The Separatists

by Lis Wiehl

  “I thought it was my apartment too.”

  “Of course it is, honey.”

  “Yeah, right. I don’t feel at home there anyway.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No. It’s yours and Greg’s house. I live with Dad and Linda.”

  Erica suddenly feels like she’s about half Jenny’s age, a confused kid who doesn’t understand the big world and just wants to sit on the floor and cry and cry.

  “But, honey, you asked to live with them, you chose it. It wasn’t what I wanted.”

  “You didn’t fight it.”

  “I didn’t fight it because I thought it was what you wanted.”

  “It is what I wanted, but I also wanted you to fight it.”

  They stand there a foot apart, but Erica feels like a chasm has opened between them.

  Reach across it, Erica, reach for your baby.

  “I guess I read that whole situation wrong. I’m sorry if I’ve failed you. I was trying to do what was best for you. You’re the most important thing in the world to me. And you know it.”

  “I know it until a bomb goes off somewhere and you get on a plane.”

  “It’s what I do for a living. It’s always been my dream. Can you understand that?”

  Jenny is silent.

  “If you want me to be a mother, you can’t criticize me for acting like one. When I found the condoms I panicked. There are a lot of dangers you can’t appreciate yet, and I don’t want you to make any mistakes you might regret later.”

  “It creeps me out that you were snooping in my room. It’s pathetic.”

  Erica takes Jenny’s shoulders and lowers her voice. “You listen to me, Jenny, I’m your mother. You show me some respect. I’ve worked like a dog to get where I am, and to provide you, young lady, with a lot of advantages.” Jenny rolls her eyes and Erica has an urge to slap her. “What were those condoms doing in Beth’s suitcase?”

  “Come on, Mom, chillax.”

  “I don’t want to chillax. I want to know what’s going on here.”

  Jenny is quiet for a moment and then says, “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “The condoms are not for sex,” Jenny says slowly, in the tone a teacher might use to reach a not-wildly-bright student. “They’re for the condom challenge.”

  “The what?”

  “The condom challenge. It’s a big thing with YouTubers right now. You fill a condom with water, then drop it on someone and it wraps around their head and they look like they’re in a fishbowl . . . Just google it, Mom.”

  Erica is gobsmacked, stands there with her mouth open. She feels ancient and ridiculous and left out. Why hasn’t Jenny told her about this infantile frat-house prank? Why?

  “Did you actually perform this ‘challenge’?”

  Jenny smiles. “Yeah, we did.”

  “This weekend? In the apartment?”

  “Yeah. I think it’s really cool footage.”

  “And were you the dropper or the dropee?”

  “I dropped it on Beth. It worked perfectly.”

  Erica tries to digest all this information. But does she really believe it? Is there more that Jenny’s not telling her? She’s about to ask when her phone rings. She decides not to answer it, but then sees who it is. “Jenny, this is Greg.”

  “Go ahead and take it, Mom.”

  “How’s the talk going?” Greg asks in a charged voice.

  “It’s going. What’s up?”

  “The secessionists down in West Texas got into a shoot-out with federal marshals. Two of them were killed, as well as two marshals. It’s very ugly.”

  “Is it over?”

  “No. It’s all just breaking. Both sides are armed, and the secessionists won’t talk to a mediator.”

  “This is big.” And fits so perfectly with her Spotlight plans. “I think I should go down there. We’ll head back.” Erica hangs up. Suddenly the condoms don’t seem so important.

  “What’s happening, Mom?” Jenny asks, alert and curious. All her snarkiness has evaporated. The two of them turn and start to make time back to the apartment.

  “There’s a confrontation going on down in southwest Texas between federal marshals and a group of sovereign citizens.”

  “What’s a sovereign citizen?”

  “It’s someone who doesn’t recognize the authority of the federal government. They’re secessionists and want their state to leave the union.”

  “And become like an independent country or something?”

  “Exactly. They don’t think they should have to pay taxes. They’re very militant. Things got violent today.”

  “Are people dead?”

  “Greg said at least four.”

  “Wow. I agree, you should probably go down there.”

  Erica takes Jenny’s hand and they pick up the pace. Suddenly it feels like they’re allies and friends. “Thanks for being so understanding.”

  “Beth says I can’t expect you to be a regular mom.”

  “Does she?”

  “She says that celebrity moms only pretend to be like real moms.”

  What’s a real mom? Maybe someday Erica will find out. But not today.

  Erica calls Eileen McDermott. “You’ve heard?”

  “Yes, I’ve got us booked on a two o’clock flight out of LaGuardia. The car will pick you up in half an hour. We’ve got a local crew in place.”

  Erica’s apartment building comes into view, and she and Jenny break into a trot. Upstairs, Greg has her suitcase open on their bed. As she starts to pack, Beth appears in the doorway, filming. Erica is about to scream at her—wouldn’t that make fun footage on TMZ?—when Greg ushers Beth out, takes her camera, and deletes the footage.

  When Erica is finished packing, she, Greg, and Jenny head downstairs to wait for the car. She takes out her phone and starts to read—Eileen has already sent her background material on the Free Texas Rangers. Greg tries to draw Jenny into some small talk, but she stays focused on her mom, her face filled with pride and concern.

  The car pulls up. Erica hugs Greg and then Jenny. “Good-bye, Mom. Be careful.”

  Just as Erica turns toward the car, Greg’s phone rings. Erica catches the incoming name: Leslie Burke Wilson.

  CHAPTER 9

  AS ERICA JETS ACROSS THE continent, she does her homework on the situation in Texas. The Free Texas Rangers movement is less than five years old and was started by Steve Watson, the charismatic twenty-eight-year-old scion of an oil and ranching fortune. Since his parents’ death three years ago, he has racked up a six-million-dollar past-due bill with the IRS. Three months ago a lien was placed on the family’s four-thousand-acre ranch, and it’s scheduled to be auctioned off by the feds. Since that time Watson has denied law enforcement entry to the compound and has turned the private-plane hangar into an armory. According to federal intelligence, Watson and his supporters have amassed a vast arsenal that includes rocket launchers, armored vehicles, bombs, and other sophisticated weaponry.

  Erica watches footage from that morning’s shoot-out, which took place just outside the entrance to the ranch. Law enforcement was out in force, basically waiting and watching, hoping the secessionists would run out of food, water, medicine, and, most important, resolve. They know from experience that encampments like this one often run out of steam on their own volition. People have lives they need to get back to, things get cramped and dirty and uncomfortable, tempers flare, passions cool. The feds’ goal is to arrest Watson on tax evasion charges, but not by force. Bloodshed is to be avoided at any cost, as it would only turn Watson into a martyr and bolster the sovereign citizen movement nationwide.

  Erica watches on-screen as a midsized truck arrives on the scene, carrying supplies. US Marshals in an armored vehicle block its path. Then suddenly the back door of the truck rolls open and some kid with an automatic weapon—he looks like a teenager—starts spraying fire. The feds return the favor, and the shooter and the driver of the truck are dead within seconds, but not
before two marshals are taken out and several more injured. The footage is terrifying and ugly. Live reporting shows that in the hours since, an eerie calm has pervaded the scene.

  Erica’s flight lands in Midland. Eileen has a car waiting, and they set off for the half-hour drive to the Watson ranch outside Odessa. A broadcast van with the crew follows. Erica has never been to this part of the country and it looks . . . flat. And scruffy. And beneath the flat and scruff lies oil, billions of barrels of it. In fact, the entire economy lives and dies by oil; it’s the reason the cities of Midland and Odessa came into being in the first place. And it’s hot, 107 degrees, sticky and dense, with shade hard to find. They’re lucky they have all that oil to pump out of the earth, Erica thinks. She can’t imagine voluntarily living here otherwise.

  They pass oil wells pecking like hungry science-fiction insects, trailer parks, ranches, mini-malls, billboards featuring hucksters in cowboy hats selling trucks as big as small houses. Erica has never spent more than a day or two in Texas, and it all feels foreign and forbidding with its macho and almost obsessive worship of guns. Erica has a more conflicted relationship with guns. On the one hand, she hates them. On the other, she’s been in serious danger more than once and wants to be prepared for it happening again. To that end, she’s been taking shooting lessons at the West Side Rifle and Pistol Range on West Twentieth Street. She also got a permit and bought a handgun—she refuses to touch an automatic, she considers them killing machines that should be banned.

  Texas suffers from no such ambivalence. Which isn’t surprising, considering its violent history. Even the cursory research she was able to do on the flight revealed that Watson is only the latest in a long line of Texans who have no use for a union, any union, and have no hesitation in taking up arms to oppose it.

  Texas was a Mexican territory until 1836 when—spurred on by American settlers—it declared its independence from Mexico—Remember the Alamo!—and became a sovereign republic. But it wasn’t exactly a roaring success—the fledgling nation had no currency, massive debt, and an economy that was just generally in the tank. Despite vehement opposition from many of its citizens, Texas joined the United States in 1845. But its brief period as an independent nation seared itself into the state’s identity, and in the 175 years since it has seen many secession movements come and go. Erica is fascinated by how quickly political upheaval can happen—and how slowly the hearts and minds of citizens follow. Look at the Civil War. In many ways it’s still being fought today. Still, Free Texas Rangers is the best financed and most violent in the long line of Texas secessionist crusades. According to polls, roughly a quarter of Texans support its goal of reestablishing an independent republic, a figure Erica finds deeply disconcerting.

  “Is there any chance we can get an interview with Watson?” she asks Eileen.

  “Right now he and his people aren’t speaking to anyone but themselves.”

  “Do we know how much food and water they have?”

  “No. And that’s a big question.”

  They arrive at the entrance to the Watson ranch. It’s fronted by a stone and metal gate that looks like it could hold off an army, with fencing that seems to stretch forever on either side. Erica and Eileen get out of the car. The hangar is visible about two hundred yards past the gate. There are scores of journalists, broadcast trucks, armored military vehicles, and local, state, and national law enforcement gathered. Erica spots David Muir and Andrea Mitchell. The air is hot and still, people are talking in whispers, leaning into one another, and even in the heat the air is charged with the electricity of anticipation. Erica feels her adrenaline spike.

  Eileen points to a middle-aged black man. “That’s Jake Gilman, deputy director of the US Marshals Service. He’s the guy in charge.”

  Erica approaches Gilman and introduces herself. He looks serious and shaken, but focused. “Can you tell me where things stand?”

  “They haven’t gotten any supplies in for six days. We’re hoping things are getting dire.”

  “Do they have a water supply?”

  “The hangar is plumbed. However, it is not air-conditioned.”

  “Can you tell me anything about what happened earlier?”

  “The kid who did the shooting was Frank Gordon, seventeen, with two priors for dealing meth. These movements don’t always attract the best and brightest. For every sincere member there are two wackos. And the wackos are the ones who drop their everyday lives and show up at standoffs.”

  “Can I get you on camera?”

  Gilman nods.

  Erica’s crew is busy setting up, she’s going to go live in about five minutes. Her phone rings. It’s Greg. Erica realizes with a start that she hasn’t thought about Jenny or condoms since the moment she stepped into the car for the ride to the airport. What a relief. Her work is not only exciting, important, and fulfilling, it’s a potent defense mechanism.

  “How is it down there?” Greg asks.

  “Intense. Did Beth and Jenny get off safely?”

  “With their tails between their legs. Are you okay about everything?”

  “Oh, I’m just thrilled that a condom challenge filmed in our apartment is going to be splashed all over the Internet.”

  “They promised not to identify the location.”

  “Hooray.”

  “They’re kids, Erica.”

  “That cuts both ways. I don’t want Jenny to be haunted by a video trail. And also, do we know for sure that the condoms were only used as glorified water balloons? But I’m about to go live.” There’s something else that’s eating at Erica. “Listen, Greg, I saw you got a call from Leslie Wilson just as I was leaving.”

  There’s a pause and then, “She tried to reach you.” Erica doesn’t remember missing any calls. “She invited us for dinner on Saturday.”

  Erica is both flattered and, for reasons she doesn’t quite understand, somewhat wary. Can she really hold her own in that world? There’s something frightening about its casual, at times caustic, brilliance. Still, it’s what she wants. Isn’t it? “That would be great.”

  “She also wants you to call her. She said she’d be willing to do a long-distance interview on the situation down there.”

  That’s a generous offer. “That could be fascinating. Let’s see how this plays out.”

  Erica hangs up just as the soundman hands her a mic and Eileen gives her a go.

  “This is Erica Sparks reporting live from the Watson ranch outside Odessa, Texas, which was the scene of a shoot-out this morning between US Marshals and members of the Free Texas Rangers, resulting in the death of two marshals and two movement members. In the distance behind me you can see the airplane hangar where Free Texas leader Steve Watson and his followers have been isolated for almost a week now.”

  Then suddenly Erica hears shouts of “They’re coming out!”

  Erica watches as a small group of mostly men, about a dozen in all, walk out of the hangar with their hands up. They look hot and exhausted, scared and defiant. “It appears that members of the movement are surrendering. We can see that more followers are pouring out of the hangar, the total is now about twenty. This story is unfolding in front of our eyes.”

  Marshal Gilman speaks into a megaphone and his voice booms out, “WALK SLOWLY AND KEEP YOUR HANDS UP!”

  And then Steve Watson walks out of the hangar behind his followers. His hands are also in the air, his face looks drawn but determined. “Steve Watson, the head of the Free Texas Rangers, also appears to be surrendering,” Erica says.

  Just as Watson reaches his followers, Erica notes that he’s wearing a heavy jacket—and then there’s a boom and a flash of light and the ground shakes as Steve Watson blows himself into small gobs of particulate matter, taking his followers with him into the void.

  CHAPTER 10

  IT’S THE NEXT AFTERNOON—THE MONDAY after a very eventful weekend—and Erica is back in her office, in the middle of interviewing potential executive producers for Spotlight. Aft
er yesterday’s suicide bombing, there really wasn’t that much to report. The deed was done, the perpetrator known. She flew back to New York, but the horror and pathology continue to fascinate her, especially since her research has uncovered no less than two dozen other secessionist groups in the country. Most are far less radical than Free Texas Rangers, but all share a profound mistrust, even hatred, of government. And the movement is growing in strength.

  Erica is feeling a lot of pressure—she wants to get going on the first episode of Spotlight. She’s already contacted Sturges and Mary Bellamy in North Dakota, and they’ve agreed to a joint interview about their Take Back Our Homeland movement. Unlike Steve Watson and most of the other secessionist groups, the Bellamys are working through the political process, methodically building public support for their defiance of the federal government. Few in the establishment, from either party, take their quest seriously, but they are well known and admired, even loved, figures in North Dakota, and their message, means, and pedigree make them the most fascinating and potentially dangerous secessionists in the country.

  But before Erica can seize the moment and start shooting, she has to hire an executive producer. The half dozen prospects she’s met with so far all have strong résumés, but she hasn’t felt that spark, that chemistry that’s crucial to a successful partnership. There’s one more candidate today, and Erica walks into her outer office—presided over by Shirley Stamos—to greet her.

  A woman about Erica’s age, black, carrying a few extra pounds, wearing a dark suit, stands up and extends her hand. “Gloria Washburn, what a pleasure.” Her shake is firm and her clear eyes radiate a focused intelligence.

  “Thank you for coming in,” Erica says, ushering Washburn into her office. They sit across from each other at Erica’s desk. “So you’ve been working at WJLA down in Washington for the last six years?”

  “Yes, I started as an intern. One thing led to another. For the past three years I’ve been executive producer of Washington Undercover, our investigative series. We’ve exposed corruption by local and national politicians, in multinational corporations, and in metro DC agencies. Our work has led to over a dozen arrests and convictions, and institutional reforms.” She recites these facts simply, without an ounce of boasting. She doesn’t even mention the Peabody Award her show has won; after all, it’s right there on her résumé.