Part III: The End
“We are all inclined to judge ourselves by our ideals; others, by their acts.”
Harold Nicholson
Chapter Sixty–Nine
Habile
“Seth?” Ray said. He didn’t even stir. Again he called his name, softly. “Hey Seth, it’s time.”
Meek’s eyes opened, blinked, and then he sat up straight.
“It’s time. Close to eleven.”
Seth blinked again, looking at Ray. “I was asleep?” he asked, still coming to grips with reality.
“Yeah,” Ray said. He turned the computer back to Seth. "It’s about time.”
“I’m glad you’re still here.”
Ray shrugged. "Gave me time to cast my vote.”
A strange look crossed Meek’s face just then, the kind you might expect from a man on death row who’d been awakened from a dream of the wide blue ocean. “Yeah. Right. It’s time.” He focused on the laptop and brought up the command terminal screen, and then, without a word, he rose and stepped outside into the wind.
He activated the last of his throw away telephones and dialed the number from memory. He let it ring and considered the next hour or so of his life. The playground phone had been found in minutes, but it had been left transmitting. The other one had been thrown into a westbound tractor–trailer rig to make it appear that he was on the run. But… really, it wouldn't matter much now.
"Hello?"
"It's about over… I just wanted to say thank you."
"Seth?" Marley said, sitting up in bed, her computer in her lap.
"Yeah. I'm… well, it's about over."
"I know. I'm watching. I've been watching it all. You don't have a bag full of soap do you?" she asked.
He looked up into the falling snow, "I don't. I doubt that it'll matter much in an hour though."
"Maybe, but know that you've made your point. Jesus did you ever. You've made it for everyone. It's incredible."
"You're a terrible counselor," Seth said out of the blue. He could hear her smile.
"I think I did pretty well judging by the state of the world."
"Yeah, me too. One way or the other, I wanted to call. I wanted you to know that I tried to make it count. Thanks."
Silence, and then, "Seth?"
"Yeah."
"You haven't come to a session yet. You owe me twice a week," her voice cracked.
"It's time for me to bring this all to an end."
"I know. But you know that it isn't ever really going to end, not really. You don't have to do anything more. You don't have to
kill
anyone. You don't have to…"
"Thank you Marley.
I won't." He ended the call and stepped back inside. Now… it
was
time.
Chapter Seventy
Howff
“Again with the snow,” Finn said as they pulled off at the exit that Hack had been trying to make a night earlier. “Always with the snow.” By Midwestern standards, this was
flurries
but by D.C. standards it was nearing blizzard status.
Tonic pulled them to a stop under the overpass where they could keep the snow off of their windows and see which way Hack turned if he tried to retrace his route.
“He might not even remember how to find this place,” Tonic said.
“Hell, he might be drunk. He might not make it this far. He might not have even seen where Ray went
if
he even turned here. Of course, he might have already blown right through, right? Who the fuck knows?”
“Better than sitting still though… isn’t it?” Tonic gripped the steering wheel as if he were still traveling down the road.
“Go back to snowflakes, that was better.”
“Well, when you get bored tell me,” Tonic pointed at the Smokey’s sign just down the street.
Finn followed his gaze. “Yeah, well at least we…” He stopped, squinted.
Tonic looked too. "What?”
“Tell me that’s a fucking El Camino.”
Tonic yanked the car into drive. Their traction held until they pulled out from under the overpass where there was no longer any shelter from the elements; at which point wheels spun, the car spun, and the detectives within spun… into the ditch.
Finn didn’t wait. He was out of the car and skating down the street in his three hundred dollar shoes. Tonic caught him easily, smiled as he eased past, and slid to a stop at the rusty El Camino long before his partner arrived.
“I run better than you drive,” Finn panted after he too thumped to a stop against the car. “Same plate?”
“This is our guy,” Tonic confirmed as he searched through the window with his penlight. “Fuck.”
“Think he just saw the sign last night and got thirsty?” Finn started walking toward Smokey’s.
Tonic was right on his heels. "Well, whatever. He’s our best shot, maybe he still knows somethin’.”
They hit the doors and burst inside, but few looked away from the televisions. The place was packed, but hushed with the reverence of a rowdy Super Bowl crowd waiting for an injured player to get to his feet.
“I thought you guys were gonna miss it,” Smokey said from the bar. Every screen showed Meek’s face. Grave and tired. He held a sheet of paper and read from it in his usual melancholy voice. The detectives just stood there – everyone was transfixed.
“The Grand Jury has come to a decision,” Meek began. “As I’ve said, any and all of these charges are subject to the death penalty so far as this court is concerned. All ballots have been tallied, and the verdict has been arrived upon.”
* * *
Finn and Tonic still stood in the doorway. In fact, Tonic’s hand was still on the door’s handle, letting little snakes of snow slither in on the wooden floor. Meek looked at them from all angles around the bar. "Now… the verdict has been reached and balloting is closed. In the case of Siclo vs. Meek, Mr. Derek Siclo, a minor, was charged with three counts of sexual assault or rape. You… the Grand Jury for this case, have found him
guilty
on all counts. Additionally, he was charged with three counts of first–degree murder. Again, you have found him guilty on all three counts." Meek paused, anticipating the frenzy.
*
* *
FOX and MSNBC cut away from Meek organizing his papers like a news anchor to show reactions around the country. Congregations wore their horror and outrage for the cameras, the NAACP group sat huddled on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial sat in silent prayer seemingly oblivious to the bitter cold or Siclo’s fate... they were waiting for word on Saul.
A crowded pub in Chicago lifted toasts and cheered.
The ACLU refused to allow cameras into their headquarters, though they issued a press release within moments of the verdict. It wholeheartedly condemned Seth Meek for his abuse of the legal system, sighting in pre–fab paragraph after paragraph the rights of the accused. It spoke of the case itself as if it were quite possibly the low point in the history of Democracy, as if civilization might never rebound.
A handful of congressmen shook their heads in disbelief as the cameras circled and live feeds broadcast their reactions around the globe. One of the Senators compared Meek’s actions to those of a domestic terrorist, though when pressed for elaboration she merely smiled.
From screen to screen the reactions were polarized; it was either an unparalleled injustice or a triumph for the weak and downtrodden – a true wake up call for the American justice system.
CNN brought up a split screen featuring Saul’s mother sitting near a television on one side, the face of her beaten son on the other. The woman was weeping, and pointing a hand full of tissues at her television. "My baby, my baby.” Her friends closed in around her, comforting and stealing glances at themselves on the screen. One waved to the camera.
“In the case of Brown vs. Meek, Mr. Saul R. Brown, a minor, was charged with three counts of conspiracy to commit sexual assault. He is found
not
guilty on each of these counts. He is also charged with three counts of conspiracy to commit murder. The Grand Jury has found him
not
guilty on all counts." Seth paused again, waiting.
* * *
Saul’s mother burst into tears at the mention of the words
not guilty
, lifting her hands to the heavens as those around her did the same, shouting praises and turning circles.
* * *
"Regarding the last count of attempted murder, namely mine, you the Grand Jury, have found Saul Brown… guilty."
* * *
Upon the guilty verdict, Saul's mother fell suddenly silent and searched the faces of those who crowded into her little apartment for comfort and wisdom. There was little on hand, and finally she focused upon the camera, begging the question aloud. “Why,
why
?”
Her contorted face was broadcast around the world while others pondered a slightly different version of the question,
when, when?
* * *
“He’s not here,” Tonic said as the room erupted into a hundred different opinions. They stepped through the extra tables and chairs that had been pulled up on the main floor and waved Smokey over.
“I don’t think so,” Smokey said in reply to their description. “I’m pretty good with faces, pretty sure he ain’t been in here.”
“How sure are you?” Finn said. He was almost yelling across the bar now.
“Go look around if you want,” Smokey said. He pointed to the back rooms. Straightaway the room fell into murmurs as Meek reappeared on the screen.
"It is now 11:50pm. The prisoners are scheduled to be executed at midnight. In this there will be no delay. Court is adjourned until 11:55pm.” The screens went black and the pundits returned in force.
*
* *
They raced through the back rooms, bathrooms, even the tiny utility closet, and ended up surveying the patrons in the main room again. “Well where the fuck is he then?” Finn said.
Outside the snow swirled through the parking lot lights carried along on the wind. The cars in the lot were covered in a quarter inch of fluff, but the El Camino was still there. There were two–dozen storefronts however, all within walking distance of Hack’s car. They were out of time.
Chapter Seventy-One
Huibrastic
“Well Gentlemen,” Meek said in his quiet voice, "it’s time.” He flipped on the lights and went live. Millions watched in real time; this was the height of the media storm – in the history of broadcasting nothing had come remotely close.
Bolo’s eyes were broad yellow bowls, pupils wide with fear. Saul’s face was more serene, but his limbs trembled. "What’s that mean Mr. Seth?”
“It means that people voted. They think you're guilty. And that means that at midnight…” he looked down on them, "it happens.”
Bolo’s chest began to quiver. “Aw, com’on now. This ain’t right… I didn’t mean all that,” he whimpered. His lips, dry and split, pulled back tight in a mask of panic and dread like a chimpanzee. They began to bleed unto his teeth. “I was just kiddin' 'round," he whimpered.
"Kidding?" Seth asked. He couldn't muster the emotion to sound dubious.
"Yeah," Siclo said. The idea resonated and he latched on, "Yeah… I didn't mean it."
Seth knelt and looked at Saul.
Tears streamed down his face, “I’m sorry Mr. Seth.”
Bolo kept whining, “Ain’t right. I wanna lawyer, I got rights…”
Meek shifted his complacent gaze, closed his eyes, and then exhaled. When he opened them again Bolo’s voice was rising in pitch. "This ain’t right, I got rights motherfucker.”
Meek wrenched back his arm, his fist balled into white knuckles, and drove it into Bolo’s face. Once, twice as the head snapped back and rebounded forward… a third time feeling teeth give way and cut his fingers. His rage had brought him full circle, given him this chance to exact any sort of retribution that he desired, he was free – utterly and completely free now to give that rage full reign. To finish what he had let happen. Tears came, and the fourth punch lost it’s authority. His fist glanced off of the blood–slick face.
Bolo groaned, an open mouthed, bloody moan of pain and fear. Mucus and blood were strung from one lip to the other. "No more…” And in that one unaccountable moment, Seth Meek understood that rage wouldn't keep its promise; it had carried him, blindly to this point in time – this singular moment in his existence that would define so much… and then abandoned him. Suddenly he was empty, and the white–hot fuel from which he had drawn was utterly gone. Finally, after all of this… Seth understood that he would have to walk this last mile on his own.
He rose unevenly, staggered to the sink and washed his hands. They shook as he tried to pick the tiny white shards out of his fingers; he splashed water into his face, and turned to look at Ray.
Ravish just stared, his skin cold. His fingers were numb, but he clutched his pen. If he could write his way through this, maybe he could keep it at arm’s length, maybe he could keep the nightmares at bay.
* * *
Finn and Tonic stood by the El Camino and looked up the length of the lot. All of the cars at the Elkhorn plaza were at Smokey’s end. Tonic searched around the car for tracks, but there were many sets, all moving more or less toward the front door of the bar.
“I’m gonna do a walk around,” Tonic said as he expanded his search. “Maybe some of these lead off somewhere. Let’s get Hop in on this.”
Finn agreed, having already brought his phone to his ear. They were going to
need
the manpower. “There must be twenty fucking doors!” Finn gestured up the length of the building as he waited for Hop to answer.
“Or more,” Tonic said. His hands were deep in his pockets as he trudged about in the snow. “I’ll check around the backside too, but there’s only gonna be more doors. We can’t just start kickin’ ‘em in can we?”
“I think we can,” Finn said as Hop picked up. "Hey Hop. Spencer’s gone nuts, he’s kicking down doors at the Elkhorn Plaza, thought you should know.”
Tonic gave him the finger, which earned a smile. The pressure was on, but they needed to take this step by step so that no one got hurt – that meant that it was time to take breath, relax, and think it out.
“Yeah, out on the Beltway… same building as Smokey’s.” Finn ended the call. "He’s on his way, said to restrain yourself. They got a hit on a phone, but it's going to take awhile to get a read on it.”
Tonic stood still for a moment in the wind. "He’s right around here isn’t he Finny? All this time. Son of a
bitch
.”
“Let’s check out back,” Finn said. He didn’t want to jinx what they were both thinking. “Why don’t you ski your ass back to the car and get us a real flashlight. Let’s not fuck this up now.”