Radical

by E. M. Kokie

  “A lot to take in,” she finally says when I sway in my seat. I try to sit up, plant my feet, and refocus, but she’s capping her pen. “Enough for today. We can talk again next week after I’ve had a chance to review what they’ve given me so far and make some calls. Assuming, that is, that I’m your lawyer.”

  “Yes.” I don’t hesitate. “Please.”

  “Good.” She uncaps her pen and makes some notes on her legal pad. “The agents want to question you again, but they will have to wait until I’m more familiar with the case and we’ve had a chance to talk further.”

  “I don’t want to talk to them.”

  “We’ll discuss it after I know more. But for now, my focus is on looking at the evidence and finding out the government’s position on jurisdiction and transfer. And in the meantime, don’t talk to anyone about anything except the weather. Not about your life. Not about your family. Not anything about this case. Nothing. Understand?”

  I nod and swallow, because who would I talk to, Taggert?

  She is looking at me, thinking. I can practically hear her thinking.

  “Bex,” she says, leaning forward slightly, “your mother will be coming to see you.”

  “She’s out?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about my dad? Uncle Skip?”

  “Your uncle has been released, but your dad has not.”

  Thank God. Uncle Skip.

  “When your mother comes to see you,” she says, “please remember that she can be compelled to testify against you. Anything you say to her can be used against you in court. And . . .” She pauses, rethinks what she wants to say, and then tries again. “Your mother’s world has been turned upside down. Her husband and both of her children are in custody. Her home is a crime scene. . . . She may not be thinking clearly.” She waits for me to say something. When I don’t, she says, “She may not understand the legal implications of everything she, or you, knows. Please do not discuss the case with her.”

  But she’s my mom. She can tell me what’s happening. Where Mark is. And Dad, and . . . everyone.

  “Bex,” she says. “Until we understand the evidence and potential charges better and can sort out some things. Please.”

  I don’t answer. I can’t. This woman is a stranger who’s paid by the government. Even if she means what she says, she’s still employed by them.

  Mom will tell me what’s going on.

  “Oh, thank the Lord,” Mom says, rushing at me and pulling me into a hard hug. I look behind her, but no one else is here.

  I’ve never been in the family visiting room before. There are tables, with bolted-down seats. Like sometime there must have been a brawl. Then again, how many kids are in here because of their crappy families? Better not to have weapons for those visits — even chairs.

  At least it’s cooler in here. It’s hot in my cell. The walls sweat. The jumpsuit itches where it sticks to me, but it’s all I have to wear except for the T-shirt under it.

  “I came as soon as they let me.” She leans back, holding my face and looking at me. “Are you okay?”

  I nod because it’s what she needs.

  “Your father and I have been so worried.”

  “He’s home?”

  “Not yet. But soon, we hope,” she says. “He told me to tell you he loves you. And to be strong.” She looks like she wants to say more, but her lips are pulled in tight. “Be brave.”

  We sit down at the table, but Mom won’t let go of me. “Are you really okay?” she asks again.

  “I guess,” I say.

  We sit in silence.

  “What’s going on?” I whisper.

  She shakes her head, looking away. “I was questioned. They kept me for days. The attorney finally made them let me go.”

  “You hired an attorney?”

  “Your uncle Nathan did.” She looks down at her hands clenched in her lap. “For me.”

  Of course. Not for me. For me he sent Aunt Lorraine to tell me to confess. For Mom he hired a lawyer.

  “Dad? Uncle Skip?”

  “Skip’s been released, too.”

  “Where is he? Can I see him?”

  “I don’t think they’ll let you see him. Just immediate family, I think. But I can ask. . . .”

  “Where is he?”

  “Staying with a man named Heinman.”

  Oh. Good. Mr. Heinman is good people.

  Mom digs into her pocket and pulls out a tissue. She wipes at her eyes. The dark, puffy circles under her eyes look like bruises.

  It hurts, the way she’s looking at me.

  “What?”

  She shakes her head, dabs at her eyes, but she’s not crying. Her eyes are dry and hard and scared, or not scared — worried, or angry, or like she’s scared of me, like she thinks I did something bad. Like after she found out about the pipe bomb, only worse. Much worse. Like she thinks that they had a reason to arrest me. She thinks this is my fault.

  “I swear, I didn’t —”

  “Bex!” Mom shouts, holding up her hand. “Not a word. Don’t tell me anything.” Mom reaches for my hand and then pulls back before she touches me. “It doesn’t matter. Not right now. What matters now is keeping you safe. Keeping you all safe. Your lawyer, Ms. Bryant — and Mark’s — they both said we shouldn’t talk about the specifics of the case. There’ll be time for that . . . after.”

  After. I can’t even think of after, of what after might be. After what? When is after?

  Mom finally pulls my hand in closer. “Anything you say, to us, to the government, to anyone”— she looks at me —“anything you say can be used against both of you, all of you.” Her stare bores into my skull. “You, Mark, and your father. Do you understand?” she asks, stroking my hand. “The attorney Uncle Nathan hired said there’s a good chance that as a juvenile, you won’t be facing much of anything. Maybe not even a criminal conviction.”

  My stomach churns.

  “Mark’s nineteen,” she says, staring down at my hand, clasped in hers like she’s praying over it. “An adult. And your father . . .”

  I don’t understand. I look at her stroking my hand, like she used to when I was a kid.

  “They’re adults,” Mom says, eyes hard and clear when she looks up at me. Determined. She’s here with a purpose. Not to see me, or not just to see me. “Mark’s in with the adult men. Criminals.” She takes a deep breath and leans closer until her face is almost touching mine. “You are a juvenile. But he’s an adult.”

  Oh.

  “Do you understand?” she asks.

  Yes.

  She’s trying to protect Mark. Wants me to help protect Mark.

  “Just think real hard before you say anything, to anyone. Please.”

  She holds the look, won’t look away until I nod.

  “Family,” she says. “We take care of each other. No matter what.”

  No matter what. No matter that he went crazy and could have killed me. Or that I could have killed him. Family.

  She tries to smile, but it doesn’t work. “My good girl, it’s going to be okay. I promise. This is all a big, big mistake. And it’s going to be okay.”

  She hasn’t called me her “good girl” in years, but lying to me, and to herself, is nothing new. It probably won’t be okay, but she doesn’t have to worry about me. I won’t betray them.

  I didn’t do anything, and I won’t help them prove whatever Mark did. Not because we’re family, but because I’m not a snitch, or a collaborator. Because something made him paranoid or high or terrified.

  Someone could be setting him up, setting us up.

  Something made him lose it and that almost made me shoot him.

  I’ve been planning and training and begging and trying to save them, all of them — even Mark — for the past year. Longer. I may not be able to save them, but I won’t help anyone hurt them.

  Someone is crying. Someone new, not the Cryer: she’s at the other end.

  It’s not close, and I only hear it i
n brief snatches of sound, maybe when a door is swinging closed behind a guard. Or maybe when the ventilation shuts down for a second. But someone new is crying.

  After more than eight weeks, I’m all cried out. Couldn’t cry if they paid me. Maybe not even if they beat me.

  Solitary will do that to you.

  I try to remember how to breathe. Slow, deliberate breath in. Hold for a few seconds, as long as I can, and then out. For hours. Too exhausted to move. Straining to make sense of it all. Trying to wake up. Because this can’t be real.

  It’s freezing in the hole now. Outside, it still looks like when I came here, not even really like fall yet, at least for the one tree I can see through the slats of my window. But over a couple of days, it went from hot to okay to cold. My body can’t catch up. I can’t get warm. I’ve started sleeping with my socks over my hands and my T-shirt wrapped around my head.

  Last night I thought I would die I was so cold. And it’s not even winter. How bad will it be in winter? Will I still be here in winter?

  This morning I woke groggy and cold and queasy. Breakfast didn’t help.

  Joan is coming today. I need to be more than awake.

  I do my morning workout — sit-ups, push-ups, stretches, jumping jacks — until I have to lie down again. Eight weeks and I’m weak. I’d never be able to sprint for three minutes now.

  I jump at the sound of keys in the lock. I stand and keep my hands in sight, waiting to see which one it is.

  Gage doesn’t work on Wednesdays, so another of the regular guards and one I haven’t seen before take me down. The new one’s almost polite.

  Joan smiles at them. I’m beginning to understand her smiles. That one is meant to soothe.

  The new guards always seem surprised when they first see me. I have no idea what they were expecting, what is being said about me out there.

  Once the guards are gone, Joan stays standing, looking me over.

  Joan never asks how I am. It makes me want to like her. I can’t like her. We’re not friends. Even when she’s making sense, I need to remember: she gets paid by the government. I need to stay focused. Like in the woods. Move slowly. Act deliberately. Cautiously.

  But I also need to know what’s happening. “My mom said that my dad’s out. And that Mark might be coming home soon, too,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Joan says. “Maybe. His lawyer is arguing he be released with an ankle monitor.” She shakes her head, like she doesn’t think his lawyer will win. “Parts of the case are starting to look shaky.”

  “When can I get out?”

  “The case against you isn’t that shaky. But there’s movement. They’re . . . refocusing the investigation. They want to interview you still.”

  “Tell them no.”

  “You know the drill,” she says. “I can’t stop them from trying, just advise you not to answer, at least not yet.”

  “I’m not talking. Ever.” I cross my arms over my chest. Dad’s out. They might be letting Mark out. If it’s shaky enough that Mark might get to go home, then everything’s going to be okay. They can’t release him and hold me.

  “You need to start telling me what you know. And where you were. The timeline,” she says.

  We’ve been here before. The timeline. Always the timeline. Joan’s code for her wanting me to snitch. She watches my face when she says stuff. Sometimes I think about other things so I can’t accidentally give something away.

  “They’ve searched the Clearview grounds again. Took out more materials and samples. They’re cooperating.” Of course they are. I’ve had enough time to think to realize Riggs could have ratted them out, even if he didn’t set them up. Riggs was asking questions and pushing, and Mark went nuts after talking to him. And now Riggs is cooperating. But what about everyone else? Cammie and Karen and all the rest. Are they cooperating, dissecting everything I’ve ever said or done and telling the feds? Are they all okay with Riggs hanging us out to dry? Or are they pushing back? Are they all still training, like nothing’s changed?

  “So, they’re all out, or soon to be out, and I rot in here. It’s bullshit.”

  “It’s pressure. Leverage. They have hard evidence on you, and they will use it to their advantage.”

  “No, I mean it’s bullshit that the feds think these guys — if they are the badass terrorists the feds say they are — that they would tell me anything, let alone include me in their grand plans. Not even Mark!” I stand up. I need to move. “If they understood them at all, the feds would know they’d never let my girl germs anywhere near them.” I laugh, but Joan doesn’t look impressed. “Like my being included might make their dicks fall off.”

  “Are you done?” she asks, making some note on her legal pad, or pretending to, like I’m so very boring.

  I’m not done. “The feds are morons if they actually think those guys would actually let a girl have any part in their big terrorist plan.”

  “They don’t,” she says without looking up.

  “What?”

  “Or at least they didn’t.” She puts down the legal pad and looks at me. “You weren’t a target. When they were getting warrants and executing the raids, they didn’t think you were necessarily part of the conspiracy,” she says, holding up her hand to stop my next rant. “Oh, they thought you knew something. They were counting on it. They couldn’t find Mark, didn’t know what he had been up to for several days, and thought he was about to act. They cast a wide net. But if they actually thought at the time of the raids that you were part of a seditious and treasonous conspiracy to shed American blood on American soil — law-enforcement blood — then you’d have been interrogated round the clock for hours, quickly transferred to be tried as an adult in federal court, and immediately whisked away to a secure federal facility.” She tilts her head. “Probably a very disorienting and scary facility in Texas that would make this look like summer camp.”

  “But . . .”

  “The government thought the threat was imminent and acted to prevent Mark and the others from carrying out the plan. But, so far, the evidence doesn’t support the more serious charges.” She leans back and looks at me full on. “Maybe they moved too soon, or maybe, they think, they just haven’t found the missing links yet. They now think you are one of those links. They are developing new theories about how this went down. Theories that focus more and more on you.”

  “On me?”

  “They’re analyzing that pipe-bomb video. Looking for more footage or posts. Your search histories from the computer at the station don’t help. I assume there will be more on your phone when they turn that analysis over.” God. My phone. I try to swallow. I deleted all evidence of Lucy, but what did I leave on there? “If they can make any plausible case that you knew about or were helping — or even planning to help — Mark build explosives, even acquiring the materials, then it’s game over. There’s still the possibility that they’ll charge you as the one who taught him how to build explosive devices.”

  “But . . . It was just a pipe bomb. Just powder and a pipe. Just to see. And I followed a YouTube video. I didn’t ‘teach’ him!”

  “He was there. He did the filming.”

  “Yeah, but not like, Why don’t you go build some bombs and hurt people?”

  She shakes her head slowly and leans forward. “A case like this, it’s about headlines. They made huge, public arrests, and now they need the resulting convictions. It can be Mark, or the others, or you. But they need to convict someone of something significant. And they will use whatever leverage they have to get someone to talk, to give up the evidence that will let them convict someone of something headline grabbing.”

  “Won’t be me.”

  “See, that’s where you’re screwed,” she says, tossing her pen on her legal pad. “The evidence against most of them is weak on all but the weapons charges. What they have on you is not.”

  “I didn’t do anything!”

  “The concealed handgun, the knife, the stockpile of ammunition you
had squirreled away, the pipe bomb.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “Even if they never tie you to your brother’s plans, your possession of the weapons and ammunition, and other activities, could very well support violations of state and federal law leading to a delinquency finding, sufficient for the government to at least argue for confinement until you turn twenty-one, if not a transfer to adult court and worse.”

  There’s pounding in my ears and hands. “You’re supposed to be on my side. Fighting for me!”

  “I am,” she says. “But you’re not giving me much to go on. Certainly not being smart or helping yourself. You’re pointedly not telling me anything, and I have to believe you can. You can tell me things that will help me prove you were not a part of a murderous terrorist plot! You can give me information that will help me get you the best deal I can.”

  “But you said . . . innocent until proven guilty and, and . . .”

  “No matter what I do, I can’t make it all go away. The only questions are where you will go, when you will get out, and with what long-term repercussions.”

  The room spins and everything goes cold.

  “The disposable cell phone they found in the trunk in the barn,” she says, “and the information on cell-phone timers, with your fingerprints all over everything, coupled with your search history, has them looking hard for more. Testing soil. It’s the only proof of an actual explosive they have, as far I can tell. And state or fed, unless you cut a deal, or can give me some solid evidence to prove, definitively, that you were not involved in the conspiracy, that you didn’t help or discuss any of the plans, even with your brother — unless you can do that, you are facing at least several years in a juvenile facility. At least. Maybe more. Maybe prison. Fed, state . . . doesn’t matter. They’ve got you.”

  She waits for that to sink in, like I will suddenly spill my guts.

  “Bex.” She looks like she wants to grab me and shake me until it all spills out. “Talk to me.”