Radical

by E. M. Kokie

  Or are they watching me? Right now, is someone watching me? Are they always watching me? Every minute? Until I know, I should just not eat it. Strategy. Survey the landscape, and the enemy, before showing yourself or attempting subterfuge.

  With my back to the wall, wedged into the corner, I can see the window in the door and most of the cell. I scan every surface, inch by inch, learning every detail, every chip, every scratch.

  The wall is warm. I don’t know if I am. I don’t know anything.

  Eventually exhaustion takes over. I sleep for hours. They wake me at times to check on me, and for meals, which I mostly ignore. Sleeping is easier than worrying about what is happening, or what might happen. Where everyone is. Where they might take me. Why any of this happened.

  When I need toilet paper, I have to ask for it. Hope one of the guards is nearby. Hope they give me enough.

  I still haven’t seen Mom, or Dad, or anyone.

  I think Mark did something. Something bad.

  I keep thinking about the questions they were asking me, and the pictures of Uncle Skip’s house and the station taped off as crime scenes, and replaying the last week over in my head. Then the weeks before that.

  What did Riggs think I knew, or what did he already know? What did he say to Mark? What made Mark like that, made him so crazy?

  Mark and Zach and who else being at the station, at night. I was supposed to tell Uncle Skip. I should have told him. I should have told Dad, when things got weird, after Riggs, after Mark. That night. I should have called Dad. Made him listen.

  What the hell did Mark do?

  They took all of our family. Even Uncle Skip. Is it just us, or is it bigger than that? Could it be all of Clearview? Or maybe not all, but some of the other families, too?

  Maybe they really did arrest everyone from Clearview, but for what? And they kept asking about Mark. Just Mark. How long can they hold us all?

  Maybe Mark didn’t do anything, and they’re just trying to set us all up.

  Maybe someone else is setting us up. Riggs? Was he trying to use me to set Mark up for something? Or someone else? The government? Maybe Devon and Neal and their open-carry demonstrations made the government nervous. Maybe this isn’t real. Maybe they’re just rattling us. Maybe they’re asking Mark about me, and someone else about someone else, to mess with us all.

  Is Uncle Skip okay? He hasn’t done anything. Will they believe him? Did they only go after him because I was in the truck? Will he hate me?

  When do I get to see Mom or Dad or . . . anyone?

  Something smells awful. Has to be the food. I turn my nose into my shoulder to try to block the smell.

  A tray is shoved through the slot in my door. The center compartment is full of the smell, only ten times stronger. Sloppy, gloppy, like meat stew but not good.

  I take the sealed juice, the apple, and the bread and put them on my shelf for later, and then scrape the rest into the toilet and flush.

  The smell lingers for a long time, making me gag repeatedly.

  Maybe this is all strategy. I look at the corner where the camera is. I can feel them watching me, studying me, waiting for me to crack. Maybe this is all about making me sweat it out. Maybe they wait until I’m good and primed, and then bet I’ll spill my guts not to be brought back here.

  No way.

  It feels like I’ve been here for weeks. Weeks under water. But I know it’s only been days. Two? Three?

  No matter what they throw at me, I’m not talking.

  I hear the keys and I’m up and standing two steps from the bed by the time the guard’s got the door open. The tension falls back when I see it’s Gage. It’s only been a few days, but I’m figuring out how to move around the guards, how to make it clear I’m not going to be any trouble.

  “Lawyer’s here,” Gage says. I don’t know what to do, but I keep my hands where she can see them and follow her instructions, keep my head down, try to remember what to do for next time in case it’s not Gage in charge of moving me.

  I never call any of the guards anything. Sir or ma’am if I absolutely have to.

  Gage leads me from the cell. Taggert is with her. Before I knew his name, I called him Creeper, in my head, and imagined he’s Deputy Creep’s cousin. He’s the one who stares through the window, taunting, whispering. Like he wonders what my guts look like. He’s become the thing I fear at night, in the dark, the nights I know he’s on duty, the things he might do to a “traitorous little shit” like me.

  I try not to think about Lucy much. She seems like forever ago. But Lucy and her aversion to the C word keep popping up, because Taggert likes it just fine.

  Where is Lucy now? Does she know I’ve been arrested? Does she think I deserve it? For that matter, where are Cammie and Karen and the rest of the people from Clearview? There’s no way for me to know what’s going on and whether they’ve been arrested, too. They wouldn’t be here. They’re older.

  When we get to the room, Gage takes me in while Taggert waits in the hall. There’s a woman across the table, standing. Short hair. Hard eyes. Suit.

  She smiles at Gage.

  I don’t know whether to sit.

  “Hi. Bex, right?” Her voice is smooth. “Or do you actually prefer Rebecca?” I don’t know if it’s safe to talk to her. “I’m Joan Bryant. The court appointed me to represent you.” How do I know that? How do I know she’s who she says she is? “Here,” she says. She motions toward the chair. I sit down. Then she sits, puts a file and legal pad in front of her, and passes a piece of paper across the table. I lean forward so I can see it without touching it. It looks official.

  “How do I know you are who you say you are?”

  Her eyebrows climb and tip in. Her pupils get bigger. She tosses a business card across the table to me.

  I play with the card, turning it by its corner until it spins on the table. Anyone could have business cards made.

  “Look,” she says, leaning across the table, “if I’m not who I say I am, if I’m . . . a government agent trying to trick you,” she says, like she’s figured me out, “then anything you say to me would be inadmissible.”

  Unless she’s lying about that, too.

  But what choice do I have?

  “You’re my lawyer?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  “I get a choice?”

  “Sure.” She puts down the pen and leans back in her chair. “You can decline to have an attorney. If after we talk, you don’t want my assistance, I’ll tell the court you declined.”

  “So, no choice.” I lean back, too. “You or I’m SOL.”

  “What do you want?”

  To go home.

  “I’m curious.” She isn’t mocking me. She’s asking. “Who were you hoping for? Someone older? Someone who would pat your hand and tell you everything’s going to be okay? A man?”

  “No.” I shake my head, trying to clear it. “Someone who will fight for me. Someone . . . who can explain what’s happening, so I can understand. Someone who can tell me how to get out of here, and what I should do.”

  Someone I can trust. Who will help me.

  “I can explain what’s happening,” she says, bringing her chair closer to the table. “I can’t tell you what you should do. You will have to make those choices, in consultation with your parent or guardian, if you wish. Though, given that every adult in your immediate family is involved in this in one way or another, I’m going to caution you not to discuss certain aspects of this case with any of them. I can ask the court to appoint a guardian ad litem to help guide you, to give you a second opinion, if you doubt my advice.”

  I don’t even know what that means.

  “Some things, like trial strategy, what witnesses to call, what motions to file, I will make those decisions,” she says.

  Trial. Witnesses.

  “But the big ones,” she says. “Like, should you talk to the government, should you agree to a plea deal, should you testify if this goes to contested hear
ing or to trial . . . I will give you all the options, the possible ramifications, and advice. But you will be making those decisions for yourself.”

  “And what I say goes?” I ask.

  “Yes, on the big things, absolutely.”

  “Even if my mom or dad or someone else says I should do something different? Tells you to do something different?”

  “You are my client.” It hangs there. “If you so choose.” I wait for the “but,” or the catch. “It is your life on the line. You’re the one they may try to put in prison.”

  “May? They might let me go?”

  She holds up her hand. “I said may because it’s still not settled whether you will be tried under state or federal law, under the criminal statutes as an adult or in a juvenile delinquency hearing. But we need to be clear on whether I represent you, and what my obligations are regarding what you tell me, before we talk about the possibilities.”

  “I don’t even understand what’s happening,” I say. I start shaking again. “Why did they arrest us? Where is my family? Are they in jail?”

  “What do you know of the arrests?”

  “Nothing!” I feel the panic rising. “I mean, they kept asking about Mark, and bombs, over and over, and guns, and where he was, where they are, but then they stopped, and . . . What’s going on?”

  She takes a deep breath. “Your brother, Mark, and four other men have been charged by the federal government with seditious conspiracy, the manufacturing with intent to use weapons of mass destruction — explosive devices — and various weapons charges, including having illegally modified weapons, illegally acquired ammunition, and carrying and using firearms in the commission of a crime.”

  “Mark? And those idiots? They talk big, but . . .” But even as I say it, I can see those guys at the house. I picture Mark’s face, the way he was so freaked out that I had talked to Riggs, and afraid of what I might have told him. He could have killed me. Completely out of control. “They can’t possibly think they were seriously going to . . . to . . .”

  “They did, obviously,” she says. “In order for several law-enforcement agencies to have coordinated, to have obtained warrants and orchestrated simultaneous raids on multiple locations, to have acted when they did, they not only thought they were serious — they thought the threat was imminent.”

  I can’t think.

  “The indictment alleges that they planned to kill a law-enforcement officer or officers, so that they could set off explosives at the resulting funeral sure to be attended by other law-enforcement officers, in order to draw the state and federal authorities into a standoff at a heavily booby-trapped and armed location, to spark a revolution.”

  I can’t . . . I can’t even . . .

  “When your brother was located, after trying to evade arrest, he almost ran over a law-enforcement officer, and he’s lucky they didn’t kill him right then. They would have been justified. He was armed and was found to have several weapons, including a fully automatic rifle.”

  Oh, my God.

  “They are looking for where he, or they, were keeping the explosives — or the components they intended to use to build the explosive devices — right now.”

  God.

  “They may have been talking big,” she says, “but they took enough steps toward acting on that talk to get the attention of the federal authorities, for warrants to be issued, and to be indicted.” She stares at me.

  I’m shaking again. I pull the too-long jumpsuit sleeves down over my hands, wrap my arms around my body, try to stop shaking.

  “Breathe,” she says, and I do. Loudly. My heart is pounding in my chest and head and behind my eyes and in my ears. She waits until I’m breathing normally and looking at her to continue. “They’ve been criminally charged by the federal government. You have not. Not yet. Not with being part of the conspiracy.”

  “I don’t understand. Then how can they keep me here?”

  “Right now, they are holding you for possession and carrying concealed weapons — a twenty-two-caliber Smith and Wesson three-seventeen revolver, which was loaded and in your bag when they detained you, which you are not old enough to possess, let alone carry, and a knife that they allege —”

  “What’s wrong with the knife?” She looks at me like she can’t believe I would question what was wrong with the knife. “It’s a hunting knife.”

  “For one thing, it was concealed in your bag — a concealed weapon, so they allege. But for another, it’s a . . .” She flips to her notes and reads, “Double-edged nonfolding stabbing instrument, or so they say.”

  “It’s a hunting knife,” I say again. “How can a hunting knife be illegal?”

  “I’m not sure that it is,” she says. “But the fact that you had it concealed, on or about your person, complicates things. As do the money and ammunition they found hidden in a room they assert was used exclusively by you at your uncle’s house. We’ll need to discuss the circumstances surrounding your staying in the house, and your use of that room, and the circumstances surrounding your arrest and the search of your bag, but for now . . .” She waits for me to argue some more, but I don’t, even though it seems ridiculous. “Both the State of Michigan and the federal government have laws that govern firearms and ammunition and how to deal with acts by a juvenile that violate those laws. That means that the state and the federal government have concurrent jurisdiction.” She pauses, waits for me to make any sign I’m following her. I don’t. Because I’m not. “It means either of them can ultimately decide to charge you with violating their respective laws, and either can do so as part of a juvenile proceeding or charge you as an adult and try you in adult court.”

  “I don’t understand. They have me locked up. How can they keep me if they aren’t sure what they think I’ve done?”

  “They haven’t decided yet whether they have enough to charge you as a coconspirator in the larger criminal conspiracy.” She holds up her hand to stop me from interrupting. “But while they continue to investigate, they have more than enough to hold you related to the weapons and ammunition.”

  “They can do that?”

  “Yes,” she says. “At least for now.”

  Every person who ever said to be afraid of our government was right.

  “Before we talk about any of the specific evidence, and any defenses you have, any motions we may want to file, how I intend to defend you,” she says, “I want to go over the case materials more thoroughly.” She puts her pen down. “That is, if you want me to defend you.”

  I study her. She seems for real. Her hair is short. Her suit isn’t fussy. Strong hands, short nails. She looks like a regular person, but she talks like she knows what she’s doing. She seems smart. She seems strong. She makes a million times more sense than the guy who talked to me before the judge sent me here.

  “Have you ever shot a gun?” I ask her.

  “Yes, I’ve shot guns.”

  Guns. “Own any?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you support the Second Amendment?”

  “Yes, I support the Second Amendment. But more important, I support your rights as a citizen of the United States to be free from unlawful search and seizure. Your right to due process under the law. Your right to a zealous legal defense. That you are innocent until proven guilty.”

  “Even if you think I did everything they say?”

  “Even if I come to believe you have done all of the acts you have been accused of, and more,” she says slowly, “I will still do everything I can to make sure you have the best defense possible. I will make sure you are afforded every right and protection the law allows, and I will argue for your freedom.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I believe in the Constitution.” One side of her mouth turns up. “All of it. And because it’s my job.”

  I’m afraid of the warmth in my gut telling me to trust her.

  “It’s a tough decision, whether to accept a lawyer’s services or not. Maybe you want to see
if you can hire someone yourself? Some would let you, you know, for a cut of your eventual book deals and TV appearances, or for you signing a paper allowing them to make money off of talking about representing you. You’d be on all the talk shows.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I don’t want to be on TV at all. “I’m not doing any books or TV appearances, or any of that.”

  “Well, there are lawyers, experienced ones, who will take your case for the publicity alone. I can recommend some that are less sleazy than others, if you’re interested.”

  “Are you going to want a cut?”

  “No.” She laughs. “This is my job. I’m compensated by the court for representing you. That’s how I’m paid. But if you agree, I will be representing you. And I take that seriously.”

  I watch her, try to read her. She’s the first one to treat me like I matter, to help me understand. But she belongs to them, to the government. They pay her. How can I trust her if they’re paying her? Maybe if she understood I didn’t do anything, maybe then she would fight for me. Maybe.

  “Can you get me out of here?”

  She shakes her head. “No. At least not now. As I said, they have enough to hold you in a secure facility for now. The government is going to oppose any release terms, and the court will likely agree. I can try to get you out of segregation, but I’m not optimistic. Right now, one of the few things on which they all agree is keeping you in seg. The investigation is continuing and there’s a possibility of more — and more serious — charges.”

  “I didn’t —”

  “Stop.”

  “But —”

  “Not until we understand each other. Not until you are sure you want me to represent you. I don’t want you to say anything until we are clear on our roles and obligations.”

  She talks about our roles and what I can “expect.” I try to follow, but I’m tired and my head is spinning. My brain is too full. I can’t sleep for more than a couple hours at a time, not even at night. I can’t eat. I was afraid to drink the juice at breakfast since the seal was open. And the water from the fountain grosses me out. It smells like maybe it’s not really for drinking, and I can’t drink from the fountain without seeing the toilet.