“What do I say when they ask what my job was or whatever?”
“Tell them you weren’t a real deputy. You just took the offer because they promised to give you food. They’ll understand, hopefully.”
Jimmy’s eyes darted back and forth between the men approaching them. “What are you gonna say?”
“I’m gonna tell them the truth. It’s worked so far. But listen. I may have to throw you under the bus a little. You know, to separate us. It’s the only way I can help get us out of this mess.”
Jimmy chuckled and leaned back against the massive truck tire. He bounced the back of his head a few times as he contemplated their predicament.
“Just don’t get me put in front of a firing squad,” he said half-jokingly.
One of the men growled his instructions. “All right, gentlemen, your ride’s here. On your feet!”
Two guardsmen brusquely lifted Jimmy up by grasping him under his arms. They pushed him roughly against the side of the truck, and one of the men pressed the palm of his hand into Jimmy’s chest to restrain him. With the help of a third soldier, Peter was similarly manhandled.
“Over here!” one of the guards shouted, waving his arm toward an approaching vehicle.
Refugees who continued to mill about the area began to spread apart in order for the vehicle to get through. From the front, it appeared to be a white Dodge truck with some kind of camper on the back. As it got closer, Peter recognized what it was.
“This is bullshit!” he complained loudly. “You can’t make us ride in that!”
“We can, and you will,” one of the guardsmen hissed in response.
The white truck bearing the logo of the Miami-Dade County Animal Services department slowed to a stop in front of them. The steel and white box container on the back had several lockable door handles protruding off the side. There was a compartment for each animal that needed hauling away.
In this case, the prisoners.
Jimmy began to squirm until he was forcibly restrained by two of the men.
“Listen up, gentlemen. You either cooperate or your ride will be a lot more difficult with the air vents shut. Trust me, you’re gonna want some air.”
The guard motioned to the driver, who opened up one of the compartments. The stench of dog feces permeated the air around the truck, filling Peter’s nostrils to the point he almost vomited. He resisted the urge to unleash a tirade of expletives. At this point their captors were getting a special thrill from their two high-value prisoners. Neither of whom had played any role in the destruction of the bridges or the decision to do so.
Peter looked to Jimmy and rolled his eyes. The two men accepted their fate and decided to cooperate so their punishment wasn’t made more severe. Each of the guys was shoved into a separate compartment by the soldiers, and the doors slammed behind them. The guards began to laugh, apparently taking great pleasure in slapping the side of the truck to indicate their prisoners were ready for transport.
As they drove away, Peter closed his eyes and set his jaw. He loved his country, but not when those in position of authority acted like this. The words he’d uttered minutes ago came to mind. Peon power. It had apparently become an epidemic.
CHAPTER NINE
Wednesday, November 6
Overseas Highway
South of Homestead, Florida
The military police were tasked with protecting the lives and property of the Army National Guard installations, both permanent and temporary. The Guard had established its operations at the Homestead-Miami Speedway in a matter of three days, but the law enforcement arm was a late arrival to the scene. The Army expected their troops to provide the Keys’ residents a show of force that would encourage them to back down from their attempts to block traffic on the two bridges. Clearly, that hadn’t worked, as they had been destroyed within hours of one another.
As a result, the law enforcement arm, together with several investigators, was quickly dispatched to Homestead. The Pentagon considered the destruction of the bridges an act of domestic terrorism, which also made it a matter for the FBI. However, the Justice Department was slow to respond to the Pentagon’s request for agents to assist in the investigation.
That left the task of dealing with the alleged insurrectionists to a criminal investigations special agent who’d been dispatched from Camp Blanding, a military reservation and training base for the Florida Army National Guard located southwest of Jacksonville.
Lieutenant Virgil Robinson was not a full-time member of the Guard. He was also a correctional officer at the nearby state prison located in Starke. A CO for nearly twenty years, he had an unparalleled bullshit meter. Prisoners in maximum security were able to spend their days finely honing their con-man craft. They were able to sense weakness in their captors and fellow inmates. They learned what emotional tools worked and which ones didn’t in a particular situation. They also became adept at lying.
His experience made him an ideal interrogator, and that was exactly what the military police needed with their first two prisoners, Peter and Jimmy.
The guys were taken inside the bowels of the Homestead-Miami Speedway to a Miami-Dade Police department substation, where drunks were held in the event they acted out during a race event. Each was held in a separate cell, awaiting interrogation. They remained in their clothes but were given an MRE ration and a bottle of water. For several hours, they sat alone without any contact with each other. Nor did they encounter any other prisoners.
This unnerved Peter, who became concerned that the military would take out their anger towards Mayor Free and those in concert with her on him and Jimmy. He paced the floor of his cell, constantly looking through the bars toward the long hallway that led to the substation’s offices. He held his breath, focusing his senses to eavesdrop on any conversations that were being held.
The loud clank of the steel locking mechanism shattered the silence as a uniformed guardsman ambled down the hallway past Peter’s cell. The smug man didn’t even glance in Peter’s direction as he made his way to the end of the twelve cells to retrieve Jimmy first. Peter stood at the cell bars and waited for Jimmy to pass him by. The two men stared at one another, and as soon as the guard’s attention was away from Peter, he raised his right index finger to his lips. Jimmy provided his longtime friend an imperceptible nod, indicating he was still on board with the plan.
Hours passed, during which time Peter nervously paced the floor of his six-by-ten-foot cell, which consisted of a concrete slab and a stainless-steel toilet-sink combo. The miniscule amount of ambient light that emanated from the single window providing a glimpse to the outside was insufficient for him to make out his surroundings.
He continued to pace the floor. Every third or fourth trip around the sixty-square-foot space, he stopped at the cell door and listened. It had to be approaching midnight when he finally sat down and tried to make sense of it all.
Where was Jimmy? Why would his questioning take so long if he had nothing to say? Or did they break him? It would mean nothing as far as Peter’s level of complicity was concerned, but it might make it impossible to gain Jimmy’s release. Peter knew enough about martial law to realize the government had the power to lock people up indefinitely, virtually without cause. “Rights,” they’d say. “You ain’t got no stinkin’ rights.”
Suddenly, the same clanging sound he’d heard when the guard arrived earlier brought him back into the present. He scampered back to the cell door and tried to press the side of his face between the bars to get a look at Jimmy.