“Yeah, we’ve also been in close communication with the FBI in Redville County,” Mario says.
“They’re monitoring hate crimes all over the country,” Harvey says. “They’re spread pretty thin right now, won’t come unless there’s a strong case for arrest and conviction...”
“But what...?”
“Okay. Once X tells us his story, we’ll place him under protection, first with us, then with the FBI.”
“What if he won’t tell? He doesn’t want to get his dad in trouble.”
“If he won’t tell, we’ll pick him up, interrogate him in the presence of you and Joe. Ultimately, he’ll tell us his story, but it would be a lot easier to protect him if he meets us somewhere willingly.”
After listening to a lot of hows and what ifs regarding how Officer Harvey and Mario can meet with Jason without having to actually pick him up publicly and take him to the station, I come up with the idea that we could get him to come home with Joe, then meet him there.
“How’s that gonna work?” Mario says. “I thought he was a Tuesday guy.”
“Well, Joe could have some emergency and need someone to take care of Peppy for a while. Joe can bring X to his house and we can be there.” I glance at the clock. “Yoga’ll be over in forty minutes so we better call pretty soon.”
“Do you have a better idea?” Mario asks Harvey.
He shakes his head. “You?”
“Nope.”
So, I call Joe and tell him to pretend some emergency came up and he has to leave immediately for San Diego or wherever, and he needs Jason to watch out for Peppy. I’m away, so Jason is the only one who can help.
And Harvey calls the FBI.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
In Custody
Rosie texts and invites me to come over this evening. Her parents are taking Zoe to dinner and to some new animated movie.
I call her. Tell her I can’t do that tonight.
She says we’d have the whole place to ourselves, and I won’t need to get all weirded out about everybody knowing how we’re using Tilly. She says that in her sexy voice and, man, I want to drop the phone and race over there. But...
“God, Rosie. Can’t you talk them into going tomorrow night instead?”
“Why can’t you come over tonight?”
“I just can’t.”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“Why do you always have to hide things from me?”
“I don’t! When have I ever hidden anything from you?”
“Now.”
I can’t stand when Rosie’s mad at me, and for a second, I think why not just tell her? And then I think again. “I swear, Rosie, this’ll all make sense tomorrow, or maybe Friday. At least by Friday.”
“I may be busy tomorrow, and Friday,” she says, all angry.
“Rosie...”
“Bye,” she says, and cuts off.
Crap! Why am I stuck with this anyway?? Why do I have to be here? But I know—first hand witness and all that. Plus...Jason. I never liked the guy. Hated him after they jumped me, but to never have anyone care about you, or want you around? I feel sorry for him.
I follow Mario and Harvey to the police station where they park their official cars. They’ll ride with me back to my house. No need to have black-and-whites sitting in the neighborhood, broadcasting that something’s up.
Harvey texts Officer Romero, who meets us in the parking lot. On the way to my place, he fills her in on the situation with Jason.
“We’ll need to notify CPS,” she says.
Harvey gets a text ding. “Okay. FBI’ll be here in an hour or so,” he says, then texts something back.
My phone dings, and I pass it to Mario to read. I’m sure not going to look at a text while driving with three cops in my car. “Joe says they’re at his place,” Mario says, so I take us there.
Before we get out, Harvey tells Officer Romero that the FBI says not to contact CPS. They’re bringing an FBI-selected social worker for Jason.
Peppy’s her usual happy self when Joe opens the door, but when Jason sees us all file through the door, he starts pacing. Harvey stops just inside the door, blocking it. Mario takes a few steps toward Jason and sticks his hand out.
“Mario Barajas,” he says, “Redville Sheriff’s Department.”
Jason stares at him. His face is Chantilly Lace white.
Mario reaches for Jason’s hand and gives it the standard shake. Jason just stands there, eyes darting from one person to another.
“You’re...?” Mario says, still gripping Jason’s hand. Finally, Jason gets it.
“Jason Paulson,” he says, his voice squeakier than ever.
Harvey walks over and extends his hand. “Jack Harvey, Hamilton Heights Police.”
Jason takes Harvey’s hand. “Jason Paulson.”
“Have a seat, Jason,” Harvey says, motioning to the armchair.
Harvey turns to Joe, introduces himself, then sits on the couch across the room from Jason. Mario sits on the couch at the other end from Harvey. Romero scoots a chair over next to Jason. “I’m Officer Romero, Juvenile Division. I’m here to help,” she says, smiling. Jason looks away.
“Eddie, bring in a couple of those director’s chairs from the studio, would you please?” Joe says.
Everyone situated, Peppy circles the room running from person to person, sniffing, standing on her hind legs, pawing for attention. Joe takes her back to the kitchen and puts one of those dog gate things across the door. She barks and whines and makes a fuss.
“She’ll calm down in a minute,” Joe says. And she does.
Harvey moves a side table in front of Jason, a few feet away. On that table he puts his recorder and another device that’s going directly to an FBI agent. Mario adds his recorder to the table. Harvey assures Jason that he will be protected from harm.
“Whaddya mean?”
“You’ll be under FBI protection before we leave here.”
“What about my dad? Can I call my dad?”
Harvey shakes his head. Jason looks away.
“I mean, I’d like to at least explain. At least tell him...” he pauses, takes a deep breath, chokes out, “...tell him I love him.”
Harvey shakes his head. Jason looks at Romero, who also shakes her head. Joe sets a cup of tea on the side table beside Jason, but when Jason lifts the cup his hands are so shaky, he puts it back down.
They start with the details of the attack. Then details of the Patriots, everything Jason said last night and, with Harvey and Mario’s questioning, more. Jason says they’re preparing for a race war. Take back America. Every weekend they go to a place in the desert where they have maneuvers. Maybe thirty or so men and boys. The wives and moms don’t ever come to the desert, but they always have a big dinner waiting for them. Everybody eats together when they get back from maneuvers. They practice target shooting, handling weapons, hand to hand combat. It’s fun with his cousins and the other juniors. They have bench press contests. The first time Jason went to the desert with them, he could barely press ninety pounds. Now he’s up to 180.
During the week, sometimes they all meet at his dad’s house or sometimes at his uncle’s house. They talk about the work they’ve done the previous week, in addition to spray painting threats to let certain kinds of people know they’re not welcome. They also put up flyers for White Lives Matter, and Stop White Genocide, and America for Americans, etc. Some of the flyers have contact information. They’ve got to educate white men who don’t understand what’s happening. In addition to the signs and flyers, they review other ways they’ve let inferiors and intruders know they’re not welcome, sometimes beating people up, or painting messages on their houses or cars, or on mosques and synagogues.
They strategize about what’s up for the next few weeks and how it fits in with their long-term calendar. Sometimes they work out with weights on those nights, too. They’ve got to be tough for what’s to come.
I
can’t believe my ears, but no one else in the room seems surprised.
After about an hour, two FBI agents show up at the door and flash their badges at Joe. They don’t look like the FBI guys you see on TV—all dark clothes, shades, and expressionless. There’s a black guy—tall, in khakis and a Canary Yellow pullover. The woman’s even taller, in a longish Dove Grey skirt with a plaid jacket. She’s white. Maybe Moroccan Moonlight. They’re both carrying heavy briefcases. He’s Nathan Thompson and the woman is Madeline Franks.
They must have been listening in their car on the way over because they seem to know everything that’s been said. Franks asks Jason if he can tell them the address of the house they sometimes meet at. Jason shakes his head. She reaches into her briefcase and pulls out a detailed map of the greater Los Angeles area, including Hamilton Heights. Together they figure out the general vicinity of the place, then Thompson takes a computer from his briefcase, does the Google Maps street view thing, and before long, Jason’s found the place for them. They bring up a street view of Jason’s address so they can be sure that’s actually where he lives with his dad and some of the others. It is.
Harvey says they’ve been watching those places for months. Then it’s the same thing with the desert where they go for “maneuvers.” Jason shows the general vicinity, they narrow the street view, and Jason identifies a familiar shack.
“Anybody live there?” Thompson asks.
“Just some old guy.”
“What’s his name?”
“Everybody calls him D.R.”
“D.R.? What do the initials stand for?”
“Desert Rat.”
Franks and Mario pull their chairs together in the back corner where they talk for a bit, then identify some Redville places with Google Maps.
I think I’ve said everything I need to say. Maybe I can still get in a little Tilly time with Rosie? I stand. Stretch. It’s a long time sitting in a crowded room. “I’d like to get to Rosie’s before it’s too late,” I tell Mario.
“We’re not finished yet,” Thompson says. “We’ll tell you when.”
There’s another knock at the door. This guy’s Hank Vargas, a social worker.
Joe brings another chair in from the kitchen and sets it down. The new guy moves it over right next to Jason’s chair and gives him a big, flashy, smile.
“You can call me Hank,” he tells Jason. “You and me are gonna be best friends for a few days. I’ll be with you 24-7, making sure you stay safe. Every single movie you’ve ever wanted to see on Netflix, we’re gonna see.”
“I’ve seen all the movies I wanna see,” Jason says.
Officer Romero looks over at Harvey, who gives her a nod. She stands, smooths her skirt, says goodbye to Jason, who still doesn’t look at her. “I’ll call the station for a pick-up,” she says. “I’ll wait outside.”
“Okay. Thanks,” Harvey says.
AROUND 9:00, JASON’S cell rings. He reaches into his pocket, but before he can answer, Hank takes the phone, shuts it off, and tosses it to Nathan.
“I want to talk to my dad,” Jason says. Hank shakes his head. Jason looks slowly around the room—police, sheriff, FBI, no more cell phone, and it’s like he gets that his whole life is changed now, and there’s no going back. He does another scan of the room, then bolts to the bathroom.
Joe’s place is small, and you can hear everything from every room even with doors closed, so we all hear Jason puking. And puking. And rinsing and rinsing. Hank goes into the hallway and taps lightly on the bathroom door. The rest of us pretend we’re not hearing the noises.
Joe and I talk about what he wants me to do when I clean the studio tomorrow. Damp mop the hardwood floors, brush off the bolsters and rearrange them neatly in the bolster cabinet. Refold the blankets and stack them, same side out, on the shelves. It’s what I always do, but it gives us something to talk about instead of listening to Jason dump his guts.
The rest of the group talks about the addresses they’ve got, what they might find there. When Jason and Hank come back into the room, Jason is paler and shakier than ever. Hank keeps telling Jason everything’s gonna be okay, but I’m pretty sure Jason doesn’t believe it. I wouldn’t either.
“We about done here?” Hank asks.
“You two are,” Nathan says.
“Okay Jason. Let’s go watch movies.”
“Where?” Jason asks.
“Someplace you’ll like.”
“I need to call my dad.”
“We’ll talk about that when we get where we’re going. C’mon.”
Jason nods, then goes into the kitchen where Peppy’s half asleep in her bed. I’m sitting near the passage to the kitchen, so I see him pick her up. He buries his head in her fur, and I see his back heaving with sobs. Peppy squirms around so she can lick his face, and they stay there like that until Hank goes in and puts his hand on Jason’s shoulder.
“We have to go now.”
I step into the kitchen and ease Peppy from Jason’s arms. Joe goes to Jason, hugs him, and tells him how much he’s appreciated his help, what a great job he’s done in the studio and with Peppy. Jason nods. Joe faces him, puts his hands in prayer position and says, “Namaste.” For what I’m pretty sure is the first time ever, Jason returns Joe’s Namaste.
Jason turns to me. “Sorry, man,” he says.
“Me, too,” I tell him, and I mean it.
I watch Hank guide Jason through the door, wondering what the hell’s going to happen to him.
“Let’s call it a night,” Thompson says. “We’ll check in with you guys in the morning.”
Harvey shakes hands with everyone and leaves. Mario shakes hands with everyone. I follow him to the door. Thompson stops me.
It turns out only the law enforcement guys can go. Joe and I are under surveillance for at least another twelve hours. What that apparently means is that one or the other of the FBI agents has to be watching both of us at all times, and we have to be “incommunicado.”
So, Mario and Peppy go back to my place, and probably sleep in my bed, while Joe and I are put in the back of an FBI van like a couple of criminals. They take us to a Holiday Inn where we can be under the constant watchful eyes of Thompson and Franks.
IT SEEMS LIKE I’VE barely fallen asleep when I hear noises coming from the other room. It’s light out, so morning. The seven o’clock news. I’m in one of the two beds in the room. Joe chose to pull the blankets from the second bed and sleep in a pallet on the floor. Someone, Franks or Thompson, or sometimes both, have kept watch from a little sitting area outside our room. The TV’s so loud, no way can I go back to sleep. I wander into the other room to see what’s up.
The morning news guy is talking about a raid. “Combined efforts between local law enforcement and the FBI led to simultaneous FBI raids on four separate properties, one in Central California and three in Southern California. Large stores of weapons, ammunition, and explosive devices were confiscated. Also on the properties were masses of white supremacist materials.” Twenty-four men and five women arrested. Six juveniles taken into custody. Details to follow.
Then it’s on to traffic reports and a four-car pile-up on the 210.
Franks and Thompson high-five. Thompson tosses us our phones. “Let’s go. We’ll take you home.”
I text Rosie: Watch the news!
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Celebration
It’s Saturday and I’m working with William, painting the outside of his mom’s house in a kind of rundown part of Pasadena. It’s hard to believe William and his two sisters grew up in this house. It’s small enough to totally fit into the great room of that last place we worked on in San Marino. There’s a ton of prep work to do before we get to the fun part. William power-washed the place yesterday and now we’re scraping and sanding away at chipped paint. His mom went to stay with his sister out in Riverside so she doesn’t have to live with power-washing and paint fumes.
Even though there’s a lot of prep, this isn�
�t half as bad as the church down the street that we finished last week. That took three Saturdays. But William kept his promise to God about painting the church if he could live long enough to raise Imani. The promise about going to church every Sunday? He watches some Christian program on TV every Sunday morning now, before anyone else is up. I guess that counts.
My cell pulses against my butt.
“I got in! I got in! I got in!” Rosie yells.
“What?”
“The mail just came! I got accepted! I was so worried, but I’m in! UOF!
“Well...good news,” I say.
“Aren’t you happy for me?”
“Sure,” I say.
“You don’t sound happy about it.”
“Well...you know...I’ll miss you...”
Rosie sighs. “I’ll miss you, too, but...I got IN!”
William comes around the corner with a fresh supply of sandpaper and makes a small circle motion with his free hand, meaning “wind it up”. I nod and turn away from him.
“We’re quitting around 6:00,” I say. “See you at seven?”
“Can you get off any earlier? My parents are taking me to Bistro 17 to celebrate. They invited you, too.”
“How early?” I ask.
William taps me on the shoulder as he walks past and does that circle thing again.
“My dad made reservations for 6:00. Please, Eddie? It won’t be a celebration without you.”
“I’ll check with William. Call you back.”
Instead of asking William right now, I go back to scraping and sanding. He should see me working again before I ask to get off early.
It’s a little after noon when William puts the small ice chest on the patio table. We sit under the umbrella, eating sandwiches and fruit, and drinking the sparkling water that he packed before we left this morning.
“Bistro 17??? They’re taking you to Bistro 17?” he says. “Man, I’d have to skip a month’s car payment to afford anything on that menu!”
I ask to leave by 5:00. Twenty minutes to home, ten minutes to shower. Another fifteen minutes to the restaurant, five minutes for parking. Ten minutes cushion.
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