The protesters are booing, chanting, making noise. Jessup looks at his sister. She’s scared. He reaches out, chucks her chin, gives her a smile. Be brave, little one. She tries to smile back.
Chief Harris is waiting by the gate. He hands the papers to Earl, who glances at them and then, theatrically, crumples them up and drops the papers to the ground.
“This is private land. You aren’t welcome here.”
The cameras crowd in close, reporters thrusting microphones in.
“We have legal authority—”
Earl cuts him off. It’s clear from Chief Harris’s face that he’s not a man used to being interrupted. “Not here you don’t. Get off my land.”
Jessup sees that Jewel is holding her father’s hand now, that she’s half tucked behind his body, and it makes him nervous. By his count, there are twenty police officers of one kind or another milling around the gate, a couple of more standing across the road on the edge of the farmer’s field, behind the protesters. All of the cops have handguns, but there are at least eight geared up like soldiers in Afghanistan, holding M16 rifles that trickled down from the military. Jessup figures those are the cops from the SWAT truck. You can smell the macho in the air. Nothing’s happened and it’s already a disaster. Too many people, too much anger.
He wants Jewel gone. There’s no need for her to be here. Wishes she were back home, in her own bed, reading that book she likes, warm and safe under her covers. Wishes he were back home, too, or somewhere else, with Deanne. Anywhere else. He slides over to his mom.
“Get Jewel out of here,” he says. “You too. Both of you get out of here.” She starts to protest, but before he can say anything else to his mom, Brandon Rogers grabs his arm.
“Come on,” he says, pulling him to the pickup truck on the right. Tells the three men inside to hop down, then tells Jessup to climb up, follows right behind. It’s just him and Jessup up there. A stage.
As soon as Chief Harris spots Jessup, he points. “You, son. If you don’t comply with this warrant. Bring out your truck, son, or we’ll have to arrest you.”
“He’s not your son,” somebody shouts. It takes Jessup a moment to realize that it was David John. He’s not used to his stepfather raising his voice. But despite his outburst, David John looks shaky, Jessup’s mom and Jewel standing behind him. Why doesn’t his mom leave with Jewel? She’s clearly terrified.
“Now, Chief Harris, you have to understand, this is private property.” Brandon is all smiles as he calls out over the crowd. The protesters have quieted down, watching, but the cops are definitely on edge. Brandon doesn’t care: he’s playing to the cameras, and Jessup can see that the reporters are thrilled. This is going to look good on television. He thinks of the Bundy standoff, Waco, Ruby Ridge, Charlottesville, the way events can spiral out of control, and the way, too, that Brandon is right: this is going to be the moment that makes him a star, that turns him into the face of the movement. He’s got everything choreographed, down to the pickup truck backed up near the gate serving as a stage so that he can make sure there’s a clear sight line for the cameras. Everything here is going to make Brandon Rogers look good.
And it might be this that bothers him the most about Brandon: Jessup doesn’t know what Brandon truly believes in. Jessup can swear that he loves football and Jesus and, yes, Deanne, and he can swear that he’ll do anything to protect his family, but he wonders if Brandon believes in anything other than himself.
“This is church land, and you can’t just roll up here and do what you want. We’re tired of the government deciding they can push around law-abiding citizens,” Brandon says. “That’s why I’m calling for a rally on the Cortaca pedestrian mall, tomorrow night at seven o’clock. A rally for white rights. Chief Harris, you and your fascist tactics are not welcome here, and we respectfully ask that you put your guns away and go home before somebody gets hurt.”
To Chief Harris’s credit, he stays calm. “We have reason to believe a crime occurred, and we have a warrant that allows us to search the property for a specific truck. This isn’t about the church, Mr. Rogers. This is about the rule of law. And as for the guns, I think you might want to tell your men to lay down their weapons.”
“Oh,” Earl says, “I don’t think so. We’re on private property. Second Amendment rights apply to all of us.”