“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,
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.
Ten days after Carla was released from jail, with a rather lame “Gee, we sure are sorry,” from the DA and the judge, Carla’s father lost his job.
Unable to pay his debts, unable to mortgage anything else, his creditors turned everything over to the collection agencies and they came slobbering and threatening into Mr. and Mrs. Fisher’s lives.
Then the vicious circle began to revolve.
Mr. Fisher could not get a job because of the bad reports the local credit bureau gave to any prospective employer; he could not pay his bills because he had no job; he could not borrow the money to pay his bills because he had no job with which to repay the borrowed money… if he could have borrowed any.
Nasty letters from the collection bureaus; abusive phone calls from the collection bureaus; threats at all hours of the day and night—over and over.
Five months after their daughter was freed from a charge that should never have been hung on her, with the only utility still operating being the gas, they elected to use that. They locked themselves in the kitchen and turned on the stove and went to sleep.
They never woke up.
A day after she buried her parents, Carla took her father’s shotgun, waited in the DA’s garage until he came home from work, and shot him four times in the chest and once in the face.
Then she joined the Rebels.
None of that could have happened in Ben Raines’s Tri-States.
There were many things different, unique, and quite experimental about Tri-States. One visiting reporter called it right-wing socialism, and to a degree, he was correct. But yet, as another reporter put it, “It is a state for all the people who wish to live here, and who have the ability to live together.”
In the Tri-States, if a family fell behind in their bills, they could go to a state-operated counseling service for help. The people there were friendly, courteous, and openly and honestly sympathetic, if that family could not pay their bills because of some unforeseen emergency, and if that family was making a genuine effort to pay their bills, utilities could not be disconnected, automobiles could not be taken from them, furniture could not be repossessed. A system of payment would be worked out. There were no collection agencies in the Tri-States.
As Ben once told a group of visiting tourists, “It is the
Within a week’s time, all towns within a fifty-mile radius of the shadows of the Great Smokies were shut down tight. Every person over the age of eighteen—if they so desired, and most did—were armed. With those weapons, the people were making their first real start in a hundred years in establishing some control over their lives.
A Tennessee federal highway patrolman almost messed in his underwear shorts when he drove through a small town and all the adults were armed—and not just with squirrel rifles, either. Many had M-14s, M-15s, and M- 16s. A few carried old BARS, Grease Guns, Thompson, and M-11s and 10s.
“Hey!” he shouted at one young woman. She was pushing a baby stroller and had a .30-caliber carbine over one shoulder. “What the hell is going on around here?”
“You want something, trooper?” she replied.
“Ah… yeah. Where are the… I mean… what happened to Chief Bennett and his men? The police station is empty.”
“They all quit.”
“Quit!” The trooper was uncomfortably aware of a crowd of people gathering around his patrol car. They were all armed. Well armed. “Possession of any type of automatic weapon is illegal,” he spoke from rote. “The possession of any shotgun larger than a 20-gauge is also against the law. No one may own a hunting rifle in a caliber larger than a .22. If you people…”
“Shut up,” he was told.
He shut up.
“Times have changed,” a man spoke. “If you don’t believe it, just move your head a bit to the left.”
The trooper turned his head, slowly, and found himself looking down the bore of a 9-mm SMG. “I believe, I believe,” he said. “Man… Mister, put that thing on safety. Please?”
The 9-mm was lowered.
“Burt,” a woman said, “you’ve been a decent sort of trooper. I don’t think you ever liked all this high-handed business coming out of Richmond. Did you, Burt?”
Burt knew if he uttered the wrong answer someone would soon be picking him up with a shovel and a spoon. He told the truth. “No, ma’am—I haven’t liked it.”
“I reckon the government will be sending in federal lawmen to take our guns, don’t you, Burt?”
“I reckon that is the truth.”
“They are not going to make it this time, Burt.”
