Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

“What do you have, Chester?”

“Is it a deal?”

“Tell me what you have and we’ll consider it. I have to hear it first.”

Hart knew he was in no position to bargain. This pig was his lifeline. His only hope to live a long, horribly disfigured life was in barter, and it was apparent he would have to show his goods first.

“Saint Anthony’s,” Hart said, licking his blistered lips. “Freddy was in on it.”

“We figured that.”

Hart looked genuinely surprised. “How…”

“You’ve got to do better than that, Chester,” Art said with raised eyebrows. Pity or not, he wasn’t going to play games with this snitch for very long.

“He did it for Barrish,” Hart said.

Art stopped breathing for a moment. For Barrish? “How so?”

“He was trying to prove a point, man, you know,” Hart explained.

“Barrish? What point?”

“No, man, Freddy. Some big theory he had.”

“Killing four little black girls was a theory?” Art asked doubtfully.

Hart hesitated, then chuckled. “Man, making it look like the monkeys did it. To lay the blame on them.”

Art’s eyes narrowed as he tried to find some reason in the statement. He recalled that the initial reports from the scene of the murder had said that two black men in masks, wearing all black except for colored rags in their back pockets, had run out of the church and disappeared over a back wall. That description lasted only until two of the guns used, Uzis, were found ditched at a construction site nearby. Those were soon linked to John Barrish, blowing away any thought of black men doing the…

Black men, black people, doing things for Barrish. Interesting . Art saw a potential symmetry. But was it really there?

“Are you saying Freddy dressed up to look black?”

Hart coughed and laughed together. “Yeah, that was his idea. Darkened his skin and everything, he said. Kind of a test, you know. He thought… that you could do a really violent hit on someone and blame it on the monkeys. I don’t know who the other guy was.”

“Wait. Blame the murder of blacks on other blacks?” What good would that do?

“Man, think, Agent Jefferson. I said it was a test. That one was against the monkeys. The ones after that would be against white folks and be blamed on the monkeys.”

Art took the revelation in, pieces beginning to come together. A bigger picture was forming. “Barrish wanted to attack white people and make it look like the blacks did it?”

“It was Freddy’s idea first, but John…liked it. He always thought about things in a historical way, you know, and he said Hitler did something like it to start the war against Poland. Something like he faked an attack by the Poles to kinda make the invasion okay.” Hart paused, his chest rising greatly, then went on. “But after the Saint Anthony’s thing went sour he got cool on the idea. He said pretending wasn’t good enough; you’d have to get the monkeys — he calls them…uh, you…Africans — to do it. Trick them or something.” Another weak laugh. “Yeah. Good luck.”

Get the Africans to do it… Trick them…

“He said it would set the Aryans off if you could do it,” Hart added.

“Barrish wanted to do big things against white people by using blacks?”

“Against whites or the government,” Hart expanded. “He didn’t really talk about it anymore. He just kind of dropped it.”

Maybe because he thought you had a big mouth . Art’s head was almost spinning. Was this the explanation that would bring Barrish into the World Center attack? Barrish had thought of big attacks, and of using the monkeys . Of tricking them. Was this the link? It had to be, Art believed. What had seemed ludicrous to suggest now seemed within the realm of the possible.

“So? Does this get me a transfer?”

Art knew there would be at least local interest in this. The linking of Barrish to Saint Anthony’s would be of interest to the LAPD, and to the DA. The state had never brought charges against Barrish because of a lack of evidence. With Hart’s cooperation they would now have the evidence. Beyond that, it was still just a theory…not the proof Art Jefferson needed to tie Barrish to what was going on back east. But, for him, it was explanation enough.

“Well, Agent Jefferson? How about it?”

“You’ll cooperate and testify?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll need a stenographer to take an affidavit from you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Hart said. His mouth formed into something close to a smile. “Protection?”

“If you’re not lying,” Art warned.

“I’m not.”

Art looked down upon the blackened form of Chester Hart, the man who’d just given him more than one piece of the puzzle. Freddy had dreamed it up. Monte supplied the nightmare. And John Barrish would make it all come true. That was only his take on it but he felt he had a good grasp on the why now. Only the when, where , and what remained.

Darian and Moises returned to their apartment from meeting the head white boy. Mustafa and Roger were waiting for them as planned.

“Is that it?” Roger asked, eyeing the long, towel-wrapped object under Moises’ arm.

“Yep.” Moises went to the bed, laid the package down, and unwrapped it.

“It don’t look real,” Roger commented.

“It’s not supposed to,” Darian said. He went to the small refrigerator and took a Pepsi.

Roger picked the leg up, testing its weight. “Not too heavy.” He held it out to Mustafa, who shook his head at the offer.

“Leave it on the bed,” Darian instructed. “The timer’s already going.”

“Shiiiit,” Roger swore softly, laying the limb back on the bed.

Darian pulled one of the cheap kitchen chairs into the living room/bedroom and sat. “Forget that for a minute and listen up. We’ve gotta talk about the schedule.” He looked to Mustafa. “Did you get a new place for Wednesday?”

“We can move in that morning,” Mustafa answered.

“Where?”

“Arlington. Just a few miles from Vorhees’s house. You checked it out?”

Darian nodded. “You’ll have no trouble.”

“We’re gonna do it tomorrow, right?” Mustafa asked.

“Right,” Darian confirmed. “He’ll be at a state dinner until at least midnight.”

“Is that from the cracker?” Mustafa inquired.

“Cracker ain’t been wrong so far,” Darian reminded his comrade. It prevented any further question as to the information’s validity. “You’ll be in the clear. Cheap alarm, no dog. In, out, no fuss, no muss. Brother Moises and I will do the rest Thursday.”

“What about Friday?” Roger asked.

“Friday is the big night,” Darian said, showing teeth without truly smiling. “We do it together that night.”

“Where?” Mustafa inquired.

“Get this — about a half-mile from Vorhees’s place,” Darian answered. It could have been in Tucson, for all he cared. Location was not his concern. But the lay of the land was. “We’re going to need maps to figure the approach.”

“There’s gonna be feds there,” Roger said with wide eyes.

Darian stared down at his comrade, who sat cross-legged on the floor. “Brother Mustafa has something to deal with them.” The NALF leader saw his number two give a slight nod. “And if there’s a fight, we fight. But we will take out the target.”

The target was the secretary of state. The man who would take the reins of power when everyone in the House chamber bit the dust. After that…pure anarchy. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to imagine what would happen next, Darian knew. Just like in the tribal conflicts that plagued African and certain European nations, factions would develop. With no legally recognized head of state, and with the black man taking the opportunity to rise up, there’d be governors, and mayors, and all kinds of folks trying to seize power. Lines would be drawn. Us against them, them against us. Him against her. State against state. City against city. The military would have no commander in chief. What would they do? Try and seize power, too? It didn’t matter. Darian had to give credit to the white boys who had put this scheme into play. It was near perfect. Take away the people who wielded the power, and the people would grab what of it they could. Beautiful. It was absolutely beautiful.