19

We missed his first few words. “Quiet!” that blond woman yelled sternly, and all conversation stopped. The kitchen crew came out and stood behind the counter, looking up. The cook was distractedly wiping his hands on his stained apron. Dusty raised the sound just in time for us to hear the president announce “arrests in the attempted assassination of President Wrightman and the murder of Treasury Secretary Farber.”

“Yes!” the boy’s father blurted and was immediately hushed.

The president said he refused to “give these people the political platform they want. The attention they were willing to kill for.” He paused to let that sink in. “Therefore, I am not going to announce their names or provide any details about them. But I can tell you their participation was part of a larger effort against the American people, and their apprehension makes all of us safer tonight.”

The president put down the papers from which he had been reading as the camera dollied in for a close-up as he obviously began reading his heartfelt remarks from a teleprompter. “The evidence against these people, there are two of them, is overwhelming. And when confronted with it they confessed. The question that I had to answer is: What are we going to do about that?”

He paused and looked at his hands, which were clasped prayerfully on the desk. “Rather than put the country through that turmoil, God knows we’ve got enough on our plate right now, we convened a military tribunal. Our finest military leaders gave these people every opportunity to defend themselves, but they were unable to do that. So after a hearing these two people were convicted, unanimously convicted…” I couldn’t help but admire his TV presence. After a pause and a deep breath, he finally looked directly into the camera and continued: “… and sentenced to death. And just like President Abraham Lincoln did at another time of great turmoil, I have decided to accept the recommendation of this military tribunal and order that these people be hung.”

I was stunned, absolutely stunned. Just like that he was throwing out the Fifth Amendment. He was ignoring more than two centuries of precedent, destroying what was left of the American legal system. Due process? Habeas corpus? Trial by a jury of your peers? Miranda warnings? Gone. Welcome home, Star Chamber.

Laura reached across the table and took my hand. I let her. Maybe even needed it.

“Believe me,” the president continued, shaking his head in dismay, “what I am about to say brings me no pleasure. But after consulting the Justice Department, I have made the determination that for the first time in the history of this great country these executions will be televised.” He paused again, and Leo’s erupted into a smattering of excited responses.

The kid had wiggled out of the family booth and was standing by the counter, looking up at the president with adoration.

“We aren’t quite certain yet when this will happen. This is America, and under our laws these two people are entitled to all their possible legal remedies before being executed, so it will be at least another day or two.”

When he’d finished, Leo’s sprung back into life. It was as if he had announced Black Friday was being extended. A roar of excited chatter rose and filled the place as clattering plates and relieved laughter created harmony. Midge delivered our now slightly cold meals and apologized. Naturally we understood, that’s just the type of good Americans we were. More than anything else, though, the truly frightening thing about it was the sense of normalcy. The president of the United States had just announced the end of American jurisprudence, and people in a typical American diner in a typical American town responded by asking for another slice of that delicious lemon meringue pie.

Laura and I kept our voices low, leaning across the table in conversation as we ate. We laid out a panoply of options, none of them especially great. The counterman had turned down the sound again as talking heads began earnestly discussing the speech. “Put the game back on,” someone shouted, and Dusty clicked through the channels until he found it.

It was almost nine o’clock when we were ready to leave. We’d decided to drive through the night to get to Buffalo. We would try to make contact with the resistance there. Laura paid our bill in cash. As we approached Van, I told Cher to open the side panel. The ramp extended and lowered to street level. “Want me to drive?” Laura asked.

“That’s all right, it’s easier for me.” I rolled into the driver’s tracks and locked Mighty Chair into place. Laura climbed into the passenger seat, adjusted her seat belt, and placed her tablet on the dashboard. I turned on the engine and put Van in reverse. Warning bells indicating something was behind me chimed rapidly. I glanced at the screen.

Two police officers were standing in the night haze of the rear camera. They were standing legs apart, holding their extended weapon with both hands, pointing at Van. “What the…” I said, then started pounding the wheel. “Fuck!”

The night exploded into red and yellow swirling lights. Four police cars squealed to a halt, trapping us in Leo’s Own parking lot. Searchlights lit up the area brighter than an August afternoon. I could see police officers scrambling in every one of my mirrors. A bullhorned voice ordered, “You are under arrest. Do not move. Everybody in the van come out with your hands raised.” I buried my face in my palm, took a long, hard deep breath, and smiled wanly at Laura. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh god,” she said. She laid a hand on her chest. “Oh my god.”

I took several measured breaths, trying to gain control. I put a hand on Laura’s wrist. “It’ll be okay.” Then I shifted into park.

Seconds later Van’s side-panel door slid open and the ramp extended. In those yellow searchlights it probably looked like a scene out of Close Encounters. I drove Chair down onto the parking lot gravel. Laura followed me out. The spotlights blinded us both, but we kept our hands raised. Somebody shouted, “Get on the ground!” I shaded my eyes and looked into the blinding lights and shrugged helplessly. Softly I said, “Cher, turn off.” The less they knew about Chair’s capabilities, the better it was for us. Laura laid down on the gravel, her arms extended. I kept my hands high in the air. They came out from behind the protection of their vehicles.

It became obvious very quickly that none of these officers had ever arrested a suspect in a wheelchair and weren’t certain how to proceed. While a female officer frisked Laura, another cop ran an electronic wand over Mighty Chair. The wand crackled like a terrestrial radio in a mountain pass. Every inch of the metal chair triggered a warning. The cop finally gave up and patted me down. I thought he looked embarrassed as he did so. Other officers hand-searched Mighty Chair and swarmed through Van. As far as these officers were concerned, we were terrorists, and clearly they feared we might have some type of booby traps. A big cop with a blubbery face gingerly unhooked my backpack, laid it on the ground, and opened it cautiously. Right on top was a black plastic kidney-shaped container with a tube running into it. Admittedly it was an odd shape and that tube could have been carrying wires. He took a step back and pointed at it with his weapon, demanding, “What the fuck is that thing?”

“That’s my urinal tank,” I told him. “Go ahead if you want, open it.”

He grimaced, as if he was too close to a decaying body part. Using the barrel of his gun he moved it to the side and searched the rest of my backpack. The other officers stepped back, several of them covering their mouths. “Well, look at this,” he said with some delight, drawing attention as he pulled out my cowbell. It clearly had captured his fancy. He happily clanged it several times until he was ordered to “put that damn toy away.”

A sergeant read us our revised rights. He held a card at arm’s length and squinted, then reluctantly put on a pair of tortoiseshell-framed reading glasses. “We have been authorized by the Department of Homeland Security to detain you until further notice…” No mention of the right to remain silent or the right to an attorney. Gone. The protection from self-incrimination. Gone. Instead, “… as duly authorized law enforcement agents we have the right to take any and all actions we believe necessary to carry out our orders.” The sergeant lowered the card and said in a sad attempt at a Southern twang, “’Nother words, your ass is grass and we are the lawn mower.”

This “warning” was only slightly different from the notice I’d been given by the feds. I guess we were being “detained” by local authorities until we could be “taken into protective custody” by the feds. There is something chilling about the fact that authoritarian leaders believe they need to create a facsimile legal system to do whatever it is they want to do.

There were nine officers, eight men and a woman. The patrons and some of the staff from the diner had come out to watch the proceedings. That little kid was standing in front, his father’s hands on both his shoulders, smiling and pointing at me. From the bits I could overhear, these officers had no idea how to proceed. They were trying to determine if Mighty Chair would fit into the trunk of a squad car. Apparently, they were waiting for Homeland Security agents to arrive and take us into custody. I wondered if it would be Corbin and Russell. I admit it, part of me was hoping it would be.

Laura was standing next to me. Tears were dripping onto her blouse. I whispered to her, “You’re just a hitchhiker I picked up…”

“I don’t care about me. It’s you…”

“Hey!” A young officer waved his flashlight through the night. His nameplate identified him as Officer Gunn. “No talking, you two.”

I should have been scared, but I would be lying to you (for dramatic purposes) if I said I was. I can’t explain it, maybe it was my inner Reacher. More likely it was because I had been in several equally serious situations and somehow managed to get out of them, but rather than wasting time feeling sorry for myself or worrying about the consequences, I was already churning out possible solutions.

After a lot of back-and-forth on their radios, Laura was put into the back of a squad car. And me? Their problem was how to transport me and Mighty Chair. Have I mentioned there are certain advantages to being disabled and that I am not above exploiting them? Rather than lifting me into a squad car the sergeant decided to put me in Van’s rear compartment. “Can you drive this thing?” the sergeant asked patrolman Gunn.

“’Course I can,” he responded confidently. “Anything’s got wheels, I can drive it.” They tied my wrists to Mighty Chair’s arm using plastic cables. I didn’t bother introducing them to Cher. I don’t think she would have approved.

They spent several minutes trying to figure out how to get me into Van. Finally they loosened my right hand and I rolled up the ramp. But even at this moment, with everything going on, the thought of what was about to happen amused me.

While I was locking myself down in the back, Gunn opened the driver’s side door and climbed in. It was only after he was in the driver’s well that he realized there was no driver’s seat. He looked around, as if one might suddenly materialize. He frowned, trying to figure out what to do. He knew there had to be a solution, but as hard as he concentrated, the answer eluded him. He didn’t want to embarrass himself by asking one of the senior officers, who had put him in this predicament. He finally reached what probably seemed to him to be the only logical conclusion: he would have to drive standing up.

If my hands weren’t tied down, if I hadn’t been under arrest in the back of Van, if Laura hadn’t thrown my phone away, I would have started taping this. This definitely would have been a highlight on America’s Funniest Home Videos.

Gunn steadied his feet and grabbed ahold of the steering wheel with both hands. He inhaled deeply for courage, both shoulders rising in determination. He carefully avoided touching any of the gizmos mounted on the wheel, having no idea what they might be for, then squatted down into a sitting position and turned on the engine.

He took another apprehensive breath, then released the emergency brake. He put Van in reverse and then … and then he was completely stymied. If he sat on his haunches, his foot couldn’t reach the accelerator. He thought about that, then glanced over his shoulder at me. I smiled and waved one tied-down hand from my wrist. I think my disdain made him even more determined to figure it out. There was only one option: He balanced himself on his left foot while stretching his right foot forward until he reached the accelerator, looking very much like he was performing a slow-motion Kazatsky, the famed Cossack sitting dance.

For an instant he was actually able to retain his balance, but then he tipped over. Van, now in reverse with the emergency brake off, rolled backward into a squad car. The crowd cheered.

“Gunn!” the sergeant screamed. “Put the fucking brake on! Put on the brake.”

Gunn got out muttering. Several of the other cops turned their heads so they wouldn’t be caught laughing. Eventually a lieutenant showed up and took charge. His name tag read L. Carty. He was a perfect bronze color and came fully equipped with a sense of humor. He asked me to drive Van, which would make everyone’s life easier, then cautioned me about trying to escape. “But if you do, I’m warning you,” he threatened, tilting his head toward Gunn, “you better take him with you.”

I rolled Chair into the rails behind the wheel and locked down. We drove in a convoy, three squad cars in front of me, three behind, all of them with their light bars flashing. It was as bright and colorful as a party in my friend “The Mush’es” basement in high school. Gunn rode shotgun with me, watching me drive with the hand controls. “That is definitely cool,” he finally said. “Man, I never would have figured that out.”

“Oh, sure you would have,” I said, as if he were a friend. I went through each of the controls for him, demonstrating how they worked. And when I was done with that I asked, in the same friendly conversational tone, “How’d you guys find us anyway? That’s good police work.”

“Thank you, we are pretty good, you know, for a small town.” He paused, then filled the silence. “Okay, I’ll tell you. We didn’t. The marshals called us and said you were over at Leo’s and we had to get right over there and arrest you.” That was interesting but not helpful. I’d screwed up somewhere, and without knowing exactly where that was, it was possible I’d do it again.

“They don’t tell you how they do that stuff, I guess.”

Gunn was pretty talkative once you got him going. “It’s some kind of secret voodoo shit. They got all this spy stuff. All I know is they told us they seen you going into Leo’s.”

Thank you very much, Officer Gunn. Cameras. That’s interesting. Drones maybe, but I doubted that. There’d be no reason to fly drones in that area. Satellite images? Possible, satellites could read license plates fifty miles away, but Laura had changed the plates and there were a lot of white vans on the road. They saw me going into Leo’s? Not Van, me. It had to be surveillance cameras. Had to be. We’d used them all the time over there to gather intel. I wasn’t really up-to-date on new techniques and capabilities, but I was pretty sure they were keyed for characteristics. Hair color. Height. Gender. Wheelchair. That was a problem. Once we got out of this, I’d have to figure out how to present a different profile.

Laura was in the cruiser directly in front of me. At intervals she would twist around to make sure I was still right behind. To my surprise, rather than being taken to the station house, we pulled into the parking lot of the Good Night Motel. In its defense, the Good Night did not pretend to be anything more than what it was, a rectangular-shaped lump of cement built to be an inexpensive alternative to more popular places near the lake. It offered beds and air-conditioned rooms. It reminded me mostly of the practical motels outside every military base in the world, paper-thin mattresses available by the night or the hour affordable on an enlisted man’s salary. No frills, no thrills, we called them.

Laura and I were escorted into a small room. Gunn was ordered to stay with us. The room had pale yellow walls and a single thick-curtained front window that looked out onto the parking lot; it contained two single beds, a bureau, and a desk. There was a large wood-framed mirror above the flimsy desk, a night table between the beds with a lamp and alarm clock on it, a closet, and a bathroom. Over each bed was a cheap print of flowers in a vase that somehow was sadder than empty space would have been. An old Sony Trinitron TV sat on the bureau. An ancient but still functioning air conditioner clunked every few seconds. Truth in advertising, I thought. Years of disinfectant seemingly had soaked into the walls and seasoned the air. The doorframe was just wide enough for Mighty Chair to squeeze through.

While Lieutenant Carty made sure we were safely settled, I asked him what we were doing there. “Don’t we have our rights as American citizens to be taken to jail?”

Carty didn’t even try to hide his displeasure at this whole situation. Everything about him read professional, from the polished shine of his shoes to his politeness. “We’re just doing what they told us to do. I don’t know why, they said they didn’t want you on the books. There’s two Homeland Security guys coming to pick you up, and they told us to keep you safe and secure until they got here.”

Laura looked puzzled. “What does that mean, ‘not on the books’?” She turned to me. “Can they do that, Rollie?”

Carty appeared to be embarrassed by his own answer. “Yeah, well, turns out we can. But I promise you, it doesn’t mean anything except you get worse towels and better food than you’d get with us.” He tapped his chest as if confirming a pledge. “I promise you, nothing’s going to happen to you long as you’re in our charge. Officer Gunn here is going to stay with you for the first shift. One of our people is gonna be outside too. You have any problems, you need something, tell Gunn and he’ll find me.” He seemed reluctant to leave, finally saying apologetically, “Believe me, I don’t like this any more than you do. But this is just the way things are now and we have to get used to it.” He couldn’t even meet my eyes as he said sadly, “We’re just doing our job.”

“So I guess this means we don’t get to make a phone call?”

Carty got my little joke. “Where do you think you are, Mr. Stone? Canada? They told us to bury you so deep the Chinese would have to dig you out.”

“How ’bout me?” Laura suddenly spoke up. “My mother is expecting to hear from me. That I’m okay. If she doesn’t get a message, she’ll…” She smiled at the irony. “She’ll call the cops.”

Brilliant! Apparently the last thing the cops wanted other cops to know was that we were in police custody. The lieutenant thought about it for a minute, then made an executive decision. “Okay, go ahead and send Mom a text that you’re okay. But just that, okay? Please?”

“Say hello from me,” I added.

After making sure the message Laura sent to “Mom” was sufficiently innocuous, Lieutenant Carty turned to leave. Gunn stopped him and asked in a loud whisper, pointing to me, “What am I s’posed to do with him?”

Carty leaned closer to him and replied in an equally loud whisper, “Your job.”

When Laura was done sending her warning message, she plopped down on the bed. The bedsprings squeaked. She asked me, with enough bravado to be reassuring, “You always take girls to seedy motels on a first date?”

“Of course not,” I admitted. “That’s usually the third date. You should be flattered.”

“Hush now,” Officer Gunn ordered.

“Oh, come on,” I said. If possible, I’d been taught, establish dialogue with your captors. Maybe it was time to wheel out my collection of bad jokes? In a tone dripping with friendliness I suggested, “You know, as long as we’re going to be here for a while, we might as well get along. What’s your name?”

“It’s not important.”

I couldn’t resist. “Okay, now we know what it’s not. The real question is what is it?”

Laura helped me move onto the bed closest to the door. Then she rolled Chair into a corner. Gunn was sitting Western-movie style facing the back of the wooden desk chair at the base of my bed. His crossed arms were resting on the top of the chair back. “I’ll tell you what it is,” he snapped. “It’s none of your business.”

Too easy. “Can I call you ‘nonie’ for short?”

Gunn’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping as he searched for a clever response. Giving up, he settled for “You know what? You’re not funny.”

Talk about a meatball. I was getting ready to crush it when Laura admonished, “Rollie. Don’t.” She turned her attention to Gunn, asking pleasantly, “How long have you been a police officer?”

He considered the consequences before answering, finally deciding it was not a trick question. “Just about four years.” Laura got him talking about himself. He had a girlfriend and they’d talked about getting married, but she wanted to wait until she finished at the community college. She was planning on becoming a nurse or a dental hygienist because she liked to help people. So they’d compromised: their Second Life avatars had gotten married. He actually blushed as he acknowledged, “But, you know…”—raising his eyebrows salaciously—“getting together that way isn’t all that much.”

Watching Laura ease him into a pleasant conversation was fascinating. The two of them were close to the same age, but she had quickly taken control. She completely won him over. It took me a minute to figure out her trick. It was obvious, there was no trick. She was genuinely curious about his life. In his fumbling way, it suddenly became clear to me, Gunn was explaining how all of this had happened in America. The young police officer had small dreams. He had grown up on a farm (hence his delight at discovering my cowbell), and all he wanted was the middle-class American life he had been promised: a woman who loved him, a comfortable house, some kids running around, mowing the lawn on Saturday morning, complaining about visiting the in-laws on Sunday. And he had seen those things slipping away, beyond his reach.

He had become a police officer, he explained, because it was good, honest work. It offered stability and provided him an opportunity to help people. “It was okay the first couple of years,” he said, “but it’s much better now, since President Wrightman. People just look at us differently now. They really respect us, you know what I mean. They know we’re their first line of defense against the terrorists. People like…” He pointed at me.

Laura ignored that. “So you really like the president?”

“Love him,” Gunn said firmly, sitting straight up in that chair. “The man said what he was going to do and he’s doing what he said he would do.” Not only did he respect the president, his whole family did. “He’s doing a damn good job protecting this country. Maybe we’re not in favor of everything he’s doing,” he continued, “but you know what, nobody’s perfect.”

Laura asked, “What about all the rights the government has taken away? Doesn’t any of that bother you?”

He shut his eyes and shook his head. “Truthfully, we don’t even notice that. Most of that comes from people who like to complain about everything. They’re just angry ’cause they can’t complain. Me and my family, we’re just regular people minding our own business, so that stuff doesn’t affect us.”

As their conversation continued, I drifted a few hours into the future. There were certain assumptions I could make: Homeland Security agents, presumably Dickie and Francis, were on their way. They would take us into custody and move us back to Washington. We would be detained there indefinitely and questioned. I wasn’t overly concerned about that because I was pretty confident it would never get to that point. What did concern me was Laura. How was she going to respond when the time came? I looked over at her; she was waving her hands descriptively, making some point. Young Officer Gunn was nodding in agreement, completely won over by her. She was giving him what he needed most: attention and respect. Attention and respect, it didn’t seem that hard; but apparently it was.

Anyway, there was nothing that I could do until the agents got there; and when it was time, I needed to be alert, so I willed myself into a light sleep. When I opened my eyes, the sun was shining and Gunn was gone. Another officer, Sergeant G. Hicker, tall and blond with thinning hair, was sitting in Mighty Chair. “This is pretty comfortable,” he said pleasantly. “I ordered you guys some coffee. I sure need some.”

A few minutes later the coffee, doughnuts, and a bagel for the officer were delivered to the room. Laura was wide awake; I couldn’t be sure she’d slept at all. “You okay?” I asked. “I mean, considering.”

“I’m fine, I’m good.”

Hicker continually checked his watch. I assumed he was anticipating the arrival of the agents. I was wrong. At nine A.M. he turned on the TV. “This is gonna be something to see,” he said. He opened the door and waved the second cop inside. “Come on in, it’s starting.”

I shot a quizzical glance at Laura, who shrugged. “What’s going on, guys?” she asked.

Officer G. Hicker pointed toward the TV with his coffee cup. “The execution’s on.”

As if on cue Aaron Copland’s stirring Fanfare for the Common Man blasted through the room. Officer Hicker flicked through several channels to see if there might be a different view, but they were sharing the same feed. The establishing shot was directly in front and above the stage—in the balcony, I guessed. The scene was somewhat reminiscent of Hunger Games, although rather than taking place outdoors, this was in a theater. I recognized it right away, having spent a lot of hours there. “That’s the Kennedy Center,” I said, “the concert hall.”

The second Lake City officer looked like he was younger than Gunn. He was tall and so thin that his uniform hung on him as if it were still on the hanger. His name was Stillman. He sat down in the desk chair, which now was facing the TV, and leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He was so completely absorbed in the broadcast we could have walked out.

By now most of you have probably seen this live or online. The ratings rivaled the Super Bowl. Obviously many people wanted to watch it several times, as the video broke every YouTube record. This was my view from room 117 of the Good Night Motel. The stage was dimly lit. Three people dressed head to toe in black stood together on the left side of the stage, with their backs to the camera. A sleekly designed minimalist burnished metal gallows had been set up centerstage. A series of mirrors were arranged diagonally behind it, making it appear as if the gallows faded into infinity. A small sign was affixed to the front of the gallows, but at this distance, on that TV, it was impossible to read it. Everything on the stage was monochromatic, which made the large American flag at either end stand out boldly. Whoever was choreographing this had done a great job; it looked like a rock concert for ghouls.

“This is unbelievable,” Laura said.

“Isn’t it?” Stillman replied with excitement, looking over his shoulder at her and grinning broadly. His face was pockmarked, and several protruding teeth were chipped—a look that suggested he excelled as a human beer bottle opener. “Like, amazing, right?”

The anonymous announcer asked the audience to rise and join him in reciting the New American Pledge. Stillman stood; Hicker looked at him, then looked down at his own shoes. Following that, the announcer introduced the president, drawing out his name as if this were pro wrestling. “Eeeeee-yan Wrightman!”

I propped myself up against the headboard. As much as this disgusted me, I have to admit to some fascination. I was watching a televised hanging. This could have been taking place in Iran or North Korea or so many other places lacking a working legal system, but it wasn’t: This was here, in what had once been America. I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen.

The president received an enthusiastic welcome. As he came onstage he pointed at someone in the audience, as if he had recognized them, and smiled, then waved to the audience. After basking in their applause, he held up his hands for quiet. “Thank you. Thank you, my friends.” He paused long enough to take a deep and meaningful breath, then looked up to the rafters and admitted, “I never thought I would say these words, but it is not a pleasure for myself or the first lady…” He pointed to her sitting in the front row and smiled reassuringly; as the audience cheered for her the camera caught her kissing her palm and blowing it to him. “… for us to be here with you. Unfortunately, it is absolutely necessary. It was a wise man who said, ‘Where the rule of law breaks down, there is chaos.’”

“He’s damn right about that,” Officer Stillman agreed loudly.

Wrightman reminded Americans that we could not relax our vigil because “there are evil people right in front of you, whose sole purpose is to bring harm to good and decent folks.” “You’re damn right!” Stillman said, indicating the TV.

As the camera dollied-in, he spoke directly “to those good people who might wonder why we are broadcasting this historic event. I understand your reticence. Let me assure you this is nothing new. This country has a long and proud history of public executions. Only recently have we begun hiding executions behind closed doors, as if we should be ashamed of defending the right of all Americans to live safely…”

As Wrightman continued, the director cut to different locales around the country, showing people of all ages gathered together in small groups, watching in awed reverence. From the headquarters of New Orleans’s Pete’s Pistols militia headquarters to a bus station in Aurora, North Carolina; from a high school gymnasium in Hopping, Arizona, where students filled the bleachers, to a bowling alley in Yukon, Oregon, the image was eerily similar: no one was talking, every eye transfixed on the broadcast.

“Let the word go out,” the president concluded, “that from this day forward, to friends and foes alike, wherever they may be, that the torch has been passed to a new and tougher generation of Americans. Ready to defend this country and its leaders, whatever it may take, whatever we have to give, no matter the cost.”

When the president left the stage, the entire audience rose in respect, cheering wildly. In our motel room Stillman once again popped up out of his chair, shaking his fist in support. I glanced at Hicker, still sitting comfortably in Mighty Chair, holding his Styrofoam cup in his hands. Our eyes met and he shook his head just slightly enough to make his point: I can’t believe this shit any more than you can.

When the ovation ended, followed by a few overly enthusiastic hoots, the announcer said gravely, “To officially pronounce sentence, ladies and gentlemen, the Vice President of the United States, Arthur Hunter.”

In contrast to the president, the Hun was somber, reflecting the gravity of the situation. He took a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and said to the absolutely silent theater, “Mr. Attorney General, will you reveal the prisoners please.”

The total lack of any musical accompaniment was far more dramatic than any theme might have produced. If there was ever going to be a hanging chic, this was raising the bar, or dropping the noose, to be more accurate. A curtain rose at the top of the gallows revealing two prisoners wearing long-sleeved work shirts and jeans, their heads covered with black sacking. It was impossible to determine anything about them: age, race, gender, even the color of their skin. They could have been anybody. Four men, in some type of shimmering black fabric, stood behind them, one at each elbow. Their hands were clasped behind them, chins jutted upward.

“I can’t watch this,” Laura said. “This is … I can’t.”

I reached across the divide between the beds and took her hand.

“You know what,” Stillman said with some annoyance, twisting in his chair, “maybe you should. Then just maybe people like you would appreciate how good you got it here. I don’t know what you did, lady, but you wouldn’t be here if you’d done what was right.”

Before she could reply I squeezed her hand. She looked at me and I shook my head.

The screen went black, with the exception of the two prisoners, who were illuminated in pin spotlights. Nooses dangled loosely around their necks. Their hands were tied together behind them. “Prisoners,” Hunter read, “after a fair hearing you have been convicted by a legally constituted panel of committing acts of terrorism against the people of the United States. You have been sentenced to be hung by your necks until dead.”

One of the prisoners folded at the knees, but the people standing behind each caught an elbow to prevent the condemned person from falling.

“Look at that coward,” Stillman said derisively, shaking his head in disgust.

That old cliché “the silence was deafening” has never been more appropriate. Occasionally someone in the audience coughed. Hunter said in a surprisingly calm voice, “Bring prisoner number one forward.”

As the prisoner who nearly collapsed was dragged forward on his knees, remote shots from the different locales appeared on the screen, as if they were showing all the nominees at the Academy Awards. A young student in the Hopping, Arizona, gym was leaning forward, his chin resting in his hand, his foot tapping restlessly. In the Aurora bus station, an attractive black woman was watching a monitor with equal intensity. In the bowling alley a group of men were gathered in the lounge, beers for breakfast, their heads craning upward toward the TVs above the bar. In the militia headquarters about a dozen Pistols, wearing ceremonial coonskin caps, were standing at attention saluting the TV.

As the noose was being placed around the prisoner’s neck, the camera slowly panned the entire stage, then pulled out of the shot all the way back to the top of the theater so the entire stage and front rows of the audience were visible. “Mr. Executioner.”

Talk about random thoughts. I remember wondering where they had found an executioner on such short notice. I was a bit surprised the executioner wasn’t shown. I wondered if that was in his or her contract. Then I wondered who had negotiated that contract. Do executioners have agents?

The pin light tightened until the prisoner was the only thing visible, as if he or she were standing in their private sun. The noose looked like a thick rope necklace. The executioner waited. The tension grew. The prisoner was sobbing and muttering something unintelligible. Still, they waited.

Without warning, soundlessly, the prisoner dropped out of the spotlight, which remained locked on the suddenly ominous void. My whole body jerked involuntarily. I expected to hear a thump from the trapdoor, but it must have been padded, which made it even more brutal. The audience gasped, then cheered.

Cheered.

“Jesus,” Laura whispered.

“Yes!” Stillman shouted almost simultaneously.

The reaction of the people in the insets was mixed. The Hopping teenager’s mouth hung open. The black woman crossed herself. The men in the bowling alley lounge cheered. The militia members shook hands.

G. Hicker wordlessly crumbled the Styrofoam cup in his hand. It made an odd squeak. He threw it toward the wastebasket but missed. It bounced off the wall and settled on the frayed carpet.

The dangling body was not shown to those watching at home.

As the pin light faded to dark, a second pin light simultaneously came up on the second prisoner. That person took a bold step forward, then stood rigid, defiant, head held high, facing straight ahead as if staring at the audience through the cloth hood. Standing motionless in the spotlight, the prisoner looked like a statue of nobility.

The trapdoor opened. This time the sharp snap of the prisoner’s neck cut through the silence, followed by the straining cries of new rope.

The stage went black—impenetrable black. Seconds later, accent lighting beneath the gallows brightened, backlighting the bodies rotating slowly, as if dancing in the slowest motion. They were reflected in the rear mirrors, creating an infinitely long chorus line of black-clad bodies, hanging, turning in unison. At that moment I had no doubt the director was going to be nominated for an Emmy.

The hall was silent for several seconds. Then one person began applauding, which grew quickly into a great wave of approval. It grew louder and louder in approval. The chant began, Wrightman! Wrightman! Wrightman! It ended when a beaming Vice President Hunter appeared at the podium and waved them quiet. “That concludes our purpose here this morning,” he said, his voice flat and void of any emotion. “I hope this serves as a warning to all who would do harm to this great nation that this is the inevitable fate that awaits you. God bless America.”

Officer Stillman stood up, turned, and looked right at me. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

For the first time, Hicker spoke. “Stillman,” he said, “shut the fuck up.”

“Sir?”

Hicker closed his eyes, maybe debating the consequences of revealing his feelings to a true believer. “I said that’s enough. You’ve made your point.”

Stillman glared at him, then backed down. “I’ll go watch outside.”

Hicker turned to Laura and me. “It’s not gonna be much longer. Want me to leave the TV on?”

“Sure,” I said. Hicker was quickly absorbed in the post-hanging special report on Fox. Audience members were being interviewed as they left the Kennedy Center. I heard someone describe it as “a great day for America, so tastefully done.” I rolled over on my side and faced Laura. “You’re doing great,” I told her.

“What are we going to do?” she asked. “What’s going to happen?”

I smiled, maybe just slightly more confidently than I felt. “Trust me.”