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No True Justice

By H. L. Wegley

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July 4th, Madras, Oregon, 10:45 p.m.

Happy birthday, America! I—I still love you.
As Georgia Simpson, she did love her native land, though she could not shake the feeling that her government had done her a grave injustice.
A deep boom jarred her head and resonated in her chest.
Georgia looked upward.
The explosion filled the late evening sky with a brilliant display of red, white and blue lights that shot outward like a microcosm of the big bang. Then the lights floated downward and, within a few seconds, disappeared into the indigo sky.
And so ended the finale of the Madras Fourth of July celebration at Sahalee Park.
The crowd cheered.
The band struck up a rousing rendition of It’s a Grand Old Flag.
Families and friends celebrated together.
But Georgia Simpson would walk home as usual … alone. If she had to be alone tonight, she could choose not to be Georgia.
After eight months in WITSEC, she had come to loathe the name the Department of Justice had coerced her into taking.
“It’s safer to keep your initials, GS,” they had said.
But she was Gemma Saint. Her life as Gemma was satisfying and filled with excitement. Georgia would gladly return to being Gemma, if she had the opportunity.
The problem was, according to the DOJ, the life expectancy of Gemma Saint roughly equaled that of a free-drink award on her Starbuck’s card.
As Georgia Simpson, she could continue living her lonely, mundane life in a small, Central-Oregon town, provided she avoided everything Gemma had done and loved.
Tonight, she would rebel. For the rest of the evening, she would be Gemma. After she returned to work at the hospital tomorrow, the miserable masquerade could resume.
Gemma trudged along the path that left Sahalee Park and then turned onto the dark street that led to her rented duplex three blocks away.
With no streetlights, the shadows lining the narrow avenue provided dozens of places where Castellano’s creeps could be hiding, waiting for Gemma Saint.
She shivered, though the temperature was probably still in the eighties. On second thought, maybe Georgia wasn’t such a bad name.
Gemma flinched when her cell buzzed her leg and then sounded the alert for an arriving message.
Who would text her at 11:00 p.m. on the Fourth of July? It was too early for that monthly text about her phone bill. And she hadn’t made any friends, yet. Not even at work or church. Only a few acquaintances. The curse of being introverted.
The male students at Texas A&M had dubbed her INTJ girl. They considered the mystique of women with her rare, introverted personality type a challenge, and they had pursued Gemma ad nauseam. The women students, on the other hand, considered her stuck-up and unlikeable.
Incoming calls or messages were rare events in the life of Georgia Simpson. She should probably check the message, though it was likely spam.
Gemma pulled her phone from her shorts pocket. The display showed the name of the most important person she knew on planet Earth, U.S. Marshal Cody Cottrell, her WITSEC Inspector. In that role, Cody wore several other hats, counselor, social worker, financial advisor—whatever Gemma needed him to be, everything except the person who could give her back the life she loved, the life of Gemma Saint.
Gemma touched the message icon, scanned the text, and sucked in a breath so hard she choked on it.
Gemma, your ID is compromised. Pack a bag now and prepare to leave. Will call in a few minutes with more instructions.
He had used her real name. Why? That was forbidden.
Only one answer explained both the message and the breach of protocol. WITSEC was over for Georgia Simpson.
But what did that mean for Gemma Saint? And why weren’t marshals here escorting her to safety, to a new home and a new identity?
Other questions came. How much time did she have? She needed new ID if Georgia Simpson had been compromised. How was she supposed to get it?
The shadows around her pressed in, invading her personal space. Men like Joseph Castellano employed assassins who committed unspeakable atrocities for revenge. Was someone already here, hidden in the darkness, waiting for her?
A cat spit, screeched, and darted out of the shadows on her right.
Run Gemma!
The warning came from somewhere deep inside, more a feeling than actual words.
Gemma broke into an all-out sprint. Her runner’s legs maintained that torrid pace for two and a half blocks to her rented duplex.
Breathing hard when she reached her front door, she fumbled with her key and finally unlocked the door. Once inside, she secured all three locks.
Without more information, she might make deadly mistakes. Gemma hurried to her bedroom and keyed in a reply to Marshal Cottrell’s message.
How much time do I have? What about a new ID?
She pressed send.
What did she need most? Clothes.
Gemma scurried to her closet, pulled out her large duffle bag, and dumped the contents of her underwear drawer into the bag.
Her cell blasted out Recall from the Texas Aggie War Hymn. Using the fight song of her alma mater for her ringtone, violated WITSEC rules. A small violation, but it was something that could tie Georgia to Gemma Saint. Another one of her small rebellions to being forced into WITSEC.
She jumped and yelped when the drawer fell from her hands, sending a knifing pain through her foot.
Gemma limped to her bed and sat. The display on her phone said Marshal Cody Cottrell. But, if there had been compromises, she needed to be sure of the caller’s identity before divulging anything.
“Hello.”
“Gemma, it’s Cody Cottrell. You need to—”
“Cody, what’s happening?”
His sigh blasted through the phone with a static-like sound. “You’ve got to leave as soon as we’re through talking. It’s possible that my calls are being monitored.”
An icy chill brought a shiver to Gemma’s shoulders. “Your phone? Who would monitor the U.S. Marshals? And why am I in danger? Is it the mafia guy, Castellano?”
“Forget Castellano. There never was any real danger from him.”
“Then why was I placed in WITSEC, Cody?” Gemma’s voice crescendoed.
She had lived alone, isolated from her family, in a new world for eight long months. And Gemma had to leave her career as a journalist just as she completed her master’s degree. Everything had been thrown away for nothing.
The back of her neck grew hot. Gemma would lose it, any second now, something Gemma Saint never did. She took a deep breath and blew it back out. Lashing out at Cody wouldn’t help, and it wasn’t his fault.
“I’m so sorry, Gemma. I’ll try to explain but listen closely. We don’t have much time.”
No time? But she needed some time. Running for her life with no plan or destination—that was a formula for disaster.
The muddle of thoughts swirling through her mind wasn’t helping. She needed to listen to Cody.
“Gemma, Marsh McDowell just won an appeal that could overturn his conviction. The Federal Prosecutor’s staff and Marsh’s attorneys have all gone in full attack mode for the upcoming trial.”
“I worked for Marsh. I testified for him. He was innocent. Isn’t that good news?”
“Not if you’re an opponent of President Gramm. There are people in powerful places who do not want the president to run for a second term. After the scandals these people manufactured, Gramm isn’t sure he wants to have his family drug through the sewer of another campaign. But his opponents are assuming he will run and—”
“And Marsh’s news network is President Gramm’s only hope for fair coverage. Without Marsh …”
“Exactly. But no matter how badly they want to, no one in their right mind assassinates an American president. The people who can get him elected, on the other hand, are fair game.”
“But why me? It’s because of the appeal, isn’t it?”
Cody sighed into the phone. “Gramm’s opponents fear what may happen during the appeal. First, the watchdog organization, Guardians of Justice, recently won an FOIA lawsuit against the Department of Justice. The FBI must turn over all their records related to Marshall McDowell. If those records contain what many suspect, the records could result in charges against members of the DOJ.”
It was obvious where this was headed. And that destination brought both satisfaction and danger. “Marsh’s attorney will bring me out of WITSEC to testify, won’t he?”
“Your testimony could swing the jury in Marsh’s favor. Then Marsh goes free. He shouts the truth about this whole sordid conspiracy to the world and …”
“And President Gramm gets re-elected.” Under other circumstances, Gemma might have laughed.
It was mind-boggling to think that Gemma Saint, a twenty-four-year-old nobody, an intern at a media outlet, albeit an influential outlet, could be the person who determined the next president and, indirectly, the future of a nation that writhed in a life-and-death struggle to remain a sovereign, democratic republic. Well, she might be the deciding factor if she were alive to testify.
“It’s possible our phone call is being monitored. Maybe even recorded. So we won’t mention any specific times or places.”
“But, Cody, don’t they need a FISA Warrant to spy on American citizens? And spying on a U.S. Marshal—who would do that?”
“These people don’t play by the rules, Gemma. And the corruption starts high and goes deep in the DOJ. That’s all I can say, and it’s all we have time for. You need to pack and leave in the next few minutes. Go anywhere where you believe no one can find you. I’m not exempt from the danger here either, so I may need to disappear too. When you get a chance, buy a burner phone and, in a few days, text your new number to the number I’ll text to you in a few minutes.”
“Might they intercept your text?”
“I can guarantee that they won’t intercept that text.”
“I’ll need new ID. How do—”
“Just go to a college campus. Pretend to be a student and ask some students where you can get a fake driver’s license. Someone will know. It won’t be a professional job. The ID will let you make purchases, but it won’t fly with law enforcement.”
“But, Cody, I’m not an underage college student. I’m twenty-four.”
“Yeah. But you look …”
And she did. Gemma was slender and had a childlike face that was both a blessing and a curse. But, in this situation, it could work to her advantage.
“Thanks, Cody.”
“Take care, Gemma. I’ll be praying for—”
A loud report came through her phone, blasting her eardrum. Then thumping sounds.
Finally, silence.
This couldn’t be happening. But it wasn’t fantasy. Maybe it was a test to see how she reacted or something the marshals were doing to improve her security.
Gemma was grasping at straws. She had heard a gunshot.
“Cody … Cody, are you okay?”
Please answer.
A rasping noise came through the phone, then the sound of someone breathing.
“Cody, is that you?”
No reply. Only slow, deep breathing.
A guttural groan rose, involuntarily. Gemma didn’t watch horror movies, but this seemed like a scene stolen from one. She pressed the icon to cut off the call.
Reality sent her mind spinning like a centrifuge, leaving only the heaviest thought. Marshal Cody Cottrell was dead, and he had died trying to save her life.
The cycle had repeated. Gemma’s jinx. Whatever she did, wherever she went, she seemed to endanger people, people she cared about.
Was she broken in some way that brought evil to people? It didn’t fit with her theology, but it seemed to be true.
When she was twelve, her attempt to protect her little brother, Jerry, from bullies made matters worse. Jerry ended up badly beaten and in the hospital.
A year ago, her testimony at Marsh McDowell’s trial, testimony that should have cleared him, was spun by a clever federal prosecutor to convict Marsh of violating federal election campaign laws.
Now Cody.
Stop it, Gemma! You’ve got to think.
Cody’s office was near Denver. If they killed him there, she had several hours before they could possibly reach Madras.
But when had the actual identity breach occurred? When did the wheels of this latest corrupt conspiracy start turning? She didn’t know. Her safest assumption was that someone would soon arrive at her home.
Gemma sat on the edge of her bed. She was truly alone. Isolated from family. No marshal to protect her. And people in the Department of Justice wanted to kill her.
Her breathing turned to panting.
You need to calm down, Gemma Saint, and think.
Gemma took a deep breath, released it, and sought a coherent plan.
She would get new ID as Cody instructed. The campus in Bend might be the nearest place.
Gemma could sell her car to one of those lots that bought any old clunker if the price was low enough. She would use the ID to purchase another car from a private party. She could leave the old plates on it and not submit the title transfer information.
Her bank account had over twenty-five thousand dollars in it, thanks to her dad. She could withdraw enough cash to buy a car from a private party.
After that, she needed a place to hide. But where would she be safe? If people in the DOJ were spying on her, no place in the United States was safe, not for very long.
Maybe safe wasn’t a place. Maybe, for Gemma Saint, safe was a carefully planned set of circumstances, circumstances she must arrange.
Cody thought the people conspiring against the president, the ones endangering Gemma, were in the DOJ. That included the FBI. They had been involved with Marsh McDowell’s trial, working with the federal prosecutor that went after Marsh on trumped-up charges. That had to be why Guardians of Justice sued for those records.
But, if it really was the FBI, or some rogue element within that organization, her only hope of ending the danger was to completely document the conspiracy and expose it in the media.
Who in the media could she trust to do that? It had to be someone known as a good investigative reporter, someone who could expose the conspiracy so thoroughly to an audience so large that the conspirators dare not come after her. Hopefully, so thoroughly that they all ended up in prison.
That was the only way she could resume life as Gemma Saint. But for now …
I just need to be Saint Elsewhere.
She turned off her cell and dropped it in her purse.
Gemma opened another drawer and tossed the contents into her duffle bag.
One thing was certain. She needed to leave Madras, now.

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