Jackery watched helplessly as the militias gathered around the center of the lot. A group of them brought out some furniture from the sheriff’s department next-door. They carried three tables and four chairs to the back of a flatbed truck, where they set up a rough facsimile of a courtroom. One of the tables was placed on the flatbed, with a chair behind it and one next to it. The other two were placed on the ground at the foot of the truck with chairs set up behind them.
The “judge” climbed onto the back of the truck and took his seat behind the table. There was a commotion from behind Jackery. He turned to see Westford in handcuffs being led across the lot by two steroidal brutes. The crowd parted to let them through as they marched down to one of the tables. A man stepped up to the other table. Jackery recognized him as the grizzled commander.
“Why’s the defendant in handcuffs?” said the judge.
“He’s a sneak. Who knows what kind of tricks he’s got up his sleeve?”
“Look around you. Do you think fucking Houdini could get away?”
The brutes hung their heads. “No, sir,” they said softly in unison.
“Uncuff the defendant,” said the judge. “Let’s get this trial underway.”
As the brutes struggled to fit the tiny key into the cuffs, Jackery took the opportunity to study the ex-sheriff. When he’d spun his story about the man, he hadn’t intended for him to die. Well, not necessarily. He supposed he should have known there was a possibility—even a probability—his charge could lead to this, but that wasn’t the same as intending it to happen, was it?
He supposed he should feel at least somewhat guilty at the prospect, but if he was brutally honest, all he felt was impatient. He needed this circus to be over so he could get everyone back to work on his plan. If that meant an execution, so be it. He wouldn’t be the one pulling the trigger. There would be no blood on his hands.
When they’d taken off the handcuffs, David Westford stood, rubbing his wrists and looking around.
“What’s this supposed to be?” he said.
“Your trial, Mr. Ex-Sheriff,” said the judge.
“Trial? For what?”
One of the brutes slapped his head hard.
“What was that for?” he said.
“You didn’t say, ‘Your Honor.’”
“You’ll hear the charges and evidence against you soon enough.”
“Do I get a lawyer?” said Westford, remembering at the last second to add: “Your honor.”
“You can have an advocate appointed for you,” said the judge. “Look around and choose anyone you want.”
“There’s no one here I would trust to shine my shoes,” he said. “Much less make my case before this ‘court.’” His voice made clear the quotation marks around the last word.
It earned him another slap on the head.
“The court notes there’s no sign of remorse on the part of the defendant,” said the judge.
“Would that make any difference… Your Honor?” said Westford.
“Not really.” The judge turned to the grizzled commander at the other table. “Is the prosecution prepared to present its case?”
“I am, Your Honor.”
“The defendant will be seated.”
Westford stayed on his feet. After a moment, the judge nodded to the two brutes flanking him. They pushed the ex-sheriff down into the chair.
“David Westford, you are charged with the crime of treason for betraying our cause to the fucking feds,” said the judge. “How do you plead?”
Westford shook his head. “Is there anything I could say that would make any difference?” he said. “Your honor?”
“I will consider that a plea of not guilty,” said the judge. He turned to the prosecutor. “You may call your first witness.”
“I call Commander Frost.”
One of the men Jackery had seen in the group of commanders stepped out of the crowd. He climbed onto the back of the flatbed and took a seat in the chair beside the judge’s table.
“Do you swear to tell the truth upon your honor as a patriot?” said the judge.
“I do.”
“Ask your first question.”
“Commander, did you hear the broadcast over the sheriff’s department radio?”
“I did.”
“Did you hear the voice of the defendant saying there was an FBI informant among our forces?”
“Objection,” said Westford. “I assume I have the right to object.”
“What’s your objection?”
“I didn’t say there was an informant. I said that everyone knows there are lots of informants. Your ranks are riddled with them.” He pointed to a random member of the crowd. “That could be one there.” He pointed to another. “And there. After January 6, you should all know anything you say and do is going to land you in front of a real judge and jury.”
If the crowd had been against him before, they actively despised him now. Several of the men he’d pointed to rushed at him, ready to rip him to pieces. A gunshot rang out, freezing everyone in place. Up on the truck bed, the judge held a handgun pointing skyward.
“Order in the fucking court!” he said. “This trial will be over soon enough, and this piece of shit will get what’s coming to him.”
That quieted everyone for the moment, but the mood in the air was ugly. Jackery felt an involuntary moment of respect for the man. He wondered if he would be as brave in the same situation. He quickly banished the thought as irrelevant and unhelpful. He felt a presence beside him, and he turned to find Susan standing at his shoulder again.
“Are you going to shut this down?” she said.
“What can I do that wouldn’t backfire on my plan?”
She didn’t say anything to that. He studied her face.
“You’re not going soft on me, are you?” he said.
“No,” she said, but her voice was subdued and her eyes hooded.
“You know what they say about eggs and omelettes,” he said.
“So, no qualms?”
He took a moment to reflect on her question before answering honestly.
“Not really.”
#
Barb turned to Danita. “I thought I’d have more time before I carried out my big move, but this news means I need to get back in the station now.”
They stood and walked over to where Toby was standing, listening to the radio in his hand.
“What’s going on?” said Danita.
“The trial is moving fast,” he said.
“Then we need to move faster,” said Barb, holding out her hands to be cuffed.
#
Jackery looked at his watch. The ridiculous “trial” was taking forever. The current witness, a sheriff’s deputy, was slowly testifying to all the derogatory terms he’d heard his former boss use to describe the militias.
“…losers, punks, idiots… and, oh yeah, scum.”
“So, it’s fair to say he’s no fan of our movement?” said the prosecutor.
“He said you should all be ‘locked up where you belong’—his words, not mine,” said the deputy.
“No further questions,” said the prosecutor.
“Do you have any questions for the witness, Mr. Westford?”
“Just one. How do you sleep with yourself at night, Billy?”
The witness tried to meet the ex-sheriff’s eyes but ended up staring at his own shoes.
“You may be excused, Deputy,” said the judge. He turned to the prosecutor. “Any further witnesses?”
“No, your honor. The prosecution rests.”
“Does the defense wish to call any witnesses?” said the judge.
Westford looked around, his eyes landing on Jackery. For a moment, Jackery thought the man was going to call him, but he scowled and shook his head instead.
“No,” he said.
A brute slapped the back of his head.
“No, Your Honor,” said Westford.
“Well, then do you have a closing statement before I issue my ruling?”
“When I stand before my maker, there will be much I have to answer for,” said the ex-sheriff. “One thing I won’t be guilty of, however, is working for the FBI. Kill me if you want. But it won’t solve your problem. And if there’s any justice in this godforsaken world, it won’t be long before you all, each and every one of you, join me in hell.”
“The defendant will rise,” said the judge.
The steroidal duo lifted Westford to his feet.
“Mr. Westford, after hearing and carefully weighing the testimony presented, I find you guilty of the crime of treason and hereby sentence you to death by firing squad.”
There was no reaction to this, either from Westford or the crowd filling the lot. Jackery was relieved this nonsense was over and that once they took care of the unfortunate firing squad business, things could get back on track.
He heard the sound of heavy equipment starting up. He looked over. A crane was ferrying a log about the size of a telephone pole. Another man was operating a digger, breaking a hole in the asphalt to mount the pole in the ground.
Christ, thought Jackery. Not another delay.
#
Barb was back in the station, working on a new version of the audio file. After seeing how effective the first recording had been, she’d had a burst of inspiration. The conversation Cathy had recorded would be explosive, like dropping TNT in the middle of the gathered militias. But Barb had thought of a way to turn it from TNT to an H-bomb. In addition, if she could prepare it in time, it would spare the life of the ex-sheriff.
She took the original audio from the ex-sheriff and copied the beginning. She created a new audio project and pasted in what she’d copied. She took Cathy’s file and cut and pasted sections from it into her new file, building an entirely new audio track. As she worked, Toby stood, looking out the window at the grocery store parking lot. Every so often he offered updates on the progress of the preparations.
“They’re dropping the pole into the hole and packing dirt around it.”
“The commanders are going around choosing guys.”
“The guys they chose are lining up in front of the pole.”
“They’re marching the old sheriff to the pole.”
With each update, Barb felt her pulse increase, and with it, a guilty feeling of excitement. The depression she’d felt at her forced retirement was a distant memory.
Focus, woman, she told herself. A man’s life is riding on your actions.
#
At last, the fucking preparations were done, and Westford was being tied to the pole. The five men chosen to make up the firing squad were huddled with one of the commanders like a football squad around their coach, either getting last-minute instructions or an inspirational speech.
Susan still stood next to Jackery, but he could feel a coolness radiating from her as if she were far away. He glanced over. Her face was a frozen mask. It was clear she was having trouble accepting what they were about to see.
“You don’t have to stay here for this,” he said in the kindest voice he could manage.
“I’m no pussy,” she said.
“I didn’t say you were. But you do have a history with the man.”
“Don’t worry about me. I can do this.”
Despite himself, he felt a wave of affection for her. Having trouble with what they were about to see was undoubtedly the morally correct reaction. Under different circumstances, he himself might even share it.
#
Barb made her last edit to the audio file.
“They’re ready to shoot!” said Toby.
Barb would have preferred to download the finished audio to her phone and hold it up to the base station microphone, but there was no time. She grabbed the mic, pulled it as close to the desktop computer’s speakers as the cord would allow and held down the talk button.
With her other hand, she used the mouse to click play on the computer.
#
The shooters were in place. The ex-sheriff was tied and waiting. Jackery felt a flutter in his stomach. It was going to happen. He was going to see a man die in front of his eyes.
The commander in charge of the shooters turned to Westford. “Do you have any last words?”
“I’ve already said my piece. You’re going to do what you’re going to do, so just go ahead and do it.”
“Does anyone else have anything to say?” said the commander to the crowd. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Christ, thought Jackery. What is this? A fucking wedding?
The air filled with bursts of static from all the hand-helds. Everyone froze as the sound of a phone dialing took the place of the static. Then a click.
“FBI. How may I direct your call?”