She Is Risen (She Is Risen: The Gun Control Case Studies)

by Adams Irish, Travis

  Professor Cardigan raises her hands with her fingers outstretched and lowers them slowly, speaking softly as she continues. “I know this is a sensitive topic for some of you, and it can be very personal especially when you have been the victim of gun violence, or witnessed gun violence. Please trust me that all of your papers will be kept confidential, and you are welcome to talk to me at any time about these personal experiences.” She lets her arms drop back to her sides and smiles, while turning slightly, looking at the faces of the students for signs of angst. “Remember when we discussed psychological hot buttons that people have? What I would like you to do is identify your personal hot button; something that makes you enraged more than anything. Then I want you to use those seven psychological control factors to create a scenario where gun violence is your only answer.” She stops for a moment, holding up her right index finger toward the class to take a drink of water from a clear, plastic bottle at the podium.

  “Now, in this scenario, I don’t want you to go to extremes; we’re not talking about the Nazi camps from The Holocaust. I want you to describe the bare minimum amount of events that would trigger you into a primal state of rage, where you would feel the need to commit gun violence. You often hear people say, ‘if someone hurt my kid, I would,’ and they follow that statement with some very basic or extreme form of murder. That’s what we’re talking about here today.”

  She turns back around and steps lively to the whiteboard again, writing as she speaks. “We are asking the question: if this event, or series of events, happened in your life; what would it take before you finally submitted to a primal state, and committed gun violence? Then we’re asking the even bigger question which is: at what point does a situation become so severe that emotion overtakes logic? Please be as detailed as possible, I want over 1,000 words, and you have two weeks to bring me your papers. Once again, enjoy your break, I will be unavailable for questions, working on a special project until classes resume. That’s it… You’re dismissed.”

  Lorabell winks at the young man in the second row as the students rise to depart the class. He pauses for a moment to gather his books, leaving her waiting for affirmation, and then boldly winks back, carrying his backpack in the air like a champion as he struts out of the class. Professor Cardigan uses her hands to conceal a naughty smile, watching his rear end as he makes his way out to the halls of the university.

  After he has left, she returns her attention to an important, upcoming afternoon appointment. Lorabell feels a strong sense of accomplishment after being hired by the CIA to assist in developing their new gun control program. She looks at the empty class with the satisfaction of having something to do over the break. A romantic relationship that crashed and burned three days ago has the young woman feeling unwanted, and she is ready to entertain new adventures in her life, especially those that keep her busy. After four months of background checks to receive her security clearance, she is eager to finally see the wizard behind the curtain.

  Professor Cardigan retrieves a card from her lab coat, reading the expensive, embossed logo ‘H.E.N.A.’ on the front with only a phone number and email address. Lorabell looks at the card like a mysterious new lover; perhaps something to keep her company during the lonely nights ahead. She looks down at her attire, realizing that she should probably eliminate her fifty shades of nerd appearance. The young professor smiles to herself, thinking about what type of cute men she might meet at the CIA. After contemplating this for a moment, she puts the card back into her pocket, grabs a black leather briefcase from under the podium, and moves up the classroom stairs with excited anticipation for her new assignment.

  CIA Black Site - Chicago

  Henri Edwards walks briskly through the heavy double doors at his research facility in Chicago. The black, tinted glass of the bulletproof doors prevents the world from seeing anything that happens past them. When he walks behind these concealing shields, Henri feels as though he is entering another world; somewhere safe and exclusive. The tall Congressman runs his fingers through his graying hair, ensuring that it is righteously slicked back, giving off the image of dominance that he wants to portray.

  Henri steps up to the large, oval shaped security desk, his pale, blue eyes fixed on the young man entrusted with watching for stray dogs trying to wander into his chicken coop.

  “Tom, is Cardigan here yet?” Henri asks the young security guard, clearly too busy to care about pleasantries.

  “Yes, Ms. Cardigan arrived about an hour ago, and we created a temporary pass per your instructions.” The young man responds quickly, looking up from his computer screen with hopeful eyes beneath his short, curly hair. “She’s been talking with Maxwell for the past little while…”

  “Oh, that’s just fuckin’ great!” Henri churns with bitter cynicism, his mixed Italian and European temper displaying lines of tension on his tanned, aging face.

  “I could ask her to meet you in the conference room.” Tom offers with a guilty expression, his thin, pale chin quivering a bit.

  “Ya’ think!?” Henri retorts with acidic dissidence. “No…” The Congressman pauses for a moment, staring at the black, solid steel security door just off to the right. “Have her meet me in the OBDAT.”

  The young security guard wastes no time in following orders and soon has a phone receiver pressed tight against his small, muscular shoulder.

  “Maxwell, this is Tom, I have a directive from The H.E.N.A. Chief.” The young man speaks with systematic poise. “He wants Lorabell Cardigan in the OBDAT right away for a briefing… Sounds good… Thanks.”

  “What did he say?” Henri asks with a slow burn already building in his crystalline blue eyes as he leans down closer to Tom’s young face.

  “He was mostly respectful…” Tom says looking uncomfortably around the room, and then up into Henri’s piercing eyes.

  “What did Maxwell say!?” Henri demands, raising his voice as if trying to command a domestic animal to start being wild.

  “He said ‘sure thing, we’ll be there before his Viagra kicks in.’” Tom relays the insult with a nervous stare, as if being forced to tell his own mother about his sex life.

  Henri doesn’t say another word. He turns his wrist over above the green marble surface of the security desk, tapping the material slowly with the top of his watch as if deciding how to reward this insult. After a brief pause, he exhales in a controlled fury, and then makes his way to solid steel door, grabbing it with ferocious anger, and slamming it so that his rage echoes through the deep hallways of the concrete building.

  High on the solid, black catwalk of the OBDAT, Maxwell and Lorabell are waiting for Henri, talking casually and sipping coffee. The large, black catwalk is the eyes of a massive datacenter project. Below them, there is heat rising from over twenty massive racks of servers. There are cooling units in the opposite corners of the room, both as large as a two car garage. These units also clean the air of dust particles, or any smoke that might enter the facility. The floor below is covered in immaculate, white panel tiles that can be easily removed to run power or data cables.

  Above the observation catwalk is a host of seventy-inch, flat panel LCD displays, each of them showing crisp, high-definition video surveillance from several projects taking place across the country. There are two rows of six displays, able to switch between a network of over one-hundred-and-fifty high-definition surveillance cameras.

  “Great to meet you, Lorabell!” Henri Edwards says with a dry smile as he approaches her and Maxwell on the observation catwalk. “Welcome to the OBDAT.” He shakes her hand with a pleasant demeanor after joining them next to the control panel. “Oh, and Maxwell,” Henri continues, showing his upper teeth and raising his eyebrows, “Tom gave me your message… Fuck you!”

  Lorabell looks at the two men for a moment, smiling at first, but then feels suddenly awkward, being caught in the middle of this exchange on her first day.

  Maxwell smirks in his typical demonic defiance, showing a morbid
disrespect for the aging Congressman. In his efforts to become ‘the bad boy of technology,’ Max Maxwell has completed the look by breaking every dress code in the building. His head is shaved and his eyes are coated in thick, black eye-shadow. He is wearing loose, white cargo pants, and a black, short sleeve T-shirt with a ‘Grip Inc.’ band logo, and the word ‘Ostracized’ printed on the front. His ears are pierced with stainless steel studs, and he has black and red tribal tattoos running down both of his forearms.

  “Anyway, moving on,” Henri continues, gesturing for Lorabell to turn toward the screens, “we call this the OBDAT because it is an Observation Datacenter. All of the information you’re seeing on these screens is collected and analyzed by the enormous computing power below us.”

  Lorabell stares with a bit of naughty excitement at the two rows of large, colorful screens hovering just five feet in front of her, and over fifty feet above the datacenter floor. Her delicate, Asian features display a knowing smile as she looks from one monitor to the next, feeling a clandestine thrill for the voyeuristic aspect of her new job.

  “We know you like to watch.” Henri declares with a wicked smile, causing Lorabell to look at him and turn her head slightly to one side. “But we also know that your research into behavioral science is highly evolved beyond your peers, and is also the closest match to the data that we’ve gathered.”

  “But my peer reviews have been awful!” Lorabell exclaims with a look of both vindication and surprise.

  “Anyone who is on the cutting edge of their field will always be two things to their peers, and nothing more.” The Congressman says reassuringly, putting his left hand delicately in the middle of her back. “Hated and misunderstood.” He says briefly, holding up the index and middle fingers of his right hand in front of her.

  Although she appreciates Henri’s supportive tone, his thick fingers on her back make Lorabell feel uncomfortable. She is starting to regret wearing such a sexy lime green skirt with white stockings and a royal blue blouse. Ever since she arrived, the technicians below are seeming to find reasons to perform ‘maintenance’ right below the open end of her small skirt. Despite the obstacles, Lorabell ascertains that this will be a great opportunity for her, and she decides to shake off the glaring perversions, focusing instead on the positive benefits.

  “Well, let’s get started.” Henri says with excitement, watching her reaction to the scale and scope of their operation. “Maxwell, will you introduce the subjects of our case study for Ms. Cardigan?”

  “This is May Ivory.” Maxwell begins, gesturing toward the LCD panels at the far left. “She’s 25 years old, and has been living in Virginia for the past year. As you can see here,” he points to the screen with a laser pen, “May has suffered burns to over forty percent of her body.”

  Lorabell shows a sudden concern and shared connection with the lonely, young woman up on the screen. The video feed depicts May Ivory working quietly at her computer, taking drinks from a bottle of water ever few moments. Her deep blues eyes display emptiness under her long mane of delicate, blonde hair. She has fair skin, pale and beautiful, except in the places that are severely burned and scarred. Her face was mostly untouched by the fire, except for under her jaw, and the area surrounding her left eye and cheek.

  “She was involved in an accident while traveling through The Needle’s Eye on Needles Highway, South Carolina. May was riding on the back of her boyfriend’s motorcycle when he tried to pass a pickup truck. Apparently, the driver of the pickup didn’t want them to pass, and sped up. Her boyfriend tried to go faster on the motorcycle, the pickup truck responded, and they crashed into the entrance of The Needle’s Eye. The tunnel is famous for being one of the narrowest roads in America. Anyway, the truck caught fire shortly after impact with the tunnel and pinned the couple against the rocks. Her boyfriend died, she suffered burns over forty-percent of her body, and they later found an engagement ring he was going to surprise her with on the trip. The couple was on their way to visit Mount Rushmore. Now today, she is considered a risk for gun violence because she frequents the shooting range at least three times a week… It seems to help her get out the aggression. We’re also concerned about an incident involving a dog that used to wander around her luxury home, barking during the night, sometimes for hours. We know that she suffers from migraines, and our video surveillance captured her threatening the dog just a week ago with a revolver. May is also considered a risk for gun violence due to her heavy use of pain medications… and susceptibility to depression.”

  “Next we have Ned Lawhorn,” Maxwell continues with a nonchalant expression, pointing at the next set of LCD Displays, “and… it looks like he’s out somewhere right now, probably the general store… Well, the guy is 62 years old; a retired oil worker who lives just outside of Houston, Texas. His wife died from cancer over fifteen years ago, and his fourteen-year-old daughter died a few years later… It was a bus accident. The school hired a substitute driver who had a few shots in him, in an effort to take the edge off from the kids screaming during the drive. Although the driver was convicted of manslaughter, his attorney found a way to present new evidence during an appeal hearing, and was successful in getting the case dismissed. The bus driver now works as a parts delivery driver for a small automotive service center. One of the last things Ned taught his daughter,” Maxwell chokes up for a moment, his voice cracking as he holds up his index finger, then continues in a dry voice, “was how to tie a lasso.”

  Maxwell stops to pick up a bottle of water from the control panel and take a quick drink before continuing.

  “Do you have any questions so far?” Maxwell asks, holding his left hand out to Lorabell.

  “No, not yet.” She replies, smiling and nodding for him to continue the briefing.

  “Lately, we’ve seen him spending time tying lassos on his daughter’s bed and quietly staring at the floor… Anyway, Ned Lawhorn is your typical Texas badass,” Maxwell says with satisfaction, “he has been a bullfighter, volunteer firefighter, and served in the Marine Corps during The Vietnam War. He now spends a lot of time buying and drinking whiskey. We consider him dangerous because he has already been seen stalking the man responsible for his daughter’s death, and using photos of him to practice shooting at his barn.”

  Maxwell stops to take another swig of water, gesturing silently to the next set of LCD displays; one of them showing a muscular, black man watching television at home. A second display depicts a young, black woman doing laundry in another part of the house. She is slams down a bottle of detergent, and throws the washer and dryer doors shut in a controlled state of rage.

  “The next subject is Phillip Belfort,” Maxwell leads off by pointing his laser at the man on the sofa, “he is a 35 year-old Marine who served in Operation Iraqi Freedom, and stayed overseas for his full eight years. Unfortunately, while he was away at war, his wife was gang-raped by a group of young men after visiting her family in Inglewood, California. The assault was very brutal, and took place about six months prior to Sergeant Belfort returning home to Anaheim. Now, the Military insurance did cover some limited therapy sessions for her, but she hasn’t fully recovered. Since Sergeant Belfort has returned home, she has refused to be intimate with him, and has repeated nightmares of the assault. When she gets really angry, she also blames him for not being there to protect her. They have both become heavily dependent on alcohol, and Sergeant Belfort has not been able to find a job since he returned from service over three months ago. We consider him a risk because he packs up his firearms, and tells his wife that he is going to the shooting range with some buddies, but drives to Inglewood instead. When he gets to Inglewood he stalks the streets in his truck for hours. Our theory is that he’s looking for the rapists, who are members of a local street gang.”

  Lorabell has been strong to this point, but seeing the couple in their misery touches the deepest section of her heart, and she covers her mouth with both hands, staring with empathy at the screens.

  “Are
you all right?” Henri asks with what would measure up to be a teaspoon of concern and a pound of irritation. “I thought you said you could handle this?” The Congressman asks, turning his head to the side a bit as if surprised by her display of weakness.

  “No, I’m fine.” Lorabell sighs quietly. “It’s just that seeing them, and knowing what has happened in their lives is so much harder than just reading a case study.”

  “Well I’m going to need you to grow up fast, Professor.” Henri snaps in a campaign-dictated tone of voice. “America needs you to be strong. We are trying to solve a problem here and help these people, and I can’t do that if my asshole analysts feel like you’re watching Oprah all day… Do you understand what’s at stake here?”