Olympus Device 1: The Olympus Device (15 page)

Grace
pumped the soap dispenser, wringing the yard dirt off her hands at the kitchen sink. As she rinsed them under the tap, her gaze focused out the window, happy with the placement of the new flowerbed. When it bloomed in a few weeks, she’d have a lovely splash of color to make washing the dishes less of a chore.

She’d just reached for the dish towel when the phone mounted nearby rang.
Durham?
She hoped, hurrying with the drying and reaching for the receiver.

“Hello.”

“Ms. Kennedy, this is Eva Barns,” sounded a distressed voice. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I don’t know where else to turn.”

“What’s the matter, Eva?”

“The police were just here and arrested Hank,” the woman sniffled, “They said he was conspiring against the government of the United States of America.”

Grace was sure she had
understood the distraught message; however, the caller’s suppressed tears made it difficult to know for certain what was going on. “Eva, now settle down, everything will be all right,” she said in as soothing a voice as she could muster. “Can you tell me who arrested Hank?”

“They were from El Paso. Some wore jackets that said they were from the FBI, others
had coats with ‘ATF’ embroidered across the back. They searched our house and wouldn’t let me call anybody for help. They handcuffed Hank and walked him out to a car like he was a common criminal, Ms. Kennedy.”

Grace was taking it
all in, the mention of ATF, or Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, raising the bar of seriousness. “Okay, Eva, let me get dressed, and I’ll be right over.”

Twenty minutes later
, Grace pulled into the driveway, her arrival anticipated by Eva pacing anxiously on the front porch. “I don’t want to go in there,” the distraught woman announced. “It’s like my home has been violated.”

The woman was terrified, clutching a wrinkled handkerchief and seemingly unable to focus on anything for
more than a few seconds at a time. Guiding her to a wooden swing, Grace gradually settled Eva down, interlacing soothing reassurances with the occasional question. The story that unfolded didn’t make any sense, and that fact concerned Ms. Kennedy more than anything.

Eva claimed the FBI men kept harking on Hank, pressing him over a recent visit to Dusty’s gunsmith shop. Over and over again
, Eva had listened to her husband deny any wrongdoing. “What’s so terrible, Ms. Kennedy, is that I know he wasn’t telling the truth. A woman learns those things after so many years of marriage, I guess. I’ve never known Hank to act like that.”

Grace studied the woman carefully, the attorney inside of her unable to place blind trust in anyone. Eva appeared to
be telling everything she knew about the situation. “What else did they ask him about, Eva?”

“T
hat was all I heard. Dusty this and Dusty that… they kept asking Hank about some invention and how Dusty’s workshop got damaged. For a little while, I thought they had come to the wrong address. I even told the one young man that Dusty Weathers lived down the road, but he ignored me.”

Evidently, the FBI’s lead agent didn’t buy Hank’s story either and arrested the man. They had hauled him off three hours ago, a pale, ha
ndcuffed Hank peering at his wife out the back window of a government SUV, a tear running down his cheek.

“Eva, let’s go down to the courthouse and find out what’s going on. If we hurry, we might be a
ble to see Hank before they transport him elsewhere.”

Wiping her eyes with the handkerchief, Eva nodded.
Fortifying herself after a horror-filled glance toward the door, she managed to go inside to gather her things.

As they drove to Fort Davis, Grace warned Eva that she wasn’t a criminal attorney. “But you’re the only lawyer I know,” Eva had responded.

The two women arrived at the Jeff Davis County Courthouse a few minutes later. The old building served as both the county seat and the county jail, a few small cells in the basement. In reality, there wasn’t much crime in the area, and most of the time the small facility was empty.

As they parked, Grace pointed
out several black SUVs and basic, factory equipped government sedans. “I think we may have gotten here in time, Eva. It doesn’t look like the federal officers have left yet.”

The two women trott
ed up the limestone steps and pushed open a heavy, frosted glass door. They were met with the smell of old wood and floor wax. The main entrance led to an atrium of sorts, rings of offices bordering the open space. As they headed for the sheriff’s portion of the building, their footsteps echoed off the marble floor, the sound ominous as it bounced through the otherwise empty building.

The tranquil
atmosphere was broken as Grace opened the door to the sheriff’s office, a wall of voices and other activity greeting the two visitors. As the two women entered the lobby, everyone stopped to look up, the attention making their entrance even more difficult.

Sheriff Clay was standing nearby, talking to a uniformed deputy and reading a report at the same time. Looking up, the local lawman interrupted his conversation and approached the two women.

Nodding, he said, “Mrs. Barns, Ms. Kennedy.”

“Good
afternoon, Sheriff. We’re here to see Hank Barns. Eva has asked me to represent her husband.”

The local officer’s nervous shifting made it obvious he was unhappy with the situation. “Yes, ma’am. If Hank was my prisoner, there wouldn’t be any issue. Unfortunately, he’s not. He’s technically under federal jurisdiction.”

Eva stepped closer to the man, her finger pointing at his chest. “Jefferson Thomas Clay, you know good and well my husband is an honorable, law abiding citizen. You’ve known him all your life, young man. You should be embarrassed this has happened, and let him out of this jail immediately. I was your Sunday School teacher. Hank was your little league coach, and even counted the votes the night you were elected to office. What has happened to law and order, common sense and good manners in this county?”

Sheriff Clay flushed red, obviously feeling uneasy. Before he could comment, a young man Grace had never seen before appeared at the
sheriff’s side. “Is there a problem?”

“Ladies, this is Special Prosecutor Beckman, from the Department of Justice office over in El Paso. Mr. Beckman, this is Grace Kennedy, a local attorney
, and of course, you’ve met Mrs. Barns.”

The smug young man didn’t acknow
ledge either woman, an intolerable display of rude behavior in rural Texas.

Grace didn’t let the silence hang in the air long
. “I’d like to see my client, Mr. Beckman.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“He has the right to representation, sir. I’m an officer of the court and demand that my client’s right to an attorney be acknowledged.”

Grace had seen Beckman’s type before. Young, self-centered, and with an ego the size of
a football stadium, they were always convinced that they were smarter and better prepared than the person across the table. She loved it when they underestimated her.

“We’ve arrested Mr. Barns under
Section Eight of the Patriot Act. His due process is suspended,” replied the cocky DOJ lawyer.

He thinks I’m some country-bumpkin
attorney
, reasoned Grace.

“Mr. Beckman, Hank Barns is a citizen of the United States. Section eight doesn’t apply to
US nationals. I demand to see my client.”

Grace’s knowledge of the terrorist law seemed to surprise the federal prosecutor, but he still didn’t give ground.

“Technically, the Supreme Court hasn’t offered an opinion on that issue, as of yet. Until that time, the attorney general has an established policy that all sections of the act do indeed apply to US citizens suspected of collaborating with foreign terrorists, or plotting acts of domestic terrorism against the United States.”

Grace shook her head, looking at Sheriff Clay for support. “That’s preposterous, sir. Hank Barns is as much a terrorist as my left shoe. Why is DOJ doing this? What possible reason could they have to believe this man is anything but a law abiding individual?”

The federal lawyer ignored Grace’s question and referred to his watch. Turning his back to the women, he yelled to another man across the room. “Let’s get everyone loaded up. We’re done here.”

Turning back to face Grace, he said, “You can take
up any issues you have with the federal magistrate in Houston. Mr. Barns will be arraigned there in two days.”

And with that, the man pivoted and began issuing orders to his underlings.

Grace was shocked. While she wasn’t technically a criminal attorney, she’d wandered into that area as part of her practice. The arrogance and lack of respect for the basic legal rights demonstrated by the Department of Justice was unheard of – an abomination.

Anger started welling up inside of her. The injustice of the entire episode boiling her blood. Her legal mind immediately started inventorying her options. She could think of a variety of ways to counteract the federal government’s heavy-handed actions, those ranging from calling a press conference to contacting various elected officials. She’d even served as head of the campaign funding committee of a currently serving
US senator.

None of that was going to happen in Fort Davis, however. She needed the press, legal resources and a host of other assets to fight for Hank. 

Keeping her face emotionless, she turned to Eva and announced, “Let’s go get some things packed, Eva. We’re heading to Houston.”

His modest desk was
surrounded by curious onlookers, all them peering over Crawford’s shoulder at the photographs he’d taken of the fallen tower. The newsroom was abuzz with excitement, the story a welcome diversion from the normal local events. One by one the staff members cast their votes on which picture should adorn the morning’s front page. No one counted the ballots because the polling didn’t matter. The editor would choose, and his vote trumped all.

Crawford politely acknowledged the compliments, caring little for everyone’s opinion of his skills with a camera. His focus was on his prose and the mystery surrounding the collapse.

Despite being “old media,” the
Post
maintained significant research capabilities, including every known publically accessible database, and a small number that were supposed to be entered by only a select few. Reams of microfiche images were also at his disposal, and of course, the internet.

His award winning reporting was due to a simple secret
. He followed stories using deductive reasoning and logic, not emotion. On the occasions when he’d been invited to speak at journalistic events, his advice to the young had always been to ignore the bright, shiny objects and concentrate of the dark side of human nature. That’s where the story was; that’s where the truth would most likely surface.

He also didn’t believe in unassociated events. The tower didn’t collapse on its own.
Something led to its failure, perhaps an entire string of prerequisite actions.

H
e started his search three days prior, looking through news stories, legal notices, and other related information. He gave law enforcement activity top priority, still curious why the feds were crawling all over the scene.

His inquiries resulted in
three significant stories. The first was the bomb threat up in College Station. There was film footage out of a Dallas station that showed a government helicopter taking off in the background. He was reasonably sure that aircraft belonged to the FBI in Houston, but presumed the event unrelated.

The second was the loss of two Texas Air National Guard Falcon aircraft the same day. While the NTSB hadn’t offered an official explanation, mos
t aviation experts believed the craft had “touched” mid-air, resulting in both planes going down. This story, like the bomb threat, didn’t seem to tie in.

The
third odd occurrence was the public service bulletin, the one asking for information leading to the arrest of one Mr. Durham Weathers. The reporter knew it wasn’t all that common for the local police to make such a request, perhaps three or four times a month was the norm. What was different about this latest “wanted fugitive” effort was the source. The photograph distributed to the various press outlets was from an FBI file, the watermark at the bottom of the grainy picture making the connection obvious.