True Faith

 

Prolog

 

 

Mei Ling Shrader left her desk at the Department of Transportation and hurried for the elevator. The car was crowded and it descended only a single floor before stopping opposite the entrance to the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. Mei Ling smiled and moved a step back as a little girl and her mother squeezed into the car. Timidly, the child returned her smile. Mei Ling reached over to press the "Close Door" button. For an instant the indicator glowed then the world disappeared in a white plasma glare as eighteen pounds of C4 plastic explosive hidden in the EEOC's file room detonated.

The blast swept through the third floor in only a fraction of the blink of an eye and shattered everything in its path. After a diligent search the Medical Examiner's office succeeded in recovering Mei Ling's head and her left arm. Of the little girl nothing identifiable remained. Within seven weeks the FBI had arrested five men for the crime: William Joseph Ayers, Michael Tully, Thomas Bremerton, Jay McNabb and Robert Henry Allen. It took another year and a half to bring them to trial.

Still, the defendants displayed no obvious signs of worry or distress. Through his organization, The White People's American Coalition, William Joseph Ayers issued press releases condemning the Zionist Occupying Government and its FBI "Gestapo." He confidently predicted that he and his co-defendants would never be convicted of the bombing.

The U.S. Attorney ascribed Ayers' pronouncements to nothing more than whistling in the dark, but, in fact, William Joseph Ayers had a definite plan to avoid the imposition on him of any punishment for the crimes of which he stood accused.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

 

I sat in the back of courtroom 3C, fingered my press credentials, and frowned. I had wanted to cover Ayers' trial in courtroom 3A just down the hall, to be there to watch the bastards who had murdered my wife, Mei Ling, squirm, to hear the jury find them guilty, to watch them being sentenced to a million years in prison or, better yet, to death. But instead I sat here in Judge Lionel Hendrix's courtroom where I waited to interview a group of immigrants for a Sunday Supplement article on Baltimore's newest citizens.

Almost four hundred people had been sworn in only three weeks before, but several of those scheduled had missed the ceremony because of illness. One had not appeared because his car died with a broken serpentine belt out on Highway 295. Another applicant urgently needed to receive his papers so that he could start a new job which required U.S. citizenship. Two more petitioners were friends of a Congress-man who asked the Court, as courtesy, to schedule his constituents' swearing-in on an expedited basis.

The new citizens were dressed in the best clothes which they possessed. Thirty-five year old Japanese restaurant owner, Akiye Yoshima, wore a Donna Karan silk dress that had cost a thousand dollars. Sergei Lemontov, a short, slender, bearded professor of mathematics who had fled Moscow University for a job writing software compression algorithms for a computer game company, was dressed in a tweed suit which looked like one of the outfits that the scientists in the 1950's monster movies wore when the Pentagon called on them for help in defeating the giant ants.

At nine o'clock exactly the clerk called the court to order as Judge Lionel R. Hendrix entered the room. Six feet tall, slender, and as brown as the bench behind which he sat, Judge Hendrix took a moment and surveyed his courtroom, then nodded to his Court Security Officer.

"The United States District Court for the Eastern District of Maryland is now in session, the Honorable Lionel R. Hendrix, Judge, presiding. The first matters on the calendar are petitions for admission to citizenship in the United States of America."

Hendrix turned to the applicants.

"Good morning ladies and gentlemen. When your name is called please come forward and stand before the bench." Hendrix motioned for the clerk to read the calendar:

"In the matter of the Application of Sergei Lemontov. In the matter of the Application of Esmail Fatehi. In the matter of the Application of Dennis Whitehurst." She continued reciting the names of each of applicants for citizenship. One by one, in no particular order, the petitioners rose and passed through the bar. When all eight had taken their places, Judge Hendrix looked down at them and smiled.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," he began, "it is both my duty and my pleasure this morning to administer to you the oath of allegiance.

"You have chosen to leave behind the countries of your birth and to embrace the United States as your new home. This is an important commitment and one that I know that each of you takes seriously.

"Your choice this morning does not mean that you must deny the land of your origin. Pride in your ancestry is important and can never detract from your patriotism. On the contrary, your pride in your heritage can only make you better Americans.

"What does it mean to be an American? Former Supreme Court Justice Felix Frankfurter said that an American is someone who loves justice and believes in the dignity of man.   

"As far as I'm concerned, being an American means believing in an idea that was unique when this country was founded by other immigrants and which, in most parts of the world, is still unique today. That is the idea that people have the right to worship differently, even if others don't like their religion, or lack of religion; to speak their mind even if their ideas are upsetting; to write and publish their philosophies even if those philosophies are unpopular, and, most of all, it means a belief in the right to be treated equally before the law even when you are poor or different or disliked.

"This philosophy was, and in most parts of the world still is today, a radical idea. In America you have the right to blaspheme, to criticize, to disagree and still be treated fairly by the law and the government. Fair laws, fairly enforced, are necessary for a free people to live peacefully in a free society.

"In Thomas Jefferson's first draft of the Declaration of Independence he referred to our 'inalienable rights' but the Committee of Revision, which included Benjamin Franklin and John Adams, changed that to 'unalienable rights'. Why did they do that?

"Because 'inalienable rights' means those rights that cannot be taken away but which you can give away. 'Unalienable rights' means inherent rights which no one has the authority to deny you and which even you yourselves may not surrender. It means rights which we hold as trustees for ourselves and for our posterity and which even we ourselves may not voluntarily abandon.

"As Americans we have the unalienable right to grow in our own ways and to learn what has not yet been taught; the right to privacy and the right to participate; the right to choose our own jobs, to shape our own communities, to mold our own destinies. Not the right to destroy, but the freedom to challenge.  Not the license to disrupt, but the liberty to dissent.

"One of the most important parts of my job as a judge, especially as a federal judge, is to protect and to guarantee each of you the right to peacefully dissent.

"In a few moments you will become citizens of the greatest nation on earth. This is still the land of opportunity. This is still the land where dreams can be fulfilled. But at a price.

"Remember that in becoming an American citizen you also accept a great responsibility: the responsibility to participate in your society, to become involved, to work to make your new country better.

"Today I am honored to have the privilege of bestowing upon each of you both the benefits of American citizenship and the duties that it entails. I am sure that you will bear those responsibilities well and I know that your new country will be as proud of you as you are of it.

"I will now administer the oath of allegiance."

As one, the immigrants raised their hands.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

In Courtroom 3A next door the Assistant U.S. Attorneys gossiped at the prosecutor's table next to the empty jury box. Three of the five accused sat quietly at one of the two defense tables at the left side of the room. The other two defendants chatted with their attorneys near the railing which separated the spectators' from the lawyers' portion of the courtroom. Two armed U.S. Marshal's Deputies were positioned in front of the bench. A third Marshal's Deputy was stationed at the double doors at the back of the room.

The lead defendant, William Joseph Ayers, sat quietly at the far left side of the defendants' table. Thirty-four years old, five feet eight inches tall, short dark hair neatly parted on the left, compactly built, Ayers was dressed in a dark gray, almost black, Penney's suit, a narrow black tie, and a wash-and-wear white cotton shirt, his outfit unrelieved by any splash of color or ornamentation save for the small, metal American flag affixed to his lapel and the crossed golden lightning bolts of the White People's American Coalition emblazoned on a blue and silver tie clip.

Ayers casually reached beneath the lip of the defense table and slid his fingers over the slight stickiness of the duct tape which secured a Glock 9mm pistol. A two and half inch deep facing masked the weapon.

Ayers glanced at the man to his far right, Robert Henry Allen, and gave him a slight nod, then allowed his attention to wander back over the court room, though his eyes never strayed far from the two armed Marshal's deputies to the left and right of the bench. Allen, six feet one, blond and crewcut, stared straight ahead without any outward acknowledgment of Ayers' signal.

Twenty spectators were already seated. Suddenly, two men in the first row began to argue. George Terry, the deputy nearest the jury box, moved to eject them while his companion took a few steps forward to keep a close watch in case the dispute escalated beyond raised voices.

As soon as Terry passed through the gate, Ayers and Allen at the front defense table and Michael Tully at the rear table pulled free two Glock pistols, a three pound block of C4, and an envelope containing #4 electric blasting caps and microswitches, all of which had been taped beneath the defense tables during the previous night. As soon as the quarreling spectators had been ejected, Ayers motioned to Marshal Terry with a small wave of his hand. Seeing his partner approach one of the defendants, Deputy House moved over to cover him.

Ayers stood slowly, the gun invisible beneath the hem of his suit coat. Stepping to his left, Ayes bent his head as if to whisper to the marshal. Terry took a step forward and instantly Ayers smashed the pistol into Terry's head. The deputy staggered and dropped to the floor. Allen leapt for Deputy House who stood rooted to the floor as he tried to make sense of his partner's sudden collapse. He barely had time to notice Allen's lunge before he too was hammered into unconsciousness.

Allen, athletic, six feet one inches tall, a veteran of four years in the U.S. Army, raced through the swinging gate and began to level his pistol at Jack Cahill, the deputy at the courtroom's rear door. Cahill was already crouching, pulling out his Beretta 92 and trying to get out of way of the Glock that Allen was swinging toward his head.

A whirl of thoughts flickered through Cahill's mind: Had he released the safety? Hurry, get his finger through the trigger guard. Line up the weapon. Were any innocent people in his line of fire? Could he --- there was a sudden explosion and flash from Allen's gun. Cahill heard a sound between a crack and a pop and felt a huge pressure  and a burning pain in his right shoulder.

Suddenly, Cahill's right arm was dangling and he found the first set of doors swinging shut behind him. Blood spilled down his chest and time seemed to be moving in fits and starts. His limp right arm, miraculously, still gripped the Beretta. Cahill staggered through the second set of double doors and out into the third floor hallway.

Cahill looked left but the elevators seemed to be receding into the distance. In another moment the defendants would burst from the courtroom and finish him off. To Cahill's right was the door to the public stairway. Surprised that the crew-cut gunman had not erupted from the courtroom and shot him again, Cahill leaned against the stairway door and stumbled onto the third floor landing.

A moment later he discovered that he was no longer able to stand. Well, he could still aim through the doorway lying down. Now if he could only get the damn gun into his left hand, he might still have shot at them. Except he couldn't seem to focus too well, but. . . .

Cahill's hand left a bright red smear as it slipped from the knob and the fire door swung closed in front of him. No one outside had noticed Cahill's retreat. The courtroom's double doors had muffled the shot to a snap no louder than that from a popping balloon.

Robert Allen cautiously poked his head into the corridor. There was no crowd of frightened lawyers, no gang of approaching Marshals -- just a silent, deserted hallway. While Allen kept watch, the other defendants quickly relieved the Marshals of their guns, ammunition, keys and handcuffs. At instructions from Ayers, Thomas Bremerton yanked out the phone lines.

On the way out of the courtroom McNabb grabbed a laptop computer from one of the defense lawyers. From another he took a briefcase. "Camouflage," he told Ayers as they hurried into the hallway where Allen still kept watch. Michael Tully fastened one of the pairs of handcuffs to the handles on the courtroom's double doors. Ayers gave Allen another of his brief nods and, like a group of lawyers in a hurry to duck out of court early for a morning's sail on the Chesapeake Bay, the five men strode toward the bank of elevators near the far end of the hall. They were ten yards away when two uniformed police stepped out of the men's room.

The escapees continued into the small corridor which ran through the bank of elevators. Ayers regretted not taking the stairs but it was too late now. The two cops had never seen the defendants before and Cahill, unconscious in the third floor stairwell, had not raised an alarm.

Then Tully glanced at the cops over his shoulder, and he looked guilty as hell. And Bremerton, in spite of his six foot four, two hundred forty pound bulk, looked scared to pieces. The cops took one look at the five men in cheap suits, one of them surely guilty of something and another too terrified to even make eye contact and knew something was wrong.

The older cop, Frank Washington, loosened his weapon in its holster. The younger man, Bernie Levin, started toward the escapees and called out, "Gentlemen, excuse me ---" which is as far as he got before Tully pulled the Sig Sauer he had taken from Alton House and fired a shot that missed Levin's head by half an inch.

Levin and Washington hurriedly took cover in the western stairwell. Tully fired two more shots in their direction then Ayers grabbed his arm and led them all back the way they had come. The cops carried walkie talkies and Washington was already calling for help.

As Ayers' men neared the stairs at the east end of the building, the door opened a crack and a barely conscious Jack Cahill poked out his Beretta and fired a single wild shot. The officers behind the escapees fired as well and Tully and McNabb loosed three more shots in their direction. They were now caught in a cross fire.

The left side of the hallway was a waist-high to ceiling glass. To the right was another set of double doors which opened into the tiny lobby between courtrooms 3C and 3D. 3D was locked and empty. 3C was where the Honorable Lionel R. Hendrix, was now swearing in eight new citizens.

With barely a pause, Ayers raised his pistol and led his band of terrorists and killers into Judge Lionel Hendrix's court where I sat quietly and thought about my murdered wife.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

         

Chapter Three

 

 

"When we begin, you will say 'I', then your own name, for example, 'I, Marie Dermant' or 'I, Dennis Whitehurst'," Judge Hendrix instructed, nodding reassuringly to the eight new citizens. "Then you will repeat the rest of the oath after me. Would each of you please raise your right hand then say 'I' and then say your name."

Eight hands shot up and, after a brief smile from Hendrix, each began to speak:

"I, Reza Sanjideh, ..."  

"I, Dennis Whitehurst, ..."  

"I, Le Thi Mai, ..."  

"I, Elena Ortiz, ..."  

"I, Marie Dermant, ..."  

"I, Akiye Yoshima, ..."  

"I, Esmail Fatehi, ..."

"I, Sergei Lemontov, ..."

"... do hereby declare, on oath..."

"... that I absolutely and entirely..."

"... renounce and abjure ..."

"... all allegiance and fidelity ..."

"... to any foreign prince ..."

"... potentate, state or sovereignty ..."

"... of whom or which ..."

"... I have heretofore been a subject or citizen ..."

"... that I will support, protect and defend ..."

"... the constitution and laws of the United States ..."

"... against all enemies ..."

"...foreign or domestic..."

"...that I will bear true faith---"

 

Suddenly, William Joseph Ayers, Jay McNabb, Robert Henry Allen, Thomas Bremerton, and Michael Tully burst into courtroom 3C, leveled their guns, and took all of us prisoner.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Four

 

 

"If anyone moves they'll be shot," Ayers shouted. Judge Hendrix hit the panic button beneath his bench. "All of you stand very still." For a moment everyone, Ayers and his men included, remained frozen in place, a strange tableau. Breaking the spell, Ayers turned to Thomas Bremerton: "Secure the door with the handcuffs. McNabb, get them lined up over there." Ayers pointed to the area in front of the jury box.

In a few moments we were all herded into two ragged lines in front of the jury box.

"You're only making things worse for yourself," Hendrix warned them. "You can't get out of--"

"--Shut him up," Ayers ordered. Tully punched the judge in the stomach and Hendrix doubled over. Sam Stevenson, the Court Security Officer, rushed to his aid. Though only five feet nine and slender, Tully had a cornered rat sort of appearance which gave even larger men pause. Tully pointed his Sig Sauer at Stevenson's forehead and, reluctantly, the CSO backed up. Ayers ignored the whole exchange.

"You men out there," Ayers shouted through the closed doors, "you try anything and we'll kill the judge first. Do you understand? Nobody tries anything or the Nigger dies!" Ayers shot a last anxious glance around and noticed the door leading to the jury room. "Rob, check that out."

Allen rushed over, then reappeared a few seconds later. "It's empty, Bill. There's a bathroom in there."

"Good, we'll need that before the day is out."   

The little man's eyes swept left, past the bench and paused at the Great Seal of the United States and the American Flag. "They used to mean something," Ayers muttered to Mike Tully, "before the Mud People and the Jews started running the country." Ayers jaw began to clench. Deliberately he relaxed. The door in the back wall leading to the security corridor was the weak point. It was certainly locked, but he knew the marshals would have a key.

"Watch them!" Ayers motioned for Rob Allen to join him at the security door.

"The hinges are on the inside," Allen said, "Lucky for us.".

"No luck about it. The bastards were afraid of someone getting into their little ivory tower. Can you seal it?"

Allen paused for a moment then grabbed the court reporter's chair and wedged it under the handle.

"Will it hold?" Ayers asked, skeptical of the makeshift barricade.

"It'll slow 'em down long enough to warn us they're coming. If I can find a wooden ruler or something I can pound it into the crack like a wedge. It won't stop them, but they won't take us by surprise either."

"Good enough, Rob. Do it."  

In the Clerk's desk Allen found the Court Security Officer's weapon, another Beretta 92 with a full clip. Together with the two guns they had taken from the marshals they now had five weapons, one for each of them.

Bremerton and McNabb kept the judge and the rest of us covered while Tully guarded the courtroom's main doors. A moment later Ayers picked up the phone.  

"Baltimore Police Department," the receptionist answered, pronouncing the city's name as many natives did, somewhere between "Balmer" and "Baltimer".

"Get me the officer in charge of the Quick Response Team." The line clicked twice then went silent.

"QRT, Kliner."

"Get me the guy in charge, right now!"

"Major Petrocelli's in a meeting right now. What's this in regard to?"

"It's in regard to the fact that I've got a Federal Judge and his whole damn courtroom hostage and my men and I are going to start shooting people if you don't get your goddamn boss on the line right away. My name is Ayers, William Joseph Ayers." The line clicked then went silent.

 

*    *     *

 

Kliner rushed into Tim Petrocelli's office.

"Major, I've got a guy on three who claims to be one of the people on trial for blowing up the EEOC -- William Ayers. He says he's holding a Federal Judge hostage. He wants to talk to you."

"What the Hell? --" Petrocelli grabbed the phone. "Petrocelli. Who's this?"

"You damn well know who it is or you wouldn't have taken the call. My men and I are holding eighteen people including a Federal Judge in one of the courtrooms on the third floor of the Garmatz Building. You've got about one minute to get everyone off the floor before we start shooting. I'm warning you -- get those damn marshals out of here. I'm not kidding. We've already shot one of them and if they screw with us, a lot of people are going down. You get everyone, everyone, off the third floor right now or else!"

"Listen, just calm down. We'll--"

"Don't tell me to calm down! You just listen to me. I'm only going to say this once, then I'm hanging up. You'd better get control of this or people are going to die and the nigger judge here will be the first to go!"

Ayers paused and took a deep breath. You're the leader of a revolution, he reminded himself, act like one. 

"If any attempt is made to enter this room or if any action of any kind is taken against us," Ayers said slowly and deliberately, "all of these people will die. You'd better get control of those cops out in the corridor or I'll kill a couple of these people just to make sure you believe me."

"Okay, okay I'm going--"

"Just get it done!" Ayers shouted and slammed down the phone. He paused for a moment, his dark eyes darting around the room, missing nothing, then turned back to us.

"You people are prisoners of war," he announced in a thin, clear voice. "The socialist one-worlders who've stolen our freedoms are no longer in charge here. For the first time in fifty years, real Christian Americans are running this courtroom."

Ayers paused for a moment, studying his captives. Secretly he hoped for some sign of agreement, the nod of a head, something that would indicate that at least some of us knew what he was talking about and supported his cause. But all he saw was hatred and fear.

In the second or so that the gunman studied his prisoners, I realized that I could see the thoughts racing behind Ayers' eyes. In the set of Ayers' jaw, the slight clench of his mouth, the way the skin around his eyes tightened, I became convinced that I could read his mind.

In front of him was a group of people who epitomized everything Ayers was against: people who were brown and black, Jewish and Moslem, foreign born. And still, for a split second, Ayers thought that maybe some of us might be on his side, that some of us might agree with those ideas whose truth he was convinced was self-evident. And when none did, Ayers just threw us away. In that instant we ceased to be human and became only inconvenient blobs of ambulatory protoplasm that might complicate his crusade to save America.

 

*     *    *

 

"Call the marshals and tell them to back off," Petrocelli shouted as he hurried out the door. "Get all of them off the third floor. Find out who the closest BPD officer is, get him to call here on the phone, not the radio, and fill him in. As soon as you've brought him up to speed, send him into the courthouse. Tell him to have the marshals evacuate the building. Make sure he tells them about Ayers' call. Tell them we'll have a hostage negotiating team in place ASAP. And have someone call Colonel Dawson. He'll want to take charge. Have Larry call the on-duty team. Get hold of traffic division. They'll need to block off Lombard at Charles and divert all the traffic away from the courthouse. Tell the marshals and Colonel Dawson that I'm on my way over there. I'll check back with you in about four minutes."

Furiously scribbling notes, Kliner followed his boss's headlong rush then raced back to his desk to divide the jobs among the QRT on-call staff. Petrocelli was already halfway out of the Fayette Street lot.

 

*    *     *

 

 "Rob, you and Michael cover the main doors. Jay, keep an eye on that one," Ayers gestured to the judge's door that Rob Allen had jammed with a chair and makeshift wedges. Then Ayers turned to the last of his men: "Bremerton, line them up."

Twenty-three years old, six feet four, two hundred and forty pounds, Thomas Bremerton had large hands with long, slender fingers, the kind of hands that might have belonged to a concert pianist or a surgeon or an NFL quarterback. But Bremerton would never be any of those things. Searching the first hostage with those huge hands, the prisoner was afraid to even breathe but Bremerton proceeded mechanically, almost gently. Keys, nail files, belt buckles, anything that might be used as a weapon were confiscated.  Ayers made a note of each person's name on a pad he found in the clerk's desk.

The hostages glanced around nervously at each noise from beyond the double doors but Bremerton remained quiet, methodical, stolid. Jay McNabb, five feet eleven with medium length blond hair and glasses, abandoned his vigil at the rear door and joined Ayers and Bremerton in front of the jury box. McNabb's soft, doughy appearance was in stark contrast to Robert Allen's athletic trimness and Tully's lean and greasy physique.

Nervously McNabb waved the big double action Smith & Wesson 45 he had taken from Marshal Terry. Because he liked the sound it made, McNabb had cocked the weapon. Suddenly, my cell phone rang. McNabb aimed the .45 at me and began to tighten his finger on the trigger. I was sure I was a dead man, then Bremerton stepped in front of me, reached into my pocket and pulled out the phone. Wordlessly he handed it to Ayers then resumed his search of the woman to my right. Slowly, McNabb put up his gun. Ayers held the ringing phone for a second or two, then pressed the "answer" button.

"Who's this?" he demanded.

"Shrader? There's something going on at the Courthouse. Try and find out what's happening. Call me in ten minutes. Got that?"

"Shrader's not available. Who's this?"

"What--? This is Leonard Eichenholtz, his boss. What are you doing with Mark's phone? Hello? Who--?"

Ayers pressed the "off" button and put the phone in his pocket. "Who's Leonard Eichenholtz?" Ayers demanded in a quiet voice.

"He's my boss."   

"Why does he want you to find out what's happening at the courthouse?"

"I'm a reporter, for the Sun. He probably thinks it's lucky that I'm in the building."

"Lucky," Ayers said, followed by a little grunt. "Tell me why you're here today, and don't leave anything out."

McNabb had gone back to pointing his .45 at my chest. I paused for a moment then took a deep breath and tried to figure out what lies to tell them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Five

 

 

"Don't leave anything out." The words echoed through my brain. Where should I start? Did Ayers want to know about my murdered wife? Mei Ling wasn't a white Christian, not the sort of person William Joseph Ayers cared about. Besides, she was dead, blown to pieces when the EEOC offices dissolved into a ball of fire and shrapnel, disappearing into what one witness had called a cloud of blood and lightning. I hadn't even been able to give Mei Ling a decent burial. That was another fact that wouldn't be important to William Joseph Ayers.

I remembered one of the photos that had been taken immediately after the explosion.  A BPD Sergeant with twenty years on the job was bent over the hood of his patrol car, crying, after stumbling over the shattered body of a five year old child still clutched in her dead mother's arms. When it was shown to Ayers he dismissed the picture as "gestapo propaganda." No, Ayers wouldn't be interested in the details of Mei Ling's death.

"I'm here to do a Sunday Supplement piece on the new citizens," I said finally. "I don't know anything about any of this." I added a fake whine in my voice to cover the lie. If I'm lucky, I thought, maybe I'll get the chance to kill them all. In my mind's eye I pictured my captors torn apart in a hail of bullets, their arms and legs blown away. Someone had to pay for Mei Ling. Someone had to pay for the twenty-eight other people who had died when the bomb Ayers and his friends had planted went off. The victims deserved something more than polite discussions in fancy courtrooms followed by years of appeals and excuses.

But could I kill them all? Vietnam had been a long time ago but the U.S. Army had trained me well.

"Reporter. Another bleeding heart liberal," McNabb hissed. "I think I hate you guys more than the wetbacks. You betray your own kind. If this country is destroyed by the thugs in Washington, you're the ones who'll be responsible."

"No, look," I said, plastering a phony smile across my face, "I'm just an ordinary guy. I don't work for the New York Times or the Washington Post. Hell, the Sun's publisher's no left wing radical."

"That means nothing! The Publisher votes Republican while all the editors and the reporters are out there selling America down the river."

"I'm not a political reporter. I write feature stories -- a report on the Auto Show, Baltimore's Five Hottest New Restaurants, What's New In Home Electronics -- hell, I don't even review movies. I'm just a working stiff just like you guys. All these taxes are breaking my back just like everyone else's. They don't pay me a lot of money for this. I'm against those bozos on welfare as much as you are."

"You sing a nice song," McNabb said, giving me a hard stare, "but I'm not buying it. Don't give us any trouble. I wouldn't think twice about shooting you." Ayers held out his hand, palm up.

"ID," he demanded.

"Uh, sure, sure, no problem." I pulled out my wallet and handed over my ID cards. "Here's my driver's license, my VISA card, uhh, my press card, my library card." I was careful not to give Ayers the wallet itself which still held Mei Ling's picture. Ayers stared firmly into my eyes. I stared back for a moment, then looked away. Ayers watched me for a second longer, then slapped the cards back into my hand and began to turn away.

"Uhh, I was wondering ...."

"What?" Ayers said coldly.   

"It's just that this could be a hell of a story. I mean, I'm tired of doing all these crap pieces. If I could tell a real story, this story from in here, I could finally get somewhere. I mean, how else am I supposed to get a promotion? I'm not black or a woman or anything. Aren't you guys supposed to want to help white Christians? This could be my big chance."

"Why should we help you?"

"It would be good publicity," I answered, desperately making things up as I went along.  If I pretended to be sympathetic maybe I'd be able to figure out a plan that would let me get my hands on one of their guns.

"You could approve the piece in advance then I could phone it in. My editor would kill for an on-the-spot report. They'd have to print it. You couldn't lose."

"What kind of story?" Ayers asked quietly.

"An 'I was there. Here's what happened' sort of thing. I could do the interviews with the immigrants, just like I had planned, and I could include interviews with you -- if you wanted. I wouldn't say anything you didn't want me to say. You know, how you came to your beliefs about America; what's gone wrong with the United States; what people can do about it. Whatever you want. Hell, you can't buy publicity like that."

"And you get rich and famous off of us," McNabb shot back.

"What's wrong with that? You're not a communist, are you?"

"Nothing's wrong with that, Mr. Shrader," Ayers replied evenly. "Do you have a tape recorder?"

"No, I never use them. Just a ball-point and a notebook. How about it?" I asked hesitantly and slowly reached inside my sport coat. Ayers plucked the notebook from my hand and flipped it open.         

"What's this?" he asked, indicating a page of jumbled symbols.

"It's shorthand. I'll take this over a computer any day."

"If we can't read it, how will we know what you're going to say?"

"I can dictate the story over the phone. You can cut me off any time."

"I don't trust him, Bill." McNabb glared at me.

"Neither do I, but, as he says, we've got nothing to lose. All right, Shrader, you can do your interviews. You will obey all of our orders and you won't cause us any trouble. If you do anything wrong, we'll shoot you. Do you understand?"   

"Sure. You won't regret this."

"We'll see."

"Bill, . . . ." McNabb started. Ayers glanced at him then continued, "And just to make sure nothing goes wrong, Mr. Bremerton there will accompany you."

Nervously, I gave the big man another of my phony smiles. Bremerton didn't smile back.

"Uh, I'll need my pen."

Ayers stared hard at me, then reluctantly, returned the ball-point.

"We're taking this back as soon as you're done," Ayers warned, then pushed me against the wall and turned to the Hispanic woman to my left. Ayers held out his hand for her purse but before she could give it to him, the phone on the clerk's table rang. Ayers looked at his watch.

"Seven minutes," he said to McNabb. "Not too bad for a bunch of bureaucrats. Watch them." Ayers picked up the phone. "Ayers. Who's this?"

"My name's Ted Silas. I'm with Baltimore Police Department. What can we do to see to it that everyone comes out of this alive?"

I listened to the negotiator's muted question without the slightest interest. I had already decided that Ayers and his men weren't going to leave this courtroom alive. And that I probably wasn't going to either.