Justice by Fire

Speaking through a sneer, Buckley asked Lyons, 'Tell me, Mr. Specialist. What are the qualifications to join a death squad? Perhaps you can help us understand these Salvadorans we confront. Did they find you in a prison? Or a metal institution?'

'Yeah, that's it. I'm a psychopath. I think children should have the freedom to walk to school. I think old people should have the freedom to leave their windows open. A society without fear. I got these totally crazy ideas in my...'

Blancanales interrupted Lyons. 'Will you stop? We have a mission to complete. If you disagree with Mr. Buckley's politics, write him a letter. Floyd, those two men in the van weren't Salvadorans. You have any idea who they were, or how they may have come into this?'

'Yeah… maybe. When I was out in front of Quesada's place, when the Miami police put me down on the sidewalk, I looked over and I saw two who weren't Hispanics. One was blond and had fair skin showing through his hair on top. The other one had black hair speckled with gray. Both were heavies, big shoulders, thick necks.'

'But not the two who died today?'

Jefferson shook his head. 'Never saw those two before.'

'Never see them again, either.' Lyons laughed.

Jefferson laughed with him. 'Would've been in real trouble if you guys weren't behind us. Bob there...' Jefferson grinned to his friend '...he sees that machine gun pointed at his face and he freezes. I go ka-boom with my shorty and everything happens at once. Mr. Buckley hits the gearshift and Bob finally gets with it.'

'Sorry,' Prescott apologized. 'My law school didn't teach counterterrorist tactics.'

The telephone rang. Prescott left the living room.

Blancanales glanced at his notes, then asked Jefferson. 'Did you recognize the two Salvadorans who came to your apartment house? Were they in the group you photographed in Miami?'

'I don't really know. It was dark and I was afraid and nervous and I didn't really look at their faces. It just happened too fast.'

'Oh, my God!' Prescott gasped in the other room.

Jefferson turned. He opened his mouth to call out to Prescott. Lyons grabbed his arm to silence him. In a whisper, he warned the young man. 'Police are looking for you, right? If that's a detective on the phone, he's listening for background voices.'

'Oh, yeah, right.'

They waited in silence as Prescott spoke. 'Has Mr. Buckley been notified? No, he's not with me. Floyd Jefferson? Yes, I know him. How could he be involved with that? Oh, of course. Thank you, officer. This is terrible. Thank you, of course I'll call if… Goodbye.'

He returned to the others, his face blank with shock. 'The police found David Holt's body. He was tortured and murdered and then dumped in the bay.'

Congressman Buckley groaned. Jefferson started to speak, his mouth moved, but no sound came out. Lyons spoke first.

'Now we know they're serious.'

'It could've been me!' Jefferson blurted out.

'But it wasn't,' Blancanales told him.

'And it won't be,' Lyons added. He looked to his partners. 'We got a plan yet?'

Jefferson's voice cracked with a sob. 'And... and that's what they did to the Riveras. Those little kids…'

'We don't know that,' Blancanales told him.

'But they disappeared. I went there and it was like they were never there.'

'Think about it,' Lyons told him. 'Gunmen show up to take the family. Two, three, maybe four of the Blancos. The mother and father know what's about to happen to them and their children. They'd fight. Kids would scream and cry. In a crowded apartment house? This isn't El Salvador...'

Jefferson nodded. 'People in the barrio watch out for each other.'

Lyons continued. 'Did they leave any clothes? Any luggage? A death squad wouldn't stop to pack up the family's belongings. Not with crying children and screaming neighbors and every homeboy on the street putting out rounds. This isn't El Salvador. Everybody's got a pistol or a shotgun. That death squad wouldn't make it to the street. I hope our esteemed representative...' Lyons turned to the mourning congressman '...will consider that fact the next time he authors an amendment to the constitution to repeal the right to bear arms. Those revolutionaries who wrote the constitution and bill of rights, they knew something you don't, Mr. Buckley.'

'Stop it!' Blancanales lunged across the coffee table to silence Lyons.

'Yeah, yeah. I'll write a letter. I'll write a letter saying that a Mr. David Holt would be alive if he'd had a pistol in his pocket.'

'I apologize for my loudmouthed associate,' Blancanales told Buckley. 'This is not the time for his speeches. He is a good man but he has no grace...'

'I got no grace,' Lyons interrupted, 'but I got the plan! There are three things we have to do. Protect Floyd Jefferson. Find and protect the Riveras. And break the Guerreros Blancos. We can't do that in San Francisco. I say we go to San Diego. Take Floyd with us.'

'The police are looking for him,' Gadgets countered. 'They'll be watching the bus stations and the airport. We take him to the airport, he's gone. And not to San Diego.'

Lyons shrugged. 'We drive, then. Four hundred, five hundred miles. We dump that wrecked Ford, rent another one. We'll be there tonight.'

'Take my motor home,' Prescott offered. 'If anyone got your license number today, all of you are fugitives. The police can trace you through those rented cars. They could intercept you on the highway.'

'A motor home.' Gadgets grinned. 'What a luxury.'

'Doesn't go very fast but it's very comfortable. Allow me to make one suggestion.'

'What's that?' Lyons asked.

'Floyd, those photos from Miami. You should leave the negatives with our office...'

'Noway!'

'For safekeeping. You lose the negatives, it all comes apart. We have no case to present to a court.'

'No way, Bob.' Jefferson shook his head, repeated, 'No way. I got three killings to explain. That short little fella...' the young reporter pointed to the sawed-off shotgun near his feet '...will keep me alive. The negatives will keep me out of San Quentin. They go where I go.'

Prescott shrugged. 'If that's the way you want it. I'll go get my camper out of the garage.'

The others sat in silence for a minute. They heard Prescott slide open garage doors. An engine started, sputtered, finally idled. Prescott's footsteps crossed the driveway. Looking to Lyons, Chris Buckley broke the silence with his first words since he had learned of the death of his friend.

'Perhaps I am a Utopian. I believed I was acting in the best interests of the people of the United States when I proposed the amendment to limit the possession of weapons to security personnel. Until all this began, I did not doubt my reasoning that this is no longer a frontier nation, that this is now a nation governed by laws and protected by sworn personnel. I have faith in our country's criminal justice system — despite all its flaws — and I will always believe that law and justice and compassion, rather than force, will create an American culture that will be the envy of all nations.

'David Holt shared my beliefs. And now he is gone. You need not write that letter to me. Perhaps I should temper my Utopian hopes with pragmatism. Perhaps we arestill a frontier nation. It is one thing to hear of the suffering of others, it is another thing entirely to lose a friend. He was a fine man. Wealthy, yet concerned for those less fortunate. Totally committed to the future of our country. I have one request to make of you...'

Lyons looked to his partners, then turned back to the congressman. 'What? What can I do for you?'

'When you find those who killed my friend...' Chris Buckley's hand closed into a fist '...do justice.'

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