CHAPTER TWENTY
The Federal agents who raided Legion didn’t use C4 to blow doors off hinges, or rip the gate off with a hook, cable, and an armored vehicle. Instead, they coasted their sedans silently up the drive, knocked politely, and the moment the doors opened, poured in like freed locust.
Same as the torture named, “Death from a Thousand Incisions,” each item they touched simulated a pierce of the flesh; every room they entered a blade slicked across skin; every dart of the eye in his direction a new wound. The experience left him overwhelmed and defeated; emotionally pummeled.
Even their feigned kindness of alerting Peter Mueller, Alex’s attorney, simulated a breaching of his front lines. Peter had called two minutes after the armed posse arrived to tell him to cooperate fully, but to say nothing, not one word, until he arrived.
After comparing the warrants and the items listed for seizure, Peter summoned the only irritant Alex remembered from Eridu: Agent Andrews. When the strange man who resembled a clichéd agent, right down to the dark hair parted off-center and excellent posture, entered his personal space, Alex wished he would have ordered Peter to have this conversation away from him.
“What country do you think we’re in?” Peter asked.
Agent Andrews stared blankly.
“If you had to guess,” Peter said. “Are we in communist China, or the United States of America?”
Andrews said, “I assume you’re the overpaid counsel, selling his soul to the highest bidder, morality be damned.”
“I’m Mr. Cutler’s attorney, yes. Thanks to your overreach, I’ll be earning my worth today.” He handed him two sheets of paper. “The warrant, and the list of items you’re attempting to take from here.”
Andrews perused the documents.
“The highlighted items are examples of your overreach. Each one represents an attempted theft.”
“Most of this page is highlighted.”
“As are the important lines of the judge’s order: two servers used during Roy’s death, the log charts, and the mirrored back up for Lobby activity spanning the previous sixty days. Nothing else.”
Agents Andrews swallowed three times.
As a pair of men in the casual clothing of computer technicians entered, headed for the stairs that led to Alex’s room, Peter called to them, “Hey, if you’ve disconnected one wire beyond the two servers identified in the warrant, do us all a favor and plug them back in.”
The men looked to Andrews.
Rather than face the men, Andrews selected a walkie-talkie from his hip, “Everyone stop what you’re doing. There’s been an amendment to our warrant. We confiscate the two servers used by Mr. Cutler and Mr. Guillen, the back-up. Everything else stays.”
Confused chatter overtook the airwaves. Andrews returned the pages to Peter and stormed outside.
“Damn Gestapo,” Peter said. “He intended to take the software for the entire house; your digital assistant; the code that controls the visual ascetics of Legion.”
“And you stopped him?”
“Absolutely. To make sure you’re not living in a see-through house, I better go supervise.”
A thanks lay on the tip of Alex’s tongue. His energetic attorney left before he voiced it.
Agents reentered his home carrying electronics. The sight of them handling his property acted as the first time Alex envied Dr. Brad Finder’s decision to make his residence outside the US of A, or Adisah’s to huddle in the mountains.
Growing up, Alex made many difficult choices to stay on the correct side of the law. Having been raised in Roger’s Park, he didn’t worry about stray bullets coming through the walls, but neither did their high school have a swim team, or any gratis activities. Living on the fence between slum and mediocrity, he witnessed many kids make that transition to the easy to do, difficult to endure, life of crime and poverty.
Despite his adherence to a vow of legality and hard work, Alex found himself under governmental scrutiny for a second time.
Having made his way to the kitchen, near the back of the home, Alex heard the bitter argument between Peter and Agent Andrews before they separated and stomped toward him.
“Alex,” Peter said. “Do not listen to this maniac. One phone call will straighten this out.”
Agent Andrews carried industrial shears in one hand, a hand-sized box with dangling rubber strands in the other. “Mr. Cutler, I’m a federal agent, giving you a lawful and direct order. You will comply while I attach this global positioning monitor around your ankle.
Alex tried to back against the counter. Feeling a discomfort greater than the previous few days brought immense surprise.
“You stay away from him with that thing,” Pater warned.
“It’s a harmless GPS bracelet,” Andrews replied.
“The warrant states Mr. Cutler is to remain in his residence until further notice. Something he is capable of without being tagged like a common criminal,” Peter said.
“He’s definitely not a common criminal,” Andrews said. “But even rich crooks have to follow the law.”
“The law-”
“It’s not a problem,” Alex said, silencing both men. ”I’ll wear it for a few days. I have no plans.”
“That’s not the point,” Peter said.
“Good choice, Mr. Cutler.” Agent Andrews dropped to a knee and quickly attached the anklet.
Black, made of hard plastic, the size of a deck of cards, it was heavier than Alex expected, and colder.
“Mr. Cutler,” Peter said. “I will have that off of you in a matter of hours, and request that Mr. Andrews personally-”
“It’s Agent Andrews-”
“Enough,” Alex said. “Just…I’ll wear it.” To Peter, “If you want to help me, get everyone out of my house. Allow me some privacy.”
Peter clamped his mouth shut, stared at Alex.
“Two sheriffs will remain outside your gate,” Andrews said.
“Let’s go,” Peter urged. “You heard Mr. Cutler. Get your people out of here. Give the man some privacy, some time to grieve.”
* * * *
Two days, perhaps three days later, Alex lounged on his expensive sofa, watching news form the monitor displayed on the north wall of his bedroom. He’d never been a fan of the news; he’d have even voted, lobbied, and financed an effort to have it outlawed.
He couldn’t get enough of the current news. That’s why he didn’t mind the tether. He flipped between three stations, soaking in the sporadic protests. Across the country, people gathered to demonstrate their outrage pertaining to the Lobby ban. As interesting, occasional debates surged about what really caused Roy Guillen’s death.
According to the mainstream media, an eighty-nine year old man suffering heart-failure seemed preposterous. If you went by the news alone, people supported the thirty-day moratorium on the Lobby. Alex knew the silent majority percolated a frenzy. Protesters organized in every city. Alex wondered if their numbers would ever dwarf media bias, overtake propaganda, and reach people’s living rooms.
Feeling a cramp, he propped his bare foot on the ottoman. Disgusted by the sight and feel of his digital tag, he returned his foot to the floor.
Rosa entered holding opposite ends of a towel draped across the back of her neck, her workout gear damp with perspiration. Using one corner of the towel, she dabbed sweat from her brow, an act he usually found sultry. Today, he was hollow. It seemed immense stress and self-loathing blanched normal traits as effectively as bleach poured over spilled blood.
“Anything new?” she asked as she strode past him and into their closet—a space equal in square footage to his first apartment.
“Six guys in Atlanta dug through sixty feet of earth, broke into an Atrium, and accessed the Lobby. They were arrested the moment they logged out.”
“I bet they’re kicking themselves now.”
“One of them worked for Broumgard,” Alex said with disinterest.
CNN returned from commercial.
The Lobby ban affected every populated continent and encompassed the globe equally. This meant coverage stayed fresh, and to him, each passing hour brought greater drama.
What made sleep beyond brief naps impossible, and leaving the screen for longer than a handful of seconds difficult, was the purported talks of extending the ban an additional thirty days.
Flipping a few channels, he filled Rosa in further, “The Atriums in Japan are another big story,” he said loud enough so she could hear him from inside her dressing room. “The employees, citizens, everyone there is ignoring the ban. The Atriums have doubled and tripled their rates, and remain operational. There are rumors Moscow’s Atrium is doing the same. With limited media coverage in Beijing, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were following suit.”
“Can’t you guys deny them access, pull their plug from some main source here?” Rosa asked. “Why would they ignore our laws?”
Jurisdiction, thought Alex. Aloud, he said, “Not sure what Broumgard could do; we’re set up like franchises. The U.S. released a statement urging all countries to comply, citing the possible dangers of the Lobby. Japan is denying the allegations, despite satellite photos and endless eyewitness accounts.”
Rosa exited carrying a towel and wearing nothing but sweat dampened underwear sucked tight to her skin, making them transparent. She stared at the television a moment, back to Alex, enticing him. She turned to him. “Want to join me for a quick shower?”
She looked amazing. Even better when stripped bare, but her normally stimulating gesture had no effect.
Seconds ticked by while she stared at him, possibly groping for another idea to negate his funk. Apparently thinking of nothing, she frowned, marched toward the master bath. Stopping at the door, she added, “Alex, I tweaked my shoulder and could really use some help washing my back.”
“That scrub arm works great,” he said instinctively. Then, realizing she didn’t really need him to wash her back, that desperation to comfort her husband motivated her; he exhaled and said, “I appreciate what you’re doing. You look hot, and I know I should want to…” As if operated by a puppeteer, his arms raised limply, motioned to the images on the screen, dropped lifeless.
She disappeared into the en suite, leaving the door open behind her. Relief washed over him, followed by pangs of guilt.
He stared at the opening, willing himself to do the right thing: get up, join her, please them both. Instead, the effort tired him out, his body slumped. He returned to the news.
Seventy-six Atriums in nineteen countries were confirmed closed for the safety evaluation. In most areas, local police and even military personnel prevented admittance by anyone other than custodial members of Broumgard’s upper management.
The world seemed a recently punted beehive. Alex feared a fury would follow the shock. History proved: give people work, good food, and quality stories, and decades ticked by in harmony; attempt to fool them with handout, preservatives, and three dozen comic book movies a year, and revolutions bloomed.
Naturally, the news reported their owner’s view, or whatever views created the most controversy. They rarely mentioned the people Alex knew camped around the Los Angeles Atrium, vowing to stay until the chairs were reopened. Each day their numbers grew.
He imagined similar unreported demonstrations were going on near Atriums worldwide. Unfortunately, when the American media chose a side, they simply blasted the other (in this case Broumgard, and specifically, Alex Cutler) non-stop. Mainly, bogus rumors of conspiracies to cover-up a litany of reported side-effects associated with Lobby visits. Fabricated side-effects.
Agent Andrews and his LOC released records, gathered over the past seven years, showing nearly ten-thousand complaints lodged by Lobby visitors. They excluded an important fact: the percentage of people complaining of “side-effects” were actually below the national average for normal susceptibility to those ailments. Meaning, you were more likely to develop narcolepsy at church, migraines at the mall, or paranoia at a Phish concert, then by accessing the Lobby.
His stomach rumbled. He tried to think if he’d eaten today. “Victor.”
“Yes.”
“Can you have Glen bring me a Coke and have Arnel prepare steak fajitas.”
“Certainly.”
“Also, have Glen bring one of those chocolate empanadas with the Cokes.”
“Will do.”
The news depressed him, but not enough to turn it off. With every outlandish comment, he rose with indignation, and sank when realizing the propaganda had reached millions of people, that a percentage of those busy individuals swallowed the slant view hook, line, and sinker.
In front of him, a reporter on CNN described, in abhorrent detail, the condition of Roy’s body upon arrival to the county coroner. Of course it looked bad, Alex thought, the man had been approaching ninety and wheelchair bound for a decade. Should he look handsome? A perfect example of media disinformation. Outside of Hollywood-directed films, had there ever been a beautiful death?
After checking the time, he sagged a bit more; six hours until Rebecca Trevino’s show aired—the only one with integrity.
He believed the public knew the truth. Yet each additional burst of dribble swayed a few more of the American masses, conditioned to go through life without drawing their own conclusions. How soon until they doubted their own memories, believed the newsanchors, and questioned the Lobby’s safety.
The current media “expert” embarrassed the industry. Apparently, authoring a blog about the Lobby granted this woman credibility to hypothesize, on national television, that Roy Guillen had been murdered prior to exposing some sinister conspiracy at Broumgard. And, she intimated quite persistently, that Alex Cutler possessed the greatest motivation to silence him.
Another brilliant notion of a previous guest described the Lobby as a sentient being, which grew to hate Roy’s presence, as it hated all of us, so it surged his body with electricity, stopped his heart, and presumably cackle an evil digital laugh.
Glen delivered the soda and dessert as Rosa exited the bathroom. Luckily for everyone involved, she exited in a towel.
“Guess I need to start dressing before entering my own bedroom.” She stormed into the closet and closed the door.
Glen set the plate and soda down as if he hadn’t heard her.
Once the main door shut, Alex yelled to be heard through the thick mahogany (actually gorilla glass) door. “I’m sorry, I thought you’d be in there a while longer.”
She cracked the door and peered out. Noticing they were alone, she softened her tone, “I intended to.” She glanced at the pastry, back at Alex, forced a smile. “But then I came up with a wonderful idea to get you out of your mood.”
He sipped the Coke, crunched into the baked empanada.
“I’m not in a mood. My entire world is collapsing.”
“Our world.”
“Our world,” he amended, “you know what I mean.”
As he attempted to guide another bite into his mouth, she crossed the distance and snatched the treat from his grasp. She opened a trash receptacle in the wall and tossed it in.
“I’m serious,” she said. “This laying around feeling sorry for yourself isn’t healthy.”
Having an idea of this conversation’s direction, he decided to head it off. “I don’t need to go see Father Michael or talk to him here, or anything like that.”
“Well, of course you do,” she said as she exited wearing comfy sweat pants and pulling a T-shirt over her head, “but that’s not my plan. Although…I’ll keep it in mind.” She plopped next to him, pulled her moist hair from the inside of her shirt, let it flop down her back. She then shifted until she had his attention. With a mischievous smile, she said, “Let’s sneak in the Lobby.”
He flinched as if slapped, searched her face. She seemed serious. He bolted to his feet. “We can’t do that. Accessing the Lobby would be a direct violation of my house arrest. I could go to jail.” It wasn’t like he didn’t consider a quick vacation a hundred times each day, but Rosa was supposed to provide their voice of reason.
She stood next to him. “I know all of that, honey, but think about it. Those officers hardly enter the property, they never come inside the house, let alone venture upstairs. Six of our chairs work fine, and who would know-”
“Glen is at the door with the rest of your meal,” Victor said.
Victor’s voice seemingly answered Rosa’s question about who would know. Alex had considered deactivating Victor, but couldn’t decide if privacy was worth the hassle of organizing his own life?
“Tell him to come in,” he said.
“What is it this time?” Rosa asked. “Deep fried cheese with hollandaise sauce?”
Glen crossed the generous distance silently, with his head down, placed the fajitas on a nearby table, exited in the same fashion.
Alex wished Rosa would give the kid a break. He sometimes thought if she would be super nice to him, a skill she displayed such an ease for, Glen might come out of his shell.
Once the doors shut, she inspected the food.
Alex leaned over, removed the lid from the tortilla warmer, lined it with three strips of steak, equal jack cheese, a dab of guacamole, sour cream, and a pinch of freshly cut onions.
“Think about it, Alex. In the Lobby, all this stress and depression will be lifted from you. And how often do I volunteer us to make a trip?”
He wrapped the small fajita tight and, before taking a bite, concluded the answer was never. Her last visit, over a year ago, had taken months of cajoling from him. Feeling a little control slipping back into his life, he said, “Can we go to one of those trippy Alice in Wonderland-type worlds?”
“Don’t push it.” She then ducked into the access room, returned a minute later. “Two hours. Douglas, Nebraska 1871.”
Truth be told, the bland world never bothered him. He loved having a day with her all to himself. This time when he smiled at her, he nodded with genuine enthusiasm.
“Victor,” Rosa said, “block access to both our suite and the access room. Alex and I would like some husband and wife time.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Alex sat back down, feeling good for the first time in a week. Stuffing the last of the fajita in his mouth, he briefly wondered what would happen in the real world during his absence, and then rapidly concluded—also for the first time in days—if he could enter the Lobby, he didn’t care!
He muted CNN, where two bloggers who held the same view pretended to debate by supporting each other from different angles.
Rosa plopped next to him. “You ready?”
He swallowed, sipped Coca Cola. They stood in unison.
Seeing the happiness on her face increased his own. Today would be a good one. Unless of course, it ended with him in jail, fueled the campaign to extend the ban, or something far worse.