Fire in the Ashes

As he drove away the next morning, Ben thought: Now there are the types of people I'd like to have for neighbors, friends. Good people, educated people, knowledgeable people, with dreams and hopes and an eye toward the future...

* * * *

“Yeah,” Ben said, bringing himself back to the present. “But we can't live in the past, can we, Ike?"

“It doesn't hurt to remember, though. As long as someone is around to remember the dead, they'll always be alive.” He grinned. “Some wise dude said that."

“You had some good news for me..."

“Tommy Levant, senior agent with the FBI. He's fed up with Cody and what the man has done with the Bureau. Word is, he wants to work with us."

“Trap?"

“I don't think so, Ben. Levant is one of the old breed of agent: straight and narrow. The Hoover type of Bureau man. One of the few older hands left."

“I wonder if he realizes the risk involved?"

Ike shrugged. “His ass."

“That's what I like about you, Ike,” Ben laughed. “You..."

Ben's remark fell unfinished as Dawn walked past them. Ike watched his friend's eyes follow the movement of her hips and the sway of her breasts. He grinned as Ben shook his head.

“Prime stuff there, El Presidente. You wanna tell me what happened ‘tween you and Jerre?"

“I'll be honest with you, Ike: I just don't know. It's been ... cooling between us for several months. I think she'd like somebody closer to her own age."

“Umm,” Ike said.

“Does that mean yes or no?"

“Means: Umm,” Ike replied. “Ben ... do we have a chance in this thing? You think we have a chance of pulling this off?"

Ben sighed. “A slim one.” He knew Ike, despite his intentional butchering of the English, had a mind that closed like a trap around information he felt was necessary to retain. “Of the 7,200 new people, how many can we field as fighting personnel?"

“Six thousand,” the ex-Navy SEAL replied without hesitation. “That gives us just a tad over ten thousand personnel to field as fighters.” Ike looked closely at Ben. The man seemed deep in thought. “What's on your mind, Ben?"

“We do it one town at a time,” Ben said softly. “So easy it escaped me for a time."

“What is so easy?"

“Giving the nation back to the people. We do it one town at a time.” He grabbed Ike's arm. “Get on the horn to our field commanders. Tell them to start hitting deserted bases and stripping them of weapons. When they've done that, have them begin hitting National Guard and reserve armories; I want every weapon they can get in their hands. Call our intelligence people and get them working; find out where the government is storing the weapons it takes from civilians. Then hit it."

Ike's eyes lit up with comprehension. “We arm the people—one town at a time."

“Yes, and we start with the towns around the Great Smokies."

Both men turned to watch a black girl walk across the camp area. She was small, petite would be the word, and if one wished to be chauvinistic in describing a lady, stacked.

“Steady, Ike,” Ben grinned. “Remember, you're a Mississippi boy."

“I bet my ol’ granddaddy is jist a-spinnin’ in his grave,” Ike said. “Lord have mercy, would you look at that action at the fantail."

“Ike—you're impossible!” Ben laughed. “What's her name?"

“Carla Fisher. Great balls of fire."

Over his chuckling, Ben asked, “What's her story?"

“I don't know; but I shore intend to find out."

* * * *

Carla found herself in a South Carolina jail, charged with the murder of a man she'd never seen, nor heard of. The police used a dozen different methods to break her story, but they could not, and Carla held on.

She was degraded, cursed, browbeaten, and humiliated. She was also treated to the standard search procedure used for suspected female narcotics users and pushers—at least that is what it started out at its inception. In many big city jails, all females are subjected to this search. One of the more Dachau-type tactics many police departments utilize.

Stripped naked and either showered or hosed down—dependent entirely upon the department and the time of day or night—one is forcibly held down and then bent over by police matrons—if they are handy—and then the female is searched in every conceivable place a woman might elect to hide a small packet of drugs. It is anything but pleasant, and if the matrons happen to have a sadistic streak, it can not only be cruel, but painful—not to mention extremely humiliating.

If this tactic is thought to be helpful, in any way, toward breaking a prisoner's story, it will be used. Narcotics sometimes has nothing to do with it. It is but a legal variation of Hartline's tactics.

Carla spent weeks in jail. No bail. Her trial was long and staggeringly expensive. Her mother and father borrowed and mortgaged to pay for the best legal defense they could get. Carla was found not guilty—after the police found the real murderer. She was cleared of all but the stigma.

And the press can be as culpable as the police in the failure to remove that.