River of No Return : A Jake Trent Novel (9781451698053) (2 page)

3

CHICAGO O'HARE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT. OCTOBER 16.

12 P.M. CENTRAL STANDARD TIME.

Jake was finally boarding the plane after a long layover. The frenetic hustle of the airport irritated him. Loud and stuffy. Hot. Too much energy for one place. He imagined the innards of a combustion engine.
No, that's too orderly.
More like a contemporary
Animal Farm
.

Herds of cattle hemmed and hawed in different parlances about shared nuisances: slow Wi-Fi, flight delays, lousy food. Atrocious shortcomings in the modern world.

The agent announced boarding for first class. A horde of men—why were they all men?—was hovering near the doorway like kids waiting by their parents' room on Christmas morning.
Ready for their free
cocktails
.

Jake stood up and got in the back of the line. He felt awkward in the presence of these well-fed men and their shiny watches and shoes. He was only flying first class thanks to Divya.

He settled into the third row next to a plump, brown-skinned man adorned with gold bracelets and rings. Already trying to sleep, he ignored Jake's greeting.

When first class was seated and their drinks were delivered—ginger ale for Jake—the coach contingent began to board. They moseyed by, eyes darting from seat to seat, hoping to catch a glimpse of a celebrity. Their prolonged gazes made him feel like a fish in a bowl.

Jake wanted to break out of this caged existence, even though he'd left Jackson only a few hours earlier. But he was restless there too, and in need of a distraction. Things with Noelle—the park ranger Jake had dated for the past thirteen months—had gone sharply south. The circumstances of their meeting were far from normal. They'd been through too much early on—murder, natural disaster, and government conspiracy—and the flame had burned hot, but only briefly. The pace of the affair scared Jake off.

He was longing for something, but he wasn't sure what. He'd worked plenty over the summer, sixtysomething guided fishing trips. His back was tired and his hands calloused, but his intellect begged for a new challenge.

He had to admit that, true to form, Divya made a convincing case. She'd cunningly engaged him with her words and reminded him that his past profession still
required something
of him.

In law school, Jake's professors always spoke of justice and fairness, while in the real world it was all fees and billable hours. Jake preferred the idealistic perspective, when he could convince himself of its legitimacy. In this instance, maybe he could.

This was his biggest weakness, and he knew it—he searched for meaning in life by fighting high-stakes battles. Sadly, those quests had been more destructive than he cared to admit. He'd sacrificed
much over the years: friends, coworkers, a chance at monetary success. And, occasionally, a clear conscience.

And for what? He used to ponder that question more. To keep his own devils at bay by fighting a tangible evil? To slay the restlessness that plagued him?

Life in Wyoming had been his escape. He found solace in the mountains, his fears allayed.

But the last few autumns, when the leaves fell and the pace of life slowed, the burden had snuck back in under the cover of darkness. In his bed, alone, Jake wondered whether extant happiness was enough, whether the tranquilizing effect of the pines and rivers and peaks was permanent or fleeting.

He'd find out soon enough. The pilot was on the PA.
Flight time to Dulles, one
hour and fifty minutes
.

From his carry-on—a sky-blue Mammut day pack—Jake grabbed the two-inch-thick stack of papers that Divya had FedExed him and put it on his lap. Then he closed his eyes.

* * *

After a few minutes of trying, Jake gave up on sleep. He took the black binder clip off his stack of papers. On the first page was a short handwritten note from Divya. “Jake—Welcome to For a Free America! We're lucky to have you.”

He positioned the air vent above him so it was blowing on his face and began reading. The next page was a photocopy of a newspaper article with the headline “Senator Canart Stirs the Melting Pot”:

Where's Waldo? Senator Rick Canart of Idaho wants to know. He has sponsored a bill to provide federal fund
ing for the development of “human tracking” technology. The grant is earmarked in part for the joint venture dubbed “SafeTrak,” a collaboration between InfoTech and Catalyst Technologies, where Canart was CEO before winning election to the Senate. Since its inception the company has focused on researching and developing nano-GPS technology for various markets “from household to the whole world,” according to the company's mission statement.

“I think it's important to develop all technologies that could lend a hand in our nation's progress,” said the freshman lawmaker in a CNN interview on Tuesday. “Do I think all illegal immigrants should be tracked? Of course not. But I do believe there may be a time when this technology will be useful not only for individuals but also in managing our nation's immigration and criminal issues.”

The proposed legislation has provoked outrage among citizen-democrats and legal immigrants alike. New York University law professor and Cuban émigré Arin Helva says we shouldn't buy into Canart's hype. “It's doomsday this, doomsday that. The only thing that Senator Canart should be worrying about is whether his own policies will cause a doomsday scenario. That, and obvious conflicts of interest.”

Critics contend that using technology to track illegal aliens could be a slippery slope to tracking the activities of the entire population. Political correspondent Renee Williams doesn't think such a scenario is likely in the short term, but says the legislation opens that door. “We are years away from any tracking program ‘hitting
the shelves,' as it were. That being said, any victory for Senator Canart will be seen by his camp as public support for his views.”

“Jesus.” Jake had read snippets of Canart's stratagem in Wyoming newspapers, but nothing so blunt.

He moved deeper into the stack, looking over some case law Divvya had pulled. Fourth Amendment cases, right-to-privacy stuff. Cases on thermal imaging, illegal search and seizure, and so on. Basic first year con law.

But the first year was when they hooked you with fairy tales of heroic advocacy, starring noble martyrs who gave it all up for the common good, men and women who found the underdog and bet it all. Jake had always been one to romanticize the underdog.

Divya knew it. She was shrewd, and had made dragging Jake out of Jackson look easy. It helped that the town of Jackson's Environmental Subcommittee, whose board Jake was on, was on hiatus until January.

Divya had gushed about Jake's skills of persuasion, his Honest Abe reputation, his considerable pro bono work (far exceeding the required fifty hours) on projects ranging from local HUD cases to his recurring advisory role for the Southern Poverty Law Center's Hatewatch Program. She was using his own sensibilities against him, and he was smart enough to realize it. Still, those traits were his, and he decided there was no use in fighting himself.

She promised to cover all expenses, which Jake didn't doubt. There was enough cash forgotten in pockets at DC dry cleaners to fly a thousand washed-up lawyers back to Dulles.

He leafed through the remainder of the pages. A few years back, certain uses of RFID (Radio Frequency Identification) technology
had been banned by the Supreme Court of the Philippines. Interesting, but not a precedent for US jurisdiction.

Jake went back to reading. A few minutes later, the pilot announced that they were beginning their descent into Dulles.

It couldn't come soon enough. Jake longed for fresh air. It wouldn't be Wyoming, resplendent with sage and pine, but anything would be better than canned airplane air.

Jake thought about Divya's project. He agreed with her completely on the substance of the matter—a government tracking individuals, citizens or not, was unsettling at best, diabolical at worst. Forget the affront to the Fourth Amendment.

Still, he always found it helpful to deconstruct his thoughts—in case they were biased—and reason them out fully from beginning to end.

What is the issue here? Control?
Being tracked is not inherently offensive; it's what the people
who collect that information might do with it.
It was, as Divya had said, “a blatant invasion of privacy for immigrants”; that much was certainly true—but it was more tangible than that. It was downright scary.
Information is
control. If they know where you are, what you look
like, where you are from, and what you are
doing, the next step is total control. Playing God.

Divya was right about another thing—there was a certain pride that was shattered when your every move was surveyed. It was like being invisibly chaperoned for the rest of your life. Back to being a kid.

What would the proponents of the GPSN (nano-GPS) proposition say? The old classic, of course—
If you aren't doing anything wrong, then what do you care if we're tracking you?

Jake always found this argument callow, especially when it
would be the government deciding what was “right” and “wrong” for immigrants.

The plane bumped to the ground.

Dulles was crowded too. It was a Monday, and there were suits everywhere. Jake was able to avoid baggage claim. He had everything he needed in his small carry-on backpack.

When he walked out the sliding-glass doors, the humidity and heat struck him. It was October in DC, but it felt warmer than a mountain summer.

The rental sedan would have felt luxurious to a sheik, just as the agent had boasted. Jake thanked God for the AC and the cooled leather seat. He turned both to high and headed east.

The traffic was bad, even by DC standards. It took him more than an hour and a half to reach the Teddy Roosevelt Bridge. As he crossed it, he opened the windows. The stained current of the Potomac was moving imperceptibly, but he still got the feeling he always did on rivers—that the ambient flow was somehow washing him clean, circulating through and refreshing him. After crossing the bridge, he turned left and headed north along the river's east bank.

Jake appreciated the peculiar beauty of the urban environment, but more so its grandeur than its aesthetics. To think that man created all this—a whole world, a reality, from scratch—filled him with a sense of wonder.

It was 6:15 p.m. by the time Jake arrived at Divya's home in Georgetown, a beautiful Richardson Romanesque of pinkish stone. Its exterior looked newly renovated. He drove around the block for a few minutes, looking for parking.

Divya answered the door wearing a hip herringbone pantsuit with a silk scarf, barefoot and clutching a glass of red wine. She
stood a thin five-foot-ten, just two inches shorter than Jake. Her skin had a light cinnamon tone. As she kissed Jake on the cheek, he caught a whiff of something exotic in her long black hair. Jake had to admit she still had her looks.

“I failed to warn you, but I've got some colleagues over for a dinner party.” She paused. “Try not to look so overwhelmed.”

“Just a bit tired.” Which was a lie. He was slightly overwhelmed to see
her
. “Where can I put my bag?”

“Top of the stairs, straight ahead is yours. Bathroom is down the hall.” He started up the stairs. “And Jake, what's with the coat?”

He looked down and noticed he was holding a puffy down jacket. “Oh, um, Wyoming.” He held it up for her to see. “Makes a good pillow too.” He balled it up and pretended to rest his head on it.

“Okay, cowboy. See you in a minute.”

* * *

The guest room was ornate. Jake tossed his bag on the bed and ran his hand along the headboard. All of the furnishings were antique. Divya had won some big cases, sure, but the last time he'd seen her she was more bohemian than bourgeois.

Jake washed his face in the bathroom's porcelain bowl sink, listening to the distant voices of Divya's guests. He wasn't looking forward to mingling, but he couldn't hide in the bedroom all night. He looked at himself in the mirror. The little crow's-feet around his eyes didn't make him feel any more confident. He blamed the high-country sun.

Divya was waiting at the bottom of the stairs with a glass of wine. She was either still hung up on their decades-old fling, or trying hard to make him feel important. He took it, and the two clinked glasses.

“To old friends,” she said.

She took Jake by the arm and pulled him into the chaos. A dozen well-dressed men and women were glued to a flat-screen:
Straight Up! with Sandy Hornan
, the fast-talk musings of a hambone political analyst. The topics of discussion on tonight's show were an Iowa senator's personal indiscretions, followed by ­population growth in Third World countries. Hornan swung for the fences on the changeup. “Speaking of spreading your seed . . .”

Divya cut in over the din. “Everyone, this is Jake Trent.” Not everyone turned from the show. “A dear friend. He prosecuted war criminals. Then, he cleaned up the streets of Philly!” The confused guests turned and nodded. Divya was laying it on thick. “And now, Jake?”

“Now I need a refill.” He held up his glass.

A short, dark-haired man in an expensive suit stood up and walked over with his hand in the air.

Jake gave him the awkward high five he seemed to want. “Scott, how are you?”

“I'm great, man; haven't seen you since graduation. How are
you
? Heard you're in Wisconsin now or something?”

“Wyoming, yeah. Been there several years.”

“Right.” He snapped his fingers as if trying to think. “Spencer, um, George Spencer, hell of a trial lawyer, man. The best. Are you working with him out there? I'd only assume . . .”