Out of the Ashes (31 page)

“You won't find one person in this state suffering from hunger. Not one! We've eliminated it; wiped it out in less time than it takes some bills to get out of committee in your Congress. Your government has been attempting to wipe out hunger for decades, with only partial success. Think about that. Write about that. That says a great deal for our system.

“When we got here the elderly were living—most of them—in squalor. Existing might be a better word. Their possessions had been taken from them; they were neglected; and utterly terrified in their own homes, living in fear of punks and thugs and slime you people have, for years, been moaning and sobbing over. Hell, what else is new? Old people have been living in fear for their lives for decades, but you people haven't done anything about it, except moan and sob about the rights of street punks. We rounded up the punks, shot or hanged them, and helped the elderly put their lives back in order. Now, if that makes me a dictator or a man lacking in compassion, as has been written about me, then I'm proud to be just that.

“And, for your information, most doors in the Tri-states aren't locked at night, or at any other time. The lock on my back door doesn't even work, and hasn't for four years. That's got to tell you something about the way we live; the peace we all feel here. And we are at peace here, wanting trouble with or from no one.

“While you are here, by all means visit our hospitals and research centers and day-care centers and community centers and villages. Talk to anyone you wish to talk with. Visit our schools and see what we've done. Then compare what you see with what you've just left—out there”—he pointed—“in your
United States.

“Visit our planning offices here in Vista, see what we've got on the tables for the future. You'll be surprised, I'm sure. But don't just report on a society that comes down hard on criminals; one where they are not pampered at taxpayer expense. For once, just once, you people report on both the good and the bad; weigh the rights of decent people against those of criminals. But by all means, do report that the life expectancy of punks is very short in the Tri-states.”

A reporter raised his hand. “Governor, all you say may be true—probably is true—I'm not disputing your word. It's easy to see that you and your people have done a great deal of good in this area, but the fact is, you stole all the material you brought into this area. That's something you can't deny.”

“I have no intention of denying it,” Ben said. “We took from dead areas, transplanted what we took here, and put those materials to use. You people could have done the same—but you didn't. You people left billions and billions—probably trillions of dollars worth of valuable materials to rot and rust, and do absolutely no one any good at all. That is the crime.”

“Governor”—Judith stood up—“on another topic—or maybe, really it isn't—on the way here, Mr. Oliver said you don't have police, but peace officers. Would you explain the difference and why their powers are limited?”

“Peace officers keep the peace,” Ben said simply, and with a smile. “And folks out here—myself included—seem to prefer the name to cops. As to their limited powers, I'll try to explain, but here is where we veer off sharply from your society and its laws.

“First, and lastly, too, I suppose, a person has to
want
to live here. You'll hear that a dozen times before you leave. We are not an open society. Not just anyone can come in here to live. I have no figures to back this, but I would be willing to wager that probably no more than one out of every ten people in America could live under our laws or the type of government we have. Hucksters, shysters, con men, ambulance-chasing lawyers, cheats, liars . . . those types cannot last in this society.
Everything
is open and aboveboard in this state. Some of those types have tried to live here. We've buried a few; most left.

“Our laws on the books are few, and they are written very simply and plainly. Our laws are taught in our schools, our young people are brought up understanding the do's and don't's of this society. Any person with an average intellect can draw up a legal document in the Tri-states, and it will be honored in a court of law simply because the people in this state are honorable people. That sounds awfully smug, but it is the truth. Here, a person's word means as much as a written contract. That's why so many people can't live in our society. And here, as strange as it seems to you people, all this is working. Working because of one simple, basic fact: one has to
want
to live here.

“Our peace officers don't have much to do other than occasionally break up a family fight.” He smiled. “And yes, we do have domestic squabbles here. Or they might issue a traffic ticket; occasionally have to investigate a shooting or a theft. But those are very rare. The army is constantly on patrol, so they pretty well take over most law-enforcement jobs in a preventive manner, so to speak. We've found their presence to be a deterrent.”

Barney looked at Badger and could damned well understand why that would be so.

“Now as you probably realize by now,” Ben said, “in the Tri-states, it is not against the law to protect yourself, your loved ones, or your property. That is written into our constitution just as it is in yours ... but we enforce it. And there have been killings and woundings. All justified under our laws.

“Now, I'm going to tell you something all of you will find very difficult to believe. But it is the truth. The Tri-states take in approximately three hundred and thirty thousand square miles of territory. Per capita, we have. 025 percent crime. I don't know how in the Lord's name a society could get any lower statistics than that. We've had one mugging in the Tri-states in the past two years.”

“What happened to the mugger?”

“Twenty-five years at hard labor,” Ben said calmly.

“Twenty-five years!” a reporter jumped to his feet. “My God, General Raines—what kind of laws do you people have in this state?”

“I just told you. Tough ones.”

Several of the press people shuddered. Some smiled in disbelief.

“We have very tough drinking laws in this state,” Ben said. “And they are enforced
to the letter.
No exceptions. If you doubt that, take a drive up to the state penitentiary and ask to speak to a Mr. Michael Clifford; he was our secretary of finance until two years ago. He got drunk one night and ran over a young girl. She was badly injured. Mr. Clifford is serving a ten-year-to-life sentence. Had the girl died, the charge would have been murder. Not manslaughter—murder. And he would have spent the rest of his life in prison, at hard labor. No probation, no parole.

“We are not a teetotaling society; we don't care if a person gets stinking drunk in his or her own home. That's not our business. Just don't drive drunk.

“There are bars and lounges all over the Tri-states. But none outside of a town limit, and there is a two-drink limit, or a three-beer limit. It's all on an honor system: no cards to punch, no undercover people sneaking about. And so far, it's working. There again, we have to go back to what has been preached to you people since you got here. One has to
want
to live in this type of society. And not everybody can.”

Juno chose that time to wander out onto the patio, take a look around, yawn, and then drop to the ground and go to sleep. He was getting old, almost nine years old, and blind in one eye, but still a beautiful animal.

“That's a wolf,” someone whispered.

“Malamute,” Ben corrected. “I found him in Georgia, years ago. Or rather, he found me. Juno's harmless, for the most part. Just leave him alone; that's all he asks.” Ben smiled. “That's all
we
ask here in the Tri-states.”

“Governor ...” A woman rose. “I'm an atheist. Could I live in this area?”

“Of course; but your children would still be taught the Bible, our creation, in public schools—and there are no other kinds of schools. And won't be.”

“Suppose I don't want my children subjected to that superstitious drivel?”

“Then you could leave.”

“That's it?”

“That's it.”

“Your form of government is not very fair, General.” She slurred the “General.”

“It's fair for the people who choose to live under it. And that is what Tri-states is all about. And I'm beginning to sound redundant.”

“You stress the Bible, General,” she retorted, “but it seems to me there is a definite lack of compassion in this state. And I really can't correlate the Bible with legalized prostitution.”

Ben had taken an immediate dislike to the woman. Bad chemistry, he supposed. “I don't stress the Bible, lady. We have great compassion for the old, the sick, the homeless, the young, the troubled, the helpless, those in need. Our system is such that no one needs to steal. That is why we are so harsh with lawbreakers. The churches are for those who wish to attend. The whorehouses are for those who would like a quick piece of ass.”

Behind him, Salina suppressed a groan and Tina giggled.

The woman sat down, angry.

Half of the press people laughed, the other half frowned at Ben's loss of composure.

“Some would say you have a cult here, Governor.”

“No.” Ben shook his head. “I'd have to argue that. I was afraid of it, I will admit. At first. But we have no clear and fast ruler here. I
know
the people of the Tri-states would fight and die for their system of government. I am equally convinced they would not blindly die for me. That's the difference. All of us are the architects of the system—not just me.”

“What does it take to move into this state?” Judith asked. Her colleagues looked at her in surprise. She sounded as if she meant the question for personal reasons.

“There has to be a job for you, and you have to want to move in very badly. You have to agree to become a member of the standing militia, and to support the Tri-states' philosophy—war or peace.”

“You suppose there might be a job for me?” Judith asked.

“I would certainly imagine so. We've opened a number of radio stations and installed a number of TV stations. In our check on your people, you came out very high. You're a fair reporter in all aspects.”

A reporter jumped to his feet. “What do you mean: a check on us?”

“Just that. You were all checked by our intelligence people before coming in here.”

“How? I mean . . . well, how?”

Ben smiled. “That, son, is something you'll never know.”

The Tri-states had a fine intelligence-gathering network with sophisticated computers and databanks. Their microwave equipment was the finest in the world. Dozens of technicians, formerly employed by the CIA, NASA, NCIC, the FBI, and others, worked for the Tri-states' military—both inside and outside the state. They had taps into many computers around the nation.

“Are you interested in joining?” Ben asked the young woman. “I believe your mother and father were killed by burglars, before the war—were they not?”

Judith nodded. How had he discovered that? “Yes, I am very much interested.”

“Are you out of your mind?” her boss whispered. “What are you trying to prove?”

Judith shrugged her reply.

“You people prowl around for a few days,” Ben said. “We'll meet again for more questions and answers.” He wheeled about and walked into the house, Salina and Tina behind him.

Badger blocked the way, the AK-47 at port arms. And the first press conference in Tri-states' short history was over.

“Dr. Chase and Legal Officer Bellford are waiting for you people downtown,” Badger informed the press corps. “Tell your drivers to take you to district HQ. It's just a couple of miles from here. That way.” He pointed. “There are vehicles waiting for you—Jeeps.”

“For free?” a reporter asked.

“Sure,” Badger said. “Why not? You thinkin' about stealin' one?”

The man laughed. “After what we just heard about your form of justice?”

Badger smiled. “Yeah. That's something to think about, isn't it?”

 

The auditorium in the Hall of Justice building was large and comfortably furnished. Charles Bellford and Chief of Medicine Lamar Chase were waiting for them.

Dr. Chase did not particularly like the press—those from the outside—but he agreed to meet with them. His dislike was evident with his opening remark.

“Let's get this over with,” he said. “I've got important things to do.”

“You don't consider meeting with us important?” he was asked.

“I consider it a waste of valuable time, and cannot see that anything constructive will come from it. You each get one question directed at me.” He looked at the reporter who had asked about the importance of the meeting. “You've had yours. Next?”

The reporter sat down, muttering. “I don't believe this place.”

“Dr. Chase, how do your medical facilities differ from those of the . . . outside?”

Chase smiled. “Good question, son. I can sum it all up in one statement, then get the hell out of here.

“We have the finest research center in the world here in the Tri-states. I should know, I helped steal most of the equipment.”

The room echoed with laughter.

“Our facilities are excellent, and seventy-five percent free to the public. The state pays the first seventy-five percent, the patient the remainder, and that can be paid by installments or by a state loan. But no one is denied medical care—ever.

“We have doctors from the outside begging to come in here. Here, a physician may not become wealthy, but he or she will, in most situations, work regular hours. Ob/Gyn people are exceptions. We don't have malpractice suits in the Tri-states. Not as you people know them. A doctor might amputate the wrong leg and get sued—he should be sued. But it has to be something major for a lawsuit in the Tri-states.

“Here, doctors see patients who need to see a doctor, well-trained paramedics take care of the rest. That eases the load quite a bit. You people could have done the same had not the majority of your doctors been mercenary and the people they served sue-happy.

“We have the finest organ bank in the world. I have preached for years that it should be against the law for a person to be lowered into the ground with precious organs intact. That is not permitted here in the Tri-states. Every part of the human body we can use, we take at the moment of death.”

“The patient has no choice in the matter?”

“None.”

“Death with dignity, doctor—is that allowed in this semireligious society?”

“I'll let the sarcastic ‘semireligious' part of your question slide, sonny. I am not a religious man, personally. Yes, euthanasia is allowed in this society. And it's nobody's business but the patient's—as it should be anywhere. Not all doctors agree with it, naturally; we have diverse philosophies in this society just as you do in yours. Those doctors that don't like the idea don't take part in it. But the right to die, with or without dignity, is a personal choice and right. And no one else's goddamned business.” He walked out of the room.

“Very blunt man,” someone observed.

“But a compassionate one,” Charles Bellford said.

“Mr. Bellford, you used to be a federal judge. You don't look like a judge now.”

Bellford was dressed in ranch pants, western shirt, and cowboy boots. He smiled. “I don't have all those lofty decisions to hand down here, Mr. Charles. I'm a rancher/farmer first, legal officer second. Lawyers and judges don't have much to do in the Tri-states.”

“Sir . . .” A reporter stood up. “I don't mean to appear ignorant . . . but I just don't understand your system of justice here. Surely you have decisions to weigh.”

Bellford shook his head. “I realize this state must come as a shock to most of you. But I have very few decisions to ponder. The people we allow in here are almost always amazed at how smoothly our system runs. It almost runs itself. And it's easily explained: we simply brought the law back to the people.

“You see, I believe—and have for years—that the legal profession tried to keep the law, and themselves, on a plane far above the average person's level of understanding. And they—we—did it deliberately. Gods on high, so to speak, uttering pronouncements in a verbiage beyond the grasp of the nonlegal-educated majority. It was arrogant of us, and that is not the way it is done in the Tri-states. Governor Raines believes that lawyers perpetuate lawyers. I agree with him.

“Our trials are different from those on the outside, but I assure you, one and all, they do not make a mockery of justice.

“You see, we don't believe it's fair or just for the state—as in your system—to throw millions of dollars, highly trained investigators, and fine legal minds into a case, when the defendant is left out in the cold with one attorney and all the bills. That is not justice for all. Even if the accused is proven innocent, beyond the shadow of a doubt, in your system, many times he or she is ruined financially and publicly humiliated—by the press. We just don't believe that is true justice.

“There are no fine points of law here; no tricky legal maneuvering; no deals; no browbeating of witnesses. If a question cannot be fairly answered by a simple yes or no reply from the witness stand, we allow that person to elaborate. Or, one of the judges may stop the witness and take him or her into chambers, along with the attorneys; they'll hash it out there.” He laughed. “You can all see I'm rusty with legal jargon. And so very happy about it.

“As you all know, polygraph and PSE machines are much more accurate than, oh, say ten years ago. And they are used in every case in the Tri-states. Every case. If they leave any doubt, we use drug-induced hypnosis. But a case will seldom go that far.”

“What if I don't want to be subjected to that type of treatment?” he was asked.

“You don't have a choice,” Bellford replied. “By your very refusal, you're admitting a certain amount of guilt. Look, we're dealing, in some cases, with human life; certainly with careers, with families, with dignity, and we want to be certain the right person is punished. And I know, and you people should know, that eyewitnesses are notoriously unreliable. I wish we had a case being tried somewhere in the Tri-states so you could all see our system in action.”

“Sir . . . are you telling us that in all of the Tri-states, you aren't trying someone?”

“That is correct. Sorry.”

“That's impossible!”

Bellford laughed. “Perhaps incredible—to you people—but certainly not impossible. Sociologists, psychologists, psychiatrists, and social anthropologists have been preaching for years that the death penalty and harsh laws would not be a deterrent for criminals. Many people believed them; I never did. Our society proves they were wrong. One day a week—this day—I come in in the afternoon to hear cases. I usually read a book to pass the time. Obviously, we are doing something right.”

“But you are selective as to the caliber of person you will allow to live in the Tri-states?”

“Oh my, yes.”

“Then how do you know harsh laws would work in the other states?”

“I don't. But you don't know that they won't, because you people have never tried them. Probably never will. But that's your problem; we've solved ours. Understand this: in the Tri-states, murder, kidnapping, armed robbery, the selling of hard drugs, and treason, are all punishable by the death penalty. And lesser crimes—and that is a paradoxical statement—are still treated in a very harsh manner.”

“Your system of justice does not allow much leeway for human error, Mr. Bellford.”

“More than you might realize, sir. We have counselors ready and willing to talk with anyone who might have a problem-twenty-four hours, around the clock. And our people do use them. We do not have a pressure-free society. But it's as close as we could come to it.”

“Be that as it may, Mr. Bellford. I don't think I'd like to live in your society.”

“Your choice,” the reporter was informed. “And ours.”

 

Barney and his crew drove through the countryside as the press scattered over the thousands of miles of the Tri-states. They admired the neat, well-kept homes, the tidy fields and meadows, and the open friendliness of the people. No one seemed to be in any great hurry to get anywhere, and the press people realized then that the pace was indeed slower in the Tri-states. They were invited into homes by people they did not know, for coffee and cake and pie and home-baked bread. Homes were open, with doors unlocked; keys left in the ignitions of vehicles.

“Don't let a good boy go bad,” one of Barney's crew said sarcastically. “I always did think that was a bunch of shit. Good boys don't steal cars. Punks steal cars.”

Barney glanced at him. “I never knew you felt that way, Jimmy.”

“You never asked me.”

Toward the end of the second day, Barney and his crew stopped to sit in silence for a time, digesting all they'd seen.

Barney sighed and shook his head. “Ted, we haven't seen one shack in two days. I have seen no signs of poverty. I have not seen anyone who looked poor or unhappy about anything. Why is everyone so contented in this wacko place?”

“Because they have what they want. I couldn't live here; I'll admit that. I like to whore around too much.” He grinned. “I'd get shot for fooling around with someone's wife. O.K., so I couldn't live here—I haven't been invited, have I? But these folks like it here. Hell, why doesn't the government just leave them alone and let them live the way they want to live. They're not forcing their way of life on anyone. It's none of President Logan's business.”

Jimmy said, “I agree with you, Ted. But I'll admit something: I'd like to live here. Man, these people have something good going for them.”

Barney glanced at him. “The death penalty, Jimmy? Hard laws? I never knew you felt that way.”

“You never asked me.”

 

Charles Clayton and his crew pulled to a halt at the northernmost edge of the western part of the Tri-states. They had been following a chain-link fence for miles. The fence had stopped abruptly, turning straight east. Inside the fence was a desolate-looking stretch of almost barren land, cleared and stripped of most vegetation. It looked to be about a thousand yards wide.

“Looks like a no man's land,” Clayton said, gazing at the second and third fences in the open area. “I'm beginning to understand why they have so few police. Once a person gets in, he can't get out! The entire damned place is a jail.”

The minicam operator consulted a booklet. “This is the strip, as it's called. Jesus, can you imagine the wire it took to build this thing?”

“Warning signs every few hundred yards,” Clayton said. “I wonder if that area inside is mined?”

A military Jeep pulled up beside the van. It had driven up so swiftly and silently it startled the men. The two soldiers were dressed in tiger-stripe field clothes, jump boots, and black berets. Armed with pistols and automatic weapons, they were neither hostile nor openly friendly—just curious.

“Something the matter?” one asked.

“Are you police?”

“No, army patrol. Border security.”

Clayton nodded. “What would you do if I had an urge to walk around in there?” He pointed toward the strip. “Just climb the fence and go in there?”

“Nothing,” the soldier replied blandly. “You're an adult; you can read the warning signs. If you want to run the risk of getting hurt or killed in there, that's your business.”

“So it is mined,” Clayton said.

“That's the rumor.” The soldier lit a cigarette.

Clayton did not see the wink that passed from one soldier to the other. The area was not mined, but could be in a very short time.

“You people take death and injury very casually,” Clayton said.

“No,” the soldier contradicted, “not really. We love life, love freedom. That's why we chose to live here. We just figure any intelligent man or woman would have enough sense or respect for warning signs to keep out of any area marked ‘Keep Out.' ”

“There is still the matter of small children,” Clayton said, his face hot and flushed.

“Yes, that's right. That's why we're here, sir. But our kids are taught to respect warning signs, fences, other people's property, and things that don't belong to them. How about your kids?”

Clayton glared at him for a moment, then smiled. “I have been properly chastised, soldier. Thank you.”

“You're sure welcome, sir.” The driver put the Jeep in gear and drove off.

Clayton sighed. “This is a tough one, people. I don't know how I'm going to report it. What they've done is bring it all back to the basics. That's all it is. The simplest form of government in the world. But goddamn it!” he cursed. “It's working!”

 

The press roamed the Tri-states, top to bottom, east to west for a week, some of them trying their very best to pick it apart and report the very worst. They talked with a few people who did not like the form of government, the harsh laws, and death penalty. Some people felt they had a right to get drunk and drive—they could drive just as well drunk as sober. They had a right to bully and browbeat. Laws were made to be broken, not followed.