The man was puzzled. “You cops?” he asked again. He was high. And stupid.
Grant said, “Consider us like cops. You will be put on trial. Anything you say can and will be used against you.”
The man stared. He was still confused.
Rich said, “That part about a right to an attorney might not apply. There are no attorneys out here.”
The man recognized Rich from around Pierce Point. He remembered that Rich was a former cop. “So you guys aren’t cops?” he asked.
“No, not officially,” Rich said. “But we will put you on trial so you don’t have to talk.”
The man started laughing. “I want my attorney,” he said, just like he’d done all the other times he had been arrested under the old system.
“There are no attorneys so, no, you can’t have one,” Grant replied. He couldn’t believe he was getting in a debate with this shit bag, so he decided to stop the debate.
“You can shut the fuck up, though,” Grant said. “I’d kinda like you to do that.” Grant, who normally didn’t talk that way, was trying to control the situation with language before he resorted to the AR he had pointed at the guy’s head.
He figured the guy had been read his rights so he could ask him some questions.
“So, are those your pants in the little girl’s bedroom?” Grant asked. Wes and Rich looked at each other. They were realizing what kind of person they were pointing their weapons at.
“Yeah,” the man said. “So what? Those are my pants. And I want them back. Right now,” he said. He started to stand up from his knees with his hands to the side.
“Stop!” Grant yelled, watching the man through his red-dot sight. “Stay down. We have some business now.”
Grant paused and asked, “Why were your pants on the floor of a kid’s room, and why did a little girl come running out of the house naked?”
The man laughed. He looked Grant straight in the eye and said, “What do you think, asshole?”
He laughed some more. It was that almost demonic laugh again.
Grant wanted to shoot him and actually thought about doing it. He started to think about the angle of the shot and whether any innocent people were in the path of the bullet. He started to think about clicking off the safety.
Then he got a hold of himself. He felt like saying, “That’s Judge Asshole to you,” but he didn’t. Let the guy confess. It would make the trial much quicker. Grant would technically need to take himself off this case since it wasn’t exactly OK to judge a case you were one of the arresting officers on. They would need a back-up judge, anyway. This would be his or her first case, so Grant could be a cop on this one. Except of course, he kept reminding himself, he wasn’t really a cop.
Wes looked at the man and then at Grant as if to say, “You gonna take this shit from him?”
Grant just stared at the man. He wanted an answer; a confession. He pretty much already had one but he wanted a golden one.
After a few seconds of silence, the man said to Grant, “Hey, asshole, I asked you a question. Why do think my pants were on the floor?”
Wes kicked him again, right in the neck. The man fell over and started coughing up blood.
Well, so much for the Constitution, Grant thought. It was impossible to be gentle in a situation like this. Grant wouldn’t be a hard ass about the Constitution, at least not right now.
After he recovered from the neck kick, the man gasped, “That’s police brutality.”
“No, asshole,” Grant said. “We’re not the police, so it’s not ‘police’ brutality. It’s just plain ole’ brutality.” Grant couldn’t resist. He walked up to the man and kicked him in the face. Hard. Really hard. It felt fantastic. What a release.
Rich ran up and grabbed Grant’s shoulder. “That’s enough,” he said. Rich was worried that Grant and Wes would beat the man to death, which was a valid concern. Grant could feel his leg going back for a second kick, but he stopped. Rich was right.
“So, I asked what your pants were doing on the floor in her bedroom,” Grant said. “Care to answer?”
At this point, the man was severely injured. Grant had broken his jaw. Blood was everywhere.
Rich looked at Grant as if to say, “Why did you do that?” Rich slowly shook his head.
Grant said, “We’ll let you think about the answer for a while.” He paused and then said, “Watch him, Wes.” Wes nodded.
Grant had to get out of that room before he beat the man to death. Seriously. He was saving the man’s life by leaving the room. Grant could increasingly feel what he wanted to do and that he needed to get out of the room before he did it.
Grant walked out of the room. Rich was waiting for him in the hall. As the two of them were going down the hall toward the kitchen, Rich whispered to Grant, “This is harder than it looks, isn’t it?” Grant kept walking. Yes, it is, he thought.
They saw Tim in the doorway between the hall and the kitchen patching up the woman in her underwear. “It’s not bad,” Tim said as they walked by.
“What the hell caused this puncture wound?” Tim asked. Grant pointed to the flash hider on the end of his rifle. Rich nodded as if to say, “Good thinking.” They went through the filthy kitchen, which smelled like rotting food, and into the back yard.
Bobby had the first man on the ground and in zip ties. Scotty had the first woman in zip ties, too.
The little girl was in a blanket. She wasn’t crying. She was just staring into space. One of the neighbor ladies was trying to help her. The little girl wouldn’t let anyone get near her. It was the saddest thing they had ever seen.
“You should see the front room,” Rich said. They went around the yard on the left side of the house and to the front. The front door was off the hinges and lying on the ground.
“What happened to this?” Grant asked.
“I kicked it in,” Rich said.
“How? I mean I tried that once and it didn’t budge,” Grant said.
“Where did you kick it?” Rich asked.
Grant pointed to where the door knob was. Rich shook his head and said, “No, man, the hinges. Kick the hinges. They’re the weakest point, especially on piece-of-shit doors like these.”
So that’s how they got in. Grant would ask Paul to make a metal battering ram with handles for the next time. They couldn’t count on having cheap doors at the next place.
When they walked in the front door, Grant saw a dead body slumped on the floor and up against a wall. It was a man, who Grant didn’t recognize. He was immediately relieved that the dead man wasn’t one of his guys.
Grant couldn’t take his eyes off the sight of the dead man. Dead bodies looked weird. Most people never see them. They look like a person, except that they’re dead, lifeless. You can see a thousand dead bodies on TV, but it’s different to see one in real life.
Grant became terrified. We’ve killed someone, he thought. Right or wrong, we’ve killed someone. He wondered if they would be prosecuted by the authorities, if there are any “authorities” left. But still. They just killed someone. Was this dead guy innocent? Were they justified in shooting him? It felt like they’d opened a big messy can of worms.
Finally, Grant snapped out of it. He noticed that Pow and Ryan were standing around the body.
Pow looked up at Grant. Pow nodded slowly. “He drew on me. Had to do it,” Pow said.
Ryan didn’t say anything. There was a strange tension between the two.
The dead man had his upper torso and lower neck torn apart. Blood was everywhere. Gallons, it seemed like, just like when Grant shot the looters. Grant saw parts of the man’s lungs and bones. He wanted to throw up, but it wasn’t so overpowering that he thought he might. It was more like a desire to throw up instead of an urge to do so. Grant was trying to keep it together so the guys didn’t see him wussing out. He gathered his thoughts.