Mike Maden: Drone

“I suppose that depends entirely upon your definition of justice, Madame President,” Donovan suggested. The dark circles under his eyes were proof that the secretary of DHS hadn’t slept in days while he sweated the details of the El Paso security setup. He fought back a yawn. “I don’t mean to start a midnight dorm-room debate, but in the end, justice for most people means getting what they think they deserve, and they seldom get it unless they have the power to acquire it from the people who stole it from them in the first place. So for the sake of our discussion, what exactly do you want? What does justice look like?”

Myers nodded. “Fair enough. I want the men responsible for the killing arrested, tried, convicted, and punished for their crimes in either an American or Mexican court of law.”

Lancet jumped in. “Forget extradition. We have the death penalty, and Mexican courts are reluctant to return Mexican nationals to American courts if there’s the possibility of a death sentence. So you’re definitely talking about a Mexican trial if the suspects are apprehended in Mexico.”

“I can live with that,” Myers countered.

Lancet continued. “It may well be possible for the Mexicans to arrest them and put them on trial. But given the lack of witnesses at the present time, let alone the current political and social crises that Mexico faces, I wouldn’t count on a conviction. And even if the Mexicans do manage to convict on what would have to be circumstantial evidence, there’s no guarantee of a punishment commensurate with their crimes.”

“If you want American justice, you’ll have to snatch them up and haul them here in irons,” Strasburg said. “SEAL Team Six can do the job.”

“And what if things go south? Do we really want American troops burned alive in an oil-drum soup?” Early was referring to the horrific cartel practice of melting people down in oil drums filled with boiling oil and lead. “These guys are batshit crazy. They’re not playing by Marquess of Queensberry rules down there.”

“Excuse me, but there are other issues to be considered here,” Vice President Greyhill said. He’d served on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee for eighteen years before he had been shoehorned onto the Myers ticket. He was seen as a reliable “old hand” to steady her uncertain rudder. He relished the role, partly because he knew how deeply Myers resented it. As one of the Senate’s elder statesmen, the wealthy, patrician Greyhill had been the GOP’s hand-selected candidate in the primary, but the outsider Myers’s populist, commonsense message had killed his one and only chance to be president. “You can’t start invading countries because you don’t like the way their court systems work, Margaret. You’d be in violation of a dozen international laws and treaties.”

Myers bristled at his accusatory tone but chose to ignore it—for now. “It seems to me that breaking the rule of law in order to enforce the rule of law is a moral hazard. I don’t want a war, legal or otherwise; I want justice. Let’s give the Mexicans a chance to give it to us. They have a vested interest, too.” Myers took another sip of bourbon. “Sandy, I want you and Faye to coordinate with Bill on this, and with Tom Eddleston when he gets back from China. When does he return?” Myers rubbed her forehead. A massive headache was coming on fast.

“The secretary of state will be back in town the day after tomorrow. But we can video-chat with him before then, of course,” Jeffers gently reminded her. He knew she was at the end of her rope, physically and emotionally.

“Then what I’d like the three of you to do is put together a memo for Ambassador Romero and tell him what he needs to communicate to President Barraza. Something along the lines of affirming our support for his newly elected administration, our desire for swift and certain justice, well, you get the idea. But run it by Tom first. I don’t want to step on his toes.”

“Will do,” Jeffers said.

Myers set her empty glass down. “Let’s give our friends south of the border a chance to do the right thing. We can always step up our game later, if need be. Who knows? They might even surprise us. Are we clear?”

The heads on her video screen nodded in unison. “Good. It’s very late and I have another long day tomorrow. Good night.” Myers snapped off the video monitor and rang for the white-coated steward, who appeared a few moments later.

“What can I get for you, ma’am?”

“A couple of Excedrin and a club soda would be helpful. Have Sam and Rachel had something to eat?” Myers was referring to the two Secret Service agents who were accompanying her to Denver.

“Yes, they have, and they asked me to thank you.” Normally, Secret Service agents didn’t eat while on duty, but it had been a long day for them as well, and Myers insisted that they order from her kitchen galley.

The steward slipped away to fetch Myers’s club soda and aspirin.

Myers sat alone in the empty cabin, drained. She turned around in her chair and stared at the aft compartment door. She rose and crossed over to it, then stood there for a moment gathering her courage, then went in, careful to shut and lock the door behind her.

Ryan Martinez’s sealed casket lay on the center of the floor, lashed down with half-inch cargo polycord. The casket had been removed from the wheeled transport dolly for fear it might fall off should they experience any turbulence. The room wasn’t designed to carry cargo, and the casket was heavy, posing a possible danger during takeoff and landing if it should start sliding around. Myers hadn’t cared. She’d have flown the damn plane herself if the air force pilot objected. He hadn’t. His own son had been killed in Afghanistan last year. A half hour later, the plane’s chief master sergeant had bolted right-angle flanges into the aluminum floor with a pneumatic drill and secured the load with the cords. It was the best he could do on short notice, but it worked. Myers was grateful.

She kicked off her shoes and sat down on the floor next to the polished aluminum casket. It was just like all of the others. Myers had paid for the funerals of all of the kids killed that night—anonymously, of course, and out of her own personal funds. The El Paso families were mostly working poor. Myers saw no need to add crushing debt to their inconsolable grief.

Ryan’s status as a hero on that fateful night was confirmed by both surviving witnesses and the county coroner’s autopsy. Rather than running away from the gunfire, Ryan had run toward it, and thrown himself on top of two of his students, shielding them from the hail of deadly bullets with his own body. Miraculously, both girls had survived, though badly wounded. They were still in intensive care and unable to attend the memorial service for Ryan and the others.

She laid her hand gently on the lid. It had been three months since she’d spoken to Ryan on the phone. Years since they’d had a real conversation. She hadn’t seen him since the inauguration earlier in the year, but even that reunion had been brief. At least it had been civil. God knows they knew how to push each other’s buttons. She had to hit the ground running on the first day. Hadn’t stopped running since.

Until now.

Myers’s mind replayed a dozen conversations she’d had with the mourners before the memorial service. A pretty young math teacher introduced herself as Ryan’s girlfriend. Her lovely green eyes were red with tears. Myers hadn’t known that Ryan had a girlfriend. But of course he did. That was normal, wasn’t it? Normal people have relationships, she reminded herself.

The girl’s name was Celia. Or was it Celina? Myers couldn’t remember. The girl was nice. Very pretty. No wonder Ryan fell for her. Myers felt sorry for her.