Secession: The Storm

by Joe Nobody

  There had been a few occasions when Zach basked in a strong sense of job satisfaction. These rare episodes typically occurred when a case or incident involved protecting the least of the state’s citizens from the worst. Serving the common, everyday folks, as they tried to better what was often a difficult life in West Texas was remarkably rewarding to Zachariah Bass.

  But those instances were few and far between. He quickly found that a percentage of the population resented authority, while others couldn’t seem to function without it. When he wore the uniform, people treated him differently, and it troubled Zach to no end.

  Ranger Bass quickly found himself smack in the middle of what he eventually christened the “triangle of despair.”

  On one side of his imaginary, geometric figure stood his fellow cops. He had anticipated working with honest men who relentlessly upheld law and order, regardless of the sacrifice required. Instead, he found tainted individuals who often felt as persecuted as the criminals they pursued. So many of the elder, more-seasoned, officers were filled with a genuine disrespect for their fellow human beings. Having seen and experienced the worst mankind had to offer, they were beyond caring about justice, right, or wrong. Only survival and camaraderie of their fellow officers seemed to matter.

  Zach thought back to his decision to fire Tusk’s pistol – just to cover his tracks. Just to be safe. Technically, he hadn’t done anything unjustified during the showdown with the gangbanger, but that fact might not matter if the wrong people started getting nosey. In that one fleeting moment, he’d actually committed a serious felony. And that single mistake ate at his personal fortitude. Was he as disenfranchised as the rest of his comrades after only a few years on the job?

  The citizenry formed another side of the triangle. After first donning the uniform, it had taken Zach weeks to adjust to people’s reactions. He recalled meandering into a restaurant and wondering why the ambient background noise of conversation suddenly decreased. Why did people stare at him when he stopped at the local grocer after his shift? What was the big deal about a guy in uniform pushing his cart up and down the aisles? Did they all feel guilty over something? Were the local cops so corrupt they were publically scorned? The isolation he began to experience led directly to withdrawal, a feeling of disembodiment from the population at large.

  The final leg of the triangle consisted of the elected officials, more precisely the prosecutors. Zach had lost count of the number of times he’d witnessed overzealous district attorneys use the state’s resources to hammer some poor guy into a plea. Guilt versus innocence had lost meaning at some point; only winning the contest seemed to matter.

  The people’s defenders liked their position of power and prestige. They wanted to be elected over and over again, and that meant being perceived as “tough on crime.” That also resulted in a callous, uncaring attitude regarding justice and individual rights. A conviction rate was all that mattered come ballot time.

  And, the law of the land made it easy for all three sides of the triangle to feed off each other.

  Zach remembered one of his law professors lecturing on the subject, the bearded intellectual claiming that there were over 27,000 pages of federal laws, with that figure quite literally growing by the minute. A huge chunk of those laws referenced more than 100,000 federal regulations, and those often changed without a congressional vote.

  “The average American commits three felonies per day,” the professor had touted. “If that citizen drives an automobile, you can raise that number to six. The government can arrest any of us, at any time, and put us behind bars. We walk free only by the benevolence of men who are elected to fill the jails. Now I ask the class, is this a recipe for justice?”

  More than once, the young ranger considered resigning. Late at night, when the day’s adrenaline had finally burned off, he’d often pondered changing careers. But that train of thought always ended in the same place – fear.

  Fear of being on the other side stopped him cold. The vulnerability of being outside the machine made him shiver. He knew what could happen to any citizen – had seen it with his own eyes. The American justice system had become an uncaring, unforgiving, out-of-control meat grinder, and her citizens seemed well equipped to provide an unending source of beef.

  It was better to be a minor gear in an out-of-control machine, than a rusting piece of scrap. He’d stay in the machine. Perhaps one day the opportunity to make things better would present itself.

  “Could the FBI would be a better choice for me?” he mumbled to the empty cab. “Maybe I’m not made of the right cloth to work the streets. Maybe I should consider an FBI lab instead of patrolling the desert.”

  He was right in the middle of an intense mind-movie, trying to visualize a life where his hat and boots were replaced with a white lab coat and rubber gloves, when the New Orleans skyline appeared on the horizon.

  The sheer scale of the flooding amazed Zach. Despite the hurricane’s making landfall more than a week before, the elevated interstate passed over block after block of standing, deep water. The destruction seemed to stretch for miles in all directions.

  As his truck ventured deeper into the city proper, he could make out more details of the devastation. The glass was missing from practically every first-floor window. Household garage doors were buckled in half from the water’s pressure. More than a few homes had been moved several feet off their foundations by the fast-moving currents.

  Some streets were lined with the hulks of already-rusting cars; other avenues appeared to be entirely devoid of any sign of life. Light poles, street signs, and corner newspaper boxes had simply vanished.

  The melancholy atmosphere was further darkened by the minimal traffic he spied on the roadway. Military vehicles, patrol cars, and government sedans dominated both lanes, the occasional 18-wheeler rolling one direction or the other. It quickly became apparent that every single semitrailer was being given a police escort in and out of the city. Rule of law must be in jeopardy, Zach realized. They wouldn’t be using valuable resources for convoy security if it weren’t so.

  Numerous columns of smoke rose into the morning horizon, their ominous presence accented by the dozens and dozens of helicopters whirring over the stricken city’s skyline. It looked like a war zone and smelled like one, too.

  The stench of stagnating water, burning rubber, wood ash, and rotting garbage assaulted his nose. Some stretches of highway smelled like dirty athletic socks, others emitted the earthy odor of rotting flesh.

  He’d been given detailed instructions at the last checkpoint, a handwritten, turn-by-turn handout someone had copied so it could be issued to rescue workers and the massive inbound federal response.

  His orders were to locate the mayor, or if he was unavailable, the chief of police. Zach figured City Hall was the place to start.

  For the most part, the government of New Orleans had been relocated to an upscale hotel just a block from the water-damaged municipal building. As Zach searched for a parking spot, he spotted a sprawling group of reporters, cameras, and bright lights assembled on the massive structure’s front steps. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he mumbled.

  In a few minutes, he was eavesdropping at the edge of what was obviously a press conference. A large man in ornate uniform continued his address of the national media. “In this time of crisis, the safety of our citizens and first responders is our immediate priority. Therefore, no civilians in New Orleans will be allowed to carry pistols, shotguns or other firearms,” declared the government official. "Only law enforcement is allowed to possess weapons. We believe this action will help keep our population safe."

  A barrage of questions was shouted from the onlookers, but Zach didn’t hear any of them. Exhausted from what had essentially been a three-day drive from Alpine, his weary brain was trying to wrap around such a violation of the Second Amendment. They’re confiscating private firearms? he pondered. How do you get a warrant to cover that? They’d never get away with that in Te
xas.

  Zach waited until the media event was over, trailing a small huddle of law enforcement officers inside the hotel’s lobby. He caught the eye of one of the senior aides and flashed his badge. Extending his hand, Zach initiated introductions, “Howdy. I’m Ranger Zachariah Bass from Texas. I’ve been sent by the governor as a liaison for either the mayor or the chief of police.”

  “You don’t say,” the pessimistic voice responded. After grasping Zach’s offered hand, the local continued, “I’m Captain Harold Baines, NOPD. You’re in luck – the commissioner just concluded a press conference. I am sure he has nothing better to do than to entertain guests from neighboring states. Hold on though; maybe we can catch him.”

  Captain Baines didn’t wait for Zach’s response, instead pivoting quickly in an attempt to catch up with his boss. The visitor from Texas hustled to keep up.

  The commissioner was surrounded by a whirling multitude of uniformed and civilian humanity, many of whom seemed to be vying for the head-cop’s attention. For the most part, the city official ignored the shouted questions, camera flashes, and stacks of paper being shoved in his face as he slowly managed his way toward a bank of elevators.

  Evidently, Baines was a trusted aide. After elbowing his way through the throng, he whispered a quick word into his boss’s ear. Zach saw the commissioner glance in his direction and nod.

  Finally reaching the refuge offered by the elevator, Zach attempted to push his way into the upward bound car, his exertions blocked by four huge NOPD cops who were obviously tasked with keeping out the riffraff. Baines again came to the rescue, his arm reaching out to pull the ranger inside just as the doors were moving to close.

  “Texas, huh,” the commissioner said, looking Zach up and down with a critical eye. “Ranger Bass, huh? Wasn’t Samuel Bass a notorious outlaw and gunslinger over in your state?”

  “Yes, sir, he was. No relation though.”

  With a dismissing wave of his hand, the top-cop continued, “No matter. So tell me, what the hell is a Texas Ranger doing in my city, taking up my valuable time?”

  What city? Zach started to respond, but thought better of it. Instead, he unfolded the letter from his governor, handing the document over without a response.

  A chime sounded, and the doors opened onto an upper floor, the procession shuffling into an oversized, plush hallway. Zach’s boots sank into the carpet just as the head lawman finished reading the letter.

  “Bullshit,” he exploded, his intense gaze rising from the document and boring into Zach. “I don’t know if our friends over in Texas have been keeping up on current events, but we’ve got a hell of a mess on our hands, young man. For the governor to insinuate that we’re purposely dumping our prisoners in your lap is insulting… damned insulting.”

  “I’m not here for political reasons, sir,” Zach responded. “I’m here to offer any assistance possible that will improve the processing of the evacuees. My company’s major was very clear on that point.”

  “Process?” the man laughed, “What in the hell makes you think we have any sort of process? I’ve got hundreds of thousands of desperate people on my hands. Procedure drowned in the floodwaters. We’re just trying to get as many to high ground and under a roof as possible.”

  “I understand, sir, but our jails are full, and my superiors don’t want to turn your criminals loose on our innocent population.”

  Again, the commissioner cackled from his impressive belly. “At least you have jails, son. I would hope your superiors understand the hurricane that just kicked our ass could have easily ventured a couple of hundred miles west and slammed Houston. I hope my law enforcement comrades in the Lone Star State realize our roles could very easily have been reversed.”

  We wouldn’t have fucked up so badly, Zach thought. And I seriously doubt you would have offered any help. But he didn’t say it.

  The commissioner interpreted the lack of response as the end of the conversation. Passing the letter back to Zach, he grunted with disdain and started to turn away.

  “Sir,” Zach stated with a firm tone that halted the retreat. Leaning in close to the man’s ear, he whispered, “My major said he will set up a roadblock and turn away every pickup, van, bus, bicycle, and pedestrian trying to cross into Texas from Louisiana - if we don’t determine a way to keep the criminals out. And I believe him, sir.”

  The commissioner’s eyebrows rose, his brow wrinkling in anger. Zach’s message, while obviously pissing him off, had struck a nerve. For a moment, the ranger thought the man might even order his arrest or deportation.

  “I see,” the commissioner finally whispered, much of his bluster fading. “And what would you suggest, young man?”

  “Let me get the lay of the land, sir. For a few days, let me see what’s happening in the streets and how the evacuation is being handled. I can voice any recommendations after I get a feel for what is going on.”

  The remaining anger dissipated from the head-policeman’s face at that point. Turning to Baines, he ordered, “Assign our new friend to one of the confiscation patrols. Let him see that what we’re facing up close and personal.”

  And then returning to Zach, he finished, “I’ll look forward to your recommendations, Ranger Bass.”

  Once again, Zach was given directions and a handwritten note of introduction. He found the NOPD sub-station thirty minutes later. It looked more like an Army base than a police operation.

  Camouflaged Humvees and patrol cars encircled what had been an elementary school before the storm. Zach didn’t have to ask about the real station – he’d driven by enough flooded-out structures to guess.

  Not only were military vehicles in abundance, so were soldiers. Clamping his badge in a clearly visible location on his belt, Zach exited the truck and began walking toward the main entrance.

  The place was bustling with activity; National Guardsmen, police officers, and men whose jackets were embroidered with the initials of just about every federal agency he’d ever heard of rushed here and there. Almost everyone was heavily armed, plenty of M16s, shotguns and other tactical weapons on display.

  He found the watch officer just inside the door. Ten minutes later, he was being introduced to a burly, barrel-chested NOPD sergeant named Roland “Butch” Ford. At well over 6 feet tall and sporting a closely cropped crew cut, the gent reminded Zach more of a Marine Corps drill instructor than a beat cop.

  “We can use all the help we can get,” the bleary-eyed, four-days-beyond-fatigued policeman commented. “We’re understaffed, patrolling three precincts with less manpower than what we’d normally have for one. Most of my guys haven’t slept for more than a couple of hours since the levees were breached.”

  “Looks like you’ve got a ton of guardsmen here. Are they taking any of the load?”

  “Some,” Ford replied, “but they’re not experienced in the finer points of law enforcement. Those guys help some with the search and rescue, but handling any manner of criminal activity is still on us. The lieutenant has taken to pairing us up, which helps if a gunfight breaks out.”

  “Have you seen a lot of that?”

  “Not in the last few days. At first, it was like living in a B-rated, Wild West movie, but currently we have the dry areas almost under control. And now with the mayor’s new order for mandatory evacuation, I expect we’ll see even less violence.”

  “How are you going to force them to leave?” Zach asked, trying to get a read on his new comrade’s attitude.

  “If we take their firearms, they’ll leave. It’s still not a very safe place to be around here at night, and everybody knows that. We’ll push hard for an evacuation, and take their guns away at the same time. Hopefully, our fine citizens will get the hint.”

  “Doesn’t confiscating guns bother you at all, Sergeant? I mean, I know things are dire here, but the Second Amendment? Warrants? Due process?”

  Ford waved off the concern. “We’re damned if we do, damned if we don’t. We can’t protect them… or
their property, especially at night. The people screaming at us about looters during the day are out pilfering and shooting at shadows after dark. If one of them blows off his own foot, we’ll be ridiculed for not being able to provide ambulance service. If they set their own homes on fire by shooting at a looter, we’ll catch hell for not having a fire truck handy. Yet, when the fire department does respond to a blaze, some asshole snipes at the responders. If you throw in the burden of rescuing the thousands still trapped in attics and on rooftops, we’re so shorthanded, it’s ridiculous.”

  Zach could understand the attitude. He’d felt it a dozen times in his dealings with the public. The stress, extra hours, lack of sleep, and desolate surroundings were amplifying frustrations that practically every lawman experienced at one time or another.

  Sergeant Ford informed Zach that a foot patrol would be forming up shortly and invited the ranger to join in. While the Texan’s primary interest was what happened to potential evacuees after they were identified and marshaled, he didn’t want to sit around the HQ and play with himself. “Sure, I’ll tag along,” he replied to the local lawman.