Gabriel's Stand

by Jay B. Gaskill

  “TAXI!” Thurston shouted, one hand raised. The cab shot past. “I could use that horse of yours right now,” he said.

  ——

  Owen was still wearing the Seattle Police Department uniform when he was booked. The room occupied a secure corner in the basement of the federal courthouse. The mug shot of Defendant John Owen in uniform would be evidence of his intent to escape, as if any more evidence against him was needed. In the booking area, an SPD officer stood by as an observer while a Commission agent stood on the other side, watching. Adversaries? John pondered. It was hard to miss the tension between the enforcement agencies.

  He also wondered whether, in some subliminal way, his police uniform almost conferred unconscious deference. Or maybe it is my sudden celebrity. Everyone is so damn polite…all the way to the gallows…

  The atmosphere sharply changed as soon as Owen was stripped and dressed out in bright orange, paper coveralls. Then two guards quickly, grimly and silently led him through a series of heavy metal doors and into a dimly lit cell. “When do I get a phone call?” he asked. The massive cell door slid shut like a railroad car.

  I guess that’s my answer.

  The cell was about eight by eight, larger than standard, a fact Owen could not have known. There wasn’t much to see—a metal toilet, a narrow shelf, and a steel rack holding a plastic mattress, a single LED lamp overhead. Everything was gray, except where unpainted metal was exposed. The sink, also steel, was badly scratched, and the water—as he eventually found out—was always tepid.

  Dr. Owen shouted into the door grating—it was a metal weave insert as small as his left hand. “GET MY LAWYERS IN HERE!” Eventually there was a rustle of movement on the other side. From far down a corridor, he could just hear the obnoxious music from the recreation room, then a slamming metal door, and silence.

  Six more hours passed while Owen paced, tried the sink, the toilet, paced again, sat on the edge of the bunk, pounded painfully against the door, then sat on the bunk again. His thoughts wandered to Dornan, to his daughter, his grandson, to Ken Wang, all the problems he had left behind in the hands of others. Owen stared bleakly at the tiny grating in his cell door, seized by fury and outrage. The final holocaust is happening in plain sight, right outside my cell! No child will be left alive in the rush to madness! How could a whole generation be condemned to extinction while my jailers, the legal system and the spineless politicians are acting like servile janitors at Auschwitz? Dear God, save us from ourselves!

  He was dozing when Alder arrived, accompanied by an agent. Sharply awakened by the clanging steel door, John opened his eyes and blinked. For moment, he stared disoriented at the overhead light. That wasn’t on before. This isn’t my hotel. He sat up, blinking.

  “Finally!” he said, recognizing Phillip Alder, standing in the doorway to his cell. “Who is this?”

  “Agent Ferguson, FBI,” the man said, flashing an ID packet. “I have a few questions.”

  John looked quizzically at Alder. “I am only here to observe, Dr. Owen. The questions relate to an uncharged offense, the attempted escape.”

  Owen stood. “I want to talk to my lawyer privately,” he said.

  “Later,” the agent said.

  “I am not talking to you,” Owen said, “…Not without getting advice from my lawyer…in private.”

  The agent stood glowering for a moment, then turned to Alder. “You can have five minutes with him.” The door slammed and the two were alone.

  “Is this cell bugged?” Owen asked.

  “It’s not supposed to be,” Alder answered.

  “That’s not an answer, son. Where is Borah Wiggins?”

  “He’s still being interviewed by the FBI.”

  “Why?”

  “They want to know if there was any complicity by our firm in planning the escape attempt.”

  Owen shrugged. “Was there? Have you been interviewed?”

  Alder flushed. “Yes.”

  “And only you are here. So what am I expected to do now?”

  “The Bureau will recommend a break if you name the people who helped you.”

  Owen smiled. “Did they give you a break?”

  Alder flushed again. “You know I had nothing to do with—”

  Owen raised his hand in dismissal. “I know nothing of the kind. Just get Borah Wiggins. Tell him that I need to see him and only him and only under secure and confidential conditions. I will not be making any statements to Mr. Ferguson today. You can thank the agent for his time.”

  Alder pounded on the door. The two stood in awkward silence for a minute. Alder left the cell without a word…and the door slammed. Then John could hear steps retreating in the distance, a low conversation and the words, “Sorry, I tried.” Another door slammed.

  Silence filled the cell like a gas.

  ——

  Three days later, Ken Wang sprinted like a halfback up the steps to the Seattle courthouse entrance, leaving his luggage and hotel delivery instructions with the airport limousine. He was accompanied by a very large black man named Kurt, one of the remaining members of Dornan’s team who had not been part of the aborted escape attempt. Ken was so severely jetlagged from his New Kona journey that he blundered his way past people holding signs around the courthouse entrance without noticing the sheer size of the crowd. He was still unshaven and rumpled, but a surge of adrenaline was rapidly clearing his mind. When the two men were slowed to a halt at the doorway ID checkpoint, Ken looked back. He smiled. “Look at that, Kurt!” The area near the federal courthouse held thousands of demonstrators, a sea of signs popular slogans, “DEFY COMMISSION ORDERS!” and “FREE JOHN OWEN!”

  It was 8:55 A.M. Judge Wandright’s rulings on all pre-trial motions were scheduled for 9:00. Inside, a huge crowd of people already blocked the elevator doors in the lobby. The trial was on the fifteenth floor.

  “Quick,” Kurt said. “We can try the elevator on the second floor.”

  They dashed up the stairs, emerging from the stairwell on the second floor. Kurt spotted an open elevator door opposite. “Hold that open please!” he shouted. The door closed. “Bloody luck,” he muttered. Ken joined him and pressed the up button.

  “Here’s one,” Ken said, adding a “Damn,” as the door slid open to reveal a capacity crowd. Kurt, a Jamaican with the body of a linebacker and the face of an angel, simply shouldered his way in. Ken slid behind him as if they had rehearsed the maneuver.

  “Are you with John Owen?” a reporter asked, while the elevator was moving up. They ignored the question; and the elevator stopped again on the third floor. The door opened to reveal a few more reporters who simply smiled as the door closed again.

  The fifteenth floor was a madhouse. About a hundred people were trying to get through a security screening process that included two older x-ray scanners, exhumed from storage. The state-of-the-art walk-through metal/explosive detectors were gone, replaced by four harried Marshals attempting pat-downs under chaotic conditions. Four other Marshals were attempting to control access into a courtroom with an audience capacity of seventy-five.

  “How about those press passes?” Kurt whispered, as they stood against the wall. Ken produced two official passes, which they hung from their necks. “Let’s go,” Ken said. This got them to the head of the line and quickly through the screening.

  But two very irritated Marshals stood, barring the door. “Sorry,” one said, obviously not meaning it. “Full house. No one goes in until someone leaves.”

  “No way,” Ken said.

  “There’s a monitor down the hall for the overflow press.” He pointed to his right where a band of reporters from smaller media markets crowded around an antique twenty-seven inch CRT monitor. Max Cahoon was among them looking frustrated. He had been outmaneuvered by Karen Kanst.

  “Where’d they get that thing?” Kurt was pointing at the CRT screen. Ken walked to the back of the group, catching Cahoon’s eye, while Kurt remained to exchange pleasantries with the Marshals.


  Borah Wiggins was intoning while the television camera panned the defense table. The picture zoomed in to show Dr. Owen’s handcuffs. He was dressed in a bright orange jumpsuit.

  Wiggins was making a critical preliminary point. “I have been advised that the Congress may take up the matter of the de-ratification of the Earth Restoration Treaty soon, possibly early next week.”

  “Objection! Irrelevant. Hearsay. Assumes facts not in evidence.” Assistant U.S. Attorney, Gert Frame, had not even gotten to his feet to make the objection. His tone was bored, almost insolent.

  Wiggins nodded in his direction, a gesture of dismissal. “Mr. Frame, you well know the relevance of repeal of the Earth Restoration Treaty. The Commission’s assertion of jurisdiction over my client’s alleged conduct, which depends on that noxious Treaty, will fall away like dry leaves in a hurricane.”

  “Objection!”

  Inside the courtroom—out of view of the cameras—Karen Kanst shifted in the third row of seats, slowly raising her camera. Unhindered by Cahoon, she aimed the lens squarely at John Owen’s back.

  Wiggins continued. “And the Senate Proceedings are subject to judicial notice. I direct this Court’s attention to the Washington Post, the New York Times, the Seattle…”

  “Objection!”

  “Mr. Wiggins!” Judge Wandright interjected, “I am aware of the discussions about possible proceedings in the House, and speculative reports about possible action in the Senate. But the government’s objection is sound. Unless and until something is actually enacted there, I will have nothing to consider.” Wandright smiled at the cameras.

  “That might be, Your Honor, or it may well be that we are all wasting the Court’s valuable time because the House will certainly act. And when that occurs, the Senate will definitely take up the matter. I was merely suggesting that these proceedings be recessed for three weeks.”

  “Denied, Counsel. Are the other defense motions submitted?”

  Wiggins shook his head sadly. “Yes,” he said.

  “They are denied. The attempted escape charge is added to the indictment and will be tried along with the principal charges. Mr. Wiggins, your client must remain in the custody of the Marshal without bail. However, as agreed, he may appear in court next time in civilian clothing and without restraints. We are in recess until Tuesday morning at 9:00 A.M. That gives you five days—”

  “Tuesday?”

  “Do not interrupt the court, Mr. Wiggins. Your conduct comes perilously close to contempt.” Wandright smiled. “Tuesday. Trial will start at that time. There will be no jury. And no further delays. Adjourned.” The judge stood, and immediately several people in the front row also stood.

  Karen Kanst let out a deep breath. Everything had been close to optimum, except her escape path…and the small matter of Tan’s final authorization. With any luck that message would be waiting in her room.

  On Tuesday, she would take the aisle seat on the left. The real problem would be getting the gun-loaded camera through the x-ray. Tan had told her that a Marshal named Earnie would help, she recalled. Or in the meantime, Cahoon might get us a jail interview. There are always ways to get to a man, she thought as she lightly licked her bottom lip. That naïve little scientist, Dr. Christoph Fischer, was an easier target than Dr. Owen. But there is always a vulnerability.

  Chapter 76

  After the court proceedings, Ken Wang was totally exhausted. He had gone straight from his plane to meet Kurt in the airport, then the limousine and his futile courthouse visit. Having collected his luggage from the hotel concierge, he pushed through the doorway to his room, left his bag leaning against the wall and stepped into the bathroom to wash his face. He held his hands under the running water as it warmed, glancing at his watch. The hotel room had been booked from Australia the previous day under an alias.

  Ken would not have a catch-up meeting with Wiggins until the next evening. Cahoon agreed to see him in the morning. Have I really been awake for thirty-nine hours? What the hell is the time difference, anyway?

  Just then the door chimed. Not now! Ken thought, splashing warm water on his face. Towel in hand, he pulled open the door, not attempting to hide his irritation at the intrusion. An elderly man with straggly white hair and an unkempt beard stood in the doorway, pushing a cart. The man was dressed in a hotel uniform, at least one size too small. Ken studied the cart and covered tray. “Not now,” Ken said. “Please.” He started to close the door.

  One foot slid past the threshold. “Compliments of the manager,” the old man said, adding in a whisper, “Let me in, Ken, for Christ’s sake!” So much for my assumed name, Ken thought. Then he saw the man’s eyes. Bill!

  “Okay,” he said. “Just leave it inside.”

  The cart rattled in, and Dornan straightened up. “Your room might be bugged,” he whispered, busily rattling dishes. “Over here?” he asked out loud, picking up a tray of cheeses and fruit.

  “Sure,” Ken said, following him to the table. “I need you to put money in this account,” Dornan whispered, pointing to a yellow note on the tray.

  “That’s a helluva lot of money,” Ken whispered.

  Dornan corked a wine bottle. “Desperate times,” he whispered, “desperate measures.” Then he poured a sample of the wine. “Excellent label,” he said aloud. “Please give it a taste.”

  Ken sipped. “Fine.”

  “Keep everyone away from John in jail,” Dornan whispered, “except you and Wiggins.”

  “Yes, very good,” Ken said.

  Dornan filled the glass to the top. “You can thank the manager, Mr. Long,” using Ken’s alias. Then Bill whispered, “Below the account number is my cellphone. Call me from a secure land line or an encrypted sat-phone.” Ken nodded. “Is there anything else I can bring, sir?” Dornan said out loud.

  “Not at the moment,” Ken said. “When do you need the money?” he whispered.

  “Tomorrow morning,” Dornan mouthed.

  Ken nodded. “Very good, then.”

  “I hope your stay is a pleasant one.”

  “Me, too,” Ken said.

  As soon as the door closed, Ken drained the wineglass. Should I have tipped him?

  ——

  Hi-Cap Consulting occupied a small suite of offices in a bank building three blocks from the old Space Needle. Dr. Harold S. Forrest looked up from his desk at the sturdy man in the snow dusted greatcoat. Dornan removed his floppy hat, revealing a gleaming bald head.

  “Colonel?”

  Bill Dornan grinned. “You have a good eye for antiques.”

  “Son of a goat, Bill, you don’t look a day over a hundred.” Harry Forrest slapped his desk and rose to greet his old friend. Grinning widely, he held out his hand. “Damn, it’s good to see you. What have you been up to?”

  Dornan shook Harry’s hand, pulled off his greatcoat and slipped it on the metal tree all in a single fluid movement. “You don’t follow the news?”

  “What news? You aren’t in some kind of trouble again are you?” Dr. Forrest motioned to the adjacent conference room. “Of course you are. Coffee?” he asked.

  Dornan shook his head, following Forrest into a room holding a large conference table equipped with several embedded touch screens. “Trouble? Now why would that be the first thing that came to mind?”

  “Bill, you don’t write; you don’t call; and you certainly never pay house visits,” Forrest plopped down in a chair. “Except when you are in a bind.”

  Dornan quietly closed the door. Harry was a jovial figure, lean, graying, dressed in a pressed blue button-down shirt, rolled up sleeves and a dangling bow tie, the picture of a professor emeritus enjoying a second career, which he was.

  “Ever so perceptive, Professor.”

  “It’s a no-brainer, my friend. You’re always in trouble. So what can I do for you this time?”

  “Just how secure are we here?” Dornan asked.

  “Very. We’re in a cage. No electromagnetic in, no EM out.”


  “Great,” Dornan said. “You haven’t lost your touch since you left the War College.” He sat, leaning back in a wheeled chair, rolling it back and forth. Harry gave him a quizzical look. “Here’s the deal,” Dornan said. “I’m working for a friend who is in trouble.”

  “And that friend would be?”

  “Dr. John Owen.”

  That earned a long, thoughtful pause. “I see. Well, I do keep up. You wouldn’t have been involved in that escape attempt, would you?” Dornan nodded, and Professor Forrest whistled. “Now that I think of it, that operation had your signature.”

  “Right. It was a complete cock-up.”

  “I didn’t mean the outcome. I could see your fine handiwork in the plan: a double, staging an assassination attempt. It would have worked, but you were betrayed from the inside. Am I right?”

  “Just as sharp as you always were, Professor. Yes. I’m sure it was our Owen double. I watched the operation from a roof while they pulled over our ambulance. The double was treated like one of the guys by the Commission agents.” Dornan’s face went bleak. “Just before they shot two of my best men.”

  “Damn shame.”

  “So I need a brilliant tactician. Another keen mind. You.” Bill produced a sheaf of papers from his suit jacket, and spread them out on the conference table. “Area map. And these are the plans for the federal building. They show all remodeling changes through last year.”

  Forrest stared for a minute. “You don’t…”

  “We’ll pay your exorbitant rates, of course.” Dornan traced one scarred forefinger along the plans. “Dr. Owen is in the jail down here. He travels up this elevator to court. This back corridor is dedicated to prisoner transport, and it leads directly to the custody entrance next to the Marshal’s booking station.”

  Harry Forrest took in a deep breath. “You’re seriously thinking extraction from there?” Dornan nodded. “You sure know how to pick ’em.”