Tainted Robes

by Joe Nobody

  Without another word, Aldridge walked away.

  For almost a minute, Kit and Griff sat in silence, each marinating in the analysis of the morning’s events. The DOJ attorney spoke first, “In a way, I can’t blame him.”

  “I can relate to his anger, but not how he chose to display it. He knows we’re not to blame.”

  With a dismissive wave, she responded, “Of course he does. We were just an easy target for a very frustrated government employee who probably feels like he can’t win.”

  “Until he learns to stop telegraphing his punches, he’s not going to win,” Griff grunted, throwing back the rest of his coffee.

  “You know what I mean,” she quipped.

  The event was a pro-Turner rally, scheduled for the heart of downtown Indianapolis. A federal judge here had just put a stay on one of the president’s executive orders, which evidently rubbed some of the Hoosier State’s residents the wrong way.

  By the time Bo’s employer had masterfully manipulated the social media footprint of the rally, it was being billed as a gathering of white nationalists.

  The man transferring money into Bo’s bank account had somehow fostered the inaccuracy, the falsehood due to a combination of media smear, anti-Turner mud-slinging, and most importantly, several progressive organizations demanding a massive counter-demonstration.

  That call to arms enraged fringe elements on the right, motivating several hard-core groups to martial their own members. In a matter of hours, what had begun as an innocent freedom rally was swelling into a powder keg of civil unrest and racial strife.

  As Bo meandered along the brick streets leading to Monument Circle, he passed a group of uniformed policemen gathering across the way. They seemed nervous, an emotion he considered to be prophetic. “You should be scared,” he chuckled. “Very, very scared.”

  His journey brought him to the city’s center and an impressive, 20-story limestone statue dedicated to Indiana’s fallen soldiers and sailors. Around the base of the monolithic structure, a series of fountains, statues, and bronze plaques had been dedicated to local heroes. Four intersecting roads formed a European-style roundabout that encircled the landmark, thus earning its name. The Turner supporters were set to rendezvous here.

  Bo’s employers had evidently been thrilled with the results of his actions in El Paso, an extra $500 deposited into his account. A day later, an email had arrived, its encrypted text ordering him to the mid-west state’s capital and containing a link to the pro-Turner rally set for Sunday afternoon. “Make it interesting,” the message had ordered.

  “They won’t start until after church,” he whispered, scanning the large, open spaces surrounding the monument and then glancing at his watch. “We wouldn’t want to disturb their holier than thou, Christian rituals.”

  Today’s disruption wouldn’t be as simple as his last soiree in Texas. His employers wanted more than just media coverage. Sparking a brawl between the two opposing sides was going to take some manipulation. After all, this was Indiana, and definitely not a hotbed of political turmoil.

  Still, the money was pretty good, and he got to blow off a lot of steam. “I’ve got the perfect job,” he mumbled, strolling across the street to the other side of the circle. “What more could an angry man in debt ask for?”

  Bo’s father had been a military man, resigning from the US Army early to take a position as a private contractor in Iraq. There were two hot wars at the time. Like most active duty soldiers, that scenario translated into months and months of deployment in faraway places. While he loved his dad, Bo hardly knew the man.

  At first, Bo was excited to hear his father was leaving military service. Did that mean they could finally go fishing? Disney World? Build model airplanes together? “The money is just too good to pass up, son,” his father had explained. “I can make more in a month with Blackwater than I can in an entire year working for Mother Green.”

  Five months later, Bo and his mother had received a phone call. His father had been killed in an ambush, shot outside of a town they couldn’t even pronounce, let alone find on the map hanging by magnets from the refrigerator door.

  At the time, the 12-year-old hadn’t realized the long-term consequences for him and his mother.

  The grief experienced by burying his parent, however, was nothing compared to the pain that would eventually rain down on his family. There had been no life insurance, that benefit denied to those who took up arms in dangerous, foreign lands.

  The bank foreclosed on their home six months after the last shovel of dirt had been thrown on his father’s grave. Bo’s mom, heartbroken, had taken to heavy bouts of drinking and couldn’t hold a job. Mother and son had moved back in with grandparents, who could barely survive on their social security income.

  Uprooted from his friends and school, Bo spent the next four years in rural Iowa watching his mother drink both herself, and her elderly parents, into the grave.

  Yet, he didn’t give up. With little social distractions and not much else to occupy his time, he focused on his studies. While his rural school district wasn’t exactly a scholar factory, Bo used the internet to expand his horizon. Upon graduation, he was accepted at Berkley’s School of Public Policy and packed his bags for California.

  While he had been accepted at a variety of other schools, Bo wanted to be a part of the program at Berkley. Harboring a keen sense of injustice over what had happened to his family, he had grown to appreciate the cutting-edge attitude and progressive thinking at the northern California campus.

  There, he hoped to receive an education that would provide the best chance of having an impact on the world. The United States shouldn’t have been in those wars. The system that put his father in harm’s way, from the executive branch all the way down to the local elected officials, was corrupt. His dad had been a brave man, sacrificing his life for a country that then turned its back on his widow and fatherless son. That kind of thing had to change, and he was just the man to implement reform. He would make a difference.

  Out of state tuition was outrageous at Berkley. Political science majors didn’t have a lot of scholarship opportunities, and grant money was minuscule compared to the university’s other schools. Bo borrowed money via student loans to pay for his sheepskin. Upon graduation, he found himself empowered with a degree that offered few vocational opportunities for someone without political connections… and a 6-figure debt. Now he was in Indianapolis, trying to earn enough money to make next month’s payment.

  He found the president’s supporters gathering on the north side of the loop, huddling near the fountain while arranging stacks of flyers and making last minute adjustments to their signs. They were just as he had anticipated, older than most who opposed Turner, and obviously lower middle-class.

  As Bo approached, their first reaction was suspicion, given his longer hair and lack of years. His “Turner for President” shirt helped them relax, and less than a minute later he was shaking hands, smiling, and cracking a few jokes.

  “Everyone says that our rally to support the commander in chief is bringing a lot of agitators into town,” one of the organizing men stated. “We don’t want any trouble, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anyone impose upon my First Amendment rights.”

  “Amen to that,” Bo responded, nodding vigorously.

  Over the next 30 minutes, more and more Turner supporters arrived, most carrying handmade signs or American flags. The party really got rocking when a group of older biker types strolled over and began patting the others on the back.

  On the opposite side of the wide circle, Bo observed that the opposition was also collecting a fair share of participants. They were better schooled in protest readiness, many wearing bandanas around their necks and carrying bicycle helmets. Those accessories could be handy to avoid video evidence or if teargas comes into play, the Fuse thought.

  Henry, one of the Turner organizers, spotted Bo studying the other side. />
  “The Indy police will keep them over there,” he said, trying to reassure the younger man. “I spoke with a captain when we first arrived, and he guaranteed me that his department has plenty of personnel assigned to keep things peaceful.”

  “That’s good news,” Bo lied, wondering if the local cops would indeed be able to pull that off. It really didn’t matter; his scheme didn’t require any confrontation on the loop. That would have likely failed anyway, and failure would mean no payment.

  “What route do you plan on taking for the march?” Bo asked, still watching their opponents. He knew the answer to that question but wanted to double-check for any eleventh-hour changes.

  “Our permit allows us to walk up Meridian Street to the federal courthouse,” Henry replied. “There’s a small park with a fountain across the street. That’s where we are going to hang out for a bit and then head home to enjoy the rest of the afternoon. I’ve even heard that one of our state representatives might be joining us today.”

  “Sounds great,” Bo nodded. Now having confirmed that there were no last-minute changes in the published plans, he wanted Henry to go away.

  That wish was granted a few minutes later, the organizer hustling off to speak with two new arrivals carrying a huge banner, “Make America Great Again!” scrolled across a white bed sheet.

  Casually meandering around the area, Bo noted the growing throng of reporters and local news vans. All the while, he was cataloging the Turner supporters, looking for a potential candidate who would unwittingly help him incite violence.

  He finally spotted the right sucker, a tall, red-headed man in his early 20s. The two briefly made eye contact, Bo nodding an acknowledgment that said, “I’m glad someone more my age is here.” It was an innocent-enough gesture, the Fuse’s mind replaying one of his cardinal rules. “You are always on camera,” he whispered.

  The red-headed demonstrator was jumpy, seeming to have trouble keeping his emotions in check. Bo watched him mingle through the growing crowd, occasionally smiling or pointing at a clever sign.

  Bo decided he would call the lanky ginger, “Red.”

  There was an edge to Red’s body language, his passion for the cause running deeper than even the most hard-core individuals gathering at the memorial. “He’s got some sort of ax to grind,” Bo mumbled. “He’s a simmering pot, ready to boil over.” An abundance of such disenfranchised individuals gravitated to every protest, and the Fuse had become an expert in seeking them out.

  The pro-Turner people began to form, the throng’s attention commanded by an amplified voice at the center of its audience. Bo, like the others, found a good spot to watch the proceedings.

  For the next 30 minutes, Henry and his bullhorn led the singing of “God Bless America,” followed by several short chants of the new president’s catchphrases. Then, with the bedsheet-banner proudly unfurled at the front of the parade, they began funneling toward the courthouse.

  Bo remained low key, pitching in with his best singing voice during the impromptu performance and pretending to enjoy the festivities. When the march began, he fell into the middle of the pack, smiling and waving at the curious spectators on the sidewalks watching the political parade.

  He paid little attention to the Indiana capital’s architecture or tourist offerings. Cautiously reevaluating the tactical situation from every angle, his eyes constantly surveilled the local cops and media. For today’s party, the press was going to play the starring role.

  His first observation was the lack of presence by local law enforcement. The city of Indianapolis did not appropriate as many cops for this rally as he had seen in other municipalities of the same size. Apparently, mid-western protests rarely turned violent. That was about to change.

  Next, he evaluated his own crowd. Except for the bikers, he doubted if any of them would put up a serious fight. Even the motorcycle dudes, for all their leather and colors, looked like they spent more time in front of the television than at the gym. “No problem from the grey beards,” he whispered.

  The demonstrators finally reached a park, a sign announcing they were approaching a landmark named the “Depew Monument Fountain.”

  The parade of roughly 500 pro-Turner supporters then left the street and entered the block-sized grounds surrounding the fountain. “Where are all the boys in blue?” Bo mumbled, his eyes searching in every direction. “This might be easier than I thought.”

  The physical courthouse was situated to the south, a dozen men in uniform casually arrayed along the top steps. “Ah ha! Federal Marshals and court officers,” Bo noted. “I wondered where the ‘big show of force’ was stationed. Looks like Indianapolis is not so worried about the activists. You folks must be making sure none of my new friends decide to visit the offending judge in person.”

  There were maybe 20 more city police scattered at the corners of Depew Park, but that was it. “Not nearly enough for this size demonstration,” Bo observed.

  As he strolled around the area, Bo watched as protestors got the party started, Henry and his bullhorn the master of ceremonies. Like any public event in the modern era, a swarm of media comingled with the mob. The usual mix of pros was in attendance, easy to spot with their oversized, professional cameras, live video feeds, and Kevlar helmets stenciled, “Press.” In addition, practically everyone not carrying a sign had out their cell phones – just in case something interesting warranted a social media post.

  “You’re always being recorded,” Bo reminded himself. In fact, he was counting on it.

  A veteran of innumerable protests and a handful of riots, the Fuse had learned a long time ago that while the battle might be fought in the streets, the war was won via the media. News organizations were hungry for video imagery, especially footage that showed violence. The bloodier the better. Internet justice was almost always based on what someone filmed on a cell phone or an image that went viral. He had once joked to a friend that “they should check their makeup,” prior to the day’s rally, just in case their faces were pasted all over the worldwide web.

  It was less than 10 minutes later when the Fuse spotted the first counter-protestors heading up the street, following the pro-Turner mob’s path. Soon, another large faction supporting their cause descended from the west. Their numbers were considerable, probably close to a thousand progressive souls. Depew Park was destined to be ground zero for a political skirmish.

  The leaders of the countermovement were playing it smart. Their troops were vectoring in from multiple directions while keeping their signs and banners hidden. Arriving at the enemy camp in haphazard fashion, they were buying themselves time. If the cops realized the true size of the opposing activists, Bo was sure they would call in reinforcements and try to stop the infiltrators.

  Watching the progressives mill about, Bo noted they seemed to be gathered toward the northwest corner of the park. Again, that showed experience. The weakest police presence was on that side since it was farthest away from the courthouse. Somebody on the opposition’s side has carried a sign in anger before, he observed. By the time anyone from the Turner camp sensed something was wrong, they were outnumbered at least three to one.

  Both sides having met in Depew Park, a girl with purple hair unfurled an oversized banner that said, “Not My President.” A thunderous roar of approval rose from the amassed progressives, the booming reaction announcing their collective presence. A bullhorn then appeared, the anti-Turner leader chanting, “Down with fascists! Down with Turner!” The police were instantly on their radios asking for help.

  Bo was amazed at how quickly the two battle lines formed. The president’s supporters immediately separated themselves from the area now completely occupied by the enemy, grouping near the center of the park by the Depew Fountain. More and more antagonistic signs appeared, pulled from the inside of jackets and overcoats. Many contained foul language and harsh graphics, including several with the president’s picture overlaid with a swastika.


  Angry voices began to reply, Henry and his cohorts enraged by the intrusion and infuriated by what they considered treasonous displays. Each side was trying to shout over the top of the other now, citizens on both sides pointing fingers and screaming at the opposition.

  Red produced an American flag, boldly hopping out into the no-man’s land between the two ideologies. I knew you wouldn’t let me down, my friend, the Fuse recognized his opportunity.

  Bo waited until Red claimed his 60 seconds of fame, letting the youth complete his taunt and then strut back to the front of the Turner line. When the tall man finally managed to swagger to friendly turf, his fellow supporters swelled around him, patting him on the back as if he had won a great victory. To them, he had shown overwhelming courage in what had been a bold and risky display. For the first time in his life, Red was a hero and was basking in his glory.

  The new face of the Turner movement, Red was enveloped by his activist group, smiles and ‘atta-boys’ all around. Bo nudged his way through the crowd, maneuvering to the side of the ginger champion, tugging on his sleeve. “Hey, buddy, come with me. I just saw something that is freaking me out.”

  The two stepped to the back of the throng, but only far enough where they could exchange words without shouting. “I just overheard two of those Antifa yahoos bragging they brought a bomb. I think we should warn the cops… maybe let Henry know.”

  “Which two people? Where?” the pumped-up Red replied.

  “I lost them in the crowd. You see, I had gone down the street to take a leak. When I came back, I walked up behind them, and I overheard their conversation. Should be easy enough to find them, though. One of them was a chick with purple hair.”

  “I’ve seen her,” Red replied. “She’s one of their ring-leaders. Why didn’t you find an officer and report this? Man, this could be seriously dangerous!”

  Looking left and right with squinted eyes, Bo acted like he was about to share a deep, dark secret with his new friend. “Oh, I know. It’s just… I got busted at a protest two weeks ago. The judge ordered me not to attend any more political events. If I go to the cops… well… you know what they’ll do.”