Justifiable Homicide: A Political Thriller (Robert Paige Thrillers Book 1) (8 page)

The man who had been pushing the wheelchair started to protest. “That’s my mother. She’s got dementia. I need to go with her.”

His mother turned around as best she could when she heard his voice. She couldn’t see him because he stood behind her and the agent blocked her view. She had a pained look on her face. The blood continued to ooze. A few drops splattered on the floor. The TSA agent continued to push the wheelchair toward the search area.

“James!”

The large female TSA agent tried to calm her down. She bent forward and spoke into her left ear. “That’s all right, ma’am. This will only take a minute.”

“James!” she exclaimed again, getting frantic.

Santos continued to watch as events unfolded. He noticed James becoming visibly upset by his mother’s repeated calls. As James started toward her, the larger of the two female agents stepped in front of him, blocking his advance with her body. He continued to try to walk toward his mother, who was bleeding and screaming.

“James!”

By now, everyone in the screening area was watching the events as they unfolded.

The large, black female agent pushed him back as best she could, but she had trouble restraining him. Santos noticed, got up from his chair and walked toward them, briskly.

Santos grabbed him by the left arm and slammed him into the wall. He shouted, “You can’t go in there! That’s a restricted area!”

James resisted by raising his left arm. He broke the hold Santos had on him, accidentally slapping Santos in the face. Santos responded by slamming his right fist into his ribs, followed by a left to his face. The force of the second blow caused James’s head to fly back. He hit the wall with a thud. Blood spurted from his nose as he slid to the floor.

The other passengers in the line gasped, unable to believe what they had just witnessed. Several of them took out their cell phones to record the event.

Santos could see that James no longer posed a threat, but he didn’t stop. He kicked him, once to the face, then to the ribs. He could feel several of them break as his foot connected.

“You dumb fuck! I told you to stop!”

The other TSA agents watched as the event unfolded. Two of the male agents ran toward Santos and grabbed him before he could do any more damage. They eventually were able to restrain him. One agent handcuffed James. Santos and another agent lifted him up, causing his broken ribs to jab him in the side. He let out a scream. They led him away, dragging him past the line of passengers. He bled profusely from the face.

One of the passengers standing in line took a close-up photo of his bloody face and bulging eyes as the TSA agents dragged him past the line of gasping onlookers.

The two female TSA agents had stopped what they were doing to watch the altercation. His mother couldn’t see what was going on, but she could hear the commotion. She tried to turn around to see, but the wheelchair pointed in the opposite direction.

The larger of the two female agents grabbed the wheelchair handles, rushed her into the screening room and closed the doors behind her. As the door closed, passengers could hear her screaming – “James! James! … Get your hands off me!”

“Is life so dear or peace so sweet as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? … I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!”

Patrick Henry

“Robert, did you hear what happened at the airport yesterday?” Sveta and Paige just sat down for lunch at the Olive Garden restaurant on Biscayne Boulevard and 181st Street in Aventura, a north eastern suburb of Miami. They liked eating there because of the salad and because of its closeness to her office. Michelle, their favorite waitress, placed the salad and bread on the table and left.

“Yes, I couldn’t help it. The photo someone took of him being dragged away with a bloodied face made the front page of the
Miami Herald
. Did you see the pain on his face?”

“Yes. And someone took a video and posted it on the internet. I saw the whole thing on
YouTube
this morning. I heard it went viral.”

Sveta took a sip of her ice tea. “I think it was terrible what they did to that man. Did you see it when that TSA agent kicked him in the face and the ribs? That’s something they would do in Russia, but not in America.”

“Yes. I heard the FBI questioned the person who took that photo of his bloody face. They’re trying to decide whether to charge him with a crime because it puts the government in a bad light.”

“Why would they go after him? All he did was take a photo.”

“Yes, but publishing it makes it look like the government is more of a threat than the terrorists. It weakens their argument that no cost is too great to fight the war on terrorism.

The newscaster interviewed the TSA agent’s boss. He said the investigation has already been completed and that the agent had been acting properly, just following procedure. They’re going to prosecute the passenger for assault. The FBI is trying to get the
YouTube
video taken down because he said it provides aid and comfort to the enemy. They’re also trying to find out who posted it.”

“What enemy, Robert? Who is the enemy?”

“It’s difficult to find one. I’m beginning to think the government poses more of a threat than the terrorists.”

“I am thinking so too, Robert, but what can anyone do about it?”

“I don’t know. Whenever some politician goes on TV to talk about national security, they all say the same thing: we need more funding, we need stricter laws, we need more surveillance cameras. It doesn’t matter whether they’re Democrats or Republicans.”

“Robert, the condo board started putting more cameras in my building. Jason told me they got a federal grant to pay for it.”

“Yeah, I read that there is a lot of government money for cameras. Did you notice there are now a lot of cameras all up and down Biscayne Boulevard?”

“Yes, and a lot of other streets too. The camera takes a photo whenever the light turns red. Hitler and Stalin could only dream of such a thing. I heard a news report a few weeks ago about somebody shooting out a few of them around 70
^th
and Biscayne. I only heard it once, though. I wonder if the police pressured the TV station not to report it.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it. They’re probably afraid of copycats. A lot of people don’t like those cameras. I’ve read on the Internet that the government is putting pressure on the media not to report things that touch on national security.”

Sveta stopped fumbling with her salad. “What do cameras on Biscayne Boulevard have to do with national security?”

“Nothing. That’s the point. If the government can pressure radio and TV stations not to report on a few vandalized cameras, there’s no telling what else they can do.”

“They sound paranoid. People used to think like that in Russia too. You always had to be careful what you said or did. Before you know it, they’ll be installing cameras inside our homes.”

“They’ve already started to do that. A few months ago, one of the local newscasters reported on an incident at a local high school. The high school had issued computers to its students, paid for with a federal grant. The computers had cameras. The vice principal used to monitor them from home in the evening. Mostly they were just conversations between students talking about whatever teenagers talk about, but once in a while a student would leave the computer on when they undressed at night. On more than one occasion, he observed a student masturbating, mostly guys, but a few girls too.”

“Robert, I’ve often wondered about that. Do guys masturbate a lot? I had a friend in Moscow who said her brother did it all the time. They lived in a two-room apartment that had thin walls and she could hear him doing it practically every day.”

“Yes, it’s not that unusual. It’s almost part of their daily routine.”

“Robert, did you masturbate a lot when you were a teenager?”

“Sveta, you’re embarrassing me.”

“I’m sorry, Robert, I was just curious.”

“Actually, I got more sex when I was in the tenth grade than I do now, but I never had a partner in those days.”

“That’s because you’re too busy, Robert. I would give you more if you weren’t so busy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Michelle approached the table. “Have you decided what to order?”

Sveta ordered first. “Yes, I’ll have the linguine alla marinara.”

“Sir, what would you like?”

“I’ll have the chicken parmigiana.”

“Thank you.” She turned and left.

The noise from the packed restaurant made it difficult to carry on a conversation, so they spent most of their time eating. Paige’s chicken parmigiana was good, but not as good as what they served at Trattoria Il Migliori in North Miami Beach. Not as large either. He could get three meals out of the Il Migliori parm. But the Olive Garden salads were larger and tastier, so it was a trade-off foodwise.

As they finished their meal, Paige continued to think about what was happening in America. He didn’t like it.

“You know, Sveta, America’s Founding Fathers would be appalled at what’s happening in this country. If British soldiers had tried to do what the TSA and the camera installers are doing, they would have been tarred and feathered by the citizenry, or perhaps strung up. America has become a land of sheep. Someone should do something before it’s too late.”

After saying good-bye to Sveta in the Olive Garden parking lot, Paige pulled out his phone and dialed Wellington from his car.

“Hi, John, this is Bob. Did you get the results yet?”

“Yeah, I did, but there’s not much to report. I’m going to be in your neck of the woods this afternoon. Perhaps we can meet for a few minutes. Are you free?”

“Of course. I’m a professor. I only teach two days a week, and today isn’t one of them.”

“Thank you for reminding me. I sometimes forget that I work more in a day than you professor-types work in a week.”

“Perhaps you should think about working less. The less you Commerce Department types work, the less damage you can do to the economy.”

“Funny, Bob. You know we always have American consumers as our top priority.”

“I know. That’s why prices are so much higher than they would be in a free market. You’re trying to protect American consumers from low prices.”

“Precisely…. How does four o’clock sound? That’s after your usual nap time, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I’m usually done with my nap by then.”

“Good. How about the Starbucks on Collins Avenue?”

“Sure. It’s next to my gym. I can get in a quick workout after my nap and before dinner.”

“See you then.”

Paige entered the gym at about 2:30 in the afternoon, had a vigorous workout, and hit the showers at 3:45, which gave him more than the two minutes he needed to walk to Starbucks.

Ever since the incident in the parking lot, he’d been working out with more intensity than usual, combining weight training with martial arts. He also spent more time at the dojahng sparring with whoever was there. If he had another encounter, he couldn’t afford to be as sloppy in his technique as he’d been the first time.

Paige arrived first and ordered a tuna croissant and cappuccino. He was hungry after his workout and wanted to ingest some protein. After picking up his order, he went outside and took a table in the northwest corner. That gave him a good view of Collins Avenue, while being far enough away that the exhaust fumes wouldn’t assault his nostrils. It sat far enough away from the other tables that, with the street sounds, the other customers wouldn’t be able to pick up their conversation.

A few minutes after four, Wellington walked over to Paige’s table. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt and blue tie, but no suit coat. Miami was usually too hot to wear a suit coat outside.

“Hi, Bob.” He reached out and shook Paige’s hand. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get some coffee.”

He returned a few minutes later, as Paige was taking the last bite of his tuna croissant.

After exchanging a few pleasantries, Wellington got to the point.

“My guys didn’t find much. Their DNA isn’t in the system. The van was stolen.”

“What about fingerprints? Did they find anything on the notes or the guns?”

“No, they must have handled the notes with gloves on. There weren’t any prints on the guns either.”

Paige held in his look of surprise. He’d placed their prints on those guns himself. He eyed John as he tried to savor his cappuccino. “Were you able to trace the serial numbers on the guns?”

“Yeah. They belonged to some guy who died ten years ago.”

“Hm. That sounds like a dead end. Pardon my pun.”

“Funny, Bob. Someone probably inherited them, or maybe they were sold at auction or at a gun show. There’s really no way to trace them without starting a paper trail, which we don’t want to do.”

“What about the photos? Did your face-recognition software find anything?”

“No. Apparently they aren’t in the system.”

“Seems a little strange. Anyone who has a driver’s license is in the system.”

“That’s right, but nothing showed up. The face-recognition system isn’t perfect.”

“Or maybe their photos were taken out of the system because they have someone on the inside.”

“Bob, you’re being paranoid. They were probably just a couple of lowlife thugs.”

The conversation gradually shifted. Wellington left a few minutes later. As Paige walked to his car, he replayed their conversation in his head. John lied to him about the fingerprints. When Paige searched their pockets, he found the van keys. Guys who steal cars don’t have the keys. They have to hotwire them, and everyone who has a driver’s license has their photo in the system.

Things didn’t add up. He wondered why Wellington was lying to him.

“If you want a vision of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face—forever.”

George Orwell