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AMERICANS FOR SENTENCING Reform was founded in 2010 to take aggressive action on sentencing reform. It was a strategic threat to all politicians. It had a simple threat for politicians: Draft legislation to help low-class citizens or be voted out of office the next term, no matter party affiliation. They wanted elected officials to make good on all of their promises made on the campaign trail. ASR leaders proposed legislation to officials and if they were Democrat and didn’t get it onto the Congressional floor they instructed all members to vote for the opposing party the next election. They were setting congressional term limits since politicians didn’t do it on their own.
Federal law made it unlawful to parade, stand, or move in processions or assemblages in the Supreme Court Building or grounds; ASR protestors were on the Court’s elevated marble plaza violating said law. The plaza’s features convey in many distinctive ways that a person had entered some special type of enclave. It served what amounted to the elevated front porch of the Supreme Court, complete with a surrounding railing. The tranquil environment was being molested by ASR members that held signs and banners designed to bring into public notice their organization and movement; also in violation of 40 United States Crimes Code 6135. The statute encompassed not only the building, but also the four streets surrounding it, the plaza, and the surrounding promenade, lawn area and steps. Despite this, ASR members weren’t deterred. No doubt, Supreme Court Police were aggravated and prepared to disperse the thick crowds of people comprising of a multitude of minority races.
David Thurman was amongst them, undoubtedly standing out from the crowd. An hour earlier he had been asked to leave for passing out ASR leaflets on court’s property. He was back and in costume. The local Fox News affiliated justice correspondent stopped him, stuck a microphone in his face, and asked, “Excused me, sir, what are you wearing?” She’s sounded like a fashionista stalking celebrity on the Academy Award’s red carpet.
“Oh, this is Gianni Versace,” Thurman said, forcing himself and the correspondent to laugh at the ludicrous lie. “No seriously, this costume is constructed using various materials from the District of Columbia environment, including newspapers, shampoo bottles, and empty honey jars. It’s all been wrapped in duct tape, forming into this bullet-proof vest shape of my chest.” He spins three hundred sixty degrees, and said, “I hope you like.” He did a masculine curtsy, then, held up a small, hand-carved mask sculpture, and said. “For entertainment purposes.”
“Don’t you think the police will be concerned with you wearing a mask in the wake of a justice of the Court being murdered and the constant threat of a terrorist attack. I mean,” the reporter said, grimacing, “There is an atmosphere of heightened anxiety and concerns over safety and security in the capital.”
Thurman stepped back and put the mask to his face, securing it with strings that wrapped around his ears. “Look,” he said, his voice coming through a slit in the mask, muffling his voice. “This is America and we need to be tolerant of our people. That embraces the Constitution. Not live in this hate-filled, partisan society crammed with overzealousness and suspicion. This mask and costume are being worn to study people’s interactions with me and to spread the lost concept of tolerance and understanding while we fight for reform that affects all Americans, both black and white people.”
“But you’re on the ground of the highest court with this chicanery.”
“Yes, a court that has an important hearing coming up on making a sentencing reform retroactive to right some of the wrongs done by a liberal Congress during the forty years that they led the House of Representatives. As you know Judge Weston, is dead, God bless him, leaving an eight-judge panel split into two. Four conservatives. Four liberals. The playing field had been balanced.”
“By a ruthless coward killer,” the reporter said, batting her eyes.
“Name calling won’t get you very far. The killer is listening to you,” Thurman said, smiling wickedly.
“And, you may be right. But with Chief Weston gone, conservatives need a liberal judge to side with them to settle the lower court’s split amongst the circuits.”
“Now you might be right, but I strongly believe that justice for all will be accomplished. As a white American, I can confidently say when harsh sentencing laws affect the children of white soccer moms in rural Maine, the wheels of justice tend to quicken.”
“We’ve got to leave it there,” the reporter said, “but I appreciate your time.”
“It was a pleasure,” Thurman said, walking away.
He sent a text to Brandy Scott indicating for her to meet him in the Crypt area of the Capitol Building. She replied that she’d see him there. Grinning, he texts back: I’m headed there to shake things up.
__________
Two Capitol policeman whispered and snickered, watching foolishly dressed David Thurman enter the Capitol Building doors. Standing in the security line, he rocked on his heels with his hands behind his back, cavalierly whistling an old show tune: Three Company. Scrutinizing his costume Officer Allie suspiciously asked about his costume’s purpose.
“Doing research.”
“For?”
“Look, I’m an artist doing research for an upcoming performance.”
“Don’t get snappy,” replied the cop, signaling for Thurman to step up to pass through several security checkpoints.
Admission into the highly secure Capitol Building was quite a task. The lives of five hundred thirty-eight Congress members demanded an entrance equipped with a magnetometer, x-ray machine, and explosive detectors. All had to be cleared by Thurman, The Performer. And he did with all eyes on him from policeman and other visitors.
Just above the newer chambers in the building stood galleries where visitors watched the Senate and House of Representatives. Thurman was inside of one and had captured the attention of visitors as he performed for them. He danced and sang as visitors took photos and videos of him. Some even posed in pictures with him. Autographs were given out on pamphlets he had clandestinely smuggled into the building. The material he gave to visitors informed them about federal sentencing reform and asked them to contact their representatives to request that they pass House Bill S.5682, FIRST STEP Act.
“Thank you,” Brandy said after he handed her a leaflet. “I see you’re performing.” It was not hard for her to surmise that the actor was her guy.
“Well, it’s a rehearsal for my stage play ‘David/Dafidi.’ The best way to do it based on my philosophy that Life is a Performance.”
She held her hand out for him to shake. He did, and she asked, “You must be my guy?” It was really just to confirm.
“I am,” he said, bowing as if it was a curtain call. “Glad you could make it.”
“I am a New Yorker and never miss a performance. Tell me,” she said, smiling. “What’s all this really about?” She wanted to get to the core of their tête-à-tête before it was broken up.
“My wife,” he said, nodding his head to a corner of the Crypt area where no one else was. “She’s in federal jail for what many would call a petty drug offense, but was given a mandatory fifteen-year and eight-months because she was deemed a career offender.”
“I know a little about this,” she said, looking him in his eyes. She wanted him to understand that she was listening.
“I’m aware that you do. Our linking is not by accident. I read your article on the topic and your coverage of the Families Against Mandatory Minimums concert put on in New York last summer. My wife Jillian loved it, also.”
“Thank you both. I’m dating someone on the FAMM board, so I have an inside track to much of the goings on with them.”
“ASR, which I am the secret leader of, is a tad different, Ms. Scott. We’re more aggressive than FAMM. I’m not truly a monster, but I’m prepared to die and pay back all parties responsible for my wife rotting away at FCI Alderson. I know you’ll have to turn me in, but before you do, I’m begging you to help me expose these cowards that are destroying the lives of many Americans. I know we like to make this a black versus white disparity issue. And some like to say white people only get involved when it hits home for us. Differences aside we have a problem of us versus them—police and lawmakers—and until the public at large understand this problem, it won’t stop for white families like mine or black families like yours.”
“Excuse me,” Officer Preston Crowder of the Capitol Police asked, approaching them. His uniform exposed bulging biceps and he sported a menacing bald head. “Two Things. What are you holding? And you’re not allowed to pass out material on the Capitol grounds or the SC grounds which you’ve been warned of earlier.
“This object,” Thurman said, holding up the mask, is a hand-carved mask sculpture.”
“Drop the mask,” Officer Crowder said. “Then, you must leave and cease giving out any more leaflets, which you’ve now been told a second time.”
Brandy backed away from the ensuing confrontation.
“I’m not giving you anything, and—”
Officer Crowder violently jerked the mask from Thurman’s hand and slammed it to the floor. It shattered startling Capitol visitors who looked shocked as the killer delivered a barbaric blow to the cop’s solar plexus. When the cop folded over, Thurman grabbed his head and drove it into the wall.
Brandy’s cellphone was out recording the madness—an investigator at work.
Before other officers arrived, a bystander kicked Thurman in the back forcing his body to slam into Officer Crowder. They both hit the floor, and the spectator kicked Thurman in his head and limbs, freeing the officer from his confused state and allowing him to whip out his gun. He fired two shots.