Failed State

by Christopher Brown

  “I guess so. They bought us three years ago, after PDL had become one of their main suppliers.”

  “And their biggest customer is the federal government?”

  “Was,” said Bagley. “Now I’m not sure who the biggest customer is.”

  “Business is off, I take it.”

  “Their business is.”

  “And what business is that?”

  “They operate detention, resettlement, and skills-training facilities for governments and other companies. Or did. Most of the federal contracts got canceled after the takeover.”

  “By the takeover, you mean the popular revolt that restored the Constitution?”

  “No, I mean the foreign-backed revolt that shredded the Constitution.”

  “Compliance with international law hasn’t been bad for your business, has it?”

  “No. The bus business and cargo volumes have really taken off since the air-travel bans.”

  “How long have you been working for PDL?”

  “Nine years, since before the buyout.”

  “That’s a long run. What is your current position?”

  “I’m the VP of operations for District Four.”

  “What territory does District Four cover?”

  “Most of the Central US—the Dakotas and Minnesota south to here in Texas, and as far east as Mississippi.”

  “So your region covers most of the resettlement farms and crop labs.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Where are you based?”

  “Oklahoma City.”

  “‘The Crossroads of America.’ Good hub for a bus company.”

  “It works well for us.”

  “How long have you been the VP of operations?”

  “Around two years.”

  “Since the cease-fire?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “And before that you managed the operation at Fort Hood down in Killeen, correct?”

  “I was one of the managers.”

  “Is PDL paying you to be here today?”

  “I guess. I’m on a salary, and this ain’t vacation.”

  “No, it’s not. You sent some folks on vacation, though, didn’t you? Permanent vacation.”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” said Keller. She didn’t need to explain the basis.

  “Mr. Kimoe,” said the judge.

  “Sorry,” said Donny. “That’s not what they called it. But we’ll get to that in a bit. At Fort Hood, you were assigned to help support the AMR account, before AMR bought PDL, correct?”

  “They were our main customer. But we were all really working for Tripto Labs, who hired AMR. And for the federal government, who gave Tripto Labs the contract to grow their New Corn on a production scale.”

  “So this was after Fort Hood was designated as a resettlement farm, where Tripto Labs planted their next-gen GMO crop and the prisoners provided the labor.”

  “They were not prisoners,” said Bagley. “Maybe some of them. Most were just refugees. Refugees from other states.”

  “From the ‘Tropic of Kansas.’ States where the old corn wouldn’t grow anymore.”

  “Not like it used to. Some were resettled because of blight, or drought. Others because of the fighting up there.”

  “Did they come voluntarily?”

  “I don’t know,” said Bagley. “My understanding was they got compensation. Food and shelter, some money. And the chance to help develop the crops that could restore the places they came from and fix our food crisis.”

  “By working the fields of a genetically engineered grain that can grow in spent fields, suck a third more carbon from the air, and get twice as big as regular corn—just as long as you have a small army of workers to pollinate it by hand.”

  “Look, I just handled the transportation to and from,” said Bagley.

  “Fair enough, Mr. Bagley,” said Donny. “May I ask how many buses you dispatched, during your three and a half years supporting the AMR account at Fort Hood?”

  “How many buses?”

  “Yes. How many buses.”

  “I don’t know. Usually about one a day.”

  “Every day?”

  “Most days. When things got really busy, there might be two or three. And they weren’t always buses.”

  “What do you mean, they weren’t always buses?”

  “We ran out sometimes. So to fulfill our contract we had to find alternate transportation. Trucks.”

  “What kind of trucks?”

  “Tractor trailers, mainly.”

  “Air-conditioned?”

  “Just ventilated, usually. Livestock trailers. We were using all the grain trailers to move product.”

  “You used livestock trailers to ship people off to resettlement farms.”

  “Only when we had to. And when we did, we cleaned them up real good. Put a port-a-potty in there, plenty of water. Still better than the conditions where most of these people were coming from.”

  “Cattle cars, but business class,” said Donny. “So these trucks, and buses, they were used to transport internal refugees to work at the farms.”

  “Yep.”

  “And also people who were actual detainees?”

  “They kept the insurgents in a separate section of the camp. More secure. Same with the transportation.”

  “And who was in charge of moving these people around?”

  “Federal emergency relief authorities. FEMA, Coast Guard, other branches of the Motherland Guard.”

  “The same agencies in charge of the camp.”

  “Correct, but not the farms where they worked.”

  “Tripto Labs ran the farms. And oversaw the security AMR provided there.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “And you moved the people and material in and out of there.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you ever go into the camp?”

  “Behind the wire? No. I didn’t have clearance. Closest I got was the transit depot across the highway, where we loaded and unloaded passengers.”

  “What were they like?”

  “Just like anybody, I guess. Skewed pretty young. Young guys, especially.”

  “Those were the actual prisoners. Or detainees. Suspected insurgents.”

  “Correct. Otherwise it was just like a cross section of folks from that part of the country. A lot of farm people.”

  “Even old folks and young kids?”

  “Yes, a cross section. That’s what I saw, at least.”

  “Were they happy?”

  “How would I know? They looked poor and hungry.”

  “Did they cooperate? Did they start fights?”

  “Sometimes people would mouth off. Maybe a young punk would try to pull something. If they did, the guards got them back in line real quick. Mostly people were cooperative.”

  “Like livestock.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “You mentioned unloading and loading. Sometimes you sent people away. Were they going home?”

  “Not usually.”

  “Where were they going?”

  “Other facilities, usually, as they started more farms. Places like Bartlesville, Joplin, Sugarland, Irving, New Orleans. Sometimes they even got to go back home, with seed licenses, to help start new farms.”

  “What was in New Orleans?”

  “Camp Zulu, and the Superdome.”

  “The Superdome was more like an actual prison.”

  “Sort of. It was an emergency detention facility. And the people we sent there were the most dangerous insurgents.”

  “So you were told.”

  “Sometimes by the insurgents themselves, yeah. But mostly by the Camp Administrator’s Office.”

  “So the camp administrator decided who qualified as an insurgent combatant?”

  “I don’t know. Could have been they got their lists from the Guard.”

  “Were you provided a list?”

  “They just brought us the passengers, an
d names for the manifest.”

  “And those passengers had to be sent on more secure buses. With bars on the windows, and bars you could tie their chains to.”

  “Yes, we outfitted a prison transport bus for that.”

  “So you would load it with prisoners—”

  “The guards would load it.”

  “So the guards would load it, and take them to New Orleans, to the Superdome, as far as you understood. And then the bus would come back in a day or two?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you get confirmation the passengers had been delivered to their destination?”

  Bagley shifted in his chair. “No. Once they boarded, we had done our handoff to AMR and the manifest was closed.”

  “But your drivers knew.”

  “Those weren’t ‘our drivers.’ They were AMR personnel, with security clearances, working on contract for Motherland.”

  “You knew most of them, though, right? You worked with them all the time. Many had been PDL employees before, and toward the end you shared a corporate parent.”

  “I knew some of them.”

  “Did you ever hear any of them talk about ‘dropping the kids off at the pool’?”

  Donny glanced at the judge. She was listening closely, eyes on the witness.

  “I can’t remember,” said Bagley.

  “You don’t remember anyone talking about what happened to prisoners who left on those buses but never showed up at the Superdome?”

  “I heard some stories about that, but only later. After the raids.”

  “Were you there when the bus came back on the Friday before Memorial Day four years ago?”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Let me refresh your recollection.” He handed copies of a document to the judge and Karen, which they had both seen before and the judge admitted without objection. Then he handed it to Bagley. “This is your ops log from that month, correct?”

  “Yes,” said Bagley. He shifted in his chair again, like suddenly the weight of his extra flesh was heavier than it had been.

  “That’s your handwriting on there, making additional notes?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Do you see the entry for May 22, on the second page? The one you highlighted in yellow?”

  “Yes.”

  “So if I’m reading this correctly, that bus was scheduled to depart for New Orleans at six-fifteen a.m., with Mr. Gannon as the driver and Ms. Lee and Mr. Peña as the guards.”

  “That’s what this says, but I don’t remember which guards were on it.”

  “Is that because they have disappeared?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You didn’t know that Mr. Gannon, Ms. Lee, and Mr. Peña are all missing and presumed dead?”

  “I heard something about Gannon, not so much about the other two. But we all know a lot of people who were lost, or just lost track of.”

  “Or silenced,” said Donny. “Do you remember who was on that bus when it went out?”

  “I’d need to see the manifest.”

  “Turn to page six.”

  Bagley flipped the pages, and read.

  Donny held up his copy, and pointed at the spot Bagley was reading. “Do you see that blank space where the names are supposed to be?”

  “Yes.”

  “So did the bus go out empty, or did you white out the names?”

  “I didn’t blank anything out. Someone else must have done that, after I filed it.”

  “But you were the one who highlighted the bus in yellow.”

  “I don’t remember what I highlighted or didn’t highlight four years ago.”

  “What if I told you one of our sources says there were just two prisoners on the bus who were supposed to be transferred to the Superdome.”

  “Objection,” said Keller. “That testimony isn’t in the record.”

  “Noted,” said the judge. “You can answer, Mr. Bagley.”

  “That wouldn’t be unusual. Sounds right.”

  “Do the names Gil Harrison and Juana Croat ring a bell?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you know those names?”

  “They were the poisoners. The ones who tampered with the corn.”

  “That was what you believed.”

  “Still is.”

  “Not your kind of people.”

  “Objection,” said Keller.

  “Withdrawn,” said Donny. “Do you remember seeing them on the bus when it went out that day?”

  Bagley took a minute to consider his answer. He didn’t look at the judge, but you could see he felt her gaze. “Yes,” he said.

  “And the bus came back the same day.”

  “Yes.”

  “Before dark.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that enough time to get to New Orleans and back?”

  “No.”

  “But there were no prisoners.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do.”

  “Objection,” said Keller. “Argumentative.”

  “Overruled,” said the judge. “But let’s stick to questions, Mr. Kimoe.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Is it fair to say you didn’t ask where the prisoners went, Mr. Bagley, because you didn’t want to know?”

  “I guess.”

  “Did you ever find out? Hear anybody talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “Not even the driver? Who worked for the same company as you?”

  “He said he couldn’t talk about it. And then they transferred him the next week.”

  “He got a promotion, from bus driver to vice president, and a big raise. I guess he was a really good driver.”

  “Is that a question?”

  “No. But this is. Did you inspect the bus after it returned?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it clean?”

  “Not really.”

  “What was wrong with it?”

  “There was some blood.”

  “How much blood?”

  “I wouldn’t know how to measure it.”

  “Try.”

  Bagley looked at the judge.

  “Go ahead, Mr. Bagley,” she said.

  Bagley looked back at Donny. “A lot,” he said, almost looking like he wished it was Donny’s.

  Donny glanced at the judge, and wondered if that was enough blood for her to rule in his favor. Then he looked at the clock.

  “Pass the witness,” he said.

  “Ms. Keller,” said the judge, turning to Karen.

  “No questions,” she replied.

  Donny wanted to give the bailiff a high five when he heard that, but instead looked back to make sure the reporters were still there.

  “All right then,” said the judge.

  Bagley began to stand, but the judge stopped him. “Hang on, Mr. Bagley,” she said. “I have just a couple of questions for you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Bagley. He didn’t expect the judge to ask her own questions.

  “I want to know more about how these special passengers were picked. The ones who went on the buses to nowhere. Or took trips to the pool or whatever euphemisms were used. You said they gave you a list?”

  “Just names for the manifest.”

  “But they had a list, didn’t they? There’s always a list.”

  “I don’t know, ma’am.”

  “Really?” said the judge. “Do you understand the oath you just took? Did you ever hear anyone talk about such a list?”

  “There was some talk.”

  “I bet. Did the list have a name?”

  Bagley nodded. “They called them Code Yellows.”

  “Why yellow?”

  “I guess because of the kind of people they were.”

&
nbsp; The judge nodded, putting together pieces Donny was missing.

  “People who hadn’t committed acts of what the government considered terrorism, but who it suspected would in the future,” she said. “Do I have that right?”

  Bagley shifted.

  “Answer the question, please,” said the judge.

  “That’s not how they put it,” said Bagley.

  “How did they put it?”

  “They were ‘predictively guilty.’ People whose behavior in the camps and on the farms showed they were likely to commit acts of violence against the government in the future. And this was the only way to prevent that.”

  “In other words, they were noncombatants.”

  “Not as our customers saw it,” said Bagley.

  “Well, contrary to popular opinion,” said the judge, “the customer is not always right.”

  She looked at Karen. Karen kept her poker face on.

  “You can step down now, Mr. Bagley,” said the judge.

  She leaned back. She looked over at her clerk. She looked at the monitor on her desk, and punched a couple of keys. Then she looked at Donny.

  “You have my attention, Mr. Kimoe. There is more to this case than I appreciated.”

  “A lot more,” said Donny.

  “Maybe. Certainly enough for me to let you proceed to trial.”

  “Your Honor,” said Karen, standing. “Before you make a decision on that, can we finish the discussion of our Rule 123 motion?”

  “Right,” said the judge, as she scrolled back through the files on her desktop monitor. “Mr. Kimoe, what do you have for me on this?”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor,” said Donny, reaching for the rules. “I understood you to say this was just filed late last night, and I haven’t even had a chance to look at it.”

  “The file shows it was served on you a little over two months ago, Mr. Kimoe.” She looked at the whiteboard calendar on the wall behind her bench, the one she called her reconstruction docket. “Which means the sixty days you had to respond with a substitute plaintiff expired on Friday.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor. What was served?”

  “The defense’s Suggestion of Death,” said the judge. “Maybe they have an extra copy they can provide you.”

  “We do, Your Honor,” said Karen. She looked at Donny as one of her associates handed him a two-page document. “Your client is dead. And your case is dead with him.”

  “What are you talking about? I just talked to him.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. It had been months. Maybe close to a year. This wasn’t the kind of case where you needed to talk to the client often. But Daryl was a real person, one Donny had known since he was a teen. And the only one Donny had to build his case on, so far.