by Michael Fine
“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Carrington suggested gently.
“Okay, sure. Well… We have a new prisoner, Crow Jeffries, who’s been stirring up trouble ever since he got here a few months ago. Dude’s a psycho. Killed two dozen kids and carved ’em up something bad.”
Carrington winced, but Wilson didn’t notice.
“Guy says he’s a wiccan.”
“A witch?”
“I guess. I don’t know. Don’t really want to know. What I do know is that the dude says he casts spells against the other inmates. It wouldn’t be a big deal except… Well, except that they seem to be working.”
“What do you mean, ‘working?’” Carrington asked, incredulous.
“I mean, three different guys have died from heart attacks. We’re talking guys in their thirties or forties. In decent shape.”
“Couldn’t their deaths just be from natural causes? I mean, I’m sure being caged up all the time causes serious health issues.”
Wilson, trained well by the prison, said, “Mental health issues like I mentioned, sure. But nothing that should cause heart attacks. In all the years Pelican Bay has been operating, we’ve only had one other heart attack until this guy showed up.”
“I don’t mean to make light of the situation, but is that all?”
Wilson shook his head. He was seriously spooked. “Guys are mutilating themselves with their plastic forks. Banging their heads against their cell walls until they crack open their skulls. One guy went blind in one eye. Another lost his ability to speak for a month.”
Carrington sat quietly and pondered the bigger meaning of what was happening. It was one of his gifts, the ability to search for and find the larger implications of seemingly small, insignificant events.
“The other prisoners are becoming violent, aren’t they?”
“You have no idea,” Wilson said. He turned and looked out the passenger side window of Carrington’s rental car. “It’s not just that they’re threatening Jeffries. Hell, most of us might look the other way if that kind of thing happened. Dude’s an animal.” Wilson took a deep breath and continued. “It’s that they’re so agitated that they’re getting into fights all the time now. It’s crazy how much shit they can get into in just thirty minutes together.”
Wilson turned back to Carrington and said, “The place is a powder keg.”
For a flash, Carrington worried for Wilson’s safety and that of the other guards at the prison, but his mind quickly moved to a much bigger concern. Carrington remembered a case decades earlier about a federal prisoner named Kerry O’Bryan who was also a wiccan. The man had been prevented from practicing witchcraft by prison authorities, who argued that allowing prisoners to cast spells might result in fights, something they needed to prevent. O’Bryan sued under the Religious Freedom Restoration Act of 1993, and eventually won his case when the Seventh Circuit overruled a district court’s ruling.
Reading Carrington’s mind, Wilson said, “He’s suing under RFRA.” Wilson was referring to the religious freedom act from 1993.
“I figured that’s why you called,” Carrington said. In the O’Byran v. Bureau of Prisons case, the lower court refused to accept the assertion that banning spells was necessary to realize a compelling government interest. Maybe this time, where actual violence and deaths were possibly directly attributable to Crow Jeffries’s witchcraft, the Supreme Court might overturn O’Bryan. Carrington knew that federal agencies are only able to burden religious practices to the least extent necessary to realize a compelling government interest. Stopping Crow Jeffries from casting hexes might very well now be seen as satisfying the legal standard.
“Listen,” Wilson said. “I gotta get back. We good?”
Carrington thanked the guard and gave him his leave. Wilson walked briskly back into the prison, his intense hunger overriding his skittishness about the voodoo going down in the place.
Senator Royce Carrington punched a speed dial button on his phone. When the voice on the other end of the phone greeted him, Carrington said, simply, “Pelican Bay State Prison in northern California. Prisoner by the name of Crow Jeffries. The man’s apparently an animal, but you need to see to it that he wins his RFRA case.” He hung up. It wasn’t Crow Jeffries’ religious freedom he cared about; RFRA was still one of the primary legal tools that could be used to further the religious freedom of Christians around the country.
Carrington dialed a second number, this time for his money manager.
“Find a handful of charities doing the best work defending religious freedom. Groups with the strongest track records of success on the issue and overhead rates under, say, ten percent. Distribute twenty-five million between them as you see fit.”
“You want me to clear the details with you before cutting checks?”
Carrington didn’t hesitate. He had no doubts about the man’s trustworthiness or competence; if he had, he would have fired the man long ago.
“No. Just send me the details once it’s done.”
After hanging up, Carrington punched the start button in his rental car and pulled out of the prison’s parking lot. As he drove to the airport, Carrington soaked in the physical beauty of the giant Redwoods, the unusual plants and flowers dotting the area, and the myriad strange birds circling the bright sky.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Tuesday, February 27 (later the same day)
The Spirit of Justice Park near the Capitol Building
Washington, D.C. area
16 days before vote on the Sanctity of Life bill
The sun was low in a dim blue sky when they met at the fountain in the Spirit of Justice park. It was 5:00 p.m. and, once again, Eddie was late.
Before Quinn could complain, Charlie asked the group if there were any last-second questions, comments, or concerns. There were none. The group briefly discussed their return travel plans, assuming they all got out alive and weren’t caught by the Capitol Police or the FBI. Hope found it surreal that she was having a conversation that included the phrase “if we get out alive.”
In the low light, a man staggered toward the group. Suddenly, everyone realized that it was Eddie.
“Whassup bitches?!” Eddie bellowed.
“Oh Christ. Not only is he late, he’s drunk,” Quinn said.
Hope looked closely at Eddie. In the darkness, she could just make out that his pupils were dilated, and she could see from his chest rising and falling that his breathing rate was increased. As he approached, she also noticed small burns on his fingers and cracking and blistering on his lips.
“Not drunk. High,” Hope said. “You high on crack, Eddie?”
“God, you are such a bitch,” Eddie snapped.
Charlie stepped toward Eddie, poked him in the chest, and said “watch yourself.”
“Jeez, can’t you take a joke?” Eddie tried to back peddle. “I partied a little bit. So what? It’s kinda my ritual when I take delivery. I got our stuff, man.”
Sanam pointed at Eddie and said “Charlie, I am not putting my life on the line with a drug addict. It’s too risky.”
“I agree,” Quinn concurred.
Charlie said to the group, “Listen, I get it. I do. But he’ll be fine in the morning.” He looked at Eddie and said, “Right?” Then to the group he also added, “Look, I need a second person who can handle an AR. Hope just learned how to use a pistol. Like literally yesterday. Q could fill in, but he’s going to be busy with the doors. And, no offense Mister Patel, but you can’t shoot for shit.”
“No offense taken,” Sanam said. Truth be told, he hated guns.
Charlie’s phone buzzed. He took his phone out of his pocket and saw that he had a new text message. He didn’t receive many. “Excuse me a second,” he said to the group before stepping a few feet away. The argument continued.
Charlie saw that the text was from a number he didn’t recognize. Still, he opened his texting app and tapped on the message. It read:
Hi Charlie. Eddi
e bragged that he's into something big. He wouldn't say what it was but I hope you're not involved, whatever it is. You seem sweet, not like Eddie. Call me if you want, any time. Love, Lexus
Charlie jammed his phone into his pocket and rejoined the group. He cut in, raising his voice over the heated discussion in progress.
“Listen up,” he said. “We have a problem. Mr. Townsend here has been a naughty, naughty boy.”
“Yeah, we know,” Quinn said. “Just look at him. He can’t even stand up straight.”
“I’m not talking about that,” Charlie said. “Eddie, care to share anything with the group?”
Eddie looked at Charlie with a confused look on his face. He had no idea what Charlie was talking about.
After a few painful seconds of silence, Charlie looked directly at Hope and said, “Eddie made friends with a stripper at a local strip joint. Seems like he was a bit chatty with his new lady friend.”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Sanam asked.
Hope rushed at Eddie and palm struck him in the solar plexus. “You son of a bitch!” She started swinging wildly at the man. Quinn wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her away.
“I’m out,” Sanam said. “Charlie, I think the world of you, you know that. But I am not doing this.” He reached into his pocket and handed a small pouch to Hope. “Here. Take this. I don’t really know if it will work or not. It might. It might not. For what it’s worth, I think it’s more likely that it’ll go off when it shouldn’t than not go off when it should.”
Hope started to try to convince him to stay when Sanam reached out and held Hope’s hands. “I wish you luck. I really do. I hope you’re able to achieve some level of revenge. Better still, I hope you’re able to achieve some level of peace.” He turned and walked into the night.
Quinn, too, calculated the risks were too high. He’d been uncomfortable with Eddie Townsend from the first moment he met the man. Eddie had been consistently late, was a druggie, and, now, it was clear he was loose-lipped to boot. In short, he was unreliable in a business where reliability was paramount. “I’m out too. Charlie, I’ll call you in a week or two. I’m tellin’ you now, though, under no circumstances will I ever work with that asshat.” He motioned with a thumb toward Townsend.
Quinn turned to Hope. “You are one fierce warrior, young lady. And I mean that as one of the highest compliments I can give. You also have a good heart, and that is the highest compliment I can give. I’m sorry about your sister. Truly. Like Sanam said, I hope you get your revenge, and even if you don’t, I hope you can somehow figure out a way to go back and live a normal, happy life.” He kissed Hope on her forehead and smiled.
As he walked away, he raised a hand and flicked his forefinger as if to say, “later.”
Charlie grabbed Eddie firmly by his biceps and shook him. “Listen to me carefully. I don’t care what you do with the weapons you acquired for this job. Sell ’em. Dump ’em. I don’t care. But we’re done, you and I. We are aborting this mission because of you, and I don’t think you’ll ever fully appreciate the harm you’ve done. Do not ever contact me again. Understand?”
Eddie shrugged. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his crack pipe and lighter. He was lighting up before he disappeared into the darkness.
Hope stood, her shoulders slumped, her spirit drained. Her plan, however crazy and ill-planned it may have been, was dead.
Chapter Thirty
Wednesday, February 28 (the next day)
Various Monuments and Parks
Washington, D.C. area
15 days before vote on the Sanctity of Life bill
Hope barely slept. Whatever sleep she did get came fitfully. She finally dragged herself out of bed at nine and took a long, hot shower, something she never did in California due to the nearly permanent state of drought there. She glanced at her phone and saw that Charlie had left her several voicemail messages. She ignored them. Billy had also texted several times, each message exhibiting more worry than the ones before. She ignored these too.
Hope went downstairs to the hotel’s breakfast buffet and put a few items on a flimsy orange plastic tray, but she didn’t touch her food. Instead, she sat and stared into space, her mind numb. At some point, she tossed her uneaten food into a garbage bin and bundled herself up in her coat, scarf, and gloves and took the Metro to the Mall. She hadn’t meant to; she was operating in a haze.
Surrounded by thousands of tourists—school tours, mothers with their children in strollers, and senior citizens—Hope wandered. She walked past the National World War II Memorial, the Vietnam Veterans and Korean War Veterans Memorials, the Lincoln Memorial, and the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial. She sat for a while at the Tidal Basin, a two-mile-long pond that was once attached to the Potomac River, then continued past the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum, the Washington Monument, and the White House. When she passed the White House, she cursed former president Fred Spencer and the current President, Brock Owens, both of whom paled in comparison to the honor and courage of George Washington, former Presidents Barack Obama and Gabriella Davenport, and the handful of Presidents who, in her mind, had lived up to the role. When she passed the Capitol Building, it somehow seemed so far away, surrounded by a fog. When she passed the Museum of the Bible, she wanted to scream.
Hope found herself thinking she should go visit Bei Bei, the panda at the Smithsonian National Zoo, but didn’t have the energy to brave DuPont Circle or walk that far north.
Several times, Hope almost bumped into tourists or professionals who worked in the area and sometimes had to make their way between government buildings. All she could do was apologize before moving on. She had to move on, she thought. But how? She was utterly lost.
Hope bought a hot dog from a street vendor and practically inhaled it. She hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours. Still hungry, she found another stand and bought an enormous pretzel. After scraping off most of the salt crystals, she devoured that too.
She found herself circling back to the Lincoln Memorial, which had always been her favorite of the many historical sights in town. Why? How did that come to be? Hope felt the flicker of recognition but couldn’t bring the memory into focus. She hated that her once-sharp mind had turned to mush; it had been years since she was unable to remember something she knew was in her brain.
Hope sat at the base of the stairs that led up to the larger-than-life statue of Abe Lincoln. She knew that the words of his two most famous speeches—his second Inaugural Address and the Gettysburg address—were etched into opposing walls of the memorial. She’d memorized them for social studies class in middle school, to the amazement of her teacher. She also learned that the building’s design by Henry Bacon included thirty-eight Doric columns, thirty-six of which signify the states in the Union when Lincoln died. She never did figure out the significance or symbolism of the other two. She people watched for an hour until the sun started to set.
Just as she was getting up to walk back to her hotel, utterly defeated, she saw a man selling large transparent balloons with smaller red Lincoln-shaped balloons inside. A mother with her two children walked by the balloon vendor, and the two children pleaded with their mom to buy them each a balloon. Suddenly, Hope remembered why she loved this memorial so much, beyond its historical significance and its sheer beauty: her mother.
She flashed back to a memory: She and Angel were pestering their mother for cotton candy during her eighth grade field trip. Her mother was a chaperone, and had brought Angel along. The trip was one of the last things they did as a family, before her mom left for Washington to fight against then-President Spencer.
For years, Hope had honored the distance her mother had put between them, and only contacted her twice, once when Angel was raped and again the day Angel died. Now, given the stakes and her commitment to do whatever it took, she didn’t hesitate for a second. She was desperate.
After a few minutes rehearsing what she wanted to say, she ca
lled the number for Senator Mary Roberts. She knew the number by heart, and was momentarily thrilled that her brain wasn’t completely gone. At this time of night, the call went to voicemail, as she hoped it would. She put on her thickest Louisiana accent, hoping she still remembered how it sounded after so many years in California.
“Hi there. My name is Regina Staubach. I’m one of your constituents from the great state of Louisiana. My brother and I are usually too busy with our real estate business to travel out of state, but I happen to be in Washington D.C. for a conference. I’m a big fan of the work you do, Senator, especially your work on immigration reform, and I’d like to come by your office to make a donation to your re-election campaign. I can meet tomorrow morning. I’m afraid that’s the only time I’ll be in town and available, as I fly back to Baton Rouge at noon. Please call me back.” Hope gave the number of the prepaid phone she’d purchased for the trip, thankful Charlie had recommended it. She feared that despite the years her mother might remember her real cell number.
Hope quickly dialed Charlie and asked him to be ready to meet her downtown at some point in the morning and to bring his new ID. She told him she’d text him a time and place as soon as she could, and hung up before he could ask any questions.
Finally, she recorded a voicemail greeting on the prepaid phone. She used the same Louisiana twang and the same name she’d used when calling the Senator’s office: the name on the fake ID Charlie had made for her, Regina Staubach.
Chapter Thirty-One
Thursday, March 1 (the next day)
Senator Mary Roberts’ Office, U.S. Capitol
Washington, D.C.
14 days before vote on the Sanctity of Life bill
Hope was counting on the fact that politicians do not risk losing possible donations from prospective donors. Sure enough, she received a call on her prepaid phone at two minutes after nine the following morning.