The Empowered

by Craig Parshall

  Then his voice dropped. “But the second time, that was about all I could take, ’cuz of what happen’d. I motored out to their ship, hung on to the net ladder, while them sailors, they’d scamper down the ladder and fetch the food and the big containers of fuel for their onboard generator. And then I hear it. Sounded like a young girl screamin’. I looked up and I saw her.”

  “Who did you see?”

  “Young’un. About ten or eleven. Hangin’ over the railing. Like she was gonna jump. But she was acting all strange. Like she was doped up. Drugs maybe.”

  “What happened?”

  “One of them sailors slapped her good, and then I hear a couple of other young girls screamin’. All of a sudden, it got quiet.”

  The picture Henry Bosant was painting was so troubling and so evil that I understood his desire to rid himself of the guilt. The vilest kind of human trafficking.

  Bosant said he tried to get out of his monthly rendezvous after that, making excuses why he couldn’t continue the deal. But his contact told him that wouldn’t be allowed. Bad things would happen, he was told, if he failed to cooperate. Then, in a twisted turn of events, his contact said he needed Bosant to access an Internet site. He was given a code and a password which would be good for only one day, and then it would be changed, but he was to sign in and “take the required online lesson.” He was warned that if he failed to log in to the site, they would know it.

  Henry Bosant did what he was told. “I hadn’t been able to sleep a single night since then,” he said. “Not till I got right with Jesus.”

  It was, he told me, a private Internet site with a Russian name, made up of three words, but he couldn’t recall the specifics, though he thought the word video was in there somewhere.

  Once he downloaded the file, he was to click the Play arrow. That was when, sitting alone, he watched in horror as on the screen a young girl was repeatedly raped and beaten by men wearing masks. “I don’t know how she could be alive after all of that,” he said in a low moaning voice. “Dear God, please forgive me for tendering supplies to their boats. Taking their money . . .”

  It was clear, the video “lesson” the Russian shippers wanted him to learn. That if they were willing to inflict that kind of hellish brutality on an innocent girl, how much more they would be willing to do to him if he turned on them. Even more diabolical, once he downloaded and watched the video, he would be guilty of a crime himself and therefore afraid to go to the authorities. Double indemnity to keep him quiet.

  In Bosant’s eyes, red and watery as he told the story, I saw a man in grief who was still learning that the price paid for his redemption came without loopholes. But one thing he would have clearly understood: the depth of evil that had conspired to ravage the human race. Henry Bosant knew it well because he had been rescued out of it.

  I patted Henry on the shoulder. “Grace and forgiveness,” I said, “swim down deeper than the hell you were swimming in. They rescue drowning people like you. And like me.”

  I expected it to end there. His epiphany of confession. Finally saying the words to a stranger. Expressing his repentance and remorse, and that would be the end of it.

  But I was wrong.

  “There’s more,” he said. “Another ship is comin’. Two nights from tonight. It’ll be filled with young girls again.”

  “Past Port Sulphur? Through Port Eads?” I asked. “And into the Gulf?”

  He said that’s exactly what would happen.

  There it was, the passageway for kidnapped kids: taken from the greater New Orleans area, down the Mississippi, past Port Sulphur, and out to international waters.

  Then off to how many other countries? How many dirty dungeons? How many more videos, tortures, and deaths?

  I asked, “They still expect you to arrive with supplies?”

  “Sure they do. But I ain’t comin’. Only, I’ve been worryin’ about my landline phone makin’ odd sounds. Maybe it’s bugged.”

  I couldn’t give him legal advice. That privilege had been stripped from me years before. But I could ask him a question. “Have you considered talking to the authorities?”

  “Yes. But I know they could prosecute me. Then I think to myself—Henry, you’re saved by the blood of the Savior. What can they really do to you?”

  I had no desire to see Henry behind bars. Besides, burning inside me like a furnace was something else: the passion to stop these evildoers in their tracks. They might even be the same beasts who had snatched Peggy Tanner. And so many others.

  I looked back at the Mustang and saw Heather with her arms crossed on the dashboard, waiting with an exasperated expression. I was glad she hadn’t heard all the details. Yes, she was a woman, not a little girl, and I would have to tell her in my own way. But the thought of that—describing to her the true depth of evil out there in the world—it’d be like sharing a curse.

  In fact, it was a curse. Welcome to the world. Still, a curse that could be lifted, the stain removed forever. As far as the east is from the west. I knew how deep my redemption was. Now it was time to find out how deep my faith was.

  I had an idea. I told Henry Bosant that I wanted to talk to Deputy Ben St. Martin, that I trusted him, and that I wouldn’t use Henry’s name but would alert the deputy to the facts as Bosant had shared them with me. We needed to interdict the next ship that would be waiting out there on the Mississippi, expecting another tender boat delivery from Henry Bosant.

  36

  On the ride back to Port Sulphur I explained to Heather the gist of what Henry Bosant had told me, but not all of it. Not the hideous abuse of the young girls.

  Heather wouldn’t let it rest. “First you had me sit in the car like a child. Apparently I’m good enough to do research on your iPad, but you don’t think I’m old enough to hear everything that guy told you, whoever he is.”

  “Henry Bosant. That’s his name.”

  “Whatever. You need another voice in your head besides your own.”

  “Because . . .”

  “You said it yourself: this guy’s got a criminal record. His credibility is questionable. How do you know he’s telling the truth? And if he is, maybe that’s even worse. Maybe he’s actually deep into this repulsive video porn site, and he’s just using you.”

  “Or maybe,” I said, “his life was transformed. Like mine was. Experiencing the personal revolution that takes place, from the inside out, when you do honest business with Jesus. I’m convinced that Henry Bosant went through that. Otherwise, what’s his motive for exposing himself? The law calls that a declaration against interest, by the way. It ranks high on the credibility scale.”

  Upon reaching Port Sulphur, I drove straight to the sheriff’s department. I had called ahead and told Deputy St. Martin that we were coming in and had some information that required immediate attention. He sounded distracted and didn’t respond except to say, “I will be waiting for you. See you soon.”

  When we arrived, I invited Heather to join me, but she refused at first. “I suppose this is just your makeup to me for being an absolutely controlling jerk lately?”

  I struggled not to smile. “Fine, let’s say that’s it.”

  She stared me down.

  I added, “Just remember, this is the officer who thought you were being overly aggressive. Despite that, I want you next to me. That should tell you something. About how much I trust you. But there’s a flip side too. My job to protect you.”

  That broke the ice. She said, “Did you ever think that, you know, maybe you’ve got things turned around?”

  I asked what she meant.

  “Look at the facts. Your obsession with demons that you think are after you—that got you disbarred. You gave a speech to the ABA that almost caused a riot. And an assistant attorney general was murdered in your hotel room. Maybe I’m the one who ought to be protecting you.”

  I gave her a big, fatherly grin.

  She swung open the passenger door and said, “Let’s get this party started.
”

  We trotted into the lobby. A female dispatch officer was at the desk and said, “They’re waiting for you, Mr. Black.”

  I hadn’t asked for a group meeting. That should have been my first hint that things were about to get very strange.

  The dispatcher led us to a room and opened the door. Heather was right behind me.

  Inside, Deputy Ben St. Martin was standing against the far wall, harboring a disturbed look. A middle-aged man in uniform with an all-business expression stepped up to me, identified himself as Sheriff Clay Haywood, and asked if I was Trevor Black.

  I gave him the expected response and asked what this was about. Then I noticed the two audience members for this tragicomedy of errors, also standing against the wall. One was Special Agent Fainlock, the FBI agent who had interrogated me about Assistant AG Paul Pullmen being executed in my hotel room. The other was one of the New Orleans police officers who had eaten at Bud’s, the diner I entered trailing puddles of water from my shoes after my limo plunge into the Mississippi.

  The FBI agent, his arms crossed, asked me, “Find any demons in Louisiana, Mr. Black? I know you’ve been looking.”

  Unfortunately I took the bait and swallowed the hook as well as the sinker. “They’re everywhere,” I said. “You just have to know where to look.”

  I was ready to launch into the news about the upcoming rendezvous with the Russian ship at Dead Point and the complicity of the crew in child abduction, horrendous abuse, and violation of federal obscenity laws. But I never had the chance.

  “I’m afraid, Mr. Black,” the sheriff announced, “that we have no alternative but to take you into protective custody under Louisiana Revised Statutes section 28, paragraph 53.”

  “I practiced law in New York,” I shot back. “Not Louisiana. So, humor me . . .”

  “It’s the statute,” Deputy St. Martin blurted out with a pained expression, “that permits a peace officer to place you in temporary involuntary mental commitment for purposes of psychiatric evaluation.”

  “We are advised,” the sheriff said, clearly not taking any pleasure in what he was about to say, “that there are reasonable grounds to believe you suffer from a grave mental condition requiring treatment and that you are a danger to others.”

  The sheriff put zip-tie cuffs on my wrists and said, “I’m sorry. You’ll have to come with us.”

  “There’s a hellish criminal enterprise that has to be stopped in the next forty-eight hours!” I yelled. In retrospect, I suppose that sounded ludicrous and just fortified their skewed assumptions about me, but I didn’t care. It was the truth.

  Heather cried out frantically, “Where are you guys taking him?”

  “Morehaven Psychiatric Hospital,” the FBI agent replied. “For observation, treatment, and medication.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I shouted back and told Heather to grab my car keys from my right side pocket, which she quickly did. I whispered, “Follow me to this hospital; I need to talk to you. And bring a pad of paper and a pen.” Then I added, “Looks like you’ll be protecting me after all. . . .”

  They loaded me into the back of a squad car and we began the two-hour journey to Morehaven. I turned around several times, each time spotting Heather driving the Mustang, hugging the road right behind us. Somehow I always expected this. Convinced that the worlds of law and law enforcement would not long endure a disbarred ex–criminal defense lawyer who believed in real demons and then acted on that belief.

  But in the quiet of that squad, my wrists uncomfortably bound, I was formulating a backup plan in my head. It was a long shot. I didn’t want it to come to that. But if it did, Heather’s help would be crucial. And it had to be quick.

  37

  I was escorted up the front sidewalk of Morehaven by the sheriff and another deputy. They walked me along the pavement to the four-story redbrick hospital that sported four tall pillars in the front, antebellum style. By the looks of its sagging porch and peeling paint, it could have been used back in the Civil War.

  Before turning me over to the guys in white coats, Sheriff Haywood said with a shake of his head, “You understand this is out of my hands.”

  I didn’t fully understand his comment at the time. But I didn’t forget it.

  After admitting me, they shuttled me through the large dayroom, a sad place filled with milling and fidgeting souls, many of whom were talking to no one in particular. Finally I was placed in a locked room where my zip-tie cuffs were removed.

  I was told that Dr. Alex Schlosser, a psychiatrist, would be interviewing me. I took some pleasure in that thought. My former criminal defense practice in New York had me in contact with a parade of some of the nation’s top mental health experts. Surely I could convince him of my mental stability and my orientation to reality. But it needed to be fast, so after my release I could speed back to Port Sulphur and explain to Deputy Ben St. Martin the story about the modern-day slave ship that would be cruising down the Mississippi River. What’s more, St. Martin would be the perfect guy. The river was his jurisdiction.

  Minutes ticked by. Every hour of delay increased the chances that a manifest of human cargo locked in the hold of some ship and trafficked by some shadowy voodoo fraternity would slip past the Louisiana authorities and glide into the Gulf, bound for parts unknown.

  When the door opened, the psychiatrist, a man about my age and dressed smartly in a suit and tie, entered with a clipboard in his hand. He was undoubtedly carrying the routine questionnaire, the psychiatric inventory. All the typical questions. Did I know what day it was? Did I know where I was? Did I know why I had been hospitalized? Followed by the clinical determination—privately, of course—whether I was oriented in terms of time and place. Was my manner appropriate to the setting? Any flights of fancy? Evidence of auditory or visual hallucinations?

  I thought I was ready.

  It started simply enough. Dr. Schlosser sat down across from me, crossed his legs, and took the time to straighten his pant leg before he began. I had guessed right. The standard psychiatric inventory questions. I answered each of them calmly. His face showed no emotion.

  Then questions about my criminal defense practice in New York. And the decision of the legal ethics committee to revoke my law license.

  “You were given a chance to save your license?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were only required to cooperate with psychiatric examination and treatment; is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you refused?”

  “Correct.”

  “Why was that?”

  “I wasn’t suffering from a mental disease. I didn’t need treatment.”

  “Oh?” he said calmly. “Explain that.”

  “The problem was twofold: First, I believed in the existence of demons. More to the point, it was my considered judgment that a client of mine, someone charged with a very disturbing homicide, was occupied by demonic forces. Therefore, I didn’t believe I could effectively represent him, so I asked the judge to allow me to withdraw from the case.”

  “And the second thing?”

  “A former client of mine got my late wife hooked on cocaine, which ultimately led to her death. So when I ran into that same man in a courthouse elevator one day, I took the opportunity to punch him in the face and break his nose. To put it all into context, at that point in my life, things were going downhill.”

  Dr. Schlosser seemed particularly interested in that last part, about my life unraveling.

  “Do you see these demons—visually, I mean?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “Very hard to describe to the uninitiated.”

  “Uninitiated?”

  “Spiritually, I mean. God gives his Spirit to those who put their trust in Christ. And spiritual abilities accompany that. This is orthodox theology, by the way. Followed by Christians for two thousand years. You can find it in the Bible. Anyhow, that’s the only way I
can remotely explain my particular spiritual gifting.”

  “Do you feel a calling to destroy—to kill—these demonic forces?”

  “Not really. Just to stop them.”

  “But if the only way to stop them is to kill them, would you?”

  “I hesitate to answer hypothetical questions. I need more facts.”

  “Do you believe God commands you to oppose demons?”

  “Of course.”

  “What if God commanded you to kill someone? Would you feel compelled?”

  “Your question is posed in a vacuum, which makes it difficult to answer. All I can say is that God doesn’t contradict himself. He reveals himself in his Word, the Bible, which God orchestrated to record what he wanted to record. Historical events. Places. People. And yes, also miracles and theophanies . . . like those involving his Son, Jesus Christ.”

  “I don’t believe you answered my question. . . .”

  “Let me try it this way. The Bible lays out moral principles. And from those, I glean three situations where God might—I emphasize might—command a person to kill. First, in self-defense. Second, in good-faith defense of another. Third, in obedience to established government order in defense of itself. Which I guess goes to the issue of the theory of a just war. But that’s a whole other subject. Does that answer your question?”

  “For a trial lawyer, you seem to be well-versed on subjects outside of the law. Why is that?”

  “When I had my faith encounter with God and trusted that Jesus Christ was and is who he said he was and that he came as a suffering servant who was a sacrifice for all the rotten things I was guilty of, that sort of lit my mind on fire. Before that, my focus had been narrow. Basically three things. To hone my legal craft. To crush my opponents. And to make a lot of money. But after faith was born in me, it was different. I wanted to understand everything, because once you understand that God is, you suddenly know that everything has meaning. Absent that, everything is meaningless. I suppose you can try to invent your own meaning and value for things. But in the end, it doesn’t hold up.”