Juanita began calmly, "The people who did this, who committed this horrible crime, believe that they have accounted for everything; that they have foreseen everything. They think that with their guns they have frightened half of us into submission . . . and with their taxes bribed the rest of us into acquiescence.
"They think that they can get away with anything—murder, mayhem, massacre—by just showing some teeth on a television, promising to steal some more money only so they can give it back . . . after it takes that expensive night on the town in Washington, to be sure . . . and telling us how they feel our pain."
Juani's face grew bitter. " 'Feel our pain' . . . so they claim. Do they? Did they feel it when they roasted twenty-six of our children alive in a storm shelter? Did they feel it when they blasted a priest of God to bits with their gunships' rockets and machine guns? 'Feel our pain'? They can no more do that than they can feel our rage."
Among the crowd, many began softly to weep, joining their cries to Elpidia's. Schmidt—himself—found the need to wipe his eyes.
"But why not?" Juanita continued. "What have they to fear from us, after all? Haven't they frightened—the half—and bribed the other half?"
Bitterness fell away before rage. "Oh the fools, the fools, the stupid . . . Stupid . . . STUPID and utterly contemptible fools." Juani stopped for breath before continuing. She stepped away to put her hand on her brother's casket. "They have left us our sacred Texan dead. And while Texas, under their yoke, holds these dead, Texas will never be at peace.
"For I have had a vision. And with this vision I speak to those who think themselves my people's masters, and I speak to them in my people's name. Beware, you tyrants in Washington. Beware of the day that is coming. Beware, you sanctimonious hypocrites. Beware of the risen people. Do you think, you tyrants, that law is stronger than life? Do you think, you hypocrites, that your fascist propaganda can outweigh mankind's desire to be free?"
Looking directly into the camera now, face grown red even through her olive complexion, Juanita pronounced the future. "We will try it out with you. We will take back what you have stolen. We will be free."
Chapter Eight
From the transcript at triaclass="underline" Commonwealth of
Virginia v. Alvin Scheer
DIRECT EXAMINATION, CONTINUED
BY MR. STENNINGS:
Q. And what do you think it was that made your wife ill . . .
MS. CAPUTO: Objection, Your Honor.
This question calls for expert testimony—
MR. STENNINGS: Horse pucky, Your Honor. The Defendant only needs to address what he thought it was at the time and no one is a more credible witness on that than he is.
THE COURT: Overruled. But I caution you, Mr. Stennings, that your client will only be allowed to testify as to his own impressions without the Court taking any note of them as proof, one way or the other.
MR. STENNINGS: Thank you, Judge. Go on, Alvin.
A. Yes, sir. At least, I thought it was the pictures of them kids that set my wife to throwing up. Turns out, it was more than that.
Seems the doctor got it wrong. She had . . . well . . . I can't pronounce it. Wouldn't even try. But however you pronounce it, she had it and it was killing her.
No, no, I never blamed the doc. I mean, you should have seen him there, wall to wall screaming kids and none of their parents trying to control 'em. Hell, half of 'em were there with nothing more than runny noses but under the new system the doc had to see them, too. All of 'em, or risk losing his license, his job, maybe even going to jail. I heard a rumor once that the government, the feds I mean, was deliberately sending doctors to jail so that they could be put to treating the prisoners. A cost-saving measure, I heard it was. Might have even been true, I don't rightly know.
The wife, she went downhill fast, too. Wasn't but maybe two weeks before she was in the hospital, full time, and . . . well, it was awful to see, her just wasting away right in front of me. She held my hand pretty near constantly towards the end, though she never cried. . . . Well, I mean sometimes she did cry. But it was for her babies who was going to be left alone in the world.
That wasn't a problem, as it turned out. My folks took the kids in and told me not to worry about 'em.
I was right glad about that, glad and grateful. 'Cause, you see, the very afternoon of my wife's funeral I set me to thinking about what it was that killed my wife. Once I figured it out . . . well, naturally, I went and dug me up that old rifle I'd buried . . . .
MR. STENNINGS: Stop right there, Alvin.
A. No, sir. I don't care who knows. Weren't no one going to kill my woman and get away with it. . . .
* * *
Greenville, Texas
"Put your goddamned backs into it, boys. Dig and fill. Dig and fill. The general and the governor are coming and I want you all to make me proud."
The speaker, First Sergeant Michael S. ("Iron Mike") Pendergast, of Company A, 144th Infantry, Texas National Guard, smiled blithely to see his men redouble their efforts. Satisfied with that, Pendergast bent again over his own shovel, digging, lifting and sifting sand into bags taken from flood emergency stocks. An irregular stream of dump trucks had been delivering sand to the armory all morning. An even less steady stream had come to disgorge sandbags in their thousands. As piles of filled bags grew, more trucks—these ones army-issue five-tons—were filled to overflowing by other work parties. The men of Company A were moving small mountains of sand.
"Wish to hell we could have some civilians to help us, Top," said one of the men as sand silted around his hands and into the sandbag he held open for the First Sergeant.
The first sergeant glared. "The general said 'no,' Fontaine. So we dig alone. Leastwise, we do until the engineers get here."
"Didn't say we could do anything about it, Top. Just wishin' out loud."
"Just hold the sandbag, Fontaine."
"Yes, first sergeant," agreed Fontaine meekly as he stretched the mouth of the sandbag in his hand to a fillable size.
From off in the distance, Pendergast heard again the rumble of heavy trucks, heavily laden. "That's my cue," he announced, sticking the shovel blade down into the sand pile. "Take a break, Fontaine."
"Yes, Top."
Buckling on his equipment, Pendergast tucked his helmet under his left arm, sauntered over toward the approaching line of engineer vehicles and waited.
He didn't have long to wait. As the first truck slowed to a halt, a rather splendid looking captain of engineers emerged.
"First Sergeant Pendergast, sir. A Company, 144th Infantry."
The engineer returned Pendergast's salute, answering, "Captain Davis, 176th Engineers. Where can I find your CO, Top?"
"Captain James is in his CP with our battalion S-3, sir. The S-3 is Captain Williams."
"Thanks, Top. My first shirt should be here in a minute or two. You can show him where and how we can help you best."
* * *