Rule of Capture

by Christopher Brown

  Exercising his constitutional right to hunt was the root of how Jerome got into trouble with the law. When Donny first got the case, he already knew who Jerome was. He even had some of the old tapes, which were collectibles now. The first exemplars of a homegrown genre: Shatter, a jazzy avant-hip-hop that mixed found sounds from radio and TV and the noise of the city with fractured beats and electronic screech. It was regionally popular, but too edgy for radio. And too political, especially as Jerome got better at splicing up the words of the pols to sound like they were rapping their own funerals. Jerome started the Big Tree Hunt Club out of the back of his little record store on the East Side. Initially it was just him and his buddies doing the kind of stuff they had done as kids with their dads and granddads, trapping varmints and noodling big catfish in the interstices of the city. It morphed into a youth group, first with neighborhood kids, then with the kids in the resettlement camps.

  Donny had failed Jerome in a lot of ways, but the one that really nagged at him as he tried to untangle his line from a truck spring embedded in the shallows was the way he had been unable to crack the government’s theory that Jerome was part of the conspiracy to kill the President. Because it was too easy, and too convenient. But he never got to the bottom of it. And the way they rigged the rules against the defense was no excuse.

  Maybe, though, it wasn’t too late to prevent Xelina’s case from being added to his list of failures, and, more importantly, to prevent another life from being stolen.

  As he put the line out again he remembered what Xelina had said when they first talked, about how the real answers to our problems, the things we fight about and kill each other for, are in the land. In the way we treat the land as territory, the source of our security, our sustenance, and even our identity. You could see it there standing in the ancient river from which the twenty-first-century city rose, a city that had been made from the idea of the things you take from the ground you seize, a city whose ethos had been the motive engine of the wars and deals that had kept it alive, even as much of the country around it began to wither from the way that model had drained the fuel tank of the future.

  The next steps for Xelina’s case were clear. First, try to delay. Delay her transfer to insurgent detention, delay the denaturalization proceeding to follow, delay any aspect of the case that he could. Second, use that time to properly investigate her case. Build the evidence for Xelina’s status as an observer rather than a participant. Find the footage, find other witnesses, and expose the killing of Gregorio. Maybe even find out who the killers were. It wouldn’t be easy. He had maybe a week to work with before the machine would be grinding his new client up beyond the point where any legal remedy could help her. He had other clients whose cases also required his attention, clients he had neglected over the past weeks in his failed efforts to save Jerome. And he was broke, in a city where the fastest way to get information and aid was with cash in the palm.

  What he really needed was a line of attack that would change the game for all of his cases. And the answer was there in front of him, in the way Xelina suggested, but in a way maybe even she couldn’t quite see. The way the city, if you looked at it right, revealed the source code of the whole system. The way the towers and the pipelines and the power lines and the strip malls and the gated blocks and projects and the rivers and the freeways all grew from the law, from the way the system allocated access to the land, air, and water, and the other resources they contained. What you needed to do to really change the game was to hack that source code. It would take a smarter lawyer than Donny to rewrite the operating system—probably a whole army of them. But he might have a shot at extracting a nice ransom—and saving some people in the short term.

  Conquest gives a title which the courts of the conqueror cannot deny.

  That was what Broyles said when he unloaded at the end of Xelina’s hearing. Donny knew the quote. Old Chief Justice Marshall, the venerated ur-father of the American judiciary, in one of those cases where he demonstrated his capacity for jurisprudential contortion to provide legal cover to take land from the first peoples of the American continent by force. The case Broyles quoted was the first big one like that, Johnson v. McIntosh, the one where the guys who had actually paid the Indians who lived there for most of the land that later became Illinois and Indiana, under a negotiated contract, were found to have inferior title to the developers who got it from the sovereign that had captured the whole continent—Marshall’s “conqueror.”

  Donny knew why Broyles had quoted that, too. It was his answer to the idealism of Xelina and her Free Rovers. The thing was—and you could tell even Broyles knew it when he said it—that case was wrong. It was like the Dred Scott of real estate law. But nobody ever had the balls to say so, because if you did, it would break the whole American model.

  He wondered if he could explain it to Xelina, who wanted to break the whole idea of America, in a way she would understand. Maybe. But first, he needed to focus on keeping her from being taken to wherever it was they were putting the people they decided no longer qualified as Americans.

  He knew one thing: if he could protect her until the election fight was over, odds were good that the whole game would change. In the meantime, he needed to move fast. Because they knew that, too, and could be counted on to finish what they started before it was time to crank up the shredders.

  22

  After spending the morning polishing up his petition over a second pot of coffee and a very small dose of White-Out, Donny went down to the courthouse to file it in person. That was an inefficient way to do something that could have been done with a click on his office screen, the way the rules preferred things now be done, but he had his reasons.

  The feds still had his car in evidentiary impound, and the soonest he would get that back would be the following day, when the initial hearing in his own case was scheduled. Miles told him he hoped to dispose of the matter without even having to do that. Donny wasn’t counting on it, and he doubted he would ever see the car again. He wished he had time to take the bus. But he was stuck taking a cab to his office, where he had been keeping the ancient Oldsmobile he had accepted as payment in lieu of fee for guiding a friend’s father’s estate through probate.

  The car’s expansive hood was caked with six months’ worth of Houston air pollution, but the engine underneath it started right up. The wipers scraped the gunk from the windshield like some old geezer rubbing the sand from his eyes, and when he turned on the radio it was still tuned to the easy listening station old Mr. Felcher had probably been blissing out to when he had the heart attack. Donny left it on there, hoping they’d have the midday news monologue from Harvey St. Cloud out of Omaha, the syndicated show that had been on the air longer than Donny had been alive and always finished with a wry twist that made even Harvey’s most antiquated nationalist riffs seem clever. But then he remembered Harvey was dead, and Omaha was half-abandoned due to the drought. He turned off the Muzak and popped in one of Jerome’s old tapes, which was a better motivator, even though the backbeat sounded like someone trapped in the engine trying to hammer their way out.

  When he got to the courthouse, he looked for Turner. Cleburne said he was offsite that day. Donny asked why, and Cleburne said he wasn’t sure, but he’d heard there was some kind of special training all the senior deputies had to go to. But he’ll be at the bar tonight.

  The clerk’s office was on the ground floor. The files were mostly electronic, but the clerks were still buried in paper. Some of them were even armed with old-school stamps.

  There was a window you walked up to for the regular cases, and a door you knocked on for the secret cases. Sometimes when you knocked on the door, you had to wait a very long time. But if you knocked a second time, chances were you would wait even longer.

  Wendy came to the door after about five minutes. She was cranky when she opened it, and crankier when she saw who was standing there.

  “Whatcha got, Kimoe?”

  “Kin
d of an urgent filing, Wendy.” He pulled the duplicate copies of the document from his briefcase.

  She made a face. “Is that paper?”

  “Yes,” said Donny.

  “We don’t take those. You know that.”

  “Actually,” said Donny, “there’s a provision in the rules that allows it, in this type of proceeding. But I can file it electronically if you want. I just need to talk to you about how it’s going to be routed, and if I leave you a hard copy it might help.”

  She made a different face.

  “Trust me,” said Donny.

  “I don’t know about that,” said Wendy. “But come on back.”

  She waited until they were at her desk before she accepted a copy of the document.

  “What’s a Section 23–2 motion?” she asked.

  “It’s new, part of the Burn Barnes Laws that created the Special Emergency Tribunal.”

  “Gotcha,” said Wendy, leafing through the pleading. “How do you say ‘Xelina’?”

  Donny told her.

  “I hear they’re processing a bunch of these cases a day now up there.”

  Donny nodded. “Afraid they’re about to run out of time. It’s scary stuff, Wendy. Most of them are kids.”

  “Dangerous kids.”

  “Not that dangerous.”

  “I hear they made a new camp to put ’em in,” said Wendy. “Some emptied-out old petroleum storage tanks, out there in the Zone.”

  “I’ve heard that,” said Donny. “I’ve heard other theories, too.”

  “I think this one’s legit,” said Wendy. “You know Bobby Kirk, in Facilities? His wife works with a guy whose brother helped build it. Says they already have like a thousand people out there.”

  “Could be,” said Donny, half meaning it, and trying to use what she said to enlist her support. “That’s why we need independent-minded judges looking into this stuff. Before they put us all in there.”

  Wendy raised her eyebrows, and looked back at the document. “And so you’re appealing Judge Broyles again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I heard how that worked out for you last time.” She meant Jerome.

  “This is different,” said Donny, hoping he was right.

  “Yeah, maybe this time it really will be your funeral.”

  Donny let that pass. He was worried about Xelina.

  “Sorry,” said Wendy. “You need to file this on NESTOR.”

  “Okay, but if I do that can you help me get it in front of the right judge?”

  “Let me guess.”

  Donny nodded. She knew which judge he had in mind, without either of them having to say the name. It was better that way, since what they were talking about doing was prohibited.

  “And why would I do you that favor?” said Wendy.

  “Because you believe in justice.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Because I’m your favorite lawyer.”

  “You’re way down the list, son.”

  “Because I took your son Andre on a tour of the jail.”

  “That’s actually true. And it worked.”

  “And I’m glad about that. But you should do it because it’s the right thing to do. Read it if you want.”

  She did. Scanned every page, at least. When she was done reading she looked at the cover page again, then set it down and pulled out her rulebook. She opened it, found the section she was looking for, and read.

  “So where’s your new evidence?”

  “It’s in there. See the first exhibit.”

  “I saw that. That’s like, nothing. Like a summary of nothing. Not even a page.”

  Sometimes the non-lawyers had better bullshit detectors than even the judges.

  “I plan to supplement that before the hearing.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Seriously, Wendy. Cut me a break here. They make most of the evidence secret. Doesn’t even matter that I have a security clearance. The game is rigged. I need to buy some time, and get in front of a judge who will give me—who will give my innocent client—a chance to show the truth of her case.”

  “You are so full of shit, Kimoe. Tell you what. You go file this thing on NESTOR. I’ll take a closer look, and I’ll keep an eye out, and see what I can do.”

  “Imagine if this was about Andre,” said Donny.

  “I already did, honey. And nothing is that simple.”

  23

  That night Donny went to Detention, looking for information for sale.

  Detention was not what it sounds like. It was a nightclub, on the frontage road of the American Martyrs Highway south of downtown, with a theme that varied between after-school S&M fantasies and darker variations on prisoner and guard. It was a law enforcement hangout, especially popular with guards from the camps, FEMA cops, correctional officers, certain Coasties, and an assortment of other freaks who liked to pay to be locked up in cages and served drinks by naked people. It was a nasty place by any measure, and because this was Houston it was across the street from an elementary school, next door to a gun store, and around the corner from a child care center and one of the illegal abortion clinics that had been popping up with names like “Women’s Health Center” since Governor Jackson signed the ban. Detention at least was coed, maybe because in its bones it was a place dedicated to hacking the usual power dynamics, or at least pretending to.

  Donny had learned of the place from Joyce, of all people, who learned about it from a visiting colleague. They went in a group, Donny and a little posse of slumming theoreticians interested in documenting niche variations on human perversion the way biologists seek out weird bugs. One of them tried to show the others how he was not afraid to go native, and it got weirder from there.

  Tonight the doorman was a posable action mullet with a corporate tattoo on one hairy forearm, the morale logo of a military engineering brigade on the other, and an off-brand automatic pistol that looked like it had seen some hard use sitting there between his hands next to the cash drawer. The proprietor was standing behind him, a tall lady with big white Texas hair who looked like a candidate for the sexy grandmas calendar and also reminded Donny of his third-grade math teacher, Mrs. Winterberger. This lady was packing, too, a snub-nose revolver tucked into the waistband of her shiny hip huggers. She sized up Donny while the doorman checked his ID, reading over his shoulder to see the details that matched the face. Donny wondered if maybe he should have changed out of his suit.

  “You’re that lawyer, aren’t you?” said the lady.

  “Which lawyer would that be, Mrs. D?” Donny had never met her, but he had heard the stories. The full name was Dombrowski.

  “The defense lawyer. The one who helps terrorists.”

  “I guess you saw my ad in the Yellow Pages.”

  “You seem more like a Black Pages kind of guy.”

  “My reputation precedes me.”

  “Don’t he, Andy? He looks a little off for a lawyer. A little bit of a blanker.”

  Action Andy looked at Donny and nodded, then went back to counting money.

  “Some of the guys here were talking about you the other night, is how I know,” said Mrs. D. “Saying how you used to be such a great lawyer, then you got soft and started working for traitors. And then you started using. Maybe it’s just a rumor.”

  “Are you going to let me in, or is this an intervention?”

  She laughed. “I’m just fucking with you, honey. But if you want an intervention, I can hook you up. Just let me know what flavor of new friends you have in mind.”

  “Any chance I’ll find Mac Turner in here tonight?”

  “Not as a hookup.”

  “Gross.”

  She smiled. “You should have seen him back in the day, when we were all working for the General. He was a stud.”

  “Is he here?”

  “At his usual table, over there in the back.”

  Donny stepped into the main room and found his way to the bar. The place was about half-f
ull, under a throbbing strobe that alternated between red and white light at the same rhythm as a fire alarm, probably on purpose. Around two-thirds guys, but a fair number of women as well, including a table of lady prison guards confiscating their server’s six-pack in violation of the no-touch rules. Maybe they were inspired by the live tableau on the stage, which looked to be a gender-inverted musical fantasia on the theme of the strip search.

  Over the bar hung Old Glory, the Lone Star, the Coast Guard pennant, and the Gonzales Battle Flag—the one with the big fat cannon and the binocular-friendly legend daring the Mexicans to COME AND TAKE IT. Next to that was a hurricane-warped wooden plaque salvaged from the original resettlement camp in Memorial Park, with the Detention Corps motto.

  HONOR BOUND TO DEFEND FREEDOM

  Donny ordered a twelve-dollar tonic and lime and looked around the room until he spotted Turner, at a table near the wall laughing with two of his buddies.

  “I hope Mrs. Turner knows where you are,” said Donny as he walked up and put a hand on Turner’s shoulder.

  Turner smiled. “Just waiting for the traffic to die down.”

  His buddies laughed.

  “Didn’t think I’d ever see Donny K in this place,” said Turner, looking at Donny but talking like he was addressing his crew. “I guess he just needed to have an extra shitty couple of days to need to blow off some steam the right way. Maybe get somebody to lock him up in the big chains, like his clients.”

  His buddies laughed, harder.

  “Just wanted to see you in your natural habitat, Turner,” said Donny.

  “Well, then come on and have a seat,” said Turner.

  “Thanks,” said Donny, grabbing the free chair. He shook hands with the other two guys. He didn’t recognize either one, but they both seemed like they knew who he was.