Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Page 4
Charlie whips her head around to face me with a look of disbelief on her face. “What do you mean Buell is dead?” Her eyebrows are scrunched together and her eyes are drilling holes into mine. I can feel the immediate tension in her body.
“Wasn’t he shot at a rally in Houston? Wasn’t he killed?”
“Oh,” she relaxes. “No. You freaked me out. He’s alive.”
“But I thought…”
“No,” she lays her head back down. “He was hit in the shoulder. He was hurt bad but he lived. He’s already out of the hospital and campaigning again. He’s got this huge sling on his arm. It was on the news this morning.”
“Wow, I’m glad he’s not dead. Do they know who did it?”
“Yeah,” Charlie bites at the stub of a nail on her index finger. “A guy who is part of the Texas Independence movement. He has a website dedicated to secession.”
“What?” Secession? Is that the connection?
“Some guy with a website who talks about Texas seceding from the United States. He thinks Buell would be a federal lapdog if he gets elected.”
“So…?”
“So he shot Buell.” She pats my stomach with her hand. “You really were out of the loop.”
“Guess so,” I said, only half listening to her as she talks about her policy struggles on the Capitol floor.
Secession. The iPods. My boss. My treacherous trips. I need to get some sleep so I can more clearly process all of this.
First thing in the morning I have work to do.
***
Charlie mumbles goodbye to me as I snake my body out from under hers on the sofa. I kiss her on the head. I want to stay with her, but know I can’t.
“Going for a run?” she asks groggily through her fog.
“Something like that,” I mumble.
I slip on some khakis, a Kinky Friedman T-shirt, and a pair of comfortable Merrell shoes. I grab my backpack and trot down the stairs to the sidewalk. My back still aches and I have to slow my pace. I walk a few blocks to the McDonald’s on MLK north of the Capitol and order a coffee. It’s a little out of the way, but it’s a lot cheaper than Starbucks and equally good. I grab a seat in a beige plastic booth and pull my netbook from the backpack. I pop open the screen and connect to the free Wi-Fi network, then pull a set of ear buds from the backpack and pop them in my ears.
I go to Google and type DON CARLOS BUELL SHOOTER.
A series of recent news articles fill the screen. I move the cursor to VIDEO and click. A new list appears; the first link is from Channel 4 in Houston, the same station that carried the shooting, so I click it.
My netbook’s processor isn’t the best around. It takes a few seconds to load the new page with a large video player in the middle of the screen. The caption beneath the player reads, RIPLEY DENIES SHOOTING GUBERNATORIAL CANDIDATE.
I press the play button, hit the full screen tab, and wait for the video to buffer. There are two anchors on the screen. I vaguely recognize the woman. She’s blonde and older than I remember her. The man speaks first.
“Our top story tonight on 4 News is an exclusive interview with the man charged with trying to assassinate gubernatorial candidate Don Carlos Buell.”
“4 News reporter George Townsend,” the woman anchor cut in, “sat down with suspect Roswell Ripley for his first televised interview since being arrested hours after the shooting. He joins us live from outside the Harris County jail downtown. George?”
The reporter is standing in front of the jail, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His tie is knotted but loosened, a contrived look to make it appear he’s been working hard, gathering the news. He has thick blonde hair he parts to the side and wears round, frameless eyeglasses. He looks tall, though that’s always hard to tell on television without a frame of reference. People always told me I looked heavier and shorter on T.V. I never knew how to respond.
“Roswell Ripley says he’s being framed. He says he’s a target of the federal government and the liberal media and he had nothing to do with the attempted assassination of Don Carlos Buell.” The reporter stands still for a moment, holding his position until the taped portion of his story rolls.
The video begins with a shot of Ripley in leg irons and handcuffs, being led into the small interview room at the jail. The reporter is talking about how exclusive the on-camera meeting is. News people like that word, exclusive. There’s a sound bite with Ripley.
“I didn’t do it,” Ripley shuffles in his chair, seemingly uncomfortable with the restraints. He bangs his wrists on the small plastic table in front of him. “They know I didn’t do it. They need a fall guy. I am that guy. Pure and simple.”
“Who is ‘they’ Mr. Ripley?” the reporter asks. “Who wants you to be a fall guy?”
“The government, boy!” Ripley seems irritated with the question, as though the reporter should have known the answer. His face is long and gaunt. I can tell he’s a smoker from the yellow in his graying hair. “The damn government. I’m telling you, anybody who speaks their mind against the federal government better watch out. They’ll get you.”
The video switches from the interview room to a full-screen shot of a website. The reporter explains the website is run by Ripley and it advocates Texas seceding from the United States.
“TEXASECESSION dot com is Ripley’s online contribution to a growing underground movement that challenges the constitutionality of certain federal laws as they relate to state’s rights.”
“If I didn’t have a website,” Ripley says as the video returns to a close-up of his face, “they’d never have known about me. I wouldn’t be here.”
The reporter’s voice continues underneath more pictures from Ripley’s website and file video from the shooting scene. “4 News has learned that Roswell Ripley is a U.S. Army veteran. He served in the first Gulf War and he was a sniper.”
On the screen now is what looks like a police report. “We have also learned forensic testing of the weapon believed to have been used in the shooting revealed fingerprints belonging to Ripley. The weapon, a Knights SR-XM110 Rifle, was registered to Ripley five years ago. Ripley contends it was stolen a week before the shooting, but he admits he did not file a police report.”
“That rifle cost me $20,000,” Ripley says in the video, leaning forward at the desk, snarling at the reporter. “If I go tell the cops I’m missing a weapon that costs half as much as they make in a year, they’re gonna ask me a ton of questions and they ain’t gonna help me find it. It wouldn’t be worth reporting.”
The video ends with the reporter standing live outside the jail, figuratively patting himself on the back for his exclusive, and mentioning Ripley’s next court appearance. The video ends and the 4 News Houston website offers me a chance to share the report on Facebook and Twitter.
I move the cursor to the search bar on the top left of the screen and type TEXASECESSION. A list of options descends on the screen. I click on the first option which takes me to the homepage for Ripley’s site.
There’s a flash animation featuring a waving Texas flag with accompanying audio of a fife and drum composition. Ripley’s face slowly replaces the flag. He has a solemn look on his face.
“Honor the Texas flag,” he says. He’s staring directly into the camera and it’s a little uncomfortable to watch. “I pledge allegiance to thee, Texas, one state under God, one and indivisible.” It’s the Texas pledge. Children in Texas public schools always recite it right after saying the pledge of allegiance to the U.S. flag.
Ripley disappears and gives way to the white background of the homepage, with a photograph of the San Jacinto monument, which commemorates Texas’ victory over Mexico in its battle for independence. It lists a series of options along the top of the screen:
HOME FAQ FACTS HOW TO HELP STORE
I choose FACTS and the screen changes. At the top of the screen the site gives credit to “Brother Secessionist Site TexasSecede.com” and lists a series of “facts” about the secessio
nist movement in Texas.
The first explains, contrary to popular myth, Texas does not reserve the right to secede in its constitution. It does state, however, "Texas is a free and independent State, subject only to the Constitution of the United States..." (note it does not state "...subject to the President of the United States..." or "...subject to the Congress of the United States..." or "...subject to the collective will of one or more of the other States...").
It’s interesting but not earth shattering. I scroll through the arguments for secession until I near the bottom of the list. There’s a question that asks how Texas would benefit from secession.
The website answers it by contending, “In many ways. Over the past century-and-a-half the United States government has awarded itself ever more power to meddle with the lives, liberty, and property of the People of Texas. Sapping Texans' wealth into a myriad of bureaucratic, socialist schemes both in the U.S. and abroad, the bipartisan despots in Washington persist in expanding the federal debt and budget deficits every year. Texans would indeed gain much by reclaiming control of their State, their property, their liberty, and their very lives, by refusing to participate further in the fraud perpetrated by the Washington politicians and bureaucrats. By restoring Texas to an independent republic, Texans would truly reclaim a treasure for themselves and their progeny.”
Wow. Is that what this is about? Do the iPods have something to do with preparing Texas for a secession attempt?
Am I helping arrange the downfall of my country?
The Governor has half-jokingly hinted at secession, as former Governor Rick Perry did in 2009. That can’t be what he’s really planning. I always assumed it to be rhetoric on both sides. It’s distraction politics to talk about secession.
Isn’t it?
I click the back button a couple of times and go to News 4 Houston’s news team link, locate reporter George Townsend’s picture and click again. In the midst of his self-aggrandizing biography I find his email address and his direct phone line. I type them into my cell phone, save them, and drop my small laptop back into my bag.
There’s more to this. It can’t be this simple. Since Townsend is the only one who’s talked to Ripley, he may be the only one who can help me put the pieces together.
***
“Is this George Townsend?” I ask. I’m leaning against a parking meter on the corner of MLK and San Antonio and the traffic is noisy. I should have stayed inside the McDonalds.
“Yes,” he says. “Who is this?”
“I need to talk to you about the interview you did with Roswell Ripley.”
“What about it?” he asks. It sounds like he is typing on a keyboard.
“Is there a way I can see the whole interview, you know, the parts you didn’t air?”
“Probably not,” he says, sounding a little irritated. “Are you an attorney?”
“No.”
“Well, we don’t keep unused portions of interviews and we certainly don’t send them out to viewers.”
“I understand, but I am gonna guess you wouldn’t get rid of that interview. You probably have an unedited copy on your desk alongside other big interviews you don’t want to erase.”
“Fair enough,” he says. The typing has stopped. “Who did you say you are?”
“What?” A truck passes by me and I can’t hear.
“Who are you?”
“I can’t tell you that yet.”
“Look, I don’t have time to play games with you. If you have information you think might help me on this story, maybe I can help you. This mysterious stranger act is overdone.”
“Okay,” I relent, sensing he’s about to hang up on me. “I’m a former TV reporter. I now work in state government, and I may have some information for you. I need to know if Ripley said anything of interest you cut from the story.”
Silence. Another truck passes me and turns onto MLK. The puff of exhaust from its tailpipe is suffocating. I cough.
“I can’t let you see the unaired portion,” he says finally. “I could get in trouble for that. I can tell you he rambled on about his son being the key to everything.”
“His son?”
“Yes,” he says. He’s typing again. “His son. He kept telling me his son was the real reason behind the shooting. He said his secession website was a convenient cover for the government. It made him an easy scapegoat. His son was the real story and if I could find his son, I could find the real shooter.”
“Have you talked to his son?” I walk back towards the McDonalds, noticing the large bronze longhorn that sits in front of the façade. I’m not sure how I missed it before. It’s an enormous homage to the UT mascot Bevo.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because the guy is crazy,” Townsend answers. “He’s a conspiracy theorist and fringe thinker. All the evidence points to him. He’s a loon who’s grasping at straws. I don’t know if he even has a son.”
“You need to find out,” I tell him. “When you do, you can call me back.”
“Wait!” he almost shouts at me. “I thought you had information for me. This is a quid-pro-quo thing, right?”
“Find the son, and I’ll help you.” I stop at the door to the McDonalds, my hand on the handle. “You have my cell from caller ID right?”
“Yeah, I’ve got it.”
He hangs up and I find the end of the line at the counter. I need more coffee.
***
Caracas Maiquetía International Airport is about 15 miles north of the city on the edge of the Caribbean Sea. It was my second trip for the Governor and I’d hoped to get into the city, but my instructions were to meet my contact at the airport and catch the next flight back to Miami and Texas.
Still groggy from my nap on the flight, I passed by rows of blue cushioned seats at the departure gates lining the international terminal. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass panels that framed the long hallway, I could see the sloping green foothills which separated the coast from the steep Cerro El Avila Mountains.
I rolled my carry-on past a Duty Free Shop and noticed its shelves were empty. The shop was open, there was an attendant at the cash register, but he had nothing to sell.
Embargo?
I kept moving toward customs.
After checking through immigration and withdrawing a few thousand Bolivar from an ATM, I found a small Venezuelan Café and sat at an empty table. I watched the people passing by, rolling their luggage along the reflective white floor tile. The large metal lettering on the wall read “Simon Bolivar”, the airport’s official namesake. Bolivar was the George Washington of South America. He’d freed six countries from Spanish rule. His nickname was El Liberator.
He was a secessionist.
I’d burned my tongue on a small cup of dark coffee when I felt his tap on my shoulder.
“Hola mi amigo,” he said as I turned to face him. “Hello my friend. My name is Juan Garcia.” My contact was short and overweight, his black hair combed back and gelled. His skin was bronze; tanned but not excessively so, and he was clean shaven. His eyes were bright and his smile was nicely framed by his full cheeks.
Juan was wearing brown leather sandals, tan linen pants, and a loose fitting sky blue T-shirt. On his wrist was what looked like an expensive stainless steel watch. He had large gold rings on his middle and index fingers. I could feel their weight as I shook his hand. “Mucho gusto,” I told him I was pleased to meet him and offered him the empty chair at the table. “Me llamo Jackson.”
“Yo se,” he knew. “Habla Espanol?”
“Only enough to get me into trouble,” I admitted. I ran the tip of my tongue against the back of my teeth and felt the tiny blisters that had already formed.
“Esta bien. I speak English well enough.”
“Your English esta muy bueno, Senor Garcia.”
“You are drinking our fine café?” he asked and turned to get the attention of the waitress. He ordered two more drinks and turned back around.
The waitress arrived with two small cups, steam rising from the bone china.
“I order for you the best of Venezuela. This is Tachira. Esta muy fuerte. It is very strong and rich. It’s hard to find in your country. There are many things your country does not get,” he said, leaning back in his seat.
“What do you mean?”
“Petroleo por ejemplo. For example you make ten percent of the world’s oil but you consume a quarter of it. You are the planet’s biggest user of fossil fuels, and yet you are the ones who complain the most about using it. Maybe your Governor is on to something.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “What do you mean?”
“Let’s try the Tachira,” he said, changing the subject.
Juan picked up the china from the small saucer and toasted me with his cup. I followed his lead and burned my tongue a second time. He saw me wince.
“Caliente, no?” He smirked, blew the steam from the café, and took a small sip. His smile wasn’t quite as engaging and the light melted from his eyes as he pulled the cup from his lips and gently set it on the saucer.
“Now, Mr. Jackson Quick,” his accent was suddenly gone and his English diction was flawless. “I believe you have something for me.”
I reached down to unzip my backpack, pulled out the iPod and asked him for the code.
“One Two One Nine,” he said. The amiability was gone, and I could tell Mr. Juan Garcia was a man of business first, a genial host second.
I punched the numbers on the screen, slid the UNLOCK bar with my index finger and handed him the iPod. He flipped it over to look at the back, ran his thumb across it and stood to slip it in his pants pocket.
“Muchas gracias,” he said and walked away. By the time I turned to watch him leave, he’d already disappeared into the crowd of travelers crossing the terminal. He never explained what he meant about my Governor and, like my contact in London, he stiffed me for the check.