Nathan Hill - The Nix

SIMON ROGERS PACED through Faye’s wrecked apartment, stepping carefully to avoid debris on the floor and explaining that there were certain laws that allowed all this (when he said “all this,” he said it with a sweep of his arms, meaning the apartment’s general desecration and ruin), certain statutes passed after 9/11 governing the searches of terrorist suspects, the allowable use of military force.

“Basically,” he said, “the police can send a SWAT team whenever they want, and we have no way to stop it, prevent it, countermand it, or redress it.”

Faye was in the kitchen, silent, stirring tea in her one unbroken mug.

“What were they looking for?” Samuel asked. He kicked at the remains of the television, which had been fractured by some kind of blunt force, its electronic guts scattered over the floor.

Simon shrugged. “It’s procedure, sir. Since your mother is being charged with domestic terrorism, they’re allowed to do this. So they did it.”

“She’s not a terrorist.”

“Yes, but since she’s being charged under a statute designed for sleeper-cell al-Qaeda agents, they have to treat her as if she might actually be one.”

“This is so fucked up.”

“The law was written at a time when folks were not that interested in the Fourth Amendment. Or the Fifth Amendment, for that matter. Or, actually, the Sixth.” He chortled lightly to himself. “Or the Eighth. ”

“Don’t they need some kind of specific reason to search the house?” Samuel said.

“They do, sir, but they keep it a secret.”

“Don’t they need a warrant?”

“Yes, but it’s sealed.”

“Who gives them permission?”

“Confidential, sir.”

“And is there anyone watching over all of this? Anyone we can appeal to?”

“There is a sort of habeas process, but it’s classified. National security reasons. Mostly, sir, we’re meant to trust that the government has our best interests in mind. I should note that this kind of search isn’t actually mandatory. It’s at the court’s discretion. They didn’t have to do this. And I know for a fact the prosecutor didn’t ask for it.”

“So it was the judge.”

“Technically, that is information withheld from the public. But yes. Judge Brown. We can infer that he ordered it himself.”

Samuel looked at his mother, who was staring down into her tea. It did not appear that she was drinking the tea so much as intensely stirring it. The wooden spoon she used clunked softly against the sides of the mug.

“So what are we going to do?” Samuel said.

“I am prepared to mount a vigorous defense, sir, against these new charges. I believe I can persuade a jury that your mother is not a terrorist.”

“On what grounds?”

“Primarily, that the recipient of the terrorist threat, Governor Packer, did not actually feel terror. ”

“You’re going to summon Governor Packer.”

“Yes. I’m betting he won’t want to admit in pubic that he was terrified. Of your mom. Not during a presidential campaign.”

“That’s it? That’s your defense?”

“I will also argue that your mother merely made a threatening gesture and did not convey her terroristic threat verbally, electronically, on television, or in writing, which for certain convoluted reasons is a mitigating factor. I’m hoping this will reduce her sentence from life to merely ten years, maximum security.”

“That doesn’t sound like a win to me.”

“I have to admit that I’m more comfortable in free-speech law. Defenses against terrorism are not my, shall we say, cup of tea? Haha.”

They looked at Faye, who continued to stare into her mug and had no reaction at all.

“Excuse me,” said the lawyer, and he walked between mounds of ripped-open pillows and couch cushions and clothes still attached to their hangers, into the bathroom.

Samuel made his way to the kitchen, each footstep provoking a shriek of broken glass. Food was strewn over the countertops where police had upended the pantry — coffee grounds and cereals and oat bran and rice. The refrigerator was pulled from its place and unplugged, water now dribbling out of it and puddling on the floor. Faye held her mug, which appeared to be handmade from clay, to her chest.

“Mom?” Samuel said. He wondered what she was feeling right now, given the high-end anxiety meds she’d taken earlier that day. “Hello?” he said.

At the moment, she seemed numb to everything, oblivious. Even the way she stirred her tea was automatic and mechanical. He wondered if the shock of the police raid had put her in some kind of fugue.

“Mom, are you all right? Can you, like, hear me?”

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she said finally. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

“Tell me you’re okay.”

She stirred her tea and stared into the mug. “I’ve been so stupid.”

“ You’ve been stupid? This is my fault,” Samuel said. “I went to see the judge and I made everything worse. I’m really sorry.”

“I’ve made such stupid decisions,” Faye said, shaking her head, “one after the other.”

“Listen. We should figure out a plan. Alice said we needed to get out of town. Maybe even out of the country.”

“Yeah. I’m beginning to believe her.”

“Just for a little while. If Brown is retiring soon, why not wait him out? Make sure he knows it will be years before a trial happens. Get rid of him, get another judge.”

“Where would we go?” Faye said.

“I don’t know. Canada. Europe. Jakarta.”

“Actually, no,” she said, and she put the mug on the counter. “We can’t leave the country. I’ve been charged with terrorism. There’s no way they’ll let me on an airplane.”

“Yes. Right.”

“We’ll have to trust Simon, I guess.”

“Trust Simon. I really hope that’s not our best option.”

“What else can we do?”

“Alice said the judge will never back down. He really seriously wants to put you away forever. This is not a joke.”

“It doesn’t feel like a joke.”

“He said he’s in a wheelchair because of you. What did you do to him?”

“Nothing. I have no idea what he’s talking about. Honest.”

A rush of plumbing came from the bathroom then, and Simon emerged, little water specks dotting the arms of his sport coat.

“Professor Anderson, sir, I’m actually glad you’re here. I’ve been meaning to talk to you. About your letter? The letter to the judge that you’ve been working on tirelessly, I assume?”

“Right. Yes. What about it?”

“Well, I wanted to personally thank you, sir, for all your efforts and all the time you’ve no doubt put into this already. But you should know that we will no longer be needing your services.”

“My services. Sounds like you’re firing me.”

“Yes. The letter you’re writing? That will no longer be necessary.”

“But my mom is in pretty big trouble.”

“Oh, yes, she most certainly is, sir.”

“She needs my help.”

“She definitely does need help from somebody, sir. But probably not from you. Not anymore.”

“Why not?”

“How do I say this delicately? It’s just that I’ve become convinced, sir, that you are not in a position to help her. Probably you’d make things worse. I’m referring of course to the scandal.”

“What scandal?”

“At the university, sir. Dreadful.”

“Simon, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh, you haven’t seen yet? Oh, my. I’m so sorry, sir. Seems like I’m always the one to bring you bad news, eh? Haha. Perhaps if you checked your e-mail more often, or watched the local news?”