by Joseph Flynn
“Congress hasn’t shown any inclination to take on the gun lobby.”
“The great thing about the people in Congress, Didi? They can all be replaced.”
“Do you think they all should be replaced?”
“I’d be more inclined to pick and choose, if it were up to me, but it’s not.”
Didi said, “I read your master’s thesis: A Cop’s-Eye View of the Second Amendment. You say Congress should be made irrelevant until it has no choice but to be responsive. Do you really think that approach could work?”
“I do. Something the president and even private citizens can do is lead the national conversation. As I’ve mentioned before, from the time our Constitution was written in 1787 until the second half of the twentieth century, virtually no civilian had access to military-style assault weapons, and no one said the Second Amendment was under attack. People got along just fine with their hunting rifles, shotguns and revolvers. You know what else? We didn’t have massacres in schools, shopping malls and places of business in those days either.
“The gun manufacturers want to maximize their profits by pitching weapons of war to young men, and some not so young, who have no intention of ever joining the military but fantasize that they can be warriors anyway.”
“How do the gun manufacturers do that?” Didi asked.
“They do it through their advertising. They use words like ‘assault’ and ‘combat’ to describe the weapons they sell. One manufacturer uses the label ACR to describe a rifle. ACR is short for adaptive combat rifle. One gun company’s website has a headline for a firearm that says ‘Forces of opposition, bow down.’ That kind of corny language would be laughable if it weren’t combined with a deadly weapon that’s put into the hands of someone who’s developmentally immature, emotionally disturbed or mentally ill.”
Didi asked, “So what do you hope to do about this situation?”
McGill said, “We have to persuade most Americans that their Second Amendment rights will be every bit as strong as they were before the gun companies started selling weapons of war to civilians. Persuade our fellow Americans that the biggest reason we have these horrible tragedies, like the one at the Winstead School, is to protect gun company profits. Once we make that clear to the voting public, Congress will fall in line. That or we’ll have a lot of new faces in Washington.”
“So you do want to change the laws.”
“I want to change hearts and minds. A majority of the American people will drive any changes in law, not me or any other individual.”
“Where would you start changing hearts and minds?”
McGill said, “The best place to start is to track every weapon from its point of origin to its current owner. Each of us has a right to bear arms, but the Constitution does not say we have a right to bear arms secretly. I don’t understand why any law-abiding gun owner would oppose this idea. You just say, ‘I’m John Smith. I bought my handgun, shotgun or rifle at Wal-Mart or wherever.’ What’s the big deal? If the police know all the people who have legally purchased their firearms, it will be a lot easier for them to identify the bad guys who came by their weapons illegally.”
Didi said, “The other side of the argument is that if the police know who has bought firearms that would make it easier to confiscate those weapons.”
“My response to that idea is why and how? Why would the police want to take a law-abiding person’s legally purchased property from him or her? Cops are too busy busting criminals to say, ‘You know what, let’s go grab John Smith’s hunting rifle from him.’ On the other hand, if you’re talking about a general seizure of everybody’s firearms, my question is: how? How could that be accomplished?
“You’ve seen situations in which some deranged person with a gun takes hostages in a home, a store or elsewhere. Any major police department will respond with massive force: patrol officers to establish a security perimeter, negotiators to try to end the incident without bloodshed, SWAT teams standing ready, if it looks like violence is unavoidable. The expense of mounting an operation to disarm one person is staggering. No police department has the budget necessary to take away a neighborhood’s guns, much less all the guns in a town or a city. The very idea is ridiculous.
“It’s also insulting to our country’s police officers to think they would participate in a wholesale violation of a community’s constitutional rights. If you’re an average citizen and you need help fast, the first thing you think of is to call the police. If you’re an average citizen, you spend a lot more time thinking about how to pay your bills than worrying about the cops coming to take your legally purchased firearms.”
“How many guns should a person be allowed to own?” Didi asked. “Is there any limit at all?”
McGill said, “That’s a very good question. I’ve pointed out that the Constitution was written before there were any police departments in our country. Now, even the smallest town will have police protection provided by the county sheriff’s department. But the police response time for one locale might be a lot longer than in another. Some people live in wilderness areas. It seems reasonable to me for them to keep more weapons in their homes than someone living in the middle of a big city.”
“So some limits for urban and suburban areas, but not for people who live in rural areas or on mountains or out in the woods?” Didi asked.
“There are four hundred and thirty-five congressional districts in the United States,” McGill said. “Let the voters in each district decide how many firearms a homeowner should be allowed to keep on their premises. Let’s say the Constitutional minimum is two, as the Second Amendment cites a right to bear arms. Arms being plural would indicate at least two. So every other year when people go to elect their congressman or congresswoman there could be a question on the ballot: How many firearms shall be allowed to be kept in this district’s residences: two-to-five; six-to-ten; unlimited? Let the voters decide, not the gun lobby.”
“But why shouldn’t everybody be allowed to buy and keep all the guns they want?” Didi asked.
“Because no right is absolute. The Second Amendment says nothing about a right to accumulate and maintain your own arsenal. If you want to take a literal view, maybe the right to bear arms should be construed as the right to own only as many firearms as you can personally hold in your hands and arms at any one time. No going back for seconds.”
Didi smiled. She liked that.
“Do you feel that popular culture, such as movies and video games, has contributed in any way to the epidemic of gun violence these past several years?” she asked.
“I do, at least in part.”
“In what way and what part?”
“In the examples I’m thinking of, some movies and games treat marginal characters as nothing more than fodder for violent deaths. Figures who pop up for no other reason than to get gunned down. Implying that such characters have little humanity and no value. If you mow down straw men who have no families, no friends, no standing of any kind in the community, what harm have you done?
“To me, that is hack storytelling done to provoke only the basest of thrills. As awful as the material might be, though, it’s still able to influence people who can’t or refuse to distinguish fantasy from reality. The way I see it, in the minds of the people who commit these atrocities, they’re the stars of the show — and everybody else is an expendable extra.”
“You don’t think all action movie fans and gamers are potential killers?” Didi asked.
“No, but that’s not the point. There are some movies and some video games where the graphic depiction of large numbers of people getting kill by gunfire is the biggest drawing card. How does all that violence get internalized and recycled? If only some of the audience for that stuff gets ticked off at real people and has access to an assault rifle … well, peaceful conflict resolution probably won’t be the first thing that comes to their minds.”
McGill and Didi ended the interview there.
It was scheduled
to run that night.
Chapter 29
Playa Pacifica — Costa Rica
Father Inigo de Loyola arrived at Representative Philip Brock’s property in Costa Rica driving a truck filled with food, clothing and the promise of divine forgiveness. His appearance was considerably different from the one he affected in Washington. Rather than wearing a workingman’s clothing, he’d donned a short-sleeved black shirt, black slacks and the Roman collar of a Catholic priest.
His beard had been shaven and his hair dyed as black as his clothes. The effect was to make de Loyola look much younger, harder and far more dangerous than he did in the U.S. His bloodlines and features were clearly those of the conquistador, not someone whose ancestors had intermarried with the indigenous people. Should one such as him ever be shown disrespect or otherwise driven to anger the consequences might well be fatal.
Lending a further air of authority, de Loyola was accompanied by Lieutenant Miguel Poncé who wore the uniform of the Fuerza Pública. Public Force. Shortly after leaving San José, de Loyola had pulled to the side of the road and offered to hear Poncé’s confession.
“You are truly a priest, not an American spy?” the lieutenant asked.
“I am a priest, a Jesuit. I come both to do God’s work and to help an American friend. But he is not with the American government nor am I.”
Poncé believed de Loyola and felt a little better, but still had his suspicions.
“Even if you are not a spy, your friend must still be powerful to provide you with this truck, all the goods inside it and my company to ease your way.”
Having disposed of its army, Costa Rica relied on the United States for help in the event of an attack by a foreign power. So the government looked kindly on reasonable requests from the giant to the north. Including, apparently, whatever mission brought this new priest to San José.
De Loyola admitted, “He is a man with considerable sway in some circles, but a good man all the same.”
“And your presence in Costa Rica, will it help my country?”
“It might spare San José an embarrassing situation.”
“And it has nothing to do with illegal drugs?”
De Loyola thought about that. “Not that I know of, and certainly not involving the man who asked me to visit your beautiful country.”
“We’ve heard of you, Father. We know of your battles in Nicaragua and other places.”
“I’ve never shed a drop of blood in Costa Rica nor is that my intent.”
“Bueno.”
“So you have no wish to confess?”
“I did so with my parish priest only yesterday.”
“And you passed last night faultlessly?”
Poncé blushed, laughed, waited for traffic to pass and told de Loyola of his most recent sin.
He was absolved and said his act of contrition as they headed toward the Pacific Coast.
When they arrived at the gate to Brock’s property three young men holding rifles rushed the truck, each of them trying to look more fierce than his compañeros. The starch went out of all three when they saw the driver was a priest and his passenger was Fuerza Pública. Though de Loyola and Poncé perceived no threat, they shared a look.
Each was impressed by the young men’s vigilant response and their weapons, if not their spacing — tightly grouped — and the manner in which they held their weapons — muzzles pointed at the sky. Such a combination would get them all killed if they encountered regular military with a hostile intent. De Loyola waved the young men to his side of the truck.
They hurried to comply, relieved to move away from Poncé.
Each of them dropped to one knee, showing their respect for a priest.
“Buenos dias,” de Loyola said.
“Buenos dias, padre,” they said in unison.
Clearly, they’d had a Catholic education. He gave them his blessing and asked them to stand. They did, rifles held loosely at their sides, butts of the weapons resting on the ground.
De Loyola said, “My friend, the lieutenant, and I are here on a charitable mission. We have brought beans, rice, peppers, onions, chicken and everything else you need to make a wonderful casado.”
Casado was also known as comida tipica. The most commonly enjoyed dish in the country.
“Might the working people at this grand property enjoy a meal courtesy of Mother Church?” de Loyola asked.
Poncé looked at him. He hadn’t known the food came from the church. Still, he wasn’t about to contest the word of a priest, especially one with a powerful American friend.
The young sentries weren’t about to reject such courtesy either.
The oldest looking one stepped forward, “We would be honored, padre.”
“Good. I am sure that only the finest people work here, but because we are all imperfect I will be hearing confession in the back of this truck for any who feel the need. Will that be all right?”
The heads of all three young men bobbed. They looked at each other. De Loyola knew immediately they had at least one sin in common to cleanse from their souls.
The oldest got into the cab to show them the way to the workers’ communal kitchen. The first woman they met there took de Loyola’s hand as if to kiss his ring. Only he didn’t wear one. He clasped the woman’s hand in both of his and offered a blessing. He repeated it for all the women who gathered around him.
They were only too happy to accept the food he’d brought. Children were sent running to every corner of the land to share the word that there would be a great midday feast courtesy of the padre and the lieutenant.
As the cooking began, Father de Loyola heard the confessions of men, women and children. None of the deeds he’d learned in the truck would ever pass from his lips. As with any good priest, he held the privacy of the confessional, even one with a diesel engine, as inviolable.
Each penitent was asked if he or she might need a new item of clothing either for themselves or los niños. The gifts were accepted with gratitude. His hand was kissed by some of the young girls.
The place of honor at the main table was held open for him.
As de Loyola ate and drank with all his new friends, they shared many stories, as people do over joyful meals. Having already bared their souls privately to the priest, there was little anyone chose to hide about Brock, his property and his plans for a future life in Costa Rica. Dinner conversation, unlike the confession of sins, was free to be repeated without concern.
The priest took photographs out of his wallet to show everyone the people he knew El Norte. One was a portrait of McGill. De Loyola said, “El marido de la presidenta.” The husband of the president. Everyone wanted to see that one; even Poncé took a good look.
Almost as an afterthought, de Loyola brought out one last photo: Joan Renshaw.
That was greeted with even more excitement than McGill’s picture.
“Señora Joan,” several people exclaimed. A boy was sent running into the casa grande. He returned with a framed photo: Joan Renshaw and Philip Brock, arm in arm, smiling for the camera.
De Loyola, with the consent of his new friends, had Poncé take a digital picture of the framed photograph with his cell phone.
Wisconsin Avenue — Georgetown
Both Sweetie and Putnam had driven Maxi to school that morning.
The kid had told the two adults in her life, “You don’t have to worry anymore. Dorothy said our school is as safe as Fort Knox.”
Dorothy Kern was the headmistress of the Greenwood School.
She encouraged her students to address her by her given name.
Sweetie asked Maxi, “You know what Fort Knox is?”
The girl nodded. “It’s the place where America keeps all its gold. Dorothy told us about it. She says there are lots of soldiers guarding it.”
“And how is the Greenwood School like Fort Knox?” Putnam asked.
“Dorothy said us kids are the school’s gold.”
“Will there be soldiers guardi
ng you?” Sweetie asked.
“Well, not soldiers, but men and women who’ll protect us.”
Putnam said, “Is this something maybe you were supposed to mention to us?”
Maxi looked embarrassed and reached into her bookbag. “I forgot.”
She handed Sweetie a sealed envelope bearing the school’s letterhead. Sweetie opened it and read the enclosed letter from Ms. Kern. Greenwood had hired a full-time staff of armed security personnel. They would be dressed in civilian clothing not uniforms so as not to upset the students. Some would appear to be office staff; others would wear custodial staff clothing; still others would seem to be visiting parents.
All parts of the school would be covered at all times.
A master plan would dictate responses by the security force, faculty and students.
The Metro PD would also be called in the event of an emergency, but help would be immediately at hand any time classes or extracurricular events were in session.
After Maxi had been dropped off, Sweetie reread the letter in full to Putnam as he drove her to McGill Investigations, Inc. Then she asked, “So what do you think?”
“I think there’s going to be a big tuition increase.”
“Do you mind that?”
“Not one bit. No better way to spend our money.”
“Because we have the money to spend,” Sweetie said.
“Meaning the less fortunate still have to take their chances.”
“Patti’s going to advocate our plan today. Segregate all the kids whose parents admit to owning guns but won’t let the authorities see that they keep their guns locked up. Jim told me.”
Putnam nodded and sighed.
“You’re having second thoughts?” Sweetie asked.
That had been their idea, after all.
Putnam said, “No, not really. It’s just that given my family history I hate to see kids pay for the sins of Mom and Dad.”
Putnam turned onto P Street.
“Life isn’t fair,” Sweetie said. “Sometimes, it’s downright mean.”
With no way to dispute either of Sweetie’s points, Putnam changed the subject.