299 Days: The Visitors (13 page)

“How is that toe coming along?” Grant asked Theresa Swanson, one of the fence-sitters.

“Much better now that your wife got me some antibiotics,” she said with a big smile. Theresa had a very bad hangnail that had become infected. Lisa took care of it with some of the “fish” antibiotics that Grant had purchased before the Collapse. They were labeled for use on aquarium fish, but had the exact same ingredients as human anti-biotics at a fraction of the price, and were available without a prescription.

Grant gave Theresa a thumbs up and thought about whether he should say what came to his mind. Oh, what the heck, he thought. “We try to take care of people out here,” he said, in a not-so-subtle reminder that the Patriots at Pierce Point had the ability to provide people things while the Loyalists could not. Lisa went over to Theresa and talked to her about her toe.

By the time Grant and Lisa got to their usual seats – right up front because Grant often got up to speak at the little podium that sat on a card table at the front – Rich was getting the meeting going. It was 7:00 pm exactly. Rich liked to start meetings on time. Not only did it mean the meetings ended earlier; it showed the crowd that Rich was the leader of the discussion.

“OK,” Rich said, “tonight is the final vote on whether to have a trial or to turn them over to the authorities in Frederickson.” The crowd murmured, most of them saying variations of “it’s about time.”

There wasn’t much of a “debate” feel to this meeting. All the arguments had been made, and remade, dozens of times before. People knew where almost everyone stood. But there were still a handful of fence-sitters both sides were fighting over.

“Is there a motion to have a trial?” Rich asked.

“So moved,” said Dan, who had been briefed by Grant that he would make the motion and do so by saying “so moved,” which sounded so official.

“Is there a second?” Rich asked.

“Second,” Grant said, which was also part of the plan. Grant was the judge and carried some authority as a result.

“Any discussion?” Rich asked, knowing the answer. He looked to Snelling.

Snelling raised his hand and looked at Rich for permission to speak, which was something he didn’t do in the past, but now he made sure to show his best manners.

“I speak against the motion,” Snelling said. “We’re not savages. We’re Americans.” He let that sink in; even though Snelling hated traditional America, he would appeal to people’s love of what used to be America to get what he wanted. “America is about due process and fairness,” he said, “and that means courts and laws. And the only real courts and laws are in Frederickson.” A few impolite people let out loud sighs.

“Even though things have been unsettled for the past few weeks,” Snelling said, “the laws have not been repealed. There is only one set of laws in this county, and they’re carried out in Frederickson. That’s the American way. We’re still Americans.” He stood silently.

That’s it? Grant thought. We’re still Americans? That’s the best you’ve got, Grant wondered. He spoke too soon.

“I’m not the kind of person to threaten,” Snelling said in his best attempt to sound tough, “but imprisoning people – even ones who have been accused of terrible things – is kidnapping. And shooting them by firing squad or whatever is murder. These are serious crimes and will be punished when order is restored in the near future. Please think about that: anyone voting to hold a trial is an accomplice to kidnapping and probably murder.”

That stirred up the crowd. Snelling had hinted at this in previous debates, but now with his “I’m not the kind of person to threaten,” statement, it seemed like he was announcing he would try to have the authorities arrest people.

Grant tried not to be obvious and look around at people’s reaction, but he couldn’t resist. He turned his head around and saw a few of the fence-sitters looking disturbed at the thought of being prosecuted for kidnapping or murder.

Snelling stood and remained silent for dramatic effect. He wanted everyone to think about the seriousness of this decision. After a few moments, he looked at Rich and slightly dipped his head in a gesture that he was respectfully turning the floor back over to Rich.

“Thank you,” Rich said. “Any further discussion against the motion?”

The hands of Snelling’s followers went up. Rich called on them and they said roughly the same thing: they didn’t want to go to jail as an accomplice to kidnapping and murder. They didn’t want their kids or grandkids to see them in jail. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

“What jail?” Doug Smithson finally said. “There is no jail in Frederickson. If there is, it’s full of actual criminals. But, I heard they can’t feed prisoners so they’re letting them go. They’re not going to put all of us in jail. They can’t. Don’t you people get that?”

Grant wanted to show the fence-sitters that he and the others supporting the trial respected the rules of the meeting. He raised his hand. Rich called on him by pointing to him.

“If I may,” Grant said, trying to sound like a lawyer because he now wanted such credibility with the fence-sitters, “Doug brings up a good point. There are no traditional jails. There are no traditional courts. Everyone here knows it. We’re it, folks. We’re on our own.”

He started to walk around the room to get close to people in the audience. “Hey, who here has seen a mailman or received a letter?” Silence. “Who here has even seen a police officer in the past few weeks? Remember the speed trap right at the entrance to Pierce Point? Remember that? Every couple of days, usually around 4:00 in the afternoon, they were there. Remember? Not anymore. Am I right?”

Several heads nodded. Most of the people in the room were largely over their normalcy bias, but some were still suffering from the last bits of it. Normalcy bias takes a while to get over, and almost everyone never fully gets over it. There are always little lingering effects. Someone might seem to be over it, but then something reminds them of the past and they start to want to deny that things have changed. It’s a process. How people deal with it varies person to person. To combat normalcy bias, even the last little lingering effects, Grant found that people needed concrete examples of how different things were compared to before. The speed trap was one such example.

But Grant had been making the same point for weeks now. Tonight was the big vote. It was time to try a new angle, and one that would grab the last fence-sitters.

“Think of Frankie,” Grant said, to the surprise of everyone. “His face is still swollen up and he can hardly move his mouth. His broken jaw has set crooked. He can only eat liquids, if he wanted to eat, but he doesn’t because he’s still going through withdrawals from the meth.”

“He deserves to suffer,” someone yelled.

“Maybe, but let’s be decent about this and get it over with,” Grant said. He saw a few heads nodding.

“What about Brittany?” Grant asked. She and Ronnie were still in the makeshift jail. “They’ve served more time in our jail than they would in any jail in Frederickson. Are we going to keep them in our jail for even more days, weeks, and months while we debate whether things are really so bad that there are no courts in Frederickson? Is that fair to them?”

Snelling sensed that this argument was working, so he whispered something to his wife. She stood up and said, “Crystal deserves a mom,” referring to Josie.

“Not
that
mom,” Grant shot back. “And how does turning Josie over to the non-existent police and courts in Frederickson help Crystal?”

Silence.

Grant was done. He wouldn’t start making the same old arguments from the previous nights. He realized that tonight’s meeting wasn’t about arguments. It was about people coming to grips with what had gone on. To get their heads around the fact that everything had changed. The idea of having a homemade trial and executing people was an extremely disturbing thing for most people and they needed to mentally process it. This meeting was part of that. Hopefully the last part of it.

“What do people think of all this?” Grant asked, knowing that he was intruding on Rich’s role as the leader of the meeting. Rich motioned to the audience that they should stand up and talk.

They did. One after another, they told about how hard it was to come to the point where they could actually vote to hold a trial and authorize the death penalty for a person they knew like Frankie. “I remember when he was riding his bike by our house,” one of them said of Frankie, and then he started crying. “Oh, God,” he sobbed. “it’s come to this.” He left the room.

“I’m a Christian,” Betty Norris, the old hippy chick said. “I’m not a church person, but I believe in forgiveness.”

“But turning them over to Frederickson isn’t forgiving them,” Mark said. “They’ll be in an overcrowded jail at best,” he said, “and, at worst…” he didn’t finish the sentence.

“I know,” Betty said with her head hung low. “I know. But all these choices are just so bad. There is no happy ending.”

“That’s right,” Grant said. “And that’s what people here need to understand. There are no happy endings. We have to make decisions that we don’t want to make.”

“I’m ready to vote to have the trial,” Mary Anne said, unexpectedly. Fellow fence-sitters had been looking to see what direction she would go. She was a very fair person and people respected her. “There are no happy endings. Things will never be back to normal. We have to do something. Let’s do it.”

Seizing on that momentum, Grant said to Rich, “I move to have a vote.”
“OK,” Rich said. “Anyone disagree?”

Snelling stood up. He was different. He wasn’t Mr. Apple Pie and politeness anymore. He was angry. He felt like things were out of control. “There will be consequences for this,” he said ominously. “You will regret this.”

“What does that mean?” Grant shot back. Rich put his hand up to stop Snelling and Grant.

“Enough, gentlemen,” Rich said. “We’re having a vote.”

Chapter 150

A Simple and Fair System

(June 5-6)

That night, Pierce Point voted 85 to 22 to have the trial. On the way out to the parking lot, Snelling came over to Grant. Grant looked at the Team who motioned that they’d shoot Snelling if he tried anything.

“This isn’t over,” Snelling yelled at to Grant. “Your little hillbilly police force of macho thugs won’t rule this place.”

“Is
that
what this about?” Grant asked sarcastically. “Ruling this place? Gee, Snelling, I thought this was about due process and America. Did I get that wrong?”

“Fuck you,” Snelling said coldly and calmly. That’s what scared Grant: Snelling’s calm.

Then Grant started thinking how immature this was. They were acting like two teenage boys talking shit in a parking lot. Grant was worried that he was turning this political disagreement into a blood feud. He didn’t need that. There had been way too many killings and feuds lately. Grant wanted things to be normal, where political disagreements didn’t get people killed.

Be careful
, the outside thought said, referring to Snelling.

I just want normal, Grant thought. I don’t want this. I want normal.

“I can’t wait to see you in a real jail,” Snelling said. “Where you belong.”

“Whatever, man,” Grant said, trying to de-escalate the situation. Besides, he was tired of all this parking lot shit-talking. He wanted to go home and get ready to judge a trial the next morning.

“You can’t do this,” Snelling said. “I will make sure of it.”

Grant knew he should take this threat seriously – especially when the outside thought told him to be careful – but he kept thinking that he was overreacting. He wanted normal.

“Thanks for stoppin’ by,” Grant said sarcastically to Snelling. He turned and helped Lisa get into the rear cab of Mark’s truck.

The Team piled into the back, travelled toward Over Road, and they were soon home. After hanging up his gear and kissing Lisa, Grant promptly fell asleep in his bed.

He woke up in the morning fully rested and glad the parking lot stuff was over. He’d won the vote, now it was time to get on with business, and that was conducting a trial.

Grant and Lisa got on their mopeds and headed to…work. Yes, they were going to work. That was normal, he thought. Thank God for normal.

On the quiet ride to the Grange, Grant took stock of what had happened over the month or so since they got out there.

They were lucky. Really, really lucky. They had a secure area and an amazing collection of people who were keeping it that way. They essentially had unity and cooperation, although there was the Snelling faction. But Pierce Point was basically pulling in the same direction. For now.

Food. That was always a big concern. They had enough food for a while though it wouldn’t last forever and there would be fighting over it if people got hungry. But they had far more than most. They just might make it through this.

Grant thought about why he was on that moped heading to work: he would be a judge. That was remarkable. They were organized enough at Pierce Point to have a makeshift court. They elected a judge and had a jury system. They voted – finally – to hold homemade trials, which was a huge mental step toward declaring their independence from the government.

Another sign Pierce Point was humming along pretty well was that they caught some criminals in a rather effective raid. Ah, alleged criminals, Grant corrected himself. It was hard to be totally impartial when you were on the raid that captured the alleged criminals, but it was for the jury to decide their guilt, not Grant. He was there to make sure the Constitution was followed. He wasn’t deciding who lives and dies.