America Rising (10 page)

The voice was all flint now.

“But if you do not comply with these conditions, Mr. Chalmers, if you violate them in even the tiniest, most insignificant way, we will cut you open and bleed you dry. You saw what we are capable of today. Don’t take my words lightly.

The conversational tone returned.

“Someone will be in to take you to your limousine shortly, but before you leave we have one more small piece of business to conduct. You see that card to your left? The one you thought about picking up earlier? Please turn it over.”

Edwin Chalmers reached out and with artless fingers lifted the plain white paper and turned its face to his. He read the single word, printed in big black letters, then a low, keening sound rose in his throat and he buried his face on the desk and wept like a baby.

T
he day I feared most was fast approaching. For Carolyn and me, Christmas had been a joyous occasion. Commercialism, crowded malls, annoying music made no dent in our giddy good spirits. We’d made it our own personal holiday and let the various indignities of the season roll right off our backs.

This first Christmas without Carolyn, though, was agony squared, compounded by grief and multiplied by guilt. A certain song or Christmas decoration or even a cheesy commercial would make me choke up and clench my jaw and fight for self-control. To keep from being a weepy basket case I intended to stay as busy as possible, working the Armando Guiterrez angle, doing odd jobs around the house, fishing and kayaking and sampling the fine selection of craft beers at Pilot House.

As it turned out, I needn’t have worried.

* * *

I was hacking dead palm fronds in the front yard when Jeff O’Neill called. Jeff was the sort-of boss of Public Interest. I say “sort of” because journalists react to corporate structures like cats do to a spray of scalding water—we make a lot of noise and run like hell. Since all of us were either working part time for a pittance or full time for a slightly larger pittance, we were even less amenable to taking direction. But someone has to steer the bus and Jeff did a damn good job. Thankfully, he dismissed with Christmas pleasantries and got right to it.

“We’re looking pretty solid in all the big cities,” he said. “We just added another guy in Miami, two more in New York and L.A., and we now have a presence in Cleveland, Denver, Philly and Atlanta. I’ve talked it over with everyone and we’d like you to be our national correspondent. A rover, if you will.” He gave a gruff chuckle. “There’s no more money in it for you but we can cover your expenses, some of them, anyway. And, you know, there is the
prestige.”

Jeff always did have a sense of humor.

“Prestige. Will that and a dollar buy me a cup of coffee?”

“I don’t know where you buy your coffee down there,” Jeff said. “But here in New York it’ll cost you three dollars. What do you say?”

This one was easy. “Yes.”

“Good. For your first assignment I want you to go see Julie Teichner, the woman in Ohio whose neighbors faced down the cops trying to evict her. She had her fifteen minutes after the video went viral but, as they say, that was then and this is now. You know the drill. Give me an update—how things have shaken out, what effects the whole thing had, where do she and her neighbors go from here. Write it up, shoot some video and get it back fast. I think it would be a terrific Christmas post. Sound good to you?”

“It does. And thanks, Jeff.”

“Thanks? For what? I just got you to do a buttload more work on your own dime.”

“There is that.”

I got hold of Julie that afternoon and set up an interview for the day after tomorrow. I got a plane ticket and a hotel room, then headed back outside to finish whacking palm fronds. I hadn’t made it to the door when the phone trilled again. I thought it might be Jeff so I picked it up.

“Hello, Josh? Is this Josh Henson?”

Oh, shit.

“Hi, Marilyn. Yeah, it’s me. Are you okay? Has the Shit—, I mean, has Gutierrez been bothering you? How’s Gaby?”

“That’s why I’m calling. I’ve been doing a little detective work.”

Double shit

“Well, snooping, really. And I overheard the Shitheel saying something I thought you should know.”

“What do you mean, ‘overheard’? Dammit, Marilyn, that guy is dangerous. You stay away from him, you hear me? And let me know if he starts bothering you. If anything happens to you I’ll never forgive myself.”

“You’re an awful worrywart for a young man, you know that, Josh? And lissen, I’ma get my gat ‘n’ do dat fool if he mess wit’ me.”

“Marilyn,
please.
Stop talking like that. You sound like a goddam cartoon.”

“Aw, I’m just funnin’ wit’ cha.”

I could only laugh. She was hopeless.

“Okay, sorry. Anyway, I was listening at the Shitheel’s door last night. He and Gaby got into a big argument. She said she was going to leave him and he was yelling at her, calling a bitch and whore and that horrible c-word.”

“Did he hit her?”

“No, but he sure sounded like he wanted to. He was banging on the furniture so loud that somebody called security and they sent one of the guards to tell him to pipe down. But what I wanted to tell you was, when she said was going to leave Miami and move in with her sister in North Carolina, he said, You better not. I’m going to go take care of one bitch and when I get back I’m going to take care of you too. A couple minutes later the guard showed up and told me to go back to my apartment. I offered to let him borrow the highball glass I was using to listen through the door but he got all snotty about it so I told him to go fuck himself.”

Actually, she was beyond hopeless. I had to wonder if Melvin really did expire from natural causes. I’d have thrown myself off their twenty-first-floor balcony.

“Marilyn, you’ve got to promise you won’t do any more ‘detective work,’ okay? And don’t be giving the security guards a bad time; this is Miami, they’ve got enough crazy people to deal with. Now, did Gutier— Ah, what the hell. Did the Shitheel say anything about who he was going to take care of? Or where?”

“Not really. But right before the snotty guard got there he was trying to make nice and said something about how if she’d promise to stay and not always make him so angry when he came back they’d really let the good times roll. I don’t know if that means anything but maybe you could do some investigating, like those Woodman and Burnside people.”

Sigh.

“That’s Woodward and Bernstein, Marilyn. And, yeah, I’ll look into it. But no more detecting now, right? If you promise to stay away from the Shitheel and not tell the security guards to go fuck themselves, next time I’m in town I’ll take you someplace for a nice dinner. That sound okay?”

“That be jake, dawg.”

“Goodbye, Marilyn.”

* * *

I was sitting in the Miami airport, waiting for my flight to Ohio and my interview with Julie Teichner. It was, of course, delayed, and the only free seats were directly in front of a wall-mounted television spewing CNN at jackhammer volume. There was no way to avoid the report on a woman I’d seen on TV just a few weeks earlier.

“AnnaLynn Conté is the director of SayNo.org,” a plasticine young reporter was saying, “a left-wing group that claims several million members. It advises people to fight foreclosure or walk away from their mortgages. It has also launched a campaign called ‘Starve the Beasts,’ an attempt to pressure business and government by recruiting people not to pay their bills for the entire month of July. At a press conference yesterday, President Elias termed SayNo’s efforts ‘scurrilous’ and ‘an attempt to break the bonds of trust between business, government and the people.’ How do you respond, Ms. Conté?”

AnnaLynn Conté cocked her head as if she wasn’t quite sure of what she’d just heard.

“‘Bonds of trust between business, government and the people’?” she repeated incredulously. “What bonds are those? Any bonds that might have existed were broken a long time ago, long before there even was a SayNo. As for ‘scurrilous,’ I’ll take that as a compliment. And since neither banks nor the government have seen fit to help people in danger of losing their homes, we have added another service.

“We call it ‘Save Yourself, Save Your Home.’ We have agreements with attorneys in forty-six states who will work
pro bono
with people facing foreclosure. If you want to hand your home’s keys back to the bank, they will advise you on all applicable laws and represent you in any legal actions. We also offer a limited amount of financial assistance and counseling. If you want to fight foreclosure, our attorneys will make sure all laws are followed down to the tiniest detail. They will represent you in any mediation hearings and in court. It’s a sad fact that if the American people want social and economic justice, they will have to grab it and take it.”

“That campaign may already be having an effect,” the reporter segued smoothly as the camera cut away from AnnaLynn to a large Southern-style home with a columned porch and neatly manicured lawn. “In this neighborhood alone, only a few miles from SayNo’s downtown New Orleans offices, at least two-dozen families are. . .”

I’d already stopped listening as the connections began falling in place. Marilyn’s phone call. Armando Gutierrez. Take care of one bitch. Let the good times roll. As a theory it was pretty goddam slim. Anorexic, even. But I would go with it. I looked up SayNo’s phone number, played my reporter’s card and asked to speak to AnnaLynn Conté. She didn’t sound particularly anxious to talk to me but I plunged in anyway.

“Ms. Conté, My name is Josh Henson; I’m a reporter with Public Interest. I’ve been working a story that may involve you and your organization. I don’t mean to be an alarmist but I think you and your staff could be in imminent personal danger.”

I ran it down from the beginning: Eldrick Brown, Armando Gutierrez. The years’-long campaign of political violence and intimidation. My snooping around at Gutierrez’s condo, the phone call from Marilyn Kravitz. She listened patiently, not interrupting, but not quite convinced either. I gave it one last try.

“I know it sounds far-fetched, Ms. Conté. But I know that Armando Gutierrez was involved in the murder of Eldrick Brown and that he’s part of a group that for years has traveled around the country targeting people and organizations like yours. With your high profile and the position SayNo is gaining on the national stage, I think it’s entirely possible he’s targeting you next.”

AnnaLynn Conté was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “I believe what you’re saying, Josh, and I’m not questioning your sincerity. But we’ve had break-ins and run-ins with loonies before and none of them have stopped us from doing our jobs. This Gutierrez and whoever he works for won’t either. So while I appreciate your concern, I don’t see there’s much we can do except deal with the situation when and if it arises. And, please, stop calling me ‘Ms. Conté.’ It makes me feel a hundred years old.”

I could appreciate that. I never felt much like a “Mister” either.

“Okay, AnnaLynn. Look, I’m not suggesting you fold up your tent and go home. All I’m saying is take some reasonable precautions. Back up your data somewhere off-site where a thug like Gutierrez can’t get to. Ramp up security at your office. Get something for your personal protection and be aware of your surroundings. These people are serious, and you’ve got to take them seriously.”

“Alright, already, Josh.” She was getting impatient now. “I’ll take your advice. I promise. I’ve still got my dad’s old deer rifle. I used to go hunting with him every year until I turned eighteen and became a vegetarian.” She chuckled at the memory. “That didn’t last long. I’ve never been able to resist a thick, juicy steak.”

That seemed to break the ice.

“Me neither,” I said. “Tell you what, next time I’m in town I’ll take you out for one. Anyplace you like. And a bottle of Bordeaux. Deal?”

“Deal. Now I really do have to go, Josh. Thanks for the warning.”

“Don’t mention it,” I said. And when I hung up, I wondered why I really did.

M
y flight to Akron was only four hours late, the usual airline comedy of errors, though not especially funny. I called Julie a little after 9 p.m. to reschedule for tomorrow but she insisted I come over now. She sounded hyper and jittery, a combination of too much coffee and nervous energy. I was feeling hyper and jittery myself; three slugs of
café cubano
while killing time at the Miami airport will do that to you.

I picked up my rental car and thanks to cold but clear weather and an utter disregard of posted speed limits made it to Julie’s house in under an hour. Her neighborhood seemed deserted. Half the streetlamps were out. On some blocks almost all the houses were dark; only a few spilled dim light through tightly drawn curtains.

Julie met me at the door wearing jeans and a loose sweater, her blondish hair tied in a ponytail. She was small and trim and what women would describe as “cute,” though there were bags under her eyes you could have carried groceries in and her nails were split and bitten. She looked to have aged well past her thirty-five years in the weeks since the YouTube video of her home’s defense went viral and she joined the ranks of instant celebrities.