Militia Men, page 21
“Please be seated.”
I sneak a peek at Layla in the first row of the gallery, looking paler than usual in a black dress that seems fitting for a funeral, which maybe this is. By her side is Williams, who gives me a nod. He’d filed an affidavit with the court, attesting to my full cooperation and willingness to risk my life at the warehouse.
I didn’t see Austin slip into the courtroom, but the first words out of the judge are addressed to her.
“Senator,” he says in an ominously deep voice. “I’ve read your statement, and I must admit that it took me somewhat by surprise. Given the nature of your ordeal, I would not have expected you to be so … charitable.”
Austin rises to her feet. She’s wearing her usual navy pantsuit with the flag pin on the left lapel.
“Your honor, may I address the court?”
“You may.”
“Given the circumstances, this may sound strange, but I know that Mr. Robbins was trying to protect me even as I was held in his building. I believe he was doing all he could to convince his friend to abandon the scheme. When he couldn’t, he alerted the FBI. He even entered the warehouse where I was facing execution when bullets were flying that night. Those are not the acts of a hardened criminal, your honor.
“There is no question that Mr. Robbins committed serious crimes, but I am urging the court to show leniency based on his good intentions, if nothing else.”
She sits as the judge looks at me and frowns, fueling my unease. At the same time, I can’t help but feel gratitude for Austin’s plea on my behalf. My lawyers had told me about her supportive statement, but to come to Portland personally?
“Good intentions are not a mitigating factor, I’m afraid. The court cannot read minds,” the judge says. “That said, the record clearly shows that the defendant alerted law enforcement, assisted the FBI in tracking down the senator’s whereabouts and attempted to convince his armed accomplice to surrender at considerable risk to his own safety. To his credit, he has pleaded guilty rather than demand a costly, time-consuming trial. The defendant also has no prior record and enjoys the support of many people in his community, based on the letters the court has received.
“However …” There’s a long pause that makes me want to scream. “Kidnapping is a violent crime and deterrence demands punishment – even if the victim seeks mercy. Before I impose the sentence in this case, is there anything the defendant wishes to say?”
The lawyer to my right gives me a nudge and I stand. I have no prepared remarks. I can hear my heart beating.
“Your honor, I’m guilty of everything. I failed my best friend and I failed Senator Austin. She wouldn’t have had to fight for her life if I had stopped this terrible plot. I thought I could. I really did. But in the end, I couldn’t. And it’s all my fault.”
I sit down with a boulder in my throat and hear Layla crying softly behind me.
Then the judge dispenses justice: Sixteen months in a minimum-security prison. He tells me the sentencing range allowed him to be much tougher, but he was sufficiently swayed by Austin, Williams and the others to grant a “downward departure.” He thinks he’s cutting me a break, and maybe he is.
But it feels more like a guillotine blade falling.
Time moves slowly here.
On the outside, there are so many distractions. Here, you just think. All the friggin’ time. Think, think, think. Part of the punishment, I guess. Or is it more like part of the healing?
At least I have the letters from Layla. One sent faithfully every week. I’ve read them all many times.
In clearing out my apartment, she found her painting and cried. Good tears, I was relieved to learn. She’s going to have it framed and waiting for me.
A couple of Oregon State ag sciences students attending the Astoria campus are renting No. 1 now. When she goes through the lobby, Layla said she sometimes hears them playing video games and laughing. It reminds her of Sean and me – before we all went careening off the rails.
Sean’s mother came to claim his things, then made a point of visiting everyone who lives in the building. I’m sure she’s searching for answers, trying to square the suicidal militia man with the tender-hearted boy she raised.
When I’m out, I’ll go to his grave, then see her – answer as many questions as I can. But there’s no way I can explain how he plunged so far and so fast – a freefall to the edge of insanity in less than 60 days. I don’t know myself and I loved him.
The big news is that Spoke & Wheel never closed. Lay didn’t want to have a part in dismantling my dream, such as it is. She’s kept the business open three days a week, says she likes sketching there. Feels my presence.
Mandy and Alex are a couple now, taking things slow. Sort of starting over. The senator moved her main Oregon office to Astoria to be closer whenever she’s in the Pacific Northwest. I’m rooting for them and hope to one day go to their wedding.
Layla also says she’s been keeping an eye on Mrs. Wong, sharing pots of tea and telling each other stories. She even learned the legend behind the dragon ring – a grand tale if ever there was one.
Young Luen not only poisoned Japanese officers, she also slipped into a prison where Chinese children were being abused and made to live in squalor. Posing as a prisoner, she freed them all in a daring escape, aided by a kid-sized hole cut in a fence and a diversionary strike on the other side of the compound by fellow partisans.
After the war, Luen was given the ring by the grateful father of one of the rescued children. That man, a powerful leader of the Chinese Nationalist government, said the ring brings good luck and fortune to whomever wears it, which for Luen meant starting a new life in America with her baby sister.
For me and Layla, the old woman foretold, it will be both a lucky charm and an aphrodisiac. That seems a little far-fetched but, hey, who knows?
As for the other River Vista people, Christie moved out – she met a guy and needed a place with more closet space. Aliston’s still there, though. He puts the rolling bins out on Tuesday mornings, telling everyone who’ll listen that he’s about to get rich.
Layla finally worked up the courage to have an exhibit at Bellissima and it went really well. Mandy made it a dressy affair, with champagne and fancy finger food and a harpist in a gown. I’m happy for Layla, overcoming her fears and all. One of these days, I may actually overcome mine and give her a real proposal.
Every letter from my girl ends with a hand-drawn heart, each slightly different. One day, I’ll turn them into a collage. Make my own art.
I told Layla not to visit me here. In prison. I don’t want her to have those sad memories. And I don’t think I can stand seeing her in tears again.
In my cell, I have a small photograph. Lay is facing her canvas, brush in hand. Her hair is pulled back, exposing her long neck.
I love that picture.
Below it is the photo of me and Sean. All dressed up and sharing a laugh.
Love that one, too.
I’M SURPRISED YOU wanted to see me, Robb.
The pad and pen are gone. She’s puzzled why a man about to get released would want another dose of this.
I’m a little confused myself. I try to crack a small joke, downshift into my normal, easygoing persona, the one suppressed for so many months.
“Turns out, I actually like being interrogated,” I say, smiling.
She blinks, gives me that blank wall again.
Is something wrong?
Not about her evaluation. She gave me a thumb’s up for release, even signing off on my good time, which included a modest bonus for working toward my business degree.
I’m getting out in the morning. Layla will be waiting outside. I should be thrilled, but in a strange way I love her too much for that.
“It’s about her. I guess I’m … worried.”
What are you worried about?
I take a deep breath that makes my chest rise.
“That I’m holding her back,” I say, staring at my ugly sandals and starchy white socks. “I feel guilty, like I’ve stolen part of her life. That she’s standing by me out of obligation or duty.”
The woman in the chair cocks an eyebrow.
Try not to overthink love. Just go with it.
She’s right, I know. Love is … well, who the hell knows what it is exactly, but I’m smart enough to understand that it should be prized and not tossed aside like day-old Pepsi. It’s a mystical force, like the swirling Midnight Stone currents in my favorite artist’s paintings.
We’ve been talking for less than 10 minutes, but the evaluator looks at her watch, the signal that our time is over. Other prisoners are waiting. They’re all treading water, trying to survive.
I rise to my feet, a vision in orange.
But not for long.
Beyond the fence topped with razor wire, a raven-haired woman leans against a purple car.
She’s smiling.
And wearing the ring.
As envisioned, this novel wasn’t so gut-wrenchingly timely. At its heart, it’s merely a suspenseful tale about a young man who plunges into the void of violent extremism and his close friend’s desperate attempts to save him.
During the writing process, however, it became clear that Militia Men would be far more relevant to the news of today than originally intended.
Two major events influenced this book, especially in its latter stages. The first was the Jan. 6, 2021 insurrection at the Capitol and the deep involvement of far-right militia groups, as exposed by investigative journalists, the Justice Department and the Jan. 6 House select committee. The second was a renewed push for long-overdue gun control legislation after a series of mass shootings, including the massacre of children inside a school in Uvalde, Texas.
In Militia Men, those themes converge: A U.S. senator on the brink of getting a landmark gun-safety bill passed is kidnapped by members of an Oregon militia group known as True Patriots. That militia is fictitious, but the threat posed by such groups across the country is very real. The thwarted plot to kidnap Michigan Gov. Gretchen Whitmer over COVID-19 safety measures is just one example.
There are many people to thank for helping bring Militia Men to life.
Ann Butler provided equal measures of love and support, both of which were crucial during those writer’s block days. She also critiqued and then edited the manuscript. This book is dedicated to her.
I am also deeply appreciative of esteemed journalist Bridget Murphy for her keen insight on matters of plotting and character development, among many other things.
Jesse Miller, Jim Floyd, Jacob Miller, Naomi Mahncke and Bonnie Ross offered valuable feedback after reading early drafts, and too many others to name provided the kind of encouragement that keeps emerging novelists such as myself going.
Finally, I want to thank the people of my hometown, Astoria, Oregon, for embracing me as an author.
To learn more about my future endeavors, visit williamdeanbooks.com. Honest reviews of my books are always welcome – on Amazon, Goodreads and elsewhere.
Most of all, thanks for reading!
W.D.
“I’M FREE and I don’t know how to act,” Bud Baker says after he’s rousted from his prison cell and seated on a bus in the middle of the night. He aims to make his way to Alaska, where he has a cabin and childhood memories, but he lingers in a sleepy Oregon town after falling for the beautiful Jo Jo Summers. She tells him the tragic story of an addict whose baby was stolen at birth. When she asks Bud to return the boy to his birth mother, he refuses – until she reveals that the woman is her sister. Bud risks his newfound freedom by reverting to his criminal ways, expecting a manhunt. But he’s already being hunted – by demons from his past.
290 pages. Available on Amazon and in bookstores.
SUNNY SLOPE was long touted as northern Oregon’s “friendliest neighborhood.” But that was before a predator moved in. A young teenage boy took his own life. Another suddenly disappeared without a trace. As fear took hold of the community, the playground at its heart suddenly deserted, Harry Bolden and Fred Von Stiller knew they had to do something. The aging veterans launched an investigation of their own – only to find themselves in the crosshairs of a sinister organization. The Ghosts We Know is the harrowing yet heartwarming story of an unlikely friendship forged in the fires of a community under siege.
298 pages. Available on Amazon and in bookstores.
WILLIAM DEAN is a former investigative journalist who left newspaper work to pursue a second career as a novelist. He is the author of three engrossing tales of suspense, all set amid the misty forests of the Pacific Northwest: Militia Men, The Ghosts We Know and Dangerous Freedom. He lives in Astoria, Oregon, where he also writes and blogs about craft beer.
Find him online at:
williamdeanbooks.com
William Dean, Militia Men
