Chapter 60

The Chief didn’t want Bruno to come along. He said the security situation outside the NewGarden shareholder meeting would mainly involve routine police work. There’d probably be drunks and dopers to arrest. There might be tear gas.

Bruno was stunned. “Chief, this is the moment we’ve been working toward. We know Alison’s going to be there. She’ll probably be in disguise. Trust me, you’re going to need me. I promise I won’t get in the way.”

The Chief relented, but began to regret the decision almost immediately. Bruno was nervous and talking incessantly. “Why did Jurevicius say what he did? ‘Bring ’em on.’ That’s so stupid. It’s just a bunch of college kids. What can they do? Can’t he just refuse to let them in?”

“Not if they’re shareholders.”

“But if they’re noisy and disruptive. Can’t he refuse to admit them?”

“They’ll probably behave themselves when they present their tickets. And NewGarden will not admit anyone wearing a costume or disguise.”

“But we know they’re conspiring to disrupt the meeting. We have it in writing. Can’t we do something to stop it?”

“I talked to Jurevicius about that. He said he was confident their security could handle anything that happens inside, as long as we can keep things orderly outside the perimeter.”

The suspense was starting to get to Bruno. He asked, “Chief, what do you really think is going to happen?”

“We’ll identify Alison as soon as we can and detain her in a way that causes minimal disruption.”

“Will there be a confrontation?”

The Chief sighed. “My guess is that she’ll stand up and make some kind of speech about biotech and the environment—if she gets the opportunity.”

“And if that happens, what will Jurevicius do? Did you ask him that?”

“Bruno, this is a routine situation. He said that security will handle it in the usual way …”

Bruno started to panic, but the Chief didn’t let him.

“Which simply means that guards will escort her from the building. Politely but firmly. You’ve seen it happen on TV a hundred times. It’s not a big deal.”

With that, he turned onto Marter Avenue, the treeless boulevard that led to the entrance to NewGarden Biosciences. The police were well prepared for a demonstration. They had set up barriers to keep the protestors out of the street and allow shareholders to approach the gates unmolested. There, security examined each car, ensuring it contained shareholders with proper credentials before allowing it to proceed.

Behind the barricades was a scene that took even Bruno and the Chief by surprise. Obviously, they knew that Alison and her friends would come to protest. But they weren’t expecting the kind of crowd that jammed the sidewalks along the entire length of Marter Avenue.

The “Deviants” who, of course, were Nate Littlejohn’s students, were well represented. They came dressed as court jesters, Che Guevara, Arab terrorists, and Bozo the Clown. Bozo had a brightly colored poster that read, “Biotech is for bozos.”

The Deviants’ call to arms had spread far and wide, with gratifying results. The crowd was much larger than anyone had expected and the various contingents were both geographically and ideologically diverse.

There were organic farmers from across the U.S., angry and sullen, with signs that read, “Keep your seeds out of my field,” and “An ill wind blows no good.”

There were environmentalist contingents including Greenpeace, the Sierra Club, PETA and Earth First bearing a variety of slogans. Some were relevant or almost relevant, such as “Save the Crows,” or “Why do the only Eagles in Philadelphia wear helmets and weigh 250 pounds?” Others seemed to have been recycled from other campaigns: “Save the Whales” and “I’m for the Spotted Owl.”

There was a lone religious fanatic, dressed in early Christian garb and bearing a large cross with a sign that read, “God Bless South Jersey.”

Nathalie Porthous led a group of feminists who had created replicas of dead or dying crows. Their signs read, “First crows, then women. Protect your rights.” Littlejohn joined her and they tried to invent a chant especially for the occasion. “One, two, three, four/We don’t want your filthy …” What? They argued back and forth: Floor? Poor? More? Nathalie almost eviscerated Nate on the spot when he suggested “whore.” Finally, they agreed on “One, two, three, four/No GMOs at the local store …” But they had a hard time getting anyone to chant with them. There were so many other things to do and see.

The anti-war groups were there, armed with American flags, lighter fluid, and matches. The anti-WTO cadres were also showing their flag, a blue field with the Whole Earth in the center.

More down-to-earth were several local chapters of the Teamsters union. Their placards read, “Ron DiAngelis for Governor.”

Gravitating to the unions was a contingent of farmers who had flown to New Jersey all the way from France. They’d rented tractors and seemed to be looking for windows to smash. Their signs exhibited the European genius for ideograms—a drawing of a Big Mac, an equals sign, and a dog squatting to poop.

Drawn inevitably to the French was the Slow Food contingent, led by Jacob Creutzfeldt. He’d brought along a sow named Tammy, specially raised on an organic farm in Woodbury. Tammy was slated to follow Walt Whitman as the featured attraction at La Vache Folle et Le Poisson Nu. Creutzfeldt was flying in chefs from Hawaii to help him create a new classic luau recipe using only South Jersey ingredients. He was serving a local wine—a rough approximation of zinfandel—as the suggested pairing for pit-roasted pork.

Then there were the hemp aficionados, slyly asserting that they were interested in all the myriad uses of hemp—except smoking it.

On the outskirts, anarchists in ninja outfits mingled with Jedi knights while the American Friends Service Committee argued the sanctity of creation with a group of Gaians holding “Love Your Mother” placards.

Meanwhile, the Prius Pride of South Jersey, consisting of more than a dozen late-model hybrid vehicles, scootered up and down Marter Avenue in perfect formation. They performed precision figure eights, while honking their horns and waving to promote energy efficiency.

“This does remind me of a Shriners’ parade,” Chief Black observed, gesturing toward the Pride.

Then he noticed a commotion across from where they were standing. The crowd seemed to be heaving back and forth. “That’s a street fight,” said the Chief matter-of-factly. “Let’s take a closer look.”

They crossed the street and asked Che Guevara what was happening. He explained that one of the French farmers had seen Bozo the Clown and gone berserk. Apparently he’d mistaken Bozo for McDonalds’ world-famous emissary. He had tried to attack the poor clown, despite his comrades’ attempts to restrain him. In fact, if Bruno or the Chief had understood French, they would have heard someone shouting, “C’est pas Ron-ald,” over and over.

Fortunately for Bozo, the Teamsters stepped in. Politically, they weren’t sure which side to take; but their natural instincts asserted themselves and they began to pummel the Frenchmen. The Chief was pleased to see that Biff was on top of it immediately. “Watch this,” he said to Bruno. “Crowd control, just the way I taught him. He’s going to let the union thugs and farmers work off a little bit of excess energy—and then arrest them. Easy, entertaining, and safe.”

The college kids all rallied around Bozo. They helped the clown up, offered water, and tried to rearrange the oversized pants and tiny vest. “Seems like the VIP of the group,” commented the Chief. “Think it’s Cavedweller?”

“Full make-up.” Bruno squinted. “Could be anybody. An excellent disguise.” He scanned the crowd. “I don’t see anyone else that’s fully covered like that—except the Palestinian terrorists and those ninjas. But I’m guessing those are computer geeks and anarchists. So let’s focus on Bozo.”

“Agreed.”

Just as they started to make their move, the security gate opened and a pair of black limousines pulled into the road. Driving side by side, they swept away the Priuses and everything else in their path. A few minutes later, they returned with something extraordinary following behind them. It was a full-sized parade float bearing a 20-foot-high sculpted figure of a violet crow. On each corner stood security guards, dressed in commando outfits, with wireless headsets and visible sidearms.

An unmistakable voice emerged from the head of the crow: “The meeting is abowt to begin. Ownly ticket holders will be al-loud to enter the premises. Anywon wearing a costume will be thoroughly searched.”

The commandos produced wicker baskets and began tossing handfuls of what looked like purple corn into the crowd. The protestors didn’t know what to think. To some, the military garb suggested explosives or maybe tear gas … Others thought it was NewGarden’s product—actual Scarecrow Corn—and who knew what that might do to humans? With a collective shriek of “Run! GMOs!” the stampede started. Within minutes, the crowd had scattered like chaff before the wind. All that was left was a pile of placards and a scattering of violet-hued candy.