by Joe Nobody
Movement drew Abe’s eye, his father finding himself unburdened as well. Ed Hendricks was reaching for something, extending his arm in Charlie’s direction. Too late, Abe again tried to mouth a warning for his dad to stop.
More thunder filled the Hendricks’s living room, one of the cops believing Mr. Hendricks was reaching for Charlie’s shotgun – or so they assumed. Abe watched in absolute horror as his father’s head exploded in a geyser of tissue and bone.
“You sons-ah-bitches!” Abe screamed, finally managing his feet. “You murdering pieces of shit,” he cried, staggering toward his father’s body.
And then his way was blocked by the hulking shape of the bull policeman, the man raising a shotgun toward Abe’s midsection. The remaining Hendricks knew he was about to die.
A flash appeared out of nowhere, the outline of a human arm entering Abe’s narrowed view of the weapon that was going to claim his life. Striking the barrel just as a fountain of white fire erupted from the muzzle, the mysterious hand somehow managed to push the shot wide.
Blinking in surprise, both Abe and the big cop glanced up to see a man in a cowboy hat stepping between them. “Enough!” screamed the hat. “Stop this!”
Sergeant Ford blinked, looking into Zach’s eyes as if he didn’t know where he was. “Cease fire! Everybody! Secure your weapons – now!” screamed Zach. “Cease fire!”
Abe again tried to move to his fallen father’s side. He managed a single step before a jolt of agony shot through his head, and then the world turned black.
The fog of shock and confusion in the Hendricks’s living room was as thick as the cordite gun smoke. After a few moments, Zach’s reeling brain registered the absolute blanket of silence that covered the area. It took him a few seconds more to realize the quiet was due to his ears being overwhelmed by the close-in gunfire.
The rest of Sergeant Ford’s group appeared to be in some form of trance as well. One trooper stood and fidgeted with his M16, another man’s eyes darting rapidly from body to body strewn about the floor. Ford was statue-still, his mouth moving, but no sound coming from his throat. One of the guardsmen rushed to the front porch to wretch.
“Are they all dead?” Zach finally managed to ask, his voice roaring inside of his skull as he tried to overcome the ringing in his ears.
The question seemed to break the spell, the men moving quickly to check pulses and listen for beating hearts. The news wasn’t good.
Both of the civilians were dead. The guardsman hit by Charlie’s initial shotgun blast had taken the blunt of the load in his body armor but was bleeding from several smaller wounds on his arms. The NOPD officer, caught by the scattergun’s second shot, had a thigh full of buckshot and was hemorrhaging enough to turn his pants leg a glistening red.
The home’s third resident, lying at the feet of Ford and Zach, was still alive, but bleeding from a nasty gash on his head – courtesy of a cop’s rifle butt.
“What the hell happened here?” someone finally asked. “How the fuck did this spiral out of control so quickly?”
And then it seemed everyone wanted to talk at once.
Ford was the first to realize the ramifications. As the soldiers worked on the two wounded team members with their first aid kits, Zach could tell the sergeant was already formulating how he would frame the incident in his report.
Moving from team member to team member, the senior officer barked very pointed questions, such as, “What did you see?” and “Who fired first?”
When it was Zach’s turn, the ranger answered in a neutral tone, “I didn’t see shit. I was the last one in, so I have no idea what happened.” It wasn’t exactly the truth, but not entirely a lie. Besides, Ford’s attitude was beginning to seriously concern the Texan.
Emotions continued to build throughout the group, an initial wave of anger quickly replaced by a current of remorse and chagrin. But then the tide started to turn.
“That guy from the kitchen fired first,” someone protested, self-preservation finally taking hold of the herd’s mentality.
Regret at the loss of human life was quickly cast aside. “What fucking choice did we have?” someone else chimed in.
With the exception of the Texan, it became evident that every man in the room was having negative thoughts about his career, reputation, freedom, and future. Each individual’s emotions began feeding off the others, eventually building into a crescendo of convenient truth.
“We all acted legitimately,” flowed the conversational logic. They were the law, and the dead occupants of the house had resisted and then attacked them. Right was right.
Abe’s moaning from the floor again silenced the room, all of Ford’s team nervously glancing at each other, questioning what to do with the one non-member witness. Zach didn’t like the desperate expressions forming in their eyes.
“Since I didn’t see shit, I’ll take this man and go find him some medical care while you guys finish up here,” Zach stated.
Before anyone could answer, he managed to lift Abe onto his shoulders in the classic fireman’s carry, heading for the front door. No one stopped him.
Zach was three blocks away, straining under the weight of Abe’s unresponsive body, when he spied a small convoy of Humvees rolling down a cross street. Setting the still-unconscious man on the sidewalk, the ranger waved down the military vehicles with his badge flashing in plain sight.
After turning over his wounded charge to the military patrol for transport to a nearby medical facility, Zach found himself walking toward the sub-station. He desperately wanted to get back to the truck and away from the team. For some reason, he glanced over his shoulder, back at the house where it all went down.
A thick column of smoke was rising into the air, Zach having little doubt that the scene of the incident was now completely engulfed in flames. Sighing, he decided the officers were overreacting. Or were they?
Inside the Texan, tumultuous divide grew incrementally as he navigated through the devastation that was once the crown jewel of the South. Ford and the others were all good men, asked to do an impossible job in unforgiving circumstances. Zach could relate; recollections of his own little “indiscretion” with Tusk resurfacing.
The men he’d been patrolling with had been pressed to the brink of human endurance, thrust into a desolate, seemingly hopeless situation. They weren’t criminals by any measure, yet two people were dead. Two fathers, husbands… innocents who were only protecting their property and liberty.
But that’s just your opinion, he thought. The authorities here… the ones who serve this city think otherwise.
Zach couldn’t reach a conclusion, failed to span the chasm of his internal divide. He, too, was at the end of his rope, the travel, lack of sleep, and draconian surroundings taking their toll.
“I’ll find a quiet place to hide the truck,” he whispered. “I’ve got to get some sleep.”
Abe never saw what happened to his father and brother’s bodies – couldn’t recall being driven to the airport. Flashing, brief images of a stretcher came to the surface, and then a howling wind and sense of weightlessness.
His first clear recollection was of a man in an Army uniform pressing a cold stethoscope against his chest.
“How are you feeling?” the doctor asked.
“Been better,” Abe mumbled. “What happened? The police…. Where am I… my dad and brother?”
“You took a nasty blow to the head, sir,” the doctor began. “I don’t have any information about your family or what happened down in New Orleans. Right this moment, you’re at an emergency triage center in Baton Rouge. They flew you in on a helicopter about 15 minutes ago.”
The physician shined a bright light in Abe’s eyes, shaking his head. Turning to some unseen assistant, he said, “We’re looking at a pretty severe concussion here. I’ve got uneven dilation. Let’s get some x-rays ordered.”
The memories flooded Abe’s mind, visions of his father lying in a pool of blood, his brother’s ch
est being ripped wide open. He tried to rise from the cot, a strong pair of hands pushing him back down. His head was throbbing, lungs unable to pull in enough air.
“Murderers!” he screamed, trying again to move from the cot. “Those murdering sons of bitches!”
Through the trauma, Abe felt a sharp prick on his arm. He looked down to see someone poking him with a syringe of clear liquid. Almost instantly, a feeling of euphoria filled his previously troubled mind, and then the light began to fade.
After sleeping a few hours in the reclined driver’s seat, Zach was stiff and sore. Needing to stretch, use the facilities, and hopefully locate a cup of coffee, he wandered into the substation.
The duty officer noted his arrival, waving the visiting ranger over. Handing Zach a slip of paper, the NOPD lieutenant announced, “This came in for you a couple hours ago.”
Blinking the fog from his eyes, the Texan studied the cryptic message in a whisper. “Influx of refugees has halted. Number of potential refugees vastly overestimated. Report to Company E earliest. Current assignment canceled.”
“I think your commanders thought we were going to be sending another 50 or 60,000 people to Texas,” the duty officer observed. “We didn’t have quite as big a problem as we thought, so the invasion from Louisiana has stopped. Good news for everybody.”
Relieved, Zach decided that a steaming mug of java would taste even better now. He meandered through the maze of temporary desks and cubicles, following a cold trail of Styrofoam cups.
He discovered the pot, a two-inch thick black line of sludge in the bottom. Sniffing the brew, he tried to ascertain its age, and then settled on not caring. Wine improves with age, maybe coffee does, too, he conjectured.
He’d just finished pouring when he sensed someone standing close by. He peered up to see Sergeant Ford and one of the other NOPD officers. “Good morning, Ranger. Everything okay?”
“Is it morning?” Zach yawned, sipping the strong brew. “I had no idea.”
“I heard through the grapevine that your assignment’s been canceled. Heading back to Texas today?”
“Yup. Wish I could hang around to help you guys out a little…. You’ve got one hell of a job ahead of you, but my orders were explicit. You know how it is when they use the word, ‘Earliest.’”
Ford chuckled, and then his face became serious. “I’m filling out my report, Ranger Bass. I wanted to double-check… make sure you hadn’t recalled any additional details that I should note.”
“No, officially I have nothing to add. As I stated previously, I was the last man in and didn’t see much of anything.”
Ford smiled and nodded. Extending his hand, he said, “Well, good luck then.”
Zach accepted the offering but didn’t let go of the man’s hand. Instead, he pulled the NOPD officer close and whispered, “There was a crime committed at that house, Sergeant, and we both know it. The only reason I’m not sticking my foot in that sewer is because I don’t think you or the other men are the guilty parties. From my perspective, the numbskull who ordered the confiscation of private firearms should be charged with murder. And if you ever meet him, you’re welcome to let him know that I said so.”
Releasing his grip, Zach swallowed another mouthful of coffee and smiled at the stunned sergeant. “Good luck, Ford,” he said and headed for the truck.
Chapter 3 - Prosecution
Two years after Katrina…
The prosecutor shoved the pile of documents across the courthouse table, his expression one that failed to mask his disgust. “This sickens me, Mr. Hendricks,” the state’s attorney hissed. “You should be locked away in a federal penitentiary, not walking free.”
“You call this justice?” Abe growled back. “Do you really believe I’m the criminal here? My father and brother were murdered, my family homestead burned to the ground to cover the acts of overzealous policemen and thugs. If you honestly believe I am the bad guy, then there is something horribly wrong with our system of justice.”
The government lawyer bared his teeth, moving forward in his chair as if he were going to lunge over the mahogany conference table and assault Abe. But he didn’t.
Taking a deep breath instead, he gathered himself and spoke calmly. “The Attorney General of Louisiana has agreed to drop all charges against you, Mr. Hendricks. In exchange, you will agree to dismiss your punitive actions against the city of New Orleans, Orleans Parish, and all involved in the alleged incident that occurred at your father’s home. In addition, all records, proceedings, depositions, and other evidence collected by each party will be destroyed. All official court documents are to be sealed.”
“And the gag order?” Abe’s attorney questioned.
“A federal judge will issue a gag order, instructing that all parties are never to disclose any of these proceedings in public or private,” the state attorney snapped, his voice seething with disdain. “Your record will be expunged, Mr. Hendricks.”
Even though he had been warned of the parameters of the impending offer, the government lawyer’s proposal spilled over Abe like a bucket of ice-cold water, awakening him to the stern reality of his situation. In that brief span of time, his last speck of hope was relinquished, the grim reality that he would never procure justice for his family settling like a rock on his chest. It was a head spinner, but on top of it all, Abe found himself being defamed, denigrated, disgraced. Now, the best that he could expect was to save himself. He couldn’t believe it had all come down to this.
“My record…” Abe mumbled, shaking his head to clear the fog of incredulity that clouded his thoughts.
“I’d like a few moments with my client,” Abe’s lawyer said. “In private.”
Without another word, the prosecutor rose and strode out of the room, leaving Abe, his counsel, and Kara staring at the pile of documents on the table. It was Abe who finally broke the silence.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” he whispered. “Not in the United States… not in America.”
Kara reached across, gently squeezing her husband’s hand in support.
The lawyer’s tone was soft, “Abe, I know you don’t like this. I fully understand why you feel that justice isn’t being served, but this is the best possible outcome I can conceive. While it’s true these guys have a burr up their collective ass, in reality it’s much more than just our case. The city is in grave financial crisis, defending itself against an avalanche of lawsuits and legal actions. They’ll come after you if you continue to raise a stink, and we both know it.”
Abe nodded; he’d heard the argument before. It still wasn’t right. “My father and brother were slaughtered,” he protested. “They were shot down like a couple of dogs in the street. They died because the city issued an illegal order to confiscate weapons – an order that has since been ruled unconstitutional in federal court. And then… to make matters worse… the men who executed my family tried to cover up their heinous act by committing arson, intentionally setting a fire that burned my family homestead to the ground. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t feel like the scales of justice are tipped against me?”
But the odds were against him, a fact that everyone else seemed to grasp. Even the lawyer was melancholy, his eyes etched with a sadness deeper than the wrinkles that surrounded them. “I know, Abe. I understand your disappointment,” he lamented. “I sympathize with your case more than any other in the 30 years I’ve been practicing law. But the other side tells a different story. Even you admit your brother fired the first shot, and that your father was resisting the officers. We cannot prove our case. We cannot win. Here, look at these files.”
Abe watched as the counselor reached for a stack of folders residing on the table. He pulled the top one off and showed it to his client.
“Sergeant Roland ‘Butch’ Ford, New Orleans Police Department,” he began reading, “seventeen years a cop, four promotions, five awards for distinguished service, married 22 years, three children. A deacon in his church and o
n the board of directors for a major local charity. This isn’t the profile of a mass murderer, Abe.”
When Abe didn’t reply, the attorney pulled the second folder from the pile. “Master Sergeant Terrance P. Hull, Louisiana National Guard, U.S. Army Reserve. When he was with the regular Army, he served two tours in Iraq. Awarded the Bronze Star, Purple Heart, and three unit citations. Married, two children. A perfect service record and considered an upstanding citizen by everyone my investigators have interviewed. This man isn’t a criminal either, Abe. I could go on. All of the files are there.”
Kara leaned in close, kissing her husband on the cheek. “You can’t bring them back, Abe. I’m so very, very sorry this happened, but the truth is that they’re gone. And there’s nothing you can do to change that. If you choose to fight this, and somehow prevail, will seeing the men in those folders go to prison fix anything? Will ruining their lives make our lives any better?”