Radical (31 page)

“What do you know of the arrests?”

“Nothing!” I feel the panic rising. “I mean, they kept asking about Mark, and bombs, over and over, and guns, and where he was, where
they
are, but then they stopped, and . . . What’s going on?”

She takes a deep breath. “Your brother, Mark, and four other men have been charged by the federal government with seditious conspiracy, the manufacturing with intent to use weapons of mass destruction — explosive devices — and various weapons charges, including having illegally modified weapons, illegally acquired ammunition, and carrying and using firearms in the commission of a crime.”

“Mark? And those idiots? They talk big, but . . .” But even as I say it, I can see those guys at the house. I picture Mark’s face, the way he was so freaked out that I had talked to Riggs, and afraid of what I might have told him. He could have killed me. Completely out of control. “They can’t possibly think they were
seriously
going to . . . to . . .”

“They did, obviously,” she says. “In order for several law-enforcement agencies to have coordinated, to have obtained warrants and orchestrated simultaneous raids on multiple locations, to have acted when they did, they not only thought they were serious — they thought the threat was imminent.”

I can’t think.

“The indictment alleges that they planned to kill a law-enforcement officer or officers, so that they could set off explosives at the resulting funeral sure to be attended by other law-enforcement officers, in order to draw the state and federal authorities into a standoff at a heavily booby-trapped and armed location, to spark a revolution.”

I can’t . . . I can’t even . . .

“When your brother was located, after trying to evade arrest, he almost ran over a law-enforcement officer, and he’s lucky they didn’t kill him right then. They would have been justified. He was armed and was found to have several weapons, including a fully automatic rifle.”

Oh, my God.

“They are looking for where he, or they, were keeping the explosives — or the components they intended to use to build the explosive devices — right now.”

God.

“They may have been talking big,” she says, “but they took enough steps toward acting on that talk to get the attention of the federal authorities, for warrants to be issued, and to be indicted.” She stares at me.

I’m shaking again. I pull the too-long jumpsuit sleeves down over my hands, wrap my arms around my body, try to stop shaking.

“Breathe,” she says, and I do. Loudly. My heart is pounding in my chest and head and behind my eyes and in my ears. She waits until I’m breathing normally and looking at her to continue. “They’ve been criminally charged by the federal government. You have not. Not yet. Not with being part of the conspiracy.”

“I don’t understand. Then how can they keep me here?”

“Right now, they are holding you for possession and carrying concealed weapons — a twenty-two-caliber Smith and Wesson three-seventeen revolver, which was loaded and in your bag when they detained you, which you are not old enough to possess, let alone carry, and a knife that they allege —”

“What’s wrong with the knife?” She looks at me like she can’t believe I would question what was wrong with the knife. “It’s a hunting knife.”

“For one thing, it was concealed in your bag — a concealed weapon, so they allege. But for another, it’s a . . .” She flips to her notes and reads, “Double-edged nonfolding stabbing instrument, or so they say.”

“It’s a
hunting
knife,” I say again. “How can a hunting knife be illegal?”

“I’m not sure that it is,” she says. “But the fact that you had it concealed, on or about your person, complicates things. As do the money and ammunition they found hidden in a room they assert was used exclusively by you at your uncle’s house. We’ll need to discuss the circumstances surrounding your staying in the house, and your use of that room, and the circumstances surrounding your arrest and the search of your bag, but for now . . .” She waits for me to argue some more, but I don’t, even though it seems ridiculous. “Both the State of Michigan and the federal government have laws that govern firearms and ammunition and how to deal with acts by a juvenile that violate those laws. That means that the state and the federal government have concurrent jurisdiction.” She pauses, waits for me to make any sign I’m following her. I don’t. Because I’m not. “It means either of them can ultimately decide to charge you with violating their respective laws, and either can do so as part of a juvenile proceeding or charge you as an adult and try you in adult court.”

“I don’t understand. They have me locked up. How can they keep me if they aren’t sure what they think I’ve done?”

“They haven’t decided yet whether they have enough to charge you as a coconspirator in the larger criminal conspiracy.” She holds up her hand to stop me from interrupting. “But while they continue to investigate, they have more than enough to hold you related to the weapons and ammunition.”

“They can do that?”

“Yes,” she says. “At least for now.”

Every person who ever said to be afraid of our government was right.

“Before we talk about any of the specific evidence, and any defenses you have, any motions we may want to file, how I intend to defend you,” she says, “I want to go over the case materials more thoroughly.” She puts her pen down. “That is, if you want me to defend you.”

I study her. She seems for real. Her hair is short. Her suit isn’t fussy. Strong hands, short nails. She looks like a regular person, but she talks like she knows what she’s doing. She seems smart. She seems strong. She makes a million times more sense than the guy who talked to me before the judge sent me here.

“Have you ever shot a gun?” I ask her.

“Yes, I’ve shot guns.”

Guns. “Own any?”

“Yes.”

“So you support the Second Amendment?”

“Yes, I support the Second Amendment. But more important, I support your rights as a citizen of the United States to be free from unlawful search and seizure. Your right to due process under the law. Your right to a zealous legal defense. That you are innocent until proven guilty.”

“Even if you think I did everything they say?”

“Even if I come to believe you have done all of the acts you have been accused of, and more,” she says slowly, “I will still do everything I can to make sure you have the best defense possible. I will make sure you are afforded every right and protection the law allows, and I will argue for your freedom.”

“Why?”

“Because I believe in the Constitution.” One side of her mouth turns up. “All of it. And because it’s my job.”

I’m afraid of the warmth in my gut telling me to trust her.

“It’s a tough decision, whether to accept a lawyer’s services or not. Maybe you want to see if you can hire someone yourself? Some would let you, you know, for a cut of your eventual book deals and TV appearances, or for you signing a paper allowing them to make money off of talking about representing you. You’d be on all the talk shows.”

“Are you kidding me?” I don’t want to be on TV at all. “I’m not doing any books or TV appearances, or any of that.”

“Well, there are lawyers, experienced ones, who will take your case for the publicity alone. I can recommend some that are less sleazy than others, if you’re interested.”

“Are you going to want a cut?”

“No.” She laughs. “This is my job. I’m compensated by the court for representing you. That’s how I’m paid. But if you agree, I will be representing
you
. And I take that seriously.”

I watch her, try to read her. She’s the first one to treat me like I matter, to help me understand. But she belongs to them, to the government. They pay her. How can I trust her if they’re paying her? Maybe if she understood I didn’t do anything, maybe then she would fight for me. Maybe.

“Can you get me out of here?”

She shakes her head. “No. At least not now. As I said, they have enough to hold you in a secure facility for now. The government is going to oppose any release terms, and the court will likely agree. I can try to get you out of segregation, but I’m not optimistic. Right now, one of the few things on which they all agree is keeping you in seg. The investigation is continuing and there’s a possibility of more — and more serious — charges.”

“I didn’t —”

“Stop.”

“But —”

“Not until we understand each other. Not until you are sure you want me to represent you. I don’t want you to say
anything
until we are clear on our roles and obligations.”

She talks about our roles and what I can “expect.” I try to follow, but I’m tired and my head is spinning. My brain is too full. I can’t sleep for more than a couple hours at a time, not even at night. I can’t eat. I was afraid to drink the juice at breakfast since the seal was open. And the water from the fountain grosses me out. It smells like maybe it’s not really for drinking, and I can’t drink from the fountain without seeing the toilet.

“A lot to take in,” she finally says when I sway in my seat. I try to sit up, plant my feet, and refocus, but she’s capping her pen. “Enough for today. We can talk again next week after I’ve had a chance to review what they’ve given me so far and make some calls. Assuming, that is, that I’m your lawyer.”

“Yes.” I don’t hesitate. “Please.”

“Good.” She uncaps her pen and makes some notes on her legal pad. “The agents want to question you again, but they will have to wait until I’m more familiar with the case and we’ve had a chance to talk further.”

“I don’t want to talk to them.”

“We’ll discuss it after I know more. But for now, my focus is on looking at the evidence and finding out the government’s position on jurisdiction and transfer. And in the meantime, don’t talk to anyone about anything except the weather. Not about your life. Not about your family. Not
anything
about this case. Nothing. Understand?”

I nod and swallow, because who would I talk to, Taggert?

She is looking at me, thinking. I can practically hear her thinking.

“Bex,” she says, leaning forward slightly, “your mother will be coming to see you.”

“She’s out?”

“Yes.”

“What about my dad? Uncle Skip?”

“Your uncle has been released, but your dad has not.”

Thank God. Uncle Skip.

“When your mother comes to see you,” she says, “please remember that she can be compelled to testify against you. Anything you say to her can be used against you in court. And . . .” She pauses, rethinks what she wants to say, and then tries again. “Your mother’s world has been turned upside down. Her husband and both of her children are in custody. Her home is a crime scene. . . . She may not be thinking clearly.” She waits for me to say something. When I don’t, she says, “She may not understand the legal implications of everything she, or you, knows. Please do not discuss the case with her.”

But she’s my mom. She can tell me what’s happening. Where Mark is. And Dad, and . . . everyone.

“Bex,” she says. “Until we understand the evidence and potential charges better and can sort out some things. Please.”

I don’t answer. I can’t. This woman is a stranger who’s paid by the government. Even if she means what she says, she’s still employed by them.

Mom will tell me what’s going on.

“Oh, thank the Lord,” Mom says, rushing at me and pulling me into a hard hug. I look behind her, but no one else is here.

I’ve never been in the family visiting room before. There are tables, with bolted-down seats. Like sometime there must have been a brawl. Then again, how many kids are in here because of their crappy families? Better not to have weapons for those visits — even chairs.

At least it’s cooler in here. It’s hot in my cell. The walls sweat. The jumpsuit itches where it sticks to me, but it’s all I have to wear except for the T-shirt under it.

“I came as soon as they let me.” She leans back, holding my face and looking at me. “Are you okay?”

I nod because it’s what she needs.

“Your father and I have been so worried.”

“He’s home?”

“Not yet. But soon, we hope,” she says. “He told me to tell you he loves you. And to be strong.” She looks like she wants to say more, but her lips are pulled in tight. “Be brave.”

We sit down at the table, but Mom won’t let go of me. “Are you really okay?” she asks again.

“I guess,” I say.

We sit in silence.

“What’s going on?” I whisper.

She shakes her head, looking away. “I was questioned. They kept me for days. The attorney finally made them let me go.”

“You hired an attorney?”

“Your uncle Nathan did.” She looks down at her hands clenched in her lap. “For me.”

Of course. Not for me. For me he sent Aunt Lorraine to tell me to confess. For Mom he hired a lawyer.

“Dad? Uncle Skip?”

“Skip’s been released, too.”

“Where is he? Can I see him?”

“I don’t think they’ll let you see him. Just immediate family, I think. But I can ask. . . .”

“Where is he?”

“Staying with a man named Heinman.”

Oh. Good. Mr. Heinman is good people.