Civilian Liberties: Desperate Shadows Trilogy, #2

Foreword

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The world was enjoying relative peace and businesses were flourishing. America, our dear country, was venturing into profitable, bilateral, international deals. That was some years ago, when all was calm and good. Terrorism was unheard of, until one day: boom! A bomb exploded; and as if that were not enough, the next thing you hear or watch was that scores were killed in some kind of rampage or wild shooting.

The Oxford Advanced Learners Dictionary - 7th edition, defines terrorism as the use of violent action, in order to achieve political aims or to force a government to act. Additionally, a fairly insightful definition has also been given by the US federal statutes. It defines terrorism as . . . the unlawful use of force and violence against persons or property to intimidate or coerce a government, the civilian population, or any segment thereof in furtherance of political or social objectives.

But of course, these political aims are 100% of the time gross, unimaginable, and totally absurd. Yes, they stem from greed and are of no good to anyone; even to the terrorists themselves. In most cases, the purpose of terrorist attacks is usually beyond the imagination or comprehension of the normal person. It shows that there is a big gap in the psychological and thought processes of these persons.

You see, everything changes gradually; and interests, too, must change. Terrorism, as it now stands has taken different approaches, different shapes. Since the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, the government has become more aware of the need to intensify their campaign against this growing menace. In fact, before 9/11, there have been several lesser-known terrorist attacks in the past.

For instance, in 1993, a bomb was set off in the basement garage of the World Trade Center, killing 5 people and injuring over a thousand more. Now, it is not my intent to bring back bad and hateful memories, but I have only mentioned this for emphasis’ sake. 

These attacks do not only culminate in a loss of life, but they also cause severe trauma to the affected individuals. For example, the knowledge that someone you know might be affected is enough to make one anxious for years to come.

But that’s not all. What about the economic implications? Does terrorism not prevent economic growth? Does it not make investors wary that their money will go down the drain? And what about the infrastructural damages? Who does it affect? Surely, it affects each and every one of us in one way or another.

More so, it saps the resources of the country. Funds, which should otherwise be used for meaningful developmental purposes, are now being directed towards terrorism prevention, cleanup, and rebuilding in the aftermath of an attack.

From the foregoing, it dawns on us that preventing terrorism is not just the responsibility of the government. It is a collective responsibility of all US citizens. Also, more worrisome is the fact that the issue is no more relegated to the Middle East or Al Qaeda, as most of us might think. It is increasingly becoming a national issue. It is surprising and alarming to see small terrorist groups spring forth out of nowhere, right under our watch. If we were actually watching in the first place, that is.

You wouldn’t be wrong if you called them homegrown terrorist groups. These malevolent groups have now devised all forms of lobbying and recruitment exercises. Just as we were beginning to think that terrorism has to do with a certain group of people, recent happenings have proven otherwise. The Orlando shooting, for example, where scores were killed is only one on the many instances of a one-man terrorist attack.

Then, there is the online recruitment. Yes, it has gotten as bad as that! I can still remember how one of my college professors would always conclude each class. He would say, Anything that has an advantage, must have a disadvantage. Nowadays, the recruitment of these terrorists has steadily crept online. Small groups routinely use the internet to covertly scout for new members. And, of course, these members are usually teens and young adults, as you can imagine!

Adding its voice and creating more awareness about the issue at hand, this book is a masterpiece, a wonderful suspense novel that you’ll want to read until the very last word. The Beautiful arrangement of this book into sections, and the usage of simple sentences, makes it ideal for everyone. For terrorism is not just a government matter any longer, or is it? I thought as much. You would not like to hear that your alma mater has gone up in flames, or that the local mall has been destroyed.

It is with the knowledge—that the fight against terrorism needs to be collective—that this masterpiece has been written. We need to be informed regarding the modus operandi of these men of the underworld, because who says that terrorism pays? It certainly doesn’t.

As you will come to see in this book, the terrorists had started as a revenge group; and the recruitments of its members, otherwise called soldiers, slowly began. You and I know very well that revenge is not the right word. Because, in the first place, being served justice is not a crime. The terrorist in this book, however, perceive justice as an offence against them; hence their choice of word, revenge.

To cut a long story short, the terrorist group had wanted to have an easy strike, but that isn’t going to happen. One of them can be heard saying, that he hadn’t planned the mission to go this way. He is filled with regrets for his actions, and for how the whole thing had played out. Because, in the end, terrorists eventually lose.

Another subject addressed in this book is the issue of civil liberties. This surely calls for attention. While the issue of terrorism has been something the government, and indeed all well-meaning citizens, would like to curb in all its forms; there should also be respect for human rights and civil liberties.

Civil liberties include, but are not limited to, freedom from torture, freedom from forced disappearance, freedom of press, freedom of religion, freedom of expression, freedom of assembly, right to security and liberty, freedom of speech, the right to privacy, the right to equal treatment under the law and due process, the right to a fair trial; and of course, the right to life. Others are the right to own property, the right to defend one’s self, and the right to bodily integrity.

These liberties and privileges must be accorded to citizens, and due process should be followed and advocated in any inquiry process. This book presents some instances where civil liberties have been upheld. But, it also gives examples of aberrations of human liberties. It definitely frowns at injustice and enjoins all to toll the road of justice; and of course, due process.

Mr. Blair is well read and he progresses into different fields of human life: from military, to journalism, to business, to politics, and then to law. The pleasant arrangement of the plots lends credence to this. The setting has been based on the town of Brockton, but the lessons therein are applicable to all cities in America. It is a book that everyone should read—very informative, entertaining, and a thriller to the core.

A short while later, the President stood behind a podium and addressed the nation. His demeanor conveyed perfect professionalism, despite the overwhelming excitement he felt over the terrorist’s capture.

That’s just about how it always ends. Say no to terrorism. Say no to infringement of your civil rights and liberties.

God bless America!

Chuck Annabel

PROLOGUE: THE MIDNIGHT TERROR­­

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The bell atop of the courthouse tolled; it was midnight and three teens came stumbling, slow at first, but steadily increasing in pace, past the large, stone building with tall, white columns and a set of steps leading down to the sidewalk. Devon Perkins, with light-brown hair that moderately covered his ears, became startled. He jumped and staggered backwards, nearly falling onto the grass beside the sidewalk, but his friends grabbed his arms and stood him upright, just in time.

He was drunk, and so were his two friends, Reggie Wheeler and Corey Chapman. Corey and Devon were only nineteen and much like Devon, Corey’s hair was also light-brown, but it was shorter in length. He didn’t have it cut at the barber shop like his peers, however, because his parents didn’t approve of it. They were religious fanatics of the worst kind, the type who would routinely perverse the Bible to suit their own needs; and in this case, Corey’s parents claimed that his mother ought to be the only one to do this because Jesus would have let Mary, alone, cut his hair.

And then there was twenty-year-old Reggie Wheeler. Reggie, unlike his two friends, didn’t live with his parents. He didn’t live in an apartment, either. In fact, Reggie didn’t have a home; he was a couch hopper.

Every night, he would crash at one of his friend’s apartments, and he would do so until he’d long worn out his welcome. He didn’t have a job, nor a care in the world; and if you asked him, Reggie might tell you that he believed he could comfortably get by in life on the shirt-tails of others.

They had just left another friend’s house, Pete Harroway. Pete’s parents were at a social event for his father’s employer, Litzer Real Estate in East Fairfield, and they were expected back very soon. It had just been the three of them; they were listening to music and drinking alcohol that Pete had swiped from his father’s liquor cabinet.

Thanks guys, said Devon, after being pulled upright.

A moment later, Corey paused and massaged his tired eyes. He strained to look ahead. Something caught his attention. There was something in the shadows in front of them. His friends stopped, also.

Did you see that? Corey asked.

See what? Reggie said.

Corey pointed. There, he said. I thought I saw someone up there. Someone was standing there in the dark.

Devon and Reggie laughed.

Then Reggie said, Yeah right. You’re seeing things. He started forward, peering back at his friends over his shoulder. You guys coming or what? The people I’m staying with are away for the night and I know where they keep their booze.

Devon belched and flashed a sour expression, which lasted only a moment. Then he shook it off. He suddenly became more animated, tossing his arms in the air and waving them. He cheered and hollered, Yeah...let’s get wasted!

Yeah. I think you’ve had enough, Devon, Corey said.

Shut up. Devon belched again.

Guys, I’m serious. I saw something up ahead.

Reggie was already several feet ahead of the rest of them and Devon sprinted to catch up with him. They looked back at Corey. He still hadn’t moved.

Come on! Reggie shouted. He and Devon were dancing and staggering sideways and forward.

There was some guy. He was looking at us. Did you see him? He was standing by the alley.

Corey’s friends reached the alley. They peered into the darkness before turning back to him.

Nope, said Reggie. There’s nothing there.

They whooped and hollered even louder as Corey took a cautious step forward, and then another.

Come on, Devon said, as he tossed an arm over Reggie’s shoulder. Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?

Not me! Reggie said.

Me neither! said Devon.

Then, before they could say another word, someone emerged from the shadows and made a grab for them. They shouted and swore, and then turned to run away.

Guys, let’s get out of here! Corey shouted.

The person in the alley, standing just under six feet tall, and a man by the sound of the frustrated grunts he was now making, frantically snatched at them.

He only managed to get air for a second or two; but as Reggie and Devon’s feet left the sidewalk, he jumped out and snatched them both. They were pulled into the dark alley.

Corey ran across the street as his friends screamed and hollered for another thirty seconds or so. Somebody help! he shouted. "Is anyone awake? Somebody help me...please...my friends are being kidnapped!"

Then, the last thing he heard before darting around the corner, was the sound of a van door being opened and shut, and an engine starting. It pulled away, screeching, at the other end of the alley.

MONDAY

DIAMOND DINER

6:30 A.M.

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The sun had barely risen above the hills surrounding this rural town, situated in the valley, between the high-rising foothills of the Allegheny mountains. The streets were nearly deserted, sunlight glinted on the storefront windows. Although it was a bit chilly yet, not necessarily rare for early Spring, the sun creeping over the blue-green hills brought with it a warmth that caused Billy Mitchell to close his eyes and smile.

Billy Mitchell was fourteen years old. He had sandy colored hair, and wore a red baseball cap, and a grey hooded sweatshirt with the name of his favorite Pittsburgh football team in yellow lettering across the front of it. He had a white canvas bag full of newspapers, slung over his left shoulder. Billy was the paperboy, delivering The Brockton Tribune to more than half the town every morning before school. He straddled the seat of his 21-speed mountain bike, his head lifted toward the warmth in the sky. In the middle of the street, outside the bank on Middleton Street, he smiled, eyes closed. He was oblivious to anything else.

Beep.

Suddenly, a car horn sounded. And a man shouted, Hey, Billy, get out of the road! Billy opened his eyes, swung his head around. It was Tom Perkins, the High School Social Studies teacher.

Sorry, Mr. Perkins, Billy said, climbing back onto the seat of his bicycle and slowly pedaling to the sidewalk.

Tom Perkins inched the car forward. You're liable to get run over, Billy. Try to be more careful.

Billy nodded. I will. He slid forward and straddled the mid-bar again. Hey, are we still having that test on Friday? Social Studies wasn't his favorite subject, but Billy seemed to be doing well. Compared to the others, he was Tom Perkins' favorite student; always prepared and rarely absent. He paid attention to Perkins' dry lectures on the political pyramid of power in Washington; and whenever Perkins felt the students' attention was drifting off, he could always count on Billy to raise his hand and engage him in an interesting, although usually unimportant, off-topic conversation.

Yes, Perkins said. And I expect you to be prepared for it. I know you will be. But it's an important exam. It counts for a quarter of your semester grade.

Again, Billy nodded.

Alright, I have to get going. You take care now.

Billy watched him drive off. Then he peered at his bag. Only half an hour left, he thought, and I'll have to go home and get ready for school. He climbed back on his bike and pedaled forward.

Jenny Everett—forty years old, light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, with thin silver frame glasses and a light-blue mid-thigh dress, and the owner of The Diamond Diner—emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of upturned porcelain coffee mugs. She set the tray on the counter and grabbed the mugs, placing them on another tray below the counter. Then she picked up the empty tray, pushed through the swinging door behind her, and laid it on the stainless steel counter in the kitchen.

Rodney, she said, glancing at the mountain of dirty dishes from the morning prep, next to the sink against the opposite wall. You better hurry up. All these dishes need to be done by noon. And don't forget— She stopped short and scanned the kitchen and prep station.

Rodney Allan, the fifty-six-year-old kitchen manager, pushed the freezer door open and stepped into the kitchen. In his arms, were two large, white, plastic containers with a piece of masking tape on each of the lids; their contents and prep dates had been written on the tape with a black permanent marker.

He dropped the containers on the steel counter, in the prep station, and sighed. Then he wiped a bit of cold sweat from his forehead, with the back of his hand, and looked at Jenny. Hey, Jenny, he said.

I want these dishes done by noon, Jenny said. And don't forget, you're training the new kid after the lunch rush.

How could he forget? Rodney hated training new employees. Granted, working in a restaurant was hard work—they were busy, especially in the early morning, mid-day, and between four and seven in the evening—but it was easy work. A chimp could do this job, thought Rodney.

Yeah, I remember, he said, watching Jenny leave and return to the dining room.

Jenny wasn't cruel. She wasn't strict, either. But today was a big day for the diner, and she had a lot on her mind. There was a bus coming into town in the early afternoon, seventy-five, maybe a hundred people, at least. In the past ten years, business had doubled. Since the Brockton Yard Incident, as the locals now referred to it, people came from all over the country just to see the place where it had all happened. It had become somewhat of a tourist attraction. Come see the place where hundreds were tragically imprisoned for no apparent reason—other than the fact that Brockton leaders didn't like them—and where state police and the military took down a human trafficking ring, the media had said. Human trafficking, Rodney thought, yeah right. It was true that many had been falsely imprisoned by Judge Warner and those brain-dead cops, Stanley Whittle and Earl Simmons; but they weren't being sold. And their treatment was certainly more humane than the spin that the radio and television stations were reporting.

Jenny groaned and pulled a cigarette from her pocket. She grabbed a small plastic ashtray from under the counter and set it down. After lighting up and leaning forward, her forearms resting on the counter, she took a long drag and blew a cloud of smoke into the dining room. I can't believe how tired I am, she thought, suddenly remembering that she hadn't taken a day off in nearly a month. She took another drag, gazed beyond the tables, and out the front windows. As was part of her opening ritual, she had partially opened the blinds shortly after six. The street was still deserted. She exhaled another greyish-white cloud.

Billy Mitchell pulled up and climbed off his bike, resting it against the brick wall, next to the door. He entered the diner and sauntered cheerfully to the counter. Jenny dropped the cigarette into the ashtray and frantically waved her hand in front of her face to clear the smoke. She coughed and smiled at Billy.

Good morning, she said, watching him pull two papers from his bag.

He dropped them on the counter and said, Good morning, Ms. Everett.

So Polite.

And how's the paper business?

Billy shrugged.

Oh? Not your kind of work?

Nah, said Billy.

Jenny laughed. Tell me about it. I've been in this dive for way too long. I don't even want to think about it. She leaned forward and whispered, But I'll tell you something, Billy... She winked. ...sometimes when there aren't any customers around—like it is now—I daydream of doing something else.

Billy's eyes widened. Like what?

She rolled her eyes and stood up, and then lifted the cigarette to her mouth, took a drag, and put the remainder out in the ashtray. Then she turned her head and blew the smoke in the opposite direction, toward the soda machine. Like being an actress, she said, turning around again. I know it'll never happen. But wouldn't it be great?

Billy smiled. Yeah right. Keep dreaming, Ms. Everett.

She laughed and watched him turn and leave the diner. A moment later, he pedaled his bike past the window. He waved to her, and she waved back. Someday, she said, moving the ashtray back under the counter, I'm gonna be somebody.

Jenny picked up the paper and folded it open on the counter. She peered at the front page. It was the typical garbage about the upcoming mayoral election. The current mayor, Adam Wilcott, wasn't favored by many of the residents. It was the young voters, those in their late-teens and early twenties, that had mostly voted for him, something about his updated radical views for a better Brockton. Underneath that article—which filled half the page and featured a quarter-page photograph of Mayor Wilcott shaking hands with State Representative Jack Hinds during Hinds' recent visit to Brockton—was a blurb about the decay of local youth. There was a small photograph of two teens smoking cigarettes. One of them held a bottle of alcohol in his left hand.

She opened the paper, smoothing it flat against the counter with her palms. The first page featured obituaries down the left side, nobody that Jenny recognized. And to the right of it was a full-page article on the weekend craft show near the bus station, which ended yesterday. She turned to the right page. Her eyes scanned downward. Uninteresting articles on health and beauty tips written by half a dozen unfamiliar freelancers. She continued, then stopped halfway down. And then she leaned forward and read the headliner:

TEENS ABDUCTED, BAFFLED POLICE BEGIN MANHUNT

Jenny read the article. Her mouth dropped and she swore loud enough for Rodney to hear it from the back. It wasn't like her to cuss. He rushed from the prep table and pushed through the swinging door. Jenny stood upright now; she turned and peered with an astonished gaze.

What? Rodney said. His eyes drifted to the open paper. He walked to it and read the article. Okay, he said, looking back at Jenny. Some kids disappeared. So what? They probably drank too much and wandered into the woods, passed out somewhere.

Jenny shook her head.

Maybe they're runaways.

No, She said. I know those kids. They used to live next door to me. Then they moved across town. Rodney, they may have had problems, but they didn't run away. And they didn't pass out somewhere either.

How do you know?

I just know. Okay? She pulled out another cigarette and lit it.

Rodney sighed. I don't know why you're getting so upset.

She blew out a cloud of smoke and took another drag. Because, she said, exhaling. Don't you see? For the past ten years, it's been pretty quiet around here. Sure, we've had some minor problems. What town hasn’t? But Rodney, don't you see? It's happening again—

Jenny...

No. She grabbed the ashtray and set it on the counter, flicked the cigarette on the edge, and brought it to her lips. She inhaled, coughed. Then she put out the cigarette. Rodney, sometimes you can be so dense.

Rodney watched her walk around the front of the counter. It's all these tourists, Jenny. They're getting to you. He followed her. And when was your last day off?

She stood at the window now, looking out, and pretending she hadn't heard him.

I'm serious.

And so am I. She spun around. You can do what you want, but I refuse to let this happen again.

Jenny pushed past him and returned to the paper. She closed and folded it, then shoved it under the counter.

Rodney shook his head. Those tourists are making everyone crazy, he thought, shaking his head. He went to the counter, then behind it. In front of the kitchen door, he turned and peered at Jenny. She was bent down, checking the condiment levels.

I'm telling you, Jenny, he said. Nothing will come of this. They'll find those boys by lunch. He disappeared into the kitchen. 

BRIDEZILLA

11:15 A.M.

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Leila Tribble was wreck. She was a ball of nerves, and she didn’t care who knew it. In a cramped room, in front of a standing mirror, she slowly spun around and examined herself. She was just as beautiful as she had always been; forty-four years old, long, dark-red hair, and blue eyes. She was short, 5’8", but no one looked down at her. Leila was as tough as nails, bold, and extremely vocal.

Her bridesmaids smiled and praised her on the way she looked in her wedding gown.

"Stop that! Leila snapped at them. She ran her hands down the sides of the gown. I look like a fat cow—"

No, you don’t.

Yes, I do. And on top of it all, I am probably the oldest woman that geezer of a priest has ever married! Leila snatched her veil from one of the bridesmaids and peered at it before thrusting it away. Look at that stupid thing. I’ll tell you one thing—Jack Perkins better appreciate that I finally gave in and married him.

But you love Jack, don’t you? asked Hanna Cowell, one of the bridesmaids.

Leila swung her head around. Of course I love him. That’s not the point! But I’ve never considered myself the marrying type. I could have been sitting behind the desk and reporting the evening news on national television in New York City...

Someone snickered.

...who was that? Who was laughing at me? I swear I’ll...I’ll...

There was a knock on the door, followed by the voice of the reverend’s wife, Patty Higgins. Is everything alright in there?

Yes, said Hanna. Our bride is just having some premarital jitters.

"I don’t have the jitters," Leila hissed. I never get the jitters, she thought.

And it was true. In more than eleven years of working for Channel Five News, it was rumored that Leila had never even flinched. Not once. Even when reporting on a murder investigation, one where the Greensburg police chief, Nathan Myers, had revealed the burnt victim to her off-camera, she hadn’t even blinked.

Okay then, said Patty Higgins. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be right down the hall.

You know something, said Leila. "I really don’t like that woman."

I know you don’t, said Nancy Brewer, the maid of honor. But the feeling is probably mutual. Now, let’s finish getting you ready for your big day...

Another knock.

What now? Leila thought, I can’t wait for this day to be over. She really did love Jack, but it was the wedding ordeal that she wasn’t thrilled about. A single event that lasted the better part of a day—and it was all about her and Jack. She didn’t know if she’d be able to keep the reception meal down long enough for her and Jack to escape on their honeymoon. Jack had booked them a Caribbean Cruise.

I’m coming, she said. 

The door suddenly opened, before she had