inside me and I had to fight to keep it down.
“Does she even know their names?” Janet asked.
“Probably not,” I muttered.
“Have you had your talk to them yet?” she asked.
“Yeah, a couple of minutes ago. I told them they had until after the trial.”
Janet nodded and stepped close. “They’re always going to be trouble, but I know you won’t do anything because she’s your half-sister.” She then stepped closer and whispered in my ear.
“I’ll cut her throat if it will help. It won’t be hard; I’ll catch her in the locker room. The blood will be easier to clean up that way.”
I stared at her. Her weapon of choice against humans was a straight razor. She kept in her pocket, and it wouldn’t be the first time she’s used it.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” I said. “Everything has to wait until after the trial.”
“Alright, if you change your mind, let me know,” she said.
“I appreciate it, Janet. Tell Kelly I’ll be in my office for a couple of hours, but I’ll be home before the kids have to go to bed.”
“Have you eaten yet?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I had a quick bite, but I have to admit, I’m still a little hungry. I’ll probably raid the cafeteria later for some leftovers.”
Janet gave me one of those motherly scowls. “I’ll see if Kelly can bring you down a plate.”
“Thanks, Janet.”
I kept a pleasant outer demeanor as I walked down the hall and said hello to people, but I didn’t stop for conversation. Once I made it to my office, I immediately booted up my computer whereupon I composed and sent an email to everyone who mattered regarding Lisa and her inbred friends. I made personal assurances they would be off the Mount Weather premises immediately after the trial, one way or another.
I started to read pending emails when my phone rang. Thinking it was Kelly, I picked it up. “I’ll meet you at the elevator.”
“Okay,” said a female voice who immediately hung up.
Only certain people had access to the lower levels, so I had to use my key card to activate the elevator. When the door opened, it wasn’t Kelly, but Riley. She held out a tray.
“I heard you were down here, and I knew you barely ate, so here you go,” she said and stepped off the elevator.
I wasn’t sure how to react, so I simply pointed toward my office and tried not to stare at her backside as she walked.
Riley was seventeen when I first met her back in Bristol, Tennessee with her father and brother. She was twenty-two or twenty-three now and I had to admit she was a nice-looking woman. She had a taut figure with wild mahogany-colored hair and bright green eyes. The freckles on her nose and cheeks reminded me a little bit of my late wife, Julie.
“Roast beef, mashed potatoes, and squash,” she said. “I forgot to bring anything to drink but I can go back and get something.”
“Oh, no, that’s no problem. I have running water down here.” I took a whiff of the aromas and realized I was hungrier than I thought.
“Smells good. Thanks for bringing it,” I said. I fixed a glass of water and began eating. It was wonderful. As I ate, Riley looked around at my office.
“What’s in there?” she asked, pointing at a closed door.
“It’s the restroom. I even have a shower down here,” I said.
“It’s nice,” she said and sat back down. I sensed something was on her mind.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“I’d like to talk to you about something,” she said.
“Sure.”
“Have you talked to my dad lately?” she asked.
Her dad was Joe Fitzgerald Senior, but everyone called him Trader Joe, and his son was commonly known as Little Joe.
“Yeah, he came in with your brother to go on the mission,” I said.
She nodded. “They have decided to live at Marcus Hook permanently.”
I brightened. “That’s great news.”
Zombie Rules (Book 7): The Fifteens Page 10