Michael Savage - Abuse of Power

The crowd erupted with shouted questions, but Forsyth held up a hand to silence them.

“Let me finish my statement and I’ll answer all your questions.” He paused as they settled again. “The compound is owned by a small paramilitary organization who call themselves the CDB or the Constitutional Defense Brigade, boasting about twenty-five members. As many of you may know, the leader of that group is under federal indictment for tax evasion and wire fraud and we believe the federal courthouse was the intended target of the bomber.”

“What evidence do you have of their involvement?” someone called out.

Before the crowd could get fired up again, Forsyth once again raised his hand to keep them quiet. “During the raid, we found a cache of firearms and several bricks of C4 explosives and detonators, similar to those used in the blast. We also found a file containing multiple photographs of the target, three city maps focusing on the downtown area, and a GPS unit with travel coordinates to the courthouse. A similar GPS unit was found in the wreckage of the Land Rover.

“But the real kicker is a witness by the name of William Clegg, a resident of Higgston, who earlier this year attempted to join the CDB and was turned away. He claims that the group has been planning this operation for weeks.” Another pause. “While it’s ultimately up to the courts to decide guilt or innocence, we feel confident that with the evidence we’ve gathered, and with Mr. Clegg’s testimony, each of our suspects will be spending a considerable time behind bars. I’ll now open the floor to-”

The roar erupted before he had a chance to finish his sentence. Forsyth calmed them down again and said he’d take their questions one at a time, then pointed to a sultry blond correspondent for FOX News.

“Have any of the suspects confessed?”

“They’re still undergoing interrogation,” Forsyth said, “so I can’t comment on that at the moment. Barring any legal restrictions, however, we’ll be providing you with progress reports.”

He pointed to a reporter from CBS.

“From the very beginning,” the reporter said, “there’ve been rumors that this attack could be related to Islamic fundamentalists. Are you saying this is strictly homegrown?”

Forsyth nodded. “I won’t deny that our first inclination was to look in that direction, but when Mr. Clegg came forward we quickly found out otherwise. This should probably serve as a lesson to us all not to prejudge such things. The world is full of dangerous people, and some of them are in our own backyard.”

Maybe so, Jack thought, but the evidence Forsyth had mentioned was circumstantial at best. And relying on a local witness who hadn’t been allowed on the inside, yet claimed to have inside information, strained credulity. Who was to say he didn’t have a grudge?

As far as the firearms were concerned, if the feds were to ever raid the apartment Jack owned near the Embarcadero they’d find enough legal weapons to equip a marine fire team-a collection he’d amassed over the last twenty years. Did that make him a terrorist?

The maps the feds had found could simply have been preparation for a trip to San Francisco to witness their leader’s trial, and there might even be a logical explanation for the presence of C4 at the compound. A licensed demolitions expert would have the right to possess it, and any number of reasons to use it out there from construction to rock removal to movie special effects work.

Whatever the case, Jack wasn’t willing to choke down any of this without a bit of resistance. Especially knowing what he knew about Leon Thomas’s statement.

More hands went in the air and Forsyth made his choice.

“What about the minor who hijacked the car?” a reporter for the Chronicle asked. “Is he being charged with anything?”

Forsyth shook his head. “Not on a federal level. His involvement had nothing to do with the conspiracy itself, so no charges are anticipated. He’s currently recovering from a busted arm and leg incurred in the crash and is in hospital room custody of the SFPD.”

“I understand his brother has been released,” the reporter said.

“He was arrested for allegedly aiding and abetting the carjack and has been released to the custody of his parents on $25,000 bail. We’ll leave it to the city prosecutor to sort out any crimes he may have committed.”

Jack listened patiently as several more questions were asked and answered, all of them centering on the CDB. He kept waiting for someone to mention what he considered to be the gorilla in the room, but maybe he was the only one who actually saw it.

He raised his hand, only to be passed over several times by Forsyth, and he felt for a moment as if he were the scrawny kid in phys ed who was the last to be chosen for flag football. Back in school, Jack was usually the guy who did the choosing, but he now had a sudden understanding and sympathy for what those poor kids must have gone through.

Finally, when Forsyth had no choice, he called on Jack, saying, “Well, Mr. Hatfield, it’s nice to see you’re still among the living. Professionally speaking, at least.”

The crowd laughed and Jack merely smiled. But it was nervous laughter, the kind you hear when a drunk uncle stands to toast the bride and groom at a wedding.

When they got it out of their collective system, Jack said, “I’m curious to know why there hasn’t been any mention of the Arab reportedly seen by Leon Thomas?”

The crowd buzzed at the remark and there was a subtle shift in Forsyth’s gaze. So subtle that most in the room had probably missed it, but Jack had been carefully watching for the man’s reaction.

“An Arab, Mr. Hatfield?”

“I spoke to one of the first responders at the scene. An Officer Harold Beckman. He told me the carjacker’s brother claimed the Land Rover was stolen from a man of Arabian descent.”

Forsyth smiled. “We have yet to definitively identify the original driver, but we have every reason to believe that he’s one of the men we just took into custody. And I assure you, there’s not an Arab in sight.”

“So you’re saying Beckman was lying?”

“As I recall, Officer Beckman suffered a minor head injury in the blast, so I’m afraid his recollection cannot be relied upon.”

Forsyth was about to call on another reporter when Jack interrupted. “Beckman told me this before the blast.”

More muttering. The FBI agent shifted his gaze back to Jack and Jack could plainly see that he was seething inside. This was not information Forsyth wanted asked about or shared.

“If I remember correctly, you were also knocked down by the explosion. Maybe you’re confused, as well.”

“I don’t think so,” Jack told him. “And my memory’s just fine.”

Forsyth smiled again. It took some effort. “Or maybe you’re just disappointed that our investigation hasn’t turned up any Muslims for you to kill?”

The shot went straight to the heart, and after a split second of stunned surprise, the reporters around Jack laughed uproariously, nodding and shaking their heads.

It was, Jack had to admit, the perfect response. It immediately branded him a crackpot who shouldn’t be taken seriously.

Jack thought of Tom Drabinsky and felt his own anger rising in his chest. He had a hard time believing the story this smug little jerk was selling, and he felt sick at the thought that Drabinsky’s sacrifice might be explained away by a lie.

Something Jack had learned quickly as a combat journalist was that anything the commanding officers had to say should be taken with a heavy dose of skepticism. The soldiers on the ground were the ones who knew the truth, and that’s who he needed to go to in order to find it.