This time, there was no split screen, it was just the tape in all of its high definition glory. Just over a dozen minutes of malice.
Ray sat, hands still, his eyes on Seth. Meek wasn’t watching this time, instead his gaze had fallen upon the far wall, unfocused and quiet until the tape had played out. In his mind, he was searching his code, wondering about the first attack. It couldn't be long now.
* * *
FBI techs had been working hard to track down any telephones linked to the two kidnapping victims, and while Saul’s mother was cooperative, it was clear that she had little true knowledge of what her son did on a daily basis. Certainly she was in no position to buy the kid a cell. The Siclo household, likewise, was in no position, or … condition, to get their son a telephone. They’d generated a list, none the less, of approximately thirty mobile phones that might be associated with the Widmore Crew, most of which were being used on an hour by hour basis. Most they had tracked to the cell mast just north of the neighborhood, others were out and about but much harder to actually track down. And a half dozen were silent. Many were phones that were simply used and thrown away. Still there was a chance that one of these was Derek Siclo’s phone, and that at some point Meek might turn it on. Evidently, he had and it pinged on several masts, but prior to the point where this had become an internationally watched frenzy, and thus also prior to the point where the “get all of the techs you need” clause had kicked in from the Director. Even with a fantasy league of agents, tracing a signal like that in a city like D.C. was a very long shot indeed – still, it was an option, and they kept at it. The FBI had no equal when it came to electronic surveillance.
Predictably, it had been extraordinarily difficult to even broach the possibility that NSA might be more aptly suited to handle the encryption aspect of this case. And while it was distantly comforting that the NSA firewalls were absolutely solid, it was frustrating as hell to have to step back and wait for help from anyone. So they kept playing the hands dealt, and mulled over possibilities. If there was anything that they could do, they'd be ready for it as it was their nature to over engineer their projects. If a cell signal hit, if one of their techs suddenly came up with a trace route to Meek's location, even an approximate location, they'd have people there. And it wouldn't take long.
The black eye that this would undoubtedly bring to the intelligence community as a whole was looming large in the minds of those who were already imagining opening statements to Senate sub–committees. Thus, the restrictions were being removed, agents called in, and briefings made to get everyone up to speed.
And a call was made to HRT at Quantico.
"Bring everyone in," Able said as he strode into the team room. Heads came up. This was a line most often used as a joke, as the men and women of the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team trained daily and were by their very nature always "in."
"What's up Ernie?" the operators in the room already had a good idea, but as was often the case, bad things seemed to come in threes and it wasn't unusual for them to gear up for one operation only to be flown in an entirely different direction.
"The D.C. operation," Ernie Able said and took a seat at the team table. As with many elite units, the HRT operators were not sticklers for the many formalities associated with rank. "We're on standby, but if any of the nerdists get a hit, we'll go. Aviation is up to speed and ready, the folks out at Harvey Point are on recall, and I can see that you slackers are good to go too. Flight time into D.C. is thirty–two minutes, but I wouldn't be surprised if we end up orbiting and doing in–flights considering how hot this is getting. So go poty now, we're not pulling over."
There were smiles all around because they were going into the field. All of them had discussed the Trial. The legality of what this Meek character was doing aside, it was clear that this wasn't quite as cut and dried as something like Ruby Ridge or Waco. It felt like perhaps they were rescuing the wrong people. Still, they'd do their job – perfectly – and if given a chance to get on the ground with Seth Meek, they had no doubt that they would either apprehend or dispatch him without missing a beat.
Twelve minutes later they were walking out to the pair of UH–60 helicopters in order to fulfill the 'hurry up and wait' clause of their government contracts.
* * *
The detectives watched again in silence – they studied everything for the thousandth time. Grainy and bouncy, but clear enough to view Derek Siclo’s white buttocks as he raped Emily Meek. The film had the feel of an imbedded reporter in combat. The camera jerked with the concussion of the shots, and was muted by the sudden crack of the pistol, but it also recorded with appalling clarity events that were mere inches away. Most of the five hundred million people watching had never seen the result of a gunshot to the head, and this was made all that much more abhorrent by the undeniable beauty and innocence of the eight year old victim.
The majority of the audio sounded like it has been recorded inside of a shoebox full of crumpled papers, but it did reveal something interesting, the words of Saul Brown. He was the closest to the telephone as he’d been holding it, and his voice was almost perfectly clear. A ghostly voice–over in the language of a kid; commentary on matters that no child should ever have to understand.
* * *
“What’s he sayin’? I've never been able to understand it,” Smokey asked.
Both detectives had already run the tape through enough filters to isolate the slightest of sounds. “It’s a prayer,” Finn said looking away from the screen. "It’s a goddamned prayer. 'Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom his love commits me here…'”
* * *
Meek reappeared on the screen. Stone faced, peering right into the camera, it was as if he had surprised himself by turning it back on. He looked back down at his notes after a moment and said, “What I do not have at this point, is the 911 call that my wife may have made prior to her death, though if it does exist, I’m sure that the networks would be more than happy to play it for you all now. Meek went back to his notes, and tapped at his computer while CNN did just that. The other broadcasters scrambled to queue the tape, and had it running by the time that Seth looked back up.
“I’ve prepared four photographs of the defendants from the videotape for you to compare to their images here and now.” He brought these up on screen: Side by side shots, one of excited faces from the tape, the other of the two as they sat in the basement. There was no mistaking their identities.
“I think that we’ve established that both defendants were at the scene and that both participated at the scene to varying degrees. A pregnant mother and her children were murdered by these defendants. I’ve presented this in video with audio that supports the fact that this is the case. They did it, there is no doubt, and you’ve all seen them in the act.”
Meek paused, and shuffled papers.
“Now, there are some differences between these two defendants as I’m sure many of you have noted. Derek Siclo is obviously guilty, he has again and again shown himself to be less than intelligent, hateful, and vile. He is, in my opinion, exactly the sort of person who should take one for the team and kill himself for the good of the human race. He is under the age of eighteen, which means nothing except in the strictest legal sense. He is not, however, an animal. I want to stress this because Derek Siclo knew what he was doing and enjoyed it. He is a human being, and therefore, subject to retribution.”
“In the case of Saul Brown, more of you have expressed a hesitancy to seek the death penalty.” Seth picked up a pile of papers and read, “He’s just a little boy trying to be honest about a mistake, he shouldn’t have to die at the hands of a maniac because of it.”
“Another…” Seth said. “The system is in place for kids like Saul who are forced to do horrible things…” He sorted through the pile. "There are tens of thousands of entries on websites all over just like these I’m sure, but let me make one thing perfectly clear. Saul Brown stood by and watched while my wife was being raped… and al
l of them killed. He had the means to stop it, and he didn’t. He apparently has some sympathy vote because he’s young, his mom’s on the television begging for his shitty little life, and he’s smart enough to know that when he’s trapped, he should say sir. But he’s guilty just the same…”
“It’s my opinion, therefore, that both of them should be given the same sentence. Death by gunshot. Both of them should suffer like my family did because of what they’ve done. If you, the jury, decides to convict these individuals on the charges of rape and murder, this is the sentence that will be carried out here at midnight tonight. Court is adjourned for fifteen minutes.”
Chapter Sixty–Four
Teflon
When the cameras came back on they were focused on Derek “Bolo” Siclo, and he alone. Meek’s disembodied voice could be heard over the microphones, “Here’s your chance to tell your side. No poor schumck of a lawyer has to defend your sorry ass to put food on the table for his kids, it’s just you Derek, give it your best shot.”
Bolo looked from Meek to the camera. “I ain’t scared of you man,” were his first words.
“I couldn’t care less,” came Meek’s voice, “but you’d better be scared of the people watching you now dip shit, millions and millions of ‘em all waiting to fry your ass for being a fucking savage.”
He pursed his lips, a disturbingly feminine expression from such a gnarled face. “Man, you don’t get it man.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Man the streets ain’t like some suit’n tie job motherfucker. People tell me what to do an’ I do it. ‘Sides, little nigga here picked the crib, the bitches, everything. Wasn’t me man, I was doin’ what I was told.”
“You always do what you’re told?”
“Yeah, no… I mean, fuck man, you do what you do on the street or somebody busts a cap in your ass.”
“Did you want to kill them?”
“Nah man, I was just doin’ what I was told,” Bolo said, over–relaxed and almost smiling.
“Did you want to rape anyone?”
“Nah.”
“Did you hate doing it?”
“Yeah man, I ain’t no monster.” His casual air had the feel of celebrity about it. He wasn’t selling out, he was just racking up street cred.
Footsteps were heard, then a metallic snap. The muzzle of a square black pistol materialized on screen, pressed into Derek’s throat.
“Do you like this? Hate it?”
“Fuck you.”
The pistol slid down his neck and out of sight. "Alright then, we’ll give you one chance to prove it.”
“Prove what motherfucker?”
“That you hated raping them. Get it up right now. If I don’t see a hard–on in thirty seconds, I’m going to blow your package inside out. Time’s tickin’. Come on.”
The face on the camera was stricken. "Man I can’t… wait…”
“You're lying. What we saw was very clear. You don’t rape people without liking it. You liked it. So if hated it so much, I’d expect that you’d be able to get a hard–on right now with a gun in your sack just the same. No?” Meek jabbed the muzzle into Derek’s crotch and the kid screamed. “Nothing?”
“They told me to man, told me to!”
“So your defense is that it’s not your fault because someone told you to do it?”
The eyes darted back and forth.
“You were told to rape and murder two people.”
“Yeah man, told to.”
“By who?”
“Hey man I ain’t no narc.”
“Sure you are,” Seth said. “Think it through. Get the heat off of yourself and you might walk. Someone might believe your sorry sob story if you give up the guy who told you to rape and kill people.”
“I ain’t no snitch.” He sounded less sure.
“Listen, at midnight I’m putting this gun up your ass and pulling the trigger.” Seth repositioned the gun a little lower on the outside of Bolo’s urine stained shorts. “If you’re lucky, your lungs will fill with blood and fecal matter and you’ll suffocate in an hour. You can go find a new rock to hide under and start looking for new women to rape.”
“You ain’t nevah gonna let us up outta here.”
Seth sighed audibly. “Derek, if the people watching vote to let you go, I’ll let you walk out with a head start.”
“Bullshit.”
“Don’t judge me by what you’d do you piece of shit,” Meek’s voice rose, as pitiless and stark as the wind outside. “We know what you are, but I’m giving you a chance. Redeem yourself! Go on, try!” He rammed the pistol forward and Bolo started talking.
For twenty five minutes he rambled on about his time with the Widmore Crew, naming names, spilling information on tangent after tangent, and generally stepping all over himself in an effort to convince the world that he was the victim. Somewhere Suki was probably shredding a fern and smiling.
Bolo went through the whole idea of being jumped into the gang, of how he was, of how it was supposed to go down for Saul. He placed the blame squarely on the shoulders of anyone but himself. He was told what to do. Probably though, it would have been a better speech if his audience hadn’t just come watched him strut around on camera like a B movie star boasting about the size of his dick.
“Didn’t even pick the bitches,” he concluded. “Saul did that, he did it all.” Sweat was running into his eyes giving him the sniffles and the outward appearance of real tears. “Wasn’t me man.”
* * *
Meek shifted the camera to Saul without warning. It adjusted to his darker complexion in moments, showing the same scared, but somehow serene eyes. Glossy and fixed.
“What about you?” Meek said.
From off camera came Derek’s voice. Panic crept into his voice, “Hey man, I ain’t done talkin’.”
“Yes you are,” Meek said. There was a buzzing, like the release of an electronic lock, and Bolo stopped talking. “Don’t interrupt your friend.”
When Saul looked back at the lens, he was shaken. The threat of being shocked jolted him back to the moment. “Mr. Seth, I don’t wanna…”
“Just say what you have to say,” Meek said. His voice was coming back to his usual even keel, but was still far from soothing. It was the voice of a man tired of being awake, but terrified of going to sleep.
Saul started to talk, but he didn’t look at the camera. He looked at Meek. He knew who was trying his case–he knew the judge. “Mr. Seth, I did all of them things. I was there. I hadda gun. I shoulda done somethin’. But I didn’t. I know you ain’t gonna believe me, not after all that, but I ain’t gonna lie. I didn’t do all that ‘cause I was ‘sposed to, I did it ‘cause I hadda do it. Serious. They came and got me, told me that it was time to move up, and then we’s in the car. I didn’t know it was gonna be like that. But if I didn’t do it…”
“What?” Meek cut in. “If you didn’t act like a fucking human being and stop it, you had a gun for Christ’s sake!”
“You didn’t stop it either,” Saul replied without any malice.
Meek was cut to the bone. He reeled, tried to sit and missed his chair. He fell out of Saul’s view, hands covering his face. The world could hear him weeping.
“I didn’t stop it, and I shoulda. I was all wrong. But I couldn’t stop it any more than you could. I thought it was a way outta my life, and my momma’s life, and all of this killin’ an’ shit. I wanna go see somethin’ green, or the ocean or someplace that just ain’t grey. Only color I ever see is blood. I don’t wanna see no more blood. Jus' like you. I'm sorry for not doin’ what’s right. But I couldn’t see it then, what’s right I mean.”
Meek cried. He was naked before the world, and even though they couldn’t see his face, the sounds of his anguish were just as powerful when mixed with the apology of a boy that didn’t know how to set things right. For nearly a quarter of an hour the camera stayed focused upon the stricken face of Saul Brown while he listened to the man that wanted to k
ill him cry like a child.
Ray looked on with a clear view of Seth on the concrete floor, snot streaming from his nose, sobbing unabashedly and without any control. Beside him lay the pistol. He wondered just how long it would be before Meek simply put it to his own head and blew all of the NSA’s secrets unto the wall. He seemed like the most insane of people, the ones who can convince you of their lucidity with bright eyes and a tempting smile; occasionally though, the true darkness would seep out.
He watched as Meek’s hand sought out the pistol and drug it across the floor. It rested there between his feet for a moment. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, inhaled and the met Ray’s stare.
“What will make it right Seth?” Ray asked quietly.
They watched one another for a long moment and then Meek rose and walked back over to Saul. “Are you lying to us Saul?”
“No sir,” came the reply.
Meek stood over him, casting a shadow across his face – pistol in hand. “How do we know that you’re not just the clever version of your friend over there?”
“Ain’t hard to be smarter than Bolo,” Saul said.
“You're just a smooth talker, the guy who knows how to say mister when the police are around.”
“Yeah, my momma taught me.”
“But maybe you’ll just fool everyone now and then grow up to be just another kid with another gun.” Meek leaned in, “The kind that gets a hard–on for killing.”
“I get scared ‘bout that sometimes.”
“How do we know that if we let you go, you won’t hurt anyone else?”
Saul blinked, looked away from the camera, and said, “I guess you don’t. I mean, I dunno if that’ll be me or not. Livin’ on the street ain’t good, makes ya do things all upside down. Makes people think about getting’ out, and when ya figure you can’t get out, there’s not much else. Makes ya into a hater. Put up a front, learn whatcha gotta do to get by, and do it. That’s what I was doin’ there in your house Mr. Seth.”
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