“Not just me. I’m on a team.”
“Nothing like a constitutional crisis to get you a speedy trial.”
“This one’s too speedy.”
“They can’t get this done fast enough, if you ask me.”
Miles raised his eyebrows. “Don’t assume it’s going to go our way.”
“You’re about the only thing left I believe in, Miles.”
“Said the guy who’s high half the time.”
“Didn’t you get a good panel?”
“Yeah,” nodded Miles. “This stage should go well. It’s what comes after that that worries me.”
“There are six Supreme Court Justices who definitely love executive power. But martial law? Maybe in the absolute disaster areas. Not to overturn an election.”
“I don’t know,” said Miles. “The Constitution lets the state legislatures decide how to pick electors. The real remedy is political.”
“Maybe it is,” said Donny. “But that doesn’t work if they throw out all the ballots.”
Miles nodded. “Good point.”
“Thanks. And speaking of good arguments, did you read that thing I sent you?”
“That crazy brief?”
“Not as crazy as trying to deal with Broyles.”
“True. And I guess now you’re dealing with Judge Jones, which is a whole different flavor of unpredictable.”
“I’ll take those odds.”
“Agreed,” said Miles. “Too bad your motion reads like some nutjob pro se thing. The kind some jailhouse lawyer writes up in ballpoint pen and mails to the court from prison.”
“Tell me what you really think.”
Miles laughed. “I think you may be on to something, actually. But it could use a little refinement.”
Miles handed Donny the document. He had marked it up heavily in red pen. On the back of the last page he had written down the citations of a dozen cases.
“Look that over, read those, and then let’s talk.”
“Does this mean you’re all in?”
“Not necessarily,” said Miles.
“I’m starting to see how all these cases are connected.”
“You just figured that out?”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been distracted.”
“You mean you’ve been wasted.”
“A reasonable response to the current climate, you have to admit.”
Miles nodded, but didn’t laugh.
“Do you think we can stop it?” asked Donny.
“Of course not,” said Miles. “It’s the natural course of American history, five-hundred-plus years on. We just need to survive it, and see what advancements we can make when the cycle comes back around.”
“You think that’s going to happen?”
“Yes.”
“You think it’s true what they say, that they’re going to turn the Evac Zone into a Texas-sized gulag?”
“It will be, if we let it.”
Donny looked at his old friend, looking back at him with eyes older than he remembered.
“I think I may have something that will really help.”
“What’s that,” said Miles, not really a question.
“I think I have a shot at proving they killed Gregorio,” said Donny. “I may even be able to prove who.”
“Do I want to know how?”
“Sources,” said Donny. “Sources who may have access to the footage my client shot at the scene of the crime. Footage the government doesn’t even know it has, or at least I don’t think they do. If I get that, I can get it to the press, and blow this whole thing open.”
“That’s a terrible idea,” said Miles. “And not just because I know you have some shady angle to get that evidence.”
“It’s a fucking great idea,” argued Donny.
“Donny. Listen to me. There’s no way any press outlet will run that material. It’s all under a Burn Barnes ban. I already checked. Why do you think there’s been almost zero news, not just about the disappearance, but even the whole occupation, at least since the first couple of days? They have successfully scared the press into submission. No one is going to do anything like you think, at least unless we’re lucky enough to win our case and have a new administration come in. So the only thing that’s going to happen is the powers that be will hear you have stolen from them, and you’ll be calling me at four in the morning again to bail your ass out.”
“So I tell them I have it, and use that to negotiate a deal.”
“They don’t negotiate with terrorists. Remember? Even if there are hostages. This is 3-D chess, not poker.”
“Very funny,” said Donny. “Maybe I’ll just buy some TV time myself and put it out there that way.”
“Now that I would pay to see,” said Miles. “That’s one arena where you would be a fierce competitor: to make the most outrageous lawyer ad on Houston TV.”
Donny warmed at the idea.
“You’ll need a good nickname,” said Miles. “Those guys always have one. The Hammer, the Hawk, the Bulldog. Maybe you can be the Snake.”
“Very funny.”
“The Cottonmouth.”
It wasn’t as funny as Miles thought, but it was a good opening.
“You want to help me buy some slots?”
Miles stopped laughing at his own jokes when Donny said that, and then gave Donny a long, penetrating look. You could almost feel him reading your mind, like some kinder and gentler but ultimately tougher version of the cop stare.
“Classic,” he finally said, after divining what Donny was really asking for.
“I need five thousand bucks, Miles.”
“Not from me, Donny.”
“I’ve got to get that footage.”
“I know you believe that, Donny. But I’m not giving you any money. Especially not for whatever corrupt deal you’ve cut. And it’s not even that much. Surely you can put that together.”
Surely.
“Why don’t you work here this afternoon,” said Miles. “Grab a conference room. Use the library. Get ready for tomorrow. You have good arguments, if you can polish them up. Use my secretary, get help from Percy if you need it. And I’ll be here working, happy to look at the next draft.”
“Okay, thanks,” said Donny. “Some help sounds good.”
“Good,” said Miles. “In fact—” He reached into his desk, pulled out a pair of keys on a ring, and handed them across to Donny. “Why don’t you keep these until we’re done. That one opens the main entrance, and the other one this suite.”
Donny reached for the keys. Miles didn’t let go just yet.
“Now just promise me,” he said, “if you’re going to keep putting my name on things, that we’re going to play by the rules.”
“Okay,” said Donny, grabbing the keys. And it wasn’t really a lie, because as far as he could see, there were no rules. They had suspended them.
Like they said, it was an emergency.
32
“You’ve got to check this out,” said Percy.
Donny was in Miles’s conference room, hitting the books. Percy did a double take when she saw the mess—dozens of printouts of cases, old hardbound federal reporters open to selected cases and arrayed in a pile that looked certain to topple at any moment, Donny’s black notebooks compiling obscure precedents and the week’s new rules for the secret court, half a sandwich, and four empty soda cans stacked on the credenza.
“Whatcha got?” said Donny.
“Corporate charter for a new company.”
“Why do I care,” said Donny. “There must be a hundred of those every day.”
“Not like this. This one is special. Read it for yourself.”
She handed him the printout. It was thicker than those things usually were. The cover page had the stamp from the Texas Secretary of State’s office, and the all-caps declaration of what it was.
CERTIFICATE OF FORMATION
OF
PALLANTIUM CORPORATION
Donny scanned the
pages. He didn’t read a lot of those things, and when he did it was usually with the eyes of a plaintiff’s lawyer, figuring out who to sue and how to serve them. They were mostly boilerplate, maxing out whatever liberties the state statute gave them, sometimes detailing more complicated aspects of the capital structure—which investors got what percentage if the company shut down or was sold. This charter was different. There wasn’t any boilerplate. It was a custom job.
“What is this?” he asked.
“Read the purpose clause,” said Percy. “Article Two.”
Donny looked at the section she was referencing.
“This is like a giant legal description of some real estate or something. ‘Beginning at the mouth of the Sabine River then south to the marker of the southeast corner of the del Vago League blah blah’—”
“That’s exactly what it is,” said Percy. “But it’s also more than that. Do you see the part about the powers?”
“‘. . . shall have exclusive dominion over the territory heretofore described beginning on the effective date of this charter and until the ninety-nine-year anniversary thereof,’” Donny read out, “‘including the right to make such ordinances and impose such levies as may be deemed appropriate in the business judgment of the board of directors, the right to maintain an independent private militia . . .’”
Percy nodded.
“What the fuck?” said Donny.
“It goes on.”
“So I see,” said Donny. “How much land is that?”
“Most of the Evac Zone,” said Percy. “The contiguous portions, including the coastal section and both sides of the Ship Channel from Baytown down.”
“Jesus. That’s like the equivalent of a whole county.”
“More.”
“Like a little country.”
“It’s exactly like a little country. Complete with its own laws.”
“And army.”
“Militia, technically,” said Percy. “But yeah. And the thing is, if you keep reading, and also read the enabling statute, I think the idea is to make it exempt from the treaty strictures. At least for the ninety-nine-year period of the charter. Because the Accords only apply to the territory of the United States and its subdivisions. And this basically carves off a chunk and makes it independent.”
“Corporate sovereignty, in other words.”
“Yep.”
“And wait, did you say ‘enabling statute’?”
“Yes. The Legislature created this. Through a private bill.”
“What do you mean, a private bill?”
“As in, not a public law. A special law just to benefit one citizen.”
“Right. Like when Congress gives someone citizenship even though their adoptive American parents screwed up the paperwork and the deadline’s long gone, or when they extend the patents of some big pharma company so they can keep gouging monopoly prices after having had to spend all those years of the original patent term proving the drug was safe.”
“Uh-huh. In this case, at the state level.”
“Where’s the money in this deal?”
“In the statute. They pay a share of their annual profits, ten percent, devoted to the climate crisis restoration fund, and a chunk for the election fund.”
“So they just sold a chunk of the state to one company, and let them make it their own corporate country.”
“Basically.”
“How is this not all over the news?”
“I think, one, because they buried this in the Zelda emergency spending bill, and two, maybe they got a news ban on it.”
“Or maybe no one’s paying attention. That’s how most of this stuff happens, especially when the opposition has been so completely neutered. And you kind of have to be a lawyer to make heads or tails of it.”
Percy nodded. “You might be right.”
“Who’s behind this? The company, I mean. Board of directors, shareholders, all of that.”
“That I don’t know.”
“Don’t they have to put the names in here?”
“Just the name of the incorporator. The lawyer who filed it.”
Donny flipped to the back pages to find that section.
He was surprised to see it was someone he knew.
“Motherfucker.”
33
Donny tried calling Trey, thinking maybe he could shake him down on short notice with the information he had. But that was a bad idea on a lot of levels, and Trey was already gone for the day by the time he had it. So he pursued an even worse idea, but one that he was pretty sure would work.
Global Auto Mart, which Donny always remembered because of the size of the huge red neon letters that spelled the name out on each side of the little building, was not far from his office. It was at the heart of a three-block stretch of used car dealers, but where the others specialized in high-mileage rides for people who lived outside the gates, the Mart had a different business model: buying classic American cars for resale to wealthy foreigners. With a particular specialty in the mega-cruisers of Donny’s youth, when Detroit ruled the world. The kind of cars that had fouled the planet, and became illegal to manufacture even in the U.S. In most other countries they were even illegal to drive, unless you were one of the rich collectors who could afford to pay the freight—and the carbon tax the global remediation authorities imposed on members of the Pact, which would often be double or triple the price of the car.
For people of Donny’s generation and older, holding on to and taking care of cars from before the Accords was a point of pride, of tribal identity. One of the few left that transcended even politics. Selling your car to be stored in some tycoon’s garage in Melbourne, Mumbai, or Seoul was worse than the usual flavors of austerity pie. It was a sellout, like pawning the family furniture to your landlord. Almost as bad as trading in your passport for another, richer country.
Even worse, it meant Donny would be stuck without wheels. In the congested sprawl of Houston.
But Donny was out of options, and as Lou had reminded him, his standards had been slipping for a while. It was already getting dark when Donny rolled into the lot. He had hit the drive-through car wash on the way out there, and cleaned his trash out of the interior, and the car looked good, if a little crazy—like its owner. He parked it right in front of the office where you could see it from inside, and headed in.
There were three people working there, one older guy on the phone at a desk and two younger ones taping down a cherry red Pontiac to be loaded on the boat. Donny preempted chance and went and sat right down in the chair by the older guy, as if he had a meeting.
Perhaps because of the suit and the briefcase, or maybe the edge Donny was giving, the guy looked at him with eyes that registered low-level alarm. He held up a finger to signal he would just be a minute, and moments later told whoever was on the phone that he had to go.
Hanging on the wall behind the guy was a framed photo of the Governor and the President waving from a convertible Eldorado in a July Fourth parade.
The name on the business card Donny helped himself to was Bob Cregan, CEO. Bob had an Australian accent, which made sense—most of the buyers were Asian, and the Aussies made good business inventing new niches in trans-Pacific trade.
By the time Bob got off the phone, the two guys who looked like they were probably his sons were outside gawking at the Oldsmobile.
When Donny proposed his deal, Bob didn’t like it. “The market’s getting soft,” he said. “Only thing I’m buying is Cadillacs and muscle cars.”
“This is better than a Cadillac,” said Donny. “It’s a Double Ninety-Eight.”
The 1998 model Ninety-Eight Millennium Edition Cabin Cruiser was the car they called the last Oldsmobile, even though it wasn’t the last, just the biggest.
“I can see that,” said Bob. “And that’s cool, but like I said, I’m not really looking for that right now. Maybe come back after New Year’s.”
“Believe me,” said Donny, trying to play it
cool. “I wish I didn’t have to sell it.”
Bob laughed. “You guys always say that.” He smiled, then sighed, and got up to do a walk-around.
Watching Bob treat that beautiful relic like an ugly mule was rough.
Watching him get into the driver’s seat and start it up was worse. It sounded good. Like a warbird ready for the runway.
Bob raised his eyebrows and nodded. “I guess I could give you three.”
“Come on,” said Donny. “It’s worth twenty grand at least.”
He got him to six.
As he suspected, Bob had plenty of cash on hand. Because the other thing Donny knew about Bob, from a case he had worked in the U.S. Attorney’s office, was that Bob was a node in a totally global and totally informal money transmission network. And that sometimes the cars were used to ship other things.
After Donny signed over the title and Bob counted out the cash, Donny asked him if one of his sons could give him a ride.
Bob smiled. “Getting colonized is a bitch, eh? The boys will call you a cab.”
34
The evidence locker was in a building that had formerly served as the main post office, at the edge of downtown near the federal building where most of the Task Force members had their desks. Turner’s guy met Donny there after sundown. The building was secure, not even designed for public visitors, but it still had a partially covered parking area in the back where the mail trucks had once loaded up. As Donny walked into the loading zone he remembered it had been a popular spot for skate punks after the post office closed and before they remodeled it for packages that would never leave. You could still see the wheel burns along the raised dock where Donny saw Turner’s guy staring at him through the face-sized window in the reinforced metal door.
“Richie?” said Donny.
The guy nodded his head in a way that said come on. The high-pitched klaxon startled Donny when Richie opened the door to let him in, but it cut off as soon as the door shut behind them.
“Follow me,” said Richie, after quickly sizing Donny up. No handshake or niceties, not seeming nervous, but ready to get Donny out of sight. The hallway was long, but they didn’t walk far before Richie opened the door to a small conference room. When they were in, he closed the door behind them.
Rule of Capture Page 18