The engineer was all enthusiasm and crooked teeth. “Hey! You made that? That’s just great. If I’d been able to draw like that, I’d never have started with the ham radio.”
I gave him my cell phone, and he took several shots from different angles and distances in the changing light. A boy, his father, the dying birds and beasts, the insect apocalypse along the banner’s bottom, the background mosaic of sandstone, limestone, and marble dedicated to freedom and built by slaves: the engineer wanted to get it exactly right. Another pair of astronomers from the day’s meeting saw us from a distance. They came over to admire the banner and instruct the engineer on how to take a photo. The engineer flipped my phone over to show Robbie the lenses. “We came up with digital cameras at NASA. I helped build the billion-dollar camera that we lost in orbit around Mars.”
One of the astronomers held his head. “We’re the ones who forced you NASA goons to put a camera on that thing in the first place!”
Ordinary civilians and civics tourists stopped, attracted by Robbie’s scroll and the three old men happily shouting at each other. A woman my mother’s age fussed over Robbie. “You made this? You did all this all by yourself?”
Nobody does anything by themselves. Something Aly used to tell him, back when Robin was little. I don’t know how he remembered it.
We spun the banner around. The onlookers cheered the other side. They hemmed in to see the lush details. The aerospace engineer buzzed around, backing people off so he could take a fresh round of pictures. A shout came from a few yards down the pavement. “I knew it!” Somewhere in the billion revolving worlds of social media, a girl in her late teens must have seen posts of a weird little boy chirping his odd little birdsong. Now the teen milled about in this ad-hoc camp meeting, thumbing her phone through a trail of bread crumb bits back to the Ova Nova videocast. “That’s Jay! That’s the boy they wired up to his dead mom!”
Robin didn’t hear. He was busy talking to two middle-aged women about how we could re-inhabit planet Earth. He was joking and telling stories. The girl who recognized him must have started a text chain, because minutes later other teens drifted in from the east end of the Mall. Somebody pulled a ukulele out of his backpack. They sang “Big Yellow Taxi.” They sang “What a Wonderful World.” People were snapping and posting things with their phones. They shared snacks and improvised a picnic. Robin was in heaven. He and I stood holding the banner, occasionally handing it off to four teens who wanted a turn. It was like something his mother might have tried to organize. It may have been the happiest moment of his life.
I was so caught up in the festivities that I didn’t notice two officers of the U.S. Capitol Police pull up on First Street Northwest and get out of their squad car. The teens began to heckle them. We’re just enjoying ourselves. Go arrest the real criminals!
Robin and I lowered the banner to the pavement so I could talk to the officers. Two teens picked it up and began swirling it around like they were kite surfing. That didn’t lower the temperature of the situation. Robin threaded the gap, trying to make peace between his supporters and the officers. His chest came up to their gun belts.
The senior officer’s nameplate read SERGEANT JUFFERS. His badge number was a palindromic prime. “You don’t have a permit for this,” he said.
I shrugged. I probably shouldn’t have. “We’re not demonstrating. We just wanted to take a picture of ourselves in front of the Capitol, with the banner my son made.”
Sergeant Juffers looked at Robin. His eyes narrowed at the complication to law and order. No doubt it had been as long a day for him as it had for me. Things weren’t good in Washington; I should have remembered that. Bullying was trickling down. “It’s unlawful to crowd, obstruct, or incommode the entrance of any public building.”
I glanced over to the entrance of the Capitol. I would have been hard-pressed to throw a baseball that far. I should have let it go. But he was being stupid about a thing that had given my son such hope. “That’s not really what we’re doing.”
“Or to crowd, obstruct, or incommode the use of any street or sidewalk. Or to continue or resume the crowding, obstructing, or incommoding after being instructed by a law enforcement officer to cease.”
I gave him my Wisconsin driver’s license. He and his partner, whose plate read PFC FAGIN, retreated to their vehicle. The last time I was caught breaking the law was in high school, shoplifting wine from a convenience store. Since then, not even a speeding ticket. But here I was, encouraging a small boy to take issue with the destruction of life on Earth. It was not socially acceptable behavior.
In five minutes, the two of them had all the information about me and Robin anyone could use. All facts, instantly available, to anyone. In fact, they didn’t need a single bit of additional data to know which side of the civil war Robin and I were on. The banner told them that.
It was not in my son’s lesson about the separation of powers, but the Capitol Police fall under the responsibility of Congress and not the President. But all such distinctions had been disappearing over the last four years. Congress itself now took orders from the White House, and the appointed judges had fallen in line. A steady destruction of norms—favored by less than half the country—had united the branches of government under the President’s vision. The laws did not say so, but these two policemen now answered to him.
The officers left their vehicle and waded back toward our cluster of people. As they approached, the two teens holding the banner began spinning rings around the officers. Juffers spun in place. “We’re going to ask you to disperse now.”
“This problem won’t disperse,” one of the banner-holders said.
But most of the gatherers had maxed out their political will and were drifting away. Juffers and Fagin came at the banner-holders, who let go of Robin’s artwork and fled. The banner blew limp across the pavement. Robin and I chased it. There’s still a crease and footprint where I stepped on it to keep it from blowing away. It’s right over the painting of what must be a pangolin.
The officers watched as we smoothed, dusted off, and rolled the banner in the stiff wind. You’re probably sad right now, Robin said to Juffers. It’s kind of a sad time to be alive.
“Keep rolling,” Sergeant Juffers said. “Let’s go.”
Robin stopped. I stopped with him. If the insects die, we won’t be able to grow food.
Officer Fagin tried to take the banner, to finish rolling and wrap up the show. The move startled Robin. He clutched his artwork to his chest. Fagin, defied by something so small, grappled Robin’s wrist. I dropped my end of the banner and screamed, “Do not touch my son!” Both men squared off against me, and I got myself arrested.
-
THEY CUFFED ME IN FRONT OF HIM. Then they tucked us into the sealed backseat of their cruiser for the four-block ride to USCP headquarters. Robin looked on as I got fingerprinted. His face glowed with a mix of horror and wonder. They charged me with violating D.C. Criminal Code Section 22-1307. My options weren’t great. I could get a court date and make another trip all the way back to Washington. Or I could admit to the obstructing and incommoding, pay the three hundred and forty dollars plus all administrative costs, and be done with it. Nolo contendere, really. After all, I’d broken the law.