“But similar?” Art pressed.
“Look, I believe in separation of the races,” Barrish explained. “You people always call me a ‘white supremacist.’ I’m a white separatist. I believe that Aryans, or white people of sufficiently pure blood, should have America as a homeland. I believe that you and your fellow Africans should be repatriated to the continent my ancestors so foolishly stole you from. I believe your assistant here—”
“Partner, Mr. Barrish,” Frankie interjected. “I’m his partner.”
“Partner.” Whatever you want to call yourself, half-breed. “Your partner here should go back south of the border to the place where her kind abounds. It is all very simple. Now, the Aryan Brotherhood espouses the views of separation by destruction, meaning they want to separate anyone who is not Aryan from the group of the living. Some other similar groups have the same basic philosophy. But those groups, like the Aryan Brotherhood, all advocate violence as a means to achieve their end. I simply believe that the end is a foregone conclusion, and it is up to organizations such as mine, and individuals like me, to prepare my race for their destiny.”
“I see,” Art said.
“No you don’t,” Barrish countered. “But you will.”
He was cool, not cocky, Art thought. He spoke his words of hate as if he knew them to be the truth. He believed he was right. What more was needed to make this man dangerous?
“Did you know of Allen before your arrest?” Frankie asked.
“Excuse me,” Mankowitz interrupted. “That time period is—”
“Hold it, Seymour,” John said. “I don’t mind. The answer is no. Only after his actions hit the papers.”
“What about Twelve-Twelve Riverside?” Art asked, following Barrish’s previous answer quickly. “Have you ever been there?”
“No, but I’ve spent a great deal of time around Temple and Main for the last year,” Barrish said, referring to the Metropolitan Detention Center in which he had been held preceding and during his abbreviated trial.
“Monte Royce?” Art said, tossing the name out.
“Who?”
“Nick King or Nikolai Kostin?”
Barrish shook his head at the African’s questions. “Sorry.”
“I’m sure you are,” Art observed.
Barrish caught sight of the Mexican agent looking around the room. “Not what you expected?”
“Excuse me,” Frankie said.
“My home,” Barrish clarified. “The walls. You expected swastikas and pictures of Hitler to be my choice in decor. Me wearing a pointy white hood, spouting off about ‘Nigger this, nigger that.’ ” He shook his head, maintaining eye contact with the agent. “You just don’t get it. I’m Joe American, Miss FBI Agent. I’m your next-door neighbor.” I’m your worst nightmare, he added silently, knowing what the bounds of his soliloquy had to be. “And the government you work for doesn’t get it either.”
“Well, Mr. Barrish, we do our best,” Art said, “and my government does its best.”
“Best.” John snickered. “Of the people, by the people… You know, the people might just decide to scrap the whole thing and start over someday. A clean slate. And make it right this time.”
“And who’ll know what ‘right’ is supposed to be?” Art asked needlessly. “Let me guess.”
John simply smiled. “Someone will know.”
“Agent Jefferson, this is going nowhere,” Mankowitz said. “My client obviously can’t help you with this.”
Or won’t. “Well, it looks like we’ve wasted your time, Mr. Barrish,” Art said, standing. “And ours.”
“I’m sure you’ll find more time to question me again,” Barrish said, his meaning clearly harass. He remained seated as both agents moved toward the door. The African stopped short of being out of sight.
“Enjoy your freedom, Mr. Barrish,” Art said, smiling at the man, and adding a wink that only they were aware of. It was returned with a smirk by the leader of the AVO. “Good day.”
“We’ll drop you back at your car,” Frankie told Mankowitz as she and Art headed out the front door.
“I’ll be right out,” the lawyer said, going back to his client after the door had closed. “John, that little speech at the end could have backfired. When are you going—”
“Get out,” Barrish interrupted, looking up, whatever ingenuous smile there might have been on his face now gone. “Get out of my house.”
“John…”
“Get out,” Barrish said, each syllable defined by rage. A rage in the words, and in the eyes.
Mankowitz said no more. His client had always been volatile. Very challenging. But never before had he felt fear when in the man’s presence. He did now.
Art saw the lawyer emerge visibly disturbed. “Nice guy.” Mankowitz didn’t respond, instead climbing silently into the back of the car for the ride back to the city. Frankie swung the Bureau Chevy around and headed down the narrow dirt driveway, pulling far to the right as a blue minivan came at her. As they passed she noted the faces of the two male occupants, both young, their eyes wide as they peered into the front of the car heading off the property.
“He’s got sons, doesn’t he?” Art asked, looking to the backseat.
“Two,” Mankowitz answered.
“Another generation of hate,” Frankie commented. She turned the car onto the paved highway and headed east toward the freeway, putting some much-desired distance between them and the likes of John Barrish.
Toby stopped the minivan fast, sending a cloud of dust billowing forward of the vehicle. He and Stanley jumped out and bolted into the house.
“Pop?” Toby shouted before seeing his father quietly sitting in the living room. Stanley, out of breath like his brother, was right behind.
“Dad, those were feds,” Stanley said, clued in by the G license plate.
“FBI,” John said.
“Pop, I thought they took you,” Toby said with a mix of worry and relief. “They had someone in the back, but I couldn’t tell who.”
“We thought it was you,” Stanley said.
“It was that stupid Jew lawyer of mine.”
“Mankowitz? What the hell was he doing here?” Toby walked over and practically fell into the couch.
“He brought the pigs. They were asking about Freddy,” John said, a clenched fist rhythmically pounding the arm of the recliner. “And about the place on Riverside.”
“Oh, shit!” Toby swore.
“Dad, they know,” Stanley said.
“They can’t know,” Toby objected. “There’s no way.”
“Well, they know something,” John pointed out. “They were also asking about Royce.”
“He talked!” Stanley said.
“He didn’t talk,” John disagreed.
“But the papers said the feds talked to him.”
“Stan,” Toby said, glaring. “If Pop says he didn’t talk then he didn’t! Okay?!”
“But someone did!”
“Both of you! Shut up!” John sprang from the chair and began a stalk-like pacing in the confines of the front room. “I don’t know what they know or how they know it, but this is not good.”
“Let’s call it off,” Stanley suggested.
“No,” John responded, giving that possibility a short life. “We’re not stopping.” He froze at the far end of the room, looking away from his sons. “But we’re going to have to take some precautions.”
“Like what?” Toby asked.