[Lady Justice 08] - Lady Justice and the Watchers Read online

  After I had explained the day’s events and shared my confusion and misgivings, I said, “You seemed to know a lot about this OnStar stuff. So what’s your take on cell phones?”

  “I’m guessing you mean as it might relate to Big Brother?”

  “Yeah, like that.”

  “You have more to worry about than just the government spying on you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you ever heard of Satellite Security Systems, Advantrack, Teletrac or World GPS solutions?”

  “Nope, none of them.”

  “These are just a few of a growing number of private companies that provide satellite tracking services to anyone willing to pay. Their clients include school districts for tracking school buses, government agencies, police departments and private companies. They are also grooming a growing clientele of private individuals, including parents installing GPS on their teenager's car and spouses trying to keep tabs on each other.”

  “So what you’re saying is that all new cars and all new phones are equipped with GPS that makes it possible for someone to track my every movement and there’s nothing I can do about it?”

  The Professor nodded, “The GPS systems in your car and phone can track the addresses you visit --- the doctor’s office --- the liquor store --- or your lover’s house, and at the moment, the companies that can collect this data are under no legal obligation to protect your privacy. They may sell a permanent record of your movements to marketing firms, your employer, your wife or your bitterest enemy.”

  I was speechless. I just didn’t know what to say.

  “It’s a quandary, isn’t it Walt?”

  “Indeed it is. On the one hand, the technology is so fabulous. It makes our lives so much easier and safer, but on the other hand, it has the horrible potential to take away our basic freedoms. Sometimes I almost wish we could go back to the ‘good old days’ when life was so much simpler.”

  The Professor smiled, “Really? Just what were the ‘good old days’ to you? The fifties I suspect.”

  “Yeah, that would work for me.”

  “You do realize, don’t you, that if somehow we were all miraculously transported back to that era, it would be like living in the stone-age.

  “Just think, no computers, no cell phones, no Internet. If you want to make a call, you pick up the phone and a real person says, ‘Number, Please?’ and manually connects your call.

  “If you want to communicate with someone, you write a letter. If you need to have some information, you can’t just punch it into Google. If you’re one of the lucky ones who could afford a set of the Encyclopedia Brittanica, you could try to look it up, but the chances are that the information would be two years out of date. Do you see what I’m saying?”

  “Of course,” I replied. “Our lives are much easier today, but how can we have all this wonderful stuff and not worry about our country turning into that Orwellian thing you were talking about?”

  “That is the question, isn’t it?”

  “That’s the question, but what’s the answer?”

  “The answer, my friend, is vigilance --- vigilance and action.

  “We can’t fight what we can’t see and understand, so it’s our job as citizens to watch and to make those who represent us accountable for their actions. Unfortunately, we are our own worst enemies.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I think Walt Kelly, the author of the ‘Pogo’ cartoon said it best, ‘We have met the enemy and he is us!’

  “Instead of watching and warning, the average citizen buries his head in the sand, naively believing that those in power are acting for the common good. Apathy and inaction open the door wide for the abuse of power.”

  “So are you a watcher?”

  “You might say that.”

  “Then how do you feel about what you are seeing?”

  “What I am seeing frightens me to death!”

  CHAPTER 3

  Zareef Khan passed through the security check at Jinnah Airport in Karachi and as soon as he reached the holding area for the flight to the John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York, he searched the crowd for the group of young men he was supposed to find.

  At the far end, six young Pakistani’s sat with their laptops open, tapping away at their keyboards.

  Zareef took an empty seat next to the closest boy.

  The young man glanced up from his keyboard, “Hi, my name is Amir Akhtar. Are you one of the foreign exchange students?”

  Zareef paused a moment to reflect on the cover story his compatriots had made for him.

  “Uhhh ---- yes, that’s right. I’m from the University of Karachi. How about you?”

  “University of Punjab in Lahore. This is my first time out of the country.”

  “Yes, me too.”

  Just then, the airline official announced the start of the boarding ritual. Laptops snapped shut and seven young Pakistani men took their places in the boarding line that would lead them to an adventure in America that none of them would soon forget.

  As the big jumbo jet lifted off the ground, the minds of two young men seated six rows apart were filled with anticipation of events that awaited them.

  Amir Akhtar was eager to meet the American family whose home he would be sharing for the next six months.

  He was anxious about the University he would attend. He wondered if he would measure up to the academic standards of the American students.

  Most of all, he longed to experience the freedom and all of the wonders of this great new land that he had read and heard so much about.

  Zareef Khan looked out of the window at his homeland fading away below him, knowing that this would be the last time he would see the mountains and valleys of his country.

  His mind was filled with the image of the Scorpion missiles streaking from the drones, the burning building and the screams of his comrades as they perished at the hands of the American infidels.

  He imagined the satisfaction that he would feel when he detonated the explosive that would take him to the promised paradise and send hundreds of Americans to their death.

  Two young men --- one following a dream --- the other awaiting a nightmare.

  CHAPTER 4

  Squad meeting the next day was one that I will always treasure.

  It was a happy ending to a story that could have been tragic.

  The kidnappers had been caught and little Josh had been returned to his parents, poopy pants and all.

  Everyone was all smiles and there were high-fives and back-slaps all over the room.

  Captain Short read letters of congratulations from the Chief and the Mayor, but it was the letter of thanks from Joshua and Janet Randall that brought tears to everyone’s eyes.

  After the meeting, the Captain called Ox and me into his office.

  I thought maybe there might be a special ‘thank you’ coming for carrying the baby to safety, but when I entered the room, the person standing there was the last person on earth that I would have expected to see --- my half-brother!

  I just stood there with my mouth hanging open, probably looking as stupid as I felt.

  “Walt,” the Captain said, “I think you know Mark Davenport.”

  I barely knew him. I had only met him once.

  It was last summer when Mark showed up at my apartment.

  It seemed that my dad, the roving trucker, had been keeping a girlfriend on the side way out in Kansas somewhere, and had gotten her pregnant.

  She raised the boy alone, never telling my father that he had a second son.

  We may never have known except for the fact that Mark, an agent with the FBI, had come seeking my help.

  We had been trying to catch a guy called Thanatos that had been practicing euthanasia in Kansas City.

  Mark knew that I had an indirect way to contact Dr. Death and he wanted that information for his mother who was suffering from a very painful and incurable illness.

  Reluc
tantly, I had given Mark the contact, never really coming to terms with whether I had done the right thing or not.

  As I stood there looking at my half-brother, it occurred to me that someone might have discovered my indiscretion and it was now coming back to haunt me.

  Mark stuck out his hand. “Good to see you again, Walt, and nice to meet you, Officer Wilson.”

  There was nothing in his demeanor that suggested that my neck was in a noose, so I relaxed a bit.

  “You too, Mark. Are you here as part of the FBI’s kidnapping team?”

  Mark and the Captain exchanged glances. “Well actually, I’m not with the Bureau anymore. I’m with the Department of Homeland Security.”

  My mouth probably hung open again. I had heard about these guys, but had never actually met one --- especially one that I was related to.

  “Walt,” the Captain said, “Mark has come to Kansas City on special assignment and we think you may be able to help him out.”

  “What in the world could I possibly do to help Homeland Security?”

  “Let me give you some background,” Mark said.

  “As you probably know, Homeland Security was created in response to the September eleventh incident and our primary function is to protect the United States from terrorist attacks.

  “We constantly monitor known terrorist groups and are on the lookout for new organizations that might be a threat to our security.”

  The Captain broke in, “They’re doing a wonderful job. The public has no idea how many terrorist plots have been averted through their efforts.”

  “Thank you, Captain.

  “We’ve come to Kansas City to investigate a possible threat. Our surveillance has picked up some ‘chatter’ that suggests that there might be a new group forming here.

  “It doesn’t seem to have any ties to our known groups so we don’t have much information to go on.”

  “So how do Ox and I fit into all this?”

  “We need someone to infiltrate the group and we think you are our best bet.”

  “Infiltrate? As in join up with? A terrorist organization?”

  “Yes, that’s what we have in mind.”

  “But aren’t these terrorist types the ones who strap bombs to their bodies and blow up restaurants and train stations?”

  “Some have been known to do that.”

  “Why me?”

  “We’ve been following your career for some time. It seems you have a natural gift for undercover work.”

  I wouldn’t have called it a ‘gift’. Actually, every time I had been ‘volunteered’ for these assignments, I had tried desperately, but without success, to beg off.

  I had been a ‘john’ in a prostitution sting because I looked ‘old and needy’. I was forced to dress in drag because of my slight build and relatively hairless body and I had posed as a dying man because I was the closest thing they had to a cadaver.

  The only undercover assignment that I really enjoyed was posing as a Jimmy Cagney-type tough guy to expose some corrupt politicians.

  But this was a whole new ball game. Terrorists!

  “So is Ox supposed to go undercover with me?”

  “No, Ox will monitor your activity and be your contact if you need extraction.”

  “Extraction! Why would I need extraction?”

  “Just in case your cover is blown. Terrorist groups have a nasty way of dealing with spies.”

  “Oh, just great. I feel so much better now.”

  “So will you help us?”

  “How will I have to be transformed this time? Dressing in drag? A wig? My hair dyed or shaved off? Latex prosthetics glued to my face?”

  Mark shook his head. “Actually, what we want is plain old retired realtor, Walt Williams, a guy with time on his hands and an axe to grind with the government.

  “It’s the perfect cover. We don’t have to make up a fake background and you are completely free to devote your time to whatever clandestine things they may be planning.”

  “So who are these guys, Arabs, Muslims, Neo-Nazis?”

  “No, at this point, the men we are looking at are American citizens disenchanted with the government. This is not danger to our country from outside our borders --- it’s danger from within, which is almost worse.

  “We’ve identified the ringleaders of the group as Arnold Goldblume and Nicholas Thatcher.”

  Ox spoke for the first time. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  Mark looked surprised. “Do you know these men?”

  “Hell, yes! Everybody knows ‘Arnie the Agitator’ or ‘Arnie the Instigator’ or Arnie the Activist’.

  “He’s always somewhere expounding from his soapbox to anyone who will listen. Sometimes his topics are pretty inflammatory and someone starts swinging. That’s where we usually come in.

  “He’s definitely a pain in the ass, but a terrorist? Come on!”

  Mark was adamant, “Our ‘chatter’ indicates otherwise. His rhetoric may be escalating to something more serious. That’s why we need an inside man.”

  “What about this Nicholas guy?” I asked.

  “We don’t know much about him. He seems to stay in the background, but our intel suggests that he’s very high-tech and may pose a threat to our on-line systems.”

  “Will this assignment pose any threat to my friends and family?”

  “Not unless your cover is blown, which isn’t likely.”

  “I don’t know --- this is WAY different from anything I’ve done before. I mean --- terrorists!”

  “Walt, your country needs you. You have a unique opportunity to make a contribution to the welfare of our nation. It’s the stuff heroes are made of.”

  Mark Davenport had pushed all the right buttons. It seemed that Lady Justice needed my help again.

  What could I say but ‘yes!’

  It turned out that my fat was to be thrown into the fire sooner than I had expected.

  Arnold Goldblume was holding a rally at the J C Nichols Fountain on the Country Club Plaza that very afternoon.

  The Fountain was a favorite spot for advocates of everything from animal rights to anti-nuclear war, to espouse their causes.

  Most of the time, the orators would collect a small crowd of curious onlookers who would soon tire of the rhetoric and wander away, but on a few occasions, the topics were explosive enough to draw huge crowds.

  Apparently, this was one of those days.

  At least a hundred people had gathered around a small, balding guy standing on a three-foot step stool.

  A tall, slender fellow with short-cropped curly hair stood behind him holding a sheaf of papers.

  If I hadn’t known that the two were Arnold Goldblume and Nicholas Thatcher, I might have mistaken them for Paul Simon and Art Garfunkle.

  I found a spot on the edge of the crowd and tuned into what he was saying. I was shocked that such a booming voice could come out of such a small guy.

  “Thirty-six!” he boomed. “Thirty-six! If you follow the National Childhood Immunization Program recommended by the CDC, that’s how many times toxic substances will be injected into your child by the age of twelve!

  “Do you even know what’s being injected into your children?

  “Would you be surprised to know that the vaccines being recommended for your children contain mercury, a known neurotoxin in the form of thimerisol? How about glycol? It’s the stuff they use in antifreeze. Or maybe formaldehyde, the stuff they preserve cadavers with?

  “Of course you’re aware that if you want to send your children to public schools in Missouri, you’re required to have your children immunized according to their rigorous schedule and provide proof that you’re doing so, and the only alternative is to get an exemption for medical reasons, which is almost impossible, or lie to the school telling them you object for religious reasons!”

  An angry voice came from the crowd. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you remember that just a generation ago almost every kid suffered through t
he measles, chickenpox, mumps, or God forbid, polio. It was because of these vaccines that our kids today don’t have to suffer those illnesses.”

  I certainly could see the guy’s point. I had experienced everything the guy mentioned except polio. I was anxious to hear Arnie’s answer.

  “You’re missing my point, sir. I’m not here today to condemn all vaccines. In fact, God bless Dr. Jonas Saulk for making our world a better place for our kids.

  “What I’m here to point out today, is that what started as a benevolent program for the safety and welfare of our children has turned into a cash cow for the large pharmaceutical companies whose only goal is to generate billions of dollars at any cost.

  “Sir, I’m guessing from your comments that you have children.”

  “Yes, I have a twelve year old daughter.”

  “Has your daughter been given the HPV vaccine?”

  “Yes, I believe that our pediatrician recommended it.”

  “So then your daughter is sexually active?”

  “How dare you! That’s a vulgar insult and you should be ashamed.”

  “Then I apologize, sir. I was only asking because the HPV vaccine is a common virus that is passed from one person to another through direct skin-to-skin contact during sexual activity. Can you see why I asked the question?”

  Before the befuddled man could answer the question, Arnie continued, “You’re certainly not alone, sir. About a quarter of the nation's teenage girls received the controversial cervical cancer vaccine Gardasil in its first full year of distribution and the CDC is recommending that EVERY girl in the country have the three injections by the age of twelve.

  “And now, to make matters worse, the CDC is recommending that all boys between the ages of ten and twelve be given the HPV series. The last time I looked, boys didn’t even have a cervix.”

  Someone else in the crowd shouted, “If this is so bad, why is our government recommending it?”

  Arnie smiled, “Ahh, now we’re getting down to basics. That is the question, isn’t it?

  “The Food and Drug Administration approved Gardasil in June of 2006 for Merck Pharmaceuticals. In 2007, their sales of the drug reached one and a half billion. ONE AND A HALF BILLION!