Enemy Combatant

by Ed Gaffney

  And on top of it all, I was fleeing from the three most important people in the world to me, including my beloved Amy.

  I had to think. I pulled down a small, unlit side road, turned off the car, and just sat there in the silence.

  About a half hour later, I got an idea. But my head and my hand were throbbing so much it was tough to concentrate. I decided I’d better think it through some more.

  And then I woke up.

  It was three-fifteen in the morning.

  The sleep had done nothing to ease the pain in my head, and my hand was considerably worse. It was stiff, and the makeshift bandage had dried and stuck to the wound.

  The good news was that my plan had not been compromised by my inability to stay conscious. It was still inky dark, and I had time to do what I wanted.

  I started the car, and pulled back onto the county road. I decided to stay off the interstate—it was only about forty-five minutes to Scottsdale, which was my destination.

  At four A.M. sharp, I drove Beta’s Chevy into the parking garage down the street from Cliff’s office. It was one of those structures that required payment in a machine that generated a ticket which you placed in your windshield.

  In hopes that it might buy me a little extra time before the car was discovered, I paid for several hours, and placed the ticket on the dashboard as instructed. I parked the car in a corner on the third tier, backing in to make the blown-out window less obvious, and to hide the rear license plate. In Arizona, we don’t require front ones.

  Then I exited the car, opened the trunk, and withdrew the solitary blue folder lying there. I closed the trunk, and walked to the enclosed stairwell located next to the elevator. My plan was to contact Cliff as he headed for work, and enlist his aid. All I wanted him to do was to confirm my suspicion that Beta was working alone, and that if I didn’t go back to the trial, Amy and Erica and Henley would be okay.

  If I was right, then I’d try to go underground, and live out my life as a fugitive. I certainly had enough cash to make a go of it for a while.

  But if I was wrong, and somehow Amy and Erica’s lives depended on my going into that courtroom, then I was going in.

  I was ambivalent about the plan, because technically, even if all he did was contact Amy and Erica and make sure they were on their way, Cliff would be aiding and abetting a felon. I didn’t like the idea of asking him to do that.

  While I worked on that problem, I decided to sit in the stairwell and look through the papers that Beta had left for me in the car trunk. Although I had no intention of going into that courtroom again, I was curious about what he wanted so badly for me to read and to say at the trial.

  An hour later, I had finished reading Beta’s folder of material, and my plan had changed completely.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  I HAD PROPPED the stairwell door ajar and was watching as Cliff pulled into the parking garage at six forty-five. He was the fifteenth driver to enter the garage that morning. Sixteenth, if you counted me.

  He normally parked on the second tier because a row of spaces on that level that was always open early in the morning was the closest to the exit. I kept my eye on the elevator, and when he emerged, I opened the door fully, caught his eye, and then retreated back into the stairwell. A second later, he opened the door and joined me.

  He looked me up and down, eyes wide, mouth open. I could only imagine what he was thinking as I stood there before him in my blood-soaked clothing, head split open, hand wrapped in dried, blood-blackened paper towels. “Dude” was all he could manage.

  “Before you say anything else, I’m a fugitive.” He kept staring at me. “Just so you know.”

  Cliff continued to stare. “I listened to the radio on the way in,” he said. “Apparently you’re going to be arrested for killing your father.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, you did a pretty bad job of that, my friend. I watched Henley drive off into the sunset with Amy and Erica yesterday afternoon, after they got their flat tire fixed. He looked pretty alive to me.”

  I closed my eyes, and literally sighed with relief. “You have no idea how happy I am that you told me that.”

  Cliff nodded. “So how about that hand? And your head? You thinking about maybe a trip to the hospital sometime soon?”

  “Probably,” I replied. “But I wonder if I could talk you into taking a personal day and helping me run an errand first.”

  Cliff insisted that he go across the street and get us coffee and something to eat. He said that I was not going to be any good as a fugitive if I went into shock. I told him that I thought he was being a little overdramatic, but gladly accepted the breakfast when it came.

  Cliff was reluctant to let me drive, but when I explained what Beta had told me, and that he needed to read through the material that Beta had left for me, he acceded. “I texted Iris,” he said. “She texted back to be careful. I think that means try not to get any more windows shot out,” he said, as we pulled out of the garage.

  We ran into rush-hour traffic, and crawled all the way into Phoenix. By the time we reached the courthouse, it was nearly eight A.M. I knew that Sarge would be there already, so I parked close to the building. “You finished reading?” I asked.

  “I’m glad I got that coffee” was all Cliff said.

  After I explained what I hoped would happen, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the wads of bills Amy had given me on Friday. “I’d like to hire you to take over the Gomez case for me,” I said.

  Cliff looked at the money in my outstretched hand. Then he said, “That bump on your head must be pretty bad for you to be offering me money. And in case you got amnesia, too, I’m a real estate lawyer, not a criminal attorney. I can’t defend Juan Gomez.”

  “You read what was in the folder,” I replied. “And you’ve heard the news. I step into that building, I’m under arrest. There’s no way I can stay on the case. But what Beta told me has to get into that trial.”

  “I’m not going to help you commit suicide,” Cliff insisted.

  “You know what would be suicide? Trying to run away. Look at me.” I turned in the seat to face my friend. “Where am I going to hide, looking like this? And what do I know about staying underground? I’d be found in about fifteen minutes. My best chance is to get in there under my own power, and tell my story to somebody who’s going to believe it.”

  Cliff wasn’t convinced. “Why don’t I just go to the press with this?”

  “You saw Beta’s files,” I responded. “You saw who was on the list. How are you going to fight them? They completely control the major media outlets. Three days ago, they almost murdered my father, and yesterday, they almost killed me. But turn on the TV, listen to the radio, and I’m the one running away from murder charges. Who do you think people are going to believe? My best friend, the Navajo with the politically radical wife, or one of their politicians or military experts, who flies in on his star-spangled cape and tells the world that the documents you produced are all forgeries, and that the real ones prove the exact opposite of what you say?”

  When I finished my rant, Cliff just stared at me. “I’ll go get Sarge,” he said. “But I hate this.”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “And you haven’t even been shot.”

  Sarge was still listening to Cliff as they crossed the street. Cliff must have been speaking softly, because Sarge was leaning down to keep his ear close to Cliff. I opened the door as they approached, but Sarge waved me back in and shut my door as he passed it. Then he went around to the passenger side, and Cliff got in the backseat.

  The big court officer seemed to take up most of the interior of the car. He shifted to get a better look at me, shook his head, and said, “Are you sure you want to do this, Tommy? Because I can walk out of this car like this never happened. But if we go in there, that’s it. You’re locked up.”

  What I’d told Cliff about how long I’d last underground was true, but it wasn’t the only reason I had to do this. “This
is for Henley, and Amy and Erica. And Dale,” I added. “I’m sure.”

  Sarge inhaled deeply. Then he let it out, nodding slightly. “Okay. Here’s how it’s going to go. You’re going to pull into the garage beneath the building, where we unload the prison vans. I’ll get out, and come around to your door. Then you get out, and I’ll take you in. I’ll be standing behind you and to the side, with my hand on your elbow. Cliff, you walk directly in front of him.”

  Cliff’s job never brought him within fifteen miles of the courthouse. He asked, “Are we going right into a prison cell? Are reporters there? What’s going to happen?”

  Sarge was brusque. “The reporters are kept out of this area. Once we’re in the building, you take the elevator up to the courtroom—it’s on the first floor. I’ll be taking Tommy to the holding cell up there, but we’ll use the stairs.”

  So I started up the car, and drove down to the entrance at the back. Sarge’s partner, Mike, was at the garage door, smoking a cigarette as we pulled up. His face registered surprise as he saw Sarge emerge from the passenger seat, but when Sarge leaned in and whispered something to him, Mike dropped the cigarette, and walked straight into the building. Ten seconds later the garage opened, and I drove in.

  After the door closed, Sarge came to the driver’s side of the car, and nodded to me. I opened my door at the same time that Cliff did. I held my hands in front of me, and Sarge placed me in handcuffs, carefully avoiding contact with the injury to my left hand. As he snapped the restraints in place, he said, “Thomas Carpenter, I’m taking you into temporary custody, pending your formal arrest by state police.” Cliff moved in front of me, holding the blue folder, and the three of us, in tight formation, walked from the car through the courthouse doors.

  Despite the fact that I’d done nothing wrong, being restrained like that was humiliating, and frightening. I had voluntarily surrendered myself into a system that I no longer trusted. Doubt churned within me.

  As we reached the end of the entrance hallway, Sarge said to Cliff, “You take a left here, and go up the elevator to one. The courtroom is about halfway down the hall.” Then Sarge turned to the right, and took me up the back stairs that led to the holding cell behind the courtroom’s back entrances. He unlocked the barred door, and I stepped inside.

  The cell itself wasn’t particularly unpleasant, but it seemed much smaller now that I was standing inside of it, instead of talking to a client from the outside. It was only about four feet deep and seven feet wide, with a small bench running along the back. The bare walls were painted white, and the floor was gray.

  On the other side of the hall, about five feet down, was the doorway that led into the courtroom from behind the witness stand. It was the doorway judges and juries used when they entered and exited. I remember specifically looking at that door, and thinking that Cliff was on the other side, standing at the defense table, probably thinking similar thoughts to the ones I was having only a week ago, when I was desperately trying to formulate an opening statement with no preparation.

  Sarge locked the door, and then said, “Stick your hands through the bars so I can get those cuffs off.” I did as he said, and after he turned the little key in each of the cuffs and released me, he pressed something into my right hand. I flashed back to the days he used to sneak me Reese’s Pieces, but what he had given me was not candy. “I don’t know everything that’s going on,” he said. “And I don’t have time for you to tell me. But something isn’t right around here, and I’m not just talking about you getting locked up. For what it’s worth…be careful, Tommy.”

  I looked through the bars as the beefy man with the flattop haircut walked across the hall, through the door, and into the courtroom.

  Then I looked down into my right hand.

  He had given me a cell phone.

  THIRTY-SIX

  I WASN’T THE most experienced prisoner in the world, but I knew that having a phone was against the rules, so I slid it into my pocket until I was sure that I could use it without being discovered.

  That turned out to be a good move, because a lot of traffic developed in the hallway shortly after Sarge went into the courtroom. First, he and Mike came back out of the courtroom, and passed by me on their way to Judge Lomax’s chambers. Then I saw Judge Lomax’s clerk walk by carrying a box of four disposable coffee cups and a bag of doughnuts.

  About five minutes later, I heard a lot of commotion to my left, and then Mike was walking the jurors down the hall to the courtroom door, where they all filed in after him.

  Maybe ten minutes later, Sarge, the clerk, and the judge all walked to the doorway. Sarge went through first. I heard him bellow, “Court! All rise!” and then the clerk and the judge disappeared into the courtroom. The door closed behind them, and I was by myself.

  I got the phone out of my pocket to call Amy. I wanted to be sure that she had managed to get to safety with Erica and Henley. But when I snapped open the cell phone, I saw that the signal was terribly weak. I didn’t have much choice, though, so I dialed anyway.

  My hearing difficulties don’t affect me in phone use as much as in face-to-face conversation. The receiver is right up against my ear, eliminating many of the background noise issues that can interfere with my ability to hear clearly.

  But when cell reception is sketchy, the static can create more problems for me than for the normal guy. I knew there was going to be trouble as soon as I heard the ring tone on the other end of the line. It was broken up, both by silences, and occasionally by white noise. It was going to be hard to have any significant discussion, but all I needed was to know they were okay.

  As soon as the phone was picked up, the connection was immediately cut, and I was left listening to a sputtering dial tone. I hit the redial button, hoping that Amy wasn’t rejecting the call simply because she didn’t recognize the phone number on her caller ID.

  Once again, the ring tone was interrupted by silences and static, and then it was disconnected.

  I tried to call back, but what little signal had existed had disappeared entirely. According to the display on the phone, I had no service at all.

  I slid the phone back into my pants pocket, and leaned against the bars. Even though the courtroom was just on the other side of the opposite hallway wall, I couldn’t hear a thing. I would later learn about what went on when I was provided with the following transcript of the proceedings:

  THE CLERK: This is the matter of Arizona versus Juan Abdullah Gomez, Docket Number 4201. The defendant is present, Your Honor, as is the jury and the assistant district attorney. However, Attorney Carpenter is not in the courtroom. Attorney Clifford Redhorse has filed a Notice of Appearance on behalf of the defendant, Your Honor, and Mr. Redhorse is present.

  THE COURT: Thank you, Mr. Clerk. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, before we begin, I’d like to make a special effort to ensure that you have carefully and scrupulously followed the instructions I have given to you regarding contact with news reports of any kind regarding this case. That is newspaper, Internet, radio, television, anything. If any of you have not followed my instructions, and have not protected yourself against any such media communications, please raise your hand. Let the record reflect that none of the jurors has raised their hand.

  Mr. Redhorse?

  ATTORNEY REDHORSE: Yes, Your Honor?

  THE COURT: The court has been advised of the situation with Attorney Carpenter. Are you prepared to proceed?

  This made sense. Sarge would have filled the judge in on what had happened to me, so that he wouldn’t have had to ask Cliff about it in front of the jury, and possibly prejudice the jury against Gomez, because his lawyer had suddenly killed three people, burned down a house, and become a fugitive.

  ATTORNEY REDHORSE: Yes, Your Honor—

  THE DEFENDANT: I ain’t prepared to proceed, Your Honor.

  THE COURT: Mr. Gomez.

  THE DEFENDANT: Yes, sir. I don’t know this man. I want Mr. Carpenter back as my lawyer.

 
THE COURT: Mr. Carpenter is not available at this time, and has made arrangements for Mr. Redhorse to represent you in his stead.

  THE DEFENDANT: I understand that, Your Honor, but this is bullshit. No offense. I mean, why can’t I have Thomas Carpenter? He’s the only lawyer ever did anything for me. I don’t know nothing about Mr. Redcliff.

  ATTORNEY REDHORSE: Redhorse.

  THE DEFENDANT: Redhorse. Sorry.

  THE COURT: I’m sorry, Mr. Gomez. For reasons that are not relevant to your case, Mr. Carpenter has been unavoidably detained. In the interests of justice, the court has determined that it is best to continue with the trial, with Mr. Redhorse as your attorney. Naturally, you are under no obligation to accept Mr. Redhorse as your lawyer, but if you refuse him, you will be forced to represent yourself. And I strongly advise you, Mr. Gomez, to accept Mr. Redhorse as your representative. The charges in this case are far too serious to attempt to defend yourself. Further, as you noted, Mr. Carpenter has done an excellent job on your behalf to this point, and it seems to me that his choice of a replacement attorney would command at least enough respect to see how Mr. Redhorse does, before rejecting his efforts entirely.

  THE DEFENDANT: All right, Judge. But I still think this is bullshit.

  THE COURT: The record will reflect that the defendant objects to the continuation of this trial in the absence of Attorney Carpenter, and objects to the court’s ruling that Mr. Redhorse will represent the defendant in his stead.

  Now if my memory is correct, I believe Captain Francona was on the stand…Yes, Attorney Redhorse?