Charles Sheehan-Miles

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Republic: Chapter Eight (part 2)

Republic

Charles Sheehan-Miles

Chapter Eight

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CHAPTER EIGHT (Part 2)

JUNE 8


As people streamed into the high school gym, Murphy spoke to those he knew, many of them wives and husbands of employees at the plant. Murphy was surprised to see Vince Elkins. A family practitioner in Highview, he had referred Kenny to the specialists when the boy’s symptoms began to crop up. On the occasional weekend and summer training, he served as executive officer of Murphy’s battalion. Elkins was anything but political, and typically didn’t get involved in the town’s public life.

“Tell me the Russians didn’t take over while I had my back turned?” Elkins said. “The feds are out there taking pictures of everybody who comes in the building. What the hell is going on up there, Ken? Were you there when it happened?”

Murphy shook his head. “I’ll be talking in just a minute, Vince. It’s been pretty crazy, today.”

“I’d say so. All afternoon I had a stream of people in the office, hysterical, suffering from anxiety and ulcers and God all knows what. The whole town is wild with rumors. Next time the feds come in to round up half the damn town, they should round up everyone. That way families can stay together.”

Murphy looked around the room. The families of the arrested employees were here, as expected, crowding the room. A large number of others were here as well: folks from town, what looked like the entire Chamber of Commerce, and two or three members of the clergy. Only twenty-four hours had passed since the last town meeting, when the employees decided to take the plant back. What a difference twenty-four hours made. Murphy looked around the room at the angry and frightened townspeople, and knew something fundamental had changed here today.

The Mayor, George Machen, walked to the front of the room and stood in front of the crowd. He bore a strong resemblance to his son: stocky, thin hair, even the swagger that had so turned off Valerie in high school. He walked to the podium and held his hands out. The audience quickly quieted down.

Machen spoke, not quite projecting to the back of the room. Just quiet enough that most of the crowd leaned forward and listened close in order to hear him.

“All right, folks. I think everyone knows we had us a bit of a disaster today. I’ve got Colonel Ken Murphy here; he was out at the plant this afternoon with Congressman Clark. He’s going to tell us what he can.”

As Mayor Machen spoke, half a dozen cameramen lit up the bright lights of their video cameras. Murphy felt lead in his stomach as he walked to the podium.

He spoke quietly, describing what they had seen this afternoon: the helicopters, and the executor of the operations, Special Agent Hagarty. As he finished, a dozen people stood to ask questions. Murphy pointed to the first, Amy Hillerman. Amy’s husband was an employee at the plant; the couple had two small children.

“Colonel Murphy, do you have names—do you know exactly who was killed up there, who was arrested?”

Murphy shook his head. “Not yet. Representative Clark’s office is compiling a list, ma’am. I think it’d be most appropriate to let the families of the dead be notified privately, don’t you?”

An overweight woman in a faded dress stood up. Murphy recognized her. Shannon Firkus, Dave Firkus’ mother. She used to come up to the office and have lunch with Dave every Thursday. Her eyes were red-rimmed with grief, dark circles under them.

“Mr. Murphy, I already know they done killed my boy. What I want to know is what are we going to do about it? We can’t let these deaths go in vain. They was working for our survival!”

Machen approached the microphone again, Murphy stepping into the background. His part was done.

“Ma’am,” Machen said, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about your loss, but what exactly are you suggesting?”

The shout came from the back of the room.

“She’s suggesting we go back up there tomorrow!”

Everyone turned and looked. It was Dale Whitt. Not an employee at Saturn, he had not been among those arrested, though his voice has been loudest among those calling for action the night before.

The cameramen hustled to get a good shot of him speaking. “Mr. Mayor, with all due respect, all the congressional inquiries and lawyers in the world won’t put food on the tables of the families of Highview. Nothing but getting our families back to work will do that.”

He stood to the side and spoke to the crowd. “Folks, a hundred years ago Old Mother Jones was arrested for reading the Declaration of Independence out loud, right here in West Virginia. Today, the Federal Government spent your tax dollar to send in soldiers to shoot at your loved ones. Think about it, folks. You pay sixty or seventy percent of your family income to the government, and for what? So you can subsidize the companies that are screwing you over? So you can subsidize rich playboys like Nelson Barclay? He doesn’t pay one red cent in taxes, but he can call in his government thugs and goons to beat up and shoot our families for trying to work for a living! Thugs and goons we paid for with our tax dollars.”

Murphy watched and wondered where this was leading. As uncomfortable as he was to realize it, Whitt had a point. Murphy vividly recalled reading an article not two months ago about the sweetheart tax deals corporate executives were making. Barclay had been one of those profiled. The reporters looked excited as they jockeyed their cameras around to Whitt. This was turning out to be a much more interesting story than they had expected.

The Mayor spoke into the microphone, “All right, folks, this isn’t getting us anywhere. Thank you for having your say, Mr. Whitt, but we need to move—”

“Shut up, damn politician!” someone shouted. Machen stepped back in shock at the blatant discourtesy.

“Let the man speak,” said one of the men at the back of the hall.

“Let Dale have his say,” called another man.

Machen’s face went pale at the strong response. He motioned at Whitt to come to the podium. Whitt walked to the front of the room and stood next to the Mayor in front of the podium and spoke again.

“Folks, I only see one clear path ahead of us. Only one path that will do honor to David Firkus, who gave his life on your behalf. Only one path that includes honor and dignity. Tomorrow, all the citizens of Highview must march to the Saturn plant and take possession of it. Every last one of us. Because it does not belong to some rich son of a bitch who cares more about Jakarta than he does about West Virginia. It belongs to us, to our town, and to our people, who built it!”

The crowd erupted in loud applause.

Whitt turned to Murphy, a gamble in his eyes. “What say you, Colonel Murphy? Tell us what you think.”

He stepped away from the microphone. A gamble, Murphy thought. A very smart gamble. Whitt knew Murphy tended to be very conservative, and had a great deal of influence in the town. Murphy walked forward, very conscious of the uniform he wore. Damn it, if there was ever a time to speak up, this was it. He would just have to live with the consequences. He leaned into the microphone and spoke.

“This morning I testified in front of a congressional committee that was deciding whether to take away the medical benefits my son needs to live. Folks, all it took was the greed of one man to destroy our economic life. You understand what I’m saying? One very powerful, very rich man makes a decision for his benefit, and the lives of everyone in this town are twisted out of control. I’m sorry, folks, this isn’t the America I fought for in two wars. This isn’t the America I swore to defend. It’s not right. Some might disagree with what I say, but… I believe we don’t have any choice. We must go back to the plant.”

He turned away from the microphone, a sinking feeling in his stomach, knowing he had just crashed a torpedo into whatever was left of his military career. Screw it. He was close to retirement anyway—not that his retirement from the Guard would amount to much. There was a hushed silence after he spoke. Then the crowd burst into applause.

Machen shook his head. Murphy met his eyes, but the Mayor looked away, contempt on his face. Murphy grimaced. He and Machen had been friends for twenty years. But Murphy had to tell it the way he saw it. To shoot and kill someone like Dave Firkus and call him an anti-government activist was ludicrous—and criminal.

The gathering broke up soon afterward, with most agreeing to meet in the high school parking lot at six the next morning. Murphy wondered how many would show up—and whether or not Dale Whitt would be among them. He pushed his way out at the end of the meeting, threaded his way between the cameras and refused to answer any of the reporters’ questions.

It was time to go. He’d pick up Kenny; they could have a quiet dinner, and get the boy to bed in his own home.


***


The old grandfather clock Martha bought at the antique fair in Winchester was ticking, and Murphy knew he needed to get to sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a long day. All the same, he sat there, holding a picture frame four years old. In it was a picture of Martha and Kenny, the last one he had of them together. They sat side by side on the bench in the back yard, each holding an apple. She had a subdued smile on her face as she looked at the camera, and Kenny a wide grin.

He started when the phone rang, glanced up at the clock. Quarter to eleven.

He reached over and grabbed the phone, then set the photograph on the coffee table.

“Hey, bro, I saw you on the TV tonight.” It was his younger brother Tom.

Murphy smiled, “Tom, how you doing?”

“I’m all right, Ken. I was a little worried about you. You want to tell me what’s going on?”

Tom Murphy was thirty-five, and had followed his brother into the military, but unlike Murphy, Tom had stayed Regular Army, and was now a colonel, a brigade commander down at Fort Campbell, Kentucky.

“Tom, you wouldn’t believe it. These folks were making what amounted to a political protest, going back into our old factory, and the DHS attacked them—they had Bradleys out there, and helicopters. It was crazy.”

“The news says they were armed.”

“Well, it turns out a couple of hotheads were. But it wasn’t what the news said, anti-government activities, or suspected terrorists, or whatever the hell they were saying. It was nothing more than the employees of the plant. Had I not been testifying in Washington this morning, I would have been there, Tom.”

“News says you’re going back tomorrow.”

“That’s right. The whole town is.”

Tom didn’t reply right away. Then he said, “You might want to think about that a little harder, Ken. Folks are pretty pissed in the DHS. And not just there. They put us on alert, Ken.”

Murphy frowned. “I’ll tell you what, Tom, there’s something seriously wrong if an air assault brigade is being put on alert because of a labor dispute. You ever think of that?”

At the other end of the line, Tom sighed. “You’re right, Ken. You are right. I just worry about you, you know. You haven’t been yourself… well, in a long time. Just take care of yourself, okay?”

Tom might as well have shouted the unsaid words: you haven’t been the same since Martha died. What the hell did he expect? Everyone seemed to think he was just going to pick up again, as if she’d never been there.

None of the anger came through in his voice. “I will.”

“How are Kenny and Valerie?”

“Valerie’s doing well. You should see her at work, Tom. Looks like she’s running the whole show up there.”

“Good, good. And Kenny?”

Murphy shifted his position, glanced down the hall to Kenny’s room.

“Well—you know, Tom. Kenny’s doing the best he can. I don’t know how much time we have.”

Tom let out a sigh. “I know. Take care of yourself, Ken, and be careful. I don’t want to be seeing you on the evening news again, all right?”

“You got it, Tom. Love you.”

“You too, bro.”

Murphy hung up the phone, looked at the photograph again, and closed his eyes.

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