Prelude to Justice
THE MOON SHINES BRIGHTLY OVERHEAD. A mild summer breeze sweeps through the dense population of trees and bushes. The humidity is low, making the breeze better. The moon shines brightly overhead.

Some would classify this summer night as nice. It’s a night some will remember for a very long time. The heavy smell of magnolias and the cool breeze of precipitation permeate the air, quite unusual for this time of year. Magnolias usually blossom in the early springtime.

The smell of rain has been present for the past three days. However, a drop has yet to fall. Some say a good rainfall can wash away the sins of men. Others say a good rainfall can cleanse the soul. A good rainfall may be what this summer night needs, something to cleanse the soul, to wash away the sins of men. Baptism signifies a new beginning, a washing away of past wrong doings. A moment to say, “Let’s start anew.”

The breeze picks up. The wind causes a whistle through the greenery of trees and bushes. When the whistling ceases, the sounds of men can be heard. The loud shouts of joy, the clatter of exhilaration. The celebration of victory is in the air.

A dozen or so youngsters celebrate their moment of glory, their moment of victory. Laughter fills the air. Their jubilation is high. An outsider bearing witness to this scene would think these youngsters are celebrating a big win or the last day of school. It’s a time to be boastful, to be proud. It's a great day for the state of Alabama. The celebration continues. The moon shines brightly overhead.

Only two members of the group seem disturbed by the latest happening on this memorable summer night. For one, the night is unbelievable. His tan complexion is in vast contrast to the others in this celebration. His disbelief has left him numb. He can feel the color leaving his face. He must maintain his composure. His best friend told him to be strong. He is an outsider, from a place only accessible by television to these children of Southern heritage. Weakness is not an option. Never react to a normal occurrence.

The other disturbed party has been a witness to this scene more times, than he can recall. Usually, this does not bother him. He is a veteran. This makes number twelve or thirteen for this eighteen-year-old soldier. The count is unimportant—or was it ever important? But for whatever reason, this feels wrong, feels funny. A force he cannot describe eats at his soul. “It’s not right,” his mind tells him. But blind loyalty and faithfulness say, “Leave it alone.” And the wills of the many, outweigh the concerns of the few. And in America, majority rules, especially in the Sunbelt of the great state of Alabama.

Fifteen feet away, another youth tinkers with the tripod that holds the picture-taking gadget, the latest in camera technology. He gestures to everyone to get in place, so he can take a picture of their triumphant victory, a photograph of their trophy, a taste of history. The youths gather around, smoking cigarettes, marijuana and cigars, drinking cheap beer and corn whiskey from flat flasks. There are only two females in this group. Fifteen youths, all pale and pink in complexion, they range in ages from sixteen to twenty-one. Home grown, local talent. An ambitious bunch they are not. Just living for the moment, righting what is in their eyes, the injustices of the world.

For them, life is simple. The lucky ones go to college; the unlucky ones farm the land from age five to seventy-five. The rest do anything and everything to get by. Success comes hard to some, easy to others. Competition not required. For them, understanding is easy. Why others cannot understand? The moon shines brightly overhead.

The photographer barks out to the two discontents to smile and be boisterous. They muster a half-hearted smile. The photographer takes aim and shoots. Smiling, hugging, and laughing. Enjoying the moment. This is their night. Their triumphant night. Once again, they come out the victors. They have righted an injustice. They have reasons to be proud. This photograph will seal their time in history… a photograph with fifteen white youths.

And hanging overhead from a tree is a badly beaten, nondescript, hardly recognizable man… a man of color, the color black. A Negro man. He will never fully experience the transition from Negro to Afro-American. Nor will he experience the transition from Afro-American to Black to African-American. Blood runs down his body from the many bruises his face has suffered.

Maybe he is one of many that come up missing. Maybe he strolled on the wrong side of town or the wrong side of the street. Maybe it was how he talked or whom he approached. Who is to say, who is to know? Equality is just a word, a word for the future and beyond. A future he will not see.

His body is missing clothing. Blood runs down his body from his head to his toes. His scrotum is no longer. His face is beaten to a pulp. His physique is well sculptured. He was a healthy, physically fit man. Tonight, his story will not be told.

Maybe he was a man of honor, a man of destiny. Maybe he embodied the "American dream." Maybe he was one step from creating a cure for cancer or a thought away from improving race relations. But his story will not be told. Not this day, maybe not any day. The moon shines brightly overhead.
They ran his car off the road and into a tree. In the process, he hit his head on the steering wheel. Before he could reach his little friends, .38 and .45 caliber Smith and Wesson pistols, they were on him. He was pulled out of the car and beaten. Badly beaten. But unlike the passive Negro men from this rural area, he fought back—a gallant effort for a moment of survival.

His blood drips, while his old blood begins to dry. His body is cold. His story cannot be told. Maybe he was a man on a mission. However, the mission will not be accomplished or achieved this day. Not for this one, this one against an army of many. His body dangles.

The youngsters were caught by surprise. By the time he was cold-cocked, he had broken a nose, a jaw and blackened three eyes. Once down, they barraged him with constant blows from bats, gun butts, belts and fists. But still, he struggled to fight back. Finally, one too many blows to his head from a gun butt flattened him. Face down. They had to right a wrong. He had to be in the wrong. They deliberately woke him. A rope embraced his neck.

The two discontents stare at their comrades-in-arms celebrating their trophy, their catch of the day. One discontent thinks, “This is not right, why am I here? What would my father think? I am not a misguided soul like the others.”

Another thinks, “This was not as easy as the others. He was a fighter, a wildcat. This one is trouble. I can feel it in my bones, this one is serious trouble.” He also notices that the stranger's eyes look funny, as though he is still seeing his surroundings. He remembers all the others’ eyes rolled back into their heads. But this lone stranger looks as though he is surveying his surroundings, plotting his escape, collecting data on his assailants. Yes, he smells like trouble. Trouble with a capital “T”.

Yes, fifteen youngsters in a photograph with a hanging body, a memorable night outside a small, rural city in the great state of Alabama. A night that may come to haunt a small town and the people who call it home.

The summer breeze picks up and raindrops start to fall. It is a hefty downpour to wash away the sins of man. The youths continue to celebrate, hugging each other, jumping around and swinging the hanging, bloody body.

In the distance, unbeknownst to the lynching party, two Negro youths look on with gazing eyes. Startled by the unbelievable. Saddened by what they see, yet, even more familiar with this scene. For one, it will be the first of many nightmares to come. The thought of pure brutality will never escape his young mind. The sight of seeing a human life beaten, demoralized and dehumanized will play with his psyche for years to come. His innocent youth has just taken a turn for the surreal. Courage will not be his friend. Fear will constantly thumb a ride from this frightened child.

For the other youth, this is just a reminder of how black and white the world really is. For him, this will be the end. Hatred will rule his world. Afraid to be fearful, his attitude will cross the line towards belligerence. He will not back down or learn to cross the street at the appropriate times. In a near perfect world, he could use his hatred for the betterment of a people. But near perfect does not call Alabama home. Instead, his hatred will become his worst enemy. Uncontrollable rage will call his name in the dark of night. As the night has called home one, it shall call home another.

Afraid to move for fear of being heard, the youths take advantage of the downpour and make their way, far away from this sight.

Who knows what really lurks in the heart of man… a burning desire for evil or for the touch of tenderness?

Innocent youth is supposed to be sacred. Loving the thought of living. “And one day, the children shall rule the world.”

It should be a time to be young, to enjoy life. “Beware. For the children are our future and the future is near.”

It’s a time for growing and learning, living and playing. “Yesterday, they laughed. Today, they live. Tomorrow, they die.”

The youths continue to party—jumping around, passing the flasks, smoking and swinging the body back and forth. Two kids sneak from a gruesome scene.

The body steadily swings. A soul is violated. A life is stolen prematurely. Time begins and time ends. So does life.

The wind picks up. Soon another day will be upon them. The celebration goes on. The body steadily swings. The rain stops as fast as it came. The moon, which had disappeared momentarily, returns and shines brightly overhead.

Chapter 1
And Justice should be mine. I will seek and wreak that which has been bestowed upon me. He who casts the first stone, I call the Sinner. He who lives for retribution, I call the Avenger. My heart is heavy, but my load will be lightened. So it is spoken, so it shall be done.

TIME – NOW.
DARKNESS FILLS MY INNER BEING, but a beam of white light dominates my outer person. I cannot feel the heat or smell the cigarette smoke that permeate the area and that should bother me, but doesn’t. My body feels cold and hard, synonymous of my life. My inner self is empty. The white light continues to dominate my outer shell. The bright flashes of white camera lights and the powerful strobe light of the camcorder’s television monitor would probably blind other subjects of this overwhelming attention, but not me; this has been my livelihood for most of my adult life. But today, my body is oblivious to its surroundings.

My name has been mentioned on numerous occasions as the next President. Politically, I have always said and done the right things at the right time. Wooed and wowed the right people. Won the acceptance of most people—Whites, Blacks, Conservatives, Liberals, etc. But now my body feels hard, feels cold, too synonymous of a private life unfulfilled… a life incomplete.

Throughout my lifetime, I have felt lonely. Tonight, I feel lonelier than ever before. Maybe my nightmares are becoming my reality. Maybe the white light signifies the heavens above and the cigarette smoke, the hell below. Maybe I am caught between heaven and hell, but there is too much light for this to be hell. But why are the lights flashing? How can I be so cold and so hot at the same time?

My mind drifts back to days of old, when I was a teenager growing up in Sacramento, an Air Force brat, living and loving life. The white lights continue to flash. Normally, the heat from the lights and cameras make my body sweat profusely. However, today my body is cold, forever frigid. Enjoying life with Priscilla by my side. We were inseparable, Priscilla and I. She was so beautiful and full of life. She taught me about life, about people. I feel my thought process slowing down, my comprehension level becoming non-existent.

How I miss my Priscilla… her smooth black skin, beautiful personality and radiant smile. I recognize all of the reporters and cameramen, but not one has yet to field a question. In fact, no one is asking me anything. We would walk on the beach for hours, swim naked in the Pacific. That’s unusual. Around this time, I usually run my hand through my black hair, ensuring my silver streaks are properly in place.

Priscilla, I’m so sorry. I could never tell you about how backwards the South was and the many atrocities I observed. Nor could I reveal my part in any wrongdoings. But you knew I had secrets. I would then wipe my brow, signaling my P.R. people, that I would only field one more question. You were my sounding board, the person I could talk to about any and everything. But not about Alabama, Peter or that dreaded night.

You stole my virginity and made me a man. You understood me, you loved me. I miss you, Priscilla. You made me feel whole, feel important. But today, I do not see anyone from my corner. I’m sorry, Priscilla, for not being able to cross that bridge. For that, I will forever be mad at myself. Mad for depriving us of true happiness. I miss you, Priscilla, your touch, the look in your eyes, your attentiveness. I’m sorry.

Did I replace you with Peter, Priscilla? It's hard for me to answer that. I want to say, “Yes, I did,” but I know that’s not completely the truth. The lights continue to flash. Peter wielded a power, a control over people I found fascinating. He made those in his circle addicted to him, enthralled with his hunger for life, his hunger for power.

Initially, it was hard for me to figure out Peter's agenda. I didn’t know the strange hold he had on the minds of those he mingled with, myself included. I miss the breeze of the Pacific, the regal aura of the California sunset. He wanted to conquer the world, to be a mover and shaker, but only from the background. The man who pushed the buttons, the builder of empires, the ruler of minds, like the back-alley politicians that once ruled America.

Carlton used to tell me to watch out for Peter, that he possessed an uncanny knack of convincing you Utopia was right at your fingertips. You just have to reach out and grab it. I’m fading, Priscilla, fading fast, please help me, Priscilla, help me!

Oh, Priscilla, how I miss you so. “Why me?” I ask myself. “Why me?!”

My dear, I spent thirty years trying to correct a wrong. A wrong I was deeply involved in. Unfortunately, a wrong I was not man enough to stop. Thirty years of dedication and commitment to doing the right thing.

Oh, Priscilla, please forgive me. Don’t let the tales tarnish your thoughts of me, of us. I failed you, my dear. I failed you.

I feel like my life is slowly slipping away, disappearing in the darkness. It feels as though the darkness is engulfing my whole being. This will be another chapter in my story not yet fully told. The ramifications have yet to be uncovered. Cold and hard, synonymous of my life, of history… the history of an unforgiving world, the history of my unforgiving life.

Please people, get my story right; even the cold and hard facts of an unforgiving life.

Intro for the Living
Chicago, Illinois

His routine had been the same Monday through Friday for the past five years. He took two final drags from his cigarette, stomped it into the ground before entering the pool hall and traveled down the six stairs to the main entrance. He had become a creature of habit, and that made him laugh inside. As a special agent for the FBI, he had no routine. Never take the same route to work or home, never shop at the same supermarket, never hang out at the same pub. Unlike local police, who adopted a neighborhood pub as their official hangout . . . always a no-no for federal agents.

During his first two years of retirement, he kept telling himself he needed to make time to find two or three other pool halls to frequent. Though he had plenty of time, he never made time for that. He didn’t know if it was good or bad on his part.

He placed his case on his favorite pool table, the third table in a row of five, and flipped the first latch of the two-latch case before looking up. He was surprised to see a new bartender. In his five years frequenting Harry’s Billiards and Grill, Harry had always informed him when another employee would open the hall. Harry hadn’t called. He had checked his voicemail prior to leaving home; Harry also had his cell phone number. He definitely hadn’t called.

He reached inside his jacket for his Beretta, but before he could pull it out, he felt the first shot enter the left side of his lower back. Before he could swing around, another bullet pierced the back of his right shoulder. He stood as tall as he possibly could to face his assailants. He smiled at the leader of the band of killers.

“We n-n-n-never th-th-th-thought . . . e-ven imagined,” Scott Rooker stuttered, with blood flowing from his mouth. A tear formed in his left eye and he hoped it did not roll down his face. In many ways, however, it was a fitting end to a case that was never solved.

“How could you imagine? Remember, I was an invisible person. Always have been, always will be.” These were the last words former FBI special agent Scott Rooker ever heard. The shot rung loud and he fell back onto his favorite table, the third table in the pool hall, with a hole in the middle of his forehead.

Houston, Texas

Special Agents Bonner McGill, Harold Corners and Lawrence Kirkman had been on their stakeout for the past seventy-two hours — around-the-clock surveillance of a Cuban drug ring. They had leased a room in a seedy hotel across the street from the Cubans’ main hangout, another equally seedy hotel.
The agents had alternated eight-hour shifts for the past three days, ensuring at least two agents were awake and on-duty at all times. Special Agent-in-Charge McGill, the senior of the three, lay on the only bed in the small hotel room. Though he had been on his share of stakeouts in his twenty-five years as an agent, he still had trouble sleeping.

His mind could not find a relaxing comfort zone to call home. A place to rest. A place of peace. Peace that could be so hard to find for some and indeed, was hard for SAC McGill.

It had been twelve years and he still hoped he would find that place. He closed his eyes and his mind traveled to a place he called sleep: a turbulent and troubled unconsciousness.

Before his mind could venture to dreamland, a loud bang echoed through the small room. The lead agent’s eyes popped open immediately and within a split second, he had surveyed the room like an experienced agent.

He looked at his fellow agent, Corners, and immediately saw the bullet that rang loudly through the door had found a home in Agent Corners’ back. McGill swung his head around to the door and reached for his FBI-issued nine-millimeter automatic handgun. But before he reached it, he saw a barrage of bullets rip through the torso of his other partner, Agent Kirkman.

Before he could get off his first shot, a bullet penetrated his right bicep. He instinctively dropped his weapon and grabbed his arm with his left hand. He looked again at the door and saw his four aggressors.

“How do, Bonner?” the friendly voice asked as he bent down and picked up McGill’s gun.
“You! How could you? Why?” the bewildered agent asked his aggressor.

“Why not?” was the answer to his question, as a single shot from his own weapon entered his head, right between his eyes.

Columbia, South Carolina

For the past two years, Doris Northwood had maintained the same routine as president of the First Bank of South Carolina. Everyday, she came out of her second floor office at one-thirty and looked down at the bank operation. She liked doing it after the lunch rush, when the turmoil of serving the bank’s mass of patrons had died down. To her, it was the best benefit of being president of the oldest bank in South Carolina, located in the downtown area of the state’s capital.

Her focus was on the head teller, a position she once held. As an employee with the bank for over fifteen years, she always considered the head teller’s position as her most rewarding. She looked forward to the employee from the Treasury Department arriving exactly five minutes before the bank’s vault automatically opened.

The vault took precisely five minutes to completely open. When the system completed its opening cycle, one of the bank’s security guards would post outside the door. By the time it was opened, the Treasury Department’s courier would have delivered an unspecified amount of treasury bonds and cash, and departed the bank like any other customer conducting banking business. The bonds and cash would then be stored in a safe inside of the vault by the head teller. Only two people had the combination to the safe: the bank president and the head teller. Two hours later, an armored truck from the Federal Reserve Bank would pick up the bonds and cash.

As bank president, now Doris just oversaw the monthly operation from the second floor. She would ensure her head teller put the packages in the vault before the ten-minute time limit expired. At the end of the ten-minute limit, the vault door would automatically close. The door only took two minutes to completely close.

Prior to her head teller storing the packages, she did her usual ritual. She closed her eyes and sucked in her breath, appreciating her good fortune as the first female and African-American president of the downtown branch. Unfortunately, this time she didn’t fully exhale and she never would.

The bullet hit her in the middle of her chest. It was the only shot fired and it got the attention of everyone in the bank. The five bank robbers were dressed in suits and were methodical in their movements, approaching and disarming the security guards first. One of the robbers jumped on top of the bank tellers’ counter, primarily for effect, and wielded his two Glock 30 semi-automatic pistols and told everyone to calm down and be cooperative.

The authoritative voice told everyone if all went well, Miss Northwood would be the only one dying that day. He continued to bark out orders, and the tellers and bank patrons cooperated. One robber went directly to the head teller, gave her a large duffel bag and demanded she put the money from her cash drawer in the bag. She complied. When the robber saw the six thick packages, wrapped in regular brown nondescript paper, he demanded the teller to also put the packages in the duffel bag. She complied.

Another bank robber entered the bank’s vault with another large duffel bag, and returned within a minute.

The whole operation lasted less than three minutes. When the Columbia Police Department arrived on scene and questioned the employees and customers who witnessed the robbery of the First Bank of South Carolina, the only description they received was the robbers wore masks resembling Abraham Lincoln, Frederick Douglass, Poncho Villa, Susan B. Anthony and Robert E. Lee.

Chapter 3

It was the history that got me sometimes — the various historical events that told a story about life, people, places, organizations and much more. All academy students at Quantico were given a case, a cold case, to investigate as part of their curriculum. These cases ranged from the minor to the major. Every student wanted something simple. During my time as a student, I wanted only one case — the case that included my brother’s murder.

Yep, it was the history that got me sometimes. It was the history Elliot was disseminating to us. It was a history that included my brother, Steve, and his team of fellow agents; a team that reminded me so much of my last band of merry men and one woman. My team included Quentin, Beth, Patrick Conroy and Clayton. Yep, my band of merry men, comrades or renegades; whatever name we were called, we responded.

I listened attentively as Elliot broke down the history of FBI folklore that never made national or local news. This folklore pre-dated CNN, MSNBC and Fox News, and included the murders of agents trying to do their jobs. This history also included the story of Steve Carson and his team’s last case.

“For years, since the creation of the Bureau, agents have sometimes been victims themselves of random crimes or murder sprees. Every so often, we at the Bureau have come to expect that we will be the victims of someone’s random acts of hatred and discord. And even though we may expect it, reality always hits us by surprise. But we deal with it.”

I noticed the deliberation in Elliot’s voice. His even tone was never emotional. I realized with every spoken word that this was personal; personal for a man who didn’t believe in making cases personal. For the second time within a year, the Bureau was working a case that was personal to its deputy director.

My last case with the Bureau involved the murder of potential presidential candidate, Senator Bobby Cowens of Alabama. The senator’s throat was slit from ear to ear in a hotel in Crystal City, right outside the nation’s capital. Attached to his right ear was a photograph of fifteen white teenagers and a lynched black man. My team was tasked to find the murderer of the senator as well as prevent the murders of the remaining members of the lynching party. Ironically, the lynched black man was Elliot’s best friend, Marcus Murray. He was a former FBI operative who was with the Bureau before blacks were called agents.

“Yeah, we deal with it.” Elliot stopped and looked around the room. His eyes stopped at me.

“Deep in the piles of unsolved FBI crimes is a case that many of us wish we could be the ones to solve it. In a case that began in 1982, a total of twenty-one agents were murdered. Agents were killed on stakeouts, in their cars, at stores, jogging and yes, at home. Though we committed unlimited resources to the case, we never found out who was responsible. No person or group took credit for the crimes. As fast as it began, the murder spree stopped. It lasted three months.”

Elliot had our undivided attention, especially mine. Every class of new potential agents was briefed on the infamous 1982 murder spree. But I had actually studied the case a hundred times over. It used to be an obsession of mine. At every opportunity, I visited and re-visited the Bureau’s case library to study the case. Elliot knew that. He had piqued my interest and my anticipation level was higher than it had ever been. Elliot was still looking at me as he began part two of his history lesson, a lesson some of us were already intimately familiar with. It was part two of the case file from hell.

“In 1993, similar crimes against former and present agents began. The first murder was a former Chief of the Criminal Investigation Division. That murder was followed three days later by two teams on stakeouts in Berkeley, California and Richmond, Virginia, being gunned down like members of the mob. After that, we started receiving letters and messages from different groups and individuals, taking credit for the crimes, unlike the 1982 crime spree. Another interesting thing was several of the letters were on point with a lot of the details of the murders.

“And no, we didn’t play the media game. This was our case — personal, family business. This didn’t concern the public. Additionally, this was right after Desert Storm, our first war with Iraq. And that was another thought. Was this payback or Iraqi sympathizers getting revenge? We considered everything.

“We studied every piece of correspondence that came in. If it was a phone call, we checked the voice properties a thousand and one times. We tracked e-mails which was a fairly new entity back then, had handwriting experts check out all hand-written correspondence and broke down every inch of typed communiqué. We could tell you if it came from a typewriter or computer, as well as what kind of typewriter, computer and printer.”

I must have been losing my sense of observation. Elliot took a drink of water and I hadn’t noticed the water pitcher on the desk. He took more than a swallow. He almost completely finished his glass before continuing with his history lesson. His eyes bored into me as he began.

“Over two months had passed since the killings in Richmond and Berkeley. By this time, we had infiltrators in many of the hate and militant groups. Then one day, we got our lucky break. While one of the forensics technicians was checking out one of the letters with infrared light, he noticed a very small skull in the bottom right corner. Above the head of the skull was the word “just.” On the bottom of the skull was the word “cause.” Just Cause. None of us had ever heard of a hate or militant group called Just Cause.

“We put together a dedicated team of forensics technicians to go back and check out all of the correspondence we had received. The more we checked, the more letters we found.”

Elliot finally took his eyes off of me. He surveyed the room, where every eye was glued to him. Several of his attentive audience’s eyes were glassy with anticipation. Elliot had what all of us wanted at one point or another: a captive audience.

“As soon as we thought we had something, the murders started again. Two former agents who were now politicians were killed two days apart from each other. Within a week, four of our agents investigating the case were murdered outside a restaurant after having a late dinner. We couldn’t catch a break. Then the same technician who initially found the skull letter informed us of more bad news. The letters his technicians had found were from different groups. Not only that, but the letters were very detailed about the murders and murder scenes. And the final nail in the coffin for us; the letters were not just detailing the 1993 murder spree, but the 1982 spree as well. The same group or groups were making a statement.

“That cliché — being up shit’s creek without a paddle — that was us. And let me tell you all now, you don’t know how it feels to truly be up the creek until you face a case like this. We didn’t have any information on Just Cause. Additionally, we had agents who had infiltrated the groups that we had received letters from. And yes, we told our agents to try and find out about Just Cause and what it took to become a member. Within days, several of the agents who asked questions came up dead.

“Now for the good stuff. The letters were from the Pure Angels, a Neo-Nazi group; the Black Mavericks; the Deadly Skinheads; and the Red Death of Mercy, an Asian group. We had hate groups working together to kill agents of the FBI.”