Trial of Silence: Part Ii Trial

Copyright © 2013 Diane Haun.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-1372-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1405-8 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 12/16/2013

Contents

Acknowledgements

Preface

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

For Dolores Stone

An interesting woman, with whom I have much in common—no top teeth, a tired bladder and many senior moments, for example—who goes to Albertsons rain or shine on her power chair and in her limited carrying space brings back necessities … bananas and tomatoes. Only a special friend would do that.

AND FOR HELEN LAYTON

With whom I also have tricky innards and senior moments in common, items that come up in long-distance phone conversations, which we laugh about. A friend who gives much more to those in her circle than a person could ask for or expect.

AND FOR MARÍA LUISA MOYA MORÁN

A beautiful, caring, intelligent. youthful woman, a university prof who loves her students and fights for them in ways they could not know about.

AND FOR CATHERINE HAUN AND ELIZABETH SHELLEY

Irrefutable proof that I was first in line when children were being assigned. They came with more than their share of the good and the beautiful. They are awesome!

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Inma Domene Nuñez for the cover and drawings, again warm thanks and much love.

Thanks again to the iUniverse folk, in particular to Traci Anderson and Allison Howell.

Thanks to Mark Shelley for permission to use the title of one of his beautiful films, STRANGE DAYS ON PLANET EARTH. A truly fascinating film which includes strange results the warming-effect-dust from Lake Chad has on asthmatic children in South America to the effect overkilling wolves in North Western America has on deforestation since overpopulated deer, not being controlled by wolves, are eating young tree sprouts, thus preventing reforestation. The film is exquisitely narrated by the scientists who did years of footwork and a favorite actor, Edward Norton.

PREFACE

Mention of Mark Shelley’s film Strange Days on Planet Earth brings up one of the interesting—to me—war stories of Trial of Silence. I had not heard the words before using them in dialogue between a man concerned with the emotional well-being of a step-son and the younger man’s answer to an inquiry about his feelings in the aftermath of the death of a loved one. It was me trying to say something without being maudlin. This would have been about mid-nineties while I was living in Spain. When I learned of the film title my first thought was that like so many changes I had to make after 9/11 I would have to delete the words from the book. I decided instead to get permission since the film was already in circulation and I was not sure about hassling publication. I have no idea who came up with the expression first and as far as I’m concerned it doesn’t matter. Most likely many others have heard the words in their ecological heads for many years, or some just yesterday. The meanings in the film and the book are not the same, both fitting very well within respective contexts. I personally feel ten feet tall to have been dusted with the vibes of the idea and to be reminded of that delicious film whenever I get close to the dialogue between Sean and Davis.

Mr. Shelley, a kind funny man, was gracious and did not hesitate one second.

Diane Haun

Albuquerque, September, 2013

PROLOGUE

December

Bored, the girls went up to their room. Sounds of their tinkly laughter drift down to the study. Brian’s basketball game was canceled. He is in the basement watching The Life of Brian for the 400th time, his enthusiastic laughter floating up to the study from that far corner. The kitchen is clean the table set for breakfast. Ropes are up between the three houses. Computers were shut down early because there is an apocalyptic storm in the Hudson River Valley and environs, high winds, snow when it isn’t sleet, a power outage due. The computer battery is being replaced and the few seconds for the generator to take over would cause problems they do not want to deal with this night.

The boat managed to reach the island and return safely. Hairy was how the Coast Guard Captain described the trip. He also said, I sure as hell wouldn’t have done that for anyone except Kyle Bremmer.

It is near midnight and they are in front of the fire waiting for Zachariah’s call, stretched out on stomachs, up on elbows, the fire dancing on their faces, bodies touching. Iris rubs her cheek against Sean’s shoulder, kisses it.

He smiles Why do you waste it there?

It’s the only thing I can kiss without moving.

He snuggles his face down to hers. Try again.

She aims at his nose and makes it to a dimple. He finds her lips and kisses them softly. Woodyfuzz comes clicking into the study, lies down on the other side of Sean with a groan that becomes a contented grunt. He puts his nose across a big paw and points it toward the fire. Sean runs his hand over the dog’s head.

Iris, would you do anything for the family? He continues stroking the large head.

In what context? She feels his sudden tension.

Does there have to be one?

Is he looking for a fight? I don’t understand your question. I don’t feel like that tonight.

He glances at her quickly then focuses on the fire. What would you be willing to do to get info to protect the family?

Our family, specifically?

Yes.

She hesitates, not because she can’t answer his question. I suppose … I would do anything I had to.

So would I, he says in his end of topic voice.

Wishful thinking on his part. "I must qualify that anything, Sean."

Bad luck: if she does he’ll have to. Why would you have to qualify something like that? Either you would or you wouldn’t. I would.

Leaving her wearing the bad guy Laurel. Give me an example.

Isn’t intention enough?

Give me a circumstance.

He sighs. If you had to do something that was a bit … uh … repugnant and … er … at the same time a little pleasurable … for the family, would you do it?

Red-alert bells go off in her head. He never says uh or er. Never. Can you be more specific? she urges carefully.

You wanted an example.

Your example was hedged.

Why do you always argue!?

She ignores the overreaction and the accusation. I want to understand what you’re asking. And what you are doing.

He paused for control. If you had to do something you knew would upset—

You, for example?

For example. Something that is presumably not 100% morally correct, would you do it to save the family?

Is the family in danger?

That’s not the issue!

Fitzgerald, what are you doing?

At the moment, covering my arse, he says breezily. He looks at her, grins.

She smiles sweetly.

He handles that quite well. There is only a flicker in his dark eyes before giving the dog his attention again, which might have been from the fire.

Iris turns on her back so she can see his face better, swings a leg over his. She says slowly, If I had to do something a bit repugnant and a little pleasurable that would upset you and was not 100% morally correct, I would have to say it would depend on the circumstances if I would be willing to do it. She reaches a hand up and turns his face toward hers. There’s more than one way to save a family, always, and without all those conditionals. She pulls him down for a long wet kiss.

What are you doing? he whispers against her mouth.

She whispers back against his, Uncovering your ass, Fitzgerald.

The phone rang just as the lights went out.

CHAPTER 1

Dust devils funnel, rise, twist loose, disperse and disappear without pattern far out in the desert. Davis watched lines of mirage-shimmering move farther away as the sun climbed. More than usual it seemed.

A day of shimmering mirages, he mused, an omen? Saints preserve us! he said aloud in mock surprise to the grey-blue sky. He chuckled. Soon he would be back in New York City, leaving the need for self-dialogue to the moveable sands.

He did not hurry back to work. The kitchen staff left the table on the balcony where Iris had eaten, seducing him to eat outside as well. He smiled ironically at how easily he could be seduced these days. This breakfast, away from the chaos of last minute preparations, will most likely be his last leisure meal until the end of the trial. During which he will be chomping at the restraints of his circumstantial imprisonment if he cannot find a break for the night swim he has become accustomed to, trying for sound dreamless sleep.

Sometimes it actually works.

Sufficiently cool to eat under the awning did not mean it wasn’t warming up. His cool would have driven Iris inside under the air-conditioner. Heat is a mischief he can live with, to a certain extent. It was nearing 35ºC and not yet 9:00 am, 3:00-6:00 pm being the peak hours. He guessed today it would reach 45-50º, higher than his mischief limit and it was only the end of June. Dry heat though and tolerable this time of day if not working in the sun.

In spite of the relaxed breakfast he found himself working anyway organizing in his head what was left to do. More than he had let Iris in on, nothing important, details. She wants him to be ready, they all do. He will get there. A decision made the night before that was still tenable. Generally his night decisions are useless by the time the sun rises. None of them have been life threatening … so far.

An impulse to knock on wood bolted through his nervous system.

The sergeant on night duty in the CR had buzzed him awake about 4:00 am: the helicopter bringing a Junta electrician, Sparky this time, calling in for landing instructions. Sparky accepts assignments that take him to places the five New York honchos choose to veil from the media as well as from the GA and its spies. Sparky’s physical appearance is sufficiently benign that he gets around pretty much anywhere without being noticed, short and slim helps, and he walks through crowds he can’t be seen in as if he is exactly where he should be. The local electrician was working with the others in the Conference/Jury-Room. Sparky arrived with the kind of equipment Davis thought would cause problems not patch anything. He told Davis not to disturb the others, radio him if he was wanted and disappeared to start working. Radio? With monitors covering every corner of the compound and intercoms all over the place. Davis will look for him after breakfast to check on progress; meanwhile, he will enjoy the hassle-free meal.

A sudden thought about Iris’s chopper going straight up made him smile. Her son could fall in love and shock her when he announced he was married—lack of paying attention—but the abrupt appearance of the compound caught her interest and that had to be investigated. So up they went to see how the compound was camouflaged. Her being that way—in the clouds, chuckle, chuckle—gave him an envied freedom he didn’t have to fight for as a teenager. It had also taught him discretion, didn’t want her falling out of the clouds to land in his patch.

Stone Face they call her at work, a bit misleading that. He feels better after being with her, especially when she is in her UN-all-business-Messenger-mode. She has a rare energy that draws people to her, baffling them at the same time, primarily because she is unaware of possessing it. Charisma they used to call it, the word politicians have given new meaning. Many charismatic politicians have become creative state-kleptomaniacs some perniciously vicariously violent. The word is currently used ironically in jokes to describe politicians of dubious integrity. Positive energy is now the in word. Iris has positive energy.

Crossing paths with her is rare these days. When he began working for the UN Davis used to get a kick out of dropping in on her and putting his feet on her desk during the few minutes of his visit. Fitzgerald told him about the feet-on-desk-trick. They have a bet; knowing she doesn’t like it, Sean bet she wouldn’t say anything, Davis bet she would. He intends to put a limit on the wager when he gets back to New York. He dislikes bets that go on too long as much as his mother dislikes feet on her desk.

Without saying a word she did find a way to get his feet off her desk so that by the time he left New York to live at the compound it had become foot-on-desk. That wordless day, just after he had relaxed with both feet on her precious desk, she sat down across from him studying as much of him as she could see from head to bottom of feet; then she stood and started with his toes moving her cat eyes up to his knees, on the way taking in his mid-cut trainers, mismatched socks and the ragged bottoms of his levies. He was beginning to feel a tad uncomfortable. Her eyes continued on up pausing at the writing on his favorite Big Dogs T-shirt, which he always wore backwards. Iris had bought it for herself on a trip to California when he was ten years old. It was one of the garments she slept in and she took excessively good care of it. He liked the caption and asked her to give it to him when he was home for Christmas his first year at Oxford. Being hand-washed and not used all that much it was still white, soft and comfortable. After four years with Davis and some minor repairs, one could still make out what should have been seen from the back: a big mean-looking dog sitting at the breakfast table glaring over his newspaper at the viewer, a coffee cup in front of him. The caption read: POUR THE COFFEE AND BACK AWAY SLOWLY.

Davis had inherited what Sean called his mother’s quirky sense of humor. Mother and son shared other tendencies as well, like being zombie-like upon arising until they had a few minutes to become alert. The morning coffee of course aided the process. This particular Big Dogs T-shirt had served both very well and had been, almost always, good for a chuckle from those seeing it for the first time.

Iris in deep thought could be effortlessly readable or she could be planning mass murder and no one would have the slightest inkling of what she was machinating. Davis knew that about her and discovered Sean had problems with the unreadable Iris when he came to Davis once, apologetic and bordering on lasting shame, to ask if he knew what was going on with his mother at that particular moment. Davis was sixteen at the time and had been watching the ex-terrorist attempting to get a take on Iris for two years.

He chuckled and sat the big man down to give him the only advice he could think of, Don’t try to figure out what she’s thinking. Go crazy if you do. Just wait and she’ll let you know. He paused a moment, If you get enough info you can figure it out.

That’s possible, then?

Yeah, but by then it’s usually too late?

For?

To do anything about it.

It?

Whatever horrible revenge she’s been planning, man.

Her eyes had wandered all over him that day in her office until they found a place to land: on his crotch. He was not one to wear tight jeans and he had lost a little weight prior to that visit so his jeans bunched up when he put his feet on the desk and crossed his ankles. She stood deadpan staring at it and nothing he said—valiantly trying to finish the conversation they were into when she started her predatory attack—made her look elsewhere. He wanted to rearrange things, pull the Big Dogs over the exposed area at least, but he didn’t want to acknowledge what she was doing or that her stare made him uncomfortable so he found an excuse to put his feet on the floor and leave.

The next time he want to her office he carefully selected what he wore; however, not trusting his apparel entirely he put one foot on the desk rather than two to avoid any possible crotch bunching and felt smug that he had won the war—the bet with Sean didn’t count if his feet were not on the desk and he decided that foot rather than feet was technically enough foreign matter on Iris’s desk to legitimize the bet. His smugness became a completely cocky attitude until she gave him one of her icy looks accompanied by a barely discernible twisted smile. He went from one of the chosen in the building favoring his royal mother with a visit to a humble young man from the 14th Floor seeking approval from one of the big bosses by wishing her a good day and incidentally handing her a graph from his section she had asked for. He had considered e-mailing it to her like most in his section did. To alter the routine of his delivering requested material in person would fracture something between them he did not want cracked. Previously his delivery/visit had meant a few moments of quiet chat together from their separate worlds that did not allow them much time in the same space.

If he had sent material after that day it would have been an admission and possibly condemnation of what she had done to get his feet off her desk and to force him to own up to the corner into which he had pushed her. A harmless joke—from his point of view—had gotten out of hand so he decided he would not visit her office unless specifically ordered there. He knew better, but the thought crossed his mind—once—that the feet/crotch incident was one of the reasons, and not fractured destiny, that was responsible for his being sent to the desert.

Sean will win the bet because she will not say anything directly and Davis has not been able to provoke her into saying the words out loud; he should win because her wordless silent stares have shouted at him, intimidated him and made him feel like a fool and an idiot. Iris can do that to people as well as scattering in their paths her happy colorful sparkly charisma dust.

The loser will pay for the two of them to get drunk. Neither Sean nor Davis drinks much during a normal work week, wine at dinner sometimes, afternoon beer if it is hot. Weekends could add a drink or two to a day. Hearsay has it that when Sean gets drunk it costs a fortune. Davis is looking forward to a weekend of drinking with him regardless of who pays.

He and Justin did it a couple of times, ridiculous fun. The first time was at Oxford. They rented a boat and rowed around the canals with enough hooch for a dozen and tried drinking it all. Justin stood up drunk as could be and still know where he was to give his favorite lecture: HOW TO EXIST ON THE SAME PLANET WITH THE NEWS MEDIA IF YOU ARE A PACIFIST AT HEART and fell out. Between being drunk and laughing Davis had a devil of a time getting him back into the boat without his-self falling out—as Sean would say in his Irish way.

The second time was at Justin’s with plans for a quiet civilized drunk, and it was until a couple of strange-looking acquaintances from Justin’s little known Home Office past showed up with full-blown intentions of raiding—wine testing they insisted—the wine cellar. The two of them looked as if they had stepped out of an early Le Carré spy tale before the Wall came down, both of them from the wrong side of it.

The uncivilized phase of the planned civilized drunk started out:

Let’s try the 2013 vintage.

I don’t think it’s as good as they claim.

I have nothing against the 2015 vintage if it isn’t.

Good Lord, Justin, some of this is ancient! It will either be excellent or vinegar.

We should definitely find out which.

For what are we waiting?

Justin was forty-one at the time, Davis was nineteen and didn’t know yet that the man was his father, whereas Justin knew Davis was his creation. The finale was a midnight soccer match on the front lawn in a spring rain that was little more than drizzle, Justin and Davis taking on the spooks and beating them. Poor lighting was the excuse Justin gave the gardener and housekeeper the following day: Couldn’t see what we were doing, he insisted as if speaking the whole truth and nothing but. The housekeeper was not happy when she saw the tracked-in mud leading to the enormous pile of wet muddy clothes at the foot of the stairs. And she was certainly not pleased with the bleary-eyed guests who appeared for breakfast without their host wearing some of Justin’s cast off mothball-smelly clothes and grunting monosyllables for conversation. They would have frightened her to death had she run into them alone in the street somewhere. They were stout men, average height, with hair too long for her standards and both were unshaven. No one could say they had beards, more like excessive five o’clock shadow that made them look unkempt and sinister. One was fair the other dark and both spoke English with the same heavy accent, which she had no idea was Central European. After one sincere attempt to understand what they wanted for breakfast she gave up and took the opportunity to clean out the fridge to go with the fried eggs and toast. The guests didn’t seem to mind, eating with appetite and pleasure all the warmed up leftovers she put on the table.

She was convinced they didn’t know how to use a shower. The two guest rooms used up one whole day to clean after they disappeared into whatever mists they had materialized from. She was all but rude when Justin raised her wage almost double. She had seriously considered giving notice, what tipped the balance for staying was not the increased pay but the clean fridge. Anywhere else she might go meant going through someone else’s unorganized possibly moldy leftovers.

The gardener quit.

And Justin wrote what some critics claimed was his funniest article: Evolution of Working Class Intolerance. As Iris said, it was hysterical. Many thought it was precisely that article that caught the attention of the Nobel Prize Literature Committee, a precursor to winning the Prize. His name had been rather low on previous lists and had never made the short list at all until the year he won.

The only other time Davis saw Justin drunk was in Russia. He had tried keeping up with Nikolai’s father. That was the excuse. Davis thought it was because of Isadora, his twin—Jane, they called her in those days. She and Nikolai—boyfriend at the time—coming from New York had met them at Heathrow for the connection to Moscow, the trip being a Christmas surprise for Nikolai’s family. The twins had recently been told—Sean—that Justin was their father. Davis had spent years at Oxford where Justin taught, had attended one of his much in demand classes—his version of Modern Literary Philosophy—and had been to his home; this was Isadora’s first personal contact with the famous man who was her father.

The trauma was Justin’s.

Davis didn’t tell him when Isadora came through customs, wanted to see if he’d know. There was a minor collision causing the hat Isadora called her Greta Garbo to fly off turning her unruly auburn hair loose. Justin turned ashen and shoved his hands into his pockets. He didn’t take his eyes off her as she and Nikolai approached. Finally spotting Davis then Justin, she stopped a few feet away, staring, waiting for Justin’s reaction. His hands went deeper trying to pull something out.

Anyone ever tell you you look like your mother?

Going to hold it against me?

Try not to.

Then you may hug me.

He did, eyes closed, moisture seeping along the lash line. The plane crash that killed his wife and legitimate children had been two years prior to that meeting. In Russia Davis saw something he would never have imagined: Justin could not take his eyes off Isadora. An Iris fixation, possibly? He’ll never know.

Presently his twin is slowly dying from grief as lively laughing Nikolai, his brother-in-law, indeed a brother, lies buried in some remote corner of Siberia. Roberto, soon to be her second husband was shot down in front of her, his government not allowing her to keep the child she had promised the dying man to raise just as she took a bullet that almost paralyzed her … and now Justin … he had to stop thinking about Isadora and Justin, his own losses had been anything but easy.

Eli Randolph once told Davis that Sean could drink anyone under, even twice his size Moses Butler or Alexander Zachariah, aka Colonel Pick, one of the coolest drinkers in New York City. Eli said Sean is amazingly funny when drinking, sings and tells terrorist tales. And just when boredom is about to set in, Eli said, the fight begins, if that’s what he feels like. If not, he puts the gang in taxis, pays the drivers and goes off whistling. To clear his head he says. The cash Sean carries is legendary among the relatively few who know about it. He claims it’s a carryover from terrorist days, crucial to an escape strategy. After arriving in New York, along with the money, he carried two passports—one legal, one forged—at all times until Iris got pregnant with Brian. He had finally realized that Americans only carry passports if leaving the country. When out with the gang, Eli said, he only allows another to pay if he’s lost a bet. If the drinking place is close to his apartment he walks home when the party breaks up, if not he walks until he gets tired then takes a taxi. Eli added, Those were pre-Junta days, yes sir.

Sean used to get drunk when he and Iris were not speaking. From what Davis has picked up it’s been awhile. They used to have some good ones. Sean would drink one day, sleep another then go home and make up. Although Iris and Sean have not married the relationship to Sean for Davis was stepfather though that’s never felt totally right, friend is closer but not completely accurate. The young Davis often surprised Sean with a child’s observation and the ex-terrorist played with it. Like the time Davis said, You didn’t look at yourself in the entry mirror.

So?

Everyone looks in that mirror, said as if Sean was missing half his marbles.

I looked yesterday.

Why not today?

Exercise.

Exercise?

In not looking in the mirror.

On purpose?

Sean cocked his head at the curious lad, Practicing self-control.

Awesome! Naturally, Davis had to try it.

He has learned several useful disciplines from the man, which is one of the reasons he was chosen coordinator of this trial. His relationship with Iris would not have been enough for the Junta to select him; Seans influence would count for as much or more in that Junta decision. In any case, Davis misses the odd couple. Iris’s positive energy does not read on the phone screen like Sean’s does.

While eating and before starting the final building inspection he made some notes on his miniature printer—the staff are not mind readers—and indulged in a second cup of coffee. He wondered how the trial would go and if he was definitely ready for it. He convinced Iris he was. For a successful trial the circumstances could be better. He said aloud playing the pedant to amuse his-self.

His inspection tour began in the Isolation-Room, a stark place acclimatized so that blankets were not necessary. A person should be able to sleep with the comforting weight of a blanket or two. A bed should show a wrinkle under a colorful counterpane the pattern of it making a statement about the person who sleeps there. A detail the assassin forfeits here for a weightless white sheet and a white pad covering the white mattress.

The electrical problem was in the Isolation-Room’s big screen, which covers one wall and can have on it one giant image or any number of smaller ones up to twenty. The hard-plastic light-beige round table and its two round-bottomed matching chairs were bolted to the floor. The table was small but large enough to hold a generous-sized food tray or a chess board with room for arms to rest beside it on either side. He made a mental note to call HQ for the chess set—part of the script—someone forgot to send and for the books, a last minute improvisation he and Iris had decided on.

Across from the bed, to the right as you step out of the elevator, is a window with a wide seat. Closed, the window looks embedded in the wall; opened it’s a place to sit and enjoy an electronic garden, projected sunrise and sunset included, timed to nature’s sun. If it should rain in the desert a simulated rain would appear in the garden. Sean said they couldn’t figure out how to provide prisoners with a real garden without the jury seeing or hearing them, or vice versa, however accidentally. The garden room was large and when a person entered it through the back of the elevator and sat on one of the three benches provided and did not touch the one-dimensional projected plant life that person could almost believe the garden real. There are birds chirping in trees, curious squirrels darting around, insect wings making motion and sound, garden smells. The night sounds are soothing. Under other circumstances Davis would laugh at the computer designed and executed garden. Everything—sun, animal life, weather, sounds, smells—is wired to the window’s opening and closing. The electrical problem should be in all that but it is not. It’s in the screen.

A large brown corduroy beanbag sits near the window seat. Not in the script, it was a verbal suggestion from the author they implemented. Sean had mentioned to the group—Kyle, Justin on video link from England, Davis, Iris, Zachariah, Antoine and Gareth—that prisoners need a physical release once they knew their fate if it’s not to their liking. Something a bit humane and largely practical—to save wear on the facilities. Justin suggested the beanbag and the others liked the idea.

Lighting was overhead, indirect, out of reach, nothing controlled from inside the room.

In the narrow space immediately to the left as one leaves the elevator, between screen and elevator, was an intercom, its mesh cover hanging down, held from falling by two wires tied together awaiting connection to their pair sticking out of the metal box embedded in the wall. Davis made a note of it and looked over the room from the elevator door, the only entrance. The dark wood framing the bed, screen and window seat softened the harshness a whit. It was a room to induce distance with oneself. This place would give me hallucinations, he decided.

He called HQ from the Control-Room, located directly beneath the Isolation-Room and garden. Kyle was his usual polite self, listened carefully, made a couple of suggestions and finally asked, How did Iris seem to you?

You know how she is. Nothing troubles for long.

Kyle didn’t bother to correct. And you?

I’m all right … for now.

Don’t hesitate to call. This is the first trial and something else may have been overlooked. As you know, we can deliver quickly, and alternates—

I know, Kyle. Davis shot down Kyle’s overkill tendency. I’ll call if I need help.

We’ll send these items with your assistant. They can pick them up on the way to JFK. Her arrival hour is 12:00 noon, your time.

Fine.

I like the idea of the books.

Iris.

Should have known. Good-bye for now.

I’ll be in touch.

Davis hung up and leaned back in the swivel chair wondering if—

Suddenly he was on his feet. Her! Shit! Whose idea was that? Everyone at HQ either wanted to marry him or marry him off to a best friend’s third cousin.

Meddling dickheads!

In spite of age, independence and the maternal hands off policy he grew up with, he glanced around as if Iris were a fly on the wall listening. About twice a week, when they were in high school, Isadora was on their mother’s Cannot Do for 3 Days list for picking up Fitzgerald’s vocabulary. Davis not only picked it up but he improved on it. Isadora was open about her accomplishment; Davis was secretive because Sean had told him privately not to let Iris in on his sin against cultural elegance. He understood the boy thought it was part of male bonding. It was that and, as far as Sean was concerned, it was also a step in the boy’s necessary independence from maternal strings … primarily it was to prevent Iris from being angry with him. Sean never knew which straw of the various possibilities would make her give up on him. Isadora knew of Davis’s pickings but did not know the extent of his refining. In any case, it would not occur to her to tell their mother anything about her brother’s life. She admired her twin’s ability to censor what he said within range of their mother’s sharp hearing.

Sparky appeared on a monitor with the other electricians at breakfast, plates heaped evidently discussing work. Another monitor showed a cargo plane landing with the last of the food—frozen goods that are going into either the huge walk-in freezer in the kitchen or the freezer chamber in the sub-subbasement. Davis would give anything to back up time and be piloting that plane, mischievous Maya beside him keeping him company. Soldiers drove the refrigerator trucks off the aircraft and into the compound to the back door, parking between the swimming pool and the building. Boxes were carried individually to the freight elevator that opened at ground level beside the three steps up to the back entrance. The young women throwing boxes of frozen vegetables, fish, shellfish and five-gallon cartons of ice cream around as easily as the young men, doubling up on the larger boxes of chickens and turkeys, sides of beef, lamb and pork. With so many helping it didn’t take long. Of course, Davis reminded himself, military slave labor.

Some of the women he found winsomely attractive—one whole year since he has had physical contact with a woman beyond shaking hands. The difficult days ahead could be tempered by soft lips and what might follow, freeing him for fleeting moments from consuming thoughts of the project. The Junta would have his nuts. Iris warned him a long time ago: ‘They find out everything.’ However, if one of the women were to seduce him … Iris would raise purple hell. As mother, in private time she was never a guide or an observer through his sex life, looked the other way, didn’t want to know. At work, if he did anything to compromise a Project in any small way … well, she outranks him and she can be ruthless. He decided to help Gareth connect the last of the translating lines, the final step to being ready for jurors to pick up their English translating headphones from the registration table. He went to the Jury Room where Gareth was working.

Davis and Gareth had played high school basketball together, a combo the school still talked about more than a decade later. 5'11 Davis was super-fast capturing the ball and dribbling it around and between the legs of the tall ones, feeding it to the 6'4 never-miss scholarship African-American kid from Tennessee. Neither was interested in being in a clique at the elitist school. They were both fairly interested in a good education. The school had an excellent scholastic reputation; the reason Iris allowed Reynard to talk her into the expense and elite/snob exposure for the twins. Gareth and Davis’s interests were primarily focused on basketball and girls, success with the former making success with the latter possible.

Davis and Gareth tolerated the Oh, look! It’s Mutt and Jeff! around campus until they worked up a parody that was embarrassing for the Mutt and Jeffers who could not deal with the laughter directed at them. The routine was comic. The Mutt and Jeff image was in the minds of students and teachers until the day they graduated although after a few weeks of the first year it ceased being verbal. The friendship also grew strong off campus.

Gareth, a quiet man, is easily overlooked in a crowd if sitting down and if his hair is not done up in his Medusa braids. Being an electronic genius was the aftermath of his young father’s accidental death. His young waitress mother, Lorette Beasley, couldn’t afford a sitter, had no family able to help and against her better judgment accepted an obsolete computer, including accessories, from a married ex-boyfriend who may have been Gareth’s father. The bright, lonely four-year-old begged for the toy. Lorette worked around the corner from their small apartment at EAT FAST & WELL, a scruffy breakfast/lunch long and narrow hole-in-the-wall café that seated forty at the shared tables, eight at the counter and served the best food in Tennessee. The boss-owner, Little Sue, was large—in every direction—and strong; she was kettle-black, coordinated, married once and mother of two. Little Sue’s husband fathered her second child minutes before limping out of her house forever, holding his aching parts afraid they would never work again. He was a drinker and previous to that day she had shown an abundance of patience. He foolishly hit her … once.

Little Sue was a shield for her girls against aggressive men who wanted to play with a waitress. If a girl wanted to play she didn’t last longer than the play day. The girls who stayed and worked hard became young women with a decent wage, with benefits and they had the protection of Little Sue. No one messed with that lady to her face and everyone was equally disinclined to challenge her back—rumors of access to a roving hit squad kept people far to her back. The question of Little Sue’s contacts did not surface with her girls; they never asked and never talked about it among themselves. They were grateful for the work Little Sue offered in exchange for their best efforts and a little respect and they couldn’t have cared less about the lady’s acquaintances. Everyone in Nashville who knew her treated Little Sue like a lady, their reasons glaringly selfish: they wanted to be in good standing with the woman who cooked better than anyone’s mother, kept her prices affordable to those who worked for minimum wage and she lent money without interest if asked for properly. Little Sue’s customers were not always tax-paying community leaders but they all kept a close eye on Little Sue’s, the only business in the barrio that never had a brick through a window. No one ever walked in with the intention of walking out without paying.

When Gareth finally told Davis about Little Sue they had a good laugh. Gareth confided, She didn’t know any hit men. She started that rumor to protect her little gold mine. She was smart, that lady scared off anyone she didn’t like.

And you loved her!

She was family, man.

Gareth had no street crossings on the way to breakfast and lunch and his mom was frequently home for dinner. Filling in for others who wanted an extra day off and doing special catering work for Little Sue, Lorette was able to maintain a decent car and had funds to take him camping, to sports activities in the area and to cultural events in the city, including the Grand Ole Opry. Their family life was enjoyable and appreciated. With Little Sue in the background it was also safe. The computer became the sitter until Gareth went to school and the after-school sitter through elementary and Middle School. As far as he was concerned, his life was perfect … until New York and high school.

Gareth needed a lot of convincing when the retired NBA ex-boyfriend found the right posh New York high school, a relatively new one that was adding competitive sports to its curriculum, and he had the right kind of pull to get the boy an interview for the first annual athletic scholarship they offered that paid living and school expenses. Gareth wanted to stay in Nashville but the school saw he would be a decided asset in their efforts to gain income from a prestigious sports program and made him an offer his mother would not let him refuse. A little pocket money came from the school and from Lorette who overruled his offer to work after school or on weekends. She insisted he study after school, Saturdays were for play and study, and Sundays were for church and study. "You do not work, young man, until you get the kind of position God intends you to have."

The ex-boyfriend dropped by once in a while when in New York, watched him practice or play, sometimes played with him and Davis, took them to dinner, gave them pointers on how to improve their game and tricks they could perfect for the team of two within the five they already had en marcha. He chastised them for it until they finally told him why. Once he knew the why he insisted on giving Gareth an envelope when he visited. About half of the envelope’s contents went into the bank and by the time he finished high school Gareth had a tidy savings. Meanwhile, he could match generosity with the rich kids he knew at school.

He got caught short of cash once.

The basketball team decided after practice one evening to feed their raging hunger a few hamburgers on the way home. Davis preferred a quiet meal at home but when they invited Gareth he went along. Five of them, including Gareth and Davis piled into the Hummer of one of the boy’s and went to Friday’s on 7th Avenue, not where the rest of the team had decided to go. Gareth swallowed hard when he read the menu. The prices were not out of line; it was going to be the amount. He didn’t dare order too much less than the others and found he could juggle items and hence prices so as to appear to spend as much as the rest of them and eat about the same quantity. He had it all organized in his head when he realized three of the boys were ordering appetizers: Crispy Green Bean Fries, Fried Mozzarella, two orders of Pot Stickers, one of Tostada Nachos and BBQ Buffalo Wings, two plates of Jack Daniel’s Samplers and one of Southwest Chicken Quesadillas.

The appetizers completely covered the round table of the booth they had staked out. The Big Mouths had also ordered one Jack Daniel’s Burger and one Big Mex Burger for each of them.

Gareth kept up with the eating and tried to enjoy the food, which wasn’t all that good, and having been opened all day the place was looking uncomfortably squalid. He could feel the food knotting in his stomach and knew he was in for a bad stretch for a few days. By the time the hamburgers arrived he had to slow down so as not to antagonize his abused rebellious innards. He was not in the habit of overeating.

Three of the teammates had been raving about the food trying to draw him into their cheering section. He managed to refrain from their enthusiasm—it would have been a lie. During the hamburger devouring a seemingly playful game of elimination began to determine who paid the bill. Gareth was sensitive to what was happening and of course not surprised when the bill ended up in his hand.

He hoped he didn’t look as grim as the bill looked to him. He was sure the manager wouldn’t let him come back to pay the balance tomorrow. He could offer to wash dishes, which he was sure would not be possible and it would take about an hour to be all over school the next day. He couldn’t live with that. Also, he could not protest or renegotiate; the way the others had set it up made that impossible. Once he was out of that situation, he vowed to leave that snob school and the city he detested. Shame would keep him from telling his mother or the NBA substitute-dad why he could no longer stay. He could not recall a more painful moment in his whole life and knew he would never be in that circumstance again. He looked at the four white faces at the table with him and hated them in a way he had never hated before.

That was the moment Davis spilled his water, some of which landed on the seat between them. Gareth’s reflex was to look down to see if it would reach his clothes and saw Davis drop three $100.00 bills on the seat while wiping up the water with his napkin. Gareth was able to retrieve the money, unnoticed by the others, his eyes tearing from relief.

The trio was impressed when he didn’t pay with plastic. One of them said, Rutledge, you’re the only one around who pays cash."

Call the Feds, man? Something he had heard Sean say to his mother that he thought was funny.

They all laughed and headed for the door.

Once in front of Friday’s, Davis, the runt of the litter, said, Hey, I’m gonna walk home. Gotta walk some of this off, he said patting his stomach. Gareth, will you come with me? I need a big ugly black along for protection.

An embarrassing silence followed the deliberate racist remark, so out of character for Rutledge and the southern kid wasn’t bad looking. The three mumbled their goodnights and hurried off to find the Hummer discussing what they knew about Rutledge, not much, except a dim something about him not being one to mess with but they couldn’t remember why. Gareth hadn’t been around long enough to be anybody’s friend. They didn’t come up with answers on the way home but they all went to bed with vague feelings of not liking something of what happened that evening.

Gareth waited for Davis to start the conversation for the simple reason he had no idea what he should, would, could say. Davis indicated they head toward W. 50th for the walk to 1st Ave.

Do you know where the UN Complex is from here?

Yes.

We’ll go that way because I want you to know where I live, which is approximately 1st and E. 50th. It’s time you met my mother. She works for the UN, for the Junta actually. She’s their superspy and doesn’t trust anyone. That’s why she insists I carry $100.00 whenever I leave the house, just in case. It doesn’t matter the time of day or where I’m going she checks me on the way out to be sure I have it. Tonight I added a bit more because I know those dickheads, heard them yesterday talking about the possibility of the feed. They pick on new kids and it usually involves money because they never seem to have enough for whatever it is they do.

Gareth was relieved that Davis didn’t seem to expect gratitude for saving him and Davis was relieved that Gareth didn’t thank him profusely with promises to pay him back. Payback was the friendship both had been guarding; they would be sharing many things as well as money and the only score keeping between them would be on the basketball court. Their relationship became one of knowing what the other was thinking, where the ball was going next and whose jokes would amuse them.

Davis finally said as they were passing St Pat’s block, I have an idea. Wanna teach them a lesson?

Gareth was skeptical until Davis explained.

Always on the basketball court at the same time, Davis and Gareth stopped including those three players in the game. It was not evident since the three did not usually play at the same time; ignoring one was not like excluding three. It didn’t take the trio long to know what was happening and they knew why. After looking practically useless on the court they cornered Gareth and Davis to apologize. After which they were sometimes included.

Friendship was not part of Gareth’s early equation for New York. Until that night and even then he had doubts about where it could go when Davis had shown him where he lived before helping him find a taxi and said as he closed the door, When you meet my mother, don’t say wanna or gonna or you’ll have to listen to a forty-two minute lecture on the beauty of correct English diction. I do it in the street because it’s the only time I can get away with it.

Gareth tested that one only once.

If it had not been for his friendship with Davis and the open invitation for evenings, weekends and free time spent with Davis’s amusing pretty sister and his amusing crazy mother he might have tossed it all away and not stayed in New York. He had a strong early dislike of the North and New Yorkers especially. He missed the slower pace of the South and the folksy loquaciousness of its soft-speaking folk. He stayed, finished high school and refused the basketball scholarship to UCLA, the first step on the way to the Lakers. He went on to Columbia University, studied hard, spent time with Davis when he could and coached weekend basketball in the streets for whoever showed up to play. Davis went on to Oxford and the two of them made a tentative agreement for after university. They envisioned being on another team, a future team, that of the United Nations.

Lorette now has a lovely home on Long Island that has a flower and vegetable garden. She married UN Ambassador Ambyguye from Nigeria, a widower with two sons she met in New York while visiting Gareth. After his term as Ambassador, Ambyguye accepted an advisory-teaching position with the New York International Diplomatic School in order to stay in a place he had grown to appreciate. Another reason for staying was that uprooting his lovely new wife from Nashville to New York was one thing, Nashville to Abuja another. Lack of confidence in political stability of the homeland also threw its weight into his decision. One of his boys was a class ahead of Davis and Gareth the other one two classes behind. Fitzgerald’s shaking up of the school’s security system saved Gareth’s elder stepbrother from being kidnapped and possibly killed by an opposing political group from Nigeria.

Gareth was in demand when he finished Computer Science at Columbia. What they had to offer, besides degrees, was dessert for the twenty year feast with his toy. He put together several programs and a few popular video games for the big software companies, which made it possible for him to do what he wanted with his life, including putting together a colorful interesting electronic apartment, state of the art music equipment, a sports car heard from some distance in the streets, and he donates time to the UN for projects that interest him. Leaving him time for high-paid private tech work and to oversee a computer scholarship foundation for underprivileged kids.

He flashes occasionally on where he might be and what he might be doing if Davis had not unobtrusively dropped those bills where he could unobtrusively pick them up.

Antoine, one of Sean’s many younger cousins, completes the young Junta triumvirate that some call the Musketeers, others the Young Turks and a few refer to them as FSBs—fucking spoiled bastards.

Gareth and Antoine were the only ones at the compound besides Davis who knew what P-TOS (PROJECT-TRIAL OF SILENCE) was about before ground breaking. They had both met Justin and Antoine had been to his home once with Davis. The three of them work in a way that raises eyebrows—sometimes hackles—of the more formal UN employees. They don’t mind. They are as serious as anyone when it gets down to it. ‘Nothing wrong with enjoying your work,’ Davis’s great-grandmother, Lila Stuart, had always said. Still says it. Having an in with the power echelon at the UN—the Junta—did nothing to make them humble. In spite of that the young men were primarily well-liked because, while sure of themselves and enjoying what they did, they were not arrogant, intrusive or crude, more like hunger-satisfied playful cub bears.

Davis left the jury room before they finished—the helicopter bringing his assistant was on approach. He instructed the pilot to make it a front door delivery—brutal heat outside—announcing that the troops can wait to chase the plastic grass until the day cools off.

He took his time leaving the building, didn’t want to be in the sun longer than necessary. The chopper was surrounded by alerted troops as the assistant climbed out, then hands in the air, smiling bravely at fifty loaded M16A4 assault rifles pointing at her. Davis forgot to inform General Hunt the staff would be landing close to the building.

Is there anything else you haven’t told me?

Davis was slow to answer, studying the angry man who reminded him of a turkey: long pointed bent nose, glasses sitting down on it, a high thin forehead with a tuft of black hair sticking up, cut short to the skin on the sides. The man had a small mouth with thin lips and smiled less than Colonel Pick, even less than General Holbrook. Davis was thinking that perhaps he should have taken Iris up on the offer to replace the general.

If there is, I reckon I’ll tell you when I recollect it.

Corrupting his western-born great-grandmother’s speech habits came in handy to maintain his sense of self among the humorless. He was not there to make points with the serious general. Davis gave him his back and signaled the chopper to lift off, leaving Roseanne alone with her duffel bag, chestnut hair blowing in her face and dust blinding them all. Davis caught her in a bear hug. He didn’t remember that she was so small but then he had never held her before.

It’s been a long time, Roseanne.

Good to see you, Davis. Missed you … at Headquarters.

She looked away quickly. He hasn’t been around HQ for years. Let’s get out of the heat.

He picked up the bag she had dropped quickly for the hug and they entered the building. The armed troops scattered to their assigned chores some to find the false grass. Davis may have been willing to let them wait for less heat, General Hunt was not.

Inside, the difference in temperature made Roseanne catch her breath.

Feel like I need a sweater.

You’ll get used to it. No, you won’t. None of us will be here that long. After the trial even I’ll be able to leave … at last. Stairs or stairs? he said aloud.

Stairs … I suppose. Said as if that’s what he wanted to hear; she was staring at the elevators. Five minutes in that heat takes away any small desire to move.

Those elevators go directly to the dining room.

She studied the distance from elevators to mezzanine and said a bit impatiently, I can see they don’t connect to the mezzanine.

Glad to hear that! He gave her his version of his mother’s sweet smile with his silent thought, which gave Roseanne pause, a familiar smile she was unable to place. You first, he said.

At the spiral stairs Davis waited until she was more than his height ahead of him, to prevent being kicked in the face. She waited for him at the landing.

First door around the corner. He indicated to the right then felt silly; to the left would mean jumping off the mezzanine. The door was unlocked and she was ignoring the king-sized bed when he entered. This is my room. I wanted you to see it because we may have staff meetings here.

A large room—double compared to the other mezzanine rooms—with conspicuous leavings of Maya: Hawaiian sunset mural behind the headboard, a large photo of her on a nightstand, the bedspread Hawaiian tapa cloth. The room was tidy, bed made, unusual for a single man, at least from Roseanne’s observation of male friends and lovers’ apartments she’d been in. There was a computer corner where the monitor was obviously connected to the closed-circuit TV because she could see the entry and some movement there.

Room for everyone. She didn’t mean to be looking at the bed when saying that.

Yeah, but it gets crowded when the kitchen crew finally goes to bed.

She didn’t know which way to jump, he looked so serious. It was funny. She tried a false chuckle then hurried to the window overlooking the foyer. "I didn’t expect this … looks like wall from out