21

 

Virginia Attorney General Eric Sanderson was in his favorite place, standing in front of a bank of television cameras.  There was nothing he loved better than being in the public eye, and today he was taking personal credit for pushing through a brand new anti-terrorism program. 

While his aides gave him a countdown to air time, news producers were shoving five dress-uniformed chiefs of police around behind him like movie extras, framing the television shot for the best effect.  These medal-wearing law enforcement officials went along passively with being grabbed and pushed like stage props: they were also aspiring politicians, and they cheerfully suffered the indignity of the moment in fair trade for the free television face time.

It had not been a simple matter for Sanderson to pull together a television-ready demonstration checkpoint team in 48 hours, but he had done it.  He had the gift, he was going places and all of the important people knew it.  Doors opened themselves magically in front of him as they had all of his life, from Harvard Law up until today, because success was Eric Sanderson’s birthright.

Now it was 11:59 AM on Friday, and a dozen television cameras were bore-sighted on his powdered face and perfectly arranged hair.  Behind him and the police chiefs, spreading across the west-bound lanes of I-64 in Norfolk, Virginia State Troopers were directing cars at a walking speed through channels of orange traffic cones.  “Randomly selected” vehicles were being directed onto the shoulder of the highway to park and await inspection.  Desert camouflage painted Humvees at each end of the control zone provided the military “bookends” commanding the scene and framing the camera shot. 

A careful television viewer might have noticed fully automatic M-16A2 assault rifles slung on the shoulders of the half dozen camouflage-wearing National Guardsmen posted evenly along the hundred-yard length of the control zone.  Unseen were the dozen Norfolk Police SWAT Team members concealed around the area with their own 7.62mm sniper rifles pointing outward, protecting the publicly-gathered VIPs from the fate of Senator Randolph.  Unseen were the three police helicopters orbiting high above with their zoom video cameras scanning the surrounding neighborhoods.  Unseen were the Glock and SIG pistols beneath the suit jackets of the undercover Virginia State Police bodyguard detail, standing just off camera on both sides of the Attorney General, looking stern and almost Secret Service-like with their sunglasses and earpieces and coded lapel buttons.

Standing behind a simple podium jammed with a cluster of microphones, Sanderson began his prepared text at exactly 12:03 PM, precisely timed to give TV producers and mid-day news anchors a chance to begin their shows and then cut to him as the “live and local” breaking news story.  Besides all of the local network news affiliates, several of the national cable news channels were also present, preparing to send words and images of his highway checkpoint program from coast to coast.  Already his staff had been approached by producers from several network news magazine shows.  One weekly show was already referring to him in a promotional piece as the “national gun safety crusader.”

Down the front of his podium there was a printed sign:

                                                                                                                                                                                                 

1-855-GUN-STOP

 

F irearms

nspections

S top

T errorism

 

“Good Afternoon.  On behalf of the Governor of the Commonwealth of Virginia, and at the direction of President Gilmore, I’m here in Norfolk today to announce the launching of a new anti-terrorism program.  On the highway behind me you are seeing the very first of Virginia’s ‘Firearms Inspections Stop Terrorism’ mobile units, working to ensure the safety and security of all Virginians.”  Sanderson paused to give the cameras a chance to pan across the checkpoint area. 

“Beginning with the Stadium Massacre twelve days ago, we have all witnessed an unprecedented outbreak of domestic terrorism, much of it, tragically, originating here in Tidewater Virginia.  Fortunately, the true home-grown militia origins of the Stadium Massacre were discovered, otherwise we might have placed the blame for that atrocity on our Muslim countrymen, as the conspirators had obviously intended.  The Stadium Massacre, as horrible as it was, would have been even worse if it had been falsely blamed on an innocent and too often maligned segment of our diverse multicultural society.

“The Stadium Massacre was caused by the easy availability of assault rifles in America.  Since the passage of the Schuleman-Montaine Firearms Safety Act that flood of weapons has been stopped, but realistically we know that there are militantly reactionary segments of our society who do not intend to comply with our new firearms safety laws.  The sniper rifle murder of Senator Geraldine Randolph on Tuesday, the day the new law went into effect, is an indication of the lengths that a small but extremely dangerous number of gun fanatics will go to in order to sabotage effective gun safety legislation.

“We have also seen a local wave of firearms-related violence, such as gun store arson attacks, and the drive-by machine gun shooting of a mosque in nearby Portsmouth Virginia.  The very location of this checkpoint where I am speaking today is itself less than one mile from where militia leader Mark Denton’s car bomb exploded, before he had a chance to plant his terror bomb in the Norfolk federal building.  As we know, Denton was also transporting a virtual arsenal of assault rifles and high powered cop-killer bullets when his bomb exploded prematurely on the highway, taking the lives of five innocents.

“So today I am announcing that the highways of Virginia will no longer provide a safe avenue for terrorists to transport their illegal firearms and explosives.”  Sanderson pounded his own fist on the podium for effect.  “Starting today, mobile FIST units will be in operation around the Commonwealth of Virginia, and they will soon be adopted by other states as well, beginning in Maryland next week.  These FIST units will provide much-needed security to all of us, by preventing terrorists from getting a free ride on our freeways!

“Now I am asking all of the decent law-abiding citizens of Virginia to assist our law enforcement officers by cooperating fully when you come upon a mobile FIST unit.  Courtesy will be returned to our cooperative citizens, and only a few moments of your time will be required if you are asked to pull over for a brief inspection.  I’m confident that the good people of Virginia will consider showing this cooperation to be an opportunity for them to play their own part in our ‘war on terrorism.’

“Additionally, I wish to assure those of you in our immigrant community that FIST units are not intended to harass or intimidate you in any way.  The Commonwealth of Virginia respects and welcomes all of our hardworking immigrant population, regardless of their technical documentation status.  FIST units will only be looking for illegal firearms, and not for immigration papers.

“In conclusion, I would like to remind my fellow Virginians that all semi-automatic rifles are now illegal, and should have been turned in for destruction already.  Also, I would like to remind the hunters of Virginia—and I am proud to say that I am one of that group—that tomorrow, Saturday at midnight, the transportation of sniper rifles will also be forbidden.  This is following the President’s last decision directive, which he made under the provisions of the Patriot Act, based on an ‘imminent terrorist threat.’  A sniper rifle is now defined as any rifle with a mounted telescopic sight.  After midnight tomorrow, it will be a felony punishable by five years in federal prison to transport a scoped sniper rifle on the highways of the United States.

“Since the Stadium Massacre and the assassination of Senator Randolph, both crimes committed using scoped sniper rifles, we find ourselves in dangerous new territory, unfamiliar to law-abiding Americans.  As I said, I am a hunter myself, and I am aware that many Virginia sportsmen will perhaps feel that they are being unfairly burdened by this law.  But since this war of snipers and terrorists has been brought to us by a handful of gun fanatics, all of us must now unfortunately share in the burden of increasing security, for the benefit of all of our society.  So you hunters, don’t forget to take off those scopes by tomorrow night!  There’s still plenty of time to get to the range and practice with those old iron sights before deer season starts next month.  I’ll be at the range doing just that myself, and I don’t think it’s too much to ask, as our small contribution in the war on domestic terrorism.

“Now I’ll take a few of your questions.”

An older male reporter called out, “Attorney General Sanderson, how many FIST teams will there be, and where will they be located?”

“I think for rather obvious reasons I can’t discuss all of the operational details of the program, but there will be plenty of FIST units, you may be certain of that.  Enough to do the job.”  Sanderson pointed to a middle-aged African American reporter next.

“Will the FIST units use racial or ethnic profiling in determining who they are going to pull over and search?”

“No, the FIST unit commanders will select cars completely at random, in accordance with constitutionally tested precedents.”  Sanderson did not even crack a smile as he uttered both of these blatant lies. 

A reporter in the middle of the gallery called out, “Are you going to run for Governor?” and Sanderson replied, “I plan to serve the people of Virginia to the best of my ability.”  When the same reporter called out again, “Is that a yes?” Sanderson ignored his question and pointed to a perky young blonde female reporter who had been waving her hand frantically.

“Mr. Sanderson, isn’t ‘FIST’ a rather… harsh name?” 

This question drew chuckles and guffaws from the other reporters, and from the police chiefs still dutifully standing shoulder to shoulder behind the Attorney General.  But Eric Sanderson didn’t laugh, instead he pounded his own fist down hard on the podium, and the sound boomed through the microphones. 

“Is the FIST program harsh?  You’re damn right, it’s harsh!  We intend to be very harsh with domestic terrorists and militias and illegal gun runners! Very harsh!”  He brought his tightly-balled fist up in front of his chin for effect and held it there, suddenly aware in that instant that it would be on the front pages of tomorrow’s papers across Virginia, and that he had just created the six-second sound bite which would sweep him into the Governor’s mansion, and then into the U.S. Senate.  His harsh visage slowly melted into an avuncular smile, and finally he brought his hand back down and gripped the sides of the podium. 

“Now before I go, I’d like to remind everyone about the toll free, totally confidential illegal firearms tip line, 1-855-GUN-STOP.”

Sanderson pointed to the number displayed across the front of the podium just beneath the cluster of microphones.  “You can serve your state and your country by calling this number if you have knowledge of anyone in possession of semi-automatic rifles of any kind.  Calls which result in arrests for possession of semi-automatic assault rifles will be rewarded with up to $5,000 for each illegal rifle which is recovered, so you can serve your country and yourself at the same time, if you know anyone who is holding onto an illegal rifle.

“And wives, if your husband is still holding onto an assault rifle, ask yourself: is it worth it to your family to have him sent to prison for five years?  For the good of your whole family, get rid of those illegal semi-automatic rifles!  You can’t be sure who knows about them; they’re probably already listed, and it’s only a matter of time until they’re found.  So for your family’s sake, get rid of those illegal assault rifles now!

                                        

****

 

Ranya Bardiwell had hardly been out of her one-bedroom hideout in East Ocean View since returning from her father’s brief funeral and burial the day before.  Phil Carson, Brad Fallon and a handful of former friends and customers (often one and the same) had made the effort to show up for the services, but Ranya had been brittle and distant and had not planned for any kind of wake after her father’s casket had been lowered into the ground.  Brad Fallon and Phil Carson had both offered to take her out to lunch, but she had declined and returned alone to her seedy apartment to brood. 

Friday morning she walked to breakfast at a Waffle House on East Ocean View Avenue.  On the way back she bought a portable radio and CD player in a People’s Drugstore, so that she could follow the news, and listen to some music in her room to relax.  She tried reading a paperback novel that she had started over the summer, but gave it up and went for a three mile run down to the Little Creek Inlet and back.  After showering and changing she just flopped on the bed and stared at the ceiling, and in time she slept, but her dreams repelled her from that refuge.  Brad Fallon had mentioned where his boat was now, and she considered riding over to Portsmouth to check it out.  He had said that his mast was going up on Saturday, and so he would be busy getting it ready today, and could probably use some help.  But she didn’t go.

At lunchtime she was fooling around with her portable ten-inch color TV, seeing what kind of reception it would get inside the apartment with its whip antenna.  She had no interest in daytime network television, but felt that she should keep up with the domestic terrorism news, since her father had been a casualty, and because she had her own scores to settle.  She was sliding the television along the chipped red formica-topped kitchen counter and playing with the antenna, when the 12 o’clock local news came on.  The sound was muted while an attractive Asian anchor woman was chatting soundlessly with her dutifully-nodding sandy-haired male co-anchor, when suddenly Ranya was looking directly at the face of Eric Sanderson!  The last time that she had seen that face, and the blow-dried hair and gleaming teeth, she had been looking through the scope of her Tennyson Champion target pistol. 

The news caption on the screen underneath him said “ATTORNEY GENERAL BEGINS GUN CHECKPOINTS.”  Ranya jabbed the volume button and his firm and fatherly voice spilled out into her kitchenette.  On the front of his podium a sign read “1-855-GUN-STOP” and “Firearms Inspections Stop Terrorism” arranged vertically to spell FIST.  Behind him police and soldiers were directing slow-moving traffic along the side of a highway.  Sanderson was talking about the Stadium Massacre, about the assassination of Senator Randolph, and about gun inspection road blocks—FIST checkpoints—and how they would increase public safety.   Then he said “We have also seen a local wave of firearms related violence, such as gun store arson attacks, and the drive-by machine gun shooting of a mosque…”

The meaning of these words suddenly hit her, and she screamed at Sanderson’s face on the television.  “What!?  ‘Firearms related violence, such as gun store arson attacks’?  Your goon squad killed my father and it’s just ‘firearms related violence’?  My father and the others were shot and burned, and they’re not worth mentioning?  ‘Firearms related violence’, like the firearms did it, like the gun stores just burned themselves down?  Like it was their own fault?”

And according to Sanderson, the answer to this ‘firearms violence’ was going to be the creation of ‘FIST’ checkpoints on the highways?  As if now that the Second Amendment had been ripped out of the Bill of Rights, it was also safe for the government to rip out the Fourth Amendment as well? 

The FIST checkpoint was evidently on I-64 right here in Norfolk, near where the old Green Beret and his son and some others had been blown up, (which was another highly dubious ‘accident’ to Ranya’s way of thinking).  So Sanderson was in Norfolk right now, Sanderson who would not investigate her father’s murder, Sanderson who had called her father a ‘merchant of death’ and all but applauded his murder by a government death squad…  Sanderson who should have died last Sunday night, Sanderson who had already been in her crosshairs….

If he was currently in Tidewater, she might get another chance to finish what she had set out to do.

Now Sanderson was talking about scopes being outlawed.  That was simply rich.  As if anyone (like herself) contemplating sniping a public official would bother to obey that law!  ‘Gee, I was going to assassinate the state Attorney General, but now that telescopic sights are illegal, I’ll have to cancel my plans.’ Ha! What a joke, what imbeciles!  They deserve to be shot, just for being that stupid. 

Anyway, the law would not come into effect until Saturday at midnight…  She thought of the hysterical irony of shooting him on the last day that scopes were legal.  Perhaps she would send the Governor a note: “I was going to kill the jerk next week, but I didn’t want to violate the new scope law, so I killed him today.”  That would actually be pretty funny!

Well she would do it: she just needed a time and a place.  If she knew where Sanderson was going to be, and she could arrive nearby first, she could get him.  When Sanderson was finished the Asian news anchor moved onto her next story: an Arlington National Cemetery memorial service was scheduled for the FBI agents slain in Reston.

She switched off the television and began to plan.

                                                

 

****

 

Ranya made the call to Sanderson’s Richmond office from a pay phone in Virginia Beach, using a pre-paid calling card that she bought with cash from a third-rate convenience store.  She rode her Yamaha that far from her apartment because she knew that the pay phone would eventually be traced, and she parked it at a distance from the phone so that no one could ever connect the caller to a motorcycle.  She wore masculine sunglasses, and a black ball cap with her ponytail twisted and tucked completely underneath to obscure her identity.  This was on the chance that she might be caught on a digital face-scanning camera.  She wasn’t positive, but she suspected that the government was able to tap into just about all of the cameras scattered across the modern urban landscape: in ATMs, in stores, traffic cameras, all of them.  So she went to great lengths to reduce her risk of video identification at some later time.

“Attorney General Sanderson’s office, how may I help you?”

“Hi, I’m Liz Courtney, I’m the managing producer for Channel 14 Action News in Norfolk. May I speak to Attorney General Sanderson’s media representative?”

“Oh, um, that would be Samantha Jeffers, I’m sorry but she’s in Norfolk with the Attorney General today.  May I take a message?”

“Oh, Darn!  I’m out of the studio right now, I’m on another story, perhaps you can help me.  I’m afraid I left the Attorney General’s itinerary back at the studio, can you be a dear and go over his appearances the rest of this afternoon?  I’m really pinched for time, we’re running between stories and we really do want to squeeze in an interview for the five o’clock news…if it s not too much trouble?”

“Well, um, certainly, let me see…at one he’s visiting the federal building, he’s speaking to the FBI and the Joint Task Force, but that’s a closed meeting, there’s no media availability.  At 2:30 he’s speaking at Norfolk State in Mandela Hall, that should be a great event—his gun-safety initiatives are really very popular in the minority community, as you know.  At four he’s going to be attending the re-dedication of the Al-Fuqra Mosque in Portsmouth.  The rest of his schedule is private I’m afraid.”

“Is he staying in Norfolk tonight, then?  Perhaps we could schedule an interview for tomorrow morning.”

“I don’t think so; the Attorney General is playing golf in the morning with friends, and then he’s returning to Richmond.”

“Which golf course would that be?  Will there be a media availability, or at least a photo opportunity?”

“Um, I believe it would be… here it is: the Greenspring Country Club.  But I don’t see any media event listed.”

“Well perhaps we can do the interview in Richmond next week.  I’ll call Samantha Monday morning and set it up.  And thank you so much, you’ve been a dear.”

“Glad to be of help.  Did you say you were from Channel 14 in Norfolk?”

“That’s right, Channel 14 Action News.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Bye now.”

“Bye.”

Click.

Ranya hoped that the conversation hadn’t been automatically recorded; she had found and called an interior office number, and not Sanderson’s main switchboard.  But if it was recorded, so be it, it was necessary: there was no opportunity that did not come without an element of risk.  Anyway, they’d have to catch her for the tape to do them any good; her voice was not on any computer database that she was aware of.  And she didn’t intend to be caught.

So Sanderson was a golfer… 

This was a very nice hobby for him to have, to Ranya’s way of thinking.