DEAD: Snapshot (Book 3): Liberty, South Carolina

by TW Brown

  “Murderer!” an elderly woman screamed as she fell into the aisle on her knees. “You killed my baby boy!”

  Jerry Burns scanned the crowd, his eyes taking in as much detail as possible. As he exited the courtroom and headed down the mostly empty hall of the courthouse’s second floor, a buzz was already building in the hundreds who had not been able to secure a seat inside for the announcement of the verdict. He could actually feel the anger mounting around him. This was not going to be a pretty scene.

  Seven months earlier, Officer Samuel James Anderson—Sammy to his friends—and his partner Adam Redding responded to a bank robbery in progress at the King Street branch of Pacific Savings and Loan. When they arrived, the suspect could be seen through the large front window brandishing a shotgun. Officer Anderson ignored protocol when the suspect seized a visibly pregnant woman and used her as a human shield while he moved to the door.

  “You mother fuckers come closer and I spray this bitch’s head all over the sidewalk,” the young man yelled.

  “Let’s talk this over!”

  That is what the court transcripts claim Officer Anderson said in response. In truth, nothing was actually said by either officer. They shared a glance and Officer Redding got to his feet with his hands in the air. As soon as the suspect’s attention turned, Officer Anderson rose from behind the bumper of the squad car and fired. His bullet struck the suspect just above the right temple.

  The preliminary investigation was already finished and hadn’t even garnered a mention in the Seattle Times. It wasn’t until an anonymous witness told a reporter that she had video from her cell phone that clearly showed no attempt was made to negotiate with the bank robbery suspect. Within two days, every local news station in Seattle was playing and replaying that footage.

  During the trial, the defense attorney for Officer Anderson made a big deal about the poor audio quality and instead had the jury focus on the dollar figure paid to the shooter of that video by the media. The PR firm hired to represent the Seattle Police made it a point to trot out every non-white member of the force to “prove” that racism was not a problem in the city. Officer Anderson was regularly seen on the news returning from calls where he rescued kittens from trees and helped blue-haired, elderly ladies carry their groceries to their homes (that he just happened to be cruising past when the need arose).

  Meanwhile, the criminal record of Lionel Wells was traced all the way back to his childhood where he entered the system at age nine after being caught shoplifting a pack of bubble gum from a Kwik Mart. The “habitual criminal behavior” of the late Lionel Wells included three traffic tickets and a fourth degree Domestic Violence arrest.

  Jerry ducked into the men’s room and whipped out his phone. He’d purposely sat beside the door to the courtroom so he could slip out as soon as the verdict was read. He was going to get the story out first this time. After being scooped by Action News Radio during the mayoral race when the incumbent was caught leaving a gay bar arm in arm with a garishly dressed transgender male who looked nothing at all like his wife, Jerry was going to beat everybody to the punch—including Action News Radio.

  “This is Shelly,” an agitated-sounding voice answered on the second ring.

  “Not guilty,” Jerry said. There was a moment of silence where he was almost unsure whether anybody was still on the other end of the line.

  “Not guilty on the Anderson story,” Shelly yelled without bothering to cover the mouthpiece.

  “There’s more,” Jerry added after shaking his head to clear the ringing.

  “There always is with you, isn’t there?”

  “This has nothing to do with us.” Jerry felt a headache, the kind that only Shelly could give him, begin to throb in his temples. “The folks in the courtroom are really agitated.”

  “Did you think otherwise? After all, the police aren’t high on the African-American community’s list of favorite people as of late. Hell…as of ever.”

  “No,” Jerry insisted, “this is something bigger.”

  “So get the story.” Shelly was obviously done with this conversation. “That is what we pay you for.”

  Just as he thumbed his screen to end the call, a loud crash sounded from outside. He quickly went to video mode on his phone in case there was something good that he could sell to one of the local networks, and opened the door. Almost as if on cue, a body slid past on the polished granite floor; not just any body, this was a uniformed police officer!

  The next thing that struck Jerry was the wall of sound. The yelling, screaming, crying, and cursing were tremendous. Moving out of the doorway for a better look, he saw what could only be described as a free-for-all melee. He brought up his phone and started capturing video; this was going to rake in a fortune. The judge had demanded that all news teams keep their camera crews out in front of the courthouse building.

  As his hand held the phone up to record the fight, his eyes scanned for anybody else who might be doing the same thing. He felt a surge of actual giddiness when he couldn’t find a single soul “rolling tape” on this scene. However, his reporter’s eyes were beginning to register something else: except for a few uniformed officers of varying shades of mocha wading in to help their comrades, this fight was clearly divided on a racial line.

  Jerry’s eyes caught a sudden flurry of movement just to his right and he turned as three young gangbanger types—in their mid-teens at the most—wrestled an officer to the ground. One of the youngsters had pulled the police-issue handgun free from its holster. Jerry instantly brought his phone around just in time to catch the youth firing three shots into the chest of the downed policeman.

  There was a split-second where the melee froze; it was like a Hollywood special effect. That was the moment it could have stopped. That was the moment Jerry would always think of when he wondered if things could have gone differently. What happened next was a furious escalation of the fighting. Packs of African-American men and boys mobbed the heavily outnumbered Seattle Police Department. It didn’t help that most of those in attendance were in civilian clothes or dress uniforms without even a set of handcuffs.

  Jerry ducked back into the bathroom after he’d gotten what he deemed a sufficient amount of footage. Besides, after the shooting of the downed policeman, the rest of the footage was filler and fodder. He segmented the video with expert ease and sent the files to his personal email. None of this would matter if his phone was destroyed and the footage lost.

  As he leaned against the door and took a moment to catch his breath, he began to notice an angry buzzing sound. With more caution than he was usually known for, Jerry took slow steps to the barred window. It only opened about three inches. Probably to keep some of the folks who come out on the losing end in the courtrooms from taking that last leap, Jerry surmised. Outside was chaos. It seemed that the fighting inside was simply the warm-up. Pockets of angry African-Americans—men, women, and even children—had been swept up in the fury he’d witnessed in that hallway.

  “This is why I left L.A.,” Jerry grumbled as he tapped the screen on his phone to call the station.

  Chapter 1

  “…as reports continue to flood in about the possibility of riots flaring up outside the Seattle Public Courthouse in response to the ‘Not Guilty’ verdict of Officer Sam ‘Sammy’ Anderson—”

  Click.

  “…as many as seven injured according to unofficial sources—”

  Click.

  “…even rumors of shots fired—”

  Click.

  Shelly Casteel set down the remote after switching the television off. It had been over three hours since KTKK had cut into the midday call-in talk show with a ‘Breaking News’ report from Jerry Burns, live at the courthouse. Of course, by now, nobody except for commuters stuck in traffic on the freeway were listening to their radios anymore. Once those first videos hit the air, it was all about the graphic footage.

  Still, she had an ace up her sleeve. Unfortunately, it came wrapped
in the package that was Jerry Burns; field reporter, direct link to the mayor…and ex-lover. Her phone rang and she saw Jerry’s newest Facebook profile picture show up on her screen. Jerry was grinning smugly at the camera phone he was obviously holding while leaning precariously out a window. Below, you could see the mob of people outside of the courthouse.

  “When are you going to get here?” Shelly demanded as she answered on the second ring.

  “Shells,” Jerry laughed; he knew how she hated when he called her that, “I may be a while. There is no sign this is going to die down, and I ain’t leaving this bathroom until it does. Have you seen what is going on? My lily-white ass would be pummeled if I go out there now.”

  “The director from the network will be here in ten minutes.” Shelly pinched the bridge of her nose with two fingers. He’d promised to deliver exclusive footage that would blow everything else away.

  “This is why you need to go to my computer and get my email.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this an hour ago?”

  “I figured I’d be there in time and, quite frankly, I wanted to bask in the glory.”

  “So how do I get in?”

  “The password is ‘Sh3llB1tch’. The ‘E’ is a three and the ‘I’ is a one,” Jerry explained.

  “Cute.” Why did she always hook up with such assholes? Shelly asked herself. “And you say that you won’t sell for less than fifty?”

  “Trust me, when you see what is there, you’ll understand.”

  “You know how Brent is with money.”

  “Bastard makes us pay for our own booze at the Christmas party…yeah…I know how Brent is,” Jerry grumbled. “I also know that he would mortgage his house and prostitute his teenage daughter if he thought it would garner him an ‘in’ with the national folks.”

  “I just want you to—” A loud crash from Jerry’s end cut her off.

  “Shit!” was all she heard before the line went dead.

  The dolt probably tripped over himself getting to the mirror to check his hair. He’d call back soon enough. She had a meeting to prepare for and needed to get to a mirror herself now that she thought of it.

  She flipped open the closet in her office and turned the light on above the mirror. Her hair was an absolute mess. How many times had she run her hands through it in agitated frustration today? She ran a brush through her thick brunette tresses and did an emergency triage on her lipstick. As always, her eyes looked great. They were her best weapon and she used the hazel orbs every chance she got.

  “Shelly?” A knock made her jump. Fortunately, her closet door was between her and the entry to her office. She quickly fixed her smile and stepped out to greet her visitor.

  “Brent,” she used that breathy voice honed during her years as an air personality on the radio station she now managed, “how nice of you to stop in.”

  “You said you have some footage that will bury everybody else.”

  Typical Brent; all business. She just hoped that Jerry wasn’t over-selling himself on this like he had his abilities as a lover.

  ***

  The door to the bathroom flew open causing Jerry to drop his phone. Two angry-looking, young, African-American men barged in. One of them had blood dripping from his hands and rushed to the sink.

  “Told you ya shouldn’t of hit that pig in the mouth, you already—” the uninjured one was saying.

  Both men froze when they noticed Jerry. There was a moment of silent tension as they each stared at Jerry who was bent over partway in the act of picking up his phone.

  “Hi, guys,” Jerry finally said while trying to keep the tremor out of his voice.

  “You gotta be mutha fuckin’ kidding,” the bleeding man said.

  “Thought all the white folks was cleared out of this place and hiding in their living rooms,” the other sneered.

  “And I thought all the fun was over for today,” the bleeder said through a wince as he suddenly seemed to remember his hand.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” Jerry said, immediately regretting how he sounded so incredibly weak.

  “None of y’all white folks do when we standin’ right in front of ya,” the bleeder said as he thrust his hand under a faucet. “But when we’s gone, then you all gots plenty to say.”

  “You pro’ly one of them folks run his mouth when the camera is on you asking if that cop shoulda got off,” the other added, taking a step towards Jerry.

  “Actually,” the gears began spinning in Jerry’s head, quickly displacing the fear, “I’m a reporter for KTKK radio. Maybe you two would like me to interview you; let you get your side of the story out for people to hear.”

  “How you gonna do that?” the bleeder asked, looking skeptical. Still, there was something in his eyes that Jerry recognized instantly. He’d been out in the field enough to see when somebody wanted to take a chip off of their fifteen minutes of fame.

  “I can ask you questions,” he waved his phone, “and record the interview on this. When I get back to the station, I clean it up and it goes on the air.”

  “Whatcha think, Cleon?” the bleeder asked as he wrapped his hand in paper towels.

  “I think you bumped your head, Tyree.” Cleon shook his head and continued to glare at Jerry.

  “Gentlemen, you could be the voice against injustice,” Jerry urged. “Millions will hear you, and it could be those words that change the course of events for a city. You could be famous.”

  Jerry let the word hang in the air for a moment before pressing a few touch screens on his phone. He was absolutely recording. However, he had also called Shelly. He just hoped she answered and paid attention so she would know what to do.

  ***

  Brian Hillis followed the two men down the wooded trail. They occasionally whispered amongst themselves, but at no point did they so much as glance back at him. Brian did his best to pick landmarks that would stick in his memory. Right now he knew that he was about five miles outside of Salmon, Idaho. The road—if a pair of ruts that led into the woods could be called such a thing—was just past a roadside tavern called Whitey’s. Fitting considering the main clientele were members of a local white supremacist militia group.

  Brian had spent the last eight months infiltrating this group. It was rumored that they had big plans: assassinate the president. They were part of a wave of discontent blaming the new administration for everything from the economy, to the lack of tourism in New Hampshire. There were a lot of groups out there that made brash claims around a few beers and a bottle of whiskey. The problem with this group was that they had apparently made a practice run on the governor of the state of neighboring Washington.

  It had been a very efficient operation. They had covered their tracks so well that it was really only a fluke that led the boys at Langley to this particular gang. A video camera in a pawn shop across the street from where the governor made his last fund-raising speech caught two men leaving the scene amidst the chaos. After some enhancement, one face was identified: Bill Hayes.

  Bill Hayes had been a member of an elite Marine task force and served with distinction in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Libya. His field of expertise was the elimination of high-priority political targets. His work had made national news more than a half dozen times, only, he was never credited. The deaths were usually attributed to some local group that the United States wanted to see gain prominence. That almost always meant that they had somebody that the American government could put in power that would “work towards a new democratic beginning.”

  “You guys taking me to Canada?” Brian asked after another hour of walking. He was slightly amused at their assumption that walking him in circles and criss-crossing the same area for this long would disorient him. If he was correct, and he was confident that he was, then they weren’t more than two miles away from where they’d parked the truck.

  “Just a bit farther,” the fat one with the forked beard, Jessie Klemm according to the files he’d studied before going undercover,
replied.

  Jessie was a book you didn’t want to judge by its cover. He looked like a typical rednecked moron; he was anything but. Jessie had earned his Expert Marksmen status with the Navy SEALS. He’d eventually been dismissed from service for assaulting his lieutenant. According to reports, he shattered the man’s jaw and cheek with one punch. His only words of defense to the inquiry and court-martial had been, “No nigger is gonna tell me what to do.”

  “You gots someplace to be?” the skinny one missing his top and bottom front teeth snorted. That would be Will Tomkins. His book was more like a pamphlet. High school drop-out and juvenile delinquent with a lifetime of petty crime on his record, Will was a flunky and nothing more.

  “Nope,” Brian made sure he sounded as bored as possible, “but if I wanted a tour, I’d have called the chamber of commerce and asked for one.”

  “You sassin’ me?” Will stopped and spun around.

  That’s the problem with flunkies, Brian thought, they’re always trying to prove they belong. “Does it show?” Brian stopped walking.

  He knew well enough that groups like this had certain codes of ‘honor’ they lived by. One of the biggest ones was a bizarre sense of what they classified as respect. What it basically amounted to was being the bigger bully. If somebody gave you any crap, you busted them in the mouth or they passed you in the organization’s status.

  “We ain’t got time for this,” Jessie grumbled.

  “But he—”

  “Then take it up later,” Jessie cast a glance over his shoulder at Brian and smirked. “This is gonna be done today one way or the other.”

  Brian kept his eyes locked on Will, but he didn’t like the sounds of things. There was something in Jessie’s voice that portended something very ominous.

  They resumed walking. About ten minutes later, Brian spied a clearing. They had finally stopped walking in circles. This was a new area that they hadn’t already tromped through a dozen times. A moment later, they were walking through a small complex of cabins. It was obvious that nobody was here…or at least anybody that wanted to be seen.