Invasion USA (19 page)

Spinelli was up again. “Objection! Again, this is irrelevant, and on top of that, no one has proven that this so-called M-15 gang even exists, let alone that it was responsible for any of the crimes that took place in Sierrita County.”

“Counselor, you're not going to get anywhere insulting my intelligence by arguing that M-15 doesn't exist,” Judge Malone said. He turned to Tom. “But you should confine your answers to matters of fact, Mr. Brannon, not speculation. How do you know M-15 is to blame for what's happened in your town?”

“My wife was there at the SavMart Massacre, Your Honor—”

“Objection! Use of the word massacre is inflammatory and prejudicial—”

“There's no jury here, Ms. Spinelli,” Malone said, “and I'm neither inflamed nor prejudiced by the word. Both of your objections are overruled.” He turned back to Tom. “What were you saying about your wife, Mr. Brannon?”

“Just that she was there, Your Honor. She heard the men who killed all those people in SavMart say that they were part of M-15.”

Spinelli started to stand up, but Eggleston put a hand on her arm and held her down. He lumbered to his feet instead and said quietly, “Objection, Your Honor. That's hearsay.”

Tom's lawyer said, “Mrs. Brannon is in the courtroom. I can put her on the stand if you'd like.”

“That still wouldn't prove anything, Your Honor,” Eggleston said. “Just because Mrs. Brannon heard one of the criminals claim to be from M-15 doesn't mean that they were. I could claim to be from the moon, but obviously I'm not.”

“You're arguing in circles, counselor . . . but you're right about the hearsay. I'll sustain the objection. You may have reason to believe the perpetrators were members of M-15, Mr. Brannon, but you can't state it as a fact.”

“Yes, sir, Your Honor . . . but folks act on what they believe to be true all the time, don't they? What else can they do?”

Malone's bushy eyebrows raised as he stared at Tom. After a few seconds he nodded to the lawyer and said, “Go ahead, counselor.”

For the next few minutes, in response to his lawyer's questions, Tom laid out the tragic events of the past few weeks, including the deaths of Burton Minnow and Madison Wheeler, the robbery of the Little Tucson Savings Bank and the shooting of Deputy Fred Kelso, and the kidnapping and rape of Carla May Willard. The team of ACLU lawyers didn't waste their breath objecting. Judge Malone already knew about all of this, anyway. Everybody in the state did. It had been impossible to escape the news coverage.

“So we had a community meeting and decided to try to do something about it,” Tom concluded. “That's when and where the Patriot Project was born.”

Malone asked a question of his own. “Was it your idea?”

“Yes, sir, Your Honor. I remembered reading about the Minuteman Project from several years ago, and I thought something like that might work again. I thought we ought to keep it on a smaller, more local level, though. We've succeeded in that. All of our volunteers are from Sierrita County, and they're good, solid citizens.”

Tom's lawyer started to say something, but Judge Malone stopped him with an upraised hand. He looked squarely at Tom and said, “Mr. Brannon, tell me again exactly what you and your people have been doing out there, and how you go about it.”

Tom nodded and launched into a detailed description of the patrol activities, this time without any leading questions from Spinelli. When he was finished, Malone asked, “You carry guns?”

“Yes, sir, but we haven't had to use them. They're strictly for self-defense.”

“None of your people have fired a shot?”

“No, sir.”

“What about other violence? You beat up these immigrants before you throw them back across the border?”

“We haven't thrown anybody anywhere, Your Honor. We walk or drive with them to the border and watch them go back across. That's all we do. Nobody's lifted a hand to them.”

Spinelli couldn't restrain herself. She stood up and said, “That we know of, Your Honor. It's entirely possible that these vigilantes have killed and buried any number of immigrants. There could be a mass grave out there—”

Tom's lawyer started shouting an objection. Spinelli yelled back at him. Malone lifted his gavel and banged it on the bench until everyone fell silent. He looked at Tom and asked, “You want to answer that accusation, Mr. Brannon?”

“It's a lie, Your Honor,” Tom said tightly as he struggled to keep his own temper under control. “I give you my word that there's been no violence involving our patrols. That's all I can do.”

Malone nodded.

“And one more thing,” Tom added. “The people we've been turning back . . . they're not just immigrants. They're
illegal
immigrants. They're breaking the laws of this country, laws that we're just trying to enforce.”

Spinelli was still on her feet. “You just don't want any more Mexicans coming in!” she blazed at him. “You're nothing but a damned bigot!”

Malone's gavel slammed down. “Ms. Spinelli!” he thundered. “I know you feel strongly about this, but I'm very close to holding you in contempt of court!”

Eggleston grabbed Spinelli's arm and pulled her down into her chair as he got up. “We apologize, Your Honor,” he said quickly. “We have nothing but the highest respect for the dignity of this court.”

“Then sit down and shut up. And that goes double for you, Ms. Spinelli.” Malone looked at Tom's lawyer. “Do you have anything further, counselor?”

“No, Your Honor.”

Malone turned a baleful gaze on the ACLU table. “What about you?”

Eggleston shook his head and said, “Uh, no, Your Honor.”

“Then I've heard enough. We'll take a ten minute recess to let things cool off, and then I'll make my ruling. Mr. Brannon, you can step down.”

Tom was glad to get off the hot seat. After everyone had risen and the judge had left the courtroom, he sat down again at the defense table and took a deep breath. Bonnie leaned over the railing and put a hand on his shoulder. “You did fine, Tom, just fine,” she said.

“I just told the truth.”

“That's always the best defense, isn't it?”

Tom glanced at Spinelli and Eggleston and the other ACLU attorneys. With people like that infesting the legal system, he wasn't sure the truth had much real meaning anymore, as much as he would have liked to believe otherwise.

The ten-minute recess stretched out to more like fifteen. Finally, the judge returned, and when everyone was seated again, Malone began by saying, “I don't believe in vigilante justice. This is a nation of laws, and we have a system in place for enforcing those laws that doesn't include private citizens. That should be sufficient to deal with any problem.”

Tom's heart sank.

“But sometimes it isn't,” Malone went on. “Sometimes there are extraordinary circumstances that force private citizens to become involved in the justice system. That is the foundation of the concept known as the citizen's arrest.”

That gave Tom a little hope. He leaned forward in his chair as Malone paused and cleared his throat.

The judge resumed, “If you had told me that a group of private citizens could go out and enforce our immigration laws without breaking any laws themselves or depriving people of their civil rights, I wouldn't have believed it. And yet in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, I'm forced to conclude that the Patriot Project is doing just that. Therefore—and understand, I say this reluctantly—the motion for a temporary restraining order is denied.” He smacked the gavel down. “This court is adjourned.”

The uproar was immediate. Spinelli shouted, “But Your Honor, the potential for abuse here—”

“I can't rule on potential, counselor, only facts. And I said this court is adjourned!”

Bonnie, Tom's lawyers, and several friends gathered around him. Bonnie hugged him while the others slapped him on the back and congratulated him. “You won, Tom!” Bonnie said excitedly. “I knew you would.”

Tom smiled tiredly. He had found the whole ordeal draining and hoped he would never have to set foot in a courtroom again. He glanced toward the doors, where the reporters who had been in the audience were rushing out to file their stories. Someone pushed past them, coming into the courtroom, and Tom was surprised to see that it was Buddy Gorman. Buddy looked at him . . .

And from the grief and horror that he saw in his old friend's eyes, Tom suddenly knew that he hadn't won at all. He hadn't won a damned thing.

19

The blood was everywhere. Even though he had believed he was too numb with shock to feel anything else, the sight of his parents' blood splashed around the living room of the house where he'd grown up sent Tom Brannon reeling like a fist to the gut. He staggered and might have fallen, but Buddy Gorman was right beside him, and the sheriff's strong right hand closed around Tom's arm and held him up.

At least the bodies were no longer here. They had already been removed by the coroner and taken to the morgue in the county hospital. The fact that Tom didn't have to see with his own eyes how his mother and father had been butchered was scant consolation, but at least it was something.

“Come on back outside, Tom,” Buddy said quietly beside him. “I told you you didn't need to come in here.”

“I . . . I had to see it for myself,” Tom choked out. “I had to see
that!”

He lifted a shaking hand and pointed to the words scrawled in blood on the living room wall.

Tom allowed Buddy to turn him around and steer him out of this chamber of horrors. They went out onto the porch, where a wooden swing hung from chains attached to the roof overhang. Tom's legs felt weak. He sank gratefully onto the swing. Buddy sat down beside him.

“We got an anonymous call telling us to come out here,” Buddy said after a moment of silence. “I wasn't in the office, of course. I'd gone up to Tucson, to the courthouse. I got one of those damn subpoenas, too. Dusty took the call and sent Francisco out here. He radioed for an ambulance and back-up right away, but . . . it was too late.”

“What happened?” Tom grated out. “You were here before they were taken away. What happened to them, Buddy?”

“I don't think there's any reason to go into detail—”

“Damn it, I have to know!”

Buddy took a deep breath. “Well . . . I reckon your mother answered the door. They bulled their way in—”

“How many?”

“Lauren found some footprints in . . . well, in the blood . . . and says she got five different right shoe prints. So we figure there were five of them.”

“To handle a couple of people in their eighties.” Disgust joined the grief in Tom's voice.

“Yeah, those M-15 boys are some brave sons o' bitches, that's for sure.”

Tom wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Go on.”

“From the looks of things, your dad tried to fight them, but they shot him. A shotgun blast right to the chest. Had to have killed him instantly. He went down fighting, Tom, but there probably wasn't much pain. Knowing Herb, he was probably cussin' 'em for all he was worth, too.”

Tom nodded. “I expect so. And Mom . . . ?”

“Another shotgun blast,” Buddy said. “They didn't . . . I mean . . . there was no sign that they tried to . . .”

“I know what you're trying to say.”

“Yeah.”

Tom turned his head, as if to look back over his shoulder and through the wall to the blood-splattered living room. “Two shotgun blasts wouldn't have caused that much blood,” he said.

“No. They, uh . . . they used knives . . . machetes, maybe, from the looks of the wounds, Lauren said . . .”

“They chopped my folks to pieces.”

“After they were dead, Tom,” Buddy said. “You got to remember that. Your mom and dad were already gone when it happened.”

“Then they used some of the blood to write that warning on the wall.”

Buddy nodded. “That's the way we've got it figured.”

Tom clasped his hands together and stared out at the small yard in front of the ranch house. He had played there as a kid. He had ridden his bicycle up and down the dirt road that led to the highway. He had sat in this very swing with his mother beside him, a book open in her lap as she read to him. Over there on the porch steps, he had sat with his father and learned how to whittle and listened to the yarns that Herb had loved to spin . . .

Tears welled up in his eyes as he said, “This is my fault.”

“What? Hell, no, Tom—”

“You told me more than a week ago that
Mara Salvatrucha
likes to strike back at their enemies through their families. I knew right from the start that I needed to get Mom and Dad out of here. I said something to them about it more than once.”

“We all know how stubborn Herb was,” Buddy said. “And your mom wouldn't go against his wishes.”

“Yeah, well, I could have marched in here, picked him up, and carried him out. He couldn't have stopped me.”

“Don't be too sure about that. He was a mighty tough old bird.”

Tom gazed down at the porch. “Still my fault . . .”

Buddy suddenly shot to his feet, unable to contain his anger. “Goddamn it, Tom!” he shouted. “You know whose fault this really is?” He pointed toward the living room. “It's the fault of the bastards who
did
it, that's who! The same evil sons o' bitches who've been murdering our friends and neighbors and getting away with it! That's who's to blame!”

Tom didn't say anything. He kept staring at the porch floor for a long moment and then finally lifted his head to look at his old friend. He stood up and started down the steps.

“Where are you goin'?” Buddy asked.

“Home.”

“That's a good idea. Bonnie's there, and that's where you should've gone to start with. I told you it wouldn't do any good to come out here.”

“Going to get my guns,” Tom said without looking around.

Buddy frowned, gave a little shake of his head, and then hurried after him. He grabbed Tom's arm and pulled him around. “What did you say?”

“That I'm going to get my guns,” Tom answered dully. “You're right, Buddy, at least part of the way. I still think I bear some of the blame for this, but most of it belongs to M-15. I'm going to Nogales to settle the score with them.”

“Nogales!”

“That's where their headquarters is, from everything I've heard and read about them.”

“So what're you gonna do?” Buddy asked. “Just march across the border loaded for bear and start asking everybody you see where to find M-15?”

“If I start asking questions, I'm willing to bet that they'll find me.”

Buddy's eyes narrowed. “And it never occurred to you that's exactly what they're hoping you'll do?”

Tom's jaw tightened. “You mean this wasn't really a warning? They killed my parents just to bait a trap for me?”

“It could be that way,” Buddy said. “A warning, if that's the way you took it, and bait if it's not.”

“I can't just—” Tom looked toward the house and shuddered. “—ignore this.”

“Nobody's askin' you to. But you can't go charging into Nogales with guns blazing like the Lone Ranger, either.”

“Then . . .” Tom's voice broke. “Then what can I do?”

“Go home,” Buddy said gently. “Go home to your wife, and the two of you hold on to each other as tight as you can for a while. Forget about the Patriot Project and everything else. Get some rest. Let things sort themselves out for a day or two.” He paused. “Let
me
sort some things out.”

Tom's eyes narrowed. “You? What are you talking about, Buddy?”

“I'm still the sheriff of Sierrita County, you know. This is my jurisdiction, and it's my job to investigate this crime.”

“What can you do? The bastards are long gone.”

“As a law enforcement official, I just might have some resources available to me that you don't, Tom. Let me look into it, all right?”

Tom frowned and rubbed a hand over his close-cropped hair. “Bonnie would pitch a fit if I went down to Mexico right now.”

“Damn right she would.”

“I guess . . . I guess you're right, Buddy. I'll go home.”

“You're not just telling me that so I'll leave you alone, are you? Got any plans to sneak off and head down there later?”

Tom grimaced and shook his head. “No, you've got my word on it.”

Buddy nodded emphatically and said, “That's good enough for me. Come on, now. I'll give you a ride, get you through the mob of reporters.”

“Lord, is this ever going to end?” Tom muttered under his breath.

“It'll end. We'll get through it, and one way or another, it'll end. Good people won't stand for this. You'll see, Tom. This is the beginning of the end for M-15.”

Tom wished with all his heart that he could believe that. But as he glanced back at the house where two good people had met an untimely and unholy end, he wasn't sure.

Maybe this was one time when the good guys weren't going to win.

 

 

Buddy Gorman was as weary as he'd ever been in his life when he walked into the sheriff's office after dropping off Tom at the Brannon's house. He could trust Bonnie to look after his old friend and keep him from doing anything foolish. At least, Buddy hoped that was the case.

He stopped just inside the door, a frown creasing his forehead as he saw who was waiting for him.

Agents Ford and Berry stood up from the straight-backed wooden chairs just inside the door, in front of the wooden railing that divided the public part of the office from the section for authorized personnel only. Both of the FBI agents wore sunglasses, even though they were inside a building. Buddy wondered if that was part of their training at Quantico.

“Sheriff Gorman,” Ford said, “we heard about what happened to Brannon's parents. Is there anything we can do to assist you in the investigation?”

“Murder's a state crime, not a federal one,” Buddy said tightly.

“That's true, but if there's an indication that the crime was committed by foreign nationals—”

“Nobody said there was.”

Berry said, “There are rumors that M-15 was behind it, that a warning was left for Brannon to back off on what he's been doing.”

“The sheriff's office isn't going to comment on any rumors.”

“Come on, Sheriff,” Ford said impatiently. “You know very well that this matter is too big for you to handle. You need to turn it over to us—”

“So you can bury it,” Buddy cut in, “the way you've tried to bury everything else M-15 has done down here?”

“Why would we do that?” Berry asked angrily. “We're law enforcement officers, too, damn it. Why would we want a bunch of killers to get away with their crimes?”

“Because it makes your bosses in the Justice Department and
their
boss in the White House look bad to have the border so open that killers can go back and forth without any trouble. You'd rather sweep it all under the rug so that the rest of the country will forget about it, rather than doing the hard work of actually putting a stop to it.”

“You can't be talking about closing the border,” Ford said.

“No, that wouldn't work at all, would it?” Buddy said scathingly. “If the border were closed, then all the businesses in Texas and Arizona and California that rely on illegal immigrants for their work force would be out of luck, wouldn't they? Those businesses represent a lot of campaign contributions for politicians on both sides of the aisle, not to mention the one in the White House. She can talk all she wants to about feeling sorry for the illegals and wanting them to have a better life, but we know it's all bullshit. It's all about the money. It always is.”

Both of the agents glared at Buddy as he concluded his angry remarks. But at the same time they looked uncomfortable, and he knew his words had hit home. He was right—the federal government didn't really care about the people of southern Arizona. The bureaucrats just wanted the whole thing to go away so it wouldn't be an embarrassment for them anymore.

That wasn't going to happen. Not while Buddy Gorman was the sheriff of Sierrita County.

He stepped past them, through the gate in the railing. “You'll have to excuse me,” he said curtly. “I've got work to do.”

“You'd better reconsider, Sheriff,” Berry said.

“I don't think so.”

Buddy stalked past the dispatcher's desk. Dusty gave him a big grin. Lauren was at her desk over in the corner, going over some reports, and she was smiling, too. They had enjoyed being on hand for Buddy's reaming-out of the FBI agents.

Buddy went into his office and shut the door. He sat down behind the desk, and a moment later a knock sounded on the door. “Come in,” he said, knowing that it couldn't be Ford or Berry. The agents would have left by now, both of them steaming.

Lauren came in carrying a sheaf of papers. “Here are the preliminary forensics reports, Buddy. I picked up a few fingerprints, but nothing that matches so far.”

“I'm not surprised. Most of those M-15s have never been arrested over here on this side of the border.”

“We might get something back from Mexico or Guatemala or El Salvador in a few days.”

“Or we might not.”

Lauren shrugged and admitted, “We might not.”

Buddy nodded toward the desk. “Just leave the reports. I'll look at 'em later.” He added, “And thanks for all your hard work, Lauren.”

“No problem, boss.” She hesitated. “How's Mr. Brannon doing?”

Buddy shook his head. “Not good. He thinks it's his fault, and I had to talk him out of going down to Nogales to shoot up the place.”

“He would have just gotten himself killed.”

“Yeah.”