Molon Labe! (4 page)

"Hold on, lemme run some of these new addresses. I wanna see if they're urban or rural." A few mouse clicks later, he exclaims, "You wouldn't
believe
how many common addresses are popping up!"

"Common addresses?
Really
?"

"Yeah,
common
. And all of them rural. Take Crook County. I'm showing an August increase of 1,595 new residents, and guess how many of them listed their address as 2075 Highway 112?"

"How many?"

"255."

"
255!
At the
same
address?"

"Yeah. That's 16% of the county's new residents. One in six."

"What's at that address?"

"Hold on, I'm checking. A trailerpark and campground just north of Hulett. Bastiat Trailer Estates. Built this year. It's got . . . hold on . . . 70 mobile home lots."

"Four residents per trailer; that comes to a capacity of 280. So, yeah, it would easily hold 255 people."

"Hey, here's another one — 384 people show their new residence as the Galtson Mobile Home Park on Highway 111 just south of Aladdin."

"Galtson? That's a funny name."

"Yeah, I thought so, too. And, hey, there's one more trailerpark, the Rothbard Trailer Court on Highway 585 south of Sundance. 316 new residents there."

"Those three trailerparks account for . . . let's see . . . 60% of the new people. Where are the rest?"

"Let's see . . . oh, there's a 'Bastiat Retirement Village' near Moorcroft with . . . 211 new residents. The balance — 429 to be precise — seem spread out amongst 35 addresses. It's like 35 families just up and decided to take in a dozen people in their homes."

"This is the weirdest damn thing I've ever seen. How 'bout you?"

"Oh, by far!"

"Whaddaya bet same thing's goin' on in those other counties?"

"I'm already on it."

Within an hour, a fairly detailed abstract has been made of the numbers, which shows identical patterns in Niobrara, Hot Springs, Johnson, and Sublette counties. New community housings, trailerparks, apartment complexes, and condominiums had sprung up the past year to be filled by new residents relocating from generally six other states. The mass relocation appears to have begun in the sparsest county of Niobrara, and then in order to the next sparsest counties of Hot Springs, Sublette, Crook, and lastly Johnson — like water filling up an ice tray. This shows design, direction, and coordination.

Purpose.

"
Hey!
Guess what their voter registration is?"

"What?"

"Republican."

"
All
of them?"

"Yep. Every last adult. No Democrats. No Libertarians. No Natural Law. No Wyoming Reform. No Independents."

"Hey, then this has to be a
political
thing. Check out the Republican primary elections in those counties."

"Yeah! 15 August, right?"

"Right."

"Hold on, I gotta change screens. OK, here we go."

A furious stacatto of mouse clicks emanates from his cubicle.

"Bingo, my friend! It's
all
political! These people literally took over the Republican primaries, and elected a slate of new candidates. And get this: lots of them registered to vote at the
polls
on election day."

"How could they do
that
? I thought you had to register at least 30 days
before
the election."

"Yeah, for the
general
election. For primary elections W.S. 22-3-102 allows poll registration. They still had to be residents for 30 days, though. Look at their voter registration dates: 15 August, 15 August, 15 August."

"I'll bet the County Clerks freaked out!"

"Yeah, no shit. Probably thought it was some practical joke."

If the sudden concentration of this orchestrated immigration was suspicious, the
timing
was disturbing. Nearly nine thousand Americans — 7,495 of them voters — had descended on five demographically sparse Wyoming counties just before a primary election. Come November all the political offices were up for election. Clerks, Assessors, County Attorneys, District Attorneys, Sheriffs, Commissioners, Treasurers, Coroners, Judges, everyone.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Who wouldn't be. Those counties are facing a, a, oh, what's it called?"

"A
coup d'état
?"

"Right!
Coup d'état
. In November those new people are planning to change every one of their county governments."

"And since those five counties are heavily Republican, the indigenous voters will likely vote the party ticket regardless of the new candidates."

"Yeah, that makes sense. By taking over the primary of the leading party, your candidates are almost guaranteed to win the general election."

The blond analyst shakes his head. "Who
are
these people?"

"I guess people tired of the bullshit back in California, Texas, Oregon, and the rest. Hey, look it's 5:30. Let's get outta here and grab a few beers. Get a game plan going before we tell Jenkins about this!"

"Sounds good. We'll take all this stuff with us and work on it down at Muldoons."

"Cool. Too bad we can't write off the beers."

After several hours at their usual tavern, the two computer analysts were well and truly plastered. An early storm had hit southeast Wyoming that evening, and the roads were sheeted in black ice. Driving home, the carpooling pair careen off a mild curve in the road, go down a thirty-foot embankment and flip. One was knocked unconscious; the other had his neck broken. Their car's fuel line was ripped away by the dense underbrush, and raw gasoline spilled onto the red-hot exhaust manifold.

Only the blaze gave notice of the lonely accident, and by the time fire trucks had arrived the car was a black, smoking shell. Bits of burning computer printouts floated about like Dante's snowflakes.

The curious fattening of five Wyoming counties went unnoticed by the replacement analysts at the WSDC. The general election of 2006 was just three weeks away.

1995

When law and morality contradict each other the citizen has the cruel alternative of either losing his sense of morality or losing his respect of the law.

— Frederic Bastiat

Chaos theory maintains that the flapping of a butterfly's wings can snowball into a tropical hurricane. The theory has more than meteorological implications. A solitary and routine traffic stop can cause a legal thunderstorm.

I-25, east of Casper, Wyoming

24 May 1995

It is 2:47PM, nearly the end of Lloyd Holgate's shift. A young trooper in the Wyoming State Patrol (WSP) for two years, he has aspirations of federal law enforcement and plans to apply with the FBI next year. He has been patrolling a thirty-mile corridor of the interstate since morning. Summer tourist traffic is just beginning to trickle into the Cowboy State. While the WSP is not so notorious as the Texas DPS for ticketing speeders, the entire agency is on heightened alert after the Murrah Building bombing just five weeks ago. Troopers had been instructed to stop motorists for the pettiest of infractions and look for any probable cause (PC) of domestic terrorism. Militia members, right-wing extremists, Limbaugh Republicans, Second Amendment advocates, Constitutionalists, Patriots, and the like are all unfairly tarred with the brush of Oklahoma City.

Holgate's experienced eyes continually scan the highway for anything out of the ordinary. He has a reputation for being able to see an expired plate tag from absurd distances, as a leopard can spot a limp from across the veldt.

Predator — prey. Holgate liked the work. He looked forward to the prestige of the FBI, but would miss the daily excitement of the WSP.

Just ahead 300 yards a blue Ford Taurus brakes slightly as its driver notices Holgate's black cruiser behind him. Even though the Taurus was not speeding, most interstate drivers automatically stepped on the brake whenever they suddenly noticed a police car. Cops were used to it. Holgate would have passed the Taurus on by, but for the burnt-out left brake light.
Use any PC available to detain
his watch commander had said.
You never know what you may find.
Equipment infractions were the camel's nose under the tent for many arrests. Even if no arrest resulted, a burnt-out 30¢ bulb will net the State a $40 fine. Not that the State hasn't figured this out, of course.

Holgate closes the distance to 50 yards and radios in. "Unit 16 to Base. Request a 10-28 on a blue Ford Taurus, Wyoming plate 3-9-4-Adam-Frank-Charles. 1447."

The Taurus remains in the right lane travelling exactly 65 mph. The driver appears to be alone.

The computer check takes only twenty seconds. "Base to Unit 16. Vehicle is a 1993 Ford Taurus registered to a William Olsen Russell of Evansville. Registration current; no wants on the vehicle. 1448."

"10-4, Base. Am stopping vehicle for equipment violation. Stand by for a 10-27. 1448."

"10-4, Unit 16. 1448."

Satisfied that the car is not stolen, Holgate lights up his roof. The driver applies his right blinker and pulls over to the shoulder. Holgate stops about 25' behind and slightly to the left of the Taurus, and turns his steering wheel at full left-lock. This measure would likely save his life if his unit were rear-ended. Cops had learned this the hard way over the years.

Trooper Holgate looks in his side mirror for a break in traffic and steps out. As he approaches the Taurus he intently scans the passenger compartment for hands. Hands were dangerous; they held guns and knives. The back seat is empty, as is the front passenger seat. The driver, a white male in his late fifties, is alone. His hands are on the steering wheel, his eyes tracking Holgate in the rearview mirror.

The driver's window is down, but the car is still running. "Sir, please turn off your ignition," Holgate says firmly.

The driver does so, turns his head, and says, "Was I speeding, officer?" Not unfriendly, but not kiss-ass, either.

Cops are trained not to answer such questions until the suspect's ID has been determined. It also keeps him off-guard.

"License, registration, and proof of insurance, please," Holgate says. The man already has them ready on the dashboard, and hands them over. He is William Olsen Russell, the registered owner of the Taurus.

"Is 3627 State Route 258 still your current address?" This is one of the first questions cops ask, for the State must always know where its Subjects reside. It also establishes a baseline for truthfulness. Any evasion or hemming and hawing will instantly alert an officer of something "hinky."

"Yep, been there nearly twenty years. What's this all about? Was I speeding?" Faintly annoyed.

Holgate says, "No, sir, you weren't speeding, but you do have a brake light out."

Russell snorts. "Brake light out, huh? Well, how could I have known
that
?" Belligerent.

"By regularly inspecting your vehicle, that's how."

"Do
you
know if
your
brake lights are working, officer?" Russell taunts. "Could one of
your
bulbs have burnt out just now?"

"Sir, we're talking about
your
vehicle, not mine, so I'm not going to argue with you. Remain in your vehicle. This won't take long." Holgate had been inclined to give a verbal warning, but no longer.

"This is frickin' great," Russell mutters, not quite under his breath.

From inside his unit Holgate radios, "16 to Base. Request a 10-27 on a William Olsen Russell, common spelling. Wyoming DL is Robert-2-7-4-5-0-3-2. DOB 6-7-38. 1449."

As Holgate writes up a ticket the dispatcher radios back. "Base to 16. Subject Russell, no wants or warrants. Status clear. 1453."

"10-4, Base, thank you. 1453."

As Holgate returns with Russell's clipboarded ticket and paperwork he notices a spent rifle shell casing on the rear passenger floorboard. He places the clipboard on the Taurus roof and his hand on his Glock 22. "Sir, do you have any weapons in the vehicle?"

"I'm not armed," Russell says.

"That wasn't my question. Do you have any weapons in the vehicle?"

Russell's eyebrows furrow. "I don't have to answer that."

Although Russell is correct, because of his noncooperation coupled with gun-related evidence and Holgate's particular fear for his safety, the trooper is now justified in performing a protective search of Russell and his
"immediate grabbable area"
according to the
Terry v. Ohio
Supreme Court case of 1968.

"Sir, you're not under arrest, but for my own safety I need to search you and the interior of this vehicle for weapons. Now, step out of the vehicle, turn around, and place your hands on the hood." Holgate pats down Russell, who is unarmed and has nothing but some coins in his pockets.

"Mr. Russell, I want you to sit there next to the guardrail in front of your vehicle, and stay there until I tell you to get up."

"Aww, this is bullshit!" Russell spits.

"It's that, or you can wait with cuffs on in the backseat of my unit until you chill out. Now sit over there!"

Russell complies, grudgingly.

Keeping him in his peripheral view, Holgate looks under the front seats and floormats, and searches the unlocked glovebox for weapons. His powers of a
Terry
frisk do not extend to sealed or locked containers, or to the trunk. He finds no weapons or contraband.

"I
told
you I wasn't armed!" Russell shouts over the traffic noise.

Holgate ignores this and finds the interior button to pop the trunk. It doesn't work. Russell disabled it months ago to prevent this very thing. He even had it keyed differently for more privacy.

Holgate walks over and says, "I need you to open your trunk."

Russell replies, "Absolutely not. A
Terry
frisk cannot include a locked trunk inaccessible without a key."