Islam Rising

by Johnny Jacks

  “You got beat up. so what?”

  “They ripped our pants down and threw us across a bunk, face down! You get the picture?” Grayson leaned a hand against the wall. “I…I’ve never told anyone.”

  Makeesha choked out, “Not even your wife?”

  “No! It’s humiliating. You’re the only person alive that knows about it.”

  “Honestly, I don’t think the judge will let this go. How did you get out of jail?”

  “When I didn’t show up, Margaret called my father and he came looking for me. One look at us and he bribed the jailer, didn’t ask a single question. My dad was a wise man.”

  “What did Margaret say?”

  “She chewed me out for mouthing off at the Mexican cop.”

  “Would it help to call your friend to testify?”

  “George…he committed suicide two years later. I’m the only one that knows why.”

  The bailiff knocked at the door. “Time’s up, counselor.”

  Grayson, drowning in black memories and sweat, continued. “George told his parents why he showed up the next morning with a well-beaten face, and they told the Chronicle so the article would serve as a warning to other teens.”

  “My guess is Shannon only suspects something bigger. She’ll drag it out of you to prove your prejudice against Mexicans. Anything else I need to know?”

  “Nothing.”

  ~~~

  Makeesha met privately with Shannon and the judge in his chambers. Grayson’s refusal to testify forced her to plead without explanation. The judge ruled Grayson had to respond to it or be in contempt.

  The judge spoke tersely. “Officer Dean, please take the stand and remember you’re still under oath.”

  His mind frozen, his heart pounding, Grayson held his head high and walked to the stand.

  If I go to jail for contempt, some lowlife I’ve arrested would get him. The case would be lost. If I divulge the secret, I might as well be dead. Grayson’s stomach lurched and threatened to empty, marking his Rubicon. That bitch is mine.

  Shannon now had Grayson by the gonads. Makeesha’s behavior in the judge’s chambers pointed to an embarrassing situation or worse. If Shannon could drag the information out of him, it would be her moment of glory.

  With barely suppressed sarcasm, she began. “Officer Dean, I repeat my question. Please explain your hatred of Mexican immigrants.”

  “What makes you think I hate Mexicans? Everyone you’ve asked had no idea what you’re talking about, neither do I.”

  “I repeat my question. Explain why you hate Mexican immigrants.”

  “You’ll have to be more specific.”

  Shannon and Grayson had a brief staring contest before she rolled her eyes and took an exasperated breath for the benefit of the jury.

  “Officer Dean, have you been to Mexico?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you been to Nuevo Laredo, Mexico?”

  Sweat beaded on his forehead. “Yes.”

  “Have you been arrested in Nuevo Laredo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you been assaulted in the Nuevo Laredo jail?”

  “Yes.” He braced for the blow.

  “Please explain the details of the assault to the court.”

  He repeated what he’d told Makeesha, minus the graphic details.

  “A few intoxicated Mexicans beat up you and your friend, so you hate the whole race. Seems a radical position to take, particularly with you in the military at the time.” Shannon faced the jury. “Surely, there’s more to this story. How many Mexicans did you assault in that jail?”

  Grayson’s granite expression held. “None. We were seriously outnumbered.”

  “Big as you are, you didn’t get a punch in?”

  “I was a kid in another country having fun with a friend when we got dumped into a dangerous situation. We got the shit kicked out of us.”

  She moved closer to her victim. “And you bear no ill will toward Mexicans, although you called them evil?”

  “Objection! That witness’ claim was discounted as a lie fabricated as revenge.”

  “Ms. Fisher, you have exactly five minutes to give us your specific and exacting evidence that Officer Dean harbors hatred against Mexicans. Clerk, begin timing, NOW.”

  Confident the jury suspected Grayson was withholding information, her mission was complete. But she couldn’t resist twisting the knife.

  “Your honor, if Officer Dean would simply give an honest answer to my question, we could move on.”

  “The clock is ticking, Ms. Fisher.”

  Relishing her manipulation, she turned to her prey and recoiled, drawing a fractured breath. She quickly stepped back from him.

  Grayson’s face had morphed into an ashen death mask.

  It was obvious he didn’t see Shannon, although she was squarely in front of him. With crystal clarity, she realized with horror that she had crossed an invisible moral line. She had pushed a witness into an ungodly place. His catatonic expression warned her it would be brutally inhumane to continue.

  “Officer Dean, please answer the question,” the judge ordered repeatedly, growing annoyed.

  Shannon blinked several times, working to regain control. Finally, she blurted, “Your honor, I withdraw the question.”

  The judge leaned over his desk. “You withdraw the question?”

  “Yes, your honor. I withdraw the question. I have no further questions for this witness.”

  Shannon was more stunned than anyone in the courtroom.

  She spoke to Grayson softly. “Officer Dean, you may step down. There are no more questions.” When she laid her hand lightly on his arm, Grayson’s eyes slowly refocused. He jerked away from her and stood, a wooden soldier marching back to the table where Makeesha watched helplessly.

  The flummoxed judge asked if Shannon had any more witnesses to call.

  Her eyes following Grayson intently, she could not disconnect. “Uh…no…no more questions, your honor.”

  “Thank you, God,” Grayson whispered. The color crept into his face as he sat rigid in his chair.

  “You have further questions?”

  “Your honor, I have no further questions for Officer Dean.”

  The judge threw up his hands. “I give up. Court dismissed until 9 a.m. tomorrow.”

  Shannon’s face revealed her perplexed reaction, her eyes widened and suddenly morphed into a death mask of its own.

  ~~~

  Makeesha presented a strong case in defense of Grayson and the city of Houston. She successfully discounted the testimonies of Conrad and Shannon’s expert witness. She recounted Delgado’s criminal trial, explaining why Grayson used lethal force, and questioned police officers on his professional and moral conduct.

  Shannon appeared lost in another world and weakly objected a few times to Makeesha’s points.

  Nonetheless, the jury found the city of Houston guilty of negligence in overseeing their employee and awarded Delgado $300,000, significantly below the two million requested, but enough to let Grayson know his days as a police officer were over.

  Mammoth doom engulfed Grayson as he heard the jury and judge’s determinations that sentenced him to an empty and rudderless life.

  He thanked Makeesha for her valiant efforts and stepped into the hallway, to speak with the chief. “Sir, I’m sorry. I hope you won’t suffer because of this.”

  “There’s not a man alive who hasn’t made at least one major error while pushing to do the right thing.” Chief Ramirez spoke with sadness. “If I’d been in your shoes, I’d have shot that scumbag myself and can’t fault you for doing the same.”

  “The ugly super-bitch got me this time.”

  “You did as well as any man under the circumstances.”

  “I’m taking tomorrow off to visit Margaret and Amanda. I owe them an apology.”

  “It’s your life, Grayson, but I suggest you make this your final apology. One day you’ll be on the other side with them forever. Ki
ndhearted Margaret wouldn’t want you to remain miserable on this side; it’s such a short time.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way, sir. Danny will be with us, too.”

  Ramirez’s brow furrowed. “I’ll hold off the wolves as long as I can to give you time to decide the actions you want to take about your future.”

  His words pierced Grayson’s desolate soul. Et tu, Chief?

  Islamic State of America - 4

  Texas State Prison

  Year -4

  Carlos and Miguel paused and looked back over their shoulders. Akeem made a subtle gesture for them to return. They watched Akeem stroke his bushy dark beard while studying them, his expression calm, eyes alert. Seconds ticked while each man stood his ground in the silent enclosure. Every prisoner’s attention was on them, itching for a bloody fight.

  Akeem carefully considered the unusual, arrogant Mexican, the scarred face, thick gold loop dangling from his ear, and intricate tattoos inked on arms and neck. The man vibrated anger, a trait Akeem was prepared to exploit.

  As they stood quietly in the prison yard, each waited for the other to make a decision. Akeem swallowed his pride; he had no choice. This first meeting must go well to open the door to the future. He could not fail his mentor, Imam Omar. He must be pragmatic.

  Akeem motioned to a clear spot away from curious ears. “Why do you care how many times a day I pray?” Akeem asked, initiating the dialogue necessary to temper Carlos’ juvenile bravado and lead him to the mature intellectual level he required to succeed as a leader of Allah’s soldiers, assuming that was possible.

  “I see you have peace after you pray. At night, you sleep without waking. I’m a violent man, the same as you. Even so I want peace and sleep, but it don’t want me.”

  “You say you feel at peace when I sing prayers, even though it is in a language you do not understand. Perhaps Allah is calling you back.”

  Murtadha’s eyes narrowed. “I understand more than you think, Arab! You don’t know me. What’s this calling me back shit?”

  “Everyone is born a Muslim, and pure, but many are fooled into becoming something else. Islam is in your blood. You are a leader. If you learn of the one true god, Allah, accept his truth, and submit to him, I will teach you to become a mighty Muslim warrior, a leader over many men. Then, one day, you will lead hundreds, then thousands.” Akeem wasn’t sure of Imam Omar’s plan but he made a play on Carlos’ ego.

  “I’m already a mighty warrior, Arab. I got my gang. Just teach me the prayers. We have time. We ain’t leaving this casa del diablo no time soon.”

  Akeem’s business tone remained unchanged. “Before I can teach you the prayers, you must first learn the ways of Islam and become a true believer. You must become a Muslim by reciting the Shahada and swearing allegiance and servitude to Allah. Then I can teach you the language and make you an educated man.”

  Carlos noted his comment on education but dismissed it as a fantasy, something he would never achieve. “What is this Shahada?”

  “The Shahada is the first of the five pillars of Islam. You must say, ‘I bear witness that there is no god but Allah, and I bear witness that Mohammed is the messenger of Allah.’”

  “Easy enough,” Carlos said. Miguel agreed.

  “It is easy to say the Shahada, but you must believe what you are saying with firm conviction. You must be truly sincere and in compliance with the teachings of Islam and learn its language. Empty words make you an apostate and I would have to kill you.”

  Carlos eyed Akeem with suspicion. “What is this language I must learn?”

  “The language of Allah is Arabic, as the angel Gabriel gave it to Mohammed—peace be upon him—to write the Quran. This was the first miracle of Islam. Mohammed—peace be upon him—did not know how to read or write, but Allah gave him the gift so he could teach Allah’s way to the people and rid them of idolatry for all time. This gave them power, direction, and strength, as it does for me now. What you seek is the power of the sword and the peace and guidance of the Quran.”

  Carlos was frustrated with Akeem’s responses. Except for vague memories of his father, something he often attempted to push out of his mind, he’d lived most of his twenty-eight years without religion. “Look man, I don’t care what a Quran is. I only want to learn to sing your prayers. These other things I don’t care about. That ain’t what I want.”

  Addressing him by name for the first name, Akeem set in place the second phase of his test. It was time to set the hook before the fish got away. “It doesn’t work that way, Carlos. You either become educated and a great leader of many men or go back to your useless little gang that, like you, will never amount to anything.”

  Carlos’ triggered reaction to Akeem’s insult overwhelmed good judgment. With closed fists, he leaned toward Akeem, whose men moved closer. He halted his strike when Miguel touched his shoulder and spoke softly in his ear in Spanish.

  “Hermano, calm down. Don’t you want to learn the prayers? Be patient and listen to him so you can be at peace and sleep. Imagine how it would be if he taught us to read and write. I want to be educated and read books.”

  Carlos jerked his shoulder from Miguel’s hand. The Arab asked too much of him. He didn’t want Akeem to know he couldn’t read or write Spanish or English. How could he learn Arabic?

  Akeem locked his hypnotic eyes on Carlos and he felt the fire go quiet in his belly. After a long moment, Carlos spoke in a dead tone. “I’m listening, musulmán.”

  Before Akeem could reply, the prison yard bell rang, ordering the prisoners back to their cells.

  “We will meet in the library next week.”

  “What’s wrong with meeting tomorrow?” Miguel asked.

  “Be patient. You need time to think and to feel Allah’s call.”

  “We’ll be there, Arab.” Carlos and Miguel gave their gang sign as a pledge, then turned, and walked away.

  Sitting on his bunk that evening, Carlos listened closely as Akeem sang his prayers. Through clouded memories of a strange building and many men, one in particular, on their knees, shoes off, and foreheads touching the floor, he repeated familiar words and felt a connection. For the first time since finding himself and his little brother alone on the streets of Nuevo Laredo, Carlos Murtadha slept through the night without waking.

  Chapter 17

  Go Find Yourself

  Year 1

  Only the night crew remained when Grayson arrived at Ramirez’s office. “It’s taken a while, but I assume the hierarchy has come to a decision on my departure.”

  Ramirez smiled as he rose from behind his desk. “A decision is coming, but not today, not with Christmas in a couple of weeks and the union dragging its feet. No, I need your help with a new problem.”

  “I wondered why the after-hours meeting.”

  “I have a clandestine mission for you, something special.”

  “Chief, you’ve known since you saved my butt in Fallujah that I’m your man when you need something special. What’s up?”

  “January eleventh, the Department of Justice is conducting a seminar on their revised gang eradication policy and regulations. I’m up to my eyeballs in problems on the home front, and since you’re my most qualified officer in that arena, and I trust you to pay attention to the presentations and not gallivant around, I want you to attend for me.”

  “Sounds like a free vacation. What’s the catch?”

  Chief Ramirez chuckled. “No catch. Sit through the seminar, take notes, and write the new departmental policy. I don’t have time for that bullshit.”

  Grayson smiled. “So, you’re sending me to sit through the boring bullshit.”

  Ramirez’s face mottled. “Keep the trip to yourself. You understand the reason.”

  “I do, sir. It won’t go over well if the liberal media think I’m back as a detective in the Gang Unit. HPD would be all over the front page again and not in a good way.”

  “You got it, son.”

  Grayson f
rowned. “We wouldn’t be in this position if I wasn’t so bullheaded.”

  “Stop with the self-deprecation. Every man pays the price for the bad and reaps the rewards for the good. Thanks to that…what is it you called her?”

  “Who?”

  “The ACLU lawyer.”

  “You mean the Ugly Super-Bitch?”

  “That’s it. The burrs you’ve stuck under her saddle over the past few years turned your situation into a public spectacle.”

  “I made the decisions, and I have to live with the consequences. Getting out of town sounds good. Where’s it being held? DC?”

  “Well…uh….” the chief teased.

  Grayson feared the worst. He didn’t like big cities, especially DC.

  “It’s at the convention center in a little place called the Entertainment Capital of the World, Las Vegas, Nevada,” Ramirez grinned. “Soldier, you need some R and R. Do your job and keep a low profile, but enjoy yourself too. I set you up with a room at Caesar’s Palace. After the convention, take a couple of days to rest. Rent a car and drive up to Death Valley. Visit Scotty’s Castle, a marvelous place to relax. The weather is chilly but perfect in January.”

  “I’ve also heard Vegas called Sin City. I’ll keep a low profile and get the job done.”

  “Son, no one should have to deal with the problems you’ve faced. Christmas will be difficult enough for you. I wish you’d join Mama and me for dinner.”

  “I appreciate your invitation, but I can’t handle a family get together just yet. It’s best I stay to myself this week. I’m clearing out the house some. I’ve been avoiding it, but it’s as good a time as any.”

  The chief massaged his bristly gray hair. “I understand. Begin to forgive yourself, son, and face the New Year with a glad heart, or at least a heart that’s at peace.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  Ramirez handed him a folder containing the papers for the seminar and feigned being gruff. “Now, get the hell out of my office. Go find yourself, soldier.”

  Grayson offered his hand. “Thanks, Chief. It feels strangely pleasant to have this be my last official action.”