The Violet Crow

by Michael Sheldon

  Chapter 59

  “Maggie, leave me alone.” Bruno was trying to hide under the covers to prevent her from licking his face. It was well past 10 A.M. and she needed to go out. He sat up and had to laugh at the funny way she was wagging her stump. The wound had healed nicely. He missed her beautiful tail, but only when he thought about it.

  The phone rang and Bruno knew it had to be the Chief. He let it ring. He pulled himself out of bed and opened the front door for Maggie. She bolted outside as the answering machine clicked on. The Chief barked, “Get out of bed and come over here right away. Something big has come up.”

  Less than an hour later, Harry showed Bruno a printout from an online bulletin board he’d found, called Doggin’n’Dissin’. There was a long thread entitled: “No Good Bull Shit (NGBS).” The initial post was dated about a month previously and it read as follows: Calling all deviants: Our time has come. NGBS meeting 5/26. Buy a share and be there 10 sharp, with bells on. All will be revealed. It was signed, Cavedweller.

  There were enthusiastic comments posted by Ratrapper, Forger, Vandal, Psycho, Moondog, and St. Fightin Girl, saying they were spreading the word far and wide among the different activist groups, from anarchists to the Save the Zebras Coalition.

  In the ensuing weeks, posts had filtered in from across the region, pledging solidarity. “Look at all of this,” said Harry. There were pages and pages of pithy comments along the lines of “Right on, bro,” “Be there or be square,” “Got my bricks all packed,” and “Ça roule!”

  Then came a long post from someone with the handle “BigJohn.” It was a manifesto-sized screed, written in all caps. The message was addressed to ALL PAST PRESENT AND FUTURE DEVIANTS. The substance was that it was time to put their training to work. WITH PROPER ORGANIZATION WE CAN MAKE SEATTLE WTO LOOK LIKE SHRINERS PARADE. And it concluded with the exhortation, GREAT CREDIT WILL BE YOURS. DRESS APPROPRIATELY. THE WHOLE WORLD’S WATCHING.

  Bruno whistled softly. “Have you alerted Fischer and Jurevicius about this?”

  “Yeah. Chief’ll brief you about that in a minute,” Harry replied, rapidly shuffling through the replies. “There’s one more thing I want to show you. Look down here.” He gestured to some lines highlighted in yellow. St. Fightin Girl had weighed in, “No fair. Littlejohnson musclin’ in on CD’s gig. Somebody tell him to stop shouting …” And Cavedweller had messaged back, “’scool. More the merrier.”

  “It’s Alison! You found her!” Bruno was so excited, he shook Harry by the shoulders. “Way to go, man. Now you can locate her, right, since she went online?”

  “Not exactly,” Harry said. “All of these posts were logged on from public access computers, in the libraries no doubt. And our trail ends there.”

  Chief Black joined them. “We just showed Alison’s picture to librarians in Gardenfield, Maplewood, and Berry Hill. What an ornery bunch they are. I can never understand why they think it’s in the public interest to make it harder to solve violent crimes. Anyway, we got a hit in Berry Hill. Somebody remembered seeing Alison, but that’s it. It’s a big place—probably why she chose it instead of Gardenfield. No one saw her come. No one saw her go. She wasn’t with anyone. And they said we’d have to get a special warrant to see what else she looked at on the computer. Even if we got a court order, they said they’d fight us all the way to the Supreme Court.”

  “So what are we going to do?” asked Bruno.

  “I guess we’re just going to have to show up in force at NewGarden’s annual meeting. We’ll coordinate with Maplewood’s county, state, and local municipalities to manage the protests. And I’ve been talking to the folks at NewGarden. I explained the situation with Alison and I assured them that we’d try to arrest her with minimal disruption to their meeting.”

  Bruno looked troubled. “Did you discuss this with Dr. Fischer?”

  “No. Dr. Jurevicius. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m curious how he reacted to the news about the protests …”

  “Funny you should mention it. I was kind of surprised by that. I expected him to be upset or angry …”

  “He wasn’t? What did he say?”

  “He seemed almost amused … or maybe grimly determined. It was hard to tell over the phone.”

  “Really? Do you remember his exact words?”

  “I think he said, ‘Bring it on,’ or something like that.”

  Chapter 60

  The Chief didn’t want Bruno to come along. He said the security situation outside the NewGarden shareholder meeting would mainly involve routine police work. There’d probably be drunks and dopers to arrest. There might be tear gas.

  Bruno was stunned. “Chief, this is the moment we’ve been working toward. We know Alison’s going to be there. She’ll probably be in disguise. Trust me, you’re going to need me. I promise I won’t get in the way.”

  The Chief relented, but began to regret the decision almost immediately. Bruno was nervous and talking incessantly. “Why did Jurevicius say what he did? ‘Bring ’em on.’ That’s so stupid. It’s just a bunch of college kids. What can they do? Can’t he just refuse to let them in?”

  “Not if they’re shareholders.”

  “But if they’re noisy and disruptive. Can’t he refuse to admit them?”

  “They’ll probably behave themselves when they present their tickets. And NewGarden will not admit anyone wearing a costume or disguise.”

  “But we know they’re conspiring to disrupt the meeting. We have it in writing. Can’t we do something to stop it?”

  “I talked to Jurevicius about that. He said he was confident their security could handle anything that happens inside, as long as we can keep things orderly outside the perimeter.”

  The suspense was starting to get to Bruno. He asked, “Chief, what do you really think is going to happen?”

  “We’ll identify Alison as soon as we can and detain her in a way that causes minimal disruption.”

  “Will there be a confrontation?”

  The Chief sighed. “My guess is that she’ll stand up and make some kind of speech about biotech and the environment—if she gets the opportunity.”

  “And if that happens, what will Jurevicius do? Did you ask him that?”

  “Bruno, this is a routine situation. He said that security will handle it in the usual way …”

  Bruno started to panic, but the Chief didn’t let him.

  “Which simply means that guards will escort her from the building. Politely but firmly. You’ve seen it happen on TV a hundred times. It’s not a big deal.”

  With that, he turned onto Marter Avenue, the treeless boulevard that led to the entrance to NewGarden Biosciences. The police were well prepared for a demonstration. They had set up barriers to keep the protestors out of the street and allow shareholders to approach the gates unmolested. There, security examined each car, ensuring it contained shareholders with proper credentials before allowing it to proceed.

  Behind the barricades was a scene that took even Bruno and the Chief by surprise. Obviously, they knew that Alison and her friends would come to protest. But they weren’t expecting the kind of crowd that jammed the sidewalks along the entire length of Marter Avenue.

  The “Deviants” who, of course, were Nate Littlejohn’s students, were well represented. They came dressed as court jesters, Che Guevara, Arab terrorists, and Bozo the Clown. Bozo had a brightly colored poster that read, “Biotech is for bozos.”

  The Deviants’ call to arms had spread far and wide, with gratifying results. The crowd was much larger than anyone had expected and the various contingents were both geographically and ideologically diverse.

  There were organic farmers from across the U.S., angry and sullen, with signs that read, “Keep your seeds out of my field,” and “An ill wind blows no good.”

  There were environmentalist contingents including Greenpeace, the Sierra Club, PETA and Earth First bearing a variety of slogans. Some were relevant or almost relevant, such as “Save the Cro
ws,” or “Why do the only Eagles in Philadelphia wear helmets and weigh 250 pounds?” Others seemed to have been recycled from other campaigns: “Save the Whales” and “I’m for the Spotted Owl.”

  There was a lone religious fanatic, dressed in early Christian garb and bearing a large cross with a sign that read, “God Bless South Jersey.”

  Nathalie Porthous led a group of feminists who had created replicas of dead or dying crows. Their signs read, “First crows, then women. Protect your rights.” Littlejohn joined her and they tried to invent a chant especially for the occasion. “One, two, three, four/We don’t want your filthy …” What? They argued back and forth: Floor? Poor? More? Nathalie almost eviscerated Nate on the spot when he suggested “whore.” Finally, they agreed on “One, two, three, four/No GMOs at the local store …” But they had a hard time getting anyone to chant with them. There were so many other things to do and see.

  The anti-war groups were there, armed with American flags, lighter fluid, and matches. The anti-WTO cadres were also showing their flag, a blue field with the Whole Earth in the center.

  More down-to-earth were several local chapters of the Teamsters union. Their placards read, “Ron DiAngelis for Governor.”

  Gravitating to the unions was a contingent of farmers who had flown to New Jersey all the way from France. They’d rented tractors and seemed to be looking for windows to smash. Their signs exhibited the European genius for ideograms—a drawing of a Big Mac, an equals sign, and a dog squatting to poop.

  Drawn inevitably to the French was the Slow Food contingent, led by Jacob Creutzfeldt. He’d brought along a sow named Tammy, specially raised on an organic farm in Woodbury. Tammy was slated to follow Walt Whitman as the featured attraction at La Vache Folle et Le Poisson Nu. Creutzfeldt was flying in chefs from Hawaii to help him create a new classic luau recipe using only South Jersey ingredients. He was serving a local wine—a rough approximation of zinfandel—as the suggested pairing for pit-roasted pork.

  Then there were the hemp aficionados, slyly asserting that they were interested in all the myriad uses of hemp—except smoking it.

  On the outskirts, anarchists in ninja outfits mingled with Jedi knights while the American Friends Service Committee argued the sanctity of creation with a group of Gaians holding “Love Your Mother” placards.

  Meanwhile, the Prius Pride of South Jersey, consisting of more than a dozen late-model hybrid vehicles, scootered up and down Marter Avenue in perfect formation. They performed precision figure eights, while honking their horns and waving to promote energy efficiency.

  “This does remind me of a Shriners’ parade,” Chief Black observed, gesturing toward the Pride.

  Then he noticed a commotion across from where they were standing. The crowd seemed to be heaving back and forth. “That’s a street fight,” said the Chief matter-of-factly. “Let’s take a closer look.”

  They crossed the street and asked Che Guevara what was happening. He explained that one of the French farmers had seen Bozo the Clown and gone berserk. Apparently he’d mistaken Bozo for McDonalds’ world-famous emissary. He had tried to attack the poor clown, despite his comrades’ attempts to restrain him. In fact, if Bruno or the Chief had understood French, they would have heard someone shouting, “C’est pas Ron-ald,” over and over.

  Fortunately for Bozo, the Teamsters stepped in. Politically, they weren’t sure which side to take; but their natural instincts asserted themselves and they began to pummel the Frenchmen. The Chief was pleased to see that Biff was on top of it immediately. “Watch this,” he said to Bruno. “Crowd control, just the way I taught him. He’s going to let the union thugs and farmers work off a little bit of excess energy—and then arrest them. Easy, entertaining, and safe.”

  The college kids all rallied around Bozo. They helped the clown up, offered water, and tried to rearrange the oversized pants and tiny vest. “Seems like the VIP of the group,” commented the Chief. “Think it’s Cavedweller?”

  “Full make-up.” Bruno squinted. “Could be anybody. An excellent disguise.” He scanned the crowd. “I don’t see anyone else that’s fully covered like that—except the Palestinian terrorists and those ninjas. But I’m guessing those are computer geeks and anarchists. So let’s focus on Bozo.”

  “Agreed.”

  Just as they started to make their move, the security gate opened and a pair of black limousines pulled into the road. Driving side by side, they swept away the Priuses and everything else in their path. A few minutes later, they returned with something extraordinary following behind them. It was a full-sized parade float bearing a 20-foot-high sculpted figure of a violet crow. On each corner stood security guards, dressed in commando outfits, with wireless headsets and visible sidearms.

  An unmistakable voice emerged from the head of the crow: “The meeting is abowt to begin. Ownly ticket holders will be al-loud to enter the premises. Anywon wearing a costume will be thoroughly searched.”

  The commandos produced wicker baskets and began tossing handfuls of what looked like purple corn into the crowd. The protestors didn’t know what to think. To some, the military garb suggested explosives or maybe tear gas … Others thought it was NewGarden’s product—actual Scarecrow Corn—and who knew what that might do to humans? With a collective shriek of “Run! GMOs!” the stampede started. Within minutes, the crowd had scattered like chaff before the wind. All that was left was a pile of placards and a scattering of violet-hued candy.

  Chapter 61

  Chief Black and Bruno stood at the back of the auditorium and watched as people filed in. The majority of regular shareholders had come in earlier. They were in their places, enjoying French champagne served in special flutes monogrammed with the NGBS logo. On stage, a tuxedoed pianist played Debussy’s “Images” on a Bösendorfer grand piano.

  It took a while for the protestors to filter in. They had remained out on the street until the float pulled up and then had to discard their costumes or submit to a search. The Chief pointed out to Bruno that the ushers seemed to be leading them to a specific area in the front of the auditorium, right behind the VIP section where they put the board of directors and the other big shots.

  “I’d have put them in a locked room with armed guards and a video feed,” snapped Bruno.

  “This isn’t really that different,” explained the Chief. “They’ve got them all in one place where it’s easy to keep an eye on them.”

  They watched anxiously, waiting for Alison to appear. It didn’t take long. After all those hours of interviewing, online searching and psychic surveillance, she simply walked into the room. Completely anti-climactic. Yet there she was. She’d jettisoned the cumbersome Bozo outfit and tried to remove the clown makeup with only partial success. She’d dyed her hair blond and cut it short. But it was still, quite obviously, Alison—dressed simply in jeans and a black cardigan.

  “She looks great,” commented Bruno. “I think she’s lost weight.”

  “Must be all that exercise she was getting while she was hiding out.”

  “That was a tacky thing to say.” Bruno glared reprovingly at the Chief; then he got distracted by a disturbance in the crowd. It seemed that Alison’s friends were jockeying to sit close to her—but two interlopers were trying to butt in.

  The Chief checked it out through his binoculars. It was Littlejohn and Porthous.

  “What’s going on?” Bruno asked impatiently.

  “They’re arguing. There’s pushing and shoving.”

  “What do you think it’s all about?”

  “Hard to say. I’m guessing the man may be what’s-his-name—Littlejohnson. The woman’s got big hair, like an afro, so she’s probably a professor too. It looks like Alison’s friends want to be there right with her for the big event, or maybe they’re trying to protect her.”

  “From what?”

  “Exactly my point.” The Chief kept narrating like a sportscaster. “The ushers are moving in. They’re breaking it up. They’ve placed Li
ttlejohn and Big Hair in the seats directly in front of Alison. Now she’s arguing with the man. He keeps trying to grab her arm and she keeps pulling away.” He turned to Bruno. “I wonder if we should get her out of there. Go in and grab her right now?”

  “Let me see.” Bruno grabbed the binoculars. But just then the pianist took his bow, the lights dimmed, and the room went quiet.

  When the lights came back up, Emmanuel Fischer was standing alone in front of the curtain. He thanked the audience for coming and welcomed them to the Garden State. Then he tried to launch into the main part of his speech. “For 15 years, our mission has been to transform our world into a new garden, through the promise of biotechnology …”

  That was as far as he got when he was interrupted by a chorus of jeers and hisses. Littlejohn and Porthous were standing up and trying to get the other protestors to shout down the speaker.

  Fischer studied them with contempt. Obviously he wasn’t prepared for such juvenile behavior, which is normally confined to college campuses. Fischer stood uncomfortably while the disruption continued.

  People in the audience grew restive. A few hollered, “Let him speak.” Littlejohn and Porthous exhorted the students to join them, but most refused to join in. Their eyes were glued on Alison, who sat solid and silent.

  A voice came on the loudspeaker. “Anywon disrupting the meeting will be removed from the awditworium.”

  Littlejohn and Porthous stopped hissing and jeering. They cast hostile looks at the students and tried to disappear into their seats.

  Dr. Fischer resumed speaking. “For some reason, I felt compelled to invite a couple of my in-laws,” he ad-libbed. “They’re too shy to tell me how they really feel about me.” The audience exploded with laughter and applause.

  The curtain opened behind Fischer, and he continued his presentation. On the stage were the glass-covered exhibits, which Bruno recognized from the company museum. In fact, Fischer was giving the exact same speech on the promise of biotechnology that Jurevicius had delivered on Bruno’s first visit to the company. Fischer roved from exhibit to exhibit, while a video camera followed him and projected enlarged images on the screen behind him.